Grateful for the sh**!

Today, Tuesday, November 13, 2012 was my first opportunity in what seems weeks to sleep in. I know that’s not true, but it seems so.

It all began in mid-October.

The rains began on Friday, Columbus Day, the Fiftieth Anniversary of the Big Blow, ending a record dry spell.

I left Eugene on Monday under cloudy skies. Rain swirled at the crests of what I call the Four Bumps before Medford – Canyon Creek, Smith Hill, Stage Road and Sexton.

I spent the first night in Medford in a cozy bed at the best bed-and-dinner in town, lulled to sleep by the patter of rain on the roof. Best price, too! (Thanks, Jerry and Ben.)

Next morning, immersed in thick moisture, I skittered past ghostly semis and slipped over the Siskiyou Summit. The clouds parted. Welcome to California!

Rounding a bend near Yreka, I burst into song. “She’ll be comin’ round the mountain . . . ”

I chortled at the second verse, galloping on in my white, 6-cylinder coach. Drivin’ six whites, indeed!

And then things went downhill. I realized I had a sinus infection and battled it through the next ten days of travel. My intentions to write along the way, waxing poetic about the warm, windless day in San Francisco, evaporated; the sinus infection did not.

Back home on October 25th, I prepared for a critique session the next morning. Once through that, I collapsed.

On Monday, I dragged myself to the doctor, who confirmed my self-diagnosis. I started antibiotic treatment. I expected the sloshing in my right ear to disappear. It didn’t. The next Monday, November 5th, the ear doctor prescribed prednisone to dry up fluid behind the ear drum.

Today, my ear is almost clear.

And today I was ready to begin rewriting my next novel. I’d had a wonderful flash of insight based on the critiques and had written a bare-bones outline that felt right. I plunked myself at the computer and began. My break would be a shower before my noon yoga class.

About an hour before the class, I took a pair of muddy shoes outside to clean them. A squirrel had dug into the dirt in a pot on my patio. As I rushed to sweep the dirt, I nearly slipped in the raw sewage spewing from the cleanout pipe under my deck!

Yeah. My day went to shit!

But I have to say I’m grateful. I’m grateful I didn’t get into the shower. Who knows how much worse the mess could have been? Something, maybe my Virgo-ness, maybe The Force, guided my feet out the back door to the patio.

And I’m grateful to the plumbing company who initially scheduled me for eight o’clock tonight, but got here at two this afternoon and had it done by three. Wahoo!

But most of all, I'm grateful to have perspective. Earlier this month I got a call from a friend whose house had burned down. Not the way she'd planned to downsize, but she and her cat survived. A little shit on my deck? No problem.

The clothes I wore while mopping up are in the washer now. I’ll put them in the dryer and take a bath.

Then, I’ll get back to writing my novel.

Radar Weather

In the past week, I’ve cut out two weather pages from the Register-Guard, each showing a row of suns with highs in the 70s and 80s, lows in the high-40s.

I’m saving them to remind me why—six months from now when those pages show rows of clouds dripping rain, highs barely reaching 40—I’m still in Eugene after more than fifty years.

Friday night I didn’t close the windows and didn’t need fans to draw cool air inside. Saturday morning, I threw the front door open well before nine, walked to the market in capris and a light shirt before ten.

Fall. Autumn. My favorite time of year. Brisk mornings, blue sky afternoons, soft breezes until dusk. The leaves have begun to turn (and fall). And this year, with the big oak tree at my front door gone, I’m able to enjoy the full moon as it traverses the sky.

Years ago I wrote the following in a piece published in the Write On! column of the Register-Guard:

In October, as the trees dress themselves in gowns of copper, gold and bronze, I fancy myself a photographer, ready to capture the brilliance of autumn. Yet, somehow, my camera can’t remember to come along. . . . As the trees shimmy out of their finery into November, I’m pleased to be outside. . . . I’m content until mid-November, when the hulking shadow of winter can no longer be ignored, when the approaching holidays weigh heavily on the newspaper and infiltrate the air repetitiously with song.

When I wrote that piece, I had an ‘aha’ moment. Since then, I’ve not pushed myself to participate in holiday madness, accepting the season as one of rest and renewal. Deep in the dark of December, I remind myself that light will return, noticeable by mid-January.

But for now, I will savor every warm and welcoming fall day, grateful that I live in glorious Oregon.

Do you know where your car is?

(An eavesdropping incident in Bandon, Oregon, May 18, 2012)

He stood by the open door of the pickup a few yards from my favorite photo spot. A bass boat named Striper sat on the trailer behind.

“Do you know where your car is?”

I hadn’t been looking at him, but knew he wasn’t talking to me. Still, I answered under my breath, “Yes, thank you, I do.”

“Yeah,” he continued, “I know they took your license.”

Ooo, drunk driving.

“Well, you’re gonna have to call the Lane County Sheriff and find out where they took it.”

Lane County?! Holy Smoke. I’m from Lane County.

I kept within earshot as long as I could.

“I asked you not to drive,” he said, emphasizing each word.

Oh, oh. Must be the wayward kid.

“You’re gonna lose your license.” He gave an exasperated grunt. “No, don’t drive.”

No, not a good idea. They catch him with no license now and his troubles multiply.

“How bad is the car?”

Oops. Not just a DUII but a wreck, too.

“I’m askin’ you not to drive,” he growled.

I wanted to say “Gimme your phone, dude. I know people who can help this kid.”

Instead, I stopped listening, snapped a few photos and left. Maybe the kid isn’t an alcoholic. But if he is, I hope he finds A.A. before he kills himself or someone else.

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.