On the Way Past San Jose

Tuesday, April 16, 2013. I breathe deep and look out the window to clear blue skies. Home.

It’s been a long two weeks. The scramble to pack up my household goods became complicated.

First, I began getting warnings from Verizon. My minutes had been devoured by all the calls necessary to negotiate my move.

Then, on Tuesday, April 2, the sewer backed up again (see ‘Grateful for the sh**!’ from November 13, 2012).

I called the plumber. Quick response and the problem appeared to be fixed.

On Wednesday, I ran a small tub of wash, then dove into packing. I began to hear little burps from the toilet, though I was not running any water myself. I headed to the office, not wanting to use up any more phone minutes.

I rounded the corner to see the plumbing van at my neighbors. Hmmm. I rang her doorbell.

“Are you having a plumbing problem?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. “He’s back there now.”

“Could I talk to him? I had a problem just yesterday. Maybe it’s related.”

The plumber – not the same one who worked on my place -- was adamant. Absolutely no connection between the two problems. I declined to argue, returned to my house and sure enough, water, thankfully clean, burbled up from the sewer cleanout.

I nearly ran to the office. The manager called the plumbing company. They would send the guy from my neighbor’s when he had finished there.

I returned to packing, wondering if I would get to wash my pile of dirty laundry.

Then, just before three, I washed my hands and went to the title company to sign closing papers.

Late that afternoon, the plumber came to the door. He went on at length about why he’d left the cleanout open.

“So, I can’t use my water,” I said.

“You can use it, it’ll just flow into the yard,” he said. I started to explain why that wasn’t okay, then just walked away, leaving him standing at the door.

Shortly after that, I noticed a man in a work vest on the deck near the cleanout pipe. I went out, hoping he had a solution. Nope. He was the cable guy and had been notified of a water problem near their cable connection.

I called a friend. She asked what she could do. “Come give me a hug,” I said. She popped in a few minutes later with that hug. By then I knew I needed a break and we went to dinner.

I was up until after one a.m. packing, tossing items wherever they would fit.

The next morning, the movers arrived on time and were in and out quickly.

All I needed to do now was pack the car. I’d overestimated what the car would hold, so when another friend called, I lured her over and gave her my beautiful Christmas cactus and what I thought was the rest of the stuff from the kitchen.

Then I locked the door and went to Valley River Inn for the night. Room service and a bath! How glorious! But I woke in the night remembering the few items I had left behind – locked securely in the house along with my last key!

Early Friday, I texted my realtor, asking if she could let me in for those items. But by the time we connected, I had gathered Simone from the cat hotel and was headed south. Was I running away? I shook my head. More like a boat being shoved from the dock.

I was in Redding when I got another text from my realtor. “Did you give someone permission to take plants and move stepping stones from the yard?”

Oh, oh. I was pretty sure the plumbing company had been there to fix the sewer problem. But I hadn’t given anyone permission – that was up to the park manager.

“No, why?” I responded. She called immediately. Here it was, four in the afternoon, and no one had spoken to the manager! I suggested that option. I never heard more.

A rainstorm pounded through the night in Redding and the next morning, we left in sputtering showers that dissipated by Corning.

Simone slept all the way past San Jose to our new home in Atascadero.

My furniture arrived, late but all accounted for, on Sunday. The money from closing showed up in my account on Monday.

Yes! Done!

March Sunshine

I spent the first weekend of March in Yachats at another writing workshop. I shivered in the damp fog and developed a backache from scrunching under my coat during the workshop. Even though Yachats is one of my favorite places, I couldn’t help congratulating myself on the decision to move south.

During one of the breaks, I visited the local bookstore. Noting copies of Fifty Shades of Gray, I spoke to the woman at the register. “When I first heard the title, I thought ‘oh, someone’s written about Western Oregon.’” We both laughed.

Friday, March 15: I made a reservation for an apartment in Atascadero! Cats are welcome. The manager seemed real nice over the phone - and there's a place available on April 6! It's an end unit, upstairs, so only one side neighbor and one downstairs. Hope I like it! It's month-to-month; I can move if it doesn't work out.

And you're wondering why April 6. Well, the folks buying my house want me to be out by April 5 at noon. After much hemming and head scratching, I agreed. I've scheduled a mover and am in the process of packing a bit at a time. I've sold some items on Craigslist and have more to go.

In preparation to take Simone with me, I took her to 'Doctor Tom' for her shots. He cleaned her ears, one of which was really clogged. Afterward, it became infected. Two more visits and she's now on antibiotics for ten days.

I had planned to drive to San Luis Obispo for a week to look around and find a place to land.

But Simone would have to stay in the cat hotel. While telling a friend of my dilemma, I realized I was being told to slow down. So, I'm staying in Eugene until April 5 - or whatever day the papers are signed and my furniture heads down the road!

March 19: The rains are back. On days last week when the sun shone, I doubted my decision. Today I reminded myself that weather like this often continues through May. Last year, I had my heat on through the drizzly middle of July!

So I’m pleased my application for the apartment has been approved. The manager offered me a different unit, one that’s above their (empty) model. My sister wondered if they thought my heavy-footedness would disturb downstairs neighbors, but the manager claimed she doesn’t want families with screaming kids above the model. Neither my sister nor the manager have heard Simone howl, usually for no apparent reason. In the more isolated unit I won’t risk being reported to the SPCA!

The Force is with me . . .

I began the process of moving south a couple weeks ago. First step: contact a realtor. I tried to locate the woman I’d bought my place from, but she wasn’t listed under her name. A friend forwarded another name for consideration. Still mulling my options, I opened a section of the local paper and there she was! She and her husband had started their own firm shortly after I met her in 2007.

I left a message for her on Friday, February 8th. By Monday morning, no response. I fussed. Should I call again? Go to their office? Something told me to wait.

As I left the house to meet with friends at noon, key still in the door, my phone clanged. A youthful voice chirped a happy greeting. She and her partner had been assigned to represent me, if I wanted. I did. We made an appointment for Thursday.

On Thursday, the sun shone bright. The agent toured my place, snapping photos before settling details for the listing. On Friday, she brought the window sign. Then, under fog-filled skies, I left for a writer’s conference in Gold Beach.

At Winston, the mists cleared. Sun warmed the weekend, temperatures reaching the mid-sixties. Perhaps the brightness opened space for me to participate, to feel I belonged in this group of talented writers, and inspired the poetry I scribbled on scraps of paper.

Sunday, on the way back, my realtor called. I pulled over to listen to her message, then called her back.

“You’re not going to believe this,” she said. On Saturday, she had tried to create a video walk-through for the listing, but the camera hadn’t worked. On Sunday, her partner tried, but somehow locked herself out of the house!

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m just south of Cottage Grove. I’ll be there in thirty or forty minutes.”

As I approached the entrance to my manufactured home park, my phone rang. I picked up, expecting it to be my agent. Wrong. Another agent had showed the unit across the street from me. They’d seen my sign and wanted to get in.

“I’m almost there,” I said.

“We could just run across and look before you get here,” she said.

“No, no. You can’t. I’ll explain. Be there in a minute,” I replied as I rounded the curve and saw five people standing in my neighbor’s driveway.

They toured the house while I walked around the neighborhood. As she left, their realtor hinted there might be an offer.

There was. Is. OMG! Stay tuned for the woo-woo rest of the story!

Migrating South

I left the message for my California chum. She was maid of honor at my last wedding, my second broken marriage. I missed her return call and laughed out loud at her message: “Well, you coulda knocked me over with a gin bottle! I never in my wildest dreams thought you’d move to California! I think it’s a fabulous idea.”

Like a bird who forgot to migrate south, I get restless each winter, flapping my mental wings at our foggy, soggy, dark and clammy Willamette Valley.

To be clear, I’m a California transplant. I was raised in Southern California. Whittier, to be exact. It’s a college town with older homes and lots of trees. In certain sections, the sprawl of “The City” – cue the music from Dragnet – can be ignored. I came to Eugene via the University of Oregon in 1961 and am still here.

But my sister, brother-in-law, their two daughters and their families live in the L.A. area. They are my closest blood relatives. I visit at least once each year. Getting from Eugene to Los Angeles by any mode of transportation is not simple. There are no direct flights from Eugene. The Amtrak takes at least 26 hours and has been anywhere from 2 to 12 hours late. Driving can be hazardous in winter and takes more than one day no matter what time of year.

And, yikes! My next birthday will mark the beginning of my eighth decade. How can that be? I’m healthy and active, yet everything takes me longer, requires more effort. My last drive from here to my sister’s in October wore me out.

So, I’ve begun my research. My plan is to stay somewhat north of L.A. and near the coast but not on it.

Last Sunday, I put a sign in the window of my manufactured home. I’ve gotten one call from an interested neighbor. Who knows? I may be outta here sooner than I think!

Changing the World

In mid-December, after Clackamas, after Sandy Hook, I started clipping Opinion page columns and letters to the editor about gun control. I wanted to present a solution in such perfect logic and phrasing that everyone would agree.

I sent letters to both Oregon Senators and to my congressman, urging them to act on the gun control problem. I enclosed copies of what at the time seemed the most cogent arguments for banning assault weapons and rapid-fire ammunition clips.

A few days later I saw that the solution and words are out there and have been for a long time. I could add nothing new. And I was reminded that what we focus on expands. For me to stew on the issue would help no one. I dropped my project.

I also considered dropping my subscription to the paper, but I’m a writer. I’m a writer who is addicted to puzzles, including the Cryptoquote. I’ve clipped many and stored them in an envelope, always intending to type them into a document for easier retrieval.

And so, on Christmas Day, home alone because of an ear infection, I busied myself at the computer. Here are some of the quotes that helped me have a really wonderful day.

I get up every morning determined to both change the world and have one hell of a good time. Sometimes this makes planning my day difficult.—E. B. White

(And when I think about changing the world before I’m up, getting up can seem impossible!)

Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed people can change the world. –Margaret Mead

(I certainly hope the members of that small group find each other soon!)

The longer we dwell on our misfortunes, the greater is their power to harm us. –Voltaire

(This verified my decision to avoid action that could escalate the gun control debate and swirl me into negativity.)

And finally, this:

Do what you can, with what you have, where you are. –Theodore Roosevelt

And I do. I write letters. I donate to Food for Lane County at the checkout counter at Market of Choice. I pick up litter on my walks. I contribute to Greenhill and S.A.R.A.’s. I give clothes to the Mission, unneeded household goods to St. Vinnie’s. I write this blog!

Does that make me a world changer in a small way, right where I am? I hope so.

Do You Hear What I Hear

In my last post, I claimed my blocked ear had begun to clear. Not so. I won’t bore you with details, but since October 29th I have taken Amoxicillin, prednisone, Sudafed (yes, prescribed), and lots of Tylenol. In addition, I had my ear lanced and drained. When the puncture healed, my ear filled up again. Ten days ago, my primary physician prescribed Flonase to treat swollen sinuses and help with drainage.

Each treatment produced initial improvement but failed to end my cotton-in-the-ear syndrome.

It’s not that I felt sick. I continued most of my normal activities, occasionally chanting “All I want for Christmas is my ear to clear, my ear to clear.”

Then last Friday, December 21 – the day the light begins to creep back – I was able to hear pretty well. Yay! I’m on the mend! I skipped breakfast in order to do my fasting blood test. I met some friends at noon. I shopped. I went to dinner with other friends. I dropped!

Over the weekend, cotton-in-the-ear changed to ache-in-the-ear. That side of my head felt heavy again. Darn!

Still, I persisted with normal activities. Today, Monday, Christmas Eve, my friend and I walked our usual six miles by 8a.m.

But the ear nagged. I called the doctor’s office at 9:15. She had an opening at 9:30. I grabbed it even though I hadn’t showered. I threw on some semi-clean clothes and hustled out the door.

I didn’t want to hear – pun intended – that my ear is actually worse than ten days ago (dang!).

She prescribed a stronger antibiotic in hopes of avoiding a visit to a specialist to drain my ear again. She suggested adding Robitussin to my arsenal of medical weapons. I now take two horse-size pills, squirt stuff up my nose, and drink weird tasting liquid – all at different times during the day. Whew!

The good news? My blood tests were back. Everything was A-OK. She even said she'd be really happy if her cholesterol numbers and ratios were like mine!

Although I could go to a couple of events tomorrow, I’ll stay home, listening to the ringing in my ear instead of jingle bells.

Gives new meaning to 'I'll be home for Christmas'!

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.