Treasure Trove

September 30, 2013

Though soggy and chilled, I adore the Seattle area, my old stomping grounds in Port Townsend.  So much work to do and many friends to connect with. I squeal with excitement in organizing plans in between my projects. Getting organized for a Downsizing Sale, pricing, sorting, shuffling book laden boxes around from one spot to another. The sorting and emotional journey does not get easier for the owner of the moldy items in cardboard and plastic bins. Documents, photos, lotion, chatchkeys, records, cassette tapes, collections that do not serve the new décor. Mother and father’s things from when they died and left it behind to regenerate the memories of their past have to be handled and passed along to someone who sees the treasure in the junk.

PNW Notions

September 29, 2013

I arrive, open to presenting myself as I am today versus who I was when I left the PNW (Pacific Northwest) two years ago. I aim to discover who my friends are instead of who they were in October of 2011. I feel different, a bit more squashed than before, like flat Paula who made a tour to Minnesota via Canada to Brasil that created an entire new branch to my life and experiences. Many ask me about my experiences and I project the memory like a scene played over and over again on the big screen. I can emulate my sensation of being isolated and vulnerable, alone and more sensitive to the people around me.

Grand times in Port Townsend, driving past familiar places, the buffalo en route, coffee shops, new fire station, restaurant haunts that have gone by the wayside and new territory to explore.

Wine, squash soup, Elevated ice cream and fabulous conversation with old and new friends over wine and healthy juiced vegetable concoction. Late night interrupted by an alarm jingling until my friend reminds me it must be my phone. Finally drift off only to be awakened by a client calling for an appointment upon my return to the Twin Cities. She is calling early their time, an ungodly hour on the West Coast. Remind me to silence my ringer for tomorrow morning.  

Rain (Wo)man

September 29, 2013

Ravaging my favorite thrift stores. Found a fleece Navajo blanket and lime green dish for the cat, fuzzy socks for my chilly feet, a substitute for a rain slick, since the faux suede coat was the cutest thing in the $1.49 per pound bin. NO luck on finding a pair of slippers. It just means I have to scavenge Fancy Feathers when I get to Port Townsend this week. Darn.

The air is heavy with moisture and everything feels wet, even my jewelry is damp. I failed to bring rain gear but everyone has a special closet for that. It is big enough to lie down in and doubles as a guest room. A night light shines 24 hours a day, a plate of cookies and glass of milk sit next to the door on a bench to comfort you as you peruse the available galoshes, slickers, elastic waistband pants, brimmed hats with a chin band, lined jackets and such. There are 100 words for raincoat in the state of Washington.

Tales of Grimm

July 16, 2013

She could have been Gretel in the Grimm’s Fairy Tales. Blond braids pulled back to reveal her diamond-shaped face, sweet pink lips, staggering blue eyes and demure demeanor to boot. Until Michael called her over and requested she be an observer during my physical therapy, claiming she was interested in becoming a PT herself, introducing her as Maggie, Peggy, Beth, anything but believable Gretel, she had loitering in the corner. She is from Madison so we had a lot to talk about. Actually, when I think about it, she was cunningly keeping me from noticing Hansel who must have been hiding from Grandma.

A round-faced interpreter bobbed and weaved in his starched white shirt and baggy pants. The patient, a man with a colorful patterned scarf around his head had visible difficulty sitting, then rising from the padded benches. I was surprised to note that the PT working with the elder did not bend to assist. Neither did the interpreter, not to mention the son who must have been chauffeuring his ailing father. The boy/man sat, digging for gold in each nostril, not seeming to realize it is not socially acceptable for anyone over the age of four, to pick his nose in the middle of a busy gym. Caused me to ask the physical therapist how many languages he speaks, believing it must be a pre-requisite to working in a growing populous of international patients in the Twin Cities. Just one, he smirked. He never studied another idiom in High School and didn’t take the time in college to pursue languages. Shocking.

I only find out just how well Michael thinks my foot is doing because he has an audience. He assures me we could have another nine sessions, perhaps less, depending upon how well the next month goes. I fail to mention I have been running amok and taking my foot places he could never imagine. I simply keep the secrets safe and smirk like an evil jack-o-lantern. Can’t help myself around Gretel.

Kitimus Krazy

September 28, 2013

Kitimus has no teeth, a lightweight frame and wobbly walk. She is about seventeen years old, no spring kitty! I handle her, giving her a good once-over and trim her nails so they are not snagging on delicate clothes, the furniture and bedding. She is not quite accustomed to being picked up and cuddled but I am forcing myself on her since I miss Grill and Moose. She’ll get used to it. Either that, or so damned relieved when I leave the area. She has an inactive tyroid issue, kidney problems and obviously cannot tolerate solid food, though she does gum it up when we add the kibble to her mush. She survived the flea brigade and is fluffy and white where it is supposed to be white.

Drove the unfamiliar treacherous VW van in the rain to meet clients this morning. Had to toodle down the freeway, sweat it out at the lights and down steep hills (you are aware of Seattle’s famous up and down neighborhoods?) creeping along to Kent.  I took my time but got turned around (what a surprise, for those of you who know me well,) and had to ring my friends for assistance. I took yet another wrong turn and showed-up relatively disheveled but calm. My bangs were in an entirely different style by the time I pulled into the joint. At least they recognized me.

Dinner tonight at the local Mexican restaurant with a buddy, champion friend and so much in common it hurts. Tomorrow is a trip on the ferry, one of my all-time favorite things on the planet. I intend to hang out on the deck, wind whipping my ears like a Basset.

PNW or Bust

September 27, 2013

It’s only been six months since I have been on an airplane and I am psyched to join the masses in line, jostling for room in the overhead compartment. Several people had to park their luggage at the back of the plane (along with the survivors) and agree to separate from their stuff. I smiled from 7C, knowing I caught a great seat since I have been at the airport from the beginning of time. My niece flew out at 6 and my flight wasn’t until 7:50 so I had time to have a few cups of Dunn Brothers coffee, eat my bit soggy mozzarella and tomato sandwich while people watching over the top of my thick hardcover thriller  novel. I toss it on the seat next to me after scanning the last page, leaving it for someone to bond with. Am hoping no one takes it as a bomb or anthrax dusted. Hate to think the detectives tracking me down and arresting me at an inopportune moment.

The flight attendants roamed the aisles with some sort of notebook thingee for rent, served me up warm freeze-dried tasting coffee laced with powdered milk and white sugar…shudder. I passed-up the Cheeszits, other snacks I had never heard of and chatted with my neighbor about her grandkids, politely scoured their photos and murmured my approval. She is planning to convince her daughter to move back to the land of snow and ice from Seattle. Good luck with that, I thought.

Shivered with soaking in the array of people hugging hello at the Baggage Claim door, awaiting my chauffer. He barreled in and hauled my bags into the Chevy. Familiar roads blurred by the window as I talked of my life adventures from the last two years, since my escape from the PNW. It has been raining and under 60 degrees since I landed. Boots, a jacket and gloves found smashed in the corner of the pockets for good luck.

Off to enjoy Greek food, their specialty beverage which resembles turpentine, and visit with family.

Canned Goods

September 26, 2013

Opening someone else’s mail and reading it on their behalf is strange. I leave the investment envelopes intact since the family member in charge can handle that. A survey showed-up from the Home Health Care Agency which consisted of five pages of questions regarding the level of service and my client’s satisfaction.  She seemed a bit irritated by the time we got to question number 24 but we bulldozed thru the rest. I filled-in all of the appropriate ovals and licked the envelope and called it good. She sighed in relief after I told her I slid it in the outgoing mail slot downstairs on my way up from the laundry room.

Folding well-worn mumus, matching skidless socks, shuffling towels and washcloths, hanging house jackets over the rail, hoping they don’t sail over the balcony, seven floors down. I patrol the freezer for exotic meals to throw together for the next few days.  I am certainly not accustomed to fixing dinner from a can, box, carton or the freezer. Kinda like MRE’s or space food.

Washer Woman

September 25, 2013

It is $1 wash day. Bumping elbows with the mob at the Laundromat this morning. Big loaders are all taken, much to my chagrin. Have to toss out the sheets and one sweater that makes me feel uncomfortably like Arnold Schwarzenegger, if I happen to wear it to any event that has lights. Guarded the washer with two minutes left and reminded the senior gentleman in the nearby bluebird colored formed chair that the machine had stopped. He slid back and forth between the washer and vast dryer, grasping small handfuls of clothing draped down to his knees. I kept an expression of compassion and understanding as I watched the large clock tick away my precious packing and organizing time. While the cycle processes my clothes, I walk the neighborhood, begrudgingly collecting trash around the Humboldt High School property. At least they have a recycle bin for the aluminum and plastics. Ty and I were late for the wash and a young woman was handling my intimate apparel as I saunter in the glass door. Ty is impatient, waiting by the road, tied to a tree. The place is even more crowded than a McDonalds on a Sunday morning. All of the tables are filled with butts parked in the now warm seats. I wait for the dryer to tumble the clothes as I finish my Blog and head out to carry the weighted red plastic clothes basket the two and a half blocks home.  

Nearly Fired

September 23, 2013

I got “written up” for placing the Raspberry Vinaigrette Salad dressing in the wrong spot. It was a life threatening mistake that could have caused an 88 year old undue stress. I will never do it again.

Have to consider if I am going to maintain the kennel job once I return from the West Coast. It is exceedingly chaotic and undeniably exasperating. I do not turn away from physically taxing work. On the contrary, I like to feel productive and realize I am making a visible difference in the work environment. Depending upon my circumstances and frame of mind, I will determine whether the doggie duty still suits me in a few weeks. Hope to get a clear sign from the cloud formations and direction for the next step outlined on my morning toast one day. 

Frazzling Feline Food

September 24, 2013

Needing a Valium for my crazed frame of mind. Or at least that is what I hear. Preparing for a two week trip across the country puts me in a fretful state. The greatest concern is the damaged dental cat with special needs. He will be home alone, guarding the house, in case you are a robber and reading this blog. I spoke with several authorities in the cat food industry who assure me that I can leave dry food out and feed canned every few days with plenty of fresh water, or I should not even consider putting out dry food and only wet is acceptable, OR the meals have to be prepared individually and the cat cannot be trusted to dole out his own portions. Great. A cat is now running my life.

Taking the dog to the country to stay at a Princeton palace with friends and lots of other critters tomorrow night after work. I’ll have a leisurely morning of zipping out of bed before the duck hunters are out rearranging their blinds, haul down the road to force feed the cat, zoom to meet my daughter for a few hours, drop all the remaining food from the frig at her abode then heading off to work. Immediately afterwards, I fly to meet the kid, who will take me to my sister’s house to sleep overnight. I have to get up before the duck hunters launch out of their own beds to go to the airport to catch a plane to the other side of the country where it is at least ten degrees colder.

I pack for the dog, for whatever weather I may encounter, gifts for friends and family whom I will hit up for a couch and meal or two, pay all of the bills, anticipate three to four persons coming in to feed the cat, clean the litter box and a way to make that system easy to navigate, all the while, arranging work and play in Washington state for two weeks.

I hate to be a Debbie Downer (sorry if your name is Debbie, no offense) but it is crazy. Not as nuts as packing and organizing for a trip out of the country for six months but insane all the same.

Breakneck Speed

September 21, 2013

Racing down the freeway to save my life, driving in a panic, sure to be run down by the semi, 4WD truck or even granny in the Plymouth. I have to pull out into heavy traffic at the end of an exasperating day at the kennel.

Waited nearly an hour for the owner to appear from her nail appointment, baking in the sun, reading two week old news from the abandoned and a bit damp newspaper left at the end of the lengthy driveway.  I was more than a bit perturbed, especially since it wasn’t clear that I would only stay three hours versus four and now being paid for two. Wow. I need to have a down and dirty conversation about my value, time and energy, sweating the small stuff while busting my butt. I’ve only myself to blame, not speaking up when I am trod upon.

One of the young dogs had a seizure just prior to giving her a bath. Maybe she heard the other pups yowling about my poor bathing technique. I coo to the canines as I wet, lather, shampoo, scrub all parts that can be cleaned, rinse and towel dry. The blow drying portion of the process is the most disturbing to the beasts. They cower, shiver and shake while looking into my eyes with a downtrodden appeal to get the heck out of the bathtub already. I brush and comb until they are squeaky clean and give them a huge embrace before luring them back into their freshly sanitized kennel with a dry towel to lie on. Pretty pampered life they lead.

I hate the nail trimming. I fret about the black nails since they are impossible to detect the quick. Blood stop is next to my right elbow, just in case. The Dremmel is horrible, a whining drill sound that puts my teeth on edge.

I was relieved the last dog to bathe didn’t have to get her nails trimmed since she was at risk for another seizure. Precious little brown and white fur ball, licking me clean as she was getting her bath. I was glad to announce she didn’t attempt to bite or snarl, as they suspected she might. Three dogs bathed and out the door.

If only I didn’t have to haul tail to get out of the joint at the end of the day, it would be much less stressful.

No Whining Allowed

September 22, 2013

Over glasses of wine, we sat on a wide front porch, visited with animated and introspective women from the neighborhood after dark. Lots of laughs, neighbor secrets and stories of our children, ACT scores and being good examples as mothers. We nearly solved the world’s problems, or at least the issues within spitting distance from the stoop.

I so enjoy getting to know the people on the West Side. It is stimulating and just plain fun to be around new friends. Struck by women’s stories of what is important for them to share of themselves, I find myself feeling open and willing to bear my experiences.

One Hmong woman, escaping the regime in Laos as a very young girl, with her sister, brother, parents and grandmother, admitted recalling the sights from the San Francisco bridge to Minnesota snow. Surprise birthday party tales to memories of our children’s antics were divided amongst our group in a matter of a few hours. I gain so much from each woman, their tragedies of the loss of a mother to one daughter who saw her dead grandpa pass through the doorway during breakfast. We parted, connected, with the promise to be together again very soon.  

Primate Pals

September 20, 2013

He had a monkey when he was a kid, her name was Lisa and she came home with his parents one night. The monkey was the door prize and another couple had won her but turned down the award and his parents accepted the little naughty creature, thinking she would be a good pet for their children. Lisa constantly crapped on everyone’s arms since she was nervous and jittery. She tended to sit, lengthwise on a person’s forearm, butt facing the handler. Although a little bigger than a medium cat, she could spew digested food on a regular basis and create chaos in the room. When the smell of her feces and urine saturated the ceiling in the basement and permeated the flooring on the main level, the family knew it was time to rid themselves of the company of the pet monkey. Lisa was whisked away to parts unknown and never seen nor heard from again.

A boss of mine from lifetimes ago had an orangutan for a pet. The family humored themselves by tricking the operator at the toll booth, hiding down behind the dash while controlling the pedals and steering column. The orangutan, lets call him Buddy, for autonomy sake, tossed the appropriate coins into the bin as the station wagon sped on by. Another choice trick was eating at the dinner table, dressed in his “brother’s” pants and t-shirt, scooping food with a fork and cutting the veggies with a knife, a napkin tucked into the collar of his cotton top. Buddy lived to be 13 years of age and when he died, the family mourned as though he was truly their best relative. When my boss spoke of Buddy’s antics, I felt the power of relationship and joy. I was moved by his stories and encouraged him to talk about Buddy and their short life together.

Party

September 19, 2013

She counted out her change, clutched in one fist, to purchase a pack of cigarettes. “Marlboro box, please,” as she spilled the correct amount onto the silent belt. “You have to rob a bank to smoke these days,” I exclaimed. “I am not going to quit because they think they are forcing me to stop,” she declared. Then, she turned towards me, a startling pretty face, curly locks plastered to either side, and, with a grin, reached out and attempted to drop the remaining coins into my palm. “Oh, no, please, you need to keep that for the next pack.” She assured me she detests change, her kids will steal it from her anyway, so I should take it. I politely refused so she shrugged and slid them, like a waterfall, into the clerk’s stained gaping smock pocket. “I have had THE worst day, my faucet won’t stop leaking, the stove isn’t working right and I was stung by a bee today. I am glad to have the money.” “At least you have a job,” I comment, “I’ve been looking for a very long time” (though it has not been in the grocery industry, and especially not at the local corner market, I readily admit.) She mashed her thick lips together and waved me on, recognizing I was not going to grant her the Pithy Pity Party she was counting on. 

The number of job openings may be declared “up” but the rate of pay and exorbitant list of qualifications turns me away from most postings. I continue to send out three to five professional resumes and customized cover letters per day, with no response. It is frustrating and disheartening. With two very part-time, most likely temporary jobs, one that has inconsistent hours and promises late cancelation calls, I am floundering. My time is spent in contribution, searching employment agency postings, responding to emails that announce new employment in my area, researching new types of positions, and battling depression. It is not easy to stay alert to the onset of crabbiness. Symptoms slide by me when I snarl at the bank teller or sales representative. as I phone-in to pay a bill I do not have the ready cash on-hand to cover. It is tough. Don’t let ready Jack Nicholson smile and easy manner, from those who are out there looking for work, fool you. A ball buster time, (if I had any.)

Maxwell and Me

September 18, 2013

I didn’t necessarily mean to take a shower with Maxwell, it just happened. He was splashing around in the tub then, after shampooing, doused me with the excess water from his coat, so I got drenched. I suspect he is a Golden mixed with Samoyed but the AKC papers say he is a purebred. What do I know.

As I approach the door to the Baker Community Center, I realize I have long white fluff plastered to the back of my black stretch pants. Didn’t have time to go home and change after working at the kennels. I am late for the neighborhood gathering and can hear someone spouting off about gangs of black men tossing dice in the alley behind their house.

It appears we have to start communicating with our neighbors, making an effort to attend to the kids who run rampid, collect trash from the sides of the street, find out who is going out of town, and looking out for one another. One woman reported, in tears, that her daughter was ambushed by a group of boys a week ago, and the police nor anyone in the school district have yet to assist with the accost. She and her mother were understandably shaken, but relieved when the undercover cop approached them, to gather information, and make a report back at the station house.

Must have been at least thirty people in attendance, including the pastor of the church from around the corner and across the street. He announced the congregation will be able to step in, to help with the black youths who are getting into trouble. I will approach him with my idea of starting a survivor/perpetrator conflict resolution program and see what we can come up with for a plan.

Ran home with high hopes for the future of the West Side Neighborhood. Maybe no one noticed the long white hairs stuck to my pants, then again…

Fall Into Friendship

September 17, 2013

My long time friends are like little pieces of my soul. All have helped me shape who I am and I am forever grateful for their courage, input and experiences. As I dream about my future, I tap into my past and drag all of them along with me. The expression of communication shifts and changes as I incorporate my time with them, leaping into a unique today that encourages the joy, passion and trepidation they encounter.

I appreciate the honesty and integrity of our conversations that may not be easy on either end of the phone, the couch or from a bedside. Life is short, tender and spirited. I am grateful to be an individual in part of the whole.

Recently a few friends have family and loved ones who have passed away. It is a difficult and tumultuous time. I think of them and support them in their process.

Got Seeds?

September 16, 2013

Grieving the lost summer, despite the snappy suede coat with a faux fur collar I slip on my shoulders, to head outdoors in the sun.  I can’t help but sense the leaves dying, falling to the ground in relief. Packing the shorts and sleeveless shirts in a box, hiding them away in the closet for storage, pulling out wooly sweaters and long pants feels much like a cry for help. I tolerate the cooling floors, realizing I must shut the storm windows to prevent the chill from entering my vast space. A bent shovel leans against the wall of the oily garage, taunting me with its inefficiency. The snow is not far, threatening to make its way to my driveway, lining the tire treads with fluff that turns into solid ice. Altogether possible it could come as early as Halloween. The lap of the moving ocean calls out to me, tropical winds and palm trees curl the edge of my thoughts.  

We are starting a Seed Library on the West Side. I hesitate to commit to being the Point Person, sharing the table at Committee meetings and taking copious notes. The aim is to create a community willing to grow food in pots, hanging from the tops of straw bales or dug into patches of earth around the neighborhood. It is an exciting and invigorating project to be a part of yet I am not certain of the reluctance to join up. We must find a way to encourage people of all ages and colors, cultures and backgrounds to be incorporated into the program, to emphasize our tolerance and inclusivity. Since the West Side is eclectic, it only makes good sense. Besides the fact that we are near Dakota, the First Nation population has to be encouraged to be members as well. It is important that the children are included, to learn about food and where it comes from, how to care for ourselves and flourish. A big undertaking that I believe we are capable of, in this diverse area.

The Seed Library will be housed at our little local library. Details of storing the precious seeds and managing the donations and organizing how the envelopes are doled-out. Of course, classes on planting and creating a new stock for the following year are also a huge part of the endeavor. We need not reinvent the wheel, there are other like programs across the country and the group is mimicking the education piece from one in Madison, Wisconsin. Serendipitously my home town.

The Big Red Bowl

September 15, 2013

A fat mass of wrinkles, pinched nose and penny shiny coat leaned over the red plastic gallon-sized bowl to take a slurp, slinging a thick wad of saliva across the dry, cracked sidewalk. Her name matched the coppery fur and cool eyes, Penny. She is adorable. A French Mastiff who gobbled peanut butter and pumpkin biscuits by the handful as she took in the Bichon Frise, who very undignified for a dog, leapt into the arms of the nearest cooing woman. I sat at the cherry pie label red table in front of Woof Central, coaxing cash out of pedestrians soaking up what little sun we had on Penn Avenue during the Festival. Attempting to sell the stack of Kimberly’s Courage books to the patrons that meandered along the car-less street, seeking freebie cookies, popcorn, and chilled water in deadly plastic bottles, vying to be entertained.  At 62 degrees, I shiver and fret about the lack of a promised crowd. The Twins and Vikings games, bike race and fall weather seem to be taking their toll on the much anticipated street fair. The “Best Hot Dogs Ever” sold out across the way, slices of pizza trot in front of my eyes, brats soaked in beer float past and I dread the hunger pit in my stomach, knowing a good vegetarian sandwich is unattainable. I slurp my coffee and bide my time until I can bolt from the meat byproduct fumes and head home.

The Big Red Bowl attracts finicky eaters, dogs who refuse to sit for the treat, ADD sufferers who cannot pay attention long enough to draw a drink from the well, a few who growl and don’t play well with others yet mostly friendly, happy sorts who wag and seek attention from anyone within reach of the leash. I ate my fair share of the peanut butter, pumpkin treats as well. The brave ones experiment them too, nodding in agreement that they are not so bad. Edible even. Doesn’t measure up to a fresh salad but, I’m just one person talking.   

Market Madness

September 14, 2013

The deer devoured all of his fresh ears of corn on the north side of the field. Plants stripped bare, naked from root to the sky. The neighboring field, tended to by “Ned”  (for some reason, his name only seems apparent in parenthesis) was left unhampered. When Todd inquired about the production of the untapped maize, he was startled to find it an Engineered brand. This discovery left him unable to swallow food for several days, creating a pit of grief too absurd to name, sickened by the fact that his special organic corn is now tainted by wind-induced pollen pollution. Does that mean the deer are smarter than humans? If the shoe, or in this case, hoof, fits..

Our growing West Side Farmers Market has jovial vendor participation. The stand to my immediate left is run by a family who owns a farm near Afton. Brilliant red peppers, tomatoes of all sizes, over-sized green cabbage, tennis ball size red and white potatoes lined up in paper baskets to admire and purchase. “M” and I discussed canning some products to sell for next season. Gosh knows, I need a new line of work. On the other side of me was a young man and his two children, one of whom I suspect did not get enough sleep last night. He ran crying to his papa every ten minutes to half an hour ‘cause someone did him wrong. Poor thing wore himself ragged. Two singers joined the Market festivities, adding a bit of music to the mix. Colorful t-shirts, brick oven baked breads, cookies, real fruit roll-ups, banana muffins, jams, chicken parts, eggs and greens rounded off the offerings. Dogs came and went, dragging owners along. Made me consider baking dog biscuits for next year as well.  

Small purple grapes, laced with green, sweet melt in my mouth burst of flavor sits in the brown paper lunch bag, snuggled next to firm, nearly ripe roma tomatoes, soft to the touch apples lay beneath, sprigs of basil purify the interior of the vehicle as I drive home from the West Side Farmers Market. An exceedingly slow Saturday morning provides salad mixings for days to come. I managed to sell one quart of maple syrup, the remaining eleven joyously jostle one another in the box.

We have a seed library starting up too. The neighborhood is most interested in a pea patch garden, exchange of seeds, soil preparation and harvesting collaboratively. My job is to ensure a true reflection of the community we live in. Hispanics, African Americans, Hmong, Vietnamese, and Caucasians. So far, it is five white, middle-aged women who are running the show. I’ll be knocking on doors and soliciting help. You could be next, watch your mailbox for details.

Three Big Girls and A Dog

September 13, 2013

“Hello, welcome back,” chirped the scale. Shoot, I was sneaking a weigh-in at my client’s yet was embarrassed to have the scale voice blurt out my actual weight. She is ancient (compared to me) and her eyesight is terrible (hence the talking scale) and yet her hearing may be better than mine. I could not take the chance, so I fretted about the gain, and celebrated the loss, without actually knowing the truth. Probably best. Might have had to eat a bowl of popcorn instead of a plate of spaghetti with a Caesar and hard roll for dinner. Better not add cheesecake and sugar, added to a bit of coffee laced with cream, to be on the safe side.

Three chubby girls, with braids and colorful beads laced into their hair stopped Ty and I on the sidewalk in front of the For Rent sign. They ran to gather ‘round us and ask how old is the dog, it is a he or she, does he eat bread, can he have some cereal (it looked like Cocoa Puffs so I declined) and when is his birthday? Does he get a cake or just a bone? Can we pet him, I am not afraid of dogs but I am allergic, can he come into the house with us, he is the same age as her. Then dad boomed, “You’d better leave that lady and her dog alone, get back up here and bring your little sister along.” They scuttled back up the stairs to the man, standing erect like a sand hill crane, on the saggy porch. He was smoking and laughing at their girlish antics, winking at me in alliance. I saluted him and moved on, collecting trash, recycling and leaving behind collaborative intention.

Cat Eat Cat World

September 12, 2013

Oops, cat got outdoors. He pushed his way out, squeezing through the door that stood ajar, a gap wide enough for his large feline body to pass. Sauntered around the perimeter of the property, sniffing here and there, quietly taking in all of the available escape routes. I weeded while he made his way to the back chain link fence, around the corner to the side of the house and back. Feared he would startle and bolt under the tilted gate and be lost to me. I called him to me and scooped up his fat body, hugged him tight until I got him back into the safety of the familiar house. A few salmon treats make him forget he was free for a time.

Prior to his escapade in the great outdoors, he was content to be hunkered on the window ledge, watching the squirrels and birds flit around in the yard. Now he meows in complaint, to be let outside.  I hesitate to allow him to roam with the other rascally neighborhood cats. No telling what gang activity he will encounter on the streets, dealing drugs, stealing bikes, entering into homes and unlocked garages, strewing litter all over the alleyways, smoking cigarettes, tossing ratty furniture to the curb, etc. There are black cats out there as well, soliciting more gang members and wreaking havoc.

Stinkin' P&J

September 11. 2013

     Daejon certainly won’t show up at my door again anytime soon. He was dropped off at the corner by the big yellow school bus, after a day of second grade, sweaty and hesitant. Didn’t even knock, I simply noticed Tyrus barking at the front door and wagging his tail widely. A peek around the corner produced Daejon, with his flat backpack strapped to his shoulder, a white tag with contact information attached to the top. His hair, in tight braids that wrap his thick wet head, led him, skulking, into the house. He looked more than a bit forlorn and cautious. He claimed his mom told him to come here, if she wasn’t at the bus stop. Of course he is welcome, I assure him his mom had asked me last week and I agreed. If I am not home, I let him know, he can hang out in the sun room to wait. I whisked him into the house and told him we could make a freezing smoothie to cool him down. “A smoooothie?” He responded that he is starved, when I asked him if he’d like a snack.

     I pulled out the bread, fresh peanut butter jar and homemade strawberry jam. He rolled the peanut butter around on the bread until I demonstrated how he can spread it flat. The jam came out in a big glob and he had trouble with that as well. I let him struggle, succeed, then noted his smile behind the disconcerting frown. He clumsily cut the sandwich in half and brought it into the livingroom to park on the pale yellow leather chair at the front window. Soon, he was flinging the sandwich around, swirling it in front of Tyrus’ nose. I realized he was not enjoying it and was wishing the dog would reduce his misery. “What is this?” “It is just real crushed peanuts made into peanut butter and strawberries smashed into jam. I gave you whole wheat bread, haven’t you had it before?” He complained the smoothie is “Kinda watery,” in a despairing voice. Yet, when his mother appeared in the driveway, he ran into the kitchen to pour more “watery” drink into his glass. I poured it all into a large plastic tumbler and told him to share it with his sister on the way home.

     As I leaned into the car to say hello to JJ and mom, I noticed Daejon smashing Red Flame Doritos into his mouth from a giant bag he found on the front seat. I said my goodbyes then returned to the kitchen to clean up the spoils and noticed the peanut butter sandwich. What hadn’t gone into Ty’s mouth, was sitting atop the garbage, in the can next to the stove. Tyrus will welcome Daejon into the house anytime. He’ll probably send him a formal invitation by mail.

In Cahoots

September 10, 2013

I am inviting a pastor, Park and Rec representative, two school teachers, a corner market owner, the manager at Icy Cup and whomever else is interested in sorting out a solution to the increase in criminal activity in our neighborhood. One fellow Block Club member sent out the app for the police dispatcher so we can hear the incoming calls to the police station. How calming, after a day at the kennels, to overhear a conversation regarding a narcotics bust on MY block! A website was passed along to the group, allowing us to see all of the crimes of the area, week-by-week…wow, another serene night spent wondering when the drug-induced thieving dudes are coming to my house. I deleted everything from my phone. Would rather watch a horror film (and I hate them!) than live in that kind of anticipatory fear.

I got home too late to canter around the neighborhood in the daylight. We passed by a woman walking next to her daughter, riding her bike on the sidewalk. A young man, out smoking, enticed me into a conversation about Tyrus’ breed. A young couple, who responded to my “Hello” and several people, strolling by, on their own, looking entirely ready to break into song rather than jump me for the dog poop bag I carried. Ty is rarely on a leash so I typically cross to the other side to avoid scaring the crap out of people. He is big and has an extra large head and jaw line, which can be intimidating. I let people know, as long as I am not threatened, he won’t hurt them. I am actually not certain my dog would do anything, to anyone, but I don’t let on.

Legible Labels

September 9, 2013

Do No Harm. A precautionary position (the precept that an action should not be taken if the consequences are uncertain and potentially dangerous to the general public and environment) is what we asked of Minnesota Senator Al Franken’s staff this morning. I joined a gathering of ten participants to approach the representatives and discuss the Senator’s position on GMO labeling (“genetically modified organisms,” are plants or animals created through the gene splicing techniques of biotechnology (also called genetic engineering, or GE.) I was prepared to simply absorb information through osmosis. The experts, citing examples of research, policy, facts (62 countries have banned GMO’s, two states in this country have already passed labeling laws with more to come, Coke and Pepsi companies produce non-GMO foods to export to Europe, etc) and figures that were mainly over my head, spewing details about farmers who are facing bankruptcy because Montesano has sued them for the obvious drifting that takes place, pollinating once pure organic crops that morph into Engineered produce. I learned a lot this morning, about Round-Up using additive Agent Orange chemicals to combat the evolving Super Weeds. Yikes. I have four notebook pages of notes, that I mostly cannot decipher, since I do not write in shorthand and my writing is much like an illegible doctor’s RX.

I asked the Senator’s strong arms to tell us what would change Senator Franken’s mind-50,000 signatures on a petition? He claims to be waiting for the FDA approval prior to standing behind labeling the GMO products. Two former Montesano muckity mucks sit on the FDA Board. The Grocers Association is against labeling, what a surprise. Do we so easily forget the Montesano squealer who claimed they would need to place a skull and cross bones on the label, if they had to be honest with the public?

A cattle farmer conducted his own study with GMO corn versus organic corn feed. The cows refused to touch the GMO corn. When he took away the organic corn, they refused to eat the GMO feed for several days. The farmer did not have the heart to starve his cows in order to find out how long they would go without eating the Genetically Modified pretend corn. See? Even the cows want it labeled. Or to have the GMO’s go away altogether. Now wouldn’t that be grand.

Nothing like a cool key lime pie on a hot summer day. Tangy smooth pudding texture with a light graham cracker crust. If you hurry over, I may have some left. I can pronounce all of the ingredients on the label, and know what they are. I’ll be up late. Too many locusts chirping.

Criminal Measures

September 8, 2013

From a Block Club member: “…These people need to go. I will….stir something up if I can get the number. I now feel that if we are going to be sitting in our yard I need to be armed, which I was last night. I am going to also say that the crime wave around this area has been getting worse ever since a larger population of blacks have moved in the area and I am not the only one who feels that way. I don’t worry about being politically correct I am just calling it as I see it.”

I am beginning to understand that a larger commitment needs to take place in our neighborhood.  There are far more neighborhoods, all across the country, dealing with similar issues, and assuredly some have resolved the challenges. New Orleans, Chicago, New York, San Francisco, Milwaukee, Shreveport, Salem, Wichita, Boise, every area that has been touched by poverty, desperation, boredom, latch-key kids, diminishing school lunch programs, downsizing, and addiction. If we leave the area it does not solve the problem. If the perpetrators move, they infiltrate another neighborhood. Who do we turn to for assistance? The former tenants from upstairs were evicted since they were unable to pay their utility bill yet we cannot count on that resolving the underlying theme. Crime is rising, people are afraid, taking more risks to gain access to something they do not have and on the other side, protect themselves and their stuff. The community has to find a way to pull together, create hope, the assurance of a safe place to live, to trust, educate, and feel worthy.  Together we can do it yourself.  

Gifted

September 7, 2013

I must be seven pounds lighter after searing in the heat at the Farmers Market today. “Womaned” the t-shirt table again, did not sell one jar of my famous Wisconsin maple syrup, which is discouraging. The two man band sitting next to me played old eighties tunes while parties came and went, purchasing dripping ice cream cones, unnatural colored slushes and weeping malts from the shop in the parking lot. The Market didn’t attract too many customers today, less people are motivated to get out in the humidity to buy their produce and …um, syrup.

On the way home, now a size zero, I stopped at the brick church on the corner since there were tables laid out with clothing and household items of interest. I piled a few things together and asked the smiley woman situated behind the banquet table how the goods are priced and she assured me they are FREE! I stammered in disbelief, thanking her, and everyone within spitting distance, for hosting the event. I presumed to add to my pile, a variety of little lights for Taelor, cute skirts, a business suit and wool sweater that made me drip just looking at it. Thrilled beyond belief with my armful of free things, I bypassed the fire truck with cute firefighters in tight blue pants giving tours, a blast of entertaining music, complimentary juicy beef burgers, and most likely cans of off-brand cola to head home for some house and yard clean-up. Ty was whining as I approached the door, evidently he knew I was in the vicinity and couldn’t stand not being a tag-a-long. I reassured him that they didn’t have anything in his size at the sale.   

Notice to Vacate

September 6, 2013

     Notice to Vacate, Condemnation Notification, 72 Hour Warning to Shut-Off the Water, a Foreclosure Sign, plastered to windows, doors, and gates around the neighborhood. Everything being equal, I realize just how close I have come to be in the same position to any one of these people, in the last six months. One false move, a few late payments, high interest loans, errors in judgment at a bar let alone a fancy restaurant a night or two in the month. Wham. Warnings appear in the mailbox, stuck at eye-level on the front door to accompany those pangs of gargantuan fear. Curious about the landlords who continue to rent to tenants that cannot pay their bills. It is a vicious circle. My landlord lost tenants in three units because he didn’t prepare the lease in a responsible manner. He also ignored the warning signs and complaints from the surrounding homes, neighbors and police reports. Is he naive or simply unaware of the pitfalls of renting to friends, family and word of mouth referrals that are seemingly stable, responsible and long-term philosophy folks.

     A package was nabbed from a neighbor’s front porch the other day. It was a Federal Express box, obviously too tempting for the robber to leave alone. Happened to be an expensive electronics item and the I-can’t-wait-to-get-my-hands-on-the-thief owner is devastatingly disturbed. If someone comes to my door, peeks in the windows, there is no evidence of anyone remotely interested in high tech appliances or electronics. No television in sight, no stereo, keyboard, desktop or even surge protectors. Ho hum, they can skip over my home. Or so I thought. On Tuesday, I noticed the back door wasn’t deadbolted, the lock on the knob itself was turned, something I never do. Took a look at the other back door and the latch was slid to the left, leaving it unlocked. A basement window was ajar-strange since there are bars along each small window, impossible for anyone to come or go. I tattled on whomever entered the house, to the neighbors on both sides as well as the guys across the street, so they could keep an eye on my house and theirs. Beware, thieves, we all have our eyes peeled.

Canine Cavorting

September 5, 2013

My dashing Physical Therapist is more than a bit conventional. I finally convinced him to provide me with “light” therapy today, which is done with a machine that applies energy to my weakened tissues. He zapped my inner ankle for forty seconds in several areas then smirked loudly, humoring me, I’m sure. Let him know that I know, the more confident I am about its healing properties, the better chance the therapy will help. He wholeheartedly agreed yet I could tell, is convinced it is a exasperating “Woo Woo” method. Of course, I got my way, at least for the last three sessions out of twelve. My PT also assured me that my ankle is in great shape, much better than some recent patients, who have come back after a year from surgery, with complications. It has been three and a half months since my last surgery and I reluctantly admit the progress is enormous.

Spent the rest of the day with eleven German Shorthaired Pointers or various versions of the breed. Skeeter, Wally, Baxter, Heidi, DeeDee, Peter, Bella, and the like are very rambunctious (save the two elders in the bunch) who kept me on my toes. They ran like the Dickens around, behind, ahead and out of sight of the golf cart, through the fields surrounding the house and brought me such joy to watch them canter. Initially, they were naughty school boys and sassy girls, jumping and scratching my legs while I shouted “Down” when I should have said “Off,” and mean it when I suggested they should “Kennel Up,” though they simpered, and teased by ignoring me. I will get things under control, sooner than later, you’ll see. Hosed and picked clean the dusty gravel, sprayed cement runs, concrete floors and smooth stainless crates, sanitized cages, scooped a variety of dry food, scoured slobbery meal dishes and slimy water jugs, vacuumed a small dog’s worth of hair, petted, rough-housed, and scolded all of them, while they whined incessantly in their cages. They are all energetic and stole my heart. I’ll be back again to please them, soon enough.

Upside Down Life

September 4, 2013

Our lives become a room full of dusty plastic plants, perched on the grimy mantle above our heads, clinging to our past. We select them for decor, unaware they will accompany us to the bitter end. These dim green stems with pasty flowers, gummed together, a gentle reminder for our guests, of better days, when we could actually see their faces, now a blur that melts into the dingy curtains that block out all life. Christmas ornaments curled up under the couch, awaiting their dumpster demise when recovered. Ornaments, manufactured since the past five decades are so much more interesting than Styrofoam balls covered with felt, glued eyes, and saggy Santa hat. Photos pasted into thick nylon books are now smeared and the once matte finish, eaten away by decay. It’s of no concern to us since we do not recognize the people in the pictures, hugging us, laughing with us, experiencing the Seven Wonders of the World together. Favorite cassette tapes, CD’s, even books on tape, worthless to the foggy hearing. Decks of cards tossed to the back of the drawers, useless to their owner who adored playing every Thursday evening with friends. Jackets, sequin sweatshirts, sweater sets and jumpers hang at odd angles in the closet, pushed aside for comfy mumus and flimsy robes. No shoes grace the floor since we can’t wear any of our favorites, all are discarded in silent agreement.

Empty boxes of all sizes, Kleenex (used or not,) empty toilet paper and paper towel rolls, rubber bands, stacks of paper napkins from restaurants of all sorts, plastic containers, both pint and quart sizes, coupons from another lifetime, magazine articles and opened mail, all sorted and organized for storage. Everything lies in anticipation of a rainy day.

My world narrows since hers is so minute, and I care for her. Everything is a reminder of what she can no longer do. The television has become the enemy since she cannot follow the baseball, basketball, hockey puck, football, golf ball, tennis ball, and her most recent adoration-the soccer ball. The radio is welcoming as she sits in her daytime/nighttime perch-the recliner, and hugs the sound of the announcer’s hoarse voice, roaring the plays. I clean, wipe, toss, dust, vacuum, reorganize, shuffle food, cook, make lists and do laundry in between all of the games of the year. For the moment, she is content, happy even.

The Great Trash Capor

September 3, 2013

The neighbor lady phoned into the police station to report a woman tossing loose garbage into her private trash can. She wanted to “shout out” to the neighborhood encouraging them to place their cans inside the fences, to prevent the onslaught of people, unwilling or unable to have their personal company cans to fill. She claims to not be able to determine just what kind of perilous rubbish is being housed in her receptacle. Who does that? I predict a future when we will no longer have a place to throw “away” to and then what-hoarding our smelly compost in the back yards, building sheds on top of the piles, to prevent them from taking control? Maybe having to figure out a way to eat our refuse, in order to diminish the mountain.

I have bigger things to worry about in my household. Have to take a sponge bath since I do not have tepid, let alone hot water from the showerhead, bathroom sink nor the kitchen. Do not have the courage to wet my back or stomach with ice cold water. The falls in Hawaii are warmer than this. I get concerned thinking about those frigid winter mornings when my nostril hair will freeze in contempt. Sent a pleading note with my rent this month, to fix the heater, pipes or feed the starving elves in the basement who keep the coal stove lit.

The woman who used to torture me through the ceiling shows up looking for her son today. Apparently he takes the school bus to our corner stop and she will collect him. He is nowhere to be found. Changing the route is probably under swapping the postal address on her To Do List. It sounds as though she has a lot on her mind these days so I simply give her the go ahead to have her nine year old come here and wait, if need be. No sense having him in a panic on the street corner after the bus drops him off. He can hang out with me, the dog and cat, have a cookie and glass of rice milk while we wait.    

Fare Day

September 2, 2013

“We already spent $180 today so I have to go back to the cash machine line,” she belted as I passed, on the way to the Fairgrounds exit. Another woman admitted they were out a mere $80 and has to take the bus home immediately, before she has to file bankruptcy. I am shocked and dragging my left foot more than a bit, while juggling an apple caramel malt from the Dairy Barn, three cow face masks for Taelor and her roomies, and my sack full of snacks from before the parade. Rode in my good friend’s fairy car, didn’t manage the “wave,” very well, however.  I succumbed to the Queen Wave, in the end, whatever that is. Should have gotten “elbow, elbow, wrist, wrist” lessons prior to the event. Drat.

The dude in the yellow corvette claimed to be waiting for the darling tall blonde to ride in the back of his car. My girlfriend and I exchanged a “loser” look and continued to pretend we cared whether she appeared in his life to save the day, prior to the parade send-off. I declined his lame half-hearted offer to sit in the back of his fancy sports car after the beauty queen failed to grace our presence. Too bad for him. I had a grand time in the fairy car, declaring little children can turn into fairies, with the wave of my magic, glittery branch wand.

Don’t do mobs well. The last time I was in a crowd of over 60,000 bodies was in Seattle at the anti-war march. It was a moving and powerful attraction, though didn’t give me much fuel for confidence in the White House members, who fell short in listening to the general public’s wishes.

I shuffled along at the Fair for a few hours, got several flat tires on my bad ankle. I am reluctant to “give way” though I never quite certain I was headed in the right direction. The people watching is always good but seeing the newborn piglets made my day. I am good for another year or five.