back in black

I've been asked to start writing again. By Lorretta. And others. They know me. They know I'm better when I empty my head from time to time. If you'd asked me last Saturday what my plans were, I would have included retirement among the first few. Others being, get those weeds pulled, make the bed. There is a meme going around facebook telling you at which intervals various housework tasks need to be accomplished. It includes cleaning the dishwasher. I wasn't aware of that. I thought it CLEANED. I do little in the way of housework. I am a decorator, not a maid. Ask anybody. I'm tired of working, but still like having something interesting to be in charge of. I just still don't like having anyone else in charge of me. So. A trip to the redwoods cleared my head and here I am, typing for the first time in years. Asha, Kristi, Annie, Jessica, Lorretta. Thanks for the pushes over time. I'd say, "after you," but why? I hope you find time to move your fingers across the keys. You each have so much to say. So spring vacation, now in a pop-up Chalet trailer -- the canned ham went the way of craigslist -- began on a warmish Saturday morning. Sunny, mild. The first good day in a long wet Yamhill spring. So why leave, you might ask. I don't know. The redwoods seem like church to me and I wanted that deep green feeling. The problem is, the vacation, scheduled months in advance, fell on easter weekend. I'm sure there are previous postings about easter weekends with my heathen in-laws so I won't belabor the history lesson. I married into a pack of wolves. They'd like it that I said that. Anyhow, there goes three days of a seven day vacation spent in the midst of people who don't much like me and I don't find much common ground with. I do own a calendar in case you were wondering. I could have planned differently but didn't see the designation as a holiday weekend. I don't think it hardly is anymore, but given my druthers, I'd get up early on easter sunday and consider god. It doesn't have to make sense. A sunrise service of my own suits me. We finally finished seeing family, and to be fair, I did get an hour with my son. It was great to see him. He is well and healthy and when I told him my bloodwork was wierd, he said, "We have to have dinner. I love you mom." So, all I have to do is threaten death and he'll find some time. I do love that kid and his ability to set family boundaries. And I got to see Rita for half an hour and Cooky for a few minutes. Two solid days with my mother in law does me no good whatsoever. Either one. Snakes. So we set off down I-5 to take the scenic Klamath River Highway to the coast. Highway 96, I think. It put me in mind of the land we set aside for reservations. Dry, scrubby. But as we got to the Seiad Valley, things began to green up a bit. The red bud tree grows wild alongside the road along that river. And as close as I've lived to the Klamath most of my life, I had no idea what a big river it is. Something between the Willamette and the Applegate, although not as pretty inland. I fell in love with Happy Camp and would go back, just to see what goes on that far from anywhere. No logging to speak of, so I'm not sure what the draw is. Didn't see any weed fences, so it didn't seem like cannabis culture either. I stopped to use the bathroom in an art cooperative in some tiny place. I've looked at a map but can't find it... I liked it there. Reminded me of Ruch in the old days. Simple. Making art, making life. Eventually, we found our way to Hoopa, where I have cousins and family stories. Gary Morris married the Hoopa princess, Maydean. Not a pretty woman, but kind. They had a child, called him Gary, and he took after his native roots and is a beautiful native man last I saw him at the funeral for his paternal grandmother. We eveetually landed at the funky little rv park we like in Trinidad, stayed a couple nights and went home. It was beautiful there, camping in the big trees, walking down to the boats. Cooking outside. The sun was up, the fog out until the day we were to leave. A goodbye fog.

retirement

I was retired today. Put out to pasture. There is the meme making its way through facebook that says, "those who say go big or go home have no idea how bad I want to go home." So, I am done working in senior living. For good, I think. And for the good of all, I think. It is changing, and I can't change with it. Not that much. I'm old school. And old. 66 just this month. I am tired of working. I want to make art and clean my house. I want to feel inspired and happy. I do, in fact, most days. Today is bittersweet. I'd rather have left on my own terms, but that is not to be. I want to drive to the Southlands to see my son. He asked me when I was going to stop. Kurt is mad at me for failing. Or for not flipping out about it. I can't really tell. He has only one setting and it looks like anger to me. Like it is happening to him. I have to fight for a bad day of my own. Today is it. A happily bad day.