Six weeks before moving to California, the same weekend I listed my house, I attended a Writer’s conference on the Oregon Coast. The conference produces a booklet each year with submissions from attendees.
Shortly after arriving in California, I submitted a poem titled Little Black Dress along with a couple others. As requested, I included a short bio. I must have used first person rather than ‘she’ to describe myself.
Sometime in the summer, an email notified me that Little Black Dress had been selected for inclusion in the 2013 booklet. In October, I received a request for my mailing address so they could send a complimentary copy of the booklet.
The booklet arrived while I was away for Thanksgiving. I opened the package with anticipation. There it was, on page 25. Nice! I turned to the bio section. Oops! Sex change! I’m described as ‘he’ four times. It notes that ‘he’ moved to California to be closer to ‘his’ family.
I fumed. Everyone would picture a man, not me, a fairly feminine older woman! How unfair! How rude! How ignorant!
I waited for my heart to stop pounding before sending this to the publisher:
I just received the 2013 Rogue River Echoes. I'm attaching a photo of me to prove that, though my name and former occupation do not 'announce' my gender, I am and always have been female. My poem, Little Black Dress, should have made that clear, but in the biography section I'm described throughout as male. I don't know what can be done to correct that now.
The next morning I woke with a chuckle. The poem laments my lack of cleavage. I would find an artist to do a pen-and-ink drawing of a burly man in my little black dress, send it to the publisher and ask that it be included as a bookmark. That took some of the pain out of my virtual sex change operation!
Meantime, I’m still waiting on a reply.
Tuesday, December 3, 2013
Sunday, November 24, 2013
A Mission of Love
The other day, thinking about my friend Dave, a Neil Diamond song played in my head.
I rummaged through my CDs, found Three Chord Opera and selected A Mission of Love. It’s jazzy, happy, and heartfelt. I know it’s about losing a relationship, but the words rang true for the Caring Bridge set up for Dave: “We got a friend in a hole/we got to help get him out/this is a glorious day/we’re on a mission of love.”
Then I got online and went to the Neil Diamond site. Somehow I found the YouTube video list of his performances and watched a few. The duet with Barbra Streisand, though out of synch with the music, mesmerized me. The connection between them was so electric, so sexy, so palpable it filled me with yearning. I could watch it only once.
It brought up memories, good and otherwise.
In 1980, on a run from Oregon to Maine and back, I memorized the 12 Greatest Hits album. It was a dark time in my life and that tape along with a couple others probably saved my life.
A year or so later, a coworker and I talked about our favorite musicians. I claimed Neil Diamond and Paul Simon.
“I don’t get either of them,” my coworker had sniffed.
I wrote her a poem.
DIAMOND/SIMON
She said she didn’t understand
Neil Diamond/Paul Simon -
the words don’t rhyme,
make sense to your mind,
fit into the party line.
I said you must sip, savor,
then swallow them whole –
musical soup for the soul.
Your heart understands
when your head lets go.
I wrote some other poems using words and song titles from Neil Diamond albums, but most are lost to me now.
For me, Neil, Paul and others (the Beatles come to mind) – somehow condense experience into lyric poems set to music, the words as wonderful as the tunes. For me, they have captured the changing essence and the essence of change through the last fifty years. I often catch myself singing one or another of their songs because the lyrics are perfect for the spot I’m in.
But Dave’s situation reminds me that, healthy as I am, I do have an expiration date. Like kids who participate in Make a Wish programs, my wish – rather than go somewhere exotic or do something crazy – would be to meet Neil Diamond in person, to thank him for saving and enriching my life. And then faint dead away!
At the store yesterday I found another Neil Diamond CD, his duet with Streisand included.
Neil – you always bring me flowers!
I rummaged through my CDs, found Three Chord Opera and selected A Mission of Love. It’s jazzy, happy, and heartfelt. I know it’s about losing a relationship, but the words rang true for the Caring Bridge set up for Dave: “We got a friend in a hole/we got to help get him out/this is a glorious day/we’re on a mission of love.”
Then I got online and went to the Neil Diamond site. Somehow I found the YouTube video list of his performances and watched a few. The duet with Barbra Streisand, though out of synch with the music, mesmerized me. The connection between them was so electric, so sexy, so palpable it filled me with yearning. I could watch it only once.
It brought up memories, good and otherwise.
In 1980, on a run from Oregon to Maine and back, I memorized the 12 Greatest Hits album. It was a dark time in my life and that tape along with a couple others probably saved my life.
A year or so later, a coworker and I talked about our favorite musicians. I claimed Neil Diamond and Paul Simon.
“I don’t get either of them,” my coworker had sniffed.
I wrote her a poem.
DIAMOND/SIMON
She said she didn’t understand
Neil Diamond/Paul Simon -
the words don’t rhyme,
make sense to your mind,
fit into the party line.
I said you must sip, savor,
then swallow them whole –
musical soup for the soul.
Your heart understands
when your head lets go.
I wrote some other poems using words and song titles from Neil Diamond albums, but most are lost to me now.
For me, Neil, Paul and others (the Beatles come to mind) – somehow condense experience into lyric poems set to music, the words as wonderful as the tunes. For me, they have captured the changing essence and the essence of change through the last fifty years. I often catch myself singing one or another of their songs because the lyrics are perfect for the spot I’m in.
But Dave’s situation reminds me that, healthy as I am, I do have an expiration date. Like kids who participate in Make a Wish programs, my wish – rather than go somewhere exotic or do something crazy – would be to meet Neil Diamond in person, to thank him for saving and enriching my life. And then faint dead away!
At the store yesterday I found another Neil Diamond CD, his duet with Streisand included.
Neil – you always bring me flowers!
Thursday, November 21, 2013
Rainy Day, Dave Ashleigh
Rain yesterday. Thick, misty, silent except for the sizzle of tires on wet pavement. Heavy, yet not cold.
It matched my mood, gray and grumbly.
On Friday, I woke with my friend’s name in my head. Six-thirty. Far too early to call, so I wrote Call Dave & Marty on a sticky note and began my daily routine.
I made the call before eleven. Marty answered.
“How are you?” I asked.
“I’m fine, but Dave . . .”
NOOO! My head screamed while I listened to Marty explain that Dave was diagnosed with an aggressive leukemia last week and was now undergoing chemo at UCLA Medical Center in Santa Monica. She urged me to call his cell number.
Dave was my buddy throughout high school.
We dated just once when we were freshmen. We barely spoke that night and he seemed to avoid me at the party we attended. I wondered why he seemed so different from the wry, sparkly guy I knew – and got into trouble with – in Spanish class.
A few years ago, I learned the truth. That evening, he had a horrible case of gas. “You’ve been a family legend,” he told me. “Everyone knows the story of my date with Becky Darling* – cutest girl in the freshman class.” (*my given name)
Our classroom fun didn’t end, though, often earning us stern looks from teachers.
He dated a girl from another high school; I had a series of steady boyfriends. We graduated and went on to college – me to Oregon, Dave to junior college then UCLA with a scholarship in water polo and swimming.
My mother tried to arrange for him to meet my plane at Christmas my senior year, the one time my flight was diverted to Burbank. He visited me in Oregon later that year, when UCLA swam against Oregon. I think he met Marty about that same time.
He went on to participate in Olympic water polo, not once but twice.
We lost contact until our 45th reunion – a small picnic I helped coordinate. That’s when I met Marty. That’s when I was reminded what a gem he is, how blessed I am to know him. And, now, how pissed I am that he’s ill.
So, the rain yesterday gave me an excuse to be grumpy. It allowed me to be the negative voice at my book discussion group. It gave me time to understand why I had hacked up the vines by the back fence two days before. It washed the world shiny, freshened the air.
I pray that the chemicals they’re feeding Dave will wash him clean and well.
Rainy Day, Dave Ashleigh. But the sun's gonna shine soon.
It matched my mood, gray and grumbly.
On Friday, I woke with my friend’s name in my head. Six-thirty. Far too early to call, so I wrote Call Dave & Marty on a sticky note and began my daily routine.
I made the call before eleven. Marty answered.
“How are you?” I asked.
“I’m fine, but Dave . . .”
NOOO! My head screamed while I listened to Marty explain that Dave was diagnosed with an aggressive leukemia last week and was now undergoing chemo at UCLA Medical Center in Santa Monica. She urged me to call his cell number.
Dave was my buddy throughout high school.
We dated just once when we were freshmen. We barely spoke that night and he seemed to avoid me at the party we attended. I wondered why he seemed so different from the wry, sparkly guy I knew – and got into trouble with – in Spanish class.
A few years ago, I learned the truth. That evening, he had a horrible case of gas. “You’ve been a family legend,” he told me. “Everyone knows the story of my date with Becky Darling* – cutest girl in the freshman class.” (*my given name)
Our classroom fun didn’t end, though, often earning us stern looks from teachers.
He dated a girl from another high school; I had a series of steady boyfriends. We graduated and went on to college – me to Oregon, Dave to junior college then UCLA with a scholarship in water polo and swimming.
My mother tried to arrange for him to meet my plane at Christmas my senior year, the one time my flight was diverted to Burbank. He visited me in Oregon later that year, when UCLA swam against Oregon. I think he met Marty about that same time.
He went on to participate in Olympic water polo, not once but twice.
We lost contact until our 45th reunion – a small picnic I helped coordinate. That’s when I met Marty. That’s when I was reminded what a gem he is, how blessed I am to know him. And, now, how pissed I am that he’s ill.
So, the rain yesterday gave me an excuse to be grumpy. It allowed me to be the negative voice at my book discussion group. It gave me time to understand why I had hacked up the vines by the back fence two days before. It washed the world shiny, freshened the air.
I pray that the chemicals they’re feeding Dave will wash him clean and well.
Rainy Day, Dave Ashleigh. But the sun's gonna shine soon.
Thursday, October 10, 2013
Light and landscape
“All our actions take their hue from the complexion of the heart, as landscapes their variety from light.” –Francis Bacon
My 70th birthday fell on Labor Day this year, so I’m more than a month into my eighth decade. I live in a two-story apartment, running up and downstairs many times a day, yet I feel better than just a year ago: the ache in my right hip is gone and I’m lighter in spirit if not on the scales.
After more than fifty years of Oregon winters with gray in fifty shades, California’s abundant sunshine makes my world happier. And, as the quote from Francis Bacon implies, landscapes change with each shift of light. At midday, distant hills and canyons hang from a dusty sky, flattened by mirage of heat and slant of sun. In the landscape of my mind, I sprawl on the floor in front of our old black and white TV and watch my cowboy heroes ride:
Cisco gallops after bandidos. Pancho bounces along behind, sombrero flapping. The Masked Man sits secure as Silver rears and paws the air, then thunders down the narrow trail. Dum ta da dum ta da dum dum dum. Scout and Tonto slide up in a cloud of dust. From a hillock, Hopalong Cassidy watches, reins held loose. He smiles and pulls his hat low. Topper picks the way down the trail, tail sweeping graceful side to side.
Though I adored them all, I loved Hoppy most. He was gentle yet had a fierce sense of justice. He didn’t drink, smoke or kiss the girls. My folks indulged me with the entire Hopalong outfit: hat, skirt and vest – even a holster and ‘six-shooter’ cap gun complete with a box of rolled caps. In a photo of me at about seven, my permed hair peeks in frizzy clumps from under the hat, framing my ecstatic grin.
And then the sunlight shifts. The mountains reshape themselves and I’m brought back to now.
Now is October 10, 2013. Yesterday in SLO we had our first rain in weeks – a mere dribble measuring .04 inches. Still, I inhaled the scent of fall and savored the damp coolness during my morning walk.
I recently found a quote that captured my feelings about autumn in Rules of Civility by Amor Towles. The novel is about New York, and though New Yorkers would dispute this, New York has no corner on the seasons. The part that resonated for me: “Come September, despite the waning hours, despite the leaves succumbing to the weight of gray, autumnal rains, there is a certain relief to having the long days of summer behind us, and there’s a paradoxical sense of rejuvenation in the air.”
And I do feel energized, eager for whatever comes next. Of course, what comes next after October is November, and then December. I smile and remember what the teacher in Frazz, a comic strip by Jeff Mallett, said: I never trust a month that ends in ‘BRR.’
My 70th birthday fell on Labor Day this year, so I’m more than a month into my eighth decade. I live in a two-story apartment, running up and downstairs many times a day, yet I feel better than just a year ago: the ache in my right hip is gone and I’m lighter in spirit if not on the scales.
After more than fifty years of Oregon winters with gray in fifty shades, California’s abundant sunshine makes my world happier. And, as the quote from Francis Bacon implies, landscapes change with each shift of light. At midday, distant hills and canyons hang from a dusty sky, flattened by mirage of heat and slant of sun. In the landscape of my mind, I sprawl on the floor in front of our old black and white TV and watch my cowboy heroes ride:
Cisco gallops after bandidos. Pancho bounces along behind, sombrero flapping. The Masked Man sits secure as Silver rears and paws the air, then thunders down the narrow trail. Dum ta da dum ta da dum dum dum. Scout and Tonto slide up in a cloud of dust. From a hillock, Hopalong Cassidy watches, reins held loose. He smiles and pulls his hat low. Topper picks the way down the trail, tail sweeping graceful side to side.
Though I adored them all, I loved Hoppy most. He was gentle yet had a fierce sense of justice. He didn’t drink, smoke or kiss the girls. My folks indulged me with the entire Hopalong outfit: hat, skirt and vest – even a holster and ‘six-shooter’ cap gun complete with a box of rolled caps. In a photo of me at about seven, my permed hair peeks in frizzy clumps from under the hat, framing my ecstatic grin.
And then the sunlight shifts. The mountains reshape themselves and I’m brought back to now.
Now is October 10, 2013. Yesterday in SLO we had our first rain in weeks – a mere dribble measuring .04 inches. Still, I inhaled the scent of fall and savored the damp coolness during my morning walk.
I recently found a quote that captured my feelings about autumn in Rules of Civility by Amor Towles. The novel is about New York, and though New Yorkers would dispute this, New York has no corner on the seasons. The part that resonated for me: “Come September, despite the waning hours, despite the leaves succumbing to the weight of gray, autumnal rains, there is a certain relief to having the long days of summer behind us, and there’s a paradoxical sense of rejuvenation in the air.”
And I do feel energized, eager for whatever comes next. Of course, what comes next after October is November, and then December. I smile and remember what the teacher in Frazz, a comic strip by Jeff Mallett, said: I never trust a month that ends in ‘BRR.’
Wednesday, August 7, 2013
The way home
When I left Oregon in April, I was certain Atascadero would become home. I liked the sound of the name; everything had fallen into place—a cat-friendly apartment available the day I needed it, rented month-to-month. I could get acquainted with the area at a leisurely pace. My astrological reading indicated June 5th would be a propitious day; perhaps then I would find my permanent home.
I struggled that first week of June, searching for my ‘forever home.’ It wasn’t until the next week that I realized Atascadero didn’t feel like home. While I love being warm, the heat often governed my day. If I were to jog, I needed to do so early, though I’m not a morning person. My enthusiasm for exercise lags when heat begins to radiate from the pavement shortly after sunrise.
But the deciding factor came that, on Tuesday, June 11th. I planned to attend a 7 p.m. writing-related event in San Luis Obispo (SLO), less than 20 miles away. Plenty of time, I thought, as I got on Hwy 101 just after six, buoyed by the prospect of meeting fellow writers.
Less than a mile later, a sign warned of an accident ahead. At that point, traffic was sparse and still moving at freeway speed.
“Well,” I reasoned, “if they’ve had time to put up the sign, it’ll be clear soon.”
How wrong I was. After I passed the last exit familiar to me, traffic began to pile up. Still, from there to SLO was less than eight miles. I might be a little late.
But between me and my destination loomed the Cuesta Pass, a grade that goes up to 1522 feet, then winds down into SLO at 234 feet. There are no exits in the eight miles between Santa Margarita and SLO. Well, that’s not exactly true. Part of the highway is non-freeway, with side roads providing access to dwellings and wineries but not to other routes over the pass. Turning left across the other lanes seemed dangerous. Besides, I’d gotten stuck in the middle lane of three.
We crept along at less than my own jogging pace to the crest, then slithered down.
Where the hell is this accident, I wondered. I could see nothing but cars, inching around each of the wide curves. Finally, beyond the bottom of the grade, after the road narrowed to two lanes, we cleared the overturned semi.
I arrived at the first exit for SLO at eight-thirty. Though the event was only about six miles further, I got off and turned back to Atascadero. I would have arrived as the event ended. And darkness loomed. I don’t see well at night and searching for a place I had never been seemed pointless now.
I learned later that the truck had overturned at two-thirty in the afternoon. I have no idea what time the rig was actually towed away.
Thus began my search for a place in SLO.
At first, the prospect of living near the vibrant downtown seemed perfect. I scanned Craigslist every day, marking the ‘cats okay’ box. I visited a number of available units, was told of a potential ‘grandma’ house, and submitted an application for a fabulous apartment a few blocks from the center of town. My heart sank when the owner of that beauty said I was her second choice.
Then, on Saturday, June 29th, I visited an expensive, pet-friendly unit so unkempt inside and out, it made me want to run. And I did.
Back in Atascadero, I wrote a list of what I wanted, not only in the apartment itself, but also in quality of life—things like quiet yet not isolated, shopping nearby, feeling safe.
On Craigslist, I dropped the check mark on the ‘cats okay’ box. A unit popped up. Nothing about pets, but I hesitated. The ad was all caps, like someone shouting the glories of the place. And it wasn’t downtown at all!
I called anyway and mentioned my cat, Simone. The owner said we could talk. I could see it anytime. He lives next door.
Oh, dear! Would that be good?
I grabbed my keys and headed to SLO for the second time that day. My GPS guided me to Madonna Road then Oceanaire Drive. I chuckled as I turned onto Atascadero Street, the street that curves into Galleon Way and my new safe harbor, my new and perhaps ‘forever’ home.
I struggled that first week of June, searching for my ‘forever home.’ It wasn’t until the next week that I realized Atascadero didn’t feel like home. While I love being warm, the heat often governed my day. If I were to jog, I needed to do so early, though I’m not a morning person. My enthusiasm for exercise lags when heat begins to radiate from the pavement shortly after sunrise.
But the deciding factor came that, on Tuesday, June 11th. I planned to attend a 7 p.m. writing-related event in San Luis Obispo (SLO), less than 20 miles away. Plenty of time, I thought, as I got on Hwy 101 just after six, buoyed by the prospect of meeting fellow writers.
Less than a mile later, a sign warned of an accident ahead. At that point, traffic was sparse and still moving at freeway speed.
“Well,” I reasoned, “if they’ve had time to put up the sign, it’ll be clear soon.”
How wrong I was. After I passed the last exit familiar to me, traffic began to pile up. Still, from there to SLO was less than eight miles. I might be a little late.
But between me and my destination loomed the Cuesta Pass, a grade that goes up to 1522 feet, then winds down into SLO at 234 feet. There are no exits in the eight miles between Santa Margarita and SLO. Well, that’s not exactly true. Part of the highway is non-freeway, with side roads providing access to dwellings and wineries but not to other routes over the pass. Turning left across the other lanes seemed dangerous. Besides, I’d gotten stuck in the middle lane of three.
We crept along at less than my own jogging pace to the crest, then slithered down.
Where the hell is this accident, I wondered. I could see nothing but cars, inching around each of the wide curves. Finally, beyond the bottom of the grade, after the road narrowed to two lanes, we cleared the overturned semi.
I arrived at the first exit for SLO at eight-thirty. Though the event was only about six miles further, I got off and turned back to Atascadero. I would have arrived as the event ended. And darkness loomed. I don’t see well at night and searching for a place I had never been seemed pointless now.
I learned later that the truck had overturned at two-thirty in the afternoon. I have no idea what time the rig was actually towed away.
Thus began my search for a place in SLO.
At first, the prospect of living near the vibrant downtown seemed perfect. I scanned Craigslist every day, marking the ‘cats okay’ box. I visited a number of available units, was told of a potential ‘grandma’ house, and submitted an application for a fabulous apartment a few blocks from the center of town. My heart sank when the owner of that beauty said I was her second choice.
Then, on Saturday, June 29th, I visited an expensive, pet-friendly unit so unkempt inside and out, it made me want to run. And I did.
Back in Atascadero, I wrote a list of what I wanted, not only in the apartment itself, but also in quality of life—things like quiet yet not isolated, shopping nearby, feeling safe.
On Craigslist, I dropped the check mark on the ‘cats okay’ box. A unit popped up. Nothing about pets, but I hesitated. The ad was all caps, like someone shouting the glories of the place. And it wasn’t downtown at all!
I called anyway and mentioned my cat, Simone. The owner said we could talk. I could see it anytime. He lives next door.
Oh, dear! Would that be good?
I grabbed my keys and headed to SLO for the second time that day. My GPS guided me to Madonna Road then Oceanaire Drive. I chuckled as I turned onto Atascadero Street, the street that curves into Galleon Way and my new safe harbor, my new and perhaps ‘forever’ home.
Friday, June 21, 2013
Leaving Home, a poem
SHE’S LEAVING HOME (Bye, bye)
Living my dream of leaving home,
believing doors that swung so wide
beckoned to my aging bones
with sun and warm and clear blue sky.
Grieving all I left behind,
searching for the energy
to make this new place mine
and drain the part inside of me
that sloshes still,
reminding me against my will
the joy of running in the rain
and raindrops on the windowpane.
Yet I glory in the light,
sunbaked and barefoot in the spring.
Changing, changing everything –
changing everything but me.
Living my dream of leaving home,
believing doors that swung so wide
beckoned to my aging bones
with sun and warm and clear blue sky.
Grieving all I left behind,
searching for the energy
to make this new place mine
and drain the part inside of me
that sloshes still,
reminding me against my will
the joy of running in the rain
and raindrops on the windowpane.
Yet I glory in the light,
sunbaked and barefoot in the spring.
Changing, changing everything –
changing everything but me.
Sunday, June 9, 2013
Finding Home
On May 10, 2013, I opened the San Luis Obispo Tribune. My eye was immediately drawn to the green ‘O’ on bright yellow – none other than Jordan Hasay in her Ducks singlet, racing across the top of the page. "Hasay's Running Makeover" the headline read.
Wait a minute, I thought. Where am I? Eugene? I looked around. No, not Eugene. This is my new home. Atascadero, California, just north of San Luis Obispo.
I hadn’t remembered that Jordan is from San Luis – SLO as they call it here.
I turned to the Sports page. Another nice picture of Jordan winning the 5,000 at Hayward on April 19, complete with lengthy article about her move to longer distances.
It reminded me how completely we adopt our sports heroes and heroines, no matter whether they’re really ‘ours’ or not.
And it took me back to a sunny August afternoon in 1984. The Los Angeles Coliseum, Olympic Track and Field. My friend and I chattered about the upcoming race, crossing our fingers that our favorite would win. The group in front of us turned.
“Who’re you talking about?” one asked.
“Joaquim Cruz,” we replied in unison. “He ran for the University of Oregon.”
Another, after studying the lineup, spoke up. “But,” long pause, “he’s running for Brazil.”
My friend and I shrugged.
“Watch him. He’s really fast,” I said. “And handsome.” I had passed near him at Hayward Field earlier that year, and had blushed when he noticed me admiring his face and physique.
Our support for an athlete from another country unsettled those around us. But he was ours. We celebrated his come-from-behind victory in the 800 while those near us had seemed stunned.
On May 24th, The Tribune reported that Hasay’s running move to longer distances, hit a bump. She failed to qualify for the NCAA Championships in the 10,000-meter preliminaries in Austin, Texas. There’s still the 5,000 though. Eugene and SLO will be watching.
It reminds me how connected we all are, no matter where we go. On a trip to Cambria, I had another ‘where am I?’ moment. We parked in front of a rock shop, the kind that sells real rocks. I did a double-take on the name. Planet Yachats. I turned to my companion.
“Yachats is my favorite Oregon Coast town. S’pose it’s connected?”
He didn’t seem interested and we moseyed to a restaurant for a late lunch. As we returned to the car, I knew I had to find out.
The clerk sat in the back at a small desk, eating her own lunch and reading.
“I’ve got to know,” I said. “Yachats – any relation to Yachats, Oregon?”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “The first Planet Yachats is there. The owners buy from all over the world – Morocco most recently. This is their second store. We’ve been open five years.”
The clerk has never been to Yachats, Oregon so our conversation died rather quickly. But I left with a Planet Yachats business card. On one side, the address in Cambria. On the other, ‘Corner of 3rd & Hwy 101 in beautiful Yachats.’
I’ll keep it to remind me that wherever I am, I’m home. And we all belong to each other, no matter where we’re from.
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