Friday, November 18, 2016

Through a New Lens

November 2016

Election day passes
drop by drop
at the eye surgery center.

My right eye
is stripped of clouds,
the lens replaced.

I watch vote counts,
plastic taped across my eye,
vision obscured, outcome uncertain.

The morning after, no flash of light.
I fight the urge to rub an itch,
to blink away peripheral discomfort.

I wear dark goggles in bright sun
and drive without my glasses,
signs and stoplights clear and bright.

At follow-up, pressure reading: 22.
Is that good? The doc evades,
confuses by adding one more drop.

Three times a day
I stop everything,
follow instructions and treat my eye:
drop #1, three minutes, eyes closed;
drop #2, breathe in, breathe out;
drop #3, inhale, exhale, relax.

I rise lightheaded yet must continue,
must use all drops
and drain each bottle.

I marvel at brightness,
rediscover color,
delight in detail.

Even so, I dare not look
beyond today, cannot envision
two-thousand-seventeen.

Sunday, August 28, 2016

Meeting Mr. Wonderful

On my hike Saturday, I met Mr. Wonderful. Tall, dark and very handsome, he stood in the shade with two female companions.

I hurried to catch up before they moved on. I couldn’t help myself, drawn by his black curls and gentle demeanor. His companions greeted me. He nodded my direction and gently touched my outstretched hand.

Embarrassed, I proceeded up the hill. They followed close behind, then passed me at the bench where I wrote a haiku to August. (Hillside by the trail/covered with blonde bedhead grass – /Northwest in August)

I tracked them to the top, eager to see him again. His companions explained that he didn’t like the downhill. We fell in together, the four of us, pausing whenever he did.

When they stopped halfway down, I decided to continue alone.

That’s when I learned his name.

Noodle, the black Labradoodle. What a guy!

Thursday, August 25, 2016

Learning to be late

No magazines to spread germs.
No music to soothe or annoy.
No cell phone use allowed.
No clock to track the time.

Nothing to keep anxiety at bay.

The water cooler breaks the quiet, then silences itself.

I breathe, close my eyes, concentrate on calm, resist impulse to check my phone for the time.

I watch those who arrived before and after me disappear then reemerge.

I wait for a tardy friend just fifteen minutes.

How long do I wait for the doctor?

Conversations between patients and receptionists fill the silence, then drain away.

Doors open, others are called.
Doors open, others exit.

I fidget. The urge to pee grows.
But do I dare lock myself behind that solid door far across the room?

Surely I must be next.

A woman in wheel chair checks in, fills her paperwork, rolls off to see the doctor.

Almost thirty minutes since I checked in.
Did I get the time wrong?

I pace, carrying the sheet of paper from check-in.
Then I notice the appointment time:
Twenty minutes after what I’d written down six months ago.

And at that point I am called.
In their view, right on time.

But now my blood pressure is up.
I ask the reason for 20 minute difference between arrival and appointment.
We need you here early.

Well, yes, I’m always early.
But I didn’t hear suggested arrival time,
I heard this is your appointment time.

Next time, I’ll show up five minutes after that suggested arrival time.

Someone can wait for me for a change. I need to learn how to be late.

Thursday, August 4, 2016

Chrome, the Cheshire Cat of Windows 10

Badgered into moving
from my cozy internet connection
I succumbed,
I accepted,
I downloaded.

Ten is the number assigned
to my new improved Window
on cyberspace.

A round, promising ten.

They guaranteed I would be pleased,
would find my way with grace and speed.

I spent days, like Alice
chasing a vanished Cheshire smile,
searching for my own Chrome Cat,
circling, cycling,
turning and turning
and returning
to try again.

I glimpsed that elusive Cat before
it faded to a round afterimage
that pulsed when touched
then slept.

Where had he hid, that sneaky creature?

I asked the cybernerds for help
to find elusive Chrome-y Cat
and learned I’m not the only one
pawing through the tangled Web,
grasping at that small balloon,
to watch it vanish once again,
then emerge when I look
the other way.

But no, I haven’t really tracked him
cannot trick him into staying.

So like a cat! Yet I persist,
hope to coax him back to me,
entice him to purr again
and consent to stay.

Thursday, July 7, 2016

A Moving Experience

Yes, once again, I’m moving. Or, more accurately, have moved. I’m nearly settled in my new place, but I don’t want to forget the process. Like a stray cat, I hope this will be my forever home, that I’m cured of my wandering ways.

It all began when my landlord offered to sell his townhouse-style condo to me. I discovered I could get affordable financing. I also realized I didn’t want a two-story unit.

I told him I would be happy to have his place on the market while I looked for another. I would try to ‘stage’ it and would stay out of the way during showings.

That was on April 13, 2016.

Now that I had qualified for mortgage money, I began looking. I told everyone I knew, including the condo manager.

On April 18, the condo manager called. A single-level unit had just gone on the market. “Call the realtor,” she urged.

I saw the place that afternoon and made an offer the next day, with projected closing on the first of June. The seller accepted!

My notification to the landlord via email brought this response in less than half an hour:

I talked to my realtor and we will be putting the place on the market very soon. Hopefully everything will work out for the both of us.

Thus began the process. Completing loan application, property inspection, appraisal of the property, loan application sent to underwriting.

In the midst of this, many showings of the rental unit – and finally an offer. The physical inspection of that property took place the day my loan application went to underwriting!

Now I was getting nervous. Would I have to live out of my car beside a U-Haul filled with my household goods?

On May 19, my banker emailed of a possible May 27. Yay!

On May 20, she said probably not May 27, but June 1 looks good. Okay, I would miss the three-day Memorial Day weekend to begin the move. Sigh!

Email from banker May 24: your loan is in line with the condo department for a review of the condo docs. I tried to get an eta with no luck

Getting really nervous. I asked for clarification of what steps lay ahead.

Reply on May 25 @3:54pm: Your file is not out of underwriting yet.

Once we have the “clear to close” from underwriting your file will be placed in line for a Closing Disclosure to be prepared and sent to you via email.

Upon acknowledgement from you and return of the signed Closing Document* there are three days before you can sign your loan documents (this is a federal law).

On the third day after you acknowledge, sign and return your Closing Document we will prepare your loan documents and send them to the title company where you will sign said documents.

The title company will then send the signed loan document package back to us. We will then review the documents and fund the loan.

Depending on the time of day* we receive the loan package back and the number of other loans we need to fund as well, we may be able to fund your loan the following day. Otherwise it will be 2 business days after you sign your documents.


(*They often send these documents late in the day, sometimes after 11 p.m. What a mean joke! "You have to get things back to us right away, but we can wait until midnight to send them to you!")

And then this at 4:50pm: I just received an email with a few questions for the HOA manager for your condo complex that she did not answer in the beginning.

When I called, the manager was already madly faxing the info, though she said it was all answered in what she sent originally.

Then, on May 26, the bank asked for a 10-day extension on escrow closing! And I learned the rental will close on June 18. Cutting it close!

In the end, someone – probably The Force – stepped in and arranged a closing on June 1, with only a 24-hour waiting period before gaining access. Whew!

So now, I only have to change my address. On everything. Thank goodness I still have the list from my last move.

Life is good.

A Moving Experience

Yes, once again, I’m moving. Or, more accurately, have moved. I’m nearly settled in my new place, but I don’t want to forget the process. Like a stray cat, I hope this will be my forever home, that I’m cured of my wandering ways.

It all began when my landlord offered to sell his townhouse-style condo to me. I discovered I could get affordable financing. I also realized I didn’t want a two-story unit.

I told him I would be happy to have his place on the market while I looked for another. I would try to ‘stage’ it and would stay out of the way during showings.

That was on April 13, 2016.

Now that I had qualified for mortgage money, I began looking. I told everyone I knew, including the condo manager.

On April 18, the condo manager called. A single-level unit had just gone on the market. “Call the realtor,” she urged.

I saw the place that afternoon and made an offer the next day, with projected closing on the first of June. The seller accepted!

My notification to the landlord via email brought this response in less than half an hour:

I talked to my realtor and we will be putting the place on the market very soon. Hopefully everything will work out for the both of us.

Thus began the process. Completing loan application, property inspection, appraisal of the property, loan application sent to underwriting.

In the midst of this, many showings of the rental unit – and finally an offer. The physical inspection of that property took place the day my loan application went to underwriting!

Now I was getting nervous. Would I have to live out of my car beside a U-Haul filled with my household goods?

On May 19, my banker emailed of a possible May 27. Yay!

On May 20, she said probably not May 27, but June 1 looks good. Okay, I would miss the three-day Memorial Day weekend to begin the move. Sigh!

Email from banker May 24: your loan is in line with the condo department for a review of the condo docs. I tried to get an eta with no luck

Getting really nervous. I asked for clarification of what steps lay ahead.

Reply on May 25 @3:54pm: Your file is not out of underwriting yet.

Once we have the “clear to close” from underwriting your file will be placed in line for a Closing Disclosure to be prepared and sent to you via email.

Upon acknowledgement from you and return of the signed Closing Document* there are three days before you can sign your loan documents (this is a federal law).

On the third day after you acknowledge, sign and return your Closing Document we will prepare your loan documents and send them to the title company where you will sign said documents.

The title company will then send the signed loan document package back to us. We will then review the documents and fund the loan.

Depending on the time of day* we receive the loan package back and the number of other loans we need to fund as well, we may be able to fund your loan the following day. Otherwise it will be 2 business days after you sign your documents.


(*They often send these documents late in the day, sometimes after 11 p.m. What a mean joke! "You have to get things back to us right away, but we can wait until midnight to send them to you!")

And then this at 4:50pm: I just received an email with a few questions for the HOA manager for your condo complex that she did not answer in the beginning.

When I called, the manager was already madly faxing the info, though she said it was all answered in what she sent originally.

Then, on May 26, the bank asked for a 10-day extension on escrow closing! And I learned the rental will close on June 18. Cutting it close!

In the end, someone – probably The Force – stepped in and arranged a closing on June 1, with only a 24-hour waiting period before gaining access. Whew!

So now, I only have to change my address. On everything. Thank goodness I still have the list from my last move.

Life is good.

Tuesday, May 24, 2016

Respect and Responsibility

Saturday morning, I walked to the post office – a five mile round trip from my house. When I set out, I was in high spirits. That changed when I reached the river bank bike path near the Owosso Bridge.

Vandals had spray-painted every sign and the path as well. Such a disrespectful display of ignorance! I wanted to shake the culprits.

I tried to report the vandalism to the parks department, but they want me to make a police report. I can’t be the first who noticed. Do they need my name, birthday and driver’s license number for something like this?

But those juvenile actions are only a symptom of the general disrespect in our society today.

I’m dismayed that our political process has descended to name-calling and hatefulness. I’m terrified that Trump is the incarnation of Hitler. I’m appalled that Sanders did not rebuke his supporters for their violent actions at the Nevada convention. I’m offended that Hillary couldn’t even make an appearance in Oregon before the primary.

For a brief moment, I considered stopping my paper and ignoring the news until December.

Then I remembered. In the 1930s, decent Germans ignored or hid from reality. They went about their daily lives, oblivious to the fires of hell burning around them.

Yet what can we do? Our country is not – never has been – a true democracy. What I would like to see is a new electoral process. Institute a nation-wide presidential primary, preferably in late spring or early summer. Eliminate the Electoral College and make every vote count, whether in New Hampshire or Oregon.

Probably not going to happen. Still, I have to stand up for my beliefs. If that means filling out a police report, I gotta do it.

Wednesday, May 11, 2016

Going to Pot

I glanced at the front page headline: Growing concern.

“Not another story about pot!” I fumed.

I slapped the paper on the table and busied myself with breakfast.

For the last week, our paper had been full of stories about marijuana – producing it, cooking it, eating it – along with smaller articles on licensing to sell it. Two recent front page headlines about the business of recreational pot:
Scent of opportunity for commercial pot
and
Budding business draws restaurants

I was sick of it.

So I had to laugh when I sat down and really looked at the article. It was a story about overcrowded elementary school classrooms.

But why chose that headline?

Still, recreational marijuana worries me. Will the children in those crowded classrooms grow up to believe any discomfort must be removed immediately? I mean, life has bumps, from skinned knees and bruises to heartbreak and death. Maturity involves learning to cope rather than escape those painful experiences.

I grew up believing pot was dangerous - it took you directly to heroin!

And I came of age just as the Vietnam war began, graduating from high school in 1961, college in 1965. Boys I knew went to war. JFK was assassinated. Oswald was murdered while TV cameras rolled.

In 1968, after Dr. King and Bobby Kennedy were gunned down, my husband and I left for a year of study in Chile. Our departure coincided with the melee at the Democratic Convention in Chicago. We didn’t bother to get absentee ballots. We weren’t sure we’d come back.

When we returned in 1969, Allende hadn’t been elected yet. We knew he would be and were pleased when he was.

By then, the Vietnam conflict had grown. My husband’s brother, Danny, dropped out of school and enlisted in the army. He said they’d promised to send him to Germany, not Vietnam. When orders for ‘Nam came, Danny went AWOL.

He never went to Vietnam, somehow gaining a hardship discharge. Then, a year later, he died in a traffic accident, leaving his widow with a toddler and a baby not yet born.

And in Chile, on September 11, 1973, Salvador Allende died in a military coup. General Pinochet established a violent military dictatorship in what had been a democratic nation.

We stumbled back from Vietnam, recaptured some optimism, continued on. Only later did we learn our government’s role in Chile. Thankfully, both Chile and Vietnam eventually recovered from our interference.

Then came September 11, 2001. We plunged in again, ignoring painful lessons from our recent past. We’re up to our boot tops in the muck we’ve generated.

Now, the 2016 Presidential campaigns have the home waters roiling with disrespect and bluster. Everyone’s angry. Everyone’s scared.

We need to mellow out.

Oh, oh! That phrase from the 70s!

Going to pot – is that the solution?

Monday, April 18, 2016

Wogging

I started jogging in 1971. The running craze was in its infancy and I had no idea what I was doing. I wore old jeans, ragged shirts and tennis shoes. But our lab/shepherd pup, Lily, needed exercise.

We started small, circled the block. As Lily grew, we added more blocks. By the time she was grown, our route looped up through Hendricks Park – a pretty steep climb.

Years later I measured it: Almost three miles of up and down. Not bad for an ex-smoker.

I ran my first race in 1975. My pace – right at eight minutes – could be considered running. I bought running shoes. I bought running clothes. I subscribed to Runner Magazine. I hung out with other runners.

Thus began years of fun runs: Butte to Butte, Blue Heron, Strawberry Mountain Half-Marathon, Portland’s Cascade Runoff, and many more. I never tried a full marathon, never wanted to spend the required time training.

And my pace didn’t slow much until about ten years ago. I stopped calling myself a runner then. I became a jogger again. Still, it was heartening to hear that even famous runners slow down with age. The point is to keep going.

But now, in my eighth decade, I’ve stopped even calling myself a jogger. I can’t hold my initial pace, though sometimes I still believe it’s possible. Honestly, I can’t hold any pace for even those three miles Lily and I used to do.

I call it wogging: I jog, I walk, I jog some more, thankful to be upright.

Saturday, March 26, 2016

The Front Page

My quick scan of the front page section fueled my feminist fury. I had to set it aside. I covered it with my notebook and left it for days, distracting myself with mundane chores. Later I plowed my car through drenched streets to pet the kitties at the local shelter.

The next day, I gathered my poems, sorted them, prepared to make a book. In mid-afternoon, a movie at the mall – an animated one, supposedly for kids but with messages for us all. I relished the spunky hero, a tiny female bunny who becomes a cop.

So, I think I’m ready now to look again at the front page, to try making sense of this world that continues to suppress and devalue women.

Here’s what I saw:
Page 1: Progress in closing gender pay gap stalls. On page 6, the continuation of the story is titled Pay drops in fields in which female workforce grows. Dismaying to see that old attitude in print: if a woman can do it, it must not be worth much.

Page 1: Are water births safer or more dangerous? accompanied by the photo of a woman in a pool, holding her newborn. The continuation and an article about the local birth center fill page 8. Another article about births at the local hospital tops page 9. Wow, two and a half pages on bringing more kids into the world!

Page 4: Women pay more and wait longer for abortions in Texas, accompanied by the photo of woman whose husband had lost his job, forcing them to move into her in-laws home. And they already have three kids.

Page 5: No defense (or public defenders) for Louisiana’s poor, accompanied by a photo of the lone public defender in Vermillion parish – a woman, of course! Beneath that article, a small item: Woman holding gun shot by police. And, I might add, killed, though that information seemed a footnote the end of the article.

And yet, some hope: A feisty little rabbit heroine and – for at least one day – women dominated the front page news.

Friday, January 29, 2016

Women Who Write



Unseasonal slice of spring
splashes light across my desk,
interrupts my morning write,
lures fingers from the keyboard.

I set aside my daily task
and reach for other keys.

Morning sun steamrolls
across damp fields,
trailing vapor
that dissipates in thin air.

I shake winter from my wings
to skitter up and around
and up some more,
listening along the way
to hikers chatter like chickadees
celebrating a fresh-filled feeder.

At the crest, above distant valley floor
and so close to sky, I wish that I
could fly, could soar,
could be both large and small.

My slow descent savoring
January sweetness gains
blessing of a stranger’s car,
newly parked beside my own,
door open.

Our greeting extends
into connection – however brief –
between two women who write.

I tuck the moment in my heart.

January 22, 2016

Tuesday, January 19, 2016

May The Force Awaken Us All

I’ve seen the new Star Wars movie twice now and have fallen in love with BB-8 and Rey.

In that order.

BB-8 charmed me even more than R2D2 had those many years ago.

You see, I’ve seen only the first Star Wars and this latest release. I’m not sure why I missed the others. But when The Force Awakens promised the original Han Solo, Luke and Leia, I couldn’t miss it.

Now I’m hooked on that little round droid and her powerful human, Rey (way to go, Daisy). Okay, I know that without Poe, the two would not have met. Still, the story is theirs. It belongs to Rey and BB-8.

As a lifelong feminist, I was thrilled with the powerful, resourceful yet sensitive Rey. Of course her droid would be intelligent, perceptive – and female.

Hooray, I thought! Hollywood finally recognizes strong female characters. After all, even Han Solo cautions Finn that women always find out the truth.

And in the end, the two who are left, the two who are in charge, are Leia and Rey. And BB-8.

I did some browsing, looking for more information on the droid. One of the sites began with two questions:

• Wait, is BB-8 female?
• What does that mean?

The first question could have been written by anyone, male or female. The second? Definitely male. At least, I believe a woman would have written:

• Wait, BB-8 is female?
• Hallelujah!

What a disappointment, then, to find that Disney left Rey out of their new Monopoly game. An eight-year-old girl wrote in protest, saying, “girls matter.”

Both Disney and Monopoly-maker Hasbro are now scrambling to include Rey – and hopefully BB-8 – in their games and toys.

May The Force awaken us all to the power and wonder of women.

Saturday, January 9, 2016

The End of Our Empire

Last week, a forwarded email proclaimed the end of the United States in 2016. Or, at least, the end of the U.S. as we know it – and that the demise of our democracy would inevitably be followed by a brutal dictatorship.

Some well-reasoned arguments were used to blame the current administration as the cause.

I wanted to respond, but have kept my fingers off the keyboard until now. Here, on my blog, no one need read it, no one need respond, and I get to ‘moderate’ any comment submitted.

In 2006, I attended three lectures on the Fall of Empires: Roman, Spanish and British. At the end of the last lecture, a man asked if the lecturer saw parallels for the U. S. today. Remember: “today” was June, 2006, well before the 2008 elections.

He replied yes.

The man then asked, “Can we turn back?”

He answered, “Maybe” We were headed for that cliff, but there was still time to change direction. The dilemma: even if we want to do so, could we?

Long before I sat through those lectures, mere days after 9/11, I wrote a letter to the editor that was never published. In part it said:

“I hope our government won't use events of September 11 to justify massive vengeful acts in foreign lands.

The God of my understanding does not take sides, but gave us intelligence and free will. With those we can do great good or great evil. With self-awareness and self-control, may we avoid the latter.”


We all know what happened after that.

Perhaps it is inevitable for powerful nation-states to crumble in some way. Everything points in that direction. I, for one, would be happy to see the U.S. draw back from the role of worldwide cop.

But whatever happens, I don’t believe we are destined to fall under brutal dictatorship as the email proclaimed. Look at Great Britain. No longer a super-power, yet certainly not a dictatorship. May we learn from them.