August Saturday at the Mollala River

The weekend heats up, 97 degrees yesterday. The house so hot I feel as though I can barely move. Cool waters await somewhere: I call my gal friend, Marilyn. She knows a nice river spot to swim. We drive East on Hwy 213, past the point where I have been before. The land reminds me of the Lower Elwha, where I lived so long ago - 25 years now. Rolling grassland, mountains in the distance, rural countryside dotted with small towns.

The Mollala river has swimming holes and is warm and clean. I stand in the waist deep water on the slimy rocky rocks staring into knotted tree branches on the bottom, watch little fish dart away from my legs. On the shore we munch cheese and crackers, sitting on big warm river rocks. We talk about all that has gone on in the past year, lots for her. She has been in a new relationship which has been emotionally difficult, and it is probably not working out.

"Margi", she turns to me, "I signed up for the Peace Corps!" It is something she had always thought to do, at the point when her kids were well on their way and she could take 2 years out of her life to live far away from her current home.
"I realized", she says, "That time is now!"
 South America is her goal. Her Spanish is excellent, and she has true life experience. I feel so impressed, so deeply happy for her, and on the side know I will miss having her near to hang with. She is one of my most uncomplicated friends. Those are worth more than gold.
My thoughts go to my own wish, from so long ago, to visit South America. It turns out that between the time I wished that, and now, I have developed an extreme dislike of flying. Ah, fate. I should have traveled to South America in college before I went through motherhood, then widowhood.

We pack our things and head west down 213. The game we play is to look for real estate and fantasize. We pass an old 1910 style school house and I say, "I would love to take a building like that, fix it up and use it for a yoga studio."  She is all in support.
Silly ideas, dreams more fun to dream than do. At this point I have 'done' 10 different homes. Why does the new project always seem exciting even after knowing how dirty, expensive and hard the real work is?

We pass the Horseshoe Bar and Grill. We stop. Horse and motorcyle motif, a patio bar, a place where the locals go. We laugh and talk over beers and snacks. The readerboard on the highway says 93 degrees. We are wearing our still wet swimming suits. We are happy.
When she drops me off at my house she says that we played hooky. I agree, yes, we played hooky from life today, and it was a great relief. I am 60 and I still want to play hooky. I will probably always be this way, fantasizing about projects, but resenting the feeling of being tied down.

Before I die, I must figure that struggle out. Maybe, slowly, I am.

Boulevard -Granola Bar

Two and a half year old Kaitlyn and I are riding home on the MAX. The voice on the intercom announces "Bybee Boulevard" .
Kaitlyn listens and looks at me, "What is bovard?" I pronounce bull-a-vard slowly as she repeats it. Finally she just turns it to "granola bar".

Her Dad and uncle had these when they were little:

The Spokane (ferry)  -smoked ham
A Coast guard cutter - a post card cutter
a garage sale - a garbage sale

more to come....