Avoidance

I’m doing it again.

I’ve spent the week avoiding, procrastinating, evading, and dodging what I ought to be doing.

I’ve cleaned off the patio, tucked the rain/sun fly away, moved a couple of plants, and run to the dump and Lane Forest with recycling that could have waited.

I’ve worked on every one of the daily Sudokus, Jumbles, crosswords and Cryptoquotes, solving most.

I’ve spent hours playing Free Cell and Spider Solitare. Just one more game, I tell myself. Then I’ll . . . exercise, shower, eat, water, shop.

Today, I rearranged furniture and raced to Fred Meyer looking for the perfect table to replace the one by the window. (Mission accomplished – it’s even on sale!).

But what, you ask, should I be doing?

Writing! Getting past chapter eight, into chapter nine, finishing the story.

Oh, I’ve written a few paragraphs. And I scribbled a few notes while lunching at the Twin Dragon, but I spent most of that time engaged with one of the owners and his toddler daughter.

And now I’m going away for the weekend, to a camp near Sisters. The Pole Creek fire may change that plan, but I’ll probably find some other distraction. Re-painting the wall in the living room, sorting through my poems, organizing my desk. Important stuff, you know.

Yet I can’t chastise myself too harshly. A week ago today, I learned that a friend had died, a man not quite a year younger than I am. He had been ill, but was expected to recover. Death was not part of the plan.

I emailed the information to others who knew him and allowed myself time to process my feelings. I spent more time than normal seeking out mutual friends.

His service took up most of Tuesday: getting ready, preparing something for after the service and the service itself. Not wasted time, especially connecting afterward with his wife and with others I don’t see often.

But I just celebrated another loop around the sun. This coming year is the last of my seventh decade, the last year my age will begin with the number six. Today I noticed that six of the eight people listed in the Deaths column were my age or younger. Yikes! What an incentive! I’ll get busy on that chapter—just as soon as I . . .

I Think of Danny

I think of Danny every time I scoop grapefruit sections with a spoon.

In the early 70s, Danny and his very pregnant wife visited me and my husband, Danny’s brother. At breakfast one morning, my husband mentioned that the best part of the grapefruit, health-wise, is the white part between the rind and the sections.

Danny had finished spooning the fruit. He picked the up the empty shell and after a pause, took a huge bite, sending us into gales of laughter. If I remember, he managed to swallow it, too.

It was during that visit that Danny confessed to having gone AWOL from the army.

We were dismayed. We had warned him before he enlisted that the promise of assignment to Germany was unlikely. The war in Vietnam was in full swing.

He told us that after basic training, assignments were posted for all to see. His assignment: Vietnam. Another new recruit studied the list. He, too, was bound for Vietnam. “Let’s get the *&%! out of here,” the guy said. And they did.

Danny went home to Coquille. He wasn’t hiding exactly. He told everyone he was on leave before shipping out. But somehow, his ‘leave’ kept getting extended.

Then the county sheriff stopped for a chat with Danny’s dad.

“Daniel B., that your boy, Dan?”

Dan nodded.

“He’s on the AWOL list. Be best if he gets back on his own. It’ll go easier on him.”

And so Danny returned to the army, visiting us along the way.

Somehow, he never went to Vietnam and was soon out on a hardship discharge to help his mom and dad with the farm and to raise his newborn son.

I’ve just come into possession of a photo from that time—Danny’s wife, his mother, another sister-in-law and me—washing dishes in the old farmhouse kitchen. Our smiles are genuine, happy. I think it was the night Cindy confessed to being pregnant with their second child.

We all believed his life charmed. We never imagined he would die, his vehicle pushed into the path of a log truck, before his second son was born.

The View

For five years, the view from the south-facing windows in my living room and den has been of a vacant lot and up a tree-lined road. Green and open, a pleasant view, even when the dandelions grew thigh-high.

A month ago, a new manufactured home was placed on the lot. A new, single-wide, nearly window-less manufactured home. It is too large and long for the corner lot. A different unit might have made that spot a showcase for the park.

But it’s one of sixteen identical units moved onto vacant lots in the park where I live. The management will rent rather than sell them.

My view is now a blank beige wall punctuated by a smallish double window.

Residents I don’t even know have paused, heads shaking. “That is so ugly!” they say. Or, simply, “I’m sorry.”

“Yes,” I respond. “It’s the wrong shape and size for this lot.”

I moved a trellis to a position in front of the living room window to break the blandness. I painted the living room wall a darker color to gain some contrast. Still, it felt intrusive, though no one had moved in.

Then the other day, a couple began moving boxes into the unit.

I hesitated to greet them. Did I really want to welcome them?

On their second foray, I stepped next door and knocked.

“Hello,” I called. They came to the door. We chatted a bit. They invited me in.

With only six windows, two in one bedroom, one in another, a double in the living area and a miniscule kitchen window, it felt tiny. And that was with no furniture.

We moved outside. They mentioned seeing, Jack, the black and white cat my backdoor neighbor feeds. Though he has a home outside the park, he beats a path along our lot lines to her door.

“We have two cats,” my new neighbors said.

“Oh. Well, we’re supposed to keep them inside or contained.”

They demurred. Yes, they let them out.

“But they run back inside and always use their litter box.”

I groaned internally, but chirped something about being careful to spread my bark-o-mulch really thin.

I showed them the ‘catio’ I’ve created for my own Simone. It’s made of dog kennel fencing that confines her to the patio.

“She’s not a jumper,” I said. “And she’s old and fat; she doesn’t escape.”

Simone sat on the patio, at a careful distance, looking regal.

“Well, if our cats bother you, be sure to let us know,” the woman said.

“I’ll send her over to collect the cat-poop,” her husband added with a laugh.

My brain ran away with the idea of two more cats added to Jack and his buddy, Beeker, the white cat from across the street. Those two hang out at the edge of my yard, either staying cool under the arbor vitae or sunning themselves next to it. What will happen with two more cats? Cats are as territorial as dogs. Just ask Simone. She keeps track of everything, especially Jack and Beeker, monitoring their every move.

I tear myself out of futurizing and look at my own space again, my windows with no view.

With actual people coming in and out a mere ten feet from my house, I had to have something to break the blank beige-ness.

Today, I added some wall art to my windows, a row of delicate flower images that blend with my interior décor. Not really a view, but it helps.

Silence: Golden or Deadly?

I live in a small, 55 and over community. Since July, 2011, I have been involved with the social organization, serving as president.

When new board members were elected in June, I took the opportunity to pass the office on. The treasurer position was open and I volunteered to do that for the remainder of my two-year term.

The new president called a meeting of the board for July 2nd. Due to a previous commitment, I was unable to attend.

Notes from that meeting were distributed online. I read and saved them to my computer.

A few days later, an email surprised me. A release of funds was expected for an upcoming event. Not a few days before the event but an entire month before. Since this wasn’t mentioned in the notes, and previous policy had been reimbursement, I questioned it.

A flurry of emails circulated, none of which fully explained the change.

On Friday evening, I opened my email account, planning to send just one personal note.

Two emails to the entire board greeted me. One, addressed to me by name, berated me for not attending the first meeting and for not reading the minutes for that meeting, though I had. It accused me of casting doubt on the trustworthiness of the person designated to receive the funds, though I had stated that was not the reason for my discomfort with the new policy. The last sentence hit hard: I wish you had been as concerned last year about money and this organization.

My stomach clenched. I opened the next one, titled ‘we are a team.’ It listed the changes made in the first week, the words – our first seven days – in bold.

Like God, I thought, only he rested on day seven. I smiled. But my smile faded when I reached the end.

The last two sentences dismissed my concerns as bullshit and compared me to a monkey in a circus act.

My heart pounded in my ears. If my blood pressure had been taken, I would have been hospitalized.

I stewed all night, writing and re-writing responses on paper as well as in my head. I deleted them all, unsent.

But my body had paid attention. I spent Saturday morning in and out of the bathroom as my body tried to flush the poison. I made phone calls and left messages for friends.

Over the next two days, with the help of trusted friends and a practice I’ve followed for nearly 25 years, it became clear how to handle the situation. A valued friend assisted with composition of my letter of resignation. It was acknowledged Sunday evening.

Done. Or so I thought.

On Monday afternoon while helping a neighbor clean up her yard, my phone rang. I was greeted by the new president’s barely contained fury, demanding that I produce a form documenting the non-profit status of the association. She couldn’t find it and claimed the state couldn't either. I protested that it was among the items I had given her. Her attack continued, berating me for screwing up the entire organization.

I felt like a rabbit, caught in the open with nowhere to run. As her rant continued, my desire to help evaporated. I punched ‘end’ on my phone.

A few minutes later, heart pounding, I called back. Her partner answered. He said she wasn’t there. I suggested that she not scream at me again.

But now I’m trapped. Their house can be seen from my living room window. I drive by on my way in and out of the complex. She’s often outside. Residents stop and chat. Up to now, I didn’t pay much attention, though I could hear bits and pieces of conversation when my windows were open.

I had already spent Saturday and Sunday—prior to sending my resignation—afraid to open my email. By Monday I had relaxed my grip on the issue.

Now, I wonder what is being spread about me. Only one board member objected to the tone of the initial emails; the other seven have remained silent.

I'm sure the former treasurer and I submitted the form and check. It may have been lost. If so, I would be to blame for not realizing that.

Though this is a small matter and a small community, I understand how deadly silence can be. It eats at your core, because you can’t respond to what has not been said. You hesitate to greet a neighbor, in case a formerly friendly person now regards you with distaste. You wait for the next shot to be fired, the next bomb to explode, spooked by silence.

My experience has been but a tiny taste of what Jews, African-Americans and other minorities must deal with on a daily basis. Yet, on this miniature scale, I’m feeling the kind of conspiracy of silence that whirled Germany into the Holocaust. It is physically as well as emotionally debilitating.

I’ve re-read The Four Agreements, focusing on not taking any of this personally, not absorbing the poison that has been sent my way.

I didn't attend the next general meeting, but a few days afterward the new president stopped me as I passed her place.

"I need to apologize," she said.

I nodded and said I hoped she would never do that to anyone again. "It was very painful."

That same afternoon, the form to renew the association's non-profit status arrived in my mailbox. I love the timing! I smiled all the way to her house and back.

Run, Jump, Throw

Getting to the Olympic Trials on Thursday was an easy process. I scooted to Autzen Stadium around 4 p.m. for free parking.

I tried one spot, but didn’t fit because one car was cattywampus, taking more than one space. I moved to the next aisle and looked around. I don’t like parking next to big vehicles, but pulled into the space next to a white Ford 150 King Cab anyway.

The truck’s lights were on. I saw no one near, but figured the lights would go off on their own. I put my hand on the truck grille. Still warm. I waited several minutes. The lights stayed on.

Finally, I wrote the license plate on a piece of paper. At the shuttle pickup, I gave the bus driver my note. He got on the mike and announced license and description. Nothing.

Disappointed, I headed to Hayward Field on foot, planning to pass the information to an official. I breezed through security and wondered whether I’d arrived too soon.

This is track and field, I reminded myself. There’s always something going on. Besides, it gave me time to gobble down a scoop of espresso ice cream, buy a bottle of water and find a good spot to hang in the Festival area. All thoughts of the pickup vanished.

The Festival area is free, and big screens provide fantastic shots of the action, both as it happens and then on instant replay.

What a day. What amazing athletes. And they do it no matter the weather. A light drizzle and swirly breezes must have affected pole vaulters, high jumpers and even hurdlers. Yet no one complained. Before each race, each jump, each throw, we witnessed—through the camera lens—the deep concentration necessary to reach Olympic levels. We saw the thrill of victory and the disappointment of defeat.

We applauded when Lance Brooks, on his last throw, heaved the discus beyond the Olympic qualifying mark to earn his place on the team.

We roared at Kim Conley’s lean at the finish to edge Julia Lucas in the 5000.

We cheered for Evan Jager, winning and grinning down the stretch in his fourth-ever steeplechase.

We exploded when Galen Rupp sprinted the stretch to catch and pass Bernard Lagat in the 5000, breaking Pre’s long-standing meet record in the process!

And then it was over. Energized, I made my way back to Autzen on foot.

About halfway back, I remembered the pickup. As I came to my car, the pickup door closed. I hurried around the truck and called to the man walking back toward the stadium.

“Your truck,” I said. “Is it dead?”

The guy turned. “Yeah. I left the lights on.”

“I know. I had the shuttle driver announce it, but I guess you weren’t on the shuttle.”

“No, I wanted some exercise, so I walked.”

We chatted a bit about track and field. All the while, I knew I had jumper cables in my car, but I’ve never used them myself. He didn’t seem upset about his situation. Still, it was getting dark. The parking lot was rapidly emptying.

I asked if he had Triple A. He didn’t; this was a company vehicle. He would have to call someone in Corvallis. It could be two hours before he’d be home. I hesitated. He started toward the stadium again.

“Wait,” I said. “I have jumper cables, if you know how to use them.”

From the look on his face, he might have hugged me. Instead, we turned my car around and hooked up the cables.

Run, jump, start!

“Have a nice evening,” I said with a wave and watched in my rear-view mirror as his lights came on and the truck moved toward the exit.

The space next to him had been my second choice of parking spots. It was the right choice.

Memorial Day

I received an email the other day, forwarded to me and many others in the sender’s contact list.

This one was about veterans and Memorial Day, illustrated with poignant pictures.

The idea presented was that (military) veterans have GIVEN us our freedoms. What annoys me is not the idea of honoring those who’ve defended and protected our country, often with huge personal sacrifice. What annoys me is the wording.

I’m going to take each assertion and try to rephrase it.

It is the VETERAN, not the preacher, who has given us freedom of religion.

Rewording: it is the Veteran who has protected and defended our freedom to worship, a freedom guaranteed under Amendment I to our Constitution (the first of our Bill of Rights).

It is the VETERAN, not the campus organizer, who has given us freedom to assemble.

Rewording: Amendment I to our Constitution guarantees the right to assemble peacefully. The campus organizer keeps fresh our appreciation of that right. The veteran has protected and defended the Constitution.

It is the VETERAN, not the lawyer, who has given us the right to a fair trial.

Rewording: Amendment VI to our Constitution grants us the right to a ‘speedy and public trial.’ Our veterans have protected and defended the Constitution.

It is the VETERAN, not the politician, who has given us the right to vote.

Rewording: Our Constitution initially awarded this right only to non-slave and non-Native males. We engaged in a bloody civil war before all men were ‘allowed’ to vote (Amendments XIII, XIV and XV). Acceptance and enforcement of those amendments evolved slowly.

And, hey, I’m a woman. My foremothers fought in the political/legal arena for that right (Amendent XIX) and I thank them every time I sign my ballot.

It is the VETERAN who salutes the Flag.

Rewording: All citizens may salute the flag our veterans have protected and defended. When I place my hand over my heart, it is a salute.

It is the VETERAN who serves under the Flag.

Yes. And many others, also. So, thank you, veterans for protecting and defending the rights and responsibilities our Constitution bestows on all citizens. And we can all honor the amazing Statesmen who gave birth to our nation with their words as well as their actions.

Book Tour

I’m back from my book tour. Well, not ‘Book Tour’ with capital letters. More of a Library Donation Excursion.

On May 17th, with a four-day space in my calendar, I threw some clothes in a bag, slipped into a pair of shoes and headed to the Southern Oregon Coast. My mission? Deliver copies of my novel, Just Out of Reach, to libraries in the area.

I took Oregon Highway 38. It runs through Drain and Elkton and meanders along the Umpqua River to Reedsport. Along the way, lambs and cattle grazed on new-growth-green grass or lazed in spring sunshine. An elk herd hung out at the east end of their reservation, out of sight from the viewing area. I know the route well, yet am always enchanted.

I cruised to the Coos Bay library where Ellen accepted two of my books, promising to send one to the North Bend branch. We chatted as she looked over my information and discovered we are both UO graduates. She asked if I would be interested in doing a talk at the library sometime in the fall.

“Sure,” I said, “I’d be honored.”

I had given a presentation at the Eugene Library in January and it was well-received. I’m over the jitters about such things. And I know the subject—both book and author!

Feeling elated, I trundled on down the road to Bandon, the scene of the crime as it were. There, too, the book was accepted with enthusiasm.

Then I stopped at the bookstore in Old Town. Last fall the owner bought one copy of my book. I wondered whether it had sold. No, still on the shelf.

Disappointed, I booked a room for the night at the Bandon Inn above Old Town, the inspiration for much of my story.

Since I planned to continue south for the afternoon, I called my friend Stan who lives near Gold Beach. He was home; I would get to meet his new wife.

I hustled the thirty miles to Port Orford. In the library parking lot, I grabbed a book from the back seat and stepped around a sign pointing to bike parking. Inside, the volunteer readily agreed to pass my book to the acquisitions desk.

As I returned to my car, I nearly tripped over the bike sign. Not just bike parking, but Bike and Dog Parking!

Giggling at the image of parking spaces for dogs, I exchanged my regular glasses for sunglasses and drove off in search of a quick lunch. Not finding an obvious spot, I turned back to Ray’s Market next to the library. That’s when I realized my regular glasses were missing. Panicked, I ran over to the bike/dog sign, thinking I had dropped them there. Nope. I raced into the library. No, I hadn’t left them there either.

Frustrated—and unnerved at my forgetfulness—I marched back to my car, opened the passenger side and tossed my sweater inside. Out fell the glasses, protected by the case I’d put them in. I looked up and shook my finger at the sky. “Not funny,” I said, looking around to be sure nobody heard.

Stan and Lynda live on a straight stretch of coastline, their house above the highway with a clear view of the ocean. I lolled in the sun on their deck, feet stretched out while Lynda explained the circuitous path she’d followed getting to Gold Beach. I took a couple of photos of the two of them, to show to mutual friends later.

It wasn’t until I was back in Bandon walking up the steps to the motel, that I looked at my feet. Not only had I thought my glasses lost, but also, in my rush to leave Eugene that morning, I had grabbed a pair of shoes from the rack. But not a pair: One blue shoe, one brown.

“This getting old stuff is getting really old,” I muttered aloud with a snort.

“At least they were on the right feet. And my socks match,” I chortled, changing into the beach shoes I keep in the car.

I remembered a small photo album my mother carried in her purse. It had SOG with PIP printed on the front. Silly Old Grandmother with Pictures In Purse.

Guess that makes me a Silly Old Woman with UnMatched Feet! SOW with UMF. Hmm. Doesn’t sound so bad. I can always use some UMF.

The next morning, in the warmth of sun filtered through a thin veil of clouds, I made my last stop at the library in Coquille. I gave the librarian my book with the promo and review information. The librarian’s daughter, no older than seven, piped up. “I like your earrings,” she said.

“Thank you. They’re my favorites,” I replied. I pointed to the ring on my left hand. “And I had to go all the way to Spain to get this ring,” I told her. “It’s very special.”

She nodded, wide-eyed, and repeated, “I like your earrings.”

Her mother and I exchanged amused smiles, ending my Book Tour on a happy note. I stopped for ice cream at Rice Hill to celebrate.