Death of a legend

It is some nineteen years later and grandpa is dying. I don't write much about my darling husband. There isn't that much to write, thank god. He's a good man. A great husband set against my pathetic atempt at wife-ing. I have retired. He still goes to work and secretly likes it, I think. He'll retire soon. He's four years and one month younger than I am--a fact he be-labours to exhaustion. As Bob Lay Dying. I've known Bob since I was seventeen or nineteen. Not sure. He brought his family to the Applegate River Valley from Sacramento--though I think it was then by way of either Carson City, Nevada or New York. He was, I think, married to Cooky then, a woman who deserves, and may have somewhere in these volumes, her own post. I loved her. She was a best friend, as were her daughters. Both of us came from a long history of battering, so there was that. Let's not get bogged down. Cooky died two years ago, or four. The brain bleed I had in 2020 had its way with me, as will be clear eventually. I claim all sorts of lenience for anything loosely construed to be factual. So Bob. Kurt and I have been married these nineteen years. We live about 300 miles from Bob and his wife Patricia. They live up above Applegate Lake at JoBar, a small settlement on which Bob fancies himself King. There is no electricity, no potable water, though years of water wars with Luke, his neighbor and environmental pirate, have determined what was what. The water is Bob's. In the early years of our marriage I did the whole 'stand by your man' thing and always, without fail, traveled with Kurt and stayed up at Bob's. In those days a few things were different: I didn't have three dogs to care for, the water flowed mostly uninterrupted, the cabin we stayed in was beautiful and fairly clean. (could I have cleaned it? you might ask. But you shouldn't. If you've been reading, you know about me and housework.) As the years went by, so did the upkeep on the cabin, the number of dogs requiring supervision and the water, both quality and quantity. As well as my relationship with Bob's wife. Patricia and I were born on the same day. June 15th. Seven or so years apart. For her, a hippie-earthmother-sometimes-astrologer, this is profoundly significant. To me, it is not. If we were talking about, say, Anais Nin or something, I'd say it carried great weight, but we aren't. And she won't can't doesn't let it go. Anyhow, she annoys me. After the first six or eight years of accompanying my husband down to the Applegate Valley and doing the dutiful stay, I quit. It was so much easier to just stay home with the pups and watch HGTV. Now, however, leaving Kurt to manage his father's passing alone seems unkind--not a part of the vows. So I go. Now, however, we usually stay at his mother's which is infinitely more comfortable, physically anyway, but has its own long story. There have been a few trips so far since her new cancer diagnosis in February, maybe. The first couple times happened too quickly for me to get all the animals and myself together, but I went along this last time when it seemed like he might not make it. Bob--not Kurt. What I learned--and I do still learn--is that the family that is prone to drama, copes with drama. There is no plan. Now, I am retired from nearly fifty (count 'em) years of work among the dying, as you've clearly seen if you've read these pages. I understand the process from a dispassionate point of view--the cheap seats--if you will. I know what is happening, what needs to be done, by whom, and mostly, when and how. During the first two months of the back and forth that is characteristic of early diagnostic flailing, Bob and Patricia stayed with Kurt's mother a couple days at a time between appointments. At first it was cardiology, a stint, a pig-valve. Wrong. During the stay with Kurt's very tidy mother, very very tidy, it became clear that Bob wasn't the only one with issues. Patricia was--and is--having problems with urinary incontinence. She is peeing all over Ramona's house. The doc needs to hear him say he wants to die in order to initiate hospice. Patricia keeps speaking for him and over him. (nothing new) Finally, he gets it out. "I want to die. Can you speed it up?" The hospice nurse, upon entering the room, says, "I can see from all the people in the room that you are loved." Bob growls, "I'm a bad boy." As Kurt would say, "A legend in his own mind." Patricia is concerned that Bob isn't eating. Truth is, he has lost the ability to swallow, a normal stage of dying. The doctor asks, "Are you on a hunger strike?" to which Bob replies, "Would it work?" Laughter in the background. He wants out so bad it hangs like a curtain between all the rest of us, all except Patricia, who, it seems, just wants to fight. With us. I try to understand her, the loss, the change in her life and status, but jeesus. She is cruel to try to keep him alive to sustain her material needs. We left Wednesday morning for home. Hospice is in place. We've done what we came to do. Hospice will handle it from here on out--transport to the end. It is now Thursday and David and Megan have agreed to have grandpa die in their home. In their living room. With all the kids and all the dogs, and there is so much more to this. Such as Patricia would not consent to pay for a caregiver and quite literally will not participate, will not touch her husband. Will. Not. Care. I understand her lack of professional trainning, but its not like that. He has a catheter, nothing in, nothing out. Aarrgghh. But hospice is finally finally finally in place, and from my point of view, as dysfunctional as this family is, things are finally beginning to go fairly well. Now, once all of the superfluous (i.e. life preserving) treatments have been withhdrawn (insulin, steroids, anything non-comfort related) his poor little body is more than ready to check out. The nursing staff at the hospital are concerned that he won't even survive the transport to David's. Thank the good lord for David and Megan. What open-hearted souls. In the recent past, Bob wanted to use the Death With Dignity act, the easy-peasy-get-out-of-jail-free-pill, but he's only got about a week to live. Maybe. And it takes a good couple of months to make that complex process happen. I'm not against it. Not at all. Its just too late. To make DWD happen he must: have the signature of two physicians, write a little paragraph about why he desires this outcome, sign his name and be able to self-administer the medication. At this point he is no longer able to swallow, couldn't write a paragraph if his--excuse the obvious--life depended on it, and the DWD spokesperson told Patricia that he'd have to eat a little something every day to retain his ability to swallow. That ship has sailed. He's not eating. So, what does Patricia concentrate on? Feeding him. DWD. The one thing he cannot have. She wants the fight. She does not see that if she would only get out of the way, DWD is happening right now. Bring on the morphine. Bob is finally okay but she cannot will not does not recognize that fact. So, Bob passed at 6:10, Thursday evening, June 8. Kurt is heartbroken but so relieved that we got hospice going so his father could die peacefully. And he did. Hopefully, once Patricia gets to the other side, she'll be able to go home and rest.

how it is now

this has always been the place where I can tell the truth, no matter what form it takes. I have tried to write stories, to edit my books, if books they are. But I can't. Not anymore. I don't have memory enough to support a novel, to track the changes--and yes, I know there are programs that will do that for me. But I don't have the strength to learn a new program. Or, frankly, the desire. I've spent my life writing this and that, some of it good, some that I'm proud of, but I don't have the spine for publication or marketing. I'm tired. Done.

biggest thing ever

I have no idea what happened to me. I really don't. It will take me days to write about it because I now have a tremor that effects any attept to write, or feed myself for that matter. So i awoke in, rather on, a hospital bed, assured "everything is alright, dear." For starters, I'm not all that dear, second, there were straps holding me in place. Certain I was being held capptive in a Dean Koontz novel, pain and all, I fought. Turns out i'd had brain surgery. ACTUAL BRAIN SURGERY. I spent most all of the fall in the hospital. Mostly sedated. Which is always fun for me. But thus the memory business. I'd been flat on my back, feeding tube in my nose and lost 50 pounds. Al I had to do was break my brain and all that pesky weight fell away.. I'm better, now. And fatter. I go to therapies that help me realize I am not able to count to ten. Now, I CAN count to ten. But I couldn't for a spell. It was discconcerting, to say the least with the largest word possible, to face a fact like that. I can't drive. I can barely feed myself if a spoon is involved, I can't button buttons and I have a hard time brushing my teeth. Typing? Fuck. And I have a scar to prove it. An 8" incision running front to back like a serious zipper holding my noggin together with a hole midway where they used a two-inch hole saw to insert the eggbeater to scramble me, or so my darling husband says. I am able to walk and talk just fine. Now. The good news is that it isn't Parkinson's. that is onee condition under which I would consider suicide. No joke. I got diagnosed yesterday. I will leave this sentence unedited if I can help it.. andd in other bad news, i have positional alopecia. because I laid iihn one pl lace for so long, my hair,d 's left of it, is fallling o urt. i'lll start editinng again, youj'rej welcome. Thank heavens for good insurance. This would probably have been a hundred grand or so. Nope. Update. 360K. Yep.

fire, no ice

So there we were, gathering our belongings, getting the trailer all set, food planned, prepared, staged for four lovely, beachy days around the campfire. We'd scored four days at Beverly Beach, our favorite campsite on the coast. Its alot like the redwoods, only the big trees aren't redwoods. Reservations are rare these days unless you go online in january, early in the morning, like one a.m. But if you're me, january just isn't the time for camping plans. Imma flybytheseatofmypants kinda gal. So, Kurt got on his phone, went to the recreation.gov site and told me, "I'm gonna get us some days at BBeach." "No, you're not," I replied, always the supportive spouse. When he was successful, I didn't believe it. Saw the reciept--still didn't believe it. But it was true. We had reservations. Four days at the beach. Couldn't wait. So there we were. Were. Driving toward the coast, trailer in tow, happily ready to camp, sickeningly entitled to take a moment at the end of summer, covid notwithstanding, and enjoy our lives, the sky thickened, turning orange in the distance. It worsened. And worsened. And by the time we made it to Depot Bay I asked, "Do you think we've made an error in judgement, going camping right now? How bad are these fires, anyway? Where are they?" By the time we arrived at the campsite, the ranger told us we could stay and camp, but most folks were electing to take the refund and go on home. One look around the camp and it was evident nobody was having any fun, trying to breath and all. I tried to pretend it was fog. I love fog. But even my imagination, accustomed to denial and outright pretense, couldn't hang. After a very brief discussion, we left. We called Joyce in Port Orford thinking maybe we could continue south and camp down there. "Oh, god no! Don't come here. The smoke is worse,and its ninety degrees. Its this bad on Vashon Island on the sound. There's nowhere to go." Joyce's tone verged on anxiety and she is not an anxious woman. That's when the phone calls started coming in: Kurt's mom was evacuating her place in Phoenix. Fifteen foot flames as she made it out with her 83 year old life. The whole town was on fire. Talent, the tiny town between Ashland and Phoenix where I used to live, was on fire. I tried to get ahold of my son. He lives in a tinderbox at the base of Table Rock. As we reviewed maps, reality began to set in. I got a text from the always erudite Annie Garwood. "Did you go camping? I only ask because Oregon is on fire." It appears that somebody (there's an investigation and a body and a burned out car) at the north end of Ashland started the whole thing and a swift east wind blew it up the I-5 corridor like it was Marilyn Monroe's white dress. And just like that, my past was in flames. I personalize it because it feels that way. I lived the first fifty years of my life in that valley, and while I remember little of the years between 13 and 33, I still know that landscape by heart. Social media alternately blames antifa or the proud boys, neither of which is true, but an interesting topic for a future post. By the time we got home from the shortest camping trip ever, our facebook feeds were lit up like Christmas trees with posts from friends and family displaced by fire. I finally reached Marky and happily, not only was he fine, but fully prepared to evacuate with his dog Riley. It always surprises me when he knows how to do things. "Who raised you," I asked. "How do you know this shit?" And running to conspiracy theories as he does, it is his contention that scumbag bums (homeless folks) are setting these fires intentionally. Oddly, there may be some truth to that. A few, four so far I think, arsonists have been arrested. The fires did spread oddly and disparately. I was reminded of the fires in '87, when I was living in Central Point. End of summer, every evening when I drove home from the AA meeting, the Rogue Valley was literally ringed by fires, the smoldering sky hanging heavy above us, ashes to ashes. Now it is the entire west coast. It feels so apocalyptic. This is how deserts are made. Years of little rain, coupled with lightning, encouraged by wind. It feels like the physical outworking of my emotional/political/biological world. I am fried. We are toast. Expecting locusts any moment, now.

long time comin'

Today begins the Democratic National Convention. Nah. I don't want to talk about that. What has happened in our lives since the last post in January 2020 is Covid. But I don't want to talk about that either. Home life. We let Sid go to heaven. He wasn't having fun anymore. Its hard to tell with a very old dog who thinks he's still a puppy, but the time was right, and he leaves Duffy and Mac in his considerable wake. They missed him at first -- at least Duffy did. Mac doesn't think all that much, it seems. And fuck pitbulls except Sid. We walk to a small park near our house each evening, let the dogs poop, wear Mac out, and this one evening I went by myself. Most of Yamhill lets their dogs be off-leash in the park, as do we, but I'd leashed up my dogs and was exiting the park when a large pitt appeared. "That fucker came out of nowhere," to quote some movie. His owner, a woman, said something like "she's okay" so I kept walking and the dog looked at Duffy, cocked its head and charged. No time passed. I screamed, "NO!" and I like to believe that is why she stopped attacking for a moment as I yanked Duffy from the solidly clamped jaws of death. With Duffy's fluffiness, I didn't see any wounds until we got home. Truth be told, I was pretty traumatized--not thinking, just acting. Turns out he was pretty tore up. Six wounds, two requiring stitches. $120.00 later I'd like to find that chick. Sid was never like that. The only fight he ever got in was with an urban raccoon and he lost that one decisively. My garden is huge, and with Kurt working from home since March, it gets enough water to produce gallons of pickles, jam, tomato sauce, pesto and zuchinni. Okay. Now I'm ready to talk about the intersection of health, religion and politics. I live in Yamhill, Oregon, which is nowhere. My neighbors, almost without exception, are republicans, but good country folk. They really are, but they think Covid is a hoax and are proud of not wearing masks and they think trump is doing his best against great and unfair odds. My own son is a racist and right wing-nut. This disturbs me in ways that make me regret decisions I made to pay attention to my own spiritual/political/educational development to the evident exclusion of his. I got sober. I wasn't paying too much attention as I clawed my way out of the soul-claiming abyss of alcoholism and drug addiction. I want, badly, to say "sue me," right here, but that would be insincere and you know me. Always sincere. Ha. But I fear my internal focus left my son on the outside of things, philosophically speaking, although, he, too, finally stopped drinking. I remember when I was two or three years sober, some 30-odd years ago. I came home from a meeting and there was my then-eleven year old son, watching a baseball game. Life is good, I thought. How completely well-adjusted we are, I thought. He says to me, "Mom, I know who I want for my higher power." I answered, "Really? Who." Evidently he'd been listening during meetings where this was emphasized. He said, "Jose Canseco." The pitcher for some the Oakland A's or some shit. Yeah. So. Wow. I'm off the rails. So now my son is nearly a QAnon follower, although I think even he draws the line at lizard people. I blame Donald Trump, but I shouldn't. We democrats lost the last election because of individual, wish list (pretty little foot stamping demands) politics. You can't talk me out of this so don't try. I am a fairly conservative, which is to say old, democrat. I believe neo-liberalism has pretty much destroyed America, but am not in any hurry to succumb to the necessary reparations to get us where we need to be. And where is that? I thought you'd never ask. The notion that the market magically knows what is right and good and true, that given untrammelled opportunity and the demolition of government siderails, seatbelts and all that is holy, specially selected white men will make good decisions that benefit the many, has proven patently false. Trump and his bastard clan have driven the wheels off this idea and if you can appreciate any single thing about this boil on the ass of humanity, its that he's out in the open with it. All balls, no brains. But somebody's got brains. Believe that. Watchout. They have reanimated Frankenstein, dismantled America, and put nobody in charge because that, folks, is what Freedom looks like. Period. With our televised consent. So. Its all felt pretty far away in DC. I live in the country, Covid feels distant--though I take it seriously enough, I hope, to remain well, but now he's going too far. I'm a lifelong letter-writer and he's going after the Post Office. My Post Office. He's trying to privatize that sacred strong-hold of reliable communication, the US Mail. I'm sure there are worse things like Black Lives Matter, but this is on my ground. I'm a writer. Leave letters alone. I'm not getting into the BLM thing except to say the little shitheads in Portland who brought enough attention to our little blue state that trump sent the stormtroopers to town should be in jail. Not the black folks. Not the protesters. The anarchists. Blacks can and should do their thing. I don't pretend to know what the solution is to that longstanding problem. They will, however, have to pay the consequences for their actions. That's how it works and I think they know that. Its pretty messy right now, perhaps necessarily so, but people will die needless deaths. Again. Still, not my fight except as an ally, and that term morphs daily. Its hard to get it right. I'm a distant supporter out here in the sticks. The white kids who just want to blow shit up, who think they are promoting a progressive agenda, are not helping. I used to have sign over my desk. It said, "If things don't get better around here I'm going to have to ask you to stop helping me." I need it now. I know Biden/Harris is an imperfect ticket. I am OVER so-called Progressives (butt-hurt Bernie fans) stamping their little feet, again, because they didn't get their way, again. I think it will be a solid decade before a truly progressive agenda replaces neo-liberalism. and frankly, I don't know that progressives have the patience to wait for it. They can't seem to decide what's most important, who gets to go first, who's turn it is, why they have to wait a fucking minute for us old folks to die off so they can take the wheel now that there are no remaining tires on the vehicle. By that time, they'll be old, too, invested in a system that used to work, and just trying to protect thier social security like I am. Jaysus. Oh, yes. And Jesus. Really. Poor Jesus. I've always said that Christian's are a poor representation of Christ. They rally behind Dear Leader, the emperor with no clothes, as though the Holy Bible said, "Deify the chosen one, right or wrong, follow him off a cliff," rather than "Obey the law of the land." And off the cliff they go. Help them, baby Jesus. They know exactly what they do. Predictions: The election will happen on time. Joe Biden will win handily. dear leader will pitch a fit but will leave eventually and he will be tried and convicted of treason. His little alt right army of proud boys will start a brief civil war in which a few will die, and democrats will try, but fail, to make everything perfect, and color-coordinated, with one of each (red and yellow black and white they are precious in his sight) and three or four edgy LGBYQRSTUVWXYZ with blue hair and politically-oh-so-correct language that will be passe the moment it is uttered. ad nauseum. Gawd.

sleep deprivaion and raccoons

So having three dogs is at least one too many. Sid is old, Duffy diabetic and Mac -- not the sharpest dog in the drawer. Sid, at 15 and a half is still able to make it through the night without having to go out to pee. Duffy, being diabetic, is too thirsty, thus, has to pee frequently and a lot. Mac just likes to be involved in any outing, asleep or awake. He has the best ears, so knows of any movements outside our walls and wakes everyone else up in case they don't know... I haven't slept through the night since I got Mac. Or since entering menopause which has been artificially extended by the anti-estrogen cancer medication I am required to take that is better than being dead but that's about it. I still get hot flashes and can't sleep. I blame the dogs but it is easily half the medication that is at fault. So there I am, sleeping like a baby. Its three o'clock and Mac begins to whine, or Duffy gives his telltale bark, something he doesn't do unless he's serious. Like a robot, as Kurt describes me, I hop out of bed and wobble to the back door, tripping over dog toys and man-clothes on the way. Kurt takes off his clothes on the way to bed like a sex scene in a bad movie. Anyhow, I make it to the door in one piece. Now, I've been letting these dogs out at night without incident for years. This time is different. This time, Mac and Duffy run straight to the corner of the yard, barking as though in hot pursuit of something that needs to be killed. And they won't come back. They won't come back even when I say, "treats!" in the sweetest voice ever. I worry a little bit about my neighbor's sleep, but to tell the truth, not all that much. Dogs bark. Deal. But tonight they keep up the cacophony for long enough that even I am embarrassed. So, I slip on my outdoor clogs, the ones with the tiniest bit of dogshit embedded in the tread, and pick my way through the yard, in the dark, to grab them by the collar and drag them back in the house. As I make it to the far side of the yard where they are pitching such a fit, under the walnut tree, I happen to look up because they are. There, in the crotch of the tree, is an enormous raccoon. Fat and mean. Staring down at me. Never ever turn your back on a raccoon. I stepped backward, gingerly, reaching to grab Duffy by the collar. Mac had taken the hint and ran to the house. Duffy wasn't coming easily. He doesn't understand the danger he is in. He doesn't know that a raccoon will tear his nose off his face and let him bleed out. I know this. I tried to locate and grab my disobedient dog without breaking eye contact with the raccoon. My neighbors are nice people and I don't think they've heard language like that from me before. I finally got hold of Duffy and drug him inside, throwing him the last few feet through the door. Which was open. I'm not that mean. Two nights later, when I began to let the dogs out, four raccoons fled up the tree. Four. I decided to leash them and take them to the opposite side of the yard to pee. They weren't happy about this, but I'm sure you understand by now that their happiness is not my concern. My concern is sleep. I am trying to figure out what is bringing them into our yard. It is a mystery, one I am intent on solving.

retirement week four I think

Well, if I'm losing track of time I guess retirement is working.

retirement, actually

I have to correct this missile of disinformation. After a moment of surprise which I mistakenly read as rage, Kurt has been monumentally kind and supportive during this surprisingly difficult transition. So. After managing the finances, what little there are, I'm working in my yard, watching Fixer Upper, writing, and making art. I am trying to get enough work done to get juried in to a local group of artists and have enough pieces to sell in the studio tour next fall. It is now two weeks into this thing, this retirement. My mood vacillates between delight and resentment. With social security and unemployment I will be fine. I'd be fine anyway. I know how to cook rice. Our home is ours, bills are small, student loan payments put off for now. I have enough wax to make art for centuries and can string words together in enjoyable ways if I choose. I don't think I've talked about my studio. Our new house, now four years old, has always been too nice to turn one of the rooms into a space to do encaustics. Fire and wax have been messy in my hands, so I'd been putting off any artistic endeavors in favor of a clean house. If you know me, you will know that to be a lie. I put little stock in a clean house. A cute house, now that is a priority, but clean? not really. I am the worst housekeeper I know. It drives Kurt mad, ocd as he is, and if you've been reading along, I don't care. So, one thing K is really good at is finding things for me to spend (my) money on. I happened to mention that I was dead serious about building some sort of structure to use as an art studio. I didn't care what it looked like (lie) meaning, I didn't need it to be fancy, was, in fact, more interested in a functionally funky structure. Rather than get himself into a honey-do situation, my darling husband began searching for sheds. Brilliant! I sincerely didn't expect it to go so well, but we ran into this little Amish-ish company that makes small-batch, artisan quality sheds. It was on. They just happened to have an 8x12 that was either a repo or the deal fell through--I don't know or care. The point is that it was precisely the design and siding choice that I wanted. Two windows and a four-foot barn door with lateral siding, not the vertical cheap T111 siding you usually see on those things. I didn't like the color, but do know how to paint. We made the deal. I wrote the check and they dropped it in the backyard a week and 15 minutes later. The only challenge so far is convincing the world that it is not a "she-shed." My first introduction to the she-shed concept was at our yard sale a couple of years ago. A large-ish, bleachy-fluffy woman bailed out of her car as her husband was slowing to a stop. She began stuffing her large floral bag with my girlish cast-offs, anything frilly, anything candle-ish. "For my she-shed," she shrilled. "Isn't it just a-DOR-able?" So. yeah. My studio is NOT a fucking she shed. It is a hot-wax-flinging-bead-strung-leather-strapped-wire-wrapped nightmare of sweet disorganization. There is no art supply I do not own. Yesterday, while hanging things up for me, Kurt broke my little hammer. Did I mention he was helping me? Did I meention I hadn't requested help? Anyhow, he thought a good place to find another one would be Harbor Freight. This place is like Michael's for guys. We found a little hammer and all kinds of other stuff. Over the 15-plus year life of this blog I may have mentioned that I own beads. I don't think I own them all, but easily most. They live in little boxes here and there and I move them with me from place to place. Several multi-compartmented plastic containers house the majority -- these containers were probably meant for fishing lures; then there are clever little boxes that, at the time of purchase, I was certain were the solution to my organization problem. Kind of like a new shade of lipstick. I realize I may have lost some readers with that last comment, but these are the chances an edgy writer takes. So there I was in Harbor Freight and right in front of me was a 40 compartment, stand-alone plastic box for only 14.99. The same thing at Michael's would cost you at least 500.00. Maybe not quite that, but seriously, it would be sixtyish. Anyhow, I bought it and have now spent the past two days reorganizing my beads and bead-related contraband. I have reduced my stash from a b'zillion disparate containers to three. That is success on a huge scale. It is also a lie. I probably have five. Still. Days such as these, days wasted in bead-sorting, put me in mind of a time back in the late seventies or early eighties when I was shooting speed for a living. I'd found myself holed up in Sweet Home for three days and nights without sleep, searching inch by inch through deep red-orange shag carpet for a single red bead. Which I never did find. Anyhow. Those days were a long life. So, we bought the sweet little hammer and a set of small screwdrivers, a mallet, sandpaper and a hand broom. Then we walked over to Goodwill where Kurt found another thing my money just had to have. One of the many things I love about this guy is how he sees things. I had mentioned needing a stand to hold my work-in-progress encaustic pieces while I finish the sides (most have a cradled edge one to two inches deep) while keeping my hands free of hot wax. I was thinking wood, nails/screws, etc. So he guides me down the kitchen gadget aisle in Goodwill and he points to this two foot tall, chrome, robotic looking thing with four arms and three levels and I cannot imagine what, for the love of the Sweet Baby Jesus, he sees in it. Then he touches it. It spins. I begin to step into his vision. Ten dollars later -- mine -- we stripped all the non-essential pieces from this magic little spinning robot and it is perfect. Perfect. A wide base, effortless spinning capability, exact height. I won't hold the fact that it is chrome against him. So, retirement. It happened a couple of years earlier than I expected, but I am so thrilled not to have to take care of the dying any more. 46 years all together. Now I feel like I can write that book. Here I go.

back in black

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

retirement

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

jury duty and tweakers

I was summoned for jury duty last summer. I finally had to do it this month. In Yamhill County the service commitment is for a month. I have to check in four times a week to see if my juror number is up. 78. It was. So I rescheduled all of my meetings. I am a very busy woman, you know. They called numbers one through ninety. I'd guess about fifty of us showed up. Of that 50, the first 18 were seated for voir dire. As a Grisham fan, I was thrilled at the opportunity to be in the room for this part. It was an all white jury for a black defendant. A black man accused of impersonating a police officer. In Yamhill County. Now, if you know my lilywhite neighborhood, you'd know, first, that a black officer would stand out like a sore thumb. It would be a fool's errand to try. So we have a fool at best. Guilty? I don't know. Maybe it was Halloween. Anyhow, I didn't get to the box. The judge empaneled his twelve from that group of eighteen. But there is hope yet! I still have to call in for the remainder of March. That was Thursday. Friday morning I woke up to find my work laptop had been stolen out of my(unlocked) car. Feckin' tweakers. It is a strange feeling to be robbed. I did the same thing when my whole truck was stolen several -- many -- years ago. I kept looking for it. As though I would somehow misplace a whole truck. Friday morning I kept opening each area of the vehicle, certain it must be there and I just missed it. It wasn't. I called work to see if it was in my office, if I'd forgotten it entirely. Nope. I finally gave in and called the Yamhill police. Andy and Barney. They told me the whole neighborhood had been hit. The thing is, there were four years of thinking on that machine. Four years of my brain. Was a time when I printed everything anyway -- didn't trust the magic of the computer to keep forever safe the nuggets that occasionally find their way to my fingers. Lots of work. I am crushed. Which I just now typed as cursed. Maybe.

tracy's last birthday

I am so sad. I am so so sad that I am losing my friend and yet, and yet, and yet, it was and still seems to be, a tough relationship for me. Tracy brought me to my first AA meeting, thus, saved my life. Nothing short of that. She carried a clear message and embodied that phrase, "Whenever anyone, anywhere, reaches out, I want the hand of AA always to be there." Tracy, though, across our 35 years, has been one of those female friends whose suns rise and set on the attentions of men. The remaining space, head and heart, for female relationships, is carried by those of us on the other end. I used to feel resentful that I had to carry the friendship alone. I got over it a long time ago, but as her diagnosis has landed and time is short, it surprises me that she still, in the face of death, is more concerned that her most recent lover dumped her. Ah well. I have tried, twice now, to be in her presence and get the shit said that I have a need to say. I want to thank her for saving this life, for showing me the way, for allowing me to stand on her shoulders. It seems, though, that I will not get to say these things unless it is in a letter. And maybe that is how it should be. At the same time as we are losing Tracy, Cooky is losing her shit. Last night was Tracy's last birthday party. It was a pretty big shindig at the Mark, the old hotel where I used to be a motel maid. My great claim to fame is that I made a bed, stood up too fast after making it, and nearly fell backward out the 9th floor window of the honeymoon suite. Anyway, Cooky is, naturally, devastated, and it seems to be exacerbating an advancing dementia. She is falling apart. So, for me and for Kurt, the party wasn't happy. It was hard. Tracy had the spotlight, that thing she most craves, and good for her. I am delighted that she takes such evident joy in a big party. Once again, there were a thousand people I knew but didn't know, and no opportunity for intimacy. I saw many people I love, and chatted and drank lemonade and there wasn't enough food to go around. Shona had to make an announcement. I did get a cream-puff. I eventually saw an old friend, of both Kurt and me. As we caught up, I left Kurt to chat with her. He began the story of Nicole, the one that rips his heart apart, the one in which I play the evil stepmother. "I have to choose between my wife and my daughter." That little bit of fiction finally came clear for me. I have said, and have no regret for saying, that I can no longer live with Nicole. It stresses me out to the point of illness.

immortalizing

My work place, my "community" has been blessedly stable for the past two years. As time has passed in relative ease, my little gray-headed dominoes have been lining up, waiting for the first one to fall. He fell. I'll call him The Thinker. I loved him because he said I was the smartest person he'd ever met. How can you argue with that? He'd asked me, prior to making that statement, what plans we had as a company in the event "the big one" hit. On the West Coast, or Left if you're worried about language which I usually am but not in this case, "the big one" is an earthquake followed by a Tsunami. I told him that, in addition to a loosely held agreement with the Catholic Church next door which would likely be flattened as well, we had three days of water and dry food, plenty of flashlights, batteries and sleeping bags for staff who do not run out screaming to find their own children and do the noble thing: endure the end of the world together. After I told him that, I told him the truth. We'd do the best we could. If I was there, I wouldn't leave and if I wasn't there, that I'd get there if I could. But sincerely, we'd be on our own for a bit. The Thinker thought about all that. "Does it scare you?" I asked. He shook his balding head and smiled a crooked smile. "No. I think it scares some of them." He referred to his compatriots. I agreed. "I'm just looking forward to beachfront property." I picture the sea leaping across the coast range and coming to rest at the edge of my back yard, complete with soft sand and sculpted boulders. TT was a vocal democrat. He and his wife and tablemates built towers of white paper medicine cups and stuck hand-crafted American Flags glued to toothpicks in the top cup with "IMPEACH" written boldly across the little flag. The idea spread to the next table. It was a terrible mess. I loved him. But The Thinker had a stroke. When this happens, we send folks to the hospital. When it gets a little less dicey, the hospital sends them to what we loosely and erroneously call ad "skilled care facility." What we used to call nursing homes. They have changed little since I cut my teeth on the type of human care that would become my life's work. My life's work. When TT was ready to come home, or back, because it isn't home, is it? the nursing home gave us a call and we trotted out to see if he was ready by our standards. I don't know what I was expecting. What I found was my dignified and brilliant friend naked, in unimaginable pain, writhing in a bed stripped of sheets or blankets. Was he ready to come back? No. But we busted him out anyway. (Annie, remember Alvina? Another story for another day.)Anyhow, we got him back under our care, finally got his pain under control, and he was able to die in relative peace. I am stunned at our capacity as a nation to trade lives for money. His insurance is paying at minimum 850.00 a day for this absence of care. A. DAY. We couldn't, my wonderful nurse and me, find anybody who gave a shit enough to get him some pain meds. I can't stand it. So TT went to heaven -- that's what I call it. I don't care what you think. Then my Catholic lady went away. I'll just call her Mary - she'd love that. She had been living in my Assisted Living section for a couple of years and is really old and frail. Her beliefs are more important to her than most. I guess it is faith. I'm not Catholic and not a fan, so I'm never really clear about faith/belief. ... By way of backstory, the property of the AL borders the high school practice field. Each morning, Mary would call to me from her spot in front of the fireplace. "I'm dying," she'd say. "I know," I'd answer. "I get a vision every night," she'd grin. "A firey cross." I'd nod and smile. "Does it frighten you?" I'd ask. "Oh, no!" Her eyes crinkled merrily. I use that hackneyed phrase intentionally. Her eyes crinkled merrily. They actually did. "Oh, no! Its from God." Okay. So I'm thinking she's losing it. She tells me this same thing once or twice a week and I think, well, if it isn't frightening or uncomfortable, then I'm good with it. Until I talk with the evening shift women. "Its the lights on the practice field," they tell me. Turns out there is there is this huge bank of lights that comes on every evening and lights up the world. How sweet she thinks it is for her. When her son moved her away to a smaller and less expensive care home, my heart broke. Her greatest concern was whether her vision would transfer with her. That's two. Seven more are on hospice. It is winter in memory care.

year end

No promises. I won't be better at anything, and I'll probably be worse. I re-read my resolutions from last year, and, barring the intention to "write it all down," I've kept most. I'm older by far than I ever expected to be.

This morning the sky in Yamhill was a watercolor, indescribably lovely, just out my back door. I am not working today or tomorrow. So I will un-decorate and let the dogs out and in and out and in again. I mop and vacuum, they muss it all up again. Sid is painfully arthritic now, but with his magic pill he still plays like a pup and pays later, and dearly, and spends a good deal of time on the memory foam bed we got him for Christmas. Sid Vicious, now in his 14th year. Duffy is eight and still the grumpy Alpha, Mac is one, the baby of the pack. He cries and tries to act like the other dogs but he is a funny, silly thing. Always the clown. It will probably be Sid's last year. He is such a good boy, mother to all.

Mark bought his first house this year. It is out in Central Point, a foreclosure, and he is excited to begin the work of transforming it. Built in 2004, 3 bedrooms 2 bath, nice floor plan. Huge lot with big outbuildings for his trucks and equipment. I am deeply proud of him and I hope he finally has a sense of it all finally being enough. He suffers from the man thing pretty badly -- incomplete without property, beliefs about success a barrier to contentment. Maybe he will relax a bit and enjoy his good life now.

My husband's children, two of them, bring joy to his life and mine. Nicole continues to cause him immeasurable pain. Of course, being who he is, the pain is what he focuses on rather than David and Haley, who love him, understand him, and stay in contact. The holidays are hard for him. Now that they are over, perhaps there will be some light in our home. My husband is a sun lover, and often measures his happiness by the minutes of light that increase from the solstice forward. Day before yesterday we had six more minutes in that day. As we all know, I am not nearly so discerning. If I wake up, it is a good day. If I've slept the night before, even better. My strategy has long been to have Christmas anyway, despite his molecular sadness, and it has rubbed off on him, my inexplicable joy, year upon year, to at least offset the depression. He does not share my faith, which is silly and a remnant of my childhood, but it is my faith, afterall. I can't shake it. Believe me, I've tried.

My year? I remain stunned by the political reality of this age. I keep thinking that somebody somewhere will do something. But they don't. Day after day I wake up to the stark reality of Hitler's Germany. I imagine ex-presidents riding in on horseback to save our day, our place in this world, our planet, but nothing happens. The secret meetings to impeach the monster we've loosed on this country in our full-bellied slumber go forward too slowly if at all. We have too many laws that protect the guilty and prohibit simple declarations of right and wrong. Our leaders are circumspect when they should be screaming. Democrats are so well-behaved I am ashamed to be one of them. I keep hearing of a march for impeachment, and I'd be there, but I can't find it online except in DC and I can't go there. Not in January. Probably not ever.

And what about me, you ask? I am older, now. My health is a reflection of my appetites. Not great. Oh, my appetites are great, but the long term effects of denial are cumulative. My feet hurt. I take pain medication rather than anti-psychotics and neuroleptics. At least I can still think. I think. I still work every day, and enjoy my job, although when I got sick in early December I began to consider retirement. But what would I do? What? (someone is whispering from some forgotten place just behind my right ear.) Wait....shhhh. Write? Art?

Okay. Write. Art.

research monkey

As my health fails, as aging does what it does, I am introduced to medication after medication that will cure my ills. I've been through several -- several -- trials over the past three months. The most recent, Cymbalta, kicked my ass. I'm tired, exhausted, really. The intent is to treat diabetic neuropathy, screaming feet. There has to be a better way. Narcotics work, but like Keith Richards said, "you can't get anything that feels good anymore." Or something like that. I get it. As a hope-to-die dope fiend, I appreciate the risks. Shit.

non-participation award

I went. I did the cruise. For me, it was something like five days of disco with food. The women I traveled with were nice. The boat was old and trashy-eighties, too bright and way too loud. But the ocean was still the ocean and I liked that part. They made towel animals for our room each day, elephants, bears, a reclining bunny, and a sloth hanging from the heat duct. Those were the best. That's what I took pictures of.

Our flight out of PDX to Long Beach was delayed three hours. I had to be nervous for three hours longer than anticipated, and believe me, anxiety is all about anticipation. By the time our flight arrived in LB, our "transfer," the guy who gets us from the airport to the boat, drove like Parnelli Jones to get us there. We had no adjustment time to wander around the boat. It was grab your shit and go. The safety lesson was a blur. All I know is that I was to find Muster Station B if for any reason the Inspiration became the Titanic.

So, the cruise. It was eat, find your way to the next deck, eat, find the next deck, eat, make an excuse to leave the drinking group to read, sleep. We went to Catalina on the first day. I didn't want to. This is not unusual for me. I don't want to do anything. There were all kinds of tour packages: para-sailing, deep sea fishing, segway tours. But as it turned out, we were allowed to just disembark (get off the boat) and wander around. This sounded more my speed. So we did, and as luck would have it, there was a Chihuly exhibit happening in the art gallery. One of the women, the eldest of us at 77, was the best. She made me go with her. It was, as is any Chihuly exhibit, breathtaking. I am enamored of the fragile baskets, these were ocean colors, turquoise to white, and full of transparent little bowls. I love bowls, and these -- oh so pretty. If I was wealthy, I'd use the biggest one as a salad bowl at a party. I wouldn't put it in the dishwasher, I'm not stupid, but they are bowls afterall. I see the utilitarian in art. Catalina was stunning. I'd go back. I loved the painted clay tiles and little side streets. Marilyn Monroe was from there, and Natalie Wood died out in the bay, washed up on shore. Not a safe place for gorgeous women. I felt safe enough.

So the second day was the same, only in Mexico. Again, we didn't want to disembark, but -- when in Rome -- only it was Ensenada. So we bailed off the boat, sheep in line for the fleecing. We took a bus from the port to the center of town where we were summarily dropped into another culture: dirt poor and hungry. Without a plan, it was almost immediately clear we needed one. We were standing mid-sidewalk and a woman walked up to us and pretty much said, "Hey ladies, you really oughta board this little bus right here and get off the street or they'll eat you for lunch." So we hopped in a van headed for "La Bufadora," a big blowhole. I sincerely wanted to launch into political commentary, but held back. You would have been proud of me. Immediately, a man with a guitar leaned into the still-open bus door singing my ringtone: La Bamba. We tipped him and took off. Lili was our tour guide. As we drove through Ensenada, it was clear that we were only seeing what they wanted us to see. The only paved roads were the ones the tourist buses traveled. Little children sat roadside while their parents begged. Lili told joke after joke at her country's expense, from the drinking age to the obvious thievery we would certainly encounter at La Bufadora. We did. I bought good vanilla, a cheap poncho and ate a pork taco. Pretty sure it was pork.

Day three was a day at sea. With disco music and food. My compadres drank. The cruise, to this non-drinker, seemed to be a lot about alcohol. I drank four Virgin Mary's. I love those. I never think of drinking them when I am home, but I should get some of that mix. I love tomato juice made that way. Lots of tabasco and lime. Yummy. Booze wrecks it. I read the latest John Grisham novel, which was crappy, but easy reading. Sometimes that's all I need: just some pages to turn. I did not get enough alone time to write. I was also not inspired to write and have no current project to work on. That is a lie. I have three. None of which I was inspired to work on. Writers who await inspiration are fools. You can quote me on that.

One of my co-sailors was Karen, a youngish mom from Carlton (just three miles from us.) She had Karaoke on her bucket list. I do not. However, always supportive, I joined our group of four willing singers. The two elder women sat it out and I think videoed it. The list of songs was endless. We settled on Can't Buy Me Love. Do I need to say, "by the Beatles?" If you don't know, you should. If you don't know, you can no longer read this blog. Anyway, it was really fun. Really. I'd do it again.

Day three was actually day four. We boarded on Monday, although late in the day. Our day at sea was Thursday. People seemed to be getting to know each other, drinking a lot, and I actually became familiar enough with our servers to recall a couple of names. Roberto was our cabin attendant, Mohamed, a server. Hector was a drink runner, I think. I had a hot stone massage by Ying, who literally begged me to purchase overpriced but lovely lotions. I didn't. I use Jergen's. I know it isn't the best. I don't care. Her massage was the best I've had. Ever. I had a mani-pedi with Winnie from Zimbabwe. They are currently unseating a dictator. When I asked how she felt about our current political idiot, she said, "you oughta see my country," and launched into a description of their political shit-show that almost -- almost -- made me not want to complain. 

On Friday, we got up and disembarked. They sang to us: Leaving on a Jet Plane. The men danced. Men of every country. Not many whites. Dancing fools all. I was surprised at the cruise demographics. I expected old and white. It was neither. Whites were definitely in the minority. And young couples were common. Young with kids. That surprised me a little.

We caught a ride to the airport from Long Beach to LAX, through LA. Palms and eucalyptus trees, homeless less-evident than Portland, but we didn't venture far from freeway to airport direct route. The PDX airport is much cooler, much more engaging than LAX. We had three hours to wait for our flight home, which was blessedly on time, and there just wasn't anything to do in the Alaska area.

It was so good to land on Oregon soil. Home was still far away. I had to take a detour into Portland to pick Mac up. He boarded with Jen, one of my co-workers. She said he did good "except for the past half hour," in which he apparently consumed a bunch of rabbit food. He puked all the way home and for the remainder of the evening. He is fine now, normal and playing, but his poop is green and leafy.

It is good to get away. It is better to come home. I love my life. I love my dogs. I adore my husband. I am Dorothy, clicking my heels to find my way home, wondering why I am ever-compelled to get away from it all. A classic chronic malcontent. I've heard that somewhere. I am grateful for my life, made all the fuller when shown in bright contrast -- contrast of Mexican poverty, of my own fear of the unfamiliar, of my tendency to isolate. Even if it isn't something I'd probably do again, I'm that much richer for getting on the plane. And the boat. And off the boat.

sailing away

Tomorrow I am flying to Long Beach to board a big Carnival cruise ship bound for Mexico. This is not something I ever wanted to do, but when my friend asked me six months ago if I wanted to go on a cruise in November, I said sure. Now that it is November, I suddenly recall that I hate to fly and am deathly afraid of sharks. "Stay on the boat, then," say all the well-wishers. They haven't seen Jaws as many times as I have and just this week on the news there have been shark sightings all along the Oregon coast. I hope that means the Long Beach to Ensenada sharks have come north for Thanksgiving.

I have packed the shit out of things. You are sort of expected to dress nice for dinner. I have many nice clothes. You'll remember that I have to look like I know what I am doing most days of the week -- so clothing I have. But fitting them in a 20" carry-on is another thing. My dear friend of many years ago, Vivian, told me to roll your nice things in tissue paper and they won't wrinkle. So there you are: a free travel tip from judybluesky. the non-traveling blogger.

All I really want to do is read. This is just an opportunity to do that in a different place. And write. I'll be off grid, using dinosaur fingers and actual paper, but I think I can do it. No promises.

The cruise was cheap. Six women are going, and I am rooming with my friend Cathy. The weather will be fine. Not hot, which is fine with me. I just don't care: the theme of this blog in case you haven't been paying attention. I just want to get away from it all. It all being home, dogs, work, life. I want to eat food not cooked by my off of dishes not washed by me and sleep in a bed not made by me in a room not cleaned by me. With no phone or computer. I could have these things for an additional fee -- wifi and such -- but I just want to check out. As always, looking for a life in which I don't have to participate.

walnut day

It was supposed to rain all weekend. That may explain the frantic pace of yard work. I love yard work. I love dirt under my fingernails, sharp rose clippers, electric hedge trimmers. My Hedgehog is hardly a workhorse, but it works well for the things I need it for: Chaparral, the bee bushes, pink willow. Pruning back dead perennials gives me great satisfaction. On Sunday the rain still didn't come. I started on the walnuts. Barely out of my pajamas, I raked them away from the fence. Gently. The husks are nasty and full of black dye. Even in rubber-fingered garden gloves, it gets through. Each pull of the rake knocks a few more nuts loose from their black casings. Between the wind and squirrels, much of the work is done for me. Many nuts are loose and just need to be picked up. This is where I could use grandchildren. I'd give them a penny apiece and they'd make good money. By the end of the morning I had two five-gallon buckets full. Thousands of walnuts. I could bake a million Russian Teacakes, or tiny loaves of banana bread or chocolate chip cookies, which I wish I would make with only walnuts and no chocolate chips. I don't care for them, but I'm not sure if the dough would be as good without the contrast of the chocolate. But I, personally, have no grandchildren of my own. So back to the walnut harvest. Eventually I'd picked all of the free walnuts and separated away all of the giant leaves that fall from the walnut tree and was left with several smallish piles of still-in-the-husk walnuts. I figured I'd leave something for the squirrels to do. It is winter, after all.

I remember my walnut tree on 4th and Oak in Central Point. The walnuts that fell from the tree and bounced onto the porch were hazardous -- or the drinking was. Anyhow, I had many a sprained ankle. Took to wearing high-tops. Reeboks.

But I digress. I was sitting in my living room gazing out my side yard window and noticed the bark on the walnut tree was different on one side than the other. Upon closer investigation, the leaves were different on that part of the tree. English walnuts have big flat leaves. These were many small leaves along a common spine. Then, come harvest time, I found that the walnuts on one side were actually black walnuts -- a bitch to crack and pick.

Anyway. I got up this morning feeling like I'd done squats for about a hundred hours straight. I could barely move from one place to the next, getting up from sit to stand took real effort. I am getting old.

burning moon

It is Sunday before eclipse Monday. The newsmaniacs are making the most of a natural event. Oregon is first to see the action, and traffic has reached epic proportions. Madras, a tiny little pile of dust in central Oregon is supposed to be the epicenter because it has the best chance of clear weather in the whole United States. 30,000 people are expected in a town of 3,000. A nightmare, to me. I don't like being around 3 people I don't know, let alone Burningman levels. But, it is a rare total eclipse, and we, luckily, are 5 miles from the path of totality. We will mosey to Poverty Bend road in the morning and stand there. That's the line. At Poverty Bend you get about 20 seconds of totality. For the next 70 miles south, totality will be increasingly visible. With the numbers of people expected, I think we'll ride as far south as we can to the middle, then stop. with hours to spare.

(So it is now the end of summer and I am writing about what we actually did. And I am writing this on a new silvery hp Pavilion laptop. and I love it and it works. I have not erased a single thing I didn't intend to.)

So, we jumped on the bike at 6:00 and arrived at Poverty Bend about five minutes later. Always one to get a jump on things, we made an early start. The eclipse began at 9:15 with Totality at 10:16 or something. Exactly. They know exactly when. And I've seen partial eclipses, but wowzer. This was something else entirely. So, being there so early, we decided to keep riding. There were very few on the road, and we thought we were being so smart. We made it to the Center of Totality at 6:45 with an anticipated 1 minute 58 seconds of full eclipse action, to happen in about 2 hours. We finally landed in Monmouth, Oregon, a tiny town with a nice little park, and stopped for coffee. There were lines around the corner at most places, but we found a little ice cream shoppe selling crappy coffee for a buck a cup. Perfect. Coffee a buck and stale muffin a buck. so we had a four dollar breakfast while everyone else was standing in line for the scalpers coffee at seven dollars a thimbleful. We sat in an empty parking lot with picnic tables with people from San Jose and Chicago and Monmouth. We had viewing glasses from Lowe's and a stack of purple glass Kurt had taped together for a partial eclipse years ago. We waited and waited as the sky darkened like Alaska in summertime. As the moon covered the sun, every spot of sunlight was crescent shaped: like trees with dappled light? The dapples were crescent shaped, same as the sun. Once Totality happens -- and it happens in an instant -- you take off your glasses and the corona is visible, the Umbra, I think. And we had 2 full minutes to consider this awesomeness before the sun passed beyond the moon, or the moon moved past the sun. Whatever. I'm so happy I was able to see it. Then we tried to go home. Reference the part earlier where I said we thought we were smart.

Well,we weren't. We thought we'd sneak away as soon as the event was over, not waiting for the entire eclipse to finish. Sneaky. But not. We slipped out of Monmouth with about 10,000 other smarties, and bottle-necked on the two-lane road home. On the bike. Sucking fumes. In the heat and leather, which didn't stay on long... three and a half hours later, workday shot -- yeah, I had planned to go to work at noon -- we got home and collapsed.

But we saw it. Totality. Totally.

Then Oregon burst into flames: Brookings, the Illinois River Valley, Middlefork to Joe Bar, almost jumped the river to G'ma's house. And up north, Cascade Falls, Stevenson, Multnomah Falls, Sisters, Bend. Heartbroke. Bob entertained and hosted, in that order, the Firefighters from Florida who kept his place from burning. He had newspaper and TV coverage calling him the Godfather of Joe Bar. During this time it was to be his 80th Birthday Bash. Madness and Mayhem at Joe Bar. But the fire kept the weak away. We are among them. I couldn't stand the thought of breathing that air.

During the fires we made a very quick trip to Santa Cruz. Felton, actually, a gorgeous little hamlet tucked away in a grove of redwoods I'd never seen before. An old man, a dulcimer builder, made a dulcimer for Kurt. His name was...... um........... I forget, but the company is Capritaurus. He was 81, in a funky little shop he'd been in since the hippie days, right next door to the Felton Bigfoot Museum, a life-long obsession of his brother's.

We also drove into San Jose to see Kurt's aunt and uncle. San Jose is ugly. The whole place was awful: thick trash littered the freeways, everything dry and crispy, ripe for fire. Driving south through the middle of California it was 118 degrees with no visual respite. We spent the first night in a Santa Cruz motel. I left my pillow. My perfect down pillow. Dammit. The second night we drove up Hiway One, which is not the coast until almost Eureka. We did drive through the Valley of the Giants, but air quality was poor even down that far. By the time we got to Oregon, it was smokey as night. We finally stopped driving at Gold Beach and spent the night in a throwback motel with a spiral staircase to the loft. I'm sure the view was nice but I couldn't breathe.

Back in the Untied States of America, untied is closer to the truth. We have come undone. Nazis are marching openly in the streets in the south, and in Portland to be frank. People are dying. The POS is firing anyone who doesn't agree with him. He is taunting North Korea openly and they are taking the bait. There have been three major hurricanes in the South and a big earthquake in Mexico with two strong aftershocks.

My only  question is: Where are the locusts? Raised by a Pentecostal woman, I cannot help but anticipate the second coming of Christ. I'm sure evangelicals are having a field day as we live out each chapter of Revelation in real time...

vacation 2017

I used to jump up and down demanding my time. It's my time. I've earned it. I can go wherever I want and do whatever I want to do. I can sit in my bathrobe and write until midnight. I can and I will. This tirade, this tantrum, this is how I blow the first few days of my special time each year. Well not this time, boy. Not this year. This year, I'm just going to clean my house, paint if I find the right color, wash my damned windows and care for my many dogs. I'm not going to force myself to take a road trip to prove that I can. I'm not going to force us into a camping fiasco, however funly intended, without adequate planning.

I'm going to relax. I'm sure I can. I'm going to write. I'm sure i can do that too. I have a fucking master's degree in it. You'd think I'd churn out something worthwhile.something.