Sunday, July 23, 2006
Saturday, July 22, 2006
extreme weather
I am forever complaining about the ever-vigilant Portland weather media.
"OH MY GODDDDDDDDD! Its going to be above 70!!!!!!!!!" and
"OH MY GODDDDDDD! Its going to be below 70!!!!!!!!!!!!
Extreme heat warnings have consumed the newshours for over a week. Since moving to Portland, I HAVE, admittedly, missed my A/C, and HAVE begged that we get something to offset the 90 and above days. But Kurt wouldn't do it, until now. He had his reasons, mostly based in a little too much first hand information about how thieves view a window A/C unit... (give it a push and crawl on in...) but 105 for three days was enough of a threat I guess. As usual, of course, it didn't happen. It did get to 102, I think, on one day, and it was bizarrely muggy Friday night. The house never did cool off and I think I finally got a taste of what it must be like to live down south (way down south in the land of cotton.) and all that was missing was the big bugs you hear about. I hate bugs. Anyway, after a debate about the cost of three nights on the coast and the price of gas, and that would have been fine but the traffic to and from is absurd in the midst of a Portland weather exodus, we opted for an air conditioner. Then, it was about finding one. Not so easy. Home Despot laughed in our faces. Lowes wasn't much better. We finally found one at Sears. But then, the big one we wanted couldn't be supported by the 1910 wiring in our house, so we opted for a smaller one. And it WORKS!!! It is so nice in here. Electric consumption be damned.
So again, I live in the lap of luxury.
Haley just returned from an unauthorized hitchhiking trip to San Francisco. At 15, we were panicked, and intercepted her in Arcata, put her on a Greyhound bus and got her home. She is here now, and fine, in her beyond thunderdome attire. This just doesn't seem like a teenage phase. It seems like this is probably who Haley is. She prefers the company of vagabonds and dogs, and places like Takelma, with its burned out trailers and RVs and open air cooking, and I can't fault her for it. I love that she views the world so openly, and is so trusting. I hope nothing ever happens to dull her enthusiasm. I am a skeptic of the highest order. It is easy to say, about my significant history of hitchhiking, that it was a different world back then. But it wasn't. There were bad people then, as now, and good ones, and a vagabond culture of which I was family for a long long time. I didn't die from it, and I hope Haley survives her inquisitiveness and rejection of higher culture (if indeed we are higher....) If the oil runs out, as many say it will, we may all have to learn to live around a campfire. She may be the future.
"OH MY GODDDDDDDDD! Its going to be above 70!!!!!!!!!" and
"OH MY GODDDDDDD! Its going to be below 70!!!!!!!!!!!!
Extreme heat warnings have consumed the newshours for over a week. Since moving to Portland, I HAVE, admittedly, missed my A/C, and HAVE begged that we get something to offset the 90 and above days. But Kurt wouldn't do it, until now. He had his reasons, mostly based in a little too much first hand information about how thieves view a window A/C unit... (give it a push and crawl on in...) but 105 for three days was enough of a threat I guess. As usual, of course, it didn't happen. It did get to 102, I think, on one day, and it was bizarrely muggy Friday night. The house never did cool off and I think I finally got a taste of what it must be like to live down south (way down south in the land of cotton.) and all that was missing was the big bugs you hear about. I hate bugs. Anyway, after a debate about the cost of three nights on the coast and the price of gas, and that would have been fine but the traffic to and from is absurd in the midst of a Portland weather exodus, we opted for an air conditioner. Then, it was about finding one. Not so easy. Home Despot laughed in our faces. Lowes wasn't much better. We finally found one at Sears. But then, the big one we wanted couldn't be supported by the 1910 wiring in our house, so we opted for a smaller one. And it WORKS!!! It is so nice in here. Electric consumption be damned.
So again, I live in the lap of luxury.
Haley just returned from an unauthorized hitchhiking trip to San Francisco. At 15, we were panicked, and intercepted her in Arcata, put her on a Greyhound bus and got her home. She is here now, and fine, in her beyond thunderdome attire. This just doesn't seem like a teenage phase. It seems like this is probably who Haley is. She prefers the company of vagabonds and dogs, and places like Takelma, with its burned out trailers and RVs and open air cooking, and I can't fault her for it. I love that she views the world so openly, and is so trusting. I hope nothing ever happens to dull her enthusiasm. I am a skeptic of the highest order. It is easy to say, about my significant history of hitchhiking, that it was a different world back then. But it wasn't. There were bad people then, as now, and good ones, and a vagabond culture of which I was family for a long long time. I didn't die from it, and I hope Haley survives her inquisitiveness and rejection of higher culture (if indeed we are higher....) If the oil runs out, as many say it will, we may all have to learn to live around a campfire. She may be the future.
clinton street fair
One thing that has happened since I have been lax at blogging is that I get all these long e-letters from my friends, complaining that I am not blogging. Thanks for the letters. It is incentive not to blog, but I do want to catch up.
Today is the Clinton and Division Streets Fair. We went. Actually we walked down the street to get a cup of coffee and it was nearly time for the parade, so we waited, called Haley to bring down the camera, and this is what we saw:
the crowd
motorbikes in a circle
the alzheimer's ride
We didn't get a picture of the drum band that was first in the parade, or the flame flag twirlers. The pictures are all taken looking down Clinton Street. You can see the Clinton Street Theatre where we saw Rocky Horror, where they show it every Saturday night and have forever. Our house is three blocks up the street.
Today is the Clinton and Division Streets Fair. We went. Actually we walked down the street to get a cup of coffee and it was nearly time for the parade, so we waited, called Haley to bring down the camera, and this is what we saw:
the crowd
motorbikes in a circle
the alzheimer's rideWe didn't get a picture of the drum band that was first in the parade, or the flame flag twirlers. The pictures are all taken looking down Clinton Street. You can see the Clinton Street Theatre where we saw Rocky Horror, where they show it every Saturday night and have forever. Our house is three blocks up the street.
Saturday, July 15, 2006
baby shower
When I was laid up with my shoulder surgery, I agreed -- no, I volunteered -- to do the baby shower games. On Vicodin, it sounded like fun. On vicodin and without a job, it seemed reasonable. But in the doing, it was no different than running activities in a nursing home. I'm sure I've talked about that. Remind me to write about the time we went to the petting zoo. Or the time we tried to have a carnival in the nursing home parking lot and back yard, complete with a dunk tank and cotton candy machine. I'm sure there are worse things than making cotton candy in the dead heat of august in Southern Oregon after being awake for five days straight, maybe you know of something, but for me, it is near the top of the list of things not to do again.
So, yes. I arranged the baby shower games. But here's the thing: acts that are motivated by guilt instead of generosity just don't work. (Not to mention the vicodin) and guilt was definitely driving the bus. The girl who is having the baby is not my type, but her husband is my husband's friend. And I felt some responsibility to her. Wrongly. But once I was in, I couldn't figure out how to get out.
We played the stupid pin game. We played a diaper game. We played a paint the onesie game.
I hated it. It made me feel like a stranger.
So, yes. I arranged the baby shower games. But here's the thing: acts that are motivated by guilt instead of generosity just don't work. (Not to mention the vicodin) and guilt was definitely driving the bus. The girl who is having the baby is not my type, but her husband is my husband's friend. And I felt some responsibility to her. Wrongly. But once I was in, I couldn't figure out how to get out.
We played the stupid pin game. We played a diaper game. We played a paint the onesie game.
I hated it. It made me feel like a stranger.
Saturday, July 08, 2006
coffee
My head is mud. I am out of coffee. I am meeting asia at 10 down the street, so will wait to get my fix until then. I ground up about 10 beans, whirrrrred them around until they were dust and put them in a single cup dripper. I am desperate. I am hooked. I like drinking coffee in my pajamas on my deck. I NEED to be able to do that. Poor planning. It reminds me of scraping seeds and stems to get a headache, or crawling around on the floor after a chunk of (you fill in the drug) and shooting whatever I found. Yep, those were the days.
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
july
Today is the 4th of July. We took the boat out, put in at Willamette Park and drove over to Sellwood to see some friends. That was boring. Then we took the boat up to Oregon City along a stretch of river I hadn't seen before. I love to look at the homes along the water. I love the houseboats, each one a work of art. The Ross Island houseboats have one that is like a nautilus shell, wood and copper with lots of windows. I like to pick out the original homes along the river, among the McMansions, the little shingled cottages and river houses that preceeded the conspicuous consumption of these days. The houses are side by side now, each worth millions, I'm sure, each with a deck and a boat house and a long floating ramp meant to weather even the 100 year floods. I wonder. On the Willamette, 100 years passes fairly frequently. I was living in Portland in the flood of '64. I was in the 5th grade, Mrs. Jones' class. I had a peach colored umbrella that blew inside out in the wind and acutally lifted me off my feet. I remember newsreels of one of the bridges over the river that buckled and swayed and collapsed with cars on it. I could be making that up, but I think it is true. I remember bringing a scrap of newspaper to school that year. It was about the Beatles. I was the first person in my school to know about them. Even then I was tragically hip. We moved to Portland when my father died. Actually, I think we were visiting, and just stayed after we found out he was gone.
The other day I drove by the house I lived in when my father died. I'd tried to find it before, but I guess I went down 66th place rather than 66th. It is in felony flats. Was even then. I was surprised it was still standing. It is a tiny hovel, with narrow stairs and burgundy flowered linoluem and I could see my bedroom window that overlooked my uncle's huge garden of poppies. He had the whole yard planted in them, towering red tissue-paper thin flowers with circus tent seedpods in the centers. Even then there was the occasional pale flower, a gray or white throwback, that caught my eye. Its no wonder I loved heroin. I recall him standing in the yard in his overalls, a great fat man, watering those poppies each evening. When I water my yard, I recall his patience, and try to give my flowers as much attention. He lost his mind, finally, and went about watering even the flowers on wallpaper, which caused some problems in the family. I guess he was probably mentally ill -- schizophrenic, best guess, and had a big heart. I think I've said before that he rode his bicycle up and down the west coast in the final years of his life, finally coming to rest on a boat in San Francisco Bay where he died alone on Christmas Eve. The yard is different now, and the big field next door where we built a fort beneath a huge cedar tree is gone, of course, and the big lilac is gone. There used to be a narrow cement walkway that cut through the middle of the poppies from front gate to front door. My brother rode his skateboard down it too fast, put out his arms to stop himself and broke both of his wrists. Mrs. Wallace lived next door. She was 80 and could do handstands. And did. Every holiday she brought over a fake can of peanut brittle that was actually full of spring-loaded snakes. The first time it scared the shit out of me, but then I was on to her and had to fake it.
I remember the day the phone call came about my father. I don't recall crying, which doesn't surprise me. I remember confusion and disbelief. He was a good man. A happy man. He would have liked my husband.
I suppose we will wander down to watch the fireworks along the East Bank Esplanade. I just hope I don't have to stand near the very scary statue of Vera Katz. If anyone makes a bronze statue of me, I hope they use a picture of me when I was five. I was much cuter then.
Here's a shot of Sid on the patio. Is it a patio? Is that what we call it?
The blues festival wraps up today. Each year we bring the requisite cans of bad food and a couple dollars down there and brave the throng. The thongs. Actually, it is a rather gray crowd, all of the age-resisting boomers who continue to defy fashion but not time. We take the bike down and park easily, which is the hardest part, really. And each year I yearn to be among the boat people, listening to the blues from the water's edge. This year we did it. We put in at a strange little ramp up river, cruised by the fabulous Ross Island and Sellwood houseboats, and finally wound our way cautiously, paddles in hand, through the yachts and speedboats. Front row seats. The sound was good, but alas and as usual, I had to pee.... When sitting up on the lawn the day before, I had noticed an outhouse floating among the boats, so my darling husband, keeper of my comfort, said it was no trouble. He's great that way. So once again, we threaded the gauntlet, bobbing and weaving, until the yellow plastic oasis was in sight. We pulled up alongside the dock, hopped out and peed. My husband decided to jump in the water to cool off and suggested I do the same. I just really wanted to splash a little and not get my hair wet (I can't stand women who don't get their hair wet) but it didn't quite work out in my favor. I slid in, and under, and couldn't get out. My shoulder, you see, isn't quite what it used to be, and heaving my bod out of deep water just isn't something I can do. So, Kurt tries to help me, and as he is helping me, yells, "the boat!!!" which, as you might imaging, is floating away. So he dives in to save the boat and I am left to save myself for awhile. He rescues the boat, ties it to the dock and by that time, I have located the big rope tethering the dock to the anchor. I stand on it as best I can, and he pulls me up enough to get a grip and haul myself out. It matters what you wear in these situations, and my wardrobe malfunctioned in a big way.
It was the second time that day that I flashed Portland. That same morning we rode our bikes to Sellwood park and I was wearing one of my favorite short sarongs tied around my upper half. Turns out it flaps in the breeze of a downhill bike ride. I was horrified, but I'll never see those people again. I've managed to survive worse shame in my life.
The other day I drove by the house I lived in when my father died. I'd tried to find it before, but I guess I went down 66th place rather than 66th. It is in felony flats. Was even then. I was surprised it was still standing. It is a tiny hovel, with narrow stairs and burgundy flowered linoluem and I could see my bedroom window that overlooked my uncle's huge garden of poppies. He had the whole yard planted in them, towering red tissue-paper thin flowers with circus tent seedpods in the centers. Even then there was the occasional pale flower, a gray or white throwback, that caught my eye. Its no wonder I loved heroin. I recall him standing in the yard in his overalls, a great fat man, watering those poppies each evening. When I water my yard, I recall his patience, and try to give my flowers as much attention. He lost his mind, finally, and went about watering even the flowers on wallpaper, which caused some problems in the family. I guess he was probably mentally ill -- schizophrenic, best guess, and had a big heart. I think I've said before that he rode his bicycle up and down the west coast in the final years of his life, finally coming to rest on a boat in San Francisco Bay where he died alone on Christmas Eve. The yard is different now, and the big field next door where we built a fort beneath a huge cedar tree is gone, of course, and the big lilac is gone. There used to be a narrow cement walkway that cut through the middle of the poppies from front gate to front door. My brother rode his skateboard down it too fast, put out his arms to stop himself and broke both of his wrists. Mrs. Wallace lived next door. She was 80 and could do handstands. And did. Every holiday she brought over a fake can of peanut brittle that was actually full of spring-loaded snakes. The first time it scared the shit out of me, but then I was on to her and had to fake it.
I remember the day the phone call came about my father. I don't recall crying, which doesn't surprise me. I remember confusion and disbelief. He was a good man. A happy man. He would have liked my husband.
I suppose we will wander down to watch the fireworks along the East Bank Esplanade. I just hope I don't have to stand near the very scary statue of Vera Katz. If anyone makes a bronze statue of me, I hope they use a picture of me when I was five. I was much cuter then.
Here's a shot of Sid on the patio. Is it a patio? Is that what we call it?
The blues festival wraps up today. Each year we bring the requisite cans of bad food and a couple dollars down there and brave the throng. The thongs. Actually, it is a rather gray crowd, all of the age-resisting boomers who continue to defy fashion but not time. We take the bike down and park easily, which is the hardest part, really. And each year I yearn to be among the boat people, listening to the blues from the water's edge. This year we did it. We put in at a strange little ramp up river, cruised by the fabulous Ross Island and Sellwood houseboats, and finally wound our way cautiously, paddles in hand, through the yachts and speedboats. Front row seats. The sound was good, but alas and as usual, I had to pee.... When sitting up on the lawn the day before, I had noticed an outhouse floating among the boats, so my darling husband, keeper of my comfort, said it was no trouble. He's great that way. So once again, we threaded the gauntlet, bobbing and weaving, until the yellow plastic oasis was in sight. We pulled up alongside the dock, hopped out and peed. My husband decided to jump in the water to cool off and suggested I do the same. I just really wanted to splash a little and not get my hair wet (I can't stand women who don't get their hair wet) but it didn't quite work out in my favor. I slid in, and under, and couldn't get out. My shoulder, you see, isn't quite what it used to be, and heaving my bod out of deep water just isn't something I can do. So, Kurt tries to help me, and as he is helping me, yells, "the boat!!!" which, as you might imaging, is floating away. So he dives in to save the boat and I am left to save myself for awhile. He rescues the boat, ties it to the dock and by that time, I have located the big rope tethering the dock to the anchor. I stand on it as best I can, and he pulls me up enough to get a grip and haul myself out. It matters what you wear in these situations, and my wardrobe malfunctioned in a big way.
It was the second time that day that I flashed Portland. That same morning we rode our bikes to Sellwood park and I was wearing one of my favorite short sarongs tied around my upper half. Turns out it flaps in the breeze of a downhill bike ride. I was horrified, but I'll never see those people again. I've managed to survive worse shame in my life.
Sunday, June 25, 2006
summer cold
I'm sick. I remember one night in a bar, in the Jubilee Club to be precise, when Cooky and I sat around thinking of epitaphs. It seemed like an appropriate activity given our suicidal lifestyle. Hers was going to read, "I told you I was sick." My favorite epitaph was written by a cowboy in the very old west. It read, "Here lies the man that stole my horse."
I don't think I'm facing imminent death, but I am sick of being sick. Last week I was puking, this week it is a summer cold. It sounds so innocuous-- "summer cold"--all mint-julepy and sweet. A minor inconvenience at most-- maybe a moment or two napping in the porch swing will clear it up. Not this. I can't swallow, can't speak, can't think. It is invading my ears. My head is full of mud and it is hovering at the base of my throat, threatening to invade my lungs. And that scares me. My lungs are so weak from years of bronchitis. I am so susceptible. I am beginning to cough.
On to nicer subjects.
This is my husband spreading sand where he is about to lay pavers for a pool pad in the back yard. Every year we put up the pool and kill the grass. We decided to make it more pool friendly. Its either this or A/C.
The stones we chose are called Roman Dominion. Sounds serious. They look like an old roman road and are just about as easy to build.
mountain of dirt, or, if you wish, free sod. U Haul.
So, it is 100 degrees in Portland and the newscasters are on it. Extreme weather alerts. I love Portland.
I don't think I'm facing imminent death, but I am sick of being sick. Last week I was puking, this week it is a summer cold. It sounds so innocuous-- "summer cold"--all mint-julepy and sweet. A minor inconvenience at most-- maybe a moment or two napping in the porch swing will clear it up. Not this. I can't swallow, can't speak, can't think. It is invading my ears. My head is full of mud and it is hovering at the base of my throat, threatening to invade my lungs. And that scares me. My lungs are so weak from years of bronchitis. I am so susceptible. I am beginning to cough.
On to nicer subjects.
This is my husband spreading sand where he is about to lay pavers for a pool pad in the back yard. Every year we put up the pool and kill the grass. We decided to make it more pool friendly. Its either this or A/C.
The stones we chose are called Roman Dominion. Sounds serious. They look like an old roman road and are just about as easy to build.
mountain of dirt, or, if you wish, free sod. U Haul.
So, it is 100 degrees in Portland and the newscasters are on it. Extreme weather alerts. I love Portland.
Saturday, June 17, 2006
birthday
I started puking at midnight on the 14th as if in celebration. I puked through my entire special day. I haven't puked that much since I was a child. Buckets of bile. As a failed bulemic, it was kind of exciting, but overall, not that much fun. I did lose eight pounds. It is now, I think, the 17th, and I have missed two days of my life. The symptoms went south yesterday and another day devoted to rest and repair. Whew. It is not the norovirus, just in case you were wondering.
I am some better now.
For my birthday I got a diamond band to go with my wedding ring, which is really an engagement solitaire. We wanted it to look more like a traditional set, so added this band. It is sparkly. I love it. And a card covered with pink roses that said, "Beautiful as always" and I know he wrote it while I slept, puke in my hair and on my breath as he kissed me goodbye. Its good to have a husband.
My ailment is from working in a place with old people who catch everything, and young women with children who bring in bugs by the b'zillions and can't afford to stay home sick. A bad combination. Add to that, I always get sick at a new job. I think there are new bugs at each place, and I need to develop immunity to them. It takes time, and one hard hit at least. This was a doozy. But it is not bronchial, which is a huge relief. That scares me.
Time to wash my hair and try to leave the house for the first time in days. There are garage sales waiting.
Back now... got a bike in Boring. And strawberries. A flat for 15 bucks. I'll make freezer jam today or tomorrow. They are pretty good, but I think needed a little more sun to up the sugar content. So, I'll up the sugar content my own self.
OH! Big news. My son called and told me my house is gone. My first house in Talent. As I suspected, the bitch I sold it to was just a schill for a developer. Scooped it up and tore it down. My kitchen. My tile countertops. My sweet little cottage. I'll always think of it as Spencer's house, I think. His yard. His deck. His grave. I should have taken my mother's Peace rose, and the big hunk of rose quartz that Marky got for me. I should have taken more pictures. Ah, should have. What words.
Truth is, I didn't want anyone else to live in it. It was my house and now it is gone. I guess it is actually pushed to the back of the property awaiting demolition. Oh, well. I knew they were trying to put a road through from Talent Avenue to the highway, and that they'd go through Totem Pole trailer park to do it, and my property was one of the only things standing in the way. They would have forced me out sooner or later anyway. Progress. Sprawl. I'll never forget the view, or sitting on my deck of a spring morning, drinking cinnamon-laced coffee, listening to the meadowlark in the sycamore trees and petting my old dog. I thought I'd be there forever. I never thought I'd be here.
But, here I am.
I am some better now.
For my birthday I got a diamond band to go with my wedding ring, which is really an engagement solitaire. We wanted it to look more like a traditional set, so added this band. It is sparkly. I love it. And a card covered with pink roses that said, "Beautiful as always" and I know he wrote it while I slept, puke in my hair and on my breath as he kissed me goodbye. Its good to have a husband.
My ailment is from working in a place with old people who catch everything, and young women with children who bring in bugs by the b'zillions and can't afford to stay home sick. A bad combination. Add to that, I always get sick at a new job. I think there are new bugs at each place, and I need to develop immunity to them. It takes time, and one hard hit at least. This was a doozy. But it is not bronchial, which is a huge relief. That scares me.
Time to wash my hair and try to leave the house for the first time in days. There are garage sales waiting.
Back now... got a bike in Boring. And strawberries. A flat for 15 bucks. I'll make freezer jam today or tomorrow. They are pretty good, but I think needed a little more sun to up the sugar content. So, I'll up the sugar content my own self.
OH! Big news. My son called and told me my house is gone. My first house in Talent. As I suspected, the bitch I sold it to was just a schill for a developer. Scooped it up and tore it down. My kitchen. My tile countertops. My sweet little cottage. I'll always think of it as Spencer's house, I think. His yard. His deck. His grave. I should have taken my mother's Peace rose, and the big hunk of rose quartz that Marky got for me. I should have taken more pictures. Ah, should have. What words.
Truth is, I didn't want anyone else to live in it. It was my house and now it is gone. I guess it is actually pushed to the back of the property awaiting demolition. Oh, well. I knew they were trying to put a road through from Talent Avenue to the highway, and that they'd go through Totem Pole trailer park to do it, and my property was one of the only things standing in the way. They would have forced me out sooner or later anyway. Progress. Sprawl. I'll never forget the view, or sitting on my deck of a spring morning, drinking cinnamon-laced coffee, listening to the meadowlark in the sycamore trees and petting my old dog. I thought I'd be there forever. I never thought I'd be here.
But, here I am.
Saturday, June 10, 2006
Saturday, June 03, 2006
dropping betty
Last night the pager went off. I was riding on the back of our motorcycle in downtown traffic. It is the kickoff of Rose Festival week and everyone was beating feet to see the fireworks, or trying to get out of the city to avoid traffic, which creates traffic. Its endless. There are a lot of cars, and you just gotta get your best zen goin' and sit it out. I learned this commuting 3 hours a day to McMinnville. Do not rush hour. I listen to the drone of public radio and occasionally hear something of worth. Mostly I listen to the syntax of OPB reporters who say rad-i-O (emphasis on the third syllable) rather than RAD-i-o. Like most people do. They are so very very "this-is-Chris-tian-Fo-den-ven-sil" Everyone has an accent, accentutated, and I always love to listen to the social elite reporting oppression.
So there I was, in traffic, pipes rattling as we progressed light to light, and the pager went off. It is loud, thankfully, and I called in to find out what was up. "We dropped Betty." "Oh," I say. "Well, this happens." If you are uninitiated, humans are slippery when wet, and from time to time, they just get away from you. I don't want to live so long that someone has to bathe me, but if I do, I hope I understand. But the girls.... they work so hard, and care so much, so much more than is useful or productive, and get so attached. And dropping a whole person on the floor is astonishing. Whoosh, and there they go. And they are so breakable. Betty didn't break though, just a little tear on her paper skin. And Betty doesn't have the disadvantage of memory any longer, so it was over as soon as it began, for her.
We had dinner at Dan and Louis Oyster Bar. It was good to be downtown among the lights and noise and throng of humanity.
So there I was, in traffic, pipes rattling as we progressed light to light, and the pager went off. It is loud, thankfully, and I called in to find out what was up. "We dropped Betty." "Oh," I say. "Well, this happens." If you are uninitiated, humans are slippery when wet, and from time to time, they just get away from you. I don't want to live so long that someone has to bathe me, but if I do, I hope I understand. But the girls.... they work so hard, and care so much, so much more than is useful or productive, and get so attached. And dropping a whole person on the floor is astonishing. Whoosh, and there they go. And they are so breakable. Betty didn't break though, just a little tear on her paper skin. And Betty doesn't have the disadvantage of memory any longer, so it was over as soon as it began, for her.
We had dinner at Dan and Louis Oyster Bar. It was good to be downtown among the lights and noise and throng of humanity.
Monday, May 29, 2006
decoration day
A long weekend of nothing. I love nothing. I'm good at it, have had plenty of practice. I am meeting with an editor friend this morning and hope to uncover the origins of my writing discontent. She may not know this, but I am. I know it was always good to connect with other writers before and she is one. Just published another book on fiction writing. Due to my near-death-experience, which we will heretofore refer to as my NDE, I am invigorized, as those things are prone to get you. I am common.
But alive.
I hate writing about writing, but here goes.
I live in a house with other people and cannon find sustained time or space. It is not their fault--as much as it would delight me if the problem were that simple. It is logistic. It takes me four pages of crap before I even begin to hit my stride, as these pages prove beyond doubt, and that takes time, and they use the computer. So, do I get my own computer? A simple fix, but the house is small and the same troubles apply. Do I learn to write in the basement? Its coming along -- kind of an open and more inviting space -- do I write amid the camping gear to the sounds of the tumbling dryer? Which reminds me, I need to put the clothes in the dryer.
And a. will say, "Fuck the clothes. Write." and she is absolutely correct. I will. But I am a better housekeeper than I used to be, and it is not as easy to fuck it all off. I have witnesses, remember?
So I am writing. And the good and the bad thing about a blog is that it does maintain the flow-- does hold that energy. But it is also like a steam vent for a volcano. It never really blows because of the continual release. Not that my productivity ever reached volcanic levels... but the metaphor is the thing.
I can't seem to get next to a storyline. They all seem idiotic. And I am a fiction writer. I am also a poet, but poetry, while rich, is a vent. Do I write about all of the crazy people I've cared for? One? Do I travel back down one of the dark alleys I've been down and illuminate the rubble for the sake of posterity? Do I -- gasp -- make something up? I've said many times, I'm not a writer, I'm a liar.
So, my coffee is ready: french press with tons of cream and it is Memorial Day.
Used to be that Memorial Day was called Decoration Day. At the nursing home a bus would come to take people out to the cemeteries, bouquets of picked or purchased flowers, some with flags, some not so patriotic, just remembered. I don't think it was about memorializing only the war dead. It was celebratory. It was the reason for family plots. Nowadays you'd have to have to spend days finding the various cemeteries my family is buried in. My father is in Coosbay, brother and mother in Eagle Point, one brother floating eternally down the Applegate River where we played as children. He wanted to be sprinkled in the Rogue River, but my mother was afraid of the undertows. I didn't have the heart to point out that he wouldn't drown. A mother shouldn't have to bury her children.
Decoration Day. It was a nobler time and I'm not sure why. Maybe because it was before the Gong Show and the end of civilization as we know it.
But alive.
I hate writing about writing, but here goes.
I live in a house with other people and cannon find sustained time or space. It is not their fault--as much as it would delight me if the problem were that simple. It is logistic. It takes me four pages of crap before I even begin to hit my stride, as these pages prove beyond doubt, and that takes time, and they use the computer. So, do I get my own computer? A simple fix, but the house is small and the same troubles apply. Do I learn to write in the basement? Its coming along -- kind of an open and more inviting space -- do I write amid the camping gear to the sounds of the tumbling dryer? Which reminds me, I need to put the clothes in the dryer.
And a. will say, "Fuck the clothes. Write." and she is absolutely correct. I will. But I am a better housekeeper than I used to be, and it is not as easy to fuck it all off. I have witnesses, remember?
So I am writing. And the good and the bad thing about a blog is that it does maintain the flow-- does hold that energy. But it is also like a steam vent for a volcano. It never really blows because of the continual release. Not that my productivity ever reached volcanic levels... but the metaphor is the thing.
I can't seem to get next to a storyline. They all seem idiotic. And I am a fiction writer. I am also a poet, but poetry, while rich, is a vent. Do I write about all of the crazy people I've cared for? One? Do I travel back down one of the dark alleys I've been down and illuminate the rubble for the sake of posterity? Do I -- gasp -- make something up? I've said many times, I'm not a writer, I'm a liar.
So, my coffee is ready: french press with tons of cream and it is Memorial Day.
Used to be that Memorial Day was called Decoration Day. At the nursing home a bus would come to take people out to the cemeteries, bouquets of picked or purchased flowers, some with flags, some not so patriotic, just remembered. I don't think it was about memorializing only the war dead. It was celebratory. It was the reason for family plots. Nowadays you'd have to have to spend days finding the various cemeteries my family is buried in. My father is in Coosbay, brother and mother in Eagle Point, one brother floating eternally down the Applegate River where we played as children. He wanted to be sprinkled in the Rogue River, but my mother was afraid of the undertows. I didn't have the heart to point out that he wouldn't drown. A mother shouldn't have to bury her children.
Decoration Day. It was a nobler time and I'm not sure why. Maybe because it was before the Gong Show and the end of civilization as we know it.
Saturday, May 27, 2006
conspiracy theories
On wednesday night I was in the bath and noticed a strange spot on my right breast.
As I began to write my eulogy, which I will discuss later, a long couple of days ensued.
Its funny what you imagine, and, how if you don't say it outloud, it isn't real. I didn't tell my husband right away, and that is one way to keep it away. Once I said hey look at my this, it was on. He made me go to the doctor. I am so happy to be married to a pushy man. Most of the time. So, I am fine. It was just a wierd thing. But mortality... quite another.
My bio says:
"judybluesky writes."
my eulogy would be as follows:
"judybluesky wrote."
clear?
So it was a wierd day. And got wierder. I don't know if I can tell this story, but I'll try. Its pretty x-files.
To preface -- my husband's son David is in trouble sometimes. Currently, he is trying to outrun the trouble by heading south and staying with his grandfather. At first, these are seemingly unconnected phone calls.
First call: Tracy (to my husband) from the police department saying they had Dave's ID. He tells them Dave's down south but can he pick it up. Tracy tells him he can. When he got there, no ID, no Tracy that had made the call.
Second call: (to me on my cell while I am at work. I don't know about the earlier call) Someone looking for grandpa's phone number. I tell them Grampa lives off the grid, no phone. Can't help them. They tell me they need to give him medical information. I can't help them.
Third call: (to my friend Lorretta at her work number at a hospital down south.) They tell her they are looking for David, that they need to deliver a medical package to him. She emails me this information, thinking what an odd coincidence that someone looking for David would randomly call her number at work. and I still didn't make any real connection...
...Until we started reviewing the day. We got home. We talked about our day. Husband tells about the first call. I say, oh by the way, tell about the second call. Then Lorretta calls, tells about the third call. We are beginning to sense a pattern developing.
Next morning... call #4. My ex-sister in law calls. The same people have called her telling her they need to deliver the medical stuff -- this time for David. They give a call back number and a tracking number, but there is no website.
We ask sis in law to go off the grid to see grampa, tell him what's up. Haven't heard from anyone since.
I don't know if you can follow all that. What is so random is that there would be no way to connect David, my friend and my ex-family unless they had my phone records.
Creeps me out.
As I began to write my eulogy, which I will discuss later, a long couple of days ensued.
Its funny what you imagine, and, how if you don't say it outloud, it isn't real. I didn't tell my husband right away, and that is one way to keep it away. Once I said hey look at my this, it was on. He made me go to the doctor. I am so happy to be married to a pushy man. Most of the time. So, I am fine. It was just a wierd thing. But mortality... quite another.
My bio says:
"judybluesky writes."
my eulogy would be as follows:
"judybluesky wrote."
clear?
So it was a wierd day. And got wierder. I don't know if I can tell this story, but I'll try. Its pretty x-files.
To preface -- my husband's son David is in trouble sometimes. Currently, he is trying to outrun the trouble by heading south and staying with his grandfather. At first, these are seemingly unconnected phone calls.
First call: Tracy (to my husband) from the police department saying they had Dave's ID. He tells them Dave's down south but can he pick it up. Tracy tells him he can. When he got there, no ID, no Tracy that had made the call.
Second call: (to me on my cell while I am at work. I don't know about the earlier call) Someone looking for grandpa's phone number. I tell them Grampa lives off the grid, no phone. Can't help them. They tell me they need to give him medical information. I can't help them.
Third call: (to my friend Lorretta at her work number at a hospital down south.) They tell her they are looking for David, that they need to deliver a medical package to him. She emails me this information, thinking what an odd coincidence that someone looking for David would randomly call her number at work. and I still didn't make any real connection...
...Until we started reviewing the day. We got home. We talked about our day. Husband tells about the first call. I say, oh by the way, tell about the second call. Then Lorretta calls, tells about the third call. We are beginning to sense a pattern developing.
Next morning... call #4. My ex-sister in law calls. The same people have called her telling her they need to deliver the medical stuff -- this time for David. They give a call back number and a tracking number, but there is no website.
We ask sis in law to go off the grid to see grampa, tell him what's up. Haven't heard from anyone since.
I don't know if you can follow all that. What is so random is that there would be no way to connect David, my friend and my ex-family unless they had my phone records.
Creeps me out.
Friday, May 26, 2006
Sunday, May 21, 2006
Granny and Irene
They call each other
"that old woman over there"
and I know I will be the same way
never as old as I am.
They wear beads and bangles
strings and strings of shiny things
terrible beads that don't go together
over layers of sweaters, flowered dresses
small wool blankets
that someone threw in the dryer
but didn't throw away
like gray-headed doll babies
wandering in and out of each other's rooms.
They feed each other
bits of sweet cake and cantaloupe
with ginseng root fingers
that remember everything
but cannot find the way home
j.
"that old woman over there"
and I know I will be the same way
never as old as I am.
They wear beads and bangles
strings and strings of shiny things
terrible beads that don't go together
over layers of sweaters, flowered dresses
small wool blankets
that someone threw in the dryer
but didn't throw away
like gray-headed doll babies
wandering in and out of each other's rooms.
They feed each other
bits of sweet cake and cantaloupe
with ginseng root fingers
that remember everything
but cannot find the way home
j.
Saturday, May 13, 2006
yard sale
We sold the farm. The cheesy yard art john deere green windmill, everything. I sold shit all day, and I am sunburned and my load is lighter. When we went to drop of the remnants at Goodwill, I stole two pair of shoes out of one of the bins. What's wrong with me? L. they will fit you and I'm sending them down. We sold the old girlfriend's set of black dishes and the red hassock. The signature item. I'm ready for a new bigger one. I'm lazier than ever and need more area on which to prop my feet. I sold the printer cabinet.
Its a story.
I bought my house in Talent, and a. came over to visit me. Have I told this story before? Anyway, she comes over, takes one look at my printer's cabinet, and announces, "That's mine." I disagreed, but she was right. It had been hers. a. had apparently started an indie newspaper long before indie was a word. Cutting edge.
So, I sold it. It is still here, but I have the money. An odd man with an antique business called "the Needle" bought it. He seems to be a conspiracy theorist, but who knows. It could be a conspiracy.
So, lots of shit is gone. It is remarkable how much crap accumulates over two years. I knew, when we had the first post-wedlock yard sale that more would come, but this much. The sidewalk was lined end to end. Books and blankets and clothes. Even the outfit the nearly homeless lady next door gave me. She thinks I'm a snappy dresser, so one day she brought over a white denim pants suit with gold buttons and open weave braided denim down the arms and legs. Elvis in Las Vegas. Nobody bought it. It would have been a great Halloween costume.
Its a story.
I bought my house in Talent, and a. came over to visit me. Have I told this story before? Anyway, she comes over, takes one look at my printer's cabinet, and announces, "That's mine." I disagreed, but she was right. It had been hers. a. had apparently started an indie newspaper long before indie was a word. Cutting edge.
So, I sold it. It is still here, but I have the money. An odd man with an antique business called "the Needle" bought it. He seems to be a conspiracy theorist, but who knows. It could be a conspiracy.
So, lots of shit is gone. It is remarkable how much crap accumulates over two years. I knew, when we had the first post-wedlock yard sale that more would come, but this much. The sidewalk was lined end to end. Books and blankets and clothes. Even the outfit the nearly homeless lady next door gave me. She thinks I'm a snappy dresser, so one day she brought over a white denim pants suit with gold buttons and open weave braided denim down the arms and legs. Elvis in Las Vegas. Nobody bought it. It would have been a great Halloween costume.
Thursday, May 11, 2006
mother's
It is Mothers Day. I am three hundred miles north of my son, but never far. Last week he called to scold me for not sending him an easter basket. He'll be 29 next year. It never ends. I rise this morning to anxiously await some form of recognition which is as likely to come as not.
In my family, it is so difficult to celebrate. I'm sure this is true of many families, but for us, the Drunken Waltons, the air was permeated with expectation of a life and familial bonds we just couldn't keep up with. We were too busy lowering our standards to raise our children.
So, I raised a boy who feels the weight of yet another generation of children, umbilical, wanting, and not knowing how to be part of something that has fractured, that is lost. They avoid celebration. They dread. And sometime's the phone call comes, and sometimes it doesn't.
I love my son. He is the best of me. I was cleaning out an old purse (yard sale...) and found this poem. There was a time it seems I didn't:
Ending Motherhood
Cutting what's left of the cord
not cord to my belly
not cord to my heart
but
cord to the phone
the MTV set
the fridge
the lights
the heat
the comfort of all that I provide
for him
and me
but not for us
not for a long time now
If he would only come home
I could tell him he doesn't live here anymore
and womb screaming rage could replace
the emptiness of this unfinished severance
Happy Mother's Day
In my family, it is so difficult to celebrate. I'm sure this is true of many families, but for us, the Drunken Waltons, the air was permeated with expectation of a life and familial bonds we just couldn't keep up with. We were too busy lowering our standards to raise our children.
So, I raised a boy who feels the weight of yet another generation of children, umbilical, wanting, and not knowing how to be part of something that has fractured, that is lost. They avoid celebration. They dread. And sometime's the phone call comes, and sometimes it doesn't.
I love my son. He is the best of me. I was cleaning out an old purse (yard sale...) and found this poem. There was a time it seems I didn't:
Ending Motherhood
Cutting what's left of the cord
not cord to my belly
not cord to my heart
but
cord to the phone
the MTV set
the fridge
the lights
the heat
the comfort of all that I provide
for him
and me
but not for us
not for a long time now
If he would only come home
I could tell him he doesn't live here anymore
and womb screaming rage could replace
the emptiness of this unfinished severance
Happy Mother's Day
Sunday, May 07, 2006
another katie story
Katie thought I was the greatest. Her brother, also a Russian-doctor-turned-lab-rat, thought I was great too. Katie lived at the end of Portland Street in Medford and I was homeless, pretty much. I had lived out my welcome at Renee's house, good old Renee, Renee who didn't even see me coming. It took me, oh, 25 years to pay her back, but that's another story for another time. Anyway, I needed a place to live, and as luck would have it, Katie had a house she didn't need. She told me I could live in it. "Aiee dunt ci vhy naat," she said. That's what she sounded like. Her brother thought I should be rewarded for my good deeds as a caregiver and they thought it would be a good idea for the house not to stand empty while Katie was in the nursing home. They thought it would keep out "de badt paypl."
I know what you're thinking. You're thinking I'm the bad people. And in so many ways you are right. But that's not the point of this story.
So the brother, we'll call him Ivan, takes me over there to check out the house. It sat at the end of a quiet street with two huge cedar trees in the front yard. Centinels. Ivan tells me its furnished. Good, I think. I need stuff. What he didn't tell me is that it is furnished with priceless Russian antiques. "Are you going to leave all of this?" I ask. "Aiee dunt ci vhy naat," he answers. I could think of a million reasons why not. I hadn't the foresight to count my brother Doug among those reasons.
I know I haven't talked much about my broher Doug. Ever, really. He's my eldest brother, the only one still standing, and his drinking problem was one of revolutionary proportion.
So, when I found out about my new house deal, of course I wanted to share my good fortune with my family. They'd be glad because I didn't have to sleep on the couch anymore. Doug was especially supportive. He thought it was great. He asked where it was. The part I forgot to mention -- to Doug-- is that the deal wasn't quite done. I wasn't to move in for a couple more days.
I pulled into work the next day, happy to be 22, happy to have a place to live. When I got to Katie's room, Ivan was tapping the toes of his Russian shoes, looking at the floor. "Der vas a man in de haus."
I was horrified. A MAN? In MY HOUSE? "Oh, no!" I exclaimed in utter disbelief. "That is terrible!"
Well, as the truth descended on me like Russian shade, I realized de man was de brudder. Sacked out on the priceless sofa, drunk as a dog.
So much for the freebie house. But then, that was just one in a long line of near misses. For me and for Doug. I may still be mad at him.
Soon after, I began having what I call "the moving dream." Its a recurrent dream where I have agreed to give up the place I live and rent a different house. It is perfect and full of priceless antiques. It seems too good to be true. As I move from room to room, however, it seems as though something is wrong. The rooms run into one another like one unfinished room with half-walls and suddenly the ceilings are too low and it is dark and I notice things like an old hairbrush and a silver mirror: things that belong to old women. And I realize I've rented a house that is already occupied and when I get to the last room, there is an old woman in a rocking chair wearing red long-johns.
Any dream interpreter would tell you I fear death, that the old woman is my crone, but I know better. It's just Katie.
I know what you're thinking. You're thinking I'm the bad people. And in so many ways you are right. But that's not the point of this story.
So the brother, we'll call him Ivan, takes me over there to check out the house. It sat at the end of a quiet street with two huge cedar trees in the front yard. Centinels. Ivan tells me its furnished. Good, I think. I need stuff. What he didn't tell me is that it is furnished with priceless Russian antiques. "Are you going to leave all of this?" I ask. "Aiee dunt ci vhy naat," he answers. I could think of a million reasons why not. I hadn't the foresight to count my brother Doug among those reasons.
I know I haven't talked much about my broher Doug. Ever, really. He's my eldest brother, the only one still standing, and his drinking problem was one of revolutionary proportion.
So, when I found out about my new house deal, of course I wanted to share my good fortune with my family. They'd be glad because I didn't have to sleep on the couch anymore. Doug was especially supportive. He thought it was great. He asked where it was. The part I forgot to mention -- to Doug-- is that the deal wasn't quite done. I wasn't to move in for a couple more days.
I pulled into work the next day, happy to be 22, happy to have a place to live. When I got to Katie's room, Ivan was tapping the toes of his Russian shoes, looking at the floor. "Der vas a man in de haus."
I was horrified. A MAN? In MY HOUSE? "Oh, no!" I exclaimed in utter disbelief. "That is terrible!"
Well, as the truth descended on me like Russian shade, I realized de man was de brudder. Sacked out on the priceless sofa, drunk as a dog.
So much for the freebie house. But then, that was just one in a long line of near misses. For me and for Doug. I may still be mad at him.
Soon after, I began having what I call "the moving dream." Its a recurrent dream where I have agreed to give up the place I live and rent a different house. It is perfect and full of priceless antiques. It seems too good to be true. As I move from room to room, however, it seems as though something is wrong. The rooms run into one another like one unfinished room with half-walls and suddenly the ceilings are too low and it is dark and I notice things like an old hairbrush and a silver mirror: things that belong to old women. And I realize I've rented a house that is already occupied and when I get to the last room, there is an old woman in a rocking chair wearing red long-johns.
Any dream interpreter would tell you I fear death, that the old woman is my crone, but I know better. It's just Katie.
chuck barris
I almost forgot to post about Wordstock, the fabulous writer's wet dream. It was really not fabulous at all, just a bunch of book sellers and vanity publishers and actual publishers and none of them were selling MY book so why would I care? Anyway, the point is that Chuck Barris was there.
I loved the Gong Show. Try as I may, I can't remember when it was... I think it was the mid-seventies, but I was there and it entertained me, loaded as a rat. So, when I saw that Chuck Barris was going to be there, of course I couldn't pass it up. I saw Confessions of a Dangerous Mind in the theatre, which means I was really happy to pay money to see it. Anything about the Gong Show interests me. And there I was, sitting in the middle of a bunch of empty chairs waiting for the host of the Gong Show to entertain me one more time. The creator. The first reality TV. Blamed in large part for the decline of modern civilization.
There are predictable questions that an audience of would-be writers asks of established-if-not-really-successful other writers on the speaking circuit. One is: why did you become a writer? If they are honest, they say, "Because it looked easier than having a real job." But they usually claim to be motivated by a higher force-- they write because (in the immortal words of Rilke) they MUST. Barris answered honestly, to his credit. Another question often is: What do you want to be remembered for? And typically, the author will speak about a certain book or selfless act like childbirth as though giving birth were selfless. Chuck said this: "Hands down, I want to be remembered as an author, but I'll never be remembered as anything but the guy who created the Gong Show." And this is where I lost my question. Because I am guily of remembering him as just that. And I am sad that it is not his best memory. Mine is tainted because of it. If I had created the Gong Show, I'd wear a t-shirt that said it every day.
My question was going to be, "Are there any Gong Show tapes?" But obviously, it would have been a crass thing to ask in the face of his need to be seen as an author. The book he was promoting was a reprint of something he wrote in the seventies. See? Not memorable.
I loved the Gong Show. Try as I may, I can't remember when it was... I think it was the mid-seventies, but I was there and it entertained me, loaded as a rat. So, when I saw that Chuck Barris was going to be there, of course I couldn't pass it up. I saw Confessions of a Dangerous Mind in the theatre, which means I was really happy to pay money to see it. Anything about the Gong Show interests me. And there I was, sitting in the middle of a bunch of empty chairs waiting for the host of the Gong Show to entertain me one more time. The creator. The first reality TV. Blamed in large part for the decline of modern civilization.
There are predictable questions that an audience of would-be writers asks of established-if-not-really-successful other writers on the speaking circuit. One is: why did you become a writer? If they are honest, they say, "Because it looked easier than having a real job." But they usually claim to be motivated by a higher force-- they write because (in the immortal words of Rilke) they MUST. Barris answered honestly, to his credit. Another question often is: What do you want to be remembered for? And typically, the author will speak about a certain book or selfless act like childbirth as though giving birth were selfless. Chuck said this: "Hands down, I want to be remembered as an author, but I'll never be remembered as anything but the guy who created the Gong Show." And this is where I lost my question. Because I am guily of remembering him as just that. And I am sad that it is not his best memory. Mine is tainted because of it. If I had created the Gong Show, I'd wear a t-shirt that said it every day.
My question was going to be, "Are there any Gong Show tapes?" But obviously, it would have been a crass thing to ask in the face of his need to be seen as an author. The book he was promoting was a reprint of something he wrote in the seventies. See? Not memorable.
Friday, May 05, 2006
glee
Friday of my second week.
I remember when I used to work in an activity department in a nursing home. Years and years ago. I remember Katie Bolhivitzen. She was a Russian doctor who imigrated during the cold war and her credentials only allowed her to work as a nurse. My job was to make old people have fun; to create the illusion of gaiety, of propriety, life in the face of marching death. It was not an easy job, but to do it at all one had to believe in it and I did not. Could not. Had seen too much by then. Too much by far. When I finally told Katie she didn't have to do anything anymore -- didn't have to come to the party, didn't have to make the macaroni-covered bleach bottle vase -- it wasn't really my idea. She just said, in her little Russian voice, "I'm ninety six. I shouldn't have to play Bingo." And in that moment it was over for me. I could no longer, for the sake of the daughters -- because it is always the daughters and never the sons who pick up the pieces at the end of a life -- stall.
It is always like that for me: okay one day, gone the next. I don't think its because I'm not paying attention and I just look up one day and everything has gone to shit, and I don't think its because I have a low tolerance for crap. Quite the opposite. I believe I am tortured with certainty, and once I know, I can't unknow it. And the terrible thing is that it keeps changing. Which, in retrospect, makes me look like an idiot. Or it is as simple as this: I am willing to do just about anything for a buck for awhile, then, not.
The work is different this time, but is never different, not really. They are still dying and we are still hanging on. We no longer insist that old people have fun, but still we cannot endure the silence, the disengagement, the paper crackling absence that is the sound of life ending. We want music, dammit. We want cake. We want cheese and crackers and slices of spicy salami, we who have teeth. It makes us feel better. But those who cannot see and cannot chew and cannot hear and do not care... what of them?
Oh, who cares? I dig this job, and think I am probably old enough to finally appreciate the notion of stalling death, of masking the grim reaper and letting him pass them by for one more day. I won't let him in the locked doors. Not just yet. Not on my watch.
I remember when I used to work in an activity department in a nursing home. Years and years ago. I remember Katie Bolhivitzen. She was a Russian doctor who imigrated during the cold war and her credentials only allowed her to work as a nurse. My job was to make old people have fun; to create the illusion of gaiety, of propriety, life in the face of marching death. It was not an easy job, but to do it at all one had to believe in it and I did not. Could not. Had seen too much by then. Too much by far. When I finally told Katie she didn't have to do anything anymore -- didn't have to come to the party, didn't have to make the macaroni-covered bleach bottle vase -- it wasn't really my idea. She just said, in her little Russian voice, "I'm ninety six. I shouldn't have to play Bingo." And in that moment it was over for me. I could no longer, for the sake of the daughters -- because it is always the daughters and never the sons who pick up the pieces at the end of a life -- stall.
It is always like that for me: okay one day, gone the next. I don't think its because I'm not paying attention and I just look up one day and everything has gone to shit, and I don't think its because I have a low tolerance for crap. Quite the opposite. I believe I am tortured with certainty, and once I know, I can't unknow it. And the terrible thing is that it keeps changing. Which, in retrospect, makes me look like an idiot. Or it is as simple as this: I am willing to do just about anything for a buck for awhile, then, not.
The work is different this time, but is never different, not really. They are still dying and we are still hanging on. We no longer insist that old people have fun, but still we cannot endure the silence, the disengagement, the paper crackling absence that is the sound of life ending. We want music, dammit. We want cake. We want cheese and crackers and slices of spicy salami, we who have teeth. It makes us feel better. But those who cannot see and cannot chew and cannot hear and do not care... what of them?
Oh, who cares? I dig this job, and think I am probably old enough to finally appreciate the notion of stalling death, of masking the grim reaper and letting him pass them by for one more day. I won't let him in the locked doors. Not just yet. Not on my watch.
Saturday, April 29, 2006
clamming 102
Before I get to the new clamming information, I want to talk about lilacs. Our back yard is bursting with them, purple and white (my favorite) and with this rain, they are so heavy with blossoms they are about to snap.
So, here's a new trick about cleaning razor clams: when you get them home, dip briefly (4 seconds) in boiling water, then into ice water, and the shells will pop right off. This beats the hell out of hacking them out of their shells -- shucking. I suppose it is shucking either way. And I can't imagine that either way is easy for the clam.
So, here's a new trick about cleaning razor clams: when you get them home, dip briefly (4 seconds) in boiling water, then into ice water, and the shells will pop right off. This beats the hell out of hacking them out of their shells -- shucking. I suppose it is shucking either way. And I can't imagine that either way is easy for the clam.
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