Grey:

There is no way to describe it. It was so long ago. It’s buried so deep.

          I am the spoiled child of an upper middle-class family. Cry enough and my tired loving parents gave me whatever I wanted. But for the first six years, I didn’t have to cry. Life was peaceful. I was protected.

          Actually, that’s a lie. I’m trying to protect my parents because they’re human. They had faults. Chiefly, they were weak, like regular men and women.

          I was born late. Thirteen years lay between my last brother and my bright smiling face. My parents were proud. I was the apple of my father’s eye. My mother loves all babies. Children are a lot of work, though. To stay upper middle-class fathers need to grind out long hours. Mothers are busy socially maintaining status. I was raised with the help of a black woman.

          Perhaps an interesting note: I didn’t know until someone told me later that she wasn’t my mom. I thought I had two moms; the one who loved me and cared for me, and the one who held me on her lap and asked me to scratch her back.

          We gathered in the room at Turo Hospital. The walls were yellowed from age. The lights were dim and cast a dull yellow light against the wall at bedside. The sheets were worn. Though they were clean, they were yellowed from age. The woman in the bed smiled. She was thin and beginning to look worn. Her kidney was failing (the only one she had left). Her eyes were yellowed and sad. Her rich brown skin and the white of her smile were the only colors in the room.

          I cried to see her and know nothing could be done.

          Uremic poisoning was killing the scotsman. Everyone tried to make things easy on him. But, everyone knew the score. The scot was cross and cold. The other men in the hospital were trying to be patient with him but were beginning to find him intolerable. The scot grey anry at their sympathy.

          I was a cockney. I played a fat loud British soldier who had been wounded in the rear end.

          “The Hasty Heart”

          When the critics saw us perform for the American Theatre Festival, I was criticized for being loud and obnoxious. The critics felt the character was over loud. While he was funny, he grew tiresome because I played him so loud. It only occurs to me now that they never read the play.

          Certainly this is arrogance on my part. What else can I say? Either they were wrong or I was wrong. O.K., I’m wrong. But that lacks sincerity.

          I lack sincerity. I’m mean. I’m a dog that’s been whipped and whipped and whipped and decided never to be whipped again. But I do it wrong. I lower my defenses, open my heart, try to help everyone, and expose myself to every type of let down, whipping, and swift kick that I can. It keeps me mean. It keeps me insincere.

          I stay whipped. Constant whipping becomes no whipping. The drip which drives us mad, removed drives us mad.

          When I was young, Mable would take me for walks, bathe me, ride me to the park, feed me, stay with me at night when the other mom was busy, and generally loved me as her own. I think that’s what did it. She was only supposed to take care of me. But she put herself wholly to the task. I was hers. I was her bouncing white baby boy. I was her hope. I was the child that had all of the chances that her own two would never have.

          Mauva was Mable’s daughter. I attacked her crying and pounding my fists when she first showed up at out house. I was angered. This was my mom. The one loved one that didn’t steal from me. And I wasn’t going to let her be stolen. I wouldn’t share her. She loved me. If anyone else took her attention, I’d never get it back. I know. The special little baby was already rusting. The new toy was showing wear. The cute little puppy was scratching fleas and getting gangly. The children were too busy to put food out for him. So, mom was stuck with the job. But Mable had developed a real affection for the little fella. And now, I knew she wasn’t mine. She had another family. She wasn’t even my real mom.

          I was three before I realized she wasn’t my real mom. I wasn’t ready for the shock. Mable had a son, too. I never met him. Her husband had left years before. She lived in a project. My mom told me she was a good woman. She went to church on Sunday and Wednesday. I think she sang in the choir.

          I wondered why she lived in a government project. Why didn’t she live with us. We had so much. I gathered that we paid her an extremely fair wage. I loved her so much. I didn’t know she wasn’t our responsibility. I didn’t know she had her own home. We had room for her. My brothers and sisters had all moved out leaving a haunted house in their wake. She could share my room. Mable wore grey uniform dresses with white cuffs and buttons.

          My brother used to make a rat’s tail with his towel. When he’ld come home on leave from the navy I’ld go visit him upstairs in the haunted part of the house. He’ld pop me with his rat tail until I’ld get red welts. This was funny. Then he’ld pin me down and give me a red belly. He’ld slap me on the stomach until it would look like it would bleed through the skin. We played like that a lot. Once, years later, he twisted my arm behind my back and kicked me most of the way down a mountain in New Hamshire.

          He would have been the baby. At twelve years and nine months I stole that from him. I guess he loved me and wanted to get even all at once. Love and pain have a twisted marriage. I guess that’s why I let the guys down the street beat on me. I thought it helped them accept me. One guy used to sick his beagle on me. I would barely outrun the beagle and clear my back yard fence on a single leap. As I grew and the beagle aged, I would lengthen my pattern to the yard staying just ahead of the beagle. Then as I began to tire, with one last burst of adrenaline I’ld clear the fence. Safe! It must have angered the guy that the dog never got me. Since I seemed to enjoy it, he took it as an insult. So, he and a friend would call me over and hit me instead. They didn’t take this kind of time with my friends. A relationship was beginning. Mable would sit me down in the front of the bus then go to the back and sit. The bus seemed large and lonely. I wandered to the back to get Mable and sit in her lap. She would walk me back to the front then go to the back. I wondered why she didn’t want to sit with me. Maybe she wanted to visit with the other day moms at the back of the bus. I tried again. She brought me to the front, gave me a little folded document from a rack above our heads, and walked to the back. At the park she held my hand. I didn’t understand.

          The park was full of large oaks. We would walk or ride the little train together. We went to the pavilion and had popcorn. Mable held my hand. And when we sat, I sat in her lap. Then we’ld go home on the bus.

          I love the outdoors in New Orleans. I love the rich smell of oaks and moss. I hate public transportation.

          I’m mean. If it isn’t against the rules to hurt someone, I like that. I played football. Practice meant as much to me as the game. I liked hitting people. I liked people hitting me. It was like love.

          When I was young I had warts all over my knuckles and knees. Since I was short and chubby with a flat top, it wasn’t difficult for the older kids in the neighborhood from down the street to affectionately torture me by calling me “wart boy”. I was special. I stood out in their eyes. They laughed at me and everyone ran from me. “Don’t let him tough you. You’ll get warts.” And they ran. Being spirited, I chased them, trying to tough them. It was tag with a purpose. No base. No it. Just the attack of the wart boy. Usually, I’ld go home when I grew tired of chasing them. Either that or I’ld sit down and the attention would shift away.

          The Elephant Man suffered for Juliet. If Romeo had really loved her he would have called a doctor or made certain of her death. With knots on his head resembling brown cauliflower, he eventually suffocated from the weight of his head being forced down on his windpipe.

          “Mable”, I asked, “why is it raining with the sun out?” In New Orleans you can see amazing things happen in something so simple as rain. Once a single large cell thunderstorm stopped over the house. While looking out the front window, the sky was black and rain came down in dense sheets. The back yard was clear with the sun shining. Eventually the storm moved on and both front and back were dark.

          “The devil is beating his wife.” She replied.

          “Why?” I asked.

          She paused. “Because she burned the biscuits.” Mable answered and I laughed.

          It seemed a bit harsh. Certainly, it was an accident.

          My Mother and her half crazy whole sister were nervous and giddy as the wind lashed against the house and the rain teemed down. Lightning cracked down and thunder roared all around the house. Boom! It was just outside in the trees. Bam! Another close run. The lights went out. They giggles nervously running from room to room trying switches and looking out windows. As I crossed behind them not knowing whether to panic or laugh, lightning hit the wire outside the house. A blue streak shot out of the light switch on the wall, out into the room, leaving a fur ball of light burned in our eyes, then slithered quickly out the way she came in. It was only inches from my face. The women paused in shock, ogled at one another, then went mad again chattering, laughing, and moving from room to room.

          When you’re young, they saver you the trouble of mourning for unfamiliar or non-related individuals. “There’s no need to drag a child along to a funeral.” So, my parents excused me from the procession. That is until my grandmother died. She was a relative. Mourning is more formal in that case. There’s good and bad etiquette when it comes to funerals. You never remark how dead someone looks. But that’s the way they look to me. I see them lying there and I think, “They sure are dead.” And they are. Death is fairly non-deceiving.

          Romeo, on the other hand, was deceived. Perhaps not by death. Perhaps Romeo was deceived by life. Juliet lay still and yet was still so fair. Thus with a kiss he died. Romeo! Romeo! Wherefore art thou, Romeo? Asleep? Perchance you dream. There’s the rub! For in that sleep of death your thoughts are imperious like thy name.

          I’m mean to an arrogance. I take Shakespear out to play. Juggling his words like oranges in the hands of a jester. Shakespear was brilliant. Shakespear’s dead. Alas poor Willie! He knows too well what dreams. His brilliance lies interred with his bones. A flicker.

          Mable would stand in front of the stove stirring and smiling. A magic cloud would permeate the air. The smell was generally the odor of onions, garlic, green peppers, and celery simmering in bacon grease: Red beans and rice, meatballs, and spaghetti, or any number of creole delicacies.

          I once asked Mable where she was from. She told me she lived in town. I explained that I meant ancestry. We are Scotch Irish and German. Mable replied that she was creole. “Creole? What does that mean?” With a smile she said, “Home grown.” She was from New Orleans. What else mattered.

          I was proud to be German. I considered it a privilege. When I was young I asked for a German-English dictionary so that I could teach myself the language. My Father had been sent back to the fatherland when he was in his twenties by my grandfather to make some contacts with regards to the cotton export business and to see his heritage. He saw brownshirts marching on Sunday in Berlin. When he came home he warned everyone to watch out. Everyone laughed. After all, we just whipped them a few years ago.

          One day as Mable walked back up the street to catch the bus and go home, an eccentric man who lived on the corner ran out of his house and chased her off of the sidewalk in front of his house. My Mom told me he beat her with a broom. “Why?” My Mom guessed that he thought she was suspicious for some reason. “And besides he doesn’t like colored people.” (It was o.k. to say that then.) Anyway, she supposed he was
“peculiar”.

          His wife was “peculiar”. The kids in the neighborhood called her “Old Lady Brockenbrauh” because she seemed to think she owned the street. (Brockenbraugh Ct.) The adults called her “Mrs. Peculiar” and snickered mischieviously.

          There was a great oak tree in the parking lot of a church across the street from her house. The oak’s trunk was tremendous. It was also short; splitting into various massive branches about six feet above the ground. The gnarled old trunk had turned and twisted in such a was as to provide perfect steps and handles for little hands and feet to grab hold of. So we’ld walk to the corner and storm the tree. Seven or eight kids attacked the tree and found bliss in her branches. A long limbs dipped and twisted and allowed an adept tree climber to walk out over the street or back toward the church. Invariably, we would climb for a few minutes then sink into some nook in the branches to contemplate our conquest. About this time, here she came. “You children get down from there.” and so on. She would rant that the church had asked her to keep an eye on the tree and keep children out. And so, we’ld go away. She seemed to dislike everyone but me.

          She thought I was a polite well behaved young man. I can remember actually knocking on her door and being asked to come in. Her yard was like a well groomed jungle and the house was the same. Everywhere there were plants and flowers. She had vines in the window, plants on her tables, cacti in cups. The house was rich with dark browns, maroons, and greenery. Her windows were crowded with plants. The atmosphere was prehistoric. The air was thick and rich. The house was dark and damp and yet alive. There was decay and there was peace. Loneliness and memories. Love and pain.

          She gave me some kind of cookie. But it seems now like I ceased to function bodily like a human. I was frozen, rooted, staring at the jungle. The cookie passed through my hand and into my stomach by osmosis. I never remember leaving. But I must have.

          Two doors down from the church was a yard with a steep grade running to the street. The owner of the house had terraced rows of monkey grass along the whole front of the house. The kids thought it was a great place to roll down or to hunt lizards. We’ld play in the grass, rolling and running, until Old Lady Brockenbraugh would see us. Then she’ld come yelling, “You children get out of that yard.” It seems that the owner had asked her to keep kids out of the yard.

          We played softball and cabbageball in the front yard of the house next door down. When the ball was hit into the yard with the monkey grass, we’ld go after it. Eventually she’ld come and chase us out, then stand over us until we moved on. Once this happened and the ball was still in the yard. All of the kids were intimidated. The owner drove up and turned into the drive. We figured that was the end of our game. Mrs. Peculiar went home. I gathered my guts and walked over to the guy. “Sir, I’m Mike Clark and our ball went into your yard.” And I told him the story. “Don’t listen to that woman. You can come into my yard anytime and get that ball. Here you go, boys.”  As he walked away he shook his head and muttered something about how peculiar she was.

As the game progressed, it wasn’t long before she came out again. Arms folded, scowling, she looked like she was going to bite someone’s head off. As it was she resembled Medusa. She jumped us. “I thought I told you…”

“I asked Mr. Haynes and he said it was o.k..”

She was surprised at me. Such a good boy being so sassy. And she left.

“Be gone! You have no power here.”

And so I inherited the ruby slippers. I had stood up to Old Lady Brockenbraugh. I thought about her husband hitting Mable with a broom. He had died before I ever saw him. I wanted to beat him with a stick. What kind of gutless man would hit a woman with a broom?

I was brought up in the noble chivalry of an american age past. Men don’t hit women. I was a well disciplined upstanding young German American son I attended military school. I shined my shoes. I never hit women.

On T.V. the people on one side of the line were yelling at the people on the other side of the line. They had pickets and signs. They held hands. They sang. The police hit them with sticks. Some people threw rocks. They sprayed them with hoses. Men ran and fought and bled.

Then a few years later as that fight settled down, a fight broke out between our people and their people way over there. Our people were soldiers. Their people were generally smaller dark haired people with different eyes. I remember a bloody sandal where a morter had blown a budhist priest back to nirvana and the sandal hadn’t moved. I remember one funny looking soldier taking a pistol and blowing a funny looking scared man’s head off.

The young people screamed at the older people, while the police kept them apart. Then the police chased the young people who threw rocks and called names until the army came. Then the young people wearing beads were called in to put flowers in the guns. As a result, they killed four students on purpose by accident.

Everyone was so angry.

I was angry. I was looking for peace. I was interested in love. Everyone hated everyone. There was no love. There was no peace. Reaching for ideals was like asking for a whipping. Whip a dog long enough, he turns mean. I had become mean.

For the first time in my life, watching Mable move around the hospital room, I couldn’t think of anything to say to her. I didn’t have any questions. I was dim and yellow. For the only time, I felt awkward before Mable. I felt cold. I felt pity.

My Father prides himself in the strength of his grip and his ability to arm wrestle with his children. His hands are soft and lean. His hands are extremely strong. They seem to wrap around my hand twice. Even at seventy-eight they are strong and deliberate when he clasps down.

I made the mistake once of beating him arm wrestling. No one wants to beat his Father just after he wins. It's the moment that true nature of change becomes evident. Some things grow stronger while others grow weaker. The new replaces the old. Pride can be a horrid enemy. Pride leads us to believe there is some value in our personal strength. Pride pushes us to achieve. Pride keeps us from admitting were wrong. Pride keep us from admitting to weakness.

I don't want to remember that hospital room. Nor do I want to remember the ride home. I wanted my father to save Mable. She was doing all he could do. He was pulling strings with his political friends to keep her on dialysis and find grant money. He wasn't giving her his own. What good is money and power if you can't save a life? For the first time in your circumstance which I could not control. No pleading, no crying, no "one more chance" would change the outcome. The dye was cast. And the demons danced in black death on clouds in darkness. Mable would not get well. Yet, she wasn't bitter. She seemed to know it was only so much anyone could or would do. I wondered how much more would have done if it had been me. What if that precious baby were dying? 

Mable was my mom. I loved her. I would have traded places. But, I was powerless. I remember asking how she was feeling. Was that all I could say?

At my cousin’s wedding I sat in the back and tried to be one of the bricks in the cathedral walls. Edith, my Mother’s all dead completely sane whole sister should have been there to see him married. Suddenly, the wind blew the heavy cathedral door open. I wondered. Then I felt peace and excitement. It was more than the wind.

          Years before, I did of the girl who told me that her grandmother had told her we would be together. I asked her why her grandmother would say such a thing. She said her grandmother visit her regularly to help her. I was confused. She said that her grandmother was that and appear to her in the mirror. I didn't know whether to take her seriously or not. And, fortunately, they seemed to have better things to do. If my grandmother had appear to me in any inanimate object, I would probably have vomited from fear. The whole thought seemed bazaar and wicked. I didn't dig the ghost thing. "She said we were going to kiss tonight!" Then again, I'ld never met a ghost. 

“I beg your pardon. I’ve never seen a beautiful witch before.”

Perhaps this one was o.k..

          We had been standing in a rear hallway of the school while a band played at a dance inside. Neither of us could dance. So, we talked. Eventually, taking my cue from the ghost, I kissed her.

          We kissed; lips closed; eyes closed. We touched lips together and excitement charged through the connection. We held it a long time. Eventually, a few kisses later, she opened her mouth, she said “We’re not ready for that yet.” I understood. On our next kiss, moments later, she opened her mouth and it was time. I was confused and proceeded with caution. She didn’t bite. A subtle reminder of the twisted marriage. Love and pain.

          T.S. Elliot never knew William Shakespear. Yet, Hamlet knew the hallow men. It doesn’t surprise me that Hamlet also spoke to ghosts. “Misah Kurtz – he dead.” Alas poor Yorick! I knew them well.

          I don’t remember telling Mable how much I loved her. I don’t suppose I had the maturity to express it. I can’t remember her face and I’m afraid to look for her picture though I know there are several among old family photos.

          I prayed the other day to see her. I felt as though if I went to the field near my house she would appear to me there. God is faithful. And so, I stayed home and went to be early. “There is no one righteous, not even one; there is no one who understands, no one seeks God,”

          I have searched for truth amidst doubt all of my adult life. I have pursued ideals and chased dreams. I have been introspective. I have examined all that I’ve seen. And I’m haunted.

          The picture that I don’t want to find shows me and my grandmother and Mable sitting on the steps of the house in which I grew up. There is a white trellis on either side of the porch. The house is painted brown. The picture is black and white. Its an old photograph. I don’t want to see it.

          Growing on the trellis was beautiful night jasmine. When it would bloom, if you went to our front door, you were enveloped in a blanket of sweet aroma. There was a wall of green leaves sprinkled with white flowers on either side as you stood facing the door. The door was a heavy oak door painted white with brass knocker and brass handle.

          The children were expected to enter at the side of the house. The front door was more formal. It was an entrance for guests and visiting adults. It entered on a spacious living room. The living room was the least lived in room of the house. (aside from the haunted upstairs) We used it, but, usually for formal visits, discussions with visiting relatives, and for regular gathering at Christmas or Thanksgiving. Basically, it was a room for adults,

          The décor was elegant. Furniture included centuries old furniture from Germany and a smattering of new items my Mother had added. There was bass, silver, mahogany, cherry, marble, and fine fabric throughout. The room felt regal.

          I had walked behind Mable on more than one occasion and watched as she moved pictures, ashtrays, lamps, and other ornaments with grace and precision while she dusted and polished the beautiful wooden table between the two front windows. She dusted shelves, coffee table, end tables, and mantle in a graceful ballet which left no corner untouched.

          In the second act she moved lightly from waxed wood surface to waxed wood surface polishing them with rich oils. She came in darkness to a dusty stage and left it bright and marvelous. She restored the its royal glow. The nobility bowed and curtsied in response to her ministerings. It was a dance of constant restoration.

          I stood behind the boat in the driveway and watched gas drip from a line on the outboard motor to the side of the engine to the ground. Dawn and I watched the gas drip. A puddle was trying to form on the driveway. However, the heat caused it to evaporate almost as quickly as it became moist. For one moment there was noticeable moisture on the pavement then just an oily stain.

          “I’m going to taste it.” I said. I knelt down and touched my tongue to the gas. I licked quite a bit. It burned my mouth. It burned my throat. I ran home crying.

          Mable was there. My parents were out. Mable held me and cooed comfortingly. She put me in a tub to give me my bath and then afterwards dressed me in pajamas. All the while she tried sympathetically to comfort me. I don’t remember the burning feeling. I’ll never forget her soft hugs and sympathetic eyes.

          We posed for one moment. Snap! And the porch, the women, the child, and the vines on the trellis lived forever.

          My grandmother was the only parent of my parents that I remember. She was a tender woman of great strength. I don’t remember the strength but my Mother does. Either she remembers her mother’s strength or she lies about that so that we don’t see the tenderness as weakness. She may be trying to protect her mother. Parents are human. They have faults.

          She was strong because she dealt with so many disappointments. Disappointment builds strength. We learn not to have expectations. Whip a dog long enough he turns mean of cowers at his shadow. Cowering at people and growing angry with shadows would appear to be madness. Perhaps it’s self control. Shadow boxing releases steam that might be released on real flesh hurting someone. In madness, shadows replace people while illusion replaces reality. Suddenly there is no reality.

          One disappointment my Grandmother had was my Mothers whole sister Jean. Jean Prohoska Pittman. Jean was the oldest of four children. Apparently she was a tall dark wisp of a woman, beautiful to look at and wonderful to hear. She was a bright smiling witty girl who quipped and riddled her heart deep into the memory of my Mother. Jean died of cancer at twenty-one.

          Then there was Hallie. Hallie was the half mad whole sister in the raindance scene. Hallie was schizophrenic. Hallie as adorably gentle and insecure. She needed love like a child. Actually, she was a child. She never matured. She had a drug habit, though. And when she took drugs, she dressed in black with red scarves and went to the horse races.

          My clearest memory of Hallie was after she had been released from a rehabilitation program at a mental hospital. She was quiet and over shy. I remember how cute all of the adults thought it was that she asked permission to have an alcohol drink while out with them for dinner. “She’s such a child inside.” Of course, they gave her permission. “Could I have just one?” I wonder what they did to her in the hospital.

           I also remember wanting to go see her when she was dying with cancer in a ward in Charity Hospital. My parents encouraged me not to come. “Remember her like she was. She’s so pitiful now.” They save young people the trouble of mourning. Cancer had left her eaten and weak. She was to die any minute. I wanted to see her. I knew she was waiting to see me. Somewhere inside I knew intuitively she would not die until she saw me again. “We thought she would be gone by now.” Finally, I drove to the hospital to leave a car for one of my parents who was standing watch. Once at the hospital I went up to the ward despite my parents suggestions and walked past the waiting room of the ward to her bedside. I told her I loved her. I told her it would be o.k. I turned and left. Before the elevator reached the bottom floor she died. I loved her. She was fragile in a magnificent way.

          Elephant man built a replica of St. Peter’s Cathedral with his one good hand. People marveled. “Imaging wat he could have done with both hands.”

          Frodo stood before Mount Doom and couldn’t do it. He couldn’t dispose of the ring. The magic was too great. It took the bite of Gollum to save the day. Frodo lost his fingers.

          “There’s only one thing I want you to do fella’s.”

          “What’s that?”

          “Talk me out of it.”

          Grey. Her name was Mable Grey. Mable was my mom. She was my guide. She was my caretaker. She was my provider. She was something I’m incapable of describing. And, yet, love is always somehow mixed with pain. They dance the same dance. They bring the same embrace. They wear the same smile. One goes north, while the other prefers south. And still they share the same stage. There was nothing anyone could do. Mable died. But, I will never forget her, though pictures fade and time numbs. We were on that porch. We were in that park. We rode that bus.

          “There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home.

 Grey:

There is no way to describe it. It was so long ago. It’s buried so deep.

          I am the spoiled child of an upper middle-class family. Cry enough and my tired loving parents gave me whatever I wanted. But for the first six years, I didn’t have to cry. Life was peaceful. I was protected.

          Actually, that’s a lie. I’m trying to protect my parents because they’re human. They had faults. Chiefly, they were weak, like regular men and women.

          I was born late. Thirteen years lay between my last brother and my bright smiling face. My parents were proud. I was the apple of my father’s eye. My mother loves all babies. Children are a lot of work, though. To stay upper middle-class fathers need to grind out long hours. Mothers are busy socially maintaining status. I was raised with the help of a black woman.

          Perhaps an interesting note: I didn’t know until someone told me later that she wasn’t my mom. I thought I had two moms; the one who loved me and cared for me, and the one who held me on her lap and asked me to scratch her back.

          We gathered in the room at Turo Hospital. The walls were yellowed from age. The lights were dim and cast a dull yellow light against the wall at bedside. The sheets were worn. Though they were clean, they were yellowed from age. The woman in the bed smiled. She was thin and beginning to look worn. Her kidney was failing (the only one she had left). Her eyes were yellowed and sad. Her rich brown skin and the white of her smile were the only colors in the room.

          I cried to see her and know nothing could be done.

          Uremic poisoning was killing the scotsman. Everyone tried to make things easy on him. But, everyone knew the score. The scot was cross and cold. The other men in the hospital were trying to be patient with him but were beginning to find him intolerable. The scot grey anry at their sympathy.

          I was a cockney. I played a fat loud British soldier who had been wounded in the rear end.

          “The Hasty Heart”

          When the critics saw us perform for the American Theatre Festival, I was criticized for being loud and obnoxious. The critics felt the character was over loud. While he was funny, he grew tiresome because I played him so loud. It only occurs to me now that they never read the play.

          Certainly this is arrogance on my part. What else can I say? Either they were wrong or I was wrong. O.K., I’m wrong. But that lacks sincerity.

          I lack sincerity. I’m mean. I’m a dog that’s been whipped and whipped and whipped and decided never to be whipped again. But I do it wrong. I lower my defenses, open my heart, try to help everyone, and expose myself to every type of let down, whipping, and swift kick that I can. It keeps me mean. It keeps me insincere.

          I stay whipped. Constant whipping becomes no whipping. The drip which drives us mad, removed drives us mad.

          When I was young, Mable would take me for walks, bathe me, ride me to the park, feed me, stay with me at night when the other mom was busy, and generally loved me as her own. I think that’s what did it. She was only supposed to take care of me. But she put herself wholly to the task. I was hers. I was her bouncing white baby boy. I was her hope. I was the child that had all of the chances that her own two would never have.

          Mauva was Mable’s daughter. I attacked her crying and pounding my fists when she first showed up at out house. I was angered. This was my mom. The one loved one that didn’t steal from me. And I wasn’t going to let her be stolen. I wouldn’t share her. She loved me. If anyone else took her attention, I’d never get it back. I know. The special little baby was already rusting. The new toy was showing wear. The cute little puppy was scratching fleas and getting gangly. The children were too busy to put food out for him. So, mom was stuck with the job. But Mable had developed a real affection for the little fella. And now, I knew she wasn’t mine. She had another family. She wasn’t even my real mom.

          I was three before I realized she wasn’t my real mom. I wasn’t ready for the shock. Mable had a son, too. I never met him. Her husband had left years before. She lived in a project. My mom told me she was a good woman. She went to church on Sunday and Wednesday. I think she sang in the choir.

          I wondered why she lived in a government project. Why didn’t she live with us. We had so much. I gathered that we paid her an extremely fair wage. I loved her so much. I didn’t know she wasn’t our responsibility. I didn’t know she had her own home. We had room for her. My brothers and sisters had all moved out leaving a haunted house in their wake. She could share my room. Mable wore grey uniform dresses with white cuffs and buttons.

          My brother used to make a rat’s tail with his towel. When he’ld come home on leave from the navy I’ld go visit him upstairs in the haunted part of the house. He’ld pop me with his rat tail until I’ld get red welts. This was funny. Then he’ld pin me down and give me a red belly. He’ld slap me on the stomach until it would look like it would bleed through the skin. We played like that a lot. Once, years later, he twisted my arm behind my back and kicked me most of the way down a mountain in New Hamshire.

          He would have been the baby. At twelve years and nine months I stole that from him. I guess he loved me and wanted to get even all at once. Love and pain have a twisted marriage. I guess that’s why I let the guys down the street beat on me. I thought it helped them accept me. One guy used to sick his beagle on me. I would barely outrun the beagle and clear my back yard fence on a single leap. As I grew and the beagle aged, I would lengthen my pattern to the yard staying just ahead of the beagle. Then as I began to tire, with one last burst of adrenaline I’ld clear the fence. Safe! It must have angered the guy that the dog never got me. Since I seemed to enjoy it, he took it as an insult. So, he and a friend would call me over and hit me instead. They didn’t take this kind of time with my friends. A relationship was beginning. Mable would sit me down in the front of the bus then go to the back and sit. The bus seemed large and lonely. I wandered to the back to get Mable and sit in her lap. She would walk me back to the front then go to the back. I wondered why she didn’t want to sit with me. Maybe she wanted to visit with the other day moms at the back of the bus. I tried again. She brought me to the front, gave me a little folded document from a rack above our heads, and walked to the back. At the park she held my hand. I didn’t understand.

          The park was full of large oaks. We would walk or ride the little train together. We went to the pavilion and had popcorn. Mable held my hand. And when we sat, I sat in her lap. Then we’ld go home on the bus.

          I love the outdoors in New Orleans. I love the rich smell of oaks and moss. I hate public transportation.

          I’m mean. If it isn’t against the rules to hurt someone, I like that. I played football. Practice meant as much to me as the game. I liked hitting people. I liked people hitting me. It was like love.

          When I was young I had warts all over my knuckles and knees. Since I was short and chubby with a flat top, it wasn’t difficult for the older kids in the neighborhood from down the street to affectionately torture me by calling me “wart boy”. I was special. I stood out in their eyes. They laughed at me and everyone ran from me. “Don’t let him tough you. You’ll get warts.” And they ran. Being spirited, I chased them, trying to tough them. It was tag with a purpose. No base. No it. Just the attack of the wart boy. Usually, I’ld go home when I grew tired of chasing them. Either that or I’ld sit down and the attention would shift away.

          The Elephant Man suffered for Juliet. If Romeo had really loved her he would have called a doctor or made certain of her death. With knots on his head resembling brown cauliflower, he eventually suffocated from the weight of his head being forced down on his windpipe.

          “Mable”, I asked, “why is it raining with the sun out?” In New Orleans you can see amazing things happen in something so simple as rain. Once a single large cell thunderstorm stopped over the house. While looking out the front window, the sky was black and rain came down in dense sheets. The back yard was clear with the sun shining. Eventually the storm moved on and both front and back were dark.

          “The devil is beating his wife.” She replied.

          “Why?” I asked.

          She paused. “Because she burned the biscuits.” Mable answered and I laughed.

          It seemed a bit harsh. Certainly, it was an accident.

          My Mother and her half crazy whole sister were nervous and giddy as the wind lashed against the house and the rain teemed down. Lightning cracked down and thunder roared all around the house. Boom! It was just outside in the trees. Bam! Another close run. The lights went out. They giggles nervously running from room to room trying switches and looking out windows. As I crossed behind them not knowing whether to panic or laugh, lightning hit the wire outside the house. A blue streak shot out of the light switch on the wall, out into the room, leaving a fur ball of light burned in our eyes, then slithered quickly out the way she came in. It was only inches from my face. The women paused in shock, ogled at one another, then went mad again chattering, laughing, and moving from room to room.

          When you’re young, they saver you the trouble of mourning for unfamiliar or non-related individuals. “There’s no need to drag a child along to a funeral.” So, my parents excused me from the procession. That is until my grandmother died. She was a relative. Mourning is more formal in that case. There’s good and bad etiquette when it comes to funerals. You never remark how dead someone looks. But that’s the way they look to me. I see them lying there and I think, “They sure are dead.” And they are. Death is fairly non-deceiving.

          Romeo, on the other hand, was deceived. Perhaps not by death. Perhaps Romeo was deceived by life. Juliet lay still and yet was still so fair. Thus with a kiss he died. Romeo! Romeo! Wherefore art thou, Romeo? Asleep? Perchance you dream. There’s the rub! For in that sleep of death your thoughts are imperious like thy name.

          I’m mean to an arrogance. I take Shakespear out to play. Juggling his words like oranges in the hands of a jester. Shakespear was brilliant. Shakespear’s dead. Alas poor Willie! He knows too well what dreams. His brilliance lies interred with his bones. A flicker.

          Mable would stand in front of the stove stirring and smiling. A magic cloud would permeate the air. The smell was generally the odor of onions, garlic, green peppers, and celery simmering in bacon grease: Red beans and rice, meatballs, and spaghetti, or any number of creole delicacies.

          I once asked Mable where she was from. She told me she lived in town. I explained that I meant ancestry. We are Scotch Irish and German. Mable replied that she was creole. “Creole? What does that mean?” With a smile she said, “Home grown.” She was from New Orleans. What else mattered.

          I was proud to be German. I considered it a privilege. When I was young I asked for a German-English dictionary so that I could teach myself the language. My Father had been sent back to the fatherland when he was in his twenties by my grandfather to make some contacts with regards to the cotton export business and to see his heritage. He saw brownshirts marching on Sunday in Berlin. When he came home he warned everyone to watch out. Everyone laughed. After all, we just whipped them a few years ago.

          One day as Mable walked back up the street to catch the bus and go home, an eccentric man who lived on the corner ran out of his house and chased her off of the sidewalk in front of his house. My Mom told me he beat her with a broom. “Why?” My Mom guessed that he thought she was suspicious for some reason. “And besides he doesn’t like colored people.” (It was o.k. to say that then.) Anyway, she supposed he was
“peculiar”.

          His wife was “peculiar”. The kids in the neighborhood called her “Old Lady Brockenbrauh” because she seemed to think she owned the street. (Brockenbraugh Ct.) The adults called her “Mrs. Peculiar” and snickered mischieviously.

          There was a great oak tree in the parking lot of a church across the street from her house. The oak’s trunk was tremendous. It was also short; splitting into various massive branches about six feet above the ground. The gnarled old trunk had turned and twisted in such a was as to provide perfect steps and handles for little hands and feet to grab hold of. So we’ld walk to the corner and storm the tree. Seven or eight kids attacked the tree and found bliss in her branches. A long limbs dipped and twisted and allowed an adept tree climber to walk out over the street or back toward the church. Invariably, we would climb for a few minutes then sink into some nook in the branches to contemplate our conquest. About this time, here she came. “You children get down from there.” and so on. She would rant that the church had asked her to keep an eye on the tree and keep children out. And so, we’ld go away. She seemed to dislike everyone but me.

          She thought I was a polite well behaved young man. I can remember actually knocking on her door and being asked to come in. Her yard was like a well groomed jungle and the house was the same. Everywhere there were plants and flowers. She had vines in the window, plants on her tables, cacti in cups. The house was rich with dark browns, maroons, and greenery. Her windows were crowded with plants. The atmosphere was prehistoric. The air was thick and rich. The house was dark and damp and yet alive. There was decay and there was peace. Loneliness and memories. Love and pain.

          She gave me some kind of cookie. But it seems now like I ceased to function bodily like a human. I was frozen, rooted, staring at the jungle. The cookie passed through my hand and into my stomach by osmosis. I never remember leaving. But I must have.

          Two doors down from the church was a yard with a steep grade running to the street. The owner of the house had terraced rows of monkey grass along the whole front of the house. The kids thought it was a great place to roll down or to hunt lizards. We’ld play in the grass, rolling and running, until Old Lady Brockenbraugh would see us. Then she’ld come yelling, “You children get out of that yard.” It seems that the owner had asked her to keep kids out of the yard.

          We played softball and cabbageball in the front yard of the house next door down. When the ball was hit into the yard with the monkey grass, we’ld go after it. Eventually she’ld come and chase us out, then stand over us until we moved on. Once this happened and the ball was still in the yard. All of the kids were intimidated. The owner drove up and turned into the drive. We figured that was the end of our game. Mrs. Peculiar went home. I gathered my guts and walked over to the guy. “Sir, I’m Mike Clark and our ball went into your yard.” And I told him the story. “Don’t listen to that woman. You can come into my yard anytime and get that ball. Here you go, boys.”  As he walked away he shook his head and muttered something about how peculiar she was.

As the game progressed, it wasn’t long before she came out again. Arms folded, scowling, she looked like she was going to bite someone’s head off. As it was she resembled Medusa. She jumped us. “I thought I told you…”

“I asked Mr. Haynes and he said it was o.k..”

She was surprised at me. Such a good boy being so sassy. And she left.

“Be gone! You have no power here.”

And so I inherited the ruby slippers. I had stood up to Old Lady Brockenbraugh. I thought about her husband hitting Mable with a broom. He had died before I ever saw him. I wanted to beat him with a stick. What kind of gutless man would hit a woman with a broom?

I was brought up in the noble chivalry of an american age past. Men don’t hit women. I was a well disciplined upstanding young German American son I attended military school. I shined my shoes. I never hit women.

On T.V. the people on one side of the line were yelling at the people on the other side of the line. They had pickets and signs. They held hands. They sang. The police hit them with sticks. Some people threw rocks. They sprayed them with hoses. Men ran and fought and bled.

Then a few years later as that fight settled down, a fight broke out between our people and their people way over there. Our people were soldiers. Their people were generally smaller dark haired people with different eyes. I remember a bloody sandal where a morter had blown a budhist priest back to nirvana and the sandal hadn’t moved. I remember one funny looking soldier taking a pistol and blowing a funny looking scared man’s head off.

The young people screamed at the older people, while the police kept them apart. Then the police chased the young people who threw rocks and called names until the army came. Then the young people wearing beads were called in to put flowers in the guns. As a result, they killed four students on purpose by accident.

Everyone was so angry.

I was angry. I was looking for peace. I was interested in love. Everyone hated everyone. There was no love. There was no peace. Reaching for ideals was like asking for a whipping. Whip a dog long enough, he turns mean. I had become mean.

For the first time in my life, watching Mable move around the hospital room, I couldn’t think of anything to say to her. I didn’t have any questions. I was dim and yellow. For the only time, I felt awkward before Mable. I felt cold. I felt pity.

My Father prides himself in the strength of his grip and his ability to arm wrestle with his children. His hands are soft and lean. His hands are extremely strong. They seem to wrap around my hand twice. Even at seventy-eight they are strong and deliberate when he clasps down.

I made the mistake once of beating him arm wrestling. No one wants to beat his Father just after he wins. It's the moment that true nature of change becomes evident. Some things grow stronger while others grow weaker. The new replaces the old. Pride can be a horrid enemy. Pride leads us to believe there is some value in our personal strength. Pride pushes us to achieve. Pride keeps us from admitting were wrong. Pride keep us from admitting to weakness.

I don't want to remember that hospital room. Nor do I want to remember the ride home. I wanted my father to save Mable. She was doing all he could do. He was pulling strings with his political friends to keep her on dialysis and find grant money. He wasn't giving her his own. What good is money and power if you can't save a life? For the first time in your circumstance which I could not control. No pleading, no crying, no "one more chance" would change the outcome. The dye was cast. And the demons danced in black death on clouds in darkness. Mable would not get well. Yet, she wasn't bitter. She seemed to know it was only so much anyone could or would do. I wondered how much more would have done if it had been me. What if that precious baby were dying? 

Mable was my mom. I loved her. I would have traded places. But, I was powerless. I remember asking how she was feeling. Was that all I could say?

At my cousin’s wedding I sat in the back and tried to be one of the bricks in the cathedral walls. Edith, my Mother’s all dead completely sane whole sister should have been there to see him married. Suddenly, the wind blew the heavy cathedral door open. I wondered. Then I felt peace and excitement. It was more than the wind.

          Years before, I did of the girl who told me that her grandmother had told her we would be together. I asked her why her grandmother would say such a thing. She said her grandmother visit her regularly to help her. I was confused. She said that her grandmother was that and appear to her in the mirror. I didn't know whether to take her seriously or not. And, fortunately, they seemed to have better things to do. If my grandmother had appear to me in any inanimate object, I would probably have vomited from fear. The whole thought seemed bazaar and wicked. I didn't dig the ghost thing. "She said we were going to kiss tonight!" Then again, I'ld never met a ghost. 

“I beg your pardon. I’ve never seen a beautiful witch before.”

Perhaps this one was o.k..

          We had been standing in a rear hallway of the school while a band played at a dance inside. Neither of us could dance. So, we talked. Eventually, taking my cue from the ghost, I kissed her.

          We kissed; lips closed; eyes closed. We touched lips together and excitement charged through the connection. We held it a long time. Eventually, a few kisses later, she opened her mouth, she said “We’re not ready for that yet.” I understood. On our next kiss, moments later, she opened her mouth and it was time. I was confused and proceeded with caution. She didn’t bite. A subtle reminder of the twisted marriage. Love and pain.

          T.S. Elliot never knew William Shakespear. Yet, Hamlet knew the hallow men. It doesn’t surprise me that Hamlet also spoke to ghosts. “Misah Kurtz – he dead.” Alas poor Yorick! I knew them well.

          I don’t remember telling Mable how much I loved her. I don’t suppose I had the maturity to express it. I can’t remember her face and I’m afraid to look for her picture though I know there are several among old family photos.

          I prayed the other day to see her. I felt as though if I went to the field near my house she would appear to me there. God is faithful. And so, I stayed home and went to be early. “There is no one righteous, not even one; there is no one who understands, no one seeks God,”

          I have searched for truth amidst doubt all of my adult life. I have pursued ideals and chased dreams. I have been introspective. I have examined all that I’ve seen. And I’m haunted.

          The picture that I don’t want to find shows me and my grandmother and Mable sitting on the steps of the house in which I grew up. There is a white trellis on either side of the porch. The house is painted brown. The picture is black and white. Its an old photograph. I don’t want to see it.

          Growing on the trellis was beautiful night jasmine. When it would bloom, if you went to our front door, you were enveloped in a blanket of sweet aroma. There was a wall of green leaves sprinkled with white flowers on either side as you stood facing the door. The door was a heavy oak door painted white with brass knocker and brass handle.

          The children were expected to enter at the side of the house. The front door was more formal. It was an entrance for guests and visiting adults. It entered on a spacious living room. The living room was the least lived in room of the house. (aside from the haunted upstairs) We used it, but, usually for formal visits, discussions with visiting relatives, and for regular gathering at Christmas or Thanksgiving. Basically, it was a room for adults,

          The décor was elegant. Furniture included centuries old furniture from Germany and a smattering of new items my Mother had added. There was bass, silver, mahogany, cherry, marble, and fine fabric throughout. The room felt regal.

          I had walked behind Mable on more than one occasion and watched as she moved pictures, ashtrays, lamps, and other ornaments with grace and precision while she dusted and polished the beautiful wooden table between the two front windows. She dusted shelves, coffee table, end tables, and mantle in a graceful ballet which left no corner untouched.

          In the second act she moved lightly from waxed wood surface to waxed wood surface polishing them with rich oils. She came in darkness to a dusty stage and left it bright and marvelous. She restored the its royal glow. The nobility bowed and curtsied in response to her ministerings. It was a dance of constant restoration.

          I stood behind the boat in the driveway and watched gas drip from a line on the outboard motor to the side of the engine to the ground. Dawn and I watched the gas drip. A puddle was trying to form on the driveway. However, the heat caused it to evaporate almost as quickly as it became moist. For one moment there was noticeable moisture on the pavement then just an oily stain.

          “I’m going to taste it.” I said. I knelt down and touched my tongue to the gas. I licked quite a bit. It burned my mouth. It burned my throat. I ran home crying.

          Mable was there. My parents were out. Mable held me and cooed comfortingly. She put me in a tub to give me my bath and then afterwards dressed me in pajamas. All the while she tried sympathetically to comfort me. I don’t remember the burning feeling. I’ll never forget her soft hugs and sympathetic eyes.

          We posed for one moment. Snap! And the porch, the women, the child, and the vines on the trellis lived forever.

          My grandmother was the only parent of my parents that I remember. She was a tender woman of great strength. I don’t remember the strength but my Mother does. Either she remembers her mother’s strength or she lies about that so that we don’t see the tenderness as weakness. She may be trying to protect her mother. Parents are human. They have faults.

          She was strong because she dealt with so many disappointments. Disappointment builds strength. We learn not to have expectations. Whip a dog long enough he turns mean of cowers at his shadow. Cowering at people and growing angry with shadows would appear to be madness. Perhaps it’s self control. Shadow boxing releases steam that might be released on real flesh hurting someone. In madness, shadows replace people while illusion replaces reality. Suddenly there is no reality.

          One disappointment my Grandmother had was my Mothers whole sister Jean. Jean Prohoska Pittman. Jean was the oldest of four children. Apparently she was a tall dark wisp of a woman, beautiful to look at and wonderful to hear. She was a bright smiling witty girl who quipped and riddled her heart deep into the memory of my Mother. Jean died of cancer at twenty-one.

          Then there was Hallie. Hallie was the half mad whole sister in the raindance scene. Hallie was schizophrenic. Hallie as adorably gentle and insecure. She needed love like a child. Actually, she was a child. She never matured. She had a drug habit, though. And when she took drugs, she dressed in black with red scarves and went to the horse races.

          My clearest memory of Hallie was after she had been released from a rehabilitation program at a mental hospital. She was quiet and over shy. I remember how cute all of the adults thought it was that she asked permission to have an alcohol drink while out with them for dinner. “She’s such a child inside.” Of course, they gave her permission. “Could I have just one?” I wonder what they did to her in the hospital.

           I also remember wanting to go see her when she was dying with cancer in a ward in Charity Hospital. My parents encouraged me not to come. “Remember her like she was. She’s so pitiful now.” They save young people the trouble of mourning. Cancer had left her eaten and weak. She was to die any minute. I wanted to see her. I knew she was waiting to see me. Somewhere inside I knew intuitively she would not die until she saw me again. “We thought she would be gone by now.” Finally, I drove to the hospital to leave a car for one of my parents who was standing watch. Once at the hospital I went up to the ward despite my parents suggestions and walked past the waiting room of the ward to her bedside. I told her I loved her. I told her it would be o.k. I turned and left. Before the elevator reached the bottom floor she died. I loved her. She was fragile in a magnificent way.

          Elephant man built a replica of St. Peter’s Cathedral with his one good hand. People marveled. “Imaging wat he could have done with both hands.”

          Frodo stood before Mount Doom and couldn’t do it. He couldn’t dispose of the ring. The magic was too great. It took the bite of Gollum to save the day. Frodo lost his fingers.

          “There’s only one thing I want you to do fella’s.”

          “What’s that?”

          “Talk me out of it.”

          Grey. Her name was Mable Grey. Mable was my mom. She was my guide. She was my caretaker. She was my provider. She was something I’m incapable of describing. And, yet, love is always somehow mixed with pain. They dance the same dance. They bring the same embrace. They wear the same smile. One goes north, while the other prefers south. And still they share the same stage. There was nothing anyone could do. Mable died. But, I will never forget her, though pictures fade and time numbs. We were on that porch. We were in that park. We rode that bus.

          “There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home.