displacement

Sunday bloody sunday. I've moved out of the women's room and now am in the basement with all my shit in boxes. Not fun but necessary for now. I am displaced and missing my old house where everything was all about me, but I do not miss where it was or all that did not go with it. Sanctuary is a funny thing. It is portable, but something hard to find in a family, and too much of anything is too much, even sanctuary. And we know that too much was always my strong suit.

And it is Christmas, and I miss my son.

And it is not so much my son that I miss as it is his childhood, and the Christmas morning when he was 14 and got me that Joan Osborne CD and we played it full blast and he knew I'd love that one sappy song. And I still like it. Or the one when I gave him the sock monkey. Or even a couple of years ago when I surprised him with an Xbox. I love Christmas. I've decided to give him a scrapbook this year. I've been hanging onto pictures of his father for years. I found his scrapbook when he died, and didn't want to give it to Marky quite yet. He was only 15 when his father died, and although I danced on his grave, his son, obviously, did not. And it has been a long 12 years now and Marky is older, and wiser, and less illegal, I think. Less inclined to land in jail than he was there for awhile. So, I've been going through the photographs and trying to figure out how to tell him the story of our life, and their life, and all the inbetweens of those years, and who his grandparents were, and and and... And like other attempts to explain, it is easiest for me to go by place: when this happened, we lived _______ (yale creek, jacksonville, red bluff, coosbay, eastside, north bend, ruch, central point, ashland, talent, on my brother's porch, behind the railroad tracks in gold hill...) And what I know for sure is that whatever story it tells will me mine (like this rant). So, beneath the picture of the campground up on Salt Creek, the caption should probably not be: "this is the place where your father stabbed me." It is an emotional undertaking, and letting go of anything related to my personal terrorist has always been difficult for me. I spent years outrunning him, literally, and then years living up to him and even more living it down. It is so much of who I am. Was. Who I was. It is who I was and maybe if I keep repeating that over and over again, my subconscious will hear it and change the way I view the world. But for now, it drags me back into that place of review -- not regret -- I do not regret that shit.

So, on with the project. And on with the holiday.

moving day

We have been storing Nicole in the attic for about 6 months and she's finally getting tired of it. You can tell by the way she leaves little piles of crap at the foot of the stairs. Little piles full of sharp things to step on. We finally got the hint. It is, after all, December. We are trying to find a way to co-exist with a messy teenage girl in a Victorian house. The thing is, I have way way too much shit. Way. I have more clothes than I will ever wear, more art supplies than I will ever use, more baskets, more fabric, more paper and scraps of precious words-- strung together in moments of impulse and imagination-- that may never find each other, that may not even be related, but will someday, dammit, be a book.

Or not.

I hate writing groups. I hate the fact that I keep going around in this circle. But what the hell. Its my circle. I know where it goes. Around. I have, we all know, been in worse circles.

So, the computer is repaired, the keyboard is sticky and needs to be replaced. But it works, and the new monitor is nice and crispy.

We decorated the unit for Christmas. It is all red and sparkly. I tried for a serene winter blue, but the old folks said it was drab. Boring. They like red and green. So, red and fucking green it is. It is actually very nice. At home, we are negotiating the tree deal. My husband says it is his turn to pick out the tree. I said "Why would you think you get a turn? Its not a turn thing." And he didn't like that. But I know him and his frugal ways. He'll drag home something on Christmas Eve from the Safeway parking lot that has been run over a couple of times and never was much to look at in the first place and bring it home and decorate it with devil horns and other Halloween stuff. And I know there's no such thing as an ugly Christmas tree. I've seen the Charlie Brown special. But I want full creative control and I am not going to get it. Marriage. It has its pitfalls. Its all that pesky thinking about the other person and letting them have a vote that I keep forgetting about. Ah well.

I started a special lunch and dinner group on the unit. So many have died, and we grieved, and had hospice grief support come in to help us buck up and do what we do, and in the middle of it all, four women needed some place safe to live. They are all walking and talking and crazy as loons. So I said, hey. Let's have them all sit together at the same table, away from the others who no longer come up for social air, and let them have a tea party, day after day. And the conversation goes something like this: (it doesn't matter what their names are).

When I was eighteen, I was sent to China to be a companion to my spoiled cousin.
Oh? I'm norwegian, you know.
I don't really belong here. There was a mistake.
Oh! That is so funny! (breaks into christmas song in a high soprano)
Oh, you like to sing.
Oh, do I?
She's always singing.
You know my son will be bringing my things here any time now. I should be going home.
When I was in China, I was a companion for my spoiled cousin. She had the same name as me.

And that is how it goes. Every day.

scrapbook

back

Computer has been dead and is now alive. We're back. I still want a laptop, but this is good.

vortex

I've been to the southlands again. That energy sucking monument to past lives. No. It wasn't all like that, but I'm one of those types, let's call me a chronic malcontent, who sees the brimming cup half empty.

We had a great time, mostly. But I get to thinking, and then, shit. There I am again. Back in the toilet.

It was good to see my son. He is strong and good and seems mostly happy. Still a bit too interested in barstools for my comfort, but since when was my comfort in his top-ten? He still has the same girl, which for my family, is a marker of something-- maturity may be too large a word-- but still, she's hanging in there.

I took pictures, but don't know how to put them on disk or disc. whatever. And I will try to find a way to post them.

three moons over clinton street

My honey called. "Go outside. There is a 12 foot moon in the middle of Clinton Street down by K&F." Well, I could hardly argue. "Okay," I said. And by the time I was out the door, there were three moons. Three brilliant white moons floating in the middle of the intersection of Clinton and 26th. I thought it was the "Teahouse of the August Moon Trifecta," only in November and at a coffee house. "Coffeehouse of the November Moons." Doesn't have that Suzi Quan ring to it. (Wasn't Suzi Quan that asian chick who was in every WWII movie? Kwan? Whatever.)

So, I hitched up Sid and out the door we went to investigate.

Now, I love my imagination. It is much more fun than real life. And I knew this. I knew that if I stayed in my yard, or in the street in front of my house, they would remain magic. It would continue to be a mystery. Demystification has always broken my heart. I love to believe things that are, well, ridiculous. I cling to faith. I harbor childhood beliefs well into middle age. But I walked anyway, leash in hand, Sid pulling me through piles of slippery leaves. I kept pausing, knowing that soon enough, I would know what the globes were... would know they were, in fact, not moons at all. Eventually, I could see from my three block distance that there was equipment in the street. As my hopes of a lunar tri-clipse were dashed, I became willing then to imagine a movie set. Something fabulous. Something with Jack Nicholsen and Jessica Lange. Something to tell the grandkids.

Upon closer inspection, the orbs were huge white nylon balloons used to light the set. But... the set of what?

Road cones blocked the road at 27th. I stood obediently back, staring, hoping for a glimpse of greatness. With this much light it had to be a huge star. A guy approached me, guarding the road cones like they were his, daring me to ask the obvious question:

What's goin' on?

Nissan commercial.

Nissan commercial? Is Jack Nicholsen in it?

No.

Hm. Okay. Can I walk down and look?

Sure.

So, me and Sid wandered down the block and watched some guy and some girl do the flirt-at-a-stop sign- worn out bit.

I walked home, preferring the three moons of my imagination.

windy

Saturday morning after death week. I don't know if Gerry is still breathing, but when I left yesterday, he looked close. That makes six people back to back, and their absence fills the pale yellow halls. I conduct tours for families who seek the comfort of locked doors, of ever-present staff who become family as faces blur and relationships mean nothing beyond this moment, this *snap* of time. And new ones move in, and we are to know them and love them and care for them in the vacancy left by Ralph and Bill and Gerry and Laura and Millie and Psyche and the whiplash of this mandate is heavy this morning. This mourning.

But the sun was out for a minute. I opened the curtains and saw blue sky.

People walking outside, we are heading for a garage sale in Newberg that will net us more crap to store and walk around. The weather nazi's are predicting a windstorm, so I suggested my husband blow all of the leaves into the street out front and wait for nature to take care of biz. But in my experience, nature will not bag the leaves.

I am happy about the election. I have been driving around with a bumper sticker that says "regime change begins at home" for SIX years. I am optimistic, but not overly so. I suspect they are basically the same, but still, there has never been a dictatorship here. Not like this one. It feels good for a minute.

Addendum: Like most catastrophic events, the wind barely made a showing.

long night

They are dying, most of them. Like flies in August, the buzzing is louder, the elliptical flight slower by the day. We measure it in blood and breath, the thready pulse, the rapid heart, the shallow rattle, the cataract of time that turns blue eyes to milk. I forget this part, this autumn balancing of the census. It almost seems that they die to ease the holiday season for the ones they love. It is probably just pneumonia, but it is so much nicer to consider them mannered and contrite for all the trouble they have been. Besides, they make room for all of the families who have one more good Thanksgiving at Mom's before they finally buckle to the demands of dementia, the great leveller, the irreversible vanishing act that is Alzheimer's Disease, when she puts her best dress over her nightgown, uses toothpaste for hand lotion and Pine Sol for salad dressing.

I took Sid with me to do Stupid Pet Tricks today. He is so impressive. Best frisbee dog ever.

critique

It is difficult enough to crawl out here on this cyber limb, willing to post shit just to keep the words going, without all of you sawing madly behind me in an aborted attempt at encouragement.

Then I think.... oh well--it is probably the higher road to consider my own defects than to expound on the shortcomings of others.

And you know me, I always take the high road.

friends

Occasionally, just occasionally, I get to see my friends. A rare treat, and the one thing besides my son that I miss. It has been two and a half years since I left my life and started again, at my age, an audacious life. a. did it too, in the wild horse hills of nevada. Some say I reinvented myself. Could be. Could be that I just finally became more like myself.

It is early monday, and I have to find Beaverton. It is so hard to find for me. It hides just the other side of some hill. My husband says, "you have to go over the hill," and in Jacksonville, I knew that it meant Bellinger or J'ville Hill. In Ashland, it meant the Siskiyous or Greensprings. Here, I don't know the names of the hills, and don't do well with the numbered freeways. They all seem pretty much the same. And Beaverton seems to go on forever kind of like a long strip-mall. Often, after thinking I am lost, I find that I was there all along, and yet not quite there yet. I have little reason to go to Beaverton. But will give myself an hour to do it.

Gotta go.

Good to see you guys.

shit

I guess it was inevitable. Its not that I don't like people, it really isn't, but I hit the same wall again and again: it really is all about that pesky writing. It really is all about picking up the goddamed pen and dragging it, kicking and screaming, across the page. And if it kicked and screamed from time to time, that would be okay, but I am in the doldrums. Fuck Stephen King and 300 pages a day. He's nuts. And rich. Rich from writing, which, it was pointed out to me on the first day of writing 101: if you're here for the money, go home. It was instead very Rilkean: write only if you must. Only if you will die of it otherwise. And there you have it. My curse.

Once again, I have joined something, and once in, I can't find the way out. I will likely go again -- the writer's group I have been blathering on about -- but I won't want to, and it is not what I was looking for. What I was and now again AM looking for does not exist in any real form. What I seek is the perfect balance of talent and competition, the perfect blend of compassion and brutality. Not. They were all newbies, uninitiated, wannnabees, and perfectly nice people, but they are not of my ilk. This is not a statement of unadulterated hubris-- it is a fact. One is a mild mannered fantasy writer, taking her first class in fiction writing; one is a soccer mom who wants to write children's stories for her child and stories from her own childhood for her parents for christmas; one is a man who says he has no experience and yet quotes major writers with ease and seems to want to talk about writing more than he wants to write.

And these are fine things, fine people, but they are not me. And I hate that. And, I am glad to be me. These people, they embrace the JOY of writing. What is that? Joy? I have joy. I have it here somewhere, I know I do. But in relation to the written word? Not so much. I am looking for suffering souls, near committment, who will write, who do, in fact, write, and who write well. These guys embrace education, which, if you've been listening you will know fucked up my writing bigtime.

I'm bitter. I am alone in a city.

groupies

After two and one half years in Portland, I have finally managed to gather a writing group together. I've been communicating on a message board for Willamette Writers, and we seem to have a common thread. I am exhilarated by the prospect of having something at the very least to write toward. I am naturally competitive and a show-off, so it should serve as at least that kind of inspiration. I have my first draft of "Doc" to take for show and tell, and a copy of another first chapter I like, and hopefully something will get off the ground. Don't ask me why writers need to congregate. It makes no sense. It is a solitary avocation, but it is only in the reflection (inflection) of someone else's voice that I hear the trash or treasure of my work. I don't believe every critical comment anymore. I used to be crushed and stop for weeks. But education does that to a person. Inurring. Is that a word? I became inured to their criticism. Accustomed. You get the drift. At any rate, I am a little nervous to meet new people and will make every effort not to neutralize them with my laser mind before I even meet them. Truth is, there are more bad writers than good, and it often takes some picking through the chaff to get to the wheat of it all. I don't really care (as is my custom) and am just happy to have somewhere to show up with my little pencil and paper. I miss a.

Both girls are here this morning and the clouds hover above our house. I am going to make ghosts today, I think. We got pumpkins yesterday. They never participate in the carving. K is excellent at carving those kind that don't go all the way through. Me? I'm pretty good at smiley faces.

house maid

It is saturday morning on Clinton Street and the sky is gray, leaves yellowing to match the house across the street. The pavement is still dry, and I am content. On my way home Thursday, black clouds had gathered like gossips, fat bellies hanging expectantly above my neighborhood, ripe with rain. But there has been little drizzle and we wait. There are still yard sales. It is still warm enough that I am not shopping for a coat. I vascilate between wanting a navy blue carrhart unlined barn jacket and a trench coat. Both which I probably have somewhere, but am too lazy to look.

We had a guy come out to give an estimate on the upstairs. I don't remember if I've talked about the stairs.... exactly as wide as my ass, about twice as steep as stairs should be, rising from the middle of the house to the unfinished attic. It will be a project to get them turned around and the attic turned into a master suite for us, but worth it. Space... He can't start until after the holidays, which would be best because I don't want things torn up at Christmas. Its hard enough.

The house is clean, laundry in process, and I'm just going to hang out here today and pretend I don't have a job to go to. I guess I will never accept the fact that I was not born to royalty and will never have a maid. Every maid I've ever had raided my medicine cabinet and stole my linens. My maid. One. Sherry. Sherry liked Sherry. She overwatered my plants and my wood floor warped. Blame. It was when I was I-5-ing it back and forth from HIS house, my love, my long distance sweetie pie. And now I am here. And it is OUR house.

K is helping people move today -- a friend who's mother had dual aneurisms and is now out of commission. A woman my age. Scary what the future could hold. John Mellencamp is 55 today. He reminds me of an era of my life. The eastside era. Coosbay. Lindblad's. My life is separated into several different eras.... There are so many. With characters enough to fill a novel each.


Greekfest on Belmont!! woohoo. I'm there.

friday into saturday

There's no place like home. I have clicked my Ruby slippers together and here I am. We have no plans for the weekend, and it is my mission to keep it that way. If I make it to Winko, that will be the only big outing for me.

I guess it is the changing weather, the cooling of the earth, that pulls me into myself. I love autumn. or

It could be the new blood pressure medication. I really got yelled at this week. My doctor, a Chinese man who never works on the thirteenth of any month, tells me in broken English: you must take care of your heart and your kidneys. You may feel fine now, (I do) but it won't last. Fine. Nothing lasts anyway. But I filled the prescriptions and I am taking them. I am a little woozy if I stand up fast, but that is to be expected. Plus, me and woozy go way back. I used to spin and spin in circles out in my front yard until I tipped over and would spin and spin some more. I loved spinning. It was a bad sign. Then I found spinning in a bottle, oh, and spin the bottle. But that's another story.

I take care of, let's call her Ella. It isn't her name. Her daughter's name isn't Margaret Victoria either, but we'll call her that. MV for short. So every night, MV shows up to heal her mother who is 95 and not in need of much. Certainly not healing, but the daughter finds great purpose in hovering and feeding and clucking and cooing and referring to herself in the third person which drives me fucking mad. She sings to her mother at the top of her lungs. And she has furnished Ella's room with more rose and burgundy flowered fabric than I've seen since the mid eighties. Moving her mother has become increasingly difficult, and MV insists that her mother can stand and walk and dance and of course no one sees this but her because after all, she's a healer. And we just don't know what we're doing. We worker bees. We lowly serfs. And now I have, in my wisdom, insisted she provide a mechanical lift to haul Ella's considerable ass in and out of bed. Bless Ella. It isn't her fault. But wait! It could be her fault. She IS the mother after all, and if you've ever been a mother, you know by now that it is mostly all your fault. Ask my son.

So I ordered the lift and Ella will be hydraulically suspended as we swing her from one place to the next, and MV can sing her heart out, but the girls won't break their backs.

It is such hard work.

french toast

In an effort to preserve my sense of myself as a nice human being, I made french toast this morning, with big fat heavy bread, vanilla and cinnamon, and a selection of homemade jams and honey and syrup to dredge it in. I made the breakfast in memory of Mira, one of the girl's friends, who always seems to spend the night and wake up on a morning when I feel domestic--or at least nice. She is always grateful, and asked last time, "Do you do this every morning?"

Betty Crocker I am not. I never wanted to be. Still don't.

.

silver sands

Just got back from the coast. Started out at Rockaway, then travelled, I think south, to many other places. I get so confused because first of all, I think Tillamook is north of Seaside, and it isn't. I think Seaside is kind of by Newport, and it isn't. You could give me a map and then I'd have two and I'd still think this. So, its always an adventure driving with me and I am happy to drive if you'll just wake up for all the turns. I did none of the driving this time, so no unintended detours.

We had no itinerary, so it was relaxing. K wanted to fish some and crab some, and we did, but got skunked again. We keep just hitting it wrong. Wrong for us, good for the crab, and came home empty handed but for the oysters he bought near Toledo near the back of Yaquina Bay.

First night we stayed at the Silver Sands motel in Rockaway. We decided not to spend a butt load of money, so first tried "the Getaway" which looked like a two story version of Bolder City (see previous posts) and we figured it would be cheeeep, but it was not cheap at all, and we moved on to a nicer and cheaper place up the road. The beach was good and Sid caught his frisbee.

We got up the next morning and after taking a poll of locals, decided on the Pancake house rather than the Cow Bell for breakfast. With Josie the roller-derby queen for a waitress, how could we go wrong? It was fine. Eggs are eggs, afterall.

Next we hit the road, like I said, heading generally south, to crab in Garibaldi, look at places new to me, and some to him: Netarts, Oceanside, Pacific City, buncha other ones; stopping at yard sales on the way. The only thing I bought was a blue and white seersucker blazer to cut up for my yoyo quilt. I did have a very long conversation with M'wa Pig from Garibaldi about her son's suicide. When someone in a shop begins a conversation, with a patron, about a funeral, you know they need to talk. So, now I know that, among other things, she is 71, weatlhy, and dresses up like a pig for Garibaldi days and Halloween in a bodysuit that has six teats and pink tights. I saw the photographs. You'll just have to use your imagination.

We ended up driving all the way to Waldport, one of our favorites for crabbing, but no dice, and stayed last night in the Alsea Motel. which did not have a view, but it also did not have bedbugs or scabies and that is the best I can say.

We waited for low tide to put in the crab rings, and walked out on the pier, baited them with nasty shit and tossed 'em off the dock. They just sat there, corks suspended in maybe two feet of water. It was eerie. Low tide. Most definitely. Now, I don't know how deep it usually is, and I don't know if they usually dredge that bay -- probably -- but geez. It was shallow. The BAY was shallow. Now, I've lived on the coast, I know the habits of water. I understand low and minus-tides. But this was fricking real estate. When the tide came in, it still wasn't in. It was as though the tide went out and kept on going. Like somebody pulled the plug. I'm sure there's and explanation, and I'm sure its scary.

So we got up this morning and came on home. Looking off the Alsea Bay bridge, again at low tide, it was frightening to see the expanse of green mud. We took back roads in from Newport.

Head back in the sand.

survivor

I saw the best all time bumper sticker today: Nature Bats Last. Although, I hear we may shoot a bunch of crap up into the atmosphere to delay the inevitable damage of global warming. It reminds me of the fish biologists, who think they know what fish want, who cleaned the rivers so they'd have a straight shot to the sea, only to learn the tree-tangled rivers were fish neighborhoods. Now, the fish have new houses, trees tethered in place with block and tackle, cable and cement. It takes alot more energy to sink a tree than you might think. Anyway, it always makes me nervous to discuss matters of environmental consequence, because I don't know shit.

I am happy to have my truck back. I have been very nervous driving. That moment of inattention rattled me. My fault. Consequence. I don't like it.

Survivor begins tonight. They're playing the race card. I hope I don't care about that. I hope it is just another few weeks of human stew. Un-Live entertainment. Conflict staged for our enjoyment. Utterly Roman.

So, this is the garage sale window from Jacksonville. We got two. It isn't great, but I'll bet someone on craigslist will pay more than I did for it.

















My truck. Before AND after. It looked nice before I wrecked it, and it looks nice again. You can picture the inbetween. The nice part is that the passenger side door had been keyed and it is nice and shiny red again.

southward

We were in the valley again last weekend, to celebrate Bob's birthday. It is an odd crowd up there on Elliott Creek. First word was "there's going to be a huge party." So we were back and forth about that idea.... to party or not to party.... and the remnants of the partiers, the last men standing, the ghosts, aren't much good anymore. They have false teeth and bedtimes. But, finally it was a go. Then, word came that the party was off. By that time, we were on the road and not turning back. We don't need no steenking party... We tried to get out of town right after work on Friday, but Haley was late, then we had to find a suitable birthday present. We'd tried a rocking chair a couple Christmasses ago -- that went over like a lead balloon -- and a gift card last year -- another miss. We were beginning to think we'd lost the touch, then Haley said he broke his fish finder. So it was onto GI Joe's for a new one, and then, hell, dinner in eugene, then spend the night at Marky's in Gold Hill. Jacksonville was having the whole town yard sale, so we decided to find them (Bob and wife) because rumor had it they'd be in town. So, long story short, we didn't find them -- they found Haley. There's not many Haley's in the Rogue Valley. So, from there it was a great weekend. Stayed in the cabin, jumped in the freezing water, slept in, didn't hear 80's rock for days.

doc III

Doc died.

space

As my fingers begin drumming out my life in this worthless diatribe, this anemic thrust at recording a forgettable life, the internal editor begins the tsk tsk tsking of its job. Don't write that. Stop. Hesitate. And in my world, she who hesitates is lost.

In equal measure, I love my husband's daughters and I am sick to death of living with teenagers. I was sick of them long before my son left home, and that was years ago. I long for a vacant saturday morning, no bodies to step over, nobody beating me to the computer so I can outrun conscious thought and get my thoughts down before the fucking editor wakes up. Light sleeper, that. When I try to explain how I feel, it sounds perfectly awful. I sound like some Oprah-fied I-need-my-own-space woman, and that isn't who I am. What I need does not exist, except in my own creation. What I suppose I need is to remodel the upstairs into a master suite where we can get up naked and I can sit in an easy chair and write on my brand new laptop.

Of course, I don't have a brand new laptop.

Yet.

Writing, as we all whine, is such an isolating avocation. It requires privacy and extended periods of silence. I don't get that around here, and there are so many reasons I could make it different. Take a pen and use it. But I don't. This is my tablet. This is my desk. This is the record. For the record.

And nobody has to care about this but me.

Changing the subject now...

I am self-centered. And beyond that, I am self-contained. I know I've said this before, but I've taken it to new heights. When I wrecked my truck, I saw it through, start to finish, and made sure the old lady I hit was taken care of. I rented my own rental car, and drove it. Shiny. When my husband asked me if it was covered by my insurance, I said no. He said why don't you drive my truck? I said, well, I hadn't really considered it. He said, You never ask for help. But its worse than that. It literally does not occur to me to ask. I have been the only reliable person in my life for so long that help is just not something that I understand. It isn't that I feel weak or helpless or anything like that. I just don't get it.

So, I took the car back. 330.00 later. and I am driving the big white truck. Our truck. Our trucks. Our. Our. Our. I wonder if that will ever sink in.

saturday morning XXVIII

The giant pile of dirt has been spread across the backyard and I think seed is to follow. It just kind of disappeared -- well, not without great effort on my husband's part -- and the pool is down, and it is looking more and more like a yard again than an okie playground. Its nice to have the space back.

Doc is dying. The girls tell me, this holiday weekend, that he is resting comfortably, but I know what that means. His wife is sitting bedside, waiting.

In an heroic effort of proactivity, I forced my husband to drive me to Waldo Lake yesterday. It wasn't all kicking and screaming and OH, by the way, I drove in my rented Pontiac Grande Prix. Yep, I wrecked my truck. Again. Again. In the briefest moment of inattention, I pulled out in front of an 80 year old woman. She's okay, and I am fine, but the vehicles are not. "Crash" does it onomonopoetic justice. My bad. I know you're not supposed to admit fault, but Stevie Wonder could have seen it was all me. So, off to the body shop, again.

So we drove the silver bullet to the top of the cascades. Pretty up there. I am bound and determined to see all of the available campsites in my corner of the northwest so I can pick THE one, reserve it, and not make the same mistake again (refer to previous post). That camping fiasco was traumatic... but I learned alot about myself. However, I would much rather have enjoyed myself and learned not one damned thing, but such is life.

Waldo lake was anticlimactic. It is nice, but fill it with people on a Labor Day weekend, and the mystery dissipates like so many fumes. Anyway, up the road a-piece is Odell Lake. Bigger and I think better. The search for a perfect campsite was, while not ridiculed -- smirked at by my husband. He said, smiling that unavoidable smile, I can't believe you have to look at campsites for next year already. I explained, or tried to, that I just needed hope. I just needed to see that there are still quiet places in the world where death metal for breakfast isn't the norm. And there are.

I liked Odell. Trapper's Creek campsite. Forest service run. There is a shitty resort not far from there, but Trapper's Creek looks good. Big sites, lots of huge trees. For me, the first consideration is beauty and quiet. (I think I've made my point about that...) And K said he wanted to be able to run the boat full throttle and pull the kids on an innertube if he wanted to and of course if they agreed to it. This was new information for me. Good to know... So, now we need to find a place where both are possible. Odell Lake met both requirements. Big trees, huge lake with boats, fishing and pulling people around; and quiet. But, like all USFS campgrounds, it is first come first served, which makes me nervous. I want what I want. Toddler property rules.

So, I am still looking.

It is Labor Day now (this post has taken some time to finish) we took the boat out today. but first, we did the requisite fall cleanup. We have kicked Sid out of the backyard. With the pool put away for another year, the beautiful paver 10x10 exposed, the remaining yard was pure dogshit. And smelled like it. Sitting on the deck was no longer enjoyable. And Sid, being the social animal he is, would crap for you any time you wanted to sit outside in his yard. I am happy to report that he has the side yard to defile while we re-seed the yard. I'm hoping to bar him from the backyard for good.

In front, I had planted a eucalyptus tree in the flower bed, thinking it would be a nice little shrubbish thing, but that sucker is huge. They weren't kidding when they said "tree". But then, why would they be? But anyway, I moved it to the end of the front retaining bed, and hope it will not blow out the cement wall. It grew 4 feet in a year. I had no idea-- I just liked the leaves.

Well, the walkways are edged, swept and de-mossed, leaving them about 8" wider. Perennials are cut back, dry patches watered and seeded, and the hanging baskets are still awaiting demolition. They are still in bloom, but I'm watching them closely. My husband thinks I'm brutal. I murdered three unsuspecting Hostas and an azalea this morning and I have my eye on a fern that isn't doing well. Its botannical euthanasia, in my view. They wouldn't want to live like that --all brown and crumbly. I'm helping.

So, back to work tomorrow.

My yoyo quilt is coming right along.