Chain

Snowing. Of course. A few days just before everybody’s winter holiday. Christmas, yes. Channukah, yes. Ramadan in progress. Kwanza. Winter solstice celebrations by those assorted folks (and there were quite a few of them) who celebrated in a way first celebrated long before organized religions wanted the spotlight. A very busy and hectic time even here in Maine. Frantic to some. So much to be done. Alfred Tibodeau had been politely asked (ordered by the admiral at home if you asked Alfred) to pick up some certain items at the Hanneford grocery store. In a perfect world things would be calm. Things are rarely perfect. And it was snowing. Parking lot jammed. Alfred spotted an open parking space. But also had another. Another who frankly had a higher claim to the space according to the well known Geneva conventions on parking lot etiquette. But then … then. That other, who by all rights granted by the afore mentioned Geneva parking lot protocol stopped and with a wave indicated “it’s your’s, go ahead”. Not just a wave but a smile and perhaps a whisper of Merry Christmas across the lips (although it may have well been an ancient wicken incantation … this is Maine after all). Alfred Tibodeau accepted the parking slot with a returning wave and an audible thank you, at least audible to Alfred (winter, Maine, most car windows closed).

In the store Alfred went about his Admiral appointed tasks. Butter (the best cheese ever), King Arthur all purpose flour, baking sprinkles, cheese cloth (that took a while), heavy cream, pecans (whole! not pieces), and egg nog. OK, task accomplished although Alfred was quite certain the Admiral would dispatch him on several further missions before Christmas Eve. And as he was heading toward the “OMG” check out lines, even the self check lines out he rarely used because he wanted more jobs not less, he noticed a twenty-something young man on a knee scooter with what was clearly some sort of broken limb on the right side. This young-ish fellow was staring at the top shelf. Alfred got a few paces beyond the stare on the way to the check out and a little piece of nice in him asked him to turn around. What’s the rush? Really? So yes the young man asked if he could retrieve a box of grape nuts from the top shelf please. And also some of the Newman’s Own Costa Rican decaf coffee. And a few other inaccessible top shelf item at various store locations. My name is Fred and thank you so much for helping. Silly time of year to break an ankle, no? Nice to meet you and my name is Alfred and yes it is a very silly time to break an ankle. Two smiles in close proximity. An instant. And forever. Alfred had checked out and Fred also. Snow still falling and Fred made to his rather aged but still dependable Ford ranger truck. Low on gas he stopped for a fill. And while in midst of “fillage” (the “-age” goes well with so many words in our shared language) he overheard a

conversation nearby. Window washer fluid was needed. It was $4 a gallon. For most a simple affair. But as it turns out these washer fluid needy patrons were recent immigrants from Somalia. $4 was not a simple affair. “Excuse me , I overheard. I have two gallons of washer fluid I just bought the other day on special. Please have one of them.” “On no …”. Fred stopped the “we couldn’t possibly” nonsense right in its tracks. Mid trackage if you will (I told you the “-age” thing is quite useful). A gracious acceptance of the blue liquid and an oh so more gracious smile. OK. Not a big thing, perhaps. At home in the Somalian household at the old Navy base there was gratitude. For a new life. For a warm house … and do not underestimate the wonderfulness of a warm house in winter in Maine to a to refugee family from Somalia. Gratitude to live without war and the many fears associated with same. Gratitude for many small things, like a stranger and washer fluid. There was a bit of a rush in the household. They belonged to a small coptic Christian group that had brought their lives and their souls and their beliefs so many miles and uncertainties to a new home. They were to go sing some of their traditional songs of the season to an assisted living home in nearby Topsham. The Covid pandemic was still quite very much in everyones’ minds. So they would sing outside in the cold. The Maine cold. Winter. Somalians. Enough said. And they sang their traditional songs with their hearts and souls. To the old folks gathered inside whom they could sort of see. To this astonishingly prosperous and unselfish

land. And with vocal cords who did not complain a bit about the temperature. At the assisted living facility it was two days before Christmas. Frankly a difficult time for all. Some had family visitors. Mostly short visits. “We love you Grandma!”. And gone. Such a busy hectic time. Oh, if they could stay longer. A few lucky ones did get the longer visits. And some got none. Beatrice Gladstone was in the latter group. She found the daily routine a bit too Sesame Street like. How many times could you sing Cumbaya? The body had decided to go south quicker than the mind or spirit. Two sons, actually not too far away. Both assholes. Truth be told she was glad not to have their visits. But she was lonely. And she could be a real piece of work to the staff. Sharp tongue … she was world class in that Olympic event. Bitter and I am going to share it. The Somalian singers had done something. Something that Beatrice would not conscientiously recognize or admit. Real nonetheless. She had seen the discomfort with the cold and she had seen the willingness to share and she had heard that music. Dominic had worked at the assisted living family for three years. A natural. Patient, caring, a smile for all and forgiveness for all. Sort of why she was always assigned to take care of (deal with) Beatrice. Many others had refused. “She is just … just too much. I don’t have to” … you fill in the rest. But Dominique would accept all the barbs, and complaints, and occasional whatever was

handy missiles thrown in her direction. Accept without complaint. Time after time. Never a thank you. Never a “you are so nice to me”. None of that. Beatrice was a hard rock yesterday, today and probably tomorrow. After supper it was pill time. Just a few pills for some. Many many pills for others. Some for various medical complaints … most not to cure but just to slow down or alleviate the symptoms. Inevitable is indeed inevitable. And quite a few pills to sort of “calm” them down. Perhaps most of the pills were in that latter category. Dominique would give Beatrice her after supper pills and accept the litany of complaints Beatrice had amassed during the day. And Dominique would turn a blind eye to the fact that Beatrice usually smiled (as best as Beatrice was able), tossed the pills in her mouth and nodded and pretended to try to sleep. An hour or so later Dominique would come back in the room and find the discarded pills by Beatrice’s pillow or perhaps on the floor. They were just “cam her down” pills. Since she (Dominique) was the one who was family to Beatrice in a way no other could or would be, she would take the barbs. And toss the pills. Just Dominique being Dominique. Christmas Eve morning. Dominique was working a double, not for the money (although who doesn’t need the money) but to make sure her “family” was warm and safe and loved. Dominique being Dominique. Entering Beatrice’s room she was open to whatever. She could absorb and return nothing but … well nothing but

Dominique. Beatrice was ready for a diatribe of venom. She certainly knew how to dish it out. And then, and then one very, very small crack in her viciousness opened. And in flooded those coptic Christian Christmas songs sung by people not particularly adept to a Maine winter but particularly adept at singing thanks and praise. Beatrice looked at Dominique. “I know I am an awful person in here. And mean. But you are such a blessing Dominique. I may not show it, but God bless you, you are such an angel”. (Truth). On Christmas Eve, late on Christmas Dominique kneeled in front of her candles. She had thanks for all and her her heart was especially thankful that her friend and family Beatrice would have Christmas. If the reader has not recognized it there has been a chain. Not of gold or silver or anything to be created by hand. A chain of the most delicate and powerful and enduring substance known. And that’s the way God planned it.