The Fisherwoman

she was alone on the pier. the early morning rainings were brief and very very soft. the wet was just a mist on her face right now. mists like that made her feel that her face was soft. malleable with that odd firm softness of a baby's face. but rains made her chilled and unable as well. right now she was downright cold and clammy. she drew out the thermos of coffee and breathed in the hot bittersweet of the brew gratefully. then she ate the parsley Swiss cheese sandwich she had packed early that morning. in the light of the small radio clock in the apartment. she was alone now. she got out of the apartment as often as she could...she went out fishing. she often went out fishing. it had become part of how she did day time. what made her rest easy at night...

she always had gone fishing with him. he went fishing about four or five times a week. in the early morning. or after work for an hour or so. hit the reservoirs or major creeks in their town or in the towns around. or on this river. they both loved this river...

they needed to fish. he had been doing AA for awhile now. after work used to be his drinking time. so he fished instead. in the morning he used to always light up a cig. now he'd fish instead. that had gone on for about five years. they had always been close. for awhile the fishing had made them closer. they fished the same way.

he fished real quiet. so did she. no chit chat. no radio. no little portable tv. they just would be quiet. breathing in and out with the river. with the swellings of the eddies. the whisk whisk of the little rivulets over the larger stones. it was a good thing. companionable. fair to them both. they had other ways of communicating. telling each other news about the fish. where they were. what lure was hot. how deep to settle the bait. how lazy to reel it in. how to work the fish on the bait. to bring fish in alive on sharp cold steel and line. how to net life. when to give it back. all this with a nod this way. the cast observed. a tilt of hat. the pointing finger. not hesitating - but lazy somehow...

they both knew the dimples of water that meant stone. meant shallow. or deep. the rush of waters parting over boulder set in large and unyielding. a lowering of head was all it took. a raising of the hat. mopping the brow with the bandanna: that meant time for lunch. or time for the switchel.

he had taught her how to make switchel. how it conquered all the thirst that ever was. gave you energy besides. the jar of spring water or well water - not tap water. the flowered apple vinegars. the honey. a few dashes of salt. the citrus - usually the rind. without the pith. maybe some grape syrup. boiled down practically to a paste. mixed all together it was alcoholic the way hard cider can be. only even better for thirst. even thirst of the spirit. it could keep them fishing for hours with no discomfort whatsoever.

especially the river: they loved this river together. it was a threesome. almost a sexual thing. surely sensual… standing in their waders for hours. moving a bit here. a bit there. never growing impatient. the river made them patient. without an invitation. without an order. the river ran their bodies like it ran the waters. ran the animals. ran the wood and barks and branches. the green grasses and the slimes. especially as it ran the fish. the fish were more one with the river than the people could ever be. so they had to be fish best they could. only the river could choreograph that dance. it was one dance. only the river knew the steps at all. they changed every hour of every day. that was the way of river.

then there was the sun. and the earth turning. and the season with the rotations and angles of the planet. the water knew all about it. it was always writing that book. she had to know how to read it. she was learning. she knew so much and so little. compared to what the fishing waters knew. she was flotsam and jetsam in the wake of any tree barreling down the waters on the way to the sea. nothing of significance. part of the life of moving water and banks. all the same.

the afterthought. or no thought at all. not at all. not about thought at all: these were the Fish. they who lived in the waters. all movement. all capturing of energy. all releasing of energy. energies the colors of rainbows and silvers and golds. of the sun itself. the blues of the waters and the skies changing. the wild movements of birth and the struggles of death. the mouth and body taking in all the river. breathing it in and out. eating of it in and out. laying the eggs and milking over them.

swimming upstream with purpose come from the very rhythms of the wakening of life. swimming downstream to join the life of the sea with the same weight of purpose. as all fisher people have always known: the fish and the waters and the sun and the sky and the deeps and the shallows and the feedings are all one thing. the fisher is the alien. the only alien in this watery world.

the fisherwoman knew this: there is no being one thing with the water the way Fish is. so all her life she must wait humble. for the fish to pretend to see what she is pretending to show: substance of life. cast out on a line: food for fish travels. pretended in a piece of silver curve and feathers: promise of energy where energy does not live at all...

in her world, tho: she must live in the same world with Fish. the fish lives simply to live. the fisherwoman lives to Take Life. even when life is 'released' back into the waters. she has lured life. over and over. fought with life. reeled life in. held life in sure hands. and then: released life back into the waters.

unless she is taking life: she is purposeful when life is taken from the water. dies in the air. is eaten by her. to take in Fish intimately. finally. as energy for her. not for the river. where its energy belongs. where its energy has always been. and will be. after the fisher is gone....

well, he left her: he left because fishing with her wasn't life. after all: they had to move on. he had to move on. her being critical of the drinking. she had become so. and why not? there was nothing good about his drinking. drinking had become his life. the time with AA had failed in him. his wonderful fisherman's world was falling apart too. more and more buddies wouldn't fish with him at all . "too selfish". that's what her friends said. and that was true about him. but it wasn't the only truth. 'too proud'. that's what she thought. his life was falling apart. so it was better to move on. paddle downstream. not look back. leave your bridges burning...over quiet ripples of safety....

she cast again and again off the pier. mist rose over the slow purposeful arcs of line. the fly danced lightly on the water. a small cloud of mayflies lived their short lives over the mist and the river blue...

there are so many fish in the sea: she smiled. silly thought. far from the sea. on this river: it was clear the loss was great. but what may be found in this river was great too.

so many fish...the fisherwoman decided to rest...

there were so many more days when the fishing would be better....

a strong trout arced out of the scurrying current.....

no fish was biting tho...probably full up on the ample chain of the living that was up to good for some. for all the fish who would see another day....

she packed up her tackle and the rod and her gear...

walked slowly off the pier...

the sun went higher in the morning sky...

eddies slowly twirled in the current...

somewhere deep a fish heard her footsteps leave the pier...
rose to the surface...
lazily snapped at mayflies...
sank below to where it is cooler and deep...

rested

for another time...

some other time

on this river....

Fly Away

love at seventy was not what he had expected. he had wrinkles. for one. she had noticed them. of course she had. and his abs were not flabby. but they were not young. he had sucked them in. she noticed that, too. and the pictures of Marcella. and how he limped a bit when he got out of bed or stood up from sitting too long. on account of the gouty arthritis in his feet. damn. and he was using breath fresheners until he practically got sick from the cloying tastes of all those products. the ones to keep you from smelling old while you're trying to kiss. he was getting a bit tired of dating services too...

everyone wanted somebody who was honest. who was kind. who would love them just as they are. just as I am. he said it out loud. he really wanted some one who wouldn't nag at him about his share of the chores. who wouldn't sigh when he put on the monday night football games. who would be a good cook, but not all about meals at the table every night. who wouldn't travel with too much luggage. who would never complain when the make-up case was lost by the airway. on account of she didn't wear any makeup. but still looked great. even with a few wrinkles. who would sweat nice. and be good at sex. even if she was older. like him...

so he was dating. he was traveling with women friends. who had benefits, as they say. who made love OK. who didn't want him for a life-time partner. good friends. civilized. capable travelers. they gave nothing he didn't expect. so the travels held no surprises. but they held no disasters either. no dramas. he was way done with dramas. no need to cry for hours. no restless body. wanting more. always wanting more. he actually wanted less. less would be great. he was sure of that. so then. why was he actually 'looking for love'? which was what he was doing. but he didn't know why...

well. loneliness maybe. plenty of people in his life. but you can be lonely anyway. he was. sometimes, when he was out on the boat, he thought about what life had been like with Marcella. it had been a good marriage for about three years. most marriages are. he guessed. she had been a good wife. she had been a kind woman. but completely unexciting. often unhappy. about her art. which was not good. she persisted with it though. and about having children. which he wasn't excited about. and they couldn't get pregnant. they tried for five years. the years were pretty horrible. really. all on schedule. it was like a nightmare. they stopped trying. then she got depressed. now it was about thirty years later. they had married too late. had nothing but money to show for it. all the same. art shows. his work. her work. travel. which she wasn't good at. and didn't really like. she asked for a divorce. he so-called 'gave' it to her. he had really been so relieved he would have tossed it to her if she could have stood the rejection. as it was. he let her think she had rejected him. gave her half of everything. kept the picture up. out of habit. so that when she'd come to the few suppers or parties he held she would feel good. that he missed her. which he didn't. he was starting to wonder if he had anything to give another woman besides 'friendship with benefits'. he was starting to listen to maudlin songs about loss and love the second or third time around. whatever....

then he met Cathrine. she wasn't his type. or to be specific. she wasn't the friend/lover/no strings attached type. she seemed pretty intense. right from the beginning. she didn't flirt. didn't wear makeup (a plus). didn't want to travel all over the world like he did. since she knew how much of the world was hot and humid. I don't do hot and humid. she was clear about that. most women would just tough it out. he had money. security. a little hot and humid could be tolerated. at least until they'd hook him. she just told the truth. when he tried to impress her with the boat was another thing. she had been nice about it. but told him she liked paddling canoes more than anything. feeling closer to the water. his boat was more a yacht. big inboard. cabin. the works. she did smile and said something about how nice it must be to be able to sleep right out on the water like that. but he had never actually slept on the boat...he couldn't think why he never had. probably because Marcella hadn't liked the boat. and he had never offered it to the women friends. just had never come up somehow....

she was a vegetarian too. most countries were not good feeding places for vegetarians. except for the really hot and humid ones. and she didn't do very 'hot' dishes either. also a big part of the really hot and humid parts of the world...
so what were they going to have in common? a lot of the places he traveled in had thousands of poor people you had to take in stride. she told him she wasn't able to be comfortable around hundreds of very deprived people. she was an RN. she could only think of how they needed and needed. it would destroy any good times in those parts of the world. for her. she understood that it was culturally right to accept these people. she just 'chose' not to do that. I chose to see that they are suffering. no matter how pc it is to be quiet about that. I'm just not the type who can. where would she travel? any places that didn't have all these bits she restricted for herself. he just didn't know what to say about that....

Cat was very nice looking for a sixty five year old gramma. slim and nicely dressed. nothing fancy. basic very nice clothes. she had lots of talents. she was very passionate about them especially her singing. and her canoe. when I'm in the canoe. it's like I have wings to fly. that's what she said. he liked that... she was close to her family. had friends she loved. talked about love as if it were the most natural thing in the world. honest. very honest...maybe even a bit too honest. so much for getting what you ask for in the dating service profile. insisted that she was the best of all possible travelers. except for the hot and humid and poverty taboos. o well. almost perfect. so why was he hesitating? she was very affectionate. passionate about life besides....so why?....

he was afraid lately. of the apartment when it was empty of friends or lovers or family. when he was by himself. she wrote. when she was by herself...kept her from feeling the place too quiet. that's what she said... maybe 'afraid' was too strong. I just don't like it. it would be nice to have somebody there with me. who would care. it felt good to say that. he felt very honest... I know what you mean. she confided in him: I care about some one that way...that's what she said next. only he lives far away. he's married. I 'went with' him when I was a senior in high school. we're having a long-distance relationship. he may move out here to live with me. only nothing is certain yet. so I'm making friends right now. just friends. just in case he's not coming out here. somehow. just in case I'll be sad. and want to forget him somehow... god. there is was. the thing that was wrong. he had been waiting for that: a rebound to the rebound. since she had just gotten divorced that year. from her third husband... god... wasn't anybody just a simple and nice person any more? apparently not....

he was all torn up in a funny way. he didn't sleep well for a few nights. he was restless. probably another trip would help. where hadn't he gone yet? he had been to maybe thirty or so countries so far. never on a tour. always with a friend. man or woman. always to find out about the people. he was known for this. for being an intrepid traveler. good at being with people from other cultures. learning enough about the cultures and languages to do OK. really fine. everybody and every thing was so interesting. he could just keep doing this. try to figure out what he wanted to do yet. where he wanted to go. who he wanted to go with. to be with. who he wanted to be.

life wasn't that difficult. after all. not that lonely. he wasn't alone if he didn't want to be. that counted. he was sure of that. he still looked great. maybe it would all just naturally happen some day. maybe he would wait and see if Cat's guy came out to live with her at all. if he didn't. then maybe he'd give her a call again. see if she'd like to see the pictures of - well - where ever it was he was going next...

he scratched his slightly balding head. fingered his thin mustache...thought about everything. tried not to think about the future. looked out the window at the future. across the water. somewhere he hadn't gone yet. but he would go there. there were still so many places to see. people to experience. life was...yes. his life was. really. very good....

if I just had wings to fly. that's a line that kept going through his mind lately. corny line. kind-of silly. he didn't know why he was thinking of such a corny line...

if I just had wings to fly

if I just had wings to fly...

he sighed...

I'd fly away....

Confusion Of Rains

After awhile, naturally, Anee became rather numb to everything that was going on around her. it was surprising how very little mattered very much. there was still a lovely taste of chocolate, when a friend would put a piece of chocolate...just slivers really...in her mouth...nothing else actually 'tasted' at all...maybe chocolate was close to breast milk. changing her and turning her and bathing her were all getting cozy. being a baby. people still expected great wisdom to come out of her chocolate coated lips, tho. they hovered over her. she was known for wise things. healing things. every body who needed her was there serving her with chocolate and diaper changes. so that she would leave last words with them that would make a difference. sometimes she thought that if she just meowed at them like a cat, they would go away. they'd say that her mind had finally snapped. but Anee couldn't get up the energy to mew or to meow. she tried it once and they thought she was choking and put the damn tube down to suction her. better to just mutter stuff like It is all Love, or Love is What You Do....most of her devoted acolytes seemed quieted and satisfied with bits like that. Anee felt so very tired of them all.

It wasn't like she felt like she was dying. Anee simply felt like she was living less and less response - ive- ly...less ably.even turning herself seemed just too, too difficult...too many muscles to maneuver...she didn't even feel restless any more. the doctors who came in were all so cheerful, as well. one even said that she may well pull through it. every one nodded. pull through what, exactly, Anee wondered lazily? who would be doing this 'pulling'? not her, surely...sliding down hill slowly and comfortably and inexorably seemed totally OK to her. there was nothing to it...

Then, one particularly sunny, sleepy morning...in came the Medicine Man. Anee recalled him. he had promised to come if ever she would need him. he had been at some new age gathering or another...maybe a decade ago. She knew him tho, even after all the years. his eyes were wide and wild. she had thought him strikingly psychotic in a handsome sort of way...she had not engaged him. he had simply walked up, with all his chest and arm and leg bells jangling. stood right in front of her and said, I promise to come when you need me... using all the pc charm she could draw from inside her nearing-jaded self, Anee had said back, I would be honored...
so where did he come from? this was most rude and very inconvenient. dying in peace had needed very little getting-used-to...Anee liked it...definitely, when he came into the room, Dark and Wind and Moisture of Rain came in with him. the sunshine day was gone on that wind. completely gone.
the nurse was apologetic. he said he is your brother, she explained. Anee looked at his face. He is, was all she said. then looked upset. she hadn't, surely, said that! Yes, he is. He is my Brother. Welcome, Confusion of Rains! he did not look surprised that she knew his name. but she did. until she said it, she had not known his name...

Drought. he said then, simply. it's too dry around here. for miles. there will be seven rains this year. you have to put this - here, he pulled out a small clawed bear claw - into stagnant water near your home up the hill. then those rains will come. otherwise, I cannot guarantee any rains at all. Sure. she answered. she nodded her head. only, I'm dying, as you can see. maybe someone else...No. he was clear. You. you are my Opposite Number. it has to be you. Right. Anee said quietly. psychotic. that's what he was...You are unwilling. you think I am crazy. but you Know I am not. you sometimes fake it. but you do have power. your fear of it is killing you.

Anee suddenly felt extremely tired. the room was dark. where in hell were the nurses. where were her many visitors. they should be exhorting this charlatan out of here. Anee tried to reach for her call bell to get the nurse. but Confusion of Rains put a hand gently over hers. she felt warm water and smelled earth and plants and tasted water and honey and salt. she also felt a bit sexy. which was really crazy, since she had been busy dying just a minute ago...Anee felt silly. I am dying, she said.

He laughed loudly then and took both of her hands. Of course you are! we are all Dying. I am! the River is! The Sea is! the Earth is! even the Sky is...surely all the animals and plants are. but of course, we are all Living just the same. you know that. Dying is not a good reason not to do what needs to be done. Only Living is a good reason to do what must be done...

Anee felt pissed. really angry. I want to die in peace. her voice came out like a witch's voice in a play on Halloween. she scared herself...no one dies in peace. he told here. no one does. you can only die in grace.but naturally, you have to do grace-full things first...

Anee felt trapped. one call of this call button. she told him...and I'll have you out of here...find it first, he challenged. Anee could feel the gorge rising in her throat. you bastard, she hissed at him. you are evil. you are a devil. I am dying. you are...you are Harassing me!
he laughed again. a bark. much like a coyote bark, Anee was not pleased to note. you are an animal! she was snarling now. he kept laughing, now lightly. the way a dog laughs. Anee had seen dogs laugh before. like they knew a joke you didn't know. Get out! get out of my room! why don't the nurses come? Anee heard herself shouting. but no one was coming. then she realized that she was really whispering. only Confusion of Rain could hear her. she couldn't shout. it was stuck in her throat. That's right, he whispered back into her ear. you are the Wind where it has blown. the Rain will follow...

in the Anee's dark room, there was surely a clap of thunder. Lightening thick as a sword blade zigged and zagged across the room. Anee snatched at her covers and drew them up over her head. she was growing wet and cold with the Rain. Rain everywhere around her...this was all impossible! where in this hell were the nurses? was it a broken sprinkler system in the ceiling? had there been an earthquake? Anee's terror grew and grew. this was a terrible, terrible way to be dying...in the dark, the Medicine Man's voice was thunder itself. This is not about Dying. the voice was low and rumbling. This is about Living....

Anee poked her head out of the sopping covers. the man was still standing there. arms crossed over his very respectable dark suit. his long dark hair in neat braids. the simple beaded bands at his throat and around his forehead neat and somehow respectable. it was Anee who looked bedraggled and unkempt by now. that she knew. he was not even wet. just the bed was wet. Anee began to wonder abruptly if she had been hallucinating. maybe she had spilled something. or peed the bed. she felt exhausted. the light was beginning to grow in the room like a dawn...the thunder was subsiding....

How are you feeling, Anee? the man was looking down at her. concerned. normal. like it rained over beds every day in this hospital. Anee looked up at him. what happened, she whispered. you almost died, I think. he whispered back at her. but I think you will be OK now. you have work to do. he put his cool hand on her forehead. Anee felt cool and comfortable. and dry. no sweat. no pee. no wet covers. cool and dry. she sighed once. gave a little wiggle of her light body. and fell asleep.

The nurse came in, concern on her tired face...how is our patient doing? he smiled at her. she is sleeping. she will be all right now. she will better and better every day...it's going to rain soon, you know...she smiled back. it hasn't rained in months! we're in a drought. yes, I know he said kindly. he put something in his pocket. it looked like a bear paw, she thought. but that couldn't be right, now, could it....

Anee woke to soft rain on the window...she quickly touched her sheets...dry...she stretched, and sat up weakly in the bed. O my! the nurse standing near was alarmed! what are you doing, mam! Aimee dangled her legs over the side of the bed. I need to go to the bathroom, she asked primly. I feel stiff! can you help me? Surely...the nurse walked her to the bathroom. wonder was all over her face. when she tucked Anee back into bed, she said Excuse me, mam...I think I'll have the doctor come to see you. to check on you...she slipped out of the room....

The doctor came in at once...how are you? Anee was started. the doctor looked so anxious. almost upset. I feel much better, she said gravely, to match his serious face...I am on the mend, I think. she added that comment almost coquettishly. Is there something wrong, doctor? he began to check her out very carefully. head to toe. he ordered some lab work...she repeated. what's wrong, please?

Anee. you were dying only an hour ago. now, frankly, you are not dying. I am not sure what has happened. perhaps you are undergoing a...a...spontaneous remission. I'm not sure. I'm really not sure what is happening with you. please stay in bed, however, until I have a...a...feel for this. for what is...ummmm...happening....... he looked at her sternly....do you feel differently, Anee?

Yes. she said simply. I feel alive...did anyone see when my guest left?...your guest? asked the nurse...yes, you know...the native American man...with the suit? the beads? my visitor? just a little while ago?....she paused. there was no look of recognition on the faces before her...I had a visitor...remember? I had a visitor....

The doctor shook his head and looked at the nurse...didn't I say she was to have no visitors at all, Miss? Miss?,,,,the nurse shook her head, bewildered....Doctor, no one else but me has been in this room at all in over three hours...her visitors have been all told to wait in the Visitor Room....the doctor and nurse looked long at the other. Anee looked from face to face...Did I dream about this visitor, do you think?...Yes, yes. the doctor answered slowly, as if in a fog far away. I am sure you had a dream, Anee...just rest now, please. just rest...he lowered the lights a bit...the nurse tucked the blankets gently around her...Anee slept a dreamless, restful sleep...

One week later, Anee was discharged from the hospital to a party, an entire celebration, of acolytes and friends and family and colleagues accompanying her in all her healthy glory to her waiting limo they had hired to carry her home...Anee had beat the odds...she was the Queen of All again...she was...well...Cured...for all practical purposes...no disease anywhere...all cells happy and healthy...fresh faced - even young-appearing...back to her popular, successful life and self...

Months and months later...Anee's life had become quite a bit different...over time...then Anee had expected...it became her nature to somehow know, with accuracy close to magic, how to summon weathers needed in different areas of California...she was inaccurate enough to not attract too much untoward attention. she was accurate enough to be requested, by folks who believed in such interventions, to please come and summon the rains for them...for their crops...for the forests...for the wild rivers...many of these folks were Native Americans on the Rancherias. they found it quite matter-of-fact to ask her to come. to request her summoning energies...most often, it would rain. just enough...otherwise, Anee continued her well-paid therapeutic work in the Alternative Medicine circles of California, which had been her talent before her 'illness' and her 'near-death'. memories of which faded over time. the way a song fades in your memory. if you forget to sing it.

Anee grew older and older. still healthy. but older. vulnerable to time. as all alive is. sometimes she thought she saw the man who had been in her hospital 'dream'. she saw the beads at his throat and around his forehead. the dark suit.she could feel the salty sweetness of the rain on her body. tho nothing was there...she still did her work. her unusual work. well into her nineties...then one day, she felt the end being near. she wasn't sure why. she just knew it. the way some old people do. she rested more. every one worried. but, of course, less than before. after all. she was very, very old...it would be fun if she could make it to one hundred years tho. but that was not to be.

her friends who looked in on her every morning, to be sure she was all right, found her lying quite still in her little plain bed. her hands were crossed quite simply over her old and kind chest. which was no longer bothering to move breath in and out. gently, they smoothed her hair...one of them went to call the doctor and her people...the other looked lovingly down at her...have you ever noticed, he said softly, how like bear paws her wonderful old healing hands appear? just like bear paws....

at her funeral, a large service, seeing how old she was, there was a man no one had any connection with at all...he was a nice, unassuming young man. a Native American. he wore a dark suit. a band of beads about his throat. another band around his forehead, over his dark black braids... he had a very kind face... he mentioned that he had been in the hospital when she had been so ill, long ago, when she had almost died...we helped each other, he said...no one seemed to notice that he seemed to be too young to have been there all that time ago...after all. Native Americans often "look younger" than they are. everyone knows that....

He signed his name in the Memorial Guest Book....Confusion of Rains....

no one saw him when he placed the bear claw under her withered hands in the coffin...
she was buried with it...over her grave, the tree they planted tapped, somehow, into a wonderful underground spring. it grew larger and healthier every year, in spite of drought or heat or winds....

and the rains in that part of California - always unpredictable in the past - were always just enough...always enough...to sustain Life...
Life...simply everywhere... as far as the eye could see.....

Lucy's Pocket

have always had everything I need...not every thing I wanted, mind you. but certainly enough. enough food. decent housing. clean water to drink. good education opportunities. good work, even...lots of love. music. entertainment. decent amount of travel...enough to feel less than deprived...that's for sure... my parents were far from ideal. but they were not truly terrible. not at all...I have been a fairly healthy, well-taken-care-of house cat. not a wild animal in any way...not driven to feral ways. not given to great poverty...not even of the spirit...

Lucy was never as lucky as I have been. never. she was born really poor (as my mother would have said...for a white girl....) she had just, well...nothing. no housing that lasted more than a month or so. a very abusive father. a mother who let it happen. who was abusive herself. abused, herself....her brother raped her when she was eleven years old...it was a shame the whole town knew about. her brother lived in Juvi Hall more than even in the foster homes that threw him out. the foster families for Lucy were kind enough. but cold. the rape made her a less than lovable child, somehow. she was intelligent enough. but, not enough to catch the eye of anyone who would want to 'save' her...no unusual talent to make her appealing to a savior of any kind. she even caught diphtheria from infected water...was malnourished from poor and unappealing foods all of her days....she hadn't much going for her, when I first met her at our school Musical audition, in my Junior year of High School....

some people are strikingly beautiful, even though they've been through hell and back. Lucy had the eyes of a saint who had been flayed by life, but had walked through the fire and on water besides and lived to tell the stories. her skin was like glass...you could see all the veins and the blood pulsing through each little artery...she was that transparent... long hair like coal in flames,,, dark blue eyes like the deep parts of lake...tiny body. perfect body, she really was the only sort of girl I was ever jealous of...small. perfect. long black hair...I always assumed my big blond heavy-boned tall self wasn't the kind men really went for...I knew they loved the tiny feisty little women types. all of them did. even when I was young like that. it was fate. they would get the best mates. I would get god-knows-what....so, of course, I tried to be friends with her. I always did that. over-compensate, I mean....but Lucy never did.

Lucy behaved like a princess. correct that: Lucy was The Princess. In spite of what all the adults whispered and got raw mean about, Lucy literally held her head high... she didn't exactly not talk with anybody. she just never initiated any chit-chat. She behaved as if she was beautiful. and, that nothing more needed to be said... so boys found her sexy. girls were jealous of her. she didn't care. it wasn't like she acted like she cared about all that, either. she just accepted that she was an ordinary mind and a battered spirit inside of a striking body. there was no way she was going to feel sorry for herself for any of that. her pride was enormous. truly huge. and everybody resented her pride most of all....

No one ever asked Lucy to one event or dance or anything at school that I can remember...she was always there, tho. calmly helping at the food tables or the punch table or collecting tickets. being cordial. not friendly. just cordial. you wouldn't dare make fun of her. she didn't do one single thing that you could make fun of. not once. she'd get a ride home from some parent, who would drop her off at her latest foster home. she was always, always polite and thankful. and hidden. hidden from us all.

that's what made it such a shock when she tried out for the lead in the school Musical for our senior year. she had never even been in any of the music or drama classes or extra-curricular song groups, or anything like that. she just showed up at the audition. she got up and sang. and, as you probably can guess, every note that came out of that throat was beautiful. and perfect. and projected right into the heart of the last person in the last row of the auditorium. we didn't know whether we should clap, or laugh, or be embarrassed, or cry, or what. so we all just sat there with our mouths open. Our director didn't really have any choice. she got the part.

Lucy was so perfect in the lead that everyone was in complete awe of her. every line was wonderful. her every song was delivered like some important Star was in the part. She was present now. for sure. everybody wanted to know her now. but she still made no friends at all. she was kind, helpful to everyone in the show. polite. cordial. all that. she wasn't letting anybody get near, much less close. and we all fell in love with her as a result. only she never once looked at one of us in any kind of special way. we resented that as well. there's no pleasing the public. especially teen age kids. they can be cruel.

her male lead started it first. he started giving her the wrong cues. real subtly. it took us all a while to notice. you couldn't see it in her face tho... she ad-libbed like some pro. after a while he had to stop. he was the only one looking stupid. then people started doing other mean stuff. trying to trip her on her entrances and exits. hiding props or costumes she needed. it all back-fired. she stayed cool as ice, but still kind. like we were just kids who didn't get it. that was true. we didn't get it.

I decided to be her champion. I admonished - well, bullied - kids who were trying to trip her up. I helped her find stuff...I gave her rides to and from the rehearsals. I started to flatter myself that I was better than everybody else. though of course, I wasn't. I was treating her like she was different. just like everybody else. she knew that. so she was kind to me as well...but not close.... she was becoming a 'Pro'....really, a Professional. we just were too young to see that....

It was when the local press uncovered that there were Talent Scouts from the biggest baddest Theater Company in the City... coming to see 'the show'...that most of us figured out what was up. we all cleaned up our acts as fast as we could. they weren’t' coming to see any of us but Lucy. but there was no sense in making fools of ourselves in front of the Real Thing. we knocked ourselves out supporting every move Lucy made. every note. we were all determined to go down in a bit of history-making. this was our 'big chance' too. but for Lucy...it was just going to be her due.

'cuz you know, Lucy had earned every damn accolade she got in the papers the next day...and the beaming director's little speech at the last curtain call...and the smug, professional nods of the Talent Scouts, who even looked just like we all expected them to look. and we were all so proud and happy that 'one of ours' had made it! the School Board even let her do her finals real early, so she could get her diploma as soon as she wanted, and go off to the Big City and her Big Start. she passed with 'Bs', and they were all earned honestly. Lucy never sang a wrong note. never.

there's a saying in our part of this Country: "She has the whole thing in her pocket!"...that was Lucy for you. she changed her name to Danelle. and kept the name of our town as her last name. the irony was not lost on any of us. if it was meant in irony at all...someone soon explained about the Saint of Hopeless Cases and so on....Danell St. Jude....

sure, she still is a big star. you all know her. how she began. how mean everyone was to her. how she was always perfect and wonderful and everything. it's all true.
no one ever has written about how I helped her out during the Musical and all...but hey, I guess it wasn't that big a deal...and after all, I have a perfectly good life myself...still even do a little work in community theater when they do Musicals and all...my life still is fine....

I wish I could get the connection: that you can have a really bad, really bad childhood, and look all damaged and stuff, and still get it together and just sing in showers and so on...and then do one great show in high school in the middle of nowhere, USA, and come out a Star? I mean, what was different for her...what did she do differently...that made the whole world fall into her pocket? and not into mine?

I don't think I get these sort of fates, or destinies, or lucky strikes, or whims of chance...or of dedicated purpose, maybe deep inside...not at all...I must have thin pockets...or no pocket at all.....

Lucy's Pocket...that's what she called her own Autobiography. It was a best seller. she even gave me credit for reminding her about the Pocket Saying, when she came in for the Fourth of July parade to be honored for all the contributions she had made to the high school music and drama departments and to the county's Foster Care programs and so on....

Yes, that Lucy of ours...she has in all in her pocket...
.
all in her pocket....

For The Love Of Mary

When I was an older child, there were only two truths that kept me feeling that all was right with the world. The first was that I was in a Family, with a Mom and a Dad and three sisters who were younger than I. This family was a constant. I belonged with them, so matter where we moved. They were all the community that I had that stayed the same, day after day, forever. The second was that I was a Roman Catholic and so, by definition, had a huge world-wide family of other Roman Catholics who God particularly cared about more than any other people, just because we were members of the one, true, apostolic Church. With these two facts firmly in place, I knew my place on the planet as well. All was well with the world, and it was not a restricted world, because, if I just did everything these two families asked of me, which was not that hard for an accommodating youngster, both of these groups of folks would hold me safe and secure in their community of belonging, for ever and ever. I would not be alone. I would BELONG somewhere, forever.

In fact, where ever we moved while my Dad was in the Navy and in between tours of duty and after he left the services, The Family was always together. And, in every town we moved to, there was the Catholic Church, with the priests, and the church, and the nuns and the school, with different buildings and different accents or dialects in the speech, but the same Catholics. The same Mass. The same Holy Holidays. The same American views mixed with Catholic ideas about how the world went, what the world was all about. The same special beliefs, which we all knew where ordained by God the Father himself. Specifically: God the Son, the one in the New Testament, with a dove called the Holy Ghost giving his special blessing to teach all these beliefs and ideas to us. And, of course, the Mother of God, the Blessed Virgin Mary. She was always there as well.

I stood in deep, abiding respect for these two Families. I was certain that my Mother, (and sometimes my Father, too) and the Catholic Church Priests and Nuns were the Source, the only Teachers of the Truth. They were the Bearers of All the Truth about everything I needed to know to become a real person. If I just did everything they said, my life would be a) blessed, and I would gain life eternal in heaven, and b) secure, especially if I married a Catholic Man later on and had lots of Catholic Children for the Church. I mean no irony here, no cynicism, no sarcasm. I truly believed that these paths were ordained my my two communities for me, and that constancy to these injunctions and beliefs would be my earthly and heavenly salvation. I would belong, really belong, on this earth, alive or dead, forever and ever, if only I would stick to their rules. If only.

This was all the security I needed as I turned thirteen years old. In Church, I was a model Catholic Daughter of Christ. I was quiet and I apparently was praying and singing very sincerely at all times. Only I and my confessor knew that, actually, I was day-dreaming pretty much all of the time. He had assured me that these distractions were not sinful, but that I should struggle with them anyway. That I should give all my concentration to honoring God and his Mother Mary and the Saints and the Mass and other services and rituals of the Church. I do not recall ever really trying to do that....

The daydreams were really very preoccupying, and had to do with important matters at school or home that were worrying me or bothering me. Or, boys. just, boys. undefined, gray foggy area. Boys who were good-looking. Ugly mean boys. Nice boys. Boys who made fun of my height and braces and glasses. Boys who stood up for me... Or, being, or not being, popular with the kids in my class, specifically certain popular girls. Or, ways I might look better, if certain beauty products would help with acne. If special shampoos would help with oily hair. Those preoccupations were one form the Evil Distractions took. The other form was "STORIES"....

For as long as I could recall, I had told myself STORIES, at least a few, and sometimes a lot more, every day, every night until I fell asleep. These were mainly Short Stories of escapades concerning me and others or me and imaginary others, in, usually 'made-up', pretend, situations. They were endless and took up all of the time I had from morning to night. Since I had been reading books since I was four years old, these stories and scripts rarely interfered with school work or homework at all. Math was a problem. I had to turn them off for Math and really concentrate. Which didn't do much good, however, as I had no connection with numbers and their mechanization's whatsoever. I had no interest in Math, and Math had no interest in my mind, as well. Otherwise, I could blithely answer any teacher's every question fairly or very accurately and keep a Story-line going at the same time. I was a very lucky person, I thought. I could escape the world and be in it at the same time. I was actually very aware of this, I thought, wonderful skill of mine, even at age thirteen. Eventually, most of my daydreaming took the form of "Stories" most of the time....

The problems about this double life only surfaced occasionally in the school day. I had a charming habit, from age seven on, of telling these Stories to other children. When and if I got carried away enough with the plot and characters, I often presented them as being very real. These Stories had actually happened, or were happening in my life, in other words. It did not take long, in third grade in fact, for A Nun to get a whiff of this obvious transgression of mine. This Nun informed my mother, with me in a ball of sobs beside her, that I was a "Little Liar." To my mother's great credit, (guaranteeing her sainthood in my heart for at least seven more years) my mother huffily contradicted The Nun forthrightly. "Kathy is NOT a Liar. She never tells Lies. She is a Story-Teller!" I felt, all at once, that rays of holy light were pouring upon me. That the world, just as I thought and dreamed, had a place for me in it. My place was "STORY-TELLER". My daydreaming was vindicated. I could daydream forever and ever, and no one, not even A Nun, could stop me.

I did realize, though, by age thirteen, that the hard-line and ever more frighteningly intrusive Real World was encroaching upon my Pretend World more and more and more every fatalistic day by fatalistic day. All my highly developed Escapes: Reading Fiction. Writing Fiction. Story-telling. Singing Songs. Enjoying the smells and sights of the beautiful Rituals at Church (especially Incense, my favorite odor on earth). Daydreaming. Nightdreaming. All these wonders of the human psyche and spirit were mine! And yet, the REAL WORLD was coming in like a huge ocean freighter on a small river (probably the Fox River in St. Charles, Illinois, where I lived at the time). And, it was NOT a pretty sight! I was getting scared! Reality was HUGE. I was Not sure I wanted to go there! I began to pray.

Now, before that time, I had prayed, of course. All we Catholics "prayed". Hail Marys by the hundreds, for example. Now, this 'Mary' who we "hailed", was a special case. Mary was/is Jesus's Mother. The rest of us had Moms or Mamas. But Mary was a MOTHER. She was 'THE' MOTHER. She was absolutely perfect. She had not had to have sex to have Jesus born out of her. Joseph had loved her and taken care of her anyway. Everyone had loved her, including Jesus, of course, who was God's Son on earth. When she died, she got to go up to heaven totally in her very lovely body. And, if you prayed to her, it was a Direct Line to her Son. Guaranteed.

Plus, there were hundreds of wonderful pictures of her all over the Catholic books and Churches, because she was, clearly, just as important, in her own completely holy way, as God Himself. And, there were hundreds and hundreds of huge cathedrals that had been built over hundreds and hundreds of years all because just Everyone LOVED Mary!...I loved Mary, too. She was starting to outstrip my Mom in the Mother department in some ways...shades of changes to come, that I was innocent of at the time...I prayed...to MARY....

I prayed in Church at lunch period in front of the altar rail on the left side of the front of the Church where there was, as there always is in Catholic Churches, a special altar for Mary with a statue of her on it. There was also a statue of her in front of that altar, with her holding Jesus in her arms after they took him down off his cross, when everyone thought he was dead, before he arose and all. That statue was my special focus. I would look into that Mary's half-lidded eyes and believed I saw her compassion for my adolescent confusions about life, in those sweet eyes. And then, the Miracle Happened.

Here's what I recall: I was praying to Mary, all alone in the church, when suddenly, I was aware that her EYES HAD CHANGED! That is, the statue's eyes had changed: They were MORE OPEN. Now, here's a good point to note that thirteen year old girls can easily be a mite hysterical a great deal of the time, and are, across the line, into dramatics. This was, indeed, a thirteen year olds Drama. I was excited, and felt humble, and yet, holy and blessed a whole lot!

I even told a friend, who was also plain as I was, and therefore noted for her devotion to Catholic, 'good' behavior, as I was. She was quite excited as well. We prayed together for days before the statue, waiting for another sign. We were not sure if we should tell one of the Nuns or the priest or what. We decided to wait and see what Mary wanted us to do next. As nothing ensued out of the statue's lips or in our imaginations, we eventually gave up our quest...but my obvious "devotion" to Mary had been noticed by my eighth grade class, duly noted.

The seventh and eighth graders had a club of some sort, devoted to Mary. It was called a "Sodality". We were all obliged to attend the meetings, which were held under the totally controlling eyes of one of the Nuns, who made sure the kids who were already "falling-away" from Church teachings, weren't goofing off and ruining this special experience for we truly saved Catholic believers. We said prayers and read readings that were all about Mary.
An eighth grade girl was always picked by the class to be 'President of the Sodality'. Not only was she expected to run these meetings, but she had to set a good example all year for everyone, and show true devotion to Mary.
Guess who fit both those criteria BEST in my whole class? Yes, you guessed correctly. The Daydreamer who had hysterical visions about painted statue's eyes and all: Me. The class elected Me.

I was floored. I had been elected to this great HONOR unanimously! And, my God, my God. No one had a CLUE that I just daydreamed in church ALL of the time. No one knew that I was NOT WORTHY! They all thought I was fit to be President of the Sodality! And, this meant that I WOULD CROWN THE BLESSED VIRGIN MARY QUEEN OF THE MAY IN THE SPRING! This was the greatest HONOR to which a true-believer Catholic teen might hope to achieve! The President of the Sodality ALWAYS got to crown the Mary Statue on her very own altar, in front of God and everybody, with her wreath of flowers in the Spring! I was in Heaven on Earth. Verily!

This Rite of Spring was very huge and very serious and magnificent. At the most-filled-with-people Mass, on a Sunday in May, the President of the Sodality would be at the end (the Site of Honor) of a parade of all the kids in the school. She would be wearing a Wedding Dress and Veil, to show how pure she was, of course. A few little kids would walk ahead of her, throwing rose petals at her feet, as all the classes and she marched into Church singing songs, that we all knew by heart, about MARY. One little kid carried the Wreath of Flowers, real flowers, and would hand her the wreath off its little pillow. She would climb up a little white staircase. As everyone sang the last lines of the song, "O Mary We Crown Thee With Flowers Today", she would crown the statue of Mary with the crown of flowers, at the line "...Queen of the Angels! Queen of the May"! This was literally a crowning achievement for a young bud of a woman! I was thrilled to high heaven. I thanked my Mary in many prayers, pointing out to her, all the while, that I was totally unworthy, which, for some wonderful reason, she was overlooking!

First, of course, I had to run Sodality meetings every week or so, whether any one wanted to be there or not. That was hard, because most of the seventh and eighth graders would actually, naturally, prefer to be outside for recess, flirting and fooling around and playing ball games and so on. But I was so sincere, and tried so hard to please them all with new approaches and ideas, that most of them were at least a mite respectful, and didn't give me or The Nun too hard a time....and so the fall and the winter passed....

My own Mom, of course, had cried with happiness with me when I told her the news. As I remember it, this was the truly last time I ever felt so bonded with her as my precious Mom. By the time I started high school, she was already moving into her own problems and life passages full-steam-ahead, and we grew apart like ripping layers of wood off a living tree. Painful stuff. But, in my thirteenth year, she was still my biggest fan and my champ, all rolled into one...she really got into the Crowning of the Blessed Virgin Day big time, as well...

She designed and sewed for me, a truly lovely, modest, and very flattering heavy silken white dress - my first formal gown, really. She bought a great and simple and feminine veil, and a white pair of pumps for me. I practiced wearing all my gear and climbing stairs quite a bit, so that I wouldn't literally fall-down on the Job! I already knew all the songs, and Mom and I even sang them together and timed my steps to match the rhythm of the music.

The BIG AND HOLY DAY finally came. The Church was packed. I looked pretty great, for an awkward, tall, skinny, acne-pocked, glasses-and-braces gal! I was very happy, and very proud. I had thought about Mary and me quite a bit all year. I felt she understood my deal pretty well, for a somewhat imaginary presence in my life. She seemed like a Lady I could actually talk with at any time, should an occasion arise. Me and Mary were close...

I walked up the aisle just right. I sang quite nicely. I behaved in a dignified, lady-like manner. I did not stumble in my new pumps, not even going up the stairs. The kid gave me the wreath from the pillow. I took it in both hands, and climbed up the stairway to heaven where Mary stood looking sweetly down at me. I held the crown over her head. I placed it on her head at just the right point in the music. And then, softly, but so she could hear, I said...

"Mary, you know I am not worthy. I daydream all the time in Church. And, Mary, I'm not going to stop being a Story Teller." Then, I turned, looked out at the congregation, and descended into the rest of my life.