Hetty's Mending

Hetty loves to mend. It's another one of those art forms that has passed away. Once a part of survival, a weekly chore. Stitch up a seam, sew on a button, darn a sock, patch a hole. Now it's just throw it away; buy a new one.



" Such a waste," Hetty would mutter whenever she saw evidence of this throw away society.



"I have lived too long, " she'd say, "Too too long."



Hetty lived in a little half Cape , down a half mile drive, back in the dunes. She had lived there as long as anyone could remember and before that. People used to see more of her, but now you didn't see her as often. The pressures of modern life disturbed her mental balance too much.



Twice a year you would see her, when she came out to the bi- annual church rummage sales. Spring and fall. She would come in the hall with her radio flyer wagon.



"Hello Hetty" the old timers would say. "How was your Winter- or Summer?"



"Oh I got through it."was her reply.

It wasn't that she didn't like people. In years gone by she had always been a good neighbor. Lending a hand when a person needed it. That's how people survive out here at the end of the world, surrounded by seawater.



She would spend four or five hours at the sale, patiently going through piles. She'd pick out things that needed mending, or a button. She'd take a break at noon for a bowl of chowda and maybe a homemade brownie or cookie; then back at it.



There weren't too many faces left she even recognized now. Some people, remembering a kindness she had made to a parent or grandparent, would speak and say "I'm so and so's Granddaughter or son." Hetty would smile and nod, but wouldn't waste too much brain power on trying to remember the person.



"Momma who's that?" children would ask hiding behind a leg.

" That's Miss Hetty dear. She lives out off Beach Rose Lane. She's always lived there."



Hetty, hearing this exchange, would look at the child in such a way as to make them scream and then she'd laugh.



Around two o 'clock or so she'd pull the flyer to the cash out table. By now the stuff was real cheap, even tho she'd been there picking since nine. All you could stuff in a shopping bag for $2.00. They didn't mind because Hetty didn't pick the good stuff. The expensive sweaters and blouses and skirts that the yankees with money about ran each other down for at opening.



No Hetty took the stuff that had seen better days. So she actually did them a favor, taking it away.



"$8.00 Miss Hetty." That meant she had four bags full.

"My husband sure would like to have that flyer Miss Hetty."

"Well maybe I'll give it to him when I can't pull it anymore." Hetty opened her ancient brown leather coin purse and handed over eight one dollar bills. One was mended with red thread.

"Thank you Hetty. See you in the spring."

Hetty's kitchen was more of a sewing room now. She ate just enough to keep herself going. Old people can't be bothered with cooking and eating. So slowly, over the years, all the shelves in the pantry and the kitchen cupboards had been emptied of cans and pans and dishes and stacked with piles of cloth. The garments she brought home were taken apart and cut up. The usable sections were washed and ironed and folded. Then stacked on the shelves in the right color group. There were bits of fabric there that represented a whole textile history. Calicoes and plaids. Madras and tartan. Every type of print you could imagine. Swatches with big gay flowers from the sixties.

Hetty didn't care much for the blends. She would feel out the real cottons and wools and silk. Garments that were too good to cut up she would mend and patch. Sometimes she would really get going and make a real piece of artwork; almost entirely constructing another piece of clothing on top of the original. She spent her days sewing and mending, humming to herself and listening to the waves roll in.

When one of her "special pieces" was done, she would put it on a hanger and take it into the parlor. She would find an empty spot on the walls and hammer in a nail. Then she would hang up her new creation. There was barely any wall space left. Then she would sit in the rocker and admire what she had made.

April 15th, the date of the spring rummage sale came. It was the usual bustle and scramble for the good stuff. Everyone happy with their buys. A chance to visit with each other over the chowda lunch and catch up after being holed up all winter.

As the volunteers were packing up the leavings around 4 o'clock one woman remarked, "Know what I just thought of?" "No Hetty."
"Oh you're right- oh that can't be good."

The next day after church, two couples rode out Beach Rose Lane to see. Sure enough, there was no sign of life at the cottage. The kitchen door was unlocked, although a two foot sand drift was banked up against it.
They opened the door and called in, "Hetty? Hetty?"
All was still as they gingerly stepped into the kitchen.

"Oh my Lord will you look at this. Look at all this cloth."
As the wives were fingering the piles of cloth, agog; the two men went ahead towards the front of the house.
The short hall beside the steep stairs led them to the parlor. They saw a figure in the old rocker facing the front windows.
One let out a low whistle as his eyes tried to take in the dizzy array all over the walls.

"Hetty?"

The men inched into the room and came around the side of the rocking chair. Hetty's skeletal remains sat in the rocker with needle and thread and a crazily patched blouse in her lap. There wasn't even a bad smell. It was like the salt sea air coming in the open front windows had mummified her.

The two women were calling from the kitchen. They were afraid to go in.
"Well--see anything?"

"Oh yea" came the reply.

After the coroner had taken Hetty away to her final rest, some of the women from the church sewing circle went out to the house to see what to do.
On the kitchen table they found Hetty's Bible under a stack of neatly pressed squares. On the family entry page they found her listed in weak brown ink.

Hetty Almstead
daughter of Matthew and Hanah White Almstead
born April 2 1872

"Geeze--- I knew she was old..."

A piece of paper was tucked into this same page. It was a note from Hetty saying she wanted her creations sold and the money to go to the Ladies Sewing Circle coffers at the church.
And give the Radio Flyer to Harry Wilson, Mary's husband.

Through some contacts with summer people who attend services while in town, a show of Hetty's "Outsider Art" creations was held at a posh gallery in New York City in the fall.
The 274 pieces garnered the Sewing Circle $190,800.00. There would be no more to come from Hetty's needle. The Ladies Sewing circle established a charity fund in Hetty's name for families of fishermen who were down on their luck, or lost at sea. Or anyone else who lived in town year round for that matter. Hetty would have been surprised at the amount her love brought....and pleased.

"How about some stewed tomatoes for camouflage? Yes that's nice." She lifted the spoon to her lips for a taste as she was immune to her own cooking.

"O K Tabby------Go!" Thump onto the floor from the counter and bounding out the door, Tabby ran with a live one in her jaw. Stealthy as a- well- cat, she wove through the sea of people and chairs. She darted across the street and into the bushes behind the camper. Unseen she ran up to the beer keg and stuffed the little body in the pump hole. A couple of days ago a special feed had been put down in the basement for the rodents. Enough poison to sicken them but not kill them... just yet. This would taint the beer via the body. It would make the partiers feel very under the weather, to say the least.

Momma Bubba was in a lawn chair at a folding table stuffing bologna and egg salad sandwiches and piling them into a cooler behind her. She was in slo-mo so it gave Tabby plenty of time to hop into the cooler and relieve herself, plus have a slice of bologna for a snack.

Dash! back across the street unseen.

"10:30 A M !" The old woman announced the time to the air. "The parade is stepping off!" The day was growing hot- nearly *% degrees already. That's how it has been these last few years, cool late into June and then bam- 80's and 90's with little chance for the body to adjust.

"About an hour and a half to go and we'll be in the thick of it."

Across the street the bubba crew was taking a little break.

"These egg sandwiches taste funny" a couple of the little bubbas said. A sharp backhand from momma was the reply. The musical selection was now rap at warp 8. Clara's eyes narrowed as she surveyed the scene from behind the curtain. She looked left and right of the camp site. None of the other expectant parade watchers seemed to be bothered by the bubbas - even when their stray hoop shots landed on them. Swearing- yelling - carrying on was just expected behavior apparently. Clara's eyes were slits by now and the Connors of her mouth turned down. "I don't know whats wrong with people; no respect for anyone else."

People napped, babies cried, over heated dogs panted and snipped at the heels of the constantly milling crowd. Back in the kitchen, Tabby was catching a nap herself after her busy morning.


"Go ahead, nap my pretty. You'll be busy soon." Clara gave the stew on the stove a sniff and a stir. The boiling had reduced the mixture to a thick red froth. She took a slotted skimmer and pulled out clumps of hair and little bones until the stew looked more normal.

"Whew! smells bad! Hope the neighbors are good and drunk by after noon."

2:10 The parade is making good time. Sirens are heard in the distance down Hope St. People rouse from their snooze in the sun. Newspapers and paper bags slide to the ground as they hoist themselves out of their lawn chairs. People step into the street and peer towards town to see if it's in sight yet. A little longer.

Across the street it's more beer and sandwiches; a little jack when no one's looking. Momma bubba is slumped in her lawn chair with baby bubba's head in her lap. Suddenly baby bubba's head sprang up and a projectile vomit spewed forth covering momma bubba who flew out of the chair, dropping baby bubba into her own puddle. "CRAP!" shouted momma and crap baby did- "the egg salad must have turned. " Clara just happened to be at the window in time to see this little display and howled with glee. "Did you see that Tabby? That was perfect!" Short of jumping in the bay for a wash, the bubba's were going to spend the afternoon smelling pretty bad.



Clara snuck out on her porch to watch the parade pass. Tabby was on her lap but didn't last long before the loud noise of the guns sent her to her retreat in the basement. For the two and a half hours it took the parade to go by, everyone on both sides of the street was pretty much taken up with watching it. On her side, Clara managed to relax a little and made herself a long island ice tea. On the bubba side Momma and baby; in a fresh change of clothes; napped between canon shots. The men got drunker and louder and told each other war stories. The kids continued to run around the street getting in the way of the marchers. Weaving in and out and cat calling the girls in their band outfits.

3 PM Now it's over for another year. The parade portion anyway. Now it's GRILL TIME!

The bubba men are so drunk they nearly set themselves and the camper on fire with lighter fluid. When Clara saw that she said to Tabby, "now that would have saved us some work." But whoever watches over Yahoos was on the job and cooking got underway.

"O.K. Tabby Showtime!" Clara had heated the stew back up to warm. She carefully ladeled it into a save lock container she'd bought special. She took the nice loaf of Portuguese bread she'd bought at Baptista's, straightened her apron and at 4 o'clock carried the stew across the street.

"Hello folks. I see you're back again this year. How Many is it now? 10 years? 20?" "I thought I'd be a good 4th of July neighbor and bring you this stew and bread for your meal."

Tabby was rubbing back and forth between her ankles, looking like a sweet kitty. The men just stared at her slack jawed. Mumma bubba and a couple of the other wives looked surprised but managed to say thank you and put the container on the table.

"That was so nice of you- would you like a hot dog?"
"Oh no- no thank you. I'm not as young as I used to be. I'm worn out! going to go back and take a nap." "Don't worry about the container!"

Tabby and Clara hightailed it back across the street and up the porch steps and into the house. They sat behind the curtains and watched. The stew sat on the table untouched during the first round of hamburgers and hot dogs. "Drat" More loud music, more basketball, whomp whomp yell.

"Don't these people ever wear down?"

Around 6 o'clock Clara passed by the window and saw one of the bubba men licking some stew off his fingers.
"Damn this tastes kinda like my venison stew." "Kind a gamey" "Here LLoyd have some."

"Yes! Finally!"

As dusk drew on the music was still going full tilt, but otherwise it seemed somehow quieter. People were packing up and moving out on their way home til the next 4th of July.

9 o'clock the bubba encampment was the only one left but that wasn't unusual. They usually stayed late annoying the neighbors til near 11.

The camper door swung open and Momma and baby bubba stepped down the folding stair.
"Where is everybody?" "They must have gone for more beer."

Over at the picnic table and some on the folding chairs were a bunch of little mice burping and holding their stomachs with their little claw hands.

Back at the house Clara sat rocking on the porch in the cool night air with Tabby on her lap. "Well girl... I don't think we'll be seeing them next year."

"Happy 4th of July!"

Parade Hex 2

In the last couple of years the onslaught had been full on. People had actually come to her very door and offered her money for her cottage; and lots of it at that. They craned their necks while speaking, trying to get a better look inside. Marveling that the place was nearly untouched- un- modernized- virgin post contact era territory. Even tho they would yank out her wood range like an old tooth and put the stainless "over there". She slammed the door in their faces. Little did they know what had been cooked on that stove over the years.
The 4th dawned grey and muggy. Clara opened her eyes and felt the heavy air coming in her bedroom window off the water. Under the low eves the clamminess had settled on her like a thin cotton blanket.
Before the movement of her legs roused Tabby the cat, she heard it. The first clanging of aluminum tent poles hitting the pavement. They were here.
Clara sprang out of bed sending Tabby flying. Clara bent to look out the low window- across the street- just in time to see the big bubba turn up the volume on the red neck radio station. Little bubba and several bubba children were the ones clattering the tent poles, trying to erect the canopy off the side of the camper. Female bubba was loading the first case of beer into the cooler. She popped a top and took a long pull. It wasn't yet 6 a.m. The blood pressure rose in Clara's ears. "God damned sons of bitches. I'll fix your sorry asses for ya this year".
No one would be coming to the lawn for a parade picnic this year. This year Clara had begged off her parade hostess duties to the disappointment of her cronies. This year Clara had other plans.
"Come on Tabby- lets go downstairs and get breakfast before you run off to hide in the basement for the day. You may have some company down there this year."
Clara fired up the wood range even tho the heat was already gathering in the house. She put on the old tea kettle and poured some milk into Tabby's bowl. Both of them jumped in their skins as a boom of hillbilly music blared into the air. 6:15.
The street was filling up. Blankets were spread on the sidewalks; lawnchairs, coolers and people people people, were packing in to every available inch of space. It would be a good five hours before the parade got down this end. A long time to kill while guarding your spot. Some slept on their blankets, some read, some took a promenade up and down the street a ways. The rednecks settled in with their beer. More came to join them and a pickup game of basketball against the side of the camper began. Whomp whomp whomp yell- over and over.
Every little while Clara stole to the front window and watched them. "What asses. How dare they come here from out of town and ruin our day?" Tabby jumped up on the sill and rubbed back and forth on her Mother's arms.
"Now my sweet girl-I want you to do like I told you. Remember how we practiced?" Tabby glared her own look at the bubbas through yellow slitted eyes before she hopped down and ran back toward the kitchen. The basement door was ajar and she ran down the steep steps. Quick quick she was back up again with something wiggling in her teeth. A fat mouse squealed in terror. Tabby's jaws closed hard and the mouse went limp. Clara had replaced the breakfast kettle with an old enamel pot on the wood range. Tabby flung the mouse into the boiling brew in the pot and gave Clara a satisfied smirk. She lifted her head for a stroke. "Good Girl!" This route was redone several more times until a pot full of little bloated bodies roiled in the enamel pot. All the while Clara added a dash of this and a pinch of that, muttering unknown words as she worked; smiling for the first time all day.

Parade Hex

Spring was cold again this year. Not quite as wet as last year, but each day we got out of bed and poked our noses out to see if it was warmer yet. Only one day in all of June was almost 90 degrees and then the next morning it was back down in the 40's at first light. What happens with years like this is it makes for a short summer. If we can include the last half of June and the first half of September it's a good year. Then we can stretch our slim paradise of Summer to three months. To add to the lateness of Spring's arrival, the children were released late from school as well. A mere week before the 4th of July. In that last week town swings into extra high gear.

American flags bloom up and down Hope and High with the neighbors in an unspoken competition of who's flag is the oldest or the biggest. Someone on High St is always winner of the "biggest" division with the one that hangs across the sidewalk from the corner of the house to the top of the utility pole and reaches nearly to the ground. I noticed this year a disgruntled dog walker tied a knot in it.



The Carnival pulled onto the common and all the townies go the first night because it's "Dollar Night". Let the tourists go the rest of the week and pay $4.00 bucks a pop. If you live on the parade route forget about a full nights sleep for a few days. You're lucky if you make it to 3 a.m. because the street sweeper is out making sure the freshly painted red white and blue lines stay clean. Then there's the partying that goes on all night the night before and then after the day of festivities there's the clean up. The town does a very good job of clean up.

Also, it seems, a blind eye is turned to public drinking. If your cocktail of choice fits in a coffee mug we don't seem to notice that you get louder and wobblier as the day goes on.

In certain spots along the two and a half mile parade route campers pull in and set up shanty town for twenty four hours. During this period the drinking is non-stop. If you have the bad fortune to abut one of these areas, your patience is stretched to the limit.

If you are not from here, let me try to have you understand the importance of the parade. For two and a fifth consecutive centuries-with a very few exceptions for war and pestilence that we forgive- people here have marched down the street with musical instruments and guns on the fourth of July. Balls and beauty contests, picnics and fireworks and band concerts of every ilk lead up to the parade every year. Planning is a year round production and to be chosen Grand Marshall is akin to being elected President. This is no small small town parade.



One year the patience of town resident snapped and here is where the tale begins.



One bunch of camper revelers comes to the same spot every year. It's the parking lot of a posh waterfront restaurant who's owner has the good sense not to open on parade day. Directly across the street the land rises in a slight bank. In the middle of a row of old houses sits a Cape style cottage set back a little and three quarters hidden in an overgrowth of hedgerow and wild antique plants.
Every year for the last twenty; Clara, who lived in the cottage, had been driven crazy by this same group. Every year her 4th of July was ruined by these slobs. This year she was ready for them.
Clara is a native and her foremothers have been here for all the generations since white people set foot on Mt. Hope. She had watched the town be changed time and again by new comers moving in with their ideas of how the town could be "Better".

The Night the Mayflower Burned to the Ground

"Ethan! Ethan get the cart!"

Horace looked forward to Saturday night all week long. Not that drinking was reserved for one night a week. A tip of hard shine or a beer was an ongoing part of life. Saturday "drinking out" was the one means of sociability in this back woods hum drum existence.
People like Ethan and his Father lived in shacks, clumped together in enclaves, tucked away along back country roads boardering farmland and stands of scrub pine. Saltboxers they were called. Not after the saltbox style of the old Cape Cod cottage; but more like shanties covered in tar paper. Saltboxers were mostly family groups with alot of close marrying and the folks reflected that. Their world was small; but the people were passionate in love and in hate.

Horace was a tall man with rheumy blue eyes. His wife Bette was dead; but in life she had been considered pretty. Dark hair and eyes. She wasn't from the Saltbox, but Hogtown, some twelve miles North. So Ethan had more color than alot of his peers. He was quite handsome at fourteen in fact and the girls liked him.

As far as the neighbors knew Bette had died an accidental death while on a visit to her folks. She just never came home. Ethan was four at the time. He had gone with his Mother to visit his Grandparents and Aunt up to Hogtown. Only he returned when Horace went to bring them home. Altho Ethan was quickly hustled into the house, the shacks were closely situated and some of the neighbors saw the bruises and cuts on Ethan. The cheerful pretty child became dour after that and people didn't ask questions. They just figured it had to do with his Mother's accident.

Horace was never pleasant to begin with, but after Bette's death he became even drunker and more wrathful. Bette had been the one bright spot in his sour world. People gave him a wide path, especially when he was drunk.

It was into the 1950's and people did have cast off cars and farm trucks; but on Saturday night they left them behind because they knew they would be way too drunk to drive home. Not that they had any regard for the life and limb of themselves or anyone else, but because they prized their vehicles. Besides the pony carts were tradition.

It was nearly five p.m. when Ethan led the pony from his small coral behind the shack and hitched him to the home made cart. Nearly every family had a pony cart. Some were gaily painted and had been passed down through the generations of a family. Horace's was plain and boxy. Ethan brought the pony and cart around and Horace heaved himself aboard. Father and Son set off for a night of hard drinking. Along the rural roads they drove; cars passing them with children craning their necks at the sight. Strange rigs like some apparition from the past.

After about seven miles North they turned off the hard road onto a cart path into the swamp. The pony well knew the way in as well as out, hours later, when they were too drunk to navigate themselves home. Going on six thirty the cart pulled into the yard of a large barn. Other carts were already there. Only a few old rusty edged tin beer signs nailed to the wall gave away the fact that this wasn't just another old barn but The Mayflower. A place for drinking and dancing and flirting; frequented by the rural poor and once in a while a few brave young people who went to gawk at these people ; a remnant of a time soon passed. Inside the place was decorated with every manner of antique farm implement nailed to the walls and the ceiling. Hell even an old pony cart was suspended from the rafters. An accumulation of years and years since before prohibition. An old jukebox offered a mixture of music also spanning decades. On Saturday nights some of the locals brought instruments and played the old songs for country dancing.

A knot of young people loitered around the door.
"Hello Ethan" a pretty young girl flirted. The drinking age started about twelve here, along with sexual encounters. Ethan turned red and dropped his gaze to the dirt. Then he followed his Father inside. Once inside Horace sat at the bar which was built along a side wall and ordered a whiskey for himself and a beer for Ethan. Ethan took his drink and went off to sit in a corner near the jukebox. There he stayed all evening, getting up only for more beer. He watched the other young people dance and flirt. He watched his Father get shit faced drunk.
Now feuds are not just the stuff of Southern legend. They are real. Especially among the poor uneducated people in any woods who have little else to sustain them. The Mayflower was located nearer to Hogtown than the Saltbox. Almost every week there would be a fight in the Mayflower yard over some infraction of local decorum either real or imagined. This raw undercurrent was always present and grew hotter, more volatile, as the alcohol haze thickened with the night. Police didn't go there unless they were off duty and part of the mix.
For a few years after Bette's death, Horace didn't go to the Mayflower. Instead he sat at home and drank. Ethan was still little. Once the boy was old enough for beer they began the weekly trip. It didn't take Ethan long to notice the feud between Horace and Walter. Walter was a cop who tended bar for extra cash at the Mayflower. Walter was also a Hogtowner who considered himself better than most because of his job. Walter was also Bette's cousin.
Ethan would watch his Father start to pick a fight with Walter after the fifth or sixth whiskey. Many nights ended up with them rolling around in the yard in a drunken brawl. This night, hot and sticky in late August, Horace was particularly aggressive and nasty. It was the anniversary of Bette's death. About eleven o'clock Walter left his post as bartender and started to match Horace shot for shot. Ethan grew nervous and went outside for some air. He sat in their cart and watched the young people in the yard stealing kisses and wondering off into the trees. About midnight he went back inside to try to convince his Father to go on home. He couldn't see Horace and he didn't see Walter either. He sat. Then he went back to the cart to wait and dozed off. Ethan began to dream. In his dream he was being pulled hard by the arms by his Grandmother. He could feel himself trying to thrash his way out of her grip. He cut himself on her nails. He dreamt of hearing angry shouts.
"It was you!"
"It was you who killed my Bette! You killed her because she loved me more and she left you!"
A lantern was hurled at one man by the other. "I'll kill you- you son of a bitch- like you killed her!"
Ethan woke with a start to see flames engulfing the Mayflower. People were rushing out into the yard screaming. Flames quickly swallowed up the old oil soaked wood.
Ethan tried to shake his head clear but he couldn't figure out if the angry voice had belonged to Walter or his Father.
Sunday morning the fire was the talk of every surrounding town. Everyone drove out to see the smoldering pile of barn planks. A half burned pony cart stuck up through the pile. Neither Horace or Walter was ever seen alive again.

A couple of POEMS for Valentines Day

Wandering in Samsara

Our perceptions of self
body image
at the bottom
form our opinions of our worth.
In the eyes of the beholder
no matter how funny
no matter how smart
no matter how kind
We think we are not worthy of the handsome one
the smart one
the rich one.
Like a blessing
the handsome one appears
and loves us
Not preyfully
Wanting nothing
but our smile
our touch our blessing.
That is Grace.

for John Morin



GURU Devotion

Being such a fan
of actual physical Love
all these years
I -off and on-
flirted with the idea
of loving an entity
a spirit
a physical person- but removed-
out of reach
in accessible
by reason of distance
or taboo.
Love of another nature.
To simply gaze on an image
of the Beloveds face
brings overwhelming joy. The sound of the Beloved"s voice
is heartbreaking.
I could not imagine
a love like this without conclusion.
Then I realized
that's how I feel about you.

for Bob Dylan

The Wild Olivine

She will not be tamed
the wild Olivine.

Some women have polite
cats that purrr and coo

Sit on your lap and
raise their faces for a kiss.

Not Olivine! The nine arms
cannot contain her!

I chose her when just
her round head poked out
from beneath her mother.

Her Mother was also wild.
Wouldn't allow a stroke
Altho her body seemed
to yearn for one.

She barely consented to
live in my little house
for three months
Only for her kittens.

Mostly under the bed.
Once in a great while
when all was still
She would sit in the
kitchen by the door
to rest from the nursery.

Olivine's eyes were
big shiny black buttons
when they opened.
She is black and tan
just like her Mother.

The only one like that

Now her Mother is gone.
Survived the Winter
but died in early Spring.

I tell Olivine all about her
when she slows down
long enough to listen.

The Kitchen

Almost homey
Light thru the gingham at the windows
softens the rows of tables
as many as the room will fit.
The old Cadillac of a stove
is warm in nature.
Holds many pots.
Burns the arms of the volunteer cooks
leaning down to pull the pans of American Chop Suey out.

The giant Hubbard squash someone brought
sits atop the refrigerator.
It has become a house pet
and vibrates it's benediction whenever the motor goes on.
Barry has dubbed it THE GREAT ORB
who sees all.

Sees the extra muffins stuffed into pockets
sees the needles passed under the tablecloth.
Sees the intentions of all in the room.

As the light fades we all return.
Another day completed
survived on the street.
Another meal provided to sustain us.
Amen.

Quaker

Thomas Tabor is a Quaker. There were once Quakers in my family and this was our bond. An unlikely meeting; but maybe not. New Bedford in the Whaling days was a center of Quaker activity. These streets, so near the long whalves, held the counting houses and the shops of Quaker merchants. Barrels and sails and salted meat and hardtac, harpoons and ships log books. Ships "out", whale oil "in" the ledger columns. The money mounted in plain Quaker pockets.

Now in this latter day the Quaker Thomas was tending bar and drinking as well. All our Yankee Ouaker families had watered down, thinned out, run out; through intermarriage with Canadians and Catholics and Portuguese; until the last vestiges of the Friends lifestyle were ghostly memory. Such memories haunted some- like Thomas.

He remembered his family, his Grandparents, his ancestors and the way they lived. He knew their stern hand and their disapproval of his life.

In the town still stands the meetinghouse. It's double curving stairways and separate doors for male and female give the plain brick building it's grace.

Inside, the white boxed pews with hard board benches are Quaker austerity made manifest. Any noise is hollow for no cushion or curtain soften the sound. Plain but graceful wrought iron chandeliers hang to hold the oil lamps once fueled by the behemoth. And that is all here, but the silence of worship.

Off to the side is the parish hall. Now, so few faithful gather, this is where they meet. More comfortable; kitchen chairs and rockers, some with a thin pad in the seat, covered in faded calico. An old wooden playpen for babies and a few hand me down toys to occupy the little ones. A new generation of Quakers yet. I had gone to this house of worship on a few occasions; looking not so much for God as for some sort of tie to my familial past. What had my ancestors been like? I have only faded photos of pinched Yankee faces.

I don't remember how it ever came up in conversation with Thomas about being decended from Quakers. My name was no longer a Quaker name, by way of generations of marriages. But Tabor is. Males hang on to their names and Thomas also hung on to a shred of his family identity; even tho he had been cast out as a black sheep. Strayed from the fold by way of drugs and alcohol. Out to sea on a scalloper and washed back up on shore. Cast up at the door of the National Club. Like so much flotsam- there we found ourselves- one on each side of the bar.

"Would you go to Meeting with me sometime?" I could tell it took all his courage to ask. Thomas is one of those men who is by nature so soft spoken you can barely catch their words. He wears his hair long and it waves around his face. Wire rim glasses complete the look,along with the ever present peacoat. To see him standing at the foot of Union St. at dusk would cause you to look twice, for he looked like his own ancestor just disembarked from a whaler.

And so we went to church. If you've never been, Quaker Meeting is formed of silent reflection. A reading, some hymns, the rest silent meditation. Each is still in their own seat. The collective silence gathers in the room in a kind of tension if you aren't accustomed to it. Sometimes someone will be moved to speak and it is received like a sacrament and the silence continues.

And so we sat, Thomas and I. I must confess I watched him. It was as if he went away off. Lost in his private thoughts. Were they tormented self reprisals for his shortcomings, or happy remembrances of going to meeting as a little boy? His face did not tell me.

BANG! A thunderous loud noise returned us to the present. Somewhere a book had dropped to the floor. We both about came out of our skins and the spell was broken.

We never went to Meeting together again. Nor did he ever mention it. I don't know if he ever went again by himself or not I doubt it. Perhaps once was enough.