everyday halloween

We live in the Hawthorne. I think its why I like Portland. Now, I'm not much of a theme dresser--I wear black turtlenecks. I have 10. Three of them fit me. But I digress. We were walking driving riding down hawthorne last week, monday, Martin Luther King Jr. Day, and in all of the store windows were mannequins dressed as, well, beyond the fact that they are all nazi atrocities and testimonials to bulemia, the clothing was so whip-me-beat-me that I thought it was halloween all over again. Ground Hog's day. I don't object to the style, I just can't wear it. I am so grateful that I know what age-appropriate dress means. I see women my age in belly shirts and low-rise pants and cringe. But walking down hawthorne, we saw an 80 year old indian princess, two or three librarians (you know the type: black hair cut with severe bangs, horn-rimmed glasses with wings like a 1958 caddy, nets and striped long stockings with club-footed shoes), several sluts, poor single mothers with 5000.00 strollers that weigh 14 ounces, roll uphill and can accomodate a 500.00 shopping spree at Walmart.

Here it comes.... I remember Marky's stroller. It must have weighed 25-30 pounds without him in it. He was one of those children who were simply reluctant to walk. I wouldn't say he was lazy (not until he was 16) but he just wasn't all that interested--takes after his mommy that way. And the stroller was one of the metal folding models. A goodwill find, probably free, and it got me through the first year. I was hitchhiking. That's how I got around in those days. Baby on one hip, thumb out, stroller full of laundry, groceries, garage sale treasures, you name it. Fold it up, get in the car. Get out of the car. Unfold it. Fold it up.... you get the drift. It was in the early days of public transportation in the Rogue Valley-- 1978-- But I didn't have any money. I had treasure... who needs cash? So, I was waiting for a ride, standing in the blistering heat of a Jacksonville day, sky as blue as a fair ribbon, too long in town, ready to head for the hills: my home. So an old chevy truck pulled up,'53 I think, so I unloaded my crap, and tried to fold up the stroller. It wouldn't fold. I tried and tried, exhaust billowing in my eyes, baby flailing around trying to get away. So I picked that stroller up over my head and flung it as far as I could into the Blackbird parking lot. That's when Marky learned to walk.

I also have to acknowledge the holiday just passed: Martin Luther King Day. Cooky and I were driving somewhere and she said, "Guess who's going to speak in Ashland for MLK day?"

I said I didn't know.

She said, "Martin Luther King, Jr. I heard it on the radio."

I said, "He's dead, Cook."

She said, "No, its his son. His kid. He's speaking."

I said, "Wow. That's amazing. I mean, here we are, in Southern Oregon, the last stronghold of the KKK and MLK's kid is coming here to speak?"

We sat there, together, for the longest time.

"Naw," I said. "That can't be right. MLK jr. IS MLK. He's already the Junior. His kid isnt' even named Martin or anything."

Cooky considered this. She started laughing, the kind of piss-your-pants laughter I miss so much about her. We laughed all the way to Ashland.

Each year I call her up and ask her who's speaking. Is MLK coming back this year? We laugh so hard every time. It never gets old. But we do.