do si do

Today I leaned down and whispered in Stella's ear: Go on, now. Your husband is waiting. Your children are fine. Go on now and squaredance in heaven. I'll bet it will be really fun.

So she did.

Stella loved to squaredance. She loved the company of men, and touted the benefits of vitamin D long after she'd lost track of time and family. Every day she would ask me if I'd seen her people. I'd lie, like I do, and tell her they were coming, just before dinner or lunch or whatever came next. She had pink gingham squaredance dresses with layers of tulle under-slips that spun when she did, and a husband who wore one of those string ties, texan ties, with a fishing fly embedded in resin for a clasp. Stella had perfect white hair and piles of costume jewelery. She always matched. Knee deep in Alzheimer's and still had her manners.

The girls say they go in threes. They say it happens on the full of the moon. I don't know if any of this is true. They all die, and the moon is full sometimes. Stella makes two. Or two hundred. They, the girls, the women who work in the trenches, have to make sense of it all. To me, it is both random and predictable. An even hand doling out pain and justice in equal parts. Life is fair, misery optional. It seems about time for death to take a holiday.

death in the time of hypochondria

Aubrey's heart is dying and she knows it. Today I sat down next to her and she said,

When is this service going to be over?

Me: Are we at a service?

(Nodding) The funeral.

Me: Oh. Who are they burying?

Anyone who stops by.

Me: Ah. Well, I can't hear them. I didn't know.

Well, they don't talk in words you can hear.

Me: Oh. I see.


It is hard to know when a hypochondriac is sick. Even harder to convince a family who has grown tired of the chronic complaints, suspicious of symptoms, reluctant to even answer the phone.

But she was sick, and with bluing fingers and a rapid heart, she slipped away. The cry of wolf echoing in the hallways.

poem

My cousin Darla sent me the poem below. I love it.

Last night she and her guy and me and mine had dinner at our house: a seafood boil. It was an experiment in trust. Us to make it, them to eat it. We layered red potatoes, broken corn on the cob, fish fish fish, 5 lbs. of steamers, 2 lbs. of shrimp, 2 dungeoness crab --

(Crab is plural for crab. Like sheep and sheep. You wouldn't say "crabs." Crabs is only proper usage such as in the following sentence, "He has the crabs." Its something you might hear around Charleston in the winter. But how would I know?)

--and andoullie sausage. So anyway, you cook it all in this broth of seasonings: 1/2 bag of louisiana crab and shrimp boil, 2 lemons, one beer, an onion and a head of garlic. Boil the heck out of it and let it set. The longer it sets, the spicier it gets. Yum. The corn was outstanding.

It was good to get together for something other than a funeral.



I Confess

I stalked her in the grocery store:
her crown of snowy braids held in place by a great silver clip,
her erect bearing, radiating tenderness,
the way she placed yogurt and avocadoes in her basket,
beaming peach like the North Star.
I wanted to ask
“What aisle did you find your serenity in,
do you know how to be married for fifty years,
or how to live alone,
excuse me for interrupting,
but you seem to possess some knowledge
that makes the earth burn and turn on its axis—”
but we don’t request such things from strangers nowadays.
So I said, “I love your hair.”

Alison Luterman

elemental

I was driving home today, trying to figure out what to make for dinner and Bad Moon Rising started playing on the radio. I have had the best last few radio days, B-52's Love Shack, Don't You Forget About Me (Simple Minds), but Bad Moon Rising, that was pure Joyce. I knew immediately that she was controlling the music and playing it for me.

I don't really believe that, but I could.

So I thought of her, fondly, remembering the time we crashed head-on into an Ashland cop while listening to Credence Clearwater and anyway, she went to jail and I didn't. And she died and I didn't and my brother died and I didn't and my sister is strung out on methadone and I'm not and I know I've made some unpopular decisions and walked away from my family to survive, and there is guilt in that. Survivor guilt.

and an element of grace.

fake berry picking

When my honey hooked the truck up to his new boat and trailer and said, "I'm going to take you blackberry picking," I knew we were really just going on the maiden voyage. A boat ride. Nevertheless, I wore my overalls, the painting ones, the ones that are more patch than pant, and a red cami underneath. It is so hot. Too hot for me. But I won't pick berries in my good clothes. I know better.

So there I was, looking like a poor farmer's wife, waiting to climb in the new boat. Now during fishing season, this wouldn't be such a big deal, but this is high summer and Willamette Park was packed with every million dollar race boat, every hot babe, male and female, in the metro area.

Its bad enough to be old and overweight in public, add to that bra-less and in paint-spattered, quilt patched overalls, with a brim-only straw sun hat. If my sun hat had a price tag hanging off it, I could have been mistaken for Minnie Pearl. Only she wasn't fat.

It was not a good self-esteem moment. Note to self: always dress for success. Get new berry-picking clothes.

Naw.

So, I'm coming down off the family death thing. Joyce's funeral was nice. My sister didn't make it because she was in the hospital, and the wierd thing is, when Marc died (Joyce's husband-my brother) my other brother went into the hospital the day after the funeral and was diagnosed with Congestive Heart Failure. Turns out this is the same thing my sister has. I'm not surprised. I rarely am.

stolen poetry

Thanks to K&F Coffee Shop for this one, torn thoughtlessly out of the June 7 New Yorker.

A Maxim

To live each day as if it might be the last
Is an injunction that Marcus Aurelius
Inscribes in his journal to remind himself
That he, too, however privileged, is mortal,
That whatever bounty is destined to reach him
Has reached him already, many times.
But if you take his maxim too literally
And devote your mornings to tinkering with your will,
Your afternoons and evenings to saying farewell
To friends and family, you'll come to regret it.
Soon your lawyer won't fit you into his schedule.
Soon your dear ones will hide in a closet
When they hear your heavy step on the porch.
And then your house will slide into disrepair.
If this is my last day, you'll say to yourself,
Why waste time sealing drafts in the window frames
Or cleaning gutters or patching the driveway?
If you don't want your heirs to curse the day
You first opened Marcus's journals,
Take him simply to mean you should find an hour
Each day to pay a debt or forgive one,
Or write a letter of thanks or apology.
No shame in leaving behind some evidence
You were hoping to live beyond the moment.
No shame in a ticket to a concert seven months off,
Or, better yet, two tickets, as if you were hoping
To meet by then someone who'd love to join you,
Two seats near the front so you can catch each note.

~ Carl Dennis

sister joyce

In my family we die too young. We barely make sixty, if that. It is usually because we drink.

There are certain people who have geographic weight. I can't explain this. Joyce lived in Central Point and now she is gone. It is hard to know why I would go back there now. She tethered our family for over forty years, a family that was fractured by her presence. She came to stay when I was thirteen and we were never the same. She is not to blame for our undoing, that would not be fair or true, but sins and decisions being what they are, we were changed by those things.

I drove around Central Point and Medford today as if in a dream, lost in time, memories so dense I had to brush them from my vision, thick as cobwebs, driving to and from the hospital as she died. I had to come back to say goodbye, to thank her for taking care of me in the years before I decided to save my life -- to let my life be saved by the outstretched hands of others, hands she would not hold onto. Could not.

I just wanted to keep standing in her house among her children and her belongings, little things we had gathered at yard sales, had packed and repacked, moving to house after house: gnomes with green hats, red spatterware spoons, fiestaware, small oval rag rugs, a glass scottie dog, a sock monkey, a framed picture of Christ in Gethsemane, endless earrings and candles and fifteen tiny bags of weed here and there, forgotten in the clutter of life's ending. As long as I stayed in the house, it wasn't real.

But I am home now, and she is gone, my sister -in law and out,-my friend of so many many years. I miss her already. Rest in Peace.

yard sales

Saturday was the Division/Clinton Street Fair(e). We walked up Division looking at all of the booths and I am always intrigued, and frankly, bored, by the similarity of all the crafty offerings. We drove from Ashland to Nevada City to Yosemite, to San Fran, to Tomales, to Fort Bragg and to Port Orford, and everything is pretty much the same. Not the view. Not like that. But things that are for sale. Used to be you went to the coast and found coastie things, went to San Francisco and got, well, you know. Sourdough. But now, the homogeneous nature of saleable items is tiresome. I was looking for candlesticks. For those of you who know me, you'll recall my former habit of going to yardsales to find the best candlestick I could for five bucks or less. Now, willing to spend almost any amount of money, I can't find anything unusual. I found some at Pottery Barn that I liked, but I wanted something unique, not some yuppy factory that pumps out the good life in cookie cutter perfection. So I looked and looked. 2000 miles later, I came home bought the Pottery Barn candlesticks.



I am so predictable.



But what, you'll ask, of all my old five-dollar candlesticks? Well, I have some of them here and there, but I needed black ones for this one special place. So now I have them. I hope I'm happy.



Between the trip and camping, we had a yard sale. It was huge and I sold things I swore I'd never part with. I hold out and hold out and think I know what will sell and what won't and I'm always wrong. I keep stuff until the yard sale people don't even want it. I wonder what it is about stuff, about shopping for stuff, about the way stuff catches my eye and I must have it. Must have it. Like the bird at Twist that costs 264 dollars. It is not a live bird, let me clear that up right quick. It is this kitschy plaster thing that I could probably make, and may try, but it is so cool and as my darling husband says as he drags me whining and drooling from the store on his birthday, it'll end up in a yard sale two years from now.

I hate it when he's right.

So... yard sale over, we were able to locate the camping gear. We packed up and camped up the Clackamas at Indian Henry for a couple of days, only a couple, because my neck broke again. We canoe-d on Lake Harriet which was really fun and beautiful. Carrying the canoe may have been the straw that doomed the trip. I don't know. I was picking moss out of Duffy's coat for days.

So, yard sales and vacations over with, I'm back at work and beginning physical therapy tomorrow.

more and more

Now I prepare to camp. I am always pretty much ready, but lacking a memory, I must forage through pre-packed boxes and make sure I don't get far from home without a coffee pot. And coffee. Let's not forget the coffee. And matches, all safe in baggies, and dish soap. I own everything one can own for camping with the exception of a camper, which, the older I get, the more appealing they are. Was a time I thought it was a sin to use anything but a tent -- akin to the lead pencil society and those good women who still use cloth diapers and serve nothing but turkey on Thanksgiving, but I digress.

We will rent a trailer -- an open one this time -- and head up the Clackamas for a couple of days. It ain't Yosemite, but it is nice and green and cool, and I will finish typing my book if it kills me.

It won't kill me, right?

parks

There is alot to be said about National Parks, and OPB did a fine job of it last year. Their piece on Yosemite inspired this vacation. This part of this vacation anyway. At this time I am back in my (90 degree) house, dogs as happy as we are to be out of the truck. We've travelled some 2000 miles since last Friday, and I only drove for 45 minutes. Men.

So, Yosemite... As a writer, I should be able to come up with something at least descriptive, but adjectives fail me. So far it is probably the most remarkable geological sight I've seen. I'm so glad we went, so glad we could go... that is, had the resources to play, spend, etc. Our fabulous vacation has been dimmed by the knowlege that two family members are losing their homes to foreclosure, both trying to save them, but probably not going to swing it. I am acutely aware that this could be me, could be us, and we discussed considering a plan B should we find ourselves out of work or otherwise unable to earn. We do earn our pay, my honey and I. We both do stuff we'd probably rather not, every day. I don't feel guilty, but I am grateful.



So, back to the parks. I loved Glacier. It was so surprising. And Ansel Adams had already sort of pulled the cover on Yosemite, but still, being there doesn't compare. We drove to the top of Glacier Point and looked down over Yosemite Valley, cars like ants, and looked through a scope of some kind at Half Dome where there were a bunch of people standing who had climbed up there. Climbed. My visit to Yosemite was pretty much a drive-by. We did walk up to one waterfall, but we all know how atheletic I am. (See post on Devil's Churn.) Still and all, I prefer the Redwoods to anything. Anything I've ever seen. It is heaven to me, tall lacey trees, dense fern undergrowth, fog hanging in the treetops. Dappled sunlight blinking through the curves. Yep. That's the one for me. Fortunately, we also went through the redwoods.

So we exited Yosemite and spent that night in Mariposa, an armpit of a town, and left the next moring for San Francisco. It was another drive-by because the point was not the city, but the drive up Highway One. The Whole Thing. Again, searching for adjectives and modifiers: very curvy. We spent the next night in Fort Bragg after stopping for oyster shooters at Tomales and enjoying the cool of the coast as we learned that inland it was 100. We debated going back into the valley (Rogue) to visit family on the way home, but phoned in our apologies: we are hugging the coast as long as we can.

Tonight I will sleep in my living room with a fan blowing on Duffy and me, and await the coming of fall. Pictures to come

from the road

Sutter's Mill

4th of July Parade, Nevada City

Sutter's Mill Three tin buildings in Nevada City

Stone house in Nevada City, Downtown NC

Castle Crags where Kurt didn't want to go but I insisted because I was absolutely certain the view would be better but it wasn't.

Spent our first night at Shona and Bobby's house in Ashland, breakfast with Cooky and Tracy at the Talent Cafe where I used to breakfast on weekends and on the road to Nevada City a day early. Stayed 2 days at the Northern Queen, a great spot for the dogs and for us. Sid and Duffy get to poop in special places and sleep on motel beds. The 4th of July was a small town parade in Nevada City with an enormous Tea Party contigent, no doubt sponsored by the Republican Party. We returned to our room and the pool. Put on a movie for the dogs and swam for the first time in a long time. I bought an awful boob-fest of a bathing suit at Walmart, but now that we are in Sonora California, I'm damn glad to have it, splashy hibiscus flowers and all. When we checked the weather before we left, I packed for the low eighties, but being a Portland resident, with access to sunlight only via the consumption of liquid vitamin D, I am in Southeast California and it is hot.

Damn hot.

So like the natives, we hide in the daytime, beautiful room in Sonora with a nice pool and AC. It is dangerous for the doggies, and at this point, I could be resentful that they are with us, but I don't even want to be out in it. Tomorrow we will see Yosemite and stay at the lower end of the park and head for San Francisco Wed. morning.

Nevada City is beautiful, and like all beautiful places, I think I could live there, given a huge advance on that novel I never seem to write. Sonora is too hot for me.

manzanita

I am in Manzanita again, Summer in Words, a three-day workshop with various writing instructors, writers, poets, wannabees. Few of the latter this time around. Very good information about structure that pulls little threads loose from the fabric of all I think about writing and unravels certainty.

This is not a bad thing. But it does inspire me to create a folder called "writing practice" and put the last 15 years of writing in it. One of the instructors was that convincing. Those of you who know me, and who write because you have to, will not be surprised. I've been looking for the grail for awhile and may have found it. Or that's how it seems today. The whole notion of get an idea and just see where it goes has cost me alot of time and money.

But Duffy and me are here, staring out at a bright ocean, kite-surfers flinging along the waves, and I am heading over to have jambalaya with Jessica. Duffy is being so good.

return day

This is not the photo I intended to post. I was going for a shot of my coffee table, but here is it anyway, my old house in Talent.


From time to time I dedicate a day to saving myself a little, or a lot, of money. It usually evens out in favor of money, but I do what I can.



I am a catalog shopper. Truthfully, I'm just an all around shopper, but for today, let's just focus on the catalog expenditures. They add up. They never seem like much, late in the evening, feet up on the coffee table, the click of numbers don't seem related to cash. But they are. Then the clothes arrive -- always clothes -- and sometimes they fit, sometimes I hate them. So back they go... but that's the thing... often not for months and months. I gotta hand it to those catalog companies.... too many to mention, j.jill my favorite, they'll wait a very long time, take my returns, and give me my money back. They are patient though. With each new return comes another catalog, another opportunity for disappointment or delight. Neither lasts very long.


But today is return day. I gathered up that pair of maroon velvet shoes that were too narrow; a great big vest I must have bought on a very fat day; an even bigger black silk blouse I could get lost in; one black turtle neck sweater -- I have too many already -- and a number of other items I once couldn't live without. I marched down to Fred Meyer, purchased a roll of strapping tape, some brown wrapping paper and went for it. I sat in the parking lot and wrapped my packages like Christmas in June on asphalt. Only one person commented on the amount of tape I was using. You could hear it stripping off the reel across the parking lot. I always consider nuclear explosions a possibility and take appropriate precautions. I forgot to bring scissors, so my pocket knife had to do. Since I was in the wrap and send mode, I also send some beautiful wool fabric to my friend. Then, I stacked my packages in front of Duffy's little car seat, drove to UPS and off they went. Ahhhh. A cleansing breath.

Thanks for not asking why I thought I needed maroon velvet shoes.

At any rate, there's nothing like new carpet and linoleum to inspire a good house cleaning. Our carpet goes in tomorrow, linoleum next day, yard sale the following weekend. It's gonna be big. I'm in the mood to get rid of everything. I won't, of course, but once the house gets put back together, there is likely to be some excess. Tiny bit.

One thing for sure, I'm finally getting rid of my coffee table, the one I bought for ten bucks from Tracy. She'd had it stored beneath some rabbit cages for years. Cooky had it before she did. looking around, it is one of the only remaining vestiges of my yard sale life. I love that table.

myna and earl and carpet carl

I am (we are) finally finally finally getting new carpet and linoleum. Carpet in the living room, linoleum in the entry and the kitchen. And you are first to see it. As you might expect, I chose linoleum that looks like faded barnboards. Poverty lingers. Had things gone my way, I'd have had the carpet changed before I moved in. I didn't post a picture of the 60's gold hi-low shag that I've lived with, decorated in spite of, for the past six years. Poor me.

So.... The carpet is called praline frieze (pronounced frizzay) I called it pecan frappe. Close enough. We are buying it from Carpet Carl at a huge warehouse because his saleswoman was really helpful and knew her business. We had to check three places because Kurt has to be a smart shopper. Me, on the other hand, will write you a blank check and trust it will turn out nice. I knew what I wanted, carpet-wise, but had to go back -- but only once -- to choose the linoleum. Once I found the faded birch floor boards, I was done. I know what I want. And the carpet already looks dirty, so I'm home free. The other carpet places weren't nice to us. I felt like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman trying to shop. If they only knew how willing I am to spend.

Well, back to living among the dying.... last week two slipped away. We'll call them Earl and Myna. Earl had the smile of a young man, grinned ear to ear whether he knew what was going on or not. His family, simple round people, were kind to him after solving the problem of one of the relatives going after the big money. People are so wierd about money. Really. These two didn't care at all. They just got Dad what he needed, paid his bills and came when they could. Earl always seemed happy to see them. His heart finally failed him, or gave him an out. I can never decide which it is. Heart failure? Not always.

Myna was a pilot. I don't know if she lived with the same dignity with which she died, but this was a woman with Parkinson's who knew what was happening to her. She made the decision long ago to let things go at a certain point, and when the certain point came, she stuck to her guns. I have great respect for hospice, overall, but the particular agency that handled her passing was crappy. I won' t out them here, it wouldn't be right, but they actually challenged her decision to deny tube feeding. As she lay dying, she looked at the nurse, and back at her husband, and said, with great effort, "Haven't I already told you this?" I called them, complained, and they left her alone (well, not alone, but you get the idea.) Dying is hard enough work without some bozo nurse overriding advance directives in some misguided heroic intervention. So Myna found her way out. Quietly, calmly, sweetly. We found a picture of her flying: beautiful, alive, at the controls panel in the cockpit. I will remember her that way.

southland in may

Soft new green spreads seductively across the rolling hills of southern oregon, my homeland. They will be brown mid-july. Its all a trick. But there is nothing like the Applegate Valley in the springtime.

The first night we stayed at Marky's house. He made a London broil and a great salad with Yukon Gold potatoes. He is such a good cook. He says I always made red potatoes. He talks alot about his growing up years, and fondly. I shudder and hope. He is kind and forgiving. At 32 he is talking about forgiveness in ways I didn't consider until well into my forties.


Saturday night we stayed at the outlaws place. I am becoming more and more a part of that family. I feel like the children who come up when we visit -- they aren't children, really, but 20 and 30-somethings -- know me, and trust me. That feels good. We stayed in our usual little cabin and it is so beautiful there, Eliot Creek babbling outside the bedroom window, sky full of stars I never get to see anymore.

uh

I am tired of writing about the failure of my physical body.

I just signed up and paid for a weekend writing workshop. It is called "deepening the craft." I paid for it so I have to go. This means I now must fine tune the first few chapters of my book for the pros to look at. Hey wait. I'm a pro. Anyway, Even though I am bringing chapters to be "workshopped," I don't want to be caught too off-guard. And... the process kills me. But I am a writer, and must, from time to time, sit among my peers and take the heat whether I agree with it or not.

We just finished dinner, dry-rubbed pork chops, red beans and rice, quick-fried zuchinni, red peppers and onion. We are trying to eat a little differently, less food, more exercise. I actually made a week's menu: pork, eggplant parmesan, lemon-garlic chicken and salad, clam chowder, then on friday night, Mark will cook for us in Gold Hill. We're doing a drive-by visit to the fams. Mark wants to take us on a drift boat ride on the Rogue on Saturday morning, so we might do that. Then, out to Bob's for Saturday. He has a pretty mean old dog, so I'm not exactly sure if we'll be staying out there with no place to keep our pups. Duffy is mean, but he couldn't take Bandit on his meanest day. Bandit is a badass country dog. Our white city dogs just don't know how to act up there in the dirt. Just to clarify, they are white dogs from the city. Not White City dogs. Big difference. Huge.

Well, it is the final episode of Survivor for this season. We literally plan our week around this stupid show. I always have since it started, but it has anchored our married life for six years. Every thursday night is Survivor Night, which means we have thin-crust pizza from Papa Murphy's, sit and wait to see the darwinian exposition play out. Tonight, someone will win. Will it be Russell the Evil One? He could win, although I hope he doesn't. I don't know who I really want to win. I'll just miss it when its done.

motherhood

I know I shouldn't let my happiness hinge on a single phone call from my son on Mother's Day, but it does, these thirty-some years later. And he called early, so my day was a happy one.

We took Kurt's mom out for breakfast and my eggs were cold, so was the sausage, but the french toast was fine. I only order the eggs and sausage to justify the french toast anyway. My logic is complex. Live a long long time on Adkins and you eventually begin to consider things like sausage and cheese health food.

When we got home I began painting another old wooden table. This one will be off white, red, yellow and purple to begin with. It is to remain on the porch, so will be painted to match the red adirondack chairs.

So it is now two days until my shot, but who's counting?

spine needles

I am scheduled to have an injection in my spine next Tuesday. That gives me four days to think about it, or talk myself out of it, which I would if my neckshouldercollarbone didn't hurt so freaking bad. I've had the year of bronchitis, the year of the bladder infection and now, the year of pain. But sticking pins in me..... in my spine, ick. I have quadraphobia: the fear of becoming quadraplegic. I made that up.

As is my custom, I plan for the other side of this calamity, the finish line, the end of all discomfort. I look forward to the moment when I am released from surgery or whatever, at which time I will embark upon my real life, the one where I eat right and keep fit. In some countries, this is considered magical thinking -- as though one event could flip some sort of psychic switch and change me into a motivated and energetic life-magnet, with a new lycra wardrobe and sketcher tennis shoes that would stablize my core. Magically. Effortlessly. That's my mantra: effortlesslyeffortlesslyeffortlessly. Ah, if only.

While I was visiting the spine and pain center, we got to talking about women who have fibromyalgia -- now I don't want to start any blogwars or anything, so if you have it, just ignore me. Most people do. But I've never considered it a legitimate diagnosis. I think it is evidence of misery-- quite real misery-- and a penchant for visiting medical professionals. Either that or they are just too old and tired to hit the streets for dope anymore.

Whatever the case, I told the doc that I was much to young to feel so old and didn't believe in pain-as-life, or pain instead of life, and just wanted the shot. Now please. But I couldn't have it now. I have to wait four days. Four whole days. I'm not that good at waiting.

He asked me if I wanted sedation for the shot. It was hard not to laugh. Yes. I want sedation. Me and sedation are old friends.

cinco

What's it all mean? Is this Mexican independence day or what? We went out to dinner at a crappy Mexican restaurant on Division. I wish restaurants would only serve what they are good at. For instance, this place probably does great vegan food -- it has a full vegan menu -- but the carne asada, my favorite, was awful. Tough as shoe leather, flavorless, no charring, no salt, and no salt in the house. I like salt alot. Ask my blood pressure. And the salsa was watered down so much the plate was a swamp. But the plates were square, and you got to bus your own tables, so that was fun.

It is my brother Marc's birthday, that much I do know. He would have been... let's see... 63 or something. He didn't live long enough. His liver didn't, anyway. Happy Birthday Marc. Wish you were here.

six moonstruck truffles

It has been six years since I married the boy of my dreams. I remember so clearly, ironing his shirt before we left for the small ceremony, a light blue denim to match his eyes and my baby blue summer linen dress. I carried flowers that Deborah gave me and even though I didn't like them, I put a bunch of roses from our back yard in among them and they were beautiful. I didn't plan a wedding. I couldn't. The move alone created enough anxiety.

Now, a Portlander and a wife, I am content in my home on Clinton Street, still fascinated with life in this odd little town of a city.

Last night we drove to Seaside and stayed in the motel we usually stay in on our anniversary. We clammed this morning, drove home, cleaned them, ate fried clams for dinner and shared six moonstruck truffles for desert.

Happy Anniversary to us.