It is time to wonder about the fungi that pester hollyhocks, why roses have blackspot why the yard is yellow. Rain. It is the answer to all the questions: why do you own so many black turtlenecks? Why are your legs so white? Why do you squint when you look up? Why so much vitamin D?
Rain.
After the weather liars predicted rain all weekend, I was happily surprised at two days of sun and shine and scurried down to Wilco to buy another sixty bucks worth of posies. I love my flowers. I love seeing what happens when I pile a bunch in a container and wait for water and light to make magic. I know enough to keep most of them alive. I am happy to report that my Furnival's Daughter bloomed. (refer to previous post.) Harold Greer, the Rhodie King of the Willamette Valley, said he wasn't sure if it would. One did, one doesn't look like it will this first year.
We, my love and I, are married 13 years now. As I approach 64 and him 60, we are content and surprised to have survived the madness of two coinciding youths. Much like oncoming trains. I often wish we'd married sooner, what with wives and husbands in the interim, but we both know that it would have been a mess. Still, I have loved him forever. That he will love me when I'm 64 is a great comfort. And a thrill. Still...
There is a McKee Bridge Extravaganza on June 10th to celebrate 100 years of being a bridge. I grew up under that bridge, watched the paddle wheel with awe, camped for months on end, learned to swim, got my worst sunburns, made bologna sandwiches in the sand while drinking 151. My son was born while we lived in a tiny trailer at McKee Bridge Trailer Park and I baptized his tiny feet in the January waters of the Applegate River that runs beneath the bridge and through my life in a cool green ribbon of memories both sweet and dangerous on its way to the sea.
Whew.
Sunday, May 07, 2017
Sunday, April 30, 2017
not yet
It is a quiet day in Yamhill, clouds hanging low in the morning sky, heaving with unspilled rain. The weather Nazis in Portland promise sun -- no, they promise warmth -- and are liars. It remains cold and May is tomorrow. Mayday. Our anniversary. 13. The number that dare not speak its name.
Yesterday we clammed at Longbeach, Washington. It is a damned long beach. 26 miles. An okay beach, but I know Seaside. I know, for example, that year to year there is a small shifting tidal creek that burrows a trench in the sand and makes for deeper water. At Longbeach, it caught me off-guard. I almost fell off the edge and into the surf. It wouldn't be the first time, but like I said, it isn't warm out. I'd heard tell of the huge razor clams from the Ilwaco and Longbeach area. To me, they seem pretty much like Oregon clams. I mean, they are clams. There just isn't that much variation. I was not impressed but I don't think the clams cared. Traffic was hideous. I guess Washington is conservative about how often they open the beaches for this sort of thing, and everyone from Oregon was up there, cramming their vehicles across that long bridge from Astoria to Washington, and the first stop across the border -- to pee, to get a day-license, was slammed. And only a single outhouse. Seriously. I stood in line: men, women and children ahead of me, and waited my turn. This is no longer easy for me.
Work is work. With my business office manager (BOM) off on maternity leave, I am responsible for portions of the work better left to the mathematically-inclined. I spent Friday afternoon trouble-shooting my first bank deposit with a machine that wouldn't recognize my computer. It doesn't make for interesting blogging, but bless the folks at our Home Office who have this stuff down. It isn't that I've never done payroll or deposits or paid bills -- just the supporting technology has changed a lot since I've done it all. I can add.
The dogs are outside and too quiet. Kurt is napping. All is well.
Yesterday we clammed at Longbeach, Washington. It is a damned long beach. 26 miles. An okay beach, but I know Seaside. I know, for example, that year to year there is a small shifting tidal creek that burrows a trench in the sand and makes for deeper water. At Longbeach, it caught me off-guard. I almost fell off the edge and into the surf. It wouldn't be the first time, but like I said, it isn't warm out. I'd heard tell of the huge razor clams from the Ilwaco and Longbeach area. To me, they seem pretty much like Oregon clams. I mean, they are clams. There just isn't that much variation. I was not impressed but I don't think the clams cared. Traffic was hideous. I guess Washington is conservative about how often they open the beaches for this sort of thing, and everyone from Oregon was up there, cramming their vehicles across that long bridge from Astoria to Washington, and the first stop across the border -- to pee, to get a day-license, was slammed. And only a single outhouse. Seriously. I stood in line: men, women and children ahead of me, and waited my turn. This is no longer easy for me.
Work is work. With my business office manager (BOM) off on maternity leave, I am responsible for portions of the work better left to the mathematically-inclined. I spent Friday afternoon trouble-shooting my first bank deposit with a machine that wouldn't recognize my computer. It doesn't make for interesting blogging, but bless the folks at our Home Office who have this stuff down. It isn't that I've never done payroll or deposits or paid bills -- just the supporting technology has changed a lot since I've done it all. I can add.
The dogs are outside and too quiet. Kurt is napping. All is well.
Saturday, April 01, 2017
and if that wasn't bad enough
Kurt took me out to dinner after the late afternoon cold sun broke through the gloom. We took the bike to Margaritas. We've given this new Mexican restaurant in Carlton three tries. Three. No more. This really has been a fool's day. Fajitas should not be made with bbq sauce. This is written down somewhere, I'm certain. My pal Nikki says it takes a certain kind of fuck it to ruin Mexican food.
side show
I'm not that nice of a person. We all know this. I am pretty nice to the people I love, but generally have disdain for the public. Except at work. At work I am good at people.
This morning, this Saturday, it was supposed to be a bit dreary in the morning, then, for the first time in a year, give way to a mostly sunny weekend. That's what they said. They promised, therefore I am entitled. I would work in the sun until my shoulders were pink, I'd have rings around my eyes from sunglasses, I'd be happy. And warm. Oh, and dry. I'd made a hair appointment to cover the wet part of the day, then was free to enjoy the remainder, playing in my yard.
I thought I'd run into Mac early, McMinnville, our "closest town of any size" to get some cheap wire fencing to keep the dogs out of the strawberry patch. Walmart has that sort of thing. So I got ready, drove into town before my hair appointment, and pulled into Walmart. I'm wearing my overalls and bogs for the gardening part of the day. The sunny part.
It seemed like everyone was moving in slow motion, limping like zombies, only doughy and white, dragging one foot or the other through the parking lot. Then, too suddenly, the neon lights of Walmarche, ablaze in the morning gloom. Greeting me as I entered was an exceptionally fat woman with green and purple hair sticking out in pigtails, wearing a neon-yellow Walmart safety vest. Beside her was a tiny midget with hair dyed as yellow as his own little tiny safety vest. The size contrast was impossible to ignore as the morning zombies milled around, flailing canes and carts and baskets and walkers. I know it is bad of me to be afraid of midgets, but there it is: part and parcel of my fragile psyche.
I found the fencing, loaded more than I needed in the cart, and, head-down-not-making-eye-contact, made my way back through the store to the checkout. I was hurrying, I'll admit it. With side show clowns still watching the door, I rushed out the nearest exit. People were chasing me. I sped up, then heard some guy yelling at me. Apparently I'd left my 60.00 cashback at the register. I had to make my sheepish way back through the fat lady and her circus monkey, get my money and leave through the proper door. The midget called out as I left, "Goodbye, Sir." It took all of my self control not to tell him to fuck off. Really. All. ew.
I got to my hair appointment only to find I was an hour early. I cancelled. Fuck it. I want to go home. It is truly April Fool's Day. And the sun still hasn't come out. Not one single warm day this year and it is April. I am enraged. I am entitled. I am cold. I'd settle happily for a false spring.
This morning, this Saturday, it was supposed to be a bit dreary in the morning, then, for the first time in a year, give way to a mostly sunny weekend. That's what they said. They promised, therefore I am entitled. I would work in the sun until my shoulders were pink, I'd have rings around my eyes from sunglasses, I'd be happy. And warm. Oh, and dry. I'd made a hair appointment to cover the wet part of the day, then was free to enjoy the remainder, playing in my yard.
I thought I'd run into Mac early, McMinnville, our "closest town of any size" to get some cheap wire fencing to keep the dogs out of the strawberry patch. Walmart has that sort of thing. So I got ready, drove into town before my hair appointment, and pulled into Walmart. I'm wearing my overalls and bogs for the gardening part of the day. The sunny part.
It seemed like everyone was moving in slow motion, limping like zombies, only doughy and white, dragging one foot or the other through the parking lot. Then, too suddenly, the neon lights of Walmarche, ablaze in the morning gloom. Greeting me as I entered was an exceptionally fat woman with green and purple hair sticking out in pigtails, wearing a neon-yellow Walmart safety vest. Beside her was a tiny midget with hair dyed as yellow as his own little tiny safety vest. The size contrast was impossible to ignore as the morning zombies milled around, flailing canes and carts and baskets and walkers. I know it is bad of me to be afraid of midgets, but there it is: part and parcel of my fragile psyche.
I found the fencing, loaded more than I needed in the cart, and, head-down-not-making-eye-contact, made my way back through the store to the checkout. I was hurrying, I'll admit it. With side show clowns still watching the door, I rushed out the nearest exit. People were chasing me. I sped up, then heard some guy yelling at me. Apparently I'd left my 60.00 cashback at the register. I had to make my sheepish way back through the fat lady and her circus monkey, get my money and leave through the proper door. The midget called out as I left, "Goodbye, Sir." It took all of my self control not to tell him to fuck off. Really. All. ew.
I got to my hair appointment only to find I was an hour early. I cancelled. Fuck it. I want to go home. It is truly April Fool's Day. And the sun still hasn't come out. Not one single warm day this year and it is April. I am enraged. I am entitled. I am cold. I'd settle happily for a false spring.
Wednesday, February 22, 2017
steps
This is a rant. And, spliced in with that is news. I got a new car. I like it a lot except the color. Red. I like black or white. But it was a bargain. She paid 34K and I'm paying 20. That 20K is a bargain in any language is unthinkable. It has 11,000 miles on it and she's done five oil changes. "They're free," she said. I'd be lucky to get two into my busy schedule. I am trying a new antidepressant for anxiety. Sometimes I can't breathe. It seems important. I have stressors in my life. One is a puppy, and tonight, the other is a step-daughter who hates me.
I have written little about Nicole, knowing she reads this blog, but tonight it seems more important to express myself than protect her feelings. She is, among many things, bipolar (or borderline pd), so she requires more therapeutic ignoring than the ordinary person. I let things go. I have for thirteen years now. But last night, she actually reached out for help, acknowledging a recent suicide attempt and sincere plans to kill a step-person. Not me. Her mother's husband. I think they're married. When she reaches out to her father, via text, this manipulates my beloved into a froth, as it would any adoring parent. She dumps the text in his lap, and he into mine, and then she fails to respond for hours -- hours in which I'm sure he pictures her hanging from the rafters somewhere in SE Portland. I can't stand to see him suffer and I texted her my concern, and said that I was glad she'd reached out. What I got in return was so mean. She is so mean. She basically laid the entire failure of her life at my feet because I won't let her live with us, lay in the house, be fed, and like a lovely but moody African Violet, face due east and bloom once a year.
In her text, she said, "Maybe we could talk about how often I've been raped for a place to sleep," then, "Seriously Judy, take your worry and choke on it." I didn't have the heart to tell her I was worried about Kurt. And we could speak about the rapes, I guess, but I'd win. Hands down. If that was meant to shock me into guilt over her troubles, she's barking up the wrong tree. I know the stock in trade. In my case, like hers, I opted not to work, and I lived in a tree instead of paying my way, so the boys took it out in trade. It wasn't usually very fun for me and I'm sure it isn't fun for her, but she isn't the first girl to have a shitty life. Not my monkey not my circus.
I met the girls when they were 13 and 11. There is hardly a year separating them, but they couldn't be more different. Nicole has bipolar disease, more depressive than manic by far. She lays down for years at a time. I've tried to support her or her parents to apply for SSD, but no one will take the time. She hasn't held a job for more than a month in several years. She takes a job, any job, becomes employee of the month, realizes how stupid everyone else is, and walks away. She is the poster child for the saying, "You can't fix a broken mind with a broken mind." I've hooked her up with many counselors, many nice women, all of whom she blew off after an appointment, or sometimes two, before she discovered their idiocy. In her text to her dad she claimed to be living by "manipulating idiots for a place to stay." I think these are probably nice people. Nicole is a charming and lovely girl when she needs to be, and a smelly hermit that bites like a snake once she gets her foot in the door.
Kurt asked me not to hold her wrath against him... not to take her meanness out on him. I am grateful he finally understands how cruel she has been, and for how long. At Christmas, as I said in a previous post, Haley talked about how everyone is poor in this family. And I think I understood her to say how sad it is that Nicole "has to stay with strangers who just accept her the way she is and take care of her." But that is nonsense. Most of these relationships are with those "morons"and they last weeks at most. She's a nasty tempered couch surfer who is currently paying the bill the hard way. One family's only stipulation was that she shower and she wouldn't do that. I remember setting that limit.... didn't work for me either.
Ah, I'm ranted out. I'm too tired and too fucking old for this shit.
I have written little about Nicole, knowing she reads this blog, but tonight it seems more important to express myself than protect her feelings. She is, among many things, bipolar (or borderline pd), so she requires more therapeutic ignoring than the ordinary person. I let things go. I have for thirteen years now. But last night, she actually reached out for help, acknowledging a recent suicide attempt and sincere plans to kill a step-person. Not me. Her mother's husband. I think they're married. When she reaches out to her father, via text, this manipulates my beloved into a froth, as it would any adoring parent. She dumps the text in his lap, and he into mine, and then she fails to respond for hours -- hours in which I'm sure he pictures her hanging from the rafters somewhere in SE Portland. I can't stand to see him suffer and I texted her my concern, and said that I was glad she'd reached out. What I got in return was so mean. She is so mean. She basically laid the entire failure of her life at my feet because I won't let her live with us, lay in the house, be fed, and like a lovely but moody African Violet, face due east and bloom once a year.
In her text, she said, "Maybe we could talk about how often I've been raped for a place to sleep," then, "Seriously Judy, take your worry and choke on it." I didn't have the heart to tell her I was worried about Kurt. And we could speak about the rapes, I guess, but I'd win. Hands down. If that was meant to shock me into guilt over her troubles, she's barking up the wrong tree. I know the stock in trade. In my case, like hers, I opted not to work, and I lived in a tree instead of paying my way, so the boys took it out in trade. It wasn't usually very fun for me and I'm sure it isn't fun for her, but she isn't the first girl to have a shitty life. Not my monkey not my circus.
I met the girls when they were 13 and 11. There is hardly a year separating them, but they couldn't be more different. Nicole has bipolar disease, more depressive than manic by far. She lays down for years at a time. I've tried to support her or her parents to apply for SSD, but no one will take the time. She hasn't held a job for more than a month in several years. She takes a job, any job, becomes employee of the month, realizes how stupid everyone else is, and walks away. She is the poster child for the saying, "You can't fix a broken mind with a broken mind." I've hooked her up with many counselors, many nice women, all of whom she blew off after an appointment, or sometimes two, before she discovered their idiocy. In her text to her dad she claimed to be living by "manipulating idiots for a place to stay." I think these are probably nice people. Nicole is a charming and lovely girl when she needs to be, and a smelly hermit that bites like a snake once she gets her foot in the door.
Kurt asked me not to hold her wrath against him... not to take her meanness out on him. I am grateful he finally understands how cruel she has been, and for how long. At Christmas, as I said in a previous post, Haley talked about how everyone is poor in this family. And I think I understood her to say how sad it is that Nicole "has to stay with strangers who just accept her the way she is and take care of her." But that is nonsense. Most of these relationships are with those "morons"and they last weeks at most. She's a nasty tempered couch surfer who is currently paying the bill the hard way. One family's only stipulation was that she shower and she wouldn't do that. I remember setting that limit.... didn't work for me either.
Ah, I'm ranted out. I'm too tired and too fucking old for this shit.
Thursday, February 09, 2017
puttin' packy down
"All the animals in the zoo are jumping up and down for you." This was the earworm of my ninth year, just after my father died and little Packy was born. We didn't have PETA then, or know about cattle prods or elephant's symptoms of depression. It was just a sweet happy thing in a sweet happy world.
I'm sure it wasn't. But Trump wasn't president.
I guess he had TB. I wonder if they kept him in a cold room with damp sheets. That's my favorite Van Morrison song: TB Sheets. After Brown Eyed Girl. Anyway, this is just a little vignette for the only elephant I ever knew.
I'm sure it wasn't. But Trump wasn't president.
I guess he had TB. I wonder if they kept him in a cold room with damp sheets. That's my favorite Van Morrison song: TB Sheets. After Brown Eyed Girl. Anyway, this is just a little vignette for the only elephant I ever knew.
Sunday, February 05, 2017
ground hog's day
I test drove my new car today. I'm buying it from a little old lady who decided to move to Canada. Not a bad idea. She has a red Mazda CX5 that may stand for cross country. Its like my little white one, only bigger. I'm not crazy about the red, but it has all the electronic stuff, like the bluetooth hookup so it feel like you're in the phone if you're driving.
I marched in the January 21st Women's March. We made history. I didn't have a pussy hat, just a big sign that said no.just plain no. It was cold and miserable and didn't result in impeachment, I am sad to say. I will continue to resist in my small way against this very bad person and his henchmen.
Mac is wild. Never try to housebreak a puppy in a blizzard. On the other hand, I saw my oncologist eating a hotdog at Costco. That gave me hope. Things may not be as bad as advertised.
I marched in the January 21st Women's March. We made history. I didn't have a pussy hat, just a big sign that said no.just plain no. It was cold and miserable and didn't result in impeachment, I am sad to say. I will continue to resist in my small way against this very bad person and his henchmen.
Mac is wild. Never try to housebreak a puppy in a blizzard. On the other hand, I saw my oncologist eating a hotdog at Costco. That gave me hope. Things may not be as bad as advertised.
Saturday, January 07, 2017
moment
While Mac chews contentedly beside me and snow falls outside, ice to follow, I am allowed a single moment of peace. I got a pair of noise-cancelling headphones for Christmas but it turns out they only cancel the noise outside my head, not inside, where the real problems are. And now I have Enya playing into both ears because it is the only thing I could find without thinking. It is respite from puppy from house from headspeak.
But I still know how to knead bread, like the motion of wave or rocking a child. My hands remember each turn of the dough as cinnamon, sugar and walnuts slip between long unpracticed fingers, slick with butter, twirling the giant roll into perfection. At other times I find it hard to think.
These days I see things through the shifting kaleidoscope of political surreality, the post-fact post-truth post-honor post-democracy we live in, awaiting the million woman march portland edition and in the meantime, try to remember that my life is what it is due to the resistance of other women who went before. Who fought monsters less fictional than the bad man. I cannot swallow this whole, this idiocy of pretending, and so I bake and my blood sugar skyrockets.
Sue me. I favor resistance. Sedition. Read this and come talk to me. Arrest me.
Work is a happy place to go many days of each week, but it does not pry my mind away from this trauma. Not for long. Life and death and life and death. It is new for each family and still the same to me. I talk of heaven because that is easier. I like heaven. It is a way to end a sad conversation on a happy note. Streets of gold. Okay. Sure thing. We have the noro-type virus making its way through the building just now, like a dark and shit-spewing specter, pointing its bony finger and culling the weak from the herd. And I think, and sometimes say when they pass, oh good. oh, good. Heaven.
Home is happy. But with all the happiness of new home and open sky and stars and birdsong, Kurt suffers from arthritis and this is hard for him, which makes me sad. He is such a man. He pushes through when he should rest. He eats badly to make it not true. He pretends not to care. I love him so much and cannot stand to see him suffer. He will suffer more before this is over. I know arthritis, not personally, but I have watched it inhabit and twist the bones of elders into shapes they don't recognize.
Over Christmas, I had a moment with Marky that was hard. It made me so aware of how easy our relationship has been all these adult years... but he was drunk and now that he is sober, he seems to have an opinion. While I have been happily inviting him to various holiday events, he has experienced each one with mounting anxiety, a gift I gave him, no doubt. Anxiety that we expect him to house us, to feed us -- which we have never suggested -- these thoughts live in his head alone. I have pretended that he was unaffected by my past his past my life his life. He hates the holidays he hates having random conversations with people he doesn't know or want to know. He can't stand being around drinking. Neither can I, I wanted to tell him, but couldn't get a word in. He raged at me in his rational way in my rational way, until he'd said all he had to say. If you want to do something, he said, call me. If you want to go crabbing or camping, call me. I said Okay.
Then it was Haley's turn, sweet, strong Haley not so strong. So hard for those girls. Nicole discovered her mother wrapped in a blanket on a street corner in portland, and I can imagine that. I remember coming home to my mother wrapped in a piece of carpet on my front porch. But it wasn't a city street. And maybe it was my sister. They've both been there. But Haley mourned the poverty of both of our famlies in a voice I hadn't heard from her -- that millenial voice full of entitlement and expectation -- other kids get everything paid for. Yes. But not in our families. "Everybody in this family is poor." Yes. And in saying that, the unspoken is: but not you. You guys have it so good. And I wanted to tell her my life, of living with a small child in a house floating on a slough with electric wires so bad that you couldn't touch the floor and the counter at the same time and had to step bed to sofa to get around. And step log round to log round to make it out to the little sinking house for sixty dollars a month. A rising tide floats all things. And we do have a nice life, like most, a fingersnap from poverty. White trash-ish. A generation from the Ozarks in my family and San Jose slums in his. I refuse to feel bad about being warm in the winter. I think kids need to work. Hard. I don't know anything else. If education comes, reach out. I'm still paying for mine. Will die paying.
So, the children are unhappy. We do what we can not to break them further.
Happy New Year. jblsky
But I still know how to knead bread, like the motion of wave or rocking a child. My hands remember each turn of the dough as cinnamon, sugar and walnuts slip between long unpracticed fingers, slick with butter, twirling the giant roll into perfection. At other times I find it hard to think.
These days I see things through the shifting kaleidoscope of political surreality, the post-fact post-truth post-honor post-democracy we live in, awaiting the million woman march portland edition and in the meantime, try to remember that my life is what it is due to the resistance of other women who went before. Who fought monsters less fictional than the bad man. I cannot swallow this whole, this idiocy of pretending, and so I bake and my blood sugar skyrockets.
Sue me. I favor resistance. Sedition. Read this and come talk to me. Arrest me.
Work is a happy place to go many days of each week, but it does not pry my mind away from this trauma. Not for long. Life and death and life and death. It is new for each family and still the same to me. I talk of heaven because that is easier. I like heaven. It is a way to end a sad conversation on a happy note. Streets of gold. Okay. Sure thing. We have the noro-type virus making its way through the building just now, like a dark and shit-spewing specter, pointing its bony finger and culling the weak from the herd. And I think, and sometimes say when they pass, oh good. oh, good. Heaven.
Home is happy. But with all the happiness of new home and open sky and stars and birdsong, Kurt suffers from arthritis and this is hard for him, which makes me sad. He is such a man. He pushes through when he should rest. He eats badly to make it not true. He pretends not to care. I love him so much and cannot stand to see him suffer. He will suffer more before this is over. I know arthritis, not personally, but I have watched it inhabit and twist the bones of elders into shapes they don't recognize.
Over Christmas, I had a moment with Marky that was hard. It made me so aware of how easy our relationship has been all these adult years... but he was drunk and now that he is sober, he seems to have an opinion. While I have been happily inviting him to various holiday events, he has experienced each one with mounting anxiety, a gift I gave him, no doubt. Anxiety that we expect him to house us, to feed us -- which we have never suggested -- these thoughts live in his head alone. I have pretended that he was unaffected by my past his past my life his life. He hates the holidays he hates having random conversations with people he doesn't know or want to know. He can't stand being around drinking. Neither can I, I wanted to tell him, but couldn't get a word in. He raged at me in his rational way in my rational way, until he'd said all he had to say. If you want to do something, he said, call me. If you want to go crabbing or camping, call me. I said Okay.
Then it was Haley's turn, sweet, strong Haley not so strong. So hard for those girls. Nicole discovered her mother wrapped in a blanket on a street corner in portland, and I can imagine that. I remember coming home to my mother wrapped in a piece of carpet on my front porch. But it wasn't a city street. And maybe it was my sister. They've both been there. But Haley mourned the poverty of both of our famlies in a voice I hadn't heard from her -- that millenial voice full of entitlement and expectation -- other kids get everything paid for. Yes. But not in our families. "Everybody in this family is poor." Yes. And in saying that, the unspoken is: but not you. You guys have it so good. And I wanted to tell her my life, of living with a small child in a house floating on a slough with electric wires so bad that you couldn't touch the floor and the counter at the same time and had to step bed to sofa to get around. And step log round to log round to make it out to the little sinking house for sixty dollars a month. A rising tide floats all things. And we do have a nice life, like most, a fingersnap from poverty. White trash-ish. A generation from the Ozarks in my family and San Jose slums in his. I refuse to feel bad about being warm in the winter. I think kids need to work. Hard. I don't know anything else. If education comes, reach out. I'm still paying for mine. Will die paying.
So, the children are unhappy. We do what we can not to break them further.
Happy New Year. jblsky
Saturday, December 03, 2016
mac
To deal with my depression over the american tragedy, I bought a Scottie pup. His name is Mac. Mackie. He is very very cute, in an ugly sort of way. Scotties are odd looking dogs and they start out looking like grown dogs -- long nose, pointy ears. I couldn't resist. He is a doll, and like Duffy, I'm bringing him to work with me. So far so good.
So here's the thing: Like most of my peeps, I am reeling politically. As far as I'm concerned, it isn't over yet. The electoral college hasn't voted and he has not been inaugurated. As far as I know, there are recounts in process and trump is scheduled to appear in court on a child rape charge prior to the electoral college vote. The girl had dropped the case due to intimidation, but the judge decided it was worth a look-see. I'm just hoping something can happen to re-align the planets before December 19th, or at the very latest, January 19th. Pence is nearly as frightening.
My only hope, Obewan, is that someone will step forward and admit that the emperor has no clothes.
So here's the thing: Like most of my peeps, I am reeling politically. As far as I'm concerned, it isn't over yet. The electoral college hasn't voted and he has not been inaugurated. As far as I know, there are recounts in process and trump is scheduled to appear in court on a child rape charge prior to the electoral college vote. The girl had dropped the case due to intimidation, but the judge decided it was worth a look-see. I'm just hoping something can happen to re-align the planets before December 19th, or at the very latest, January 19th. Pence is nearly as frightening.
My only hope, Obewan, is that someone will step forward and admit that the emperor has no clothes.
Saturday, November 12, 2016
weather, again
Well, it is autumn and the weather media is hard at it. If I was them, anything but trump would be a welcome topic. Rain comes with the season and the weathernazis are all over it. They're filling sandbags. Maybe it will be a repeat of the 1962 Columbus Day storm. I was young then. I had a brand new umbrella -- one with a golden flowered shade in the Victorian shape, a sharp spire in the center with a swooping skirt. It was perfect, and lasted about five minutes in the wind. It lifted me off of my fourth-graded feet and turned inside out. I was devastated. I remember black and white TV newsreels of buckling bridges. It may have been my imagination. You know how I am.
everything you know is wrong
In a Dickensonian dystopian disaster, trump won the election. I don't know what else to say. I came home tuesday night, made a lovely dinner, (Kurt had asked for something a little stuffy, rich and progressive., like Hillary) I bought a bottle of sparkling cider and sat down to watch Hillary take out the trash. I don't really remember eating. The sparkly is still in the fridge. Still.
I have many feelings, so far best articulated by Bill Moyers in an article titled, "The Death of America." I allowed myself to be lulled to sleep by talking heads who said he couldn't win. She had it in the bag. "How much crow can one pundit eat?" Good question. Now the nation is on fire.
I used to feel good about listening to NPR. I trusted their news sources. Now, days after this travesty, I have lost trust completely. The report today was that a trump presidency would be good and bad for the gun industry. Good, because he is a fan of the NRA, bad because gun sales are down because Hillary and Obama are no longer coming for our guns. What a shit show. All of the talking heads, and I mean from fox news to NPR, are picking at the scab that may never form, playing the same campaign promises over and over as though a record is skipping. Playing them like dire warnings that someone should have heard. Anyone. But they all, to a person, would not speak truth. They played a comedy show of their own making. And for what? Ratings. The spineless wordspinners just cranked out their silken horseshit, perfectly balanced, perfectly serious, as though they were both valid and competent candidates. And I sucked it up like mother's milk. I couldn't get enough. Trainwreck that it was, I couldn't look away, because I was certain how it ended. They said so. And now, as though they had warned us, they replay the entire campaign, byte by byte, as though they had taken it seriously from the beginning. As though his rambling threats had merit.
Truth is, or seems to be, that trump is the parrot of whichever person he last listened to. When he last listened to Obama, he thought parts of Obamacare were great and should remain in place. Now his transition team, the KKK, are keeping him isolated in trump tower so nobody else can confuse him before the takes office in January. Nobody but him can decide about the cabinet posts, and there will be a "big reveal" like I guess he had on his show, when he's good and ready. He's not allowed on Twitter. I wonder if he has any idea what he has signed up for.
Mexicans and all people of color are terrified, queer folk are flipping out, women are outraged or should be. I've gone through so many layers of grief I can't remember where I am. I am not aiming for acceptance. It is not my goal. In the beginning I felt bad for all of the regular folks who feel/felt no home in the democratic party -- and I still do. I am no elitist, but fear democrats have become the champion of "other" until there is no room for whatever is the opposite of other. In this I was thinking we needed the numbers and that inclusion would be a part of the fix. I guess white is the opposite of other. At any rate, I did not take into consideration that voter turnout had been crappy. That only about 50% turned out and that means that only 25% of the US is insane. Having redone the math, my argument now is that the democratic party needs to educate the youth vote. Maybe a Bernie-type candidate.
Enter: Jon Stewart 2020. I am not kidding. Not one bit.
I have many feelings, so far best articulated by Bill Moyers in an article titled, "The Death of America." I allowed myself to be lulled to sleep by talking heads who said he couldn't win. She had it in the bag. "How much crow can one pundit eat?" Good question. Now the nation is on fire.
I used to feel good about listening to NPR. I trusted their news sources. Now, days after this travesty, I have lost trust completely. The report today was that a trump presidency would be good and bad for the gun industry. Good, because he is a fan of the NRA, bad because gun sales are down because Hillary and Obama are no longer coming for our guns. What a shit show. All of the talking heads, and I mean from fox news to NPR, are picking at the scab that may never form, playing the same campaign promises over and over as though a record is skipping. Playing them like dire warnings that someone should have heard. Anyone. But they all, to a person, would not speak truth. They played a comedy show of their own making. And for what? Ratings. The spineless wordspinners just cranked out their silken horseshit, perfectly balanced, perfectly serious, as though they were both valid and competent candidates. And I sucked it up like mother's milk. I couldn't get enough. Trainwreck that it was, I couldn't look away, because I was certain how it ended. They said so. And now, as though they had warned us, they replay the entire campaign, byte by byte, as though they had taken it seriously from the beginning. As though his rambling threats had merit.
Truth is, or seems to be, that trump is the parrot of whichever person he last listened to. When he last listened to Obama, he thought parts of Obamacare were great and should remain in place. Now his transition team, the KKK, are keeping him isolated in trump tower so nobody else can confuse him before the takes office in January. Nobody but him can decide about the cabinet posts, and there will be a "big reveal" like I guess he had on his show, when he's good and ready. He's not allowed on Twitter. I wonder if he has any idea what he has signed up for.
Mexicans and all people of color are terrified, queer folk are flipping out, women are outraged or should be. I've gone through so many layers of grief I can't remember where I am. I am not aiming for acceptance. It is not my goal. In the beginning I felt bad for all of the regular folks who feel/felt no home in the democratic party -- and I still do. I am no elitist, but fear democrats have become the champion of "other" until there is no room for whatever is the opposite of other. In this I was thinking we needed the numbers and that inclusion would be a part of the fix. I guess white is the opposite of other. At any rate, I did not take into consideration that voter turnout had been crappy. That only about 50% turned out and that means that only 25% of the US is insane. Having redone the math, my argument now is that the democratic party needs to educate the youth vote. Maybe a Bernie-type candidate.
Enter: Jon Stewart 2020. I am not kidding. Not one bit.
Friday, September 09, 2016
struggle
I am on vacation. Poor me. I just got a manicure and pedicure. Poor me. I think there should be more, and funner. I think I shouldn't have to do housework or cook or breathe in and out when on vacation. I should camp. In a perfect spot for many days in a row and write perfect prose. It would be dirty and hard. Not the prose, the camping. Or maybe the prose. And I'd complain about that. And I wouldn't write anyway. We know that.
I am going to try to stop complaining. I am truly a chronic malcontent. So, I'm going to shut down the voices in my head who are not satisfied with my life. I've done the best I can. I do the work I want for money, I married the man I wanted, moved to the town I wanted in the house I wanted and have everything I want and am still not happy. Contentment eludes me. I'd never make a Buddhist. I could never meditate, my knees would hurt and I'd complain, and the bitter monkeys who live in my head and give me constant shit would chatter all at once and I'd never get the job done. Relaxation.
The Job.
You should see the view out my back window. It is different every day, every moment. But what do I see? Tomatoes I need to pick. Until the sun sets and it is nearly impossible to see anything else. Ahh.
I'm glad I took enough time off to see myself. It takes time and distance. I feel like I have that view of Half Dome from Glacier Point. A certain perspective that comes when I take the time to make the walk uphill. That's the vacation view. Spend enough time alone to get sick of yourself. That.
I am going to try to stop complaining. I am truly a chronic malcontent. So, I'm going to shut down the voices in my head who are not satisfied with my life. I've done the best I can. I do the work I want for money, I married the man I wanted, moved to the town I wanted in the house I wanted and have everything I want and am still not happy. Contentment eludes me. I'd never make a Buddhist. I could never meditate, my knees would hurt and I'd complain, and the bitter monkeys who live in my head and give me constant shit would chatter all at once and I'd never get the job done. Relaxation.
The Job.
You should see the view out my back window. It is different every day, every moment. But what do I see? Tomatoes I need to pick. Until the sun sets and it is nearly impossible to see anything else. Ahh.
I'm glad I took enough time off to see myself. It takes time and distance. I feel like I have that view of Half Dome from Glacier Point. A certain perspective that comes when I take the time to make the walk uphill. That's the vacation view. Spend enough time alone to get sick of yourself. That.
Wednesday, September 07, 2016
projects
I want to stop procrastinating. Some. I can't stop everything at once. What would be left? My life has been based largely on waiting until just the right moment for one thing or another. Since moving to my brand new house, I've been so busy with landscaping and weeeeeding and more weeeeeeding that I've hardly had time to consider what to do once I get things in fair shape. This is rationale. I know it when I see it. I've been picking weeds until I have an actual waistline. So when I finally started looking around the house to see what I've been neglecting, the list was long.
I started with boxes and boxes of brand new clothes, shoes, boots, you name it -- that I'd ordered but didn't fit or I changed my mind or whatever. Some boxes had been sitting in my studio room for almost a year. You get a full year with Zappos. I love Zappos. So I repackaged each thing -- I know myself well enough to keep the return postage stickers -- and sent all the stuff back, probably $1000 worth of crap.
Next thing: A couple of weeks ago I opened an old trunk that sits in the living room. It is crammed full of fabric, one of many similar bins. I pulled out one piece of striped cotton that I love, have loved now for about nine years, and took it out of the trunk. OUT of the trunk. Keeping the cloth visible exponentially increases the likelihood that I will make something out of it. It is helpful if I trip over it from time to time, bringing the project gently to mind. I've wanted to make pillow covers out of it. I have two large sitting pillows in my living room, covered with a cotton twill in two stained and noxious shades of olive green. When I bought them I meant to recover them. They were the right shape and nothing else. They have served as dog beds, small chairs, baby beds, props for reading late into the night, small girl beds when pushed together but that slide apart when slept upon.
I tripped over and stared at the fabric until today. Today, In got out my scissors -- the good ones -- threaded my sewing machine, changed the thread on the bobbin and everything. I haven't used the machine since we moved and long before. One of the spools of thread was mis-spooled. half the thread went one direction and half went the other. Imagine me trying to wind the bobbin with this stuff. When I finally figured out it was the thread that was wrong and not me, it was easy. Throw it away. I found another spool of black thread. I had four to choose from. This led to organizing the thread. Annie will understand this. I hadn't yet reorganzied the thread since The Move. Before, the wall of thread had been left up when the staircase was rebuilt at the clinton st. house (see previous post "white powder and fifty shades of pink"). Now, each little spool had to be cleaned of white powder still clinging like coke never did, the spool-holder washed off. As I was re-ordering the spools by color, I saw the similarity between thread and nailpolish. I have six spools of off-white-nude-not-pink thread, too.
Thread in order, I began laying out the fabric without a pattern. Its been a long time since I've used my machine, and I'd rather sew by hand. But I figured it out, and the pillows took about half an hour to make once I'd figured out the cut and fold part. The pillows are beautiful. Cowboy stripes.
So that's some
I started with boxes and boxes of brand new clothes, shoes, boots, you name it -- that I'd ordered but didn't fit or I changed my mind or whatever. Some boxes had been sitting in my studio room for almost a year. You get a full year with Zappos. I love Zappos. So I repackaged each thing -- I know myself well enough to keep the return postage stickers -- and sent all the stuff back, probably $1000 worth of crap.
Next thing: A couple of weeks ago I opened an old trunk that sits in the living room. It is crammed full of fabric, one of many similar bins. I pulled out one piece of striped cotton that I love, have loved now for about nine years, and took it out of the trunk. OUT of the trunk. Keeping the cloth visible exponentially increases the likelihood that I will make something out of it. It is helpful if I trip over it from time to time, bringing the project gently to mind. I've wanted to make pillow covers out of it. I have two large sitting pillows in my living room, covered with a cotton twill in two stained and noxious shades of olive green. When I bought them I meant to recover them. They were the right shape and nothing else. They have served as dog beds, small chairs, baby beds, props for reading late into the night, small girl beds when pushed together but that slide apart when slept upon.
I tripped over and stared at the fabric until today. Today, In got out my scissors -- the good ones -- threaded my sewing machine, changed the thread on the bobbin and everything. I haven't used the machine since we moved and long before. One of the spools of thread was mis-spooled. half the thread went one direction and half went the other. Imagine me trying to wind the bobbin with this stuff. When I finally figured out it was the thread that was wrong and not me, it was easy. Throw it away. I found another spool of black thread. I had four to choose from. This led to organizing the thread. Annie will understand this. I hadn't yet reorganzied the thread since The Move. Before, the wall of thread had been left up when the staircase was rebuilt at the clinton st. house (see previous post "white powder and fifty shades of pink"). Now, each little spool had to be cleaned of white powder still clinging like coke never did, the spool-holder washed off. As I was re-ordering the spools by color, I saw the similarity between thread and nailpolish. I have six spools of off-white-nude-not-pink thread, too.
Thread in order, I began laying out the fabric without a pattern. Its been a long time since I've used my machine, and I'd rather sew by hand. But I figured it out, and the pillows took about half an hour to make once I'd figured out the cut and fold part. The pillows are beautiful. Cowboy stripes.
So that's some
southland, greenland
I am back from five days in the camper with my sweetheart and our dogs. As predicted, in real life, not here, we were unable to obtain lodging on the coast for more than one night at a time on the coast. We are not planners, and these days, counter-intuitive as it may seem, to be a camper, one must be a planner. Now, you must jump online nine-months in advance, say, January one, and grab frantically for that choice spot, the one with the perfect view at sunset, competing with a bzillion other campers, and hope you get through. I like campground camping, just not on Labor Day Weekend. So, we didn't get a spot but for one night, then another for another single night, then we headed south, where we camp in the front/back yards of our relatives. Who live, as you know by now, off the grid.
But they all grow weed. And September is high time, pun intended, for near-harvest activities, and we learn this each year. Nobody has time to sit and chat. There are plants to water (by hand with buckets) and deals to be made. It is so odd, driving through the land where I misspent my youth, past fifteen-foot high fences with bright green bushes peeping over the tops, bursting with pollen, garden after garden of skunk smelling dank, selling like hotcakes on every street corner, billboards along I-5 encouraging off-road purchases: Need Marijuana? Next Exit. I can't absorb the rate of social change. A sure sign of aging.
But we finally made it a spot on the Applegate River, gated and private-ish, because my step-son is dating a sweet girl with a quarter mile of river frontage. It meant we didn't have to stay all the way upriver with the outlaws. We had the place to ourselves so we decided to have a party. It started innocently enough. By Monday, there was a crowd of family and near family, food and drink. I don't drink.
I did find time to sit on the river and read my book. It is that river, that water, that is home to me. And to my kin. My son came down from his garden to hang out the night before, but the crowd of Labor Day scared him off. Smart guy.
There were too many people and my father-out-law's wife is unpleasant. She arrives and expects. As a lifestyle. She expects. She waits. Her face is permafrost. She is never invited except by default. She brings out the assassin in me.
Tuesday morning we headed home, after buttoning up everything before nightfall on Monday. While I was still in bed, Kurt hooked up the trailer and as soon as I could get things arranged, we were off. It is good to be home. I have the remainder of the week to be on vacation, so need to find something to do that doesn't feel like homework.
But they all grow weed. And September is high time, pun intended, for near-harvest activities, and we learn this each year. Nobody has time to sit and chat. There are plants to water (by hand with buckets) and deals to be made. It is so odd, driving through the land where I misspent my youth, past fifteen-foot high fences with bright green bushes peeping over the tops, bursting with pollen, garden after garden of skunk smelling dank, selling like hotcakes on every street corner, billboards along I-5 encouraging off-road purchases: Need Marijuana? Next Exit. I can't absorb the rate of social change. A sure sign of aging.
But we finally made it a spot on the Applegate River, gated and private-ish, because my step-son is dating a sweet girl with a quarter mile of river frontage. It meant we didn't have to stay all the way upriver with the outlaws. We had the place to ourselves so we decided to have a party. It started innocently enough. By Monday, there was a crowd of family and near family, food and drink. I don't drink.
I did find time to sit on the river and read my book. It is that river, that water, that is home to me. And to my kin. My son came down from his garden to hang out the night before, but the crowd of Labor Day scared him off. Smart guy.
There were too many people and my father-out-law's wife is unpleasant. She arrives and expects. As a lifestyle. She expects. She waits. Her face is permafrost. She is never invited except by default. She brings out the assassin in me.
Tuesday morning we headed home, after buttoning up everything before nightfall on Monday. While I was still in bed, Kurt hooked up the trailer and as soon as I could get things arranged, we were off. It is good to be home. I have the remainder of the week to be on vacation, so need to find something to do that doesn't feel like homework.
Thursday, July 14, 2016
racism and whiteness
I always get confused about this, but feel the need to empty my mind onto paper in a weak attempt to articulate the conflict I feel about police murders, black folks, and I'll likely end up discussing trump. I'm sorry. Its hard not to.
I'm so white. I fear black people. Men. I am nervous and guilty in their presence and it is impossible to act naturally. I'm not in any way saying I dislike them. Not at all.
I enjoy unearned white privilege. I live in a white community. I work in a pretty white company. I hire people of color and do my best to pay all I can. I'm a good racist. You'd never know. But I don't see people first, I see color. I challenge you, my white audience, to see it differently.
As a lifelong criminal, or someone born to criminal thinking, I've never been a fan of the police, but I've known a bunch of really good cops who could have arrested me many many times and should have, but they knew I was a mom and they tried to help me instead. As you might imagine, I have many stories to support that statement.
I cannot imagine the fear a white man would experience approaching the window of a black man's car. I don't think white men should police black men. Its a set up for both. I heard the voice of the cop who shot that man in the car and he sounded horrified, terrified by what he had done. I felt so sad for him. His life is ruined. The other man's life is over. And all for a tail light?
If I am walking down the street, and I see a black man walking toward me, I am afraid. Given the history of my slave-owning ancestors, I am the last person who should be in fear. His family did not subjugate mine. But I cross the street.
I don't know how to see beyond gangster clothing. It is so like the lame argument that tries to justify rape by pointing to what she was wearing. If he'd looked whiter would it have gone differently?
I just feel awful. Every day more death and more atrocity. Some guy drove over a whole crowd of French people today. We haven't even buried the cops. I can't keep up.
I can't stand, when the world is at war in so many ways, that democrats focus on sexual politics, gender bending rights and wrongs. It is so upside down to worry about who you can fuck when the house is on fire. Maybe its just proximity to Portland, and trust me, I'm as pro-gay as any straight chick, but we have so much more to do before we can focus on personal politics. Sue me. But if Hillary is distracted by all of the various bandwagons that vie for her attention and demand equal time for luxury problems in the face of the demise of civilization, she'll lose the election and it will be their fault.
Still, Trump is a very bad idea. Very bad. The "Never Trump Movement" has a chance right now to offer republicans a chance to speak up and stop the nonsense. A chance to un-bind the votes. They could put their money where their mouth is and finally make it right. I want to expect more of them. I'm a country girl at heart, and I think I have a bead on conservative religious values and what the right objects to about us democrats and I think good country people would do better. I expect more of them even if I have left the flock far behind.
I'm so white. I fear black people. Men. I am nervous and guilty in their presence and it is impossible to act naturally. I'm not in any way saying I dislike them. Not at all.
I enjoy unearned white privilege. I live in a white community. I work in a pretty white company. I hire people of color and do my best to pay all I can. I'm a good racist. You'd never know. But I don't see people first, I see color. I challenge you, my white audience, to see it differently.
As a lifelong criminal, or someone born to criminal thinking, I've never been a fan of the police, but I've known a bunch of really good cops who could have arrested me many many times and should have, but they knew I was a mom and they tried to help me instead. As you might imagine, I have many stories to support that statement.
I cannot imagine the fear a white man would experience approaching the window of a black man's car. I don't think white men should police black men. Its a set up for both. I heard the voice of the cop who shot that man in the car and he sounded horrified, terrified by what he had done. I felt so sad for him. His life is ruined. The other man's life is over. And all for a tail light?
If I am walking down the street, and I see a black man walking toward me, I am afraid. Given the history of my slave-owning ancestors, I am the last person who should be in fear. His family did not subjugate mine. But I cross the street.
I don't know how to see beyond gangster clothing. It is so like the lame argument that tries to justify rape by pointing to what she was wearing. If he'd looked whiter would it have gone differently?
I just feel awful. Every day more death and more atrocity. Some guy drove over a whole crowd of French people today. We haven't even buried the cops. I can't keep up.
I can't stand, when the world is at war in so many ways, that democrats focus on sexual politics, gender bending rights and wrongs. It is so upside down to worry about who you can fuck when the house is on fire. Maybe its just proximity to Portland, and trust me, I'm as pro-gay as any straight chick, but we have so much more to do before we can focus on personal politics. Sue me. But if Hillary is distracted by all of the various bandwagons that vie for her attention and demand equal time for luxury problems in the face of the demise of civilization, she'll lose the election and it will be their fault.
Still, Trump is a very bad idea. Very bad. The "Never Trump Movement" has a chance right now to offer republicans a chance to speak up and stop the nonsense. A chance to un-bind the votes. They could put their money where their mouth is and finally make it right. I want to expect more of them. I'm a country girl at heart, and I think I have a bead on conservative religious values and what the right objects to about us democrats and I think good country people would do better. I expect more of them even if I have left the flock far behind.
Sunday, July 03, 2016
one year in yamhill
July 3. A milder day this year. It was 200 degrees last year. I'm pretty sure. It has been a good year. No regrets about the move. I love Yamhill.
When I am inside my house, there is little to do: everything is done.And it is perfect just the way it is. Doesn't mean I like it. Doesn't mean I accept that my walls will always be menopause beige. Its just that it is a new house and I am living in some contractor's decisions about which paint was on sale and what kind of granite to use for the counter tops. I understand these are luxury problems. I understand that in most cities rental housing is beyond reach, that there is an opiate problem and that donald trump is running for President of the United States. I know this and it scares me. But I'm accustomed to houses that are more project than not, where pounding a nail in the wall isn't cause for concern and painting is almost always a good idea. Not in this house. All of the corners are rounded so if I started painting I'd never be able to stop.
When I am outside of my nice house, there I have options. A learning curve. The soil is clay, mucky sticky anaerobic clay. When I plant things, and I do, I first dig a bigger hole than I need and fill it with good dirt, store-bought dirt. I remember when I was younger, in my early 30's? I made this statement: "I'll never pay money for dirt or water." As you may remember, I wasn't at my best then, either economically, politically or philosophically. Not much foresight. I am still opposed to bottled water from an environmental perspective: like most folks, I have a jug somewhere I can fill for water and haul around with me, but still, the whole dehydration scare is a bit much. You'd think, by the availability of water bottles in any conceivable shape, neon color and size, that it was an outright dehydration calamity of epic proportion. It just isn't. I mean, if you are running because something is chasing you -- why else run? -- you might take some water with you, or if you are crossing the Mojave, sure, bring a little something to drink. But this must-have ethic about the damned water bottles is ridiculous. I was seduced into purchasing a block of cheap water bottles when I went on a road trip. It was awful. There had to be at least a million. Those terrible crunchy bottles were everywhere. The backseat of my car was filled with them and when I cleared out the trash six months later I was embarrassed to be seen dumping that much plastic. I know there are fish in the ocean accidentally hanging themselves on my trash.
What the fuck was I talking about, anyway?
Oh, the clay. Buying dirt. Okay, back on track.
So I have to fill each hole with new dirt or the plants choke and die in the clay soil. I may have mentioned there was a brick factory in Yamhill some years back but I have not been able to confirm it in wikipedia. The dirt in my yard, you could take a good scoop of it, put it on a potting wheel and throw a pot. It is that bad. So, planting is arduous on a good day, and in Yamhill, double that. But I have planted much, and kept up my weed war. We have the usual weeds, dandelions, etc. But mostly there are thistles. I have a tool I call my dandelion getter. It is actually called a Weed Hound. But it is awesome at pulling whole weeds -- flatweeds, you know the kind -- they spread out like a flat handprint and kill whatever lies beneath. So the Getter, it has little spikes that push down over the middle of the plant, grab the root well below the surface, and in one twist and pull motion, it pops out the whole thing. Its magic. I love it. It is the best tool ever created.
So, on to politics. The sheer humiliation of living in a country with a political party that would spawn donald trump and be so spineless as to allow his ascent to candidate-hood, is as embarrassing as any childhood dream of going to school without underwear. Admit it. You've had those dreams. I've been saying all along: don't be naive -- it can happen. We elected GW twice. Twice. That is beyond stupid. Wisely, Hillary is staying quiet and waiting for donald to hang himself like the fish on my plastic trash.
In all of this stupidity, what really stuns me is the accuracy of the frog in the pot of boiling water analogy. You're familiar with it, right? As a country, have we no mechanism for putting on the political brakes and saying, "Hold on. Let's just pause and reflect for a moment." Can't we make a new law that says, "If we get ourselves into a terrible, nation-crushing corner, can't we just call out "Ollie Ollie In Free" like we used to do in Hide and Seek? Can't we just agree that for these moments of soul-killing terror, we can just call it good. Just for the moment? We can return to the mad rules of modern life later, but for just right now, no harm no foul -- let's just call it like we see it. I cannot and will not believe we are so estranged from ourselves that we can't see our future world evaporating on one cold november day and be utterly powerless to stop it.
Okay. Let's just consider what might result if this man actually became the leader of the free world. Its like Rio and the Olympics and Zika and hideous water. So, we've seen the pictures of the babies and the un-flushed toilet they call a bay and yet the games will go on. What? We've gone too far to stop it? Are we really that hamstrung by our own rules that we can't change our collective mind? That would be supposing we have a mind to change. Can't somebody just stand in the middle of the town square for chrissake and yell, "The Emperor Has No Clothes."
When I am inside my house, there is little to do: everything is done.And it is perfect just the way it is. Doesn't mean I like it. Doesn't mean I accept that my walls will always be menopause beige. Its just that it is a new house and I am living in some contractor's decisions about which paint was on sale and what kind of granite to use for the counter tops. I understand these are luxury problems. I understand that in most cities rental housing is beyond reach, that there is an opiate problem and that donald trump is running for President of the United States. I know this and it scares me. But I'm accustomed to houses that are more project than not, where pounding a nail in the wall isn't cause for concern and painting is almost always a good idea. Not in this house. All of the corners are rounded so if I started painting I'd never be able to stop.
When I am outside of my nice house, there I have options. A learning curve. The soil is clay, mucky sticky anaerobic clay. When I plant things, and I do, I first dig a bigger hole than I need and fill it with good dirt, store-bought dirt. I remember when I was younger, in my early 30's? I made this statement: "I'll never pay money for dirt or water." As you may remember, I wasn't at my best then, either economically, politically or philosophically. Not much foresight. I am still opposed to bottled water from an environmental perspective: like most folks, I have a jug somewhere I can fill for water and haul around with me, but still, the whole dehydration scare is a bit much. You'd think, by the availability of water bottles in any conceivable shape, neon color and size, that it was an outright dehydration calamity of epic proportion. It just isn't. I mean, if you are running because something is chasing you -- why else run? -- you might take some water with you, or if you are crossing the Mojave, sure, bring a little something to drink. But this must-have ethic about the damned water bottles is ridiculous. I was seduced into purchasing a block of cheap water bottles when I went on a road trip. It was awful. There had to be at least a million. Those terrible crunchy bottles were everywhere. The backseat of my car was filled with them and when I cleared out the trash six months later I was embarrassed to be seen dumping that much plastic. I know there are fish in the ocean accidentally hanging themselves on my trash.
What the fuck was I talking about, anyway?
Oh, the clay. Buying dirt. Okay, back on track.
So I have to fill each hole with new dirt or the plants choke and die in the clay soil. I may have mentioned there was a brick factory in Yamhill some years back but I have not been able to confirm it in wikipedia. The dirt in my yard, you could take a good scoop of it, put it on a potting wheel and throw a pot. It is that bad. So, planting is arduous on a good day, and in Yamhill, double that. But I have planted much, and kept up my weed war. We have the usual weeds, dandelions, etc. But mostly there are thistles. I have a tool I call my dandelion getter. It is actually called a Weed Hound. But it is awesome at pulling whole weeds -- flatweeds, you know the kind -- they spread out like a flat handprint and kill whatever lies beneath. So the Getter, it has little spikes that push down over the middle of the plant, grab the root well below the surface, and in one twist and pull motion, it pops out the whole thing. Its magic. I love it. It is the best tool ever created.
So, on to politics. The sheer humiliation of living in a country with a political party that would spawn donald trump and be so spineless as to allow his ascent to candidate-hood, is as embarrassing as any childhood dream of going to school without underwear. Admit it. You've had those dreams. I've been saying all along: don't be naive -- it can happen. We elected GW twice. Twice. That is beyond stupid. Wisely, Hillary is staying quiet and waiting for donald to hang himself like the fish on my plastic trash.
In all of this stupidity, what really stuns me is the accuracy of the frog in the pot of boiling water analogy. You're familiar with it, right? As a country, have we no mechanism for putting on the political brakes and saying, "Hold on. Let's just pause and reflect for a moment." Can't we make a new law that says, "If we get ourselves into a terrible, nation-crushing corner, can't we just call out "Ollie Ollie In Free" like we used to do in Hide and Seek? Can't we just agree that for these moments of soul-killing terror, we can just call it good. Just for the moment? We can return to the mad rules of modern life later, but for just right now, no harm no foul -- let's just call it like we see it. I cannot and will not believe we are so estranged from ourselves that we can't see our future world evaporating on one cold november day and be utterly powerless to stop it.
Okay. Let's just consider what might result if this man actually became the leader of the free world. Its like Rio and the Olympics and Zika and hideous water. So, we've seen the pictures of the babies and the un-flushed toilet they call a bay and yet the games will go on. What? We've gone too far to stop it? Are we really that hamstrung by our own rules that we can't change our collective mind? That would be supposing we have a mind to change. Can't somebody just stand in the middle of the town square for chrissake and yell, "The Emperor Has No Clothes."
Friday, June 24, 2016
circles and closure
A year ago today a nice lady died in the place where I work. It was really really hard. Hard on the caregivers, hard on her family, but hardest of all on her and her husband. He came almost every day. He loved her so much. She was beautiful and had beautiful daughters for whom beauty was a strongly held value. Or obsession. Its pretty hard to die of dementia, and they all do, and it is never, ever pretty. This part was hard for the daughters, that death took beauty. All of it. That death kicked beauty's ass. So they were mad at how things went, that we couldn't fix her hair and dress her in pink cashmere sweaters. Her husband, he just came, and stayed. Bedside. We talked a lot. I was with him all through the long walk. Every day. He'd ask me why we couldn't make it better. I'd shrug. I don't know. We just sometimes have to sit it out, and it takes forever and then its over and it seems like it went so fast and what he'd give for one more crappy day. "No not really," he'd say. "I wouldn't wish it on anybody." Then she died. Finally. And they left without saying goodbye. And that is where my story begins.
Her husband came by today and asked to speak to me. I was shocked. Hadn't seen him or anyone for a year. He said, "I had to do this." I nodded. Wasn't quite sure what he meant. "Its today. A year." Ah. I got it. She'd been gone a year today. He wanted closure. He hugged me. I said, "You have no idea how often I think of you." He talked about his girls still not being okay. Still mad. Again, I shrugged. "Their deal," I said. "Takes time."
So we chatted and I couldn't help thinking there was more. He finally sat up in his chair and said, "I have someone in my life. And you know her." I couldn't imagine who. Finally he told me. She is a wonderful woman who's husband also died of Alzheimer's with me, and they'd been in a support group together for a long time. "She's amazing!" he said. "I've never been so happy!" He told me they'd been on trips together and that they can talk about their spouses any time. That's how they know each other. They have that common tragic link. His daughters don't like it. They're afraid he'll forget their mother. "They lost their mother a year ago," I told him. "Your wife's been gone twenty years."
He said he thought he'd never live again. That he'd accepted his fate and his beloved would die a slow awful death and so would he -- with her. And he had. Almost.
So I asked if he wanted to walk through memory care again. He did. We entered the code that keeps my fragile little people safe, and stepped across the threshold, that thin line separating us and them. We walked around and he was looking for familiar faces, but they were all gone. All in heaven. And we made it to her old apartment, the tiny space where all of the terrible intimacy happened, where she beat the shit out of caregivers and screamed through hallucinations too horrible to describe. He read the name of the person who is living there now: Betty Davis. We both laughed. He said he'd become good friends with four of the people from the support group, but now when they get together every month, it isn't support group, its Happy Hour.
It meant so much that he stopped by. As professionals, we grieve differently, separately. If the family steps away and chooses to leave that part of life behind them, we don't go chasing after them, asking for closure, expressing our needs. We just don't. Occasionally, we get a second chance to say thank you. For entrusting your beloved to our care. For allowing us to share the journey. We never know where it will lead.
Her husband came by today and asked to speak to me. I was shocked. Hadn't seen him or anyone for a year. He said, "I had to do this." I nodded. Wasn't quite sure what he meant. "Its today. A year." Ah. I got it. She'd been gone a year today. He wanted closure. He hugged me. I said, "You have no idea how often I think of you." He talked about his girls still not being okay. Still mad. Again, I shrugged. "Their deal," I said. "Takes time."
So we chatted and I couldn't help thinking there was more. He finally sat up in his chair and said, "I have someone in my life. And you know her." I couldn't imagine who. Finally he told me. She is a wonderful woman who's husband also died of Alzheimer's with me, and they'd been in a support group together for a long time. "She's amazing!" he said. "I've never been so happy!" He told me they'd been on trips together and that they can talk about their spouses any time. That's how they know each other. They have that common tragic link. His daughters don't like it. They're afraid he'll forget their mother. "They lost their mother a year ago," I told him. "Your wife's been gone twenty years."
He said he thought he'd never live again. That he'd accepted his fate and his beloved would die a slow awful death and so would he -- with her. And he had. Almost.
So I asked if he wanted to walk through memory care again. He did. We entered the code that keeps my fragile little people safe, and stepped across the threshold, that thin line separating us and them. We walked around and he was looking for familiar faces, but they were all gone. All in heaven. And we made it to her old apartment, the tiny space where all of the terrible intimacy happened, where she beat the shit out of caregivers and screamed through hallucinations too horrible to describe. He read the name of the person who is living there now: Betty Davis. We both laughed. He said he'd become good friends with four of the people from the support group, but now when they get together every month, it isn't support group, its Happy Hour.
It meant so much that he stopped by. As professionals, we grieve differently, separately. If the family steps away and chooses to leave that part of life behind them, we don't go chasing after them, asking for closure, expressing our needs. We just don't. Occasionally, we get a second chance to say thank you. For entrusting your beloved to our care. For allowing us to share the journey. We never know where it will lead.
Saturday, June 11, 2016
clamfest 2016
Another day in Venice. You remember Venice, right? That precious little scrap of asphalt on the north end of Seaside, where the habitually retired arrive in rusted rolling cartons slung low with a lifetime of decisions, black plastic bags and colorful bins stuffed with life's leftovers. These men slip into Venice on thin rubber tires that go flat in a week with an exhausted pffffftttt, and stay for the rest of their lives. They pay by the week because hope says so. Because their ship will come in. Because they'll quit drinking. Because they just need time to change what they have spent a lifetime creating.
But we fit in, we civilized three (Nicole came along). We the rich, the vintage-trailer-by-choice crew. Now, we are not so shiny that they rob us, but they do wonder why we stay with them, using their showers that have used syringes and satin panties in the trash on the men's side, when we could stay at Circle Creek, or in upper-crusty Cannon Beach. We can't explain. It would take too long and nobody would listen.
I couldn't tell them about Bolder City with its ancient trailers like long rows of oxidized pink Pontiacs with bullet tail-lights, about how me and Lorretta sat in our 105 degree trailers all day waiting for Luke to rape Laura, and when General Hospital was over, bursting from our aluminum doors like steam from a kettle, running down the gravel driveway, across the road and into the river that had been there all along, all through days and days, the sweet green river, all the time wondering what our penance would be for trading our summer for the price of a soap opera.
At night, when the mosquitoes have calmed and there is no more color in the evening sky, I'd sing my son to sleep:
The owls and the crickets are singing together
The clouds have just taken the moon for a ride.
The last rain of summer is bending the heather
And soft as a feather I hear it outside.
Hush now, you hoot owls, and crickets be wary
The morning is hiding behind the next cloud.
Let the sounds of the evening be pleasant and airy
Let nothing be scary, let nothing be loud.
Goodnight Sweet Prince.
One of the perma-campers was John Quincy Adams from Pennsylvania. His story is that he came out here to help his daughter and she wasn't all that interested in help. So he pulled in, parked it, and a wind came up and plucked the lid right off his motorhome. This was on TV. Kurt saw it. One of the crackheads helped JQ pull a huge blue tarp over it. This made it dark inside the motorhome. JQ didn't complain, but anyway, the crackhead went ahead and cut squares out of the tarp so he could still have windows. There is a tiny chance that his handiwork may have compromised the integrity of the tarp, . So that's something, but it did lend a homespun ambience to his site which is consistent with the rest of the park. JQ wanted to go clamming with us, but his knees wouldn't stand the walk out to the water.
Speaking of homespun, a local artist painted each hook up (a 3x2x4 foot cement block) baby blue with scenes from "Finding Nemo." Ours was a dancing swordfish. Next to us was Nemo himself. On a few unfortunate blocks, the artist had taken a stab at original work: mermaids with lumpy tits, wide eyes, and yellow hair that was probably supposed to look like it was waving around under water, but in fact, looked like it was painted with a broom.
So we got our clams, 130 over 3 days. Nicole provided a third limit. Kurt only took an extra 15, which, for him, was quite restrained. We clammed early, cleaned them methodically, and walked to see the sunset from our perch not 100 yards away. We made our way to Gearhardt for a milkshake and found Corinthian chimes at a swanky garden shop. I'll let you know if they arrive as a birthday gift...
A downside of this trip was how much stuff I forgot: Towels, coffee cups, eggs. I mean, things you can't live without very nicely. A trip into the Astoria Goodwill fixed us up. I found the best towels -- which will live in the house -- not the trailer. This is the problem. I'm not insane. I don't have Alzheimer's Disease -- not that I'd know if I did -- but when you have a trailer, you keep it stocked with shit. I hadn't used the thing for a year and forgot I'd taken in all of the cloth items to wash. I never brought them back to the trailer.
Now we are home. I am exhausted by what is now my job's focus: the arsonist. I can't remember what I've said, but a disgruntled employee went postal and tried to burn down the Assisted Living facility I operate. She is finally in jail. I keep my office blinds closed in the event her husband is sitting in the weeds across from the parking lot with a scope.
But we fit in, we civilized three (Nicole came along). We the rich, the vintage-trailer-by-choice crew. Now, we are not so shiny that they rob us, but they do wonder why we stay with them, using their showers that have used syringes and satin panties in the trash on the men's side, when we could stay at Circle Creek, or in upper-crusty Cannon Beach. We can't explain. It would take too long and nobody would listen.
I couldn't tell them about Bolder City with its ancient trailers like long rows of oxidized pink Pontiacs with bullet tail-lights, about how me and Lorretta sat in our 105 degree trailers all day waiting for Luke to rape Laura, and when General Hospital was over, bursting from our aluminum doors like steam from a kettle, running down the gravel driveway, across the road and into the river that had been there all along, all through days and days, the sweet green river, all the time wondering what our penance would be for trading our summer for the price of a soap opera.
At night, when the mosquitoes have calmed and there is no more color in the evening sky, I'd sing my son to sleep:
The owls and the crickets are singing together
The clouds have just taken the moon for a ride.
The last rain of summer is bending the heather
And soft as a feather I hear it outside.
Hush now, you hoot owls, and crickets be wary
The morning is hiding behind the next cloud.
Let the sounds of the evening be pleasant and airy
Let nothing be scary, let nothing be loud.
Goodnight Sweet Prince.
One of the perma-campers was John Quincy Adams from Pennsylvania. His story is that he came out here to help his daughter and she wasn't all that interested in help. So he pulled in, parked it, and a wind came up and plucked the lid right off his motorhome. This was on TV. Kurt saw it. One of the crackheads helped JQ pull a huge blue tarp over it. This made it dark inside the motorhome. JQ didn't complain, but anyway, the crackhead went ahead and cut squares out of the tarp so he could still have windows. There is a tiny chance that his handiwork may have compromised the integrity of the tarp, . So that's something, but it did lend a homespun ambience to his site which is consistent with the rest of the park. JQ wanted to go clamming with us, but his knees wouldn't stand the walk out to the water.
Speaking of homespun, a local artist painted each hook up (a 3x2x4 foot cement block) baby blue with scenes from "Finding Nemo." Ours was a dancing swordfish. Next to us was Nemo himself. On a few unfortunate blocks, the artist had taken a stab at original work: mermaids with lumpy tits, wide eyes, and yellow hair that was probably supposed to look like it was waving around under water, but in fact, looked like it was painted with a broom.
So we got our clams, 130 over 3 days. Nicole provided a third limit. Kurt only took an extra 15, which, for him, was quite restrained. We clammed early, cleaned them methodically, and walked to see the sunset from our perch not 100 yards away. We made our way to Gearhardt for a milkshake and found Corinthian chimes at a swanky garden shop. I'll let you know if they arrive as a birthday gift...
A downside of this trip was how much stuff I forgot: Towels, coffee cups, eggs. I mean, things you can't live without very nicely. A trip into the Astoria Goodwill fixed us up. I found the best towels -- which will live in the house -- not the trailer. This is the problem. I'm not insane. I don't have Alzheimer's Disease -- not that I'd know if I did -- but when you have a trailer, you keep it stocked with shit. I hadn't used the thing for a year and forgot I'd taken in all of the cloth items to wash. I never brought them back to the trailer.
Now we are home. I am exhausted by what is now my job's focus: the arsonist. I can't remember what I've said, but a disgruntled employee went postal and tried to burn down the Assisted Living facility I operate. She is finally in jail. I keep my office blinds closed in the event her husband is sitting in the weeds across from the parking lot with a scope.
Sunday, April 24, 2016
duck derby
I'm sure everyone is wondering how the Rubber Duck Mosey and Pub Crawl went. Slowly. Very very slowly. We bought three ducks in Carlton last week, #236,237 & 238. Since we don't crawl around pubs anymore, it was kind of hard to get information.
"After the pub crawl, they throw the ducks in the water down at some guy's property."
Okay. So when does it start?
"I'm not sure. Let me ask Don."
Waiting...
"They're starting at the Ponderosa about ten."
Drinking. They start drinking at ten.
Now, the Ponderosa isn't really called the Ponderosa. It's called "Trask Mountain Outpost" but we call it the Ponderosa because its easier and we could never remember the name and it looks like it should be called the Ponderosa.
"Then they're going to Lagos, then to Zippy's then to Carlton Corners, then Barrel 47."
Lagos is a Mexican restaurant where they'll have margaritas. Apparently they had Bloody Mary's at the Ponderosa. I'm guessing they'll drink at each place and be well-oiled by the time they put the ducks in the water. Five bars, five hours. We figured three o'clock should be about go time.
Waiting....
Finally, at 3:15 we left for Carlton. We drove into Wennerman Park and parked. Nobody in sight. Then, we noticed a small group of people standing on the bridge. Walking toward the bridge we found the remnants of the pub crawl gathered beside the river. It is a small river -- almost a creek. We wandered down the red mud path to the water's edge where about twenty people stood/sat/milled. A few half-racks of beer and a pint of CR were nestled beside lawnchairs and sheets of cardboard where the faithful waited. One guy had clearly won the pub crawl segment. Loud and obnoxious, he called attention to himself again and again. My favorite: "If a sheep is a ram, and a goose is a gander, and a donkey is an ass, why is a ram in the ass a goose?" He was in charge, maybe, and in any event, he was the designated duck-getter. His name was Spence.
The river looked like this: opaque mud-olive swirls, slow water, a small riffle just upstream. We were on the inside of an elbow of water, a swimming hole on warmer days, which, if you looked for evidence of high-water in the trees above us, it was clear this little creek got moving in a hard rain.
We looked upriver. We waited. Anything not-green was, in our hopeful minds, the beginning of the hoard of ducks that would at any moment round the corner and race toward home.
Not exactly.
Turns out, this was the inaugural duck run. This was the brainchild of the graduation party committee of the Yamhill-Carlton school district. They had the idea, but hadn't really fussed over the details. Details such as: how will we stop the ducks? At the last minute, someone had strung a boom of sorts across the river with a kayak and it floated in place, prepared to stop at least one duck.
Never fear-- Spence was in charge.
I struck up a conversation with a chatty woman standing next to me. Jane. She seemed to know something. She told me they'd hammered out the details at Zippy's the night before. Hammered being the operative word. The topic of permitting had come up and concensus was, nah. It'll be fine. Sure thing. They had considered, she assured me, that the ducks might be waylaid in the brambles and bank-grass along the river. They'd bribed three young boys to follow the ducks downriver in their kayaks and knock the little ducks loose with their paddles to keep things moving. I'm not sure they understood their assignment.
We waited. Annie and Kurt and I. We stared upriver imagining hoards of little yellow duckies. To no avail. Spence insulted his neighbor's daughters, the neighbors ignored him, and the crowd grew. Jane bemoaned the wait, wondering where the whole thing had gone wrong, and assured us. "I know they ducks will get here eventually. I hope the kids make it down. Sure glad my kid's not one of 'em."
Yes, Jane. It will be great if the children make it.
Alarmed now about the kids and about to give up -- why is it always that way? -- we saw a tiny flash of neon orange come around the bend. The ducks weren't all yellow it turns out. They were every shade of neon. The kids arrived (thank you Jesus) in their kayaks. The little orange duck worked his way down stream and got stuck in the weeds. Then another flash of pink! And another orange! Pink and orange sprinted for first place and Orange won! At that moment, Spence dove in the icy water to retrieve the duck as though he was part lab, and halfway across the hole stood up to find the water was only about a foot deep. "Number 7!" he shouted.
They looked at the sign up board to see who'd won. "That guy's a dick," somebody muttered.
We had first and second place locked up, but what about third? The first orange duck was still hung up in the weeds and a little white one had settled into the grass on the opposite of the hole. How to do we determine third place?
The crowd yelled at the boys to gather the two ducks, kayak them up to the riffle and toss them in at the same time. The little ducks raced for the boom and the orange one got hung up in a little eddy, spinning in place as whitey took third.
And that was that. There were no more ducks. Three winners and one loser. Jane was chattering on about a duck recovery program, maybe fifty cents a pop for foundlings. That makes 296 ducks unaccounted for. I can't imagine that the DEQ isn't going to have an opinion about this. I love small towns.
"After the pub crawl, they throw the ducks in the water down at some guy's property."
Okay. So when does it start?
"I'm not sure. Let me ask Don."
Waiting...
"They're starting at the Ponderosa about ten."
Drinking. They start drinking at ten.
Now, the Ponderosa isn't really called the Ponderosa. It's called "Trask Mountain Outpost" but we call it the Ponderosa because its easier and we could never remember the name and it looks like it should be called the Ponderosa.
"Then they're going to Lagos, then to Zippy's then to Carlton Corners, then Barrel 47."
Lagos is a Mexican restaurant where they'll have margaritas. Apparently they had Bloody Mary's at the Ponderosa. I'm guessing they'll drink at each place and be well-oiled by the time they put the ducks in the water. Five bars, five hours. We figured three o'clock should be about go time.
Waiting....
Finally, at 3:15 we left for Carlton. We drove into Wennerman Park and parked. Nobody in sight. Then, we noticed a small group of people standing on the bridge. Walking toward the bridge we found the remnants of the pub crawl gathered beside the river. It is a small river -- almost a creek. We wandered down the red mud path to the water's edge where about twenty people stood/sat/milled. A few half-racks of beer and a pint of CR were nestled beside lawnchairs and sheets of cardboard where the faithful waited. One guy had clearly won the pub crawl segment. Loud and obnoxious, he called attention to himself again and again. My favorite: "If a sheep is a ram, and a goose is a gander, and a donkey is an ass, why is a ram in the ass a goose?" He was in charge, maybe, and in any event, he was the designated duck-getter. His name was Spence.
The river looked like this: opaque mud-olive swirls, slow water, a small riffle just upstream. We were on the inside of an elbow of water, a swimming hole on warmer days, which, if you looked for evidence of high-water in the trees above us, it was clear this little creek got moving in a hard rain.
We looked upriver. We waited. Anything not-green was, in our hopeful minds, the beginning of the hoard of ducks that would at any moment round the corner and race toward home.
Not exactly.
Turns out, this was the inaugural duck run. This was the brainchild of the graduation party committee of the Yamhill-Carlton school district. They had the idea, but hadn't really fussed over the details. Details such as: how will we stop the ducks? At the last minute, someone had strung a boom of sorts across the river with a kayak and it floated in place, prepared to stop at least one duck.
Never fear-- Spence was in charge.
I struck up a conversation with a chatty woman standing next to me. Jane. She seemed to know something. She told me they'd hammered out the details at Zippy's the night before. Hammered being the operative word. The topic of permitting had come up and concensus was, nah. It'll be fine. Sure thing. They had considered, she assured me, that the ducks might be waylaid in the brambles and bank-grass along the river. They'd bribed three young boys to follow the ducks downriver in their kayaks and knock the little ducks loose with their paddles to keep things moving. I'm not sure they understood their assignment.
We waited. Annie and Kurt and I. We stared upriver imagining hoards of little yellow duckies. To no avail. Spence insulted his neighbor's daughters, the neighbors ignored him, and the crowd grew. Jane bemoaned the wait, wondering where the whole thing had gone wrong, and assured us. "I know they ducks will get here eventually. I hope the kids make it down. Sure glad my kid's not one of 'em."
Yes, Jane. It will be great if the children make it.
Alarmed now about the kids and about to give up -- why is it always that way? -- we saw a tiny flash of neon orange come around the bend. The ducks weren't all yellow it turns out. They were every shade of neon. The kids arrived (thank you Jesus) in their kayaks. The little orange duck worked his way down stream and got stuck in the weeds. Then another flash of pink! And another orange! Pink and orange sprinted for first place and Orange won! At that moment, Spence dove in the icy water to retrieve the duck as though he was part lab, and halfway across the hole stood up to find the water was only about a foot deep. "Number 7!" he shouted.
They looked at the sign up board to see who'd won. "That guy's a dick," somebody muttered.
We had first and second place locked up, but what about third? The first orange duck was still hung up in the weeds and a little white one had settled into the grass on the opposite of the hole. How to do we determine third place?
The crowd yelled at the boys to gather the two ducks, kayak them up to the riffle and toss them in at the same time. The little ducks raced for the boom and the orange one got hung up in a little eddy, spinning in place as whitey took third.
And that was that. There were no more ducks. Three winners and one loser. Jane was chattering on about a duck recovery program, maybe fifty cents a pop for foundlings. That makes 296 ducks unaccounted for. I can't imagine that the DEQ isn't going to have an opinion about this. I love small towns.
Thursday, April 21, 2016
furnival's daughter
This rhododendron is called Furnival's Daughter. It is my very favorite. My husband went to an old farmhouse and talked to some old farm people and asked for permission to take some cuttings. It was that easy. I've been looking for this particular rhody for years, never finding one for sale -- it is an old one -- and now I have five potential plants sitting on my patio. I love them.
Annie is coming to visit this weekend. I warned that there was nothing to do in Yamhill -- this is the enormous appeal of my town -- but I was wrong! It is the weekend of the Duck Derby. We are clogging up the occasionally scenic Yamhill River with rubber ducks and having a race. Mine is #347, I think. It isn't a very fast river, so it may be a bit of a wait. I'm not sure "race" is quite the right word. Mosey. The Great Yamhill-Carlton Rubber Duck Mosey. That sounds more like it.
The garden is in. It is early, too early in my estimation, and we had some discussion about that. But ever the immediate gratificationist, Kurt won and the plants are in. Yesterday we had ongoing radio and TV announcements of half-dollar sized hail alert seek cover inside and away from windows, and he came running from work to protect the homestead, but no rain fell, let alone hellfire and damnation. It has been 95 degrees this past week, and while I enjoyed the dirt of Utah, I have no interest in living in the desert as climate change makes northern Oregon into southern Oregon, quite literally. I moved from there on purpose, for love and rain and green.
So, politics. Since you asked. I'm all tied up in knots. I've had good friends railing at me about Bernie Sanders. And he does seem nice. But I'm just seriously in the camp of non-trump. I will support whichever democrat gets through the obstacle course. Of course I'm all for "people rising up." I was in the sixties for chrissake. I'll admit I wasn't exactly paying attention. But I really don't follow how exactly the people are going to do all of that. I read. I think I lack the idealism gene. I'm guessing Hillary will be the nominee, and that's okay. I wish I could be more excited for the first female president, but I'm not. And that is too bad. I'm just horrified that we have such a chasm in our nation that would allow the rise of someone so clearly dangerous, so monumentally creepy, to the highest office. I watch and listen for any tidbit of newsiness like a junkie. I am entertained. High cost, that.
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