Sweet Land - 2005
Sweetly inspiring to this wanna be farm wife. No steamy scenes, or violence, it left me feeling peaceful.
I wanted to take it immediately to my parents, and sit with them as we imagined our own great grandparents coming to farm the land and having to somehow learn English in the process.
I have never seen a film which so accurately depicts the shear exhaustion of work by hand at harvest time.
The Grocer's Son - French., subtitles, but worth it. Contemporary and still very French, the life of a family in a rural area, who run a small grocery store. This is a perfect statement on why small business is important to community, and the complex family dynamics are darn real.
Thank goodness for netflix, eh? It has never been so easy to get little Indie films as it is now.
Saturday, September 3, 2011
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Letter to a Writer Pal at Hedgebrook
I find myself in the landscape of simplicity - yellow flowering rabbit brush, seepweed, sage brush. Five or eight black cows laying in the corner of their field, which is on the other side of the fence to my corner in the campground. They take the heat without complaint, watch me with their slow, bovine eyes.
The Eastern Oregon desert sun beats out it's afternoon rays, mating dragonflies dive about my camp chair and the Stinkingwater Mountains rise calmly in the distance, This is her, me, this girl in a body with graying hair, wishing to write, thinking of Tamsugah, the 'Shug', pal from my Puget Sound life, sleeping tonight in Willow Cottage at the Hedgebrook Women's Writing Retreat Center. Tam, writing her heart out there, for the month of August, writing and being out in the wilderness too. I am thinking a letter is in order:
Dear Shug-
You, your sonorous laugh, your penchant for biting commentaries punctuated with snappy street girl slang, slick one line descriptions, the agile ability to change the subject at just the right time, your giant heart, I am thinking of you.
You are in Willow Cottage, or at the beach, or soaking in the tubs in the bathhouse - or playing hooky with the wildest girl in the area.
Whatever you are doing, it is better, healthier, more high class than that terrible High School PE teacher jock who made you and your friends bend over and hold your ankles for the disciplinary swats. You made it out of the sludge, the mediocrity of American midsize towns which lie too close to big military bases. You are proof positive that there is a tide rising - a tide of women who won't take the same shit, and who have the words to tell the real stories, who love fiercely and realistically and passionately all at once.
Women who write, and write with courage. A whole bunch of shit's been buried you know ( you do).
The buried shit, some of it is too awful to dredge up, but some just needs the light of day, to compost and become fertile ground for new life. You, I am confident, will give it the light of day. The old and the new, mix it up sistah.
If you had been my sister in childhood, you would have taught me fearless being, you would have taken me to the right places and showed me what is what. Instead I met you when I was 52 years old, and you 39. You asked me to read some poetry with a group for Women's History month. I can't imagine what luck it was to find your writing group during my lonely lost winter in a new town.
Today I sit writing this at Crystal Crane Hotsprings in what you might loving refer to as B.F. nowhere, Southeastern Oregon. (The road sign last night said 'Winnamucca, NV- 222 miles'). From this desert I write this love letter up to the islands of Puget Sound, on this gorgeous August day.
Write girl! Write like you are on fire. Write like no one's watching. Write for women throughout time who never had the time or opportunity because they were enmeshed in a patriarchical world which did not want their stories to travel. Write like a dance that moves to a perfect rhythm.
You are my beacon as I sit writing this, trying to put words to life.
From my camp spot with the funny, stolid cows, we all salute you!
The Eastern Oregon desert sun beats out it's afternoon rays, mating dragonflies dive about my camp chair and the Stinkingwater Mountains rise calmly in the distance, This is her, me, this girl in a body with graying hair, wishing to write, thinking of Tamsugah, the 'Shug', pal from my Puget Sound life, sleeping tonight in Willow Cottage at the Hedgebrook Women's Writing Retreat Center. Tam, writing her heart out there, for the month of August, writing and being out in the wilderness too. I am thinking a letter is in order:
Dear Shug-
You, your sonorous laugh, your penchant for biting commentaries punctuated with snappy street girl slang, slick one line descriptions, the agile ability to change the subject at just the right time, your giant heart, I am thinking of you.
You are in Willow Cottage, or at the beach, or soaking in the tubs in the bathhouse - or playing hooky with the wildest girl in the area.
Whatever you are doing, it is better, healthier, more high class than that terrible High School PE teacher jock who made you and your friends bend over and hold your ankles for the disciplinary swats. You made it out of the sludge, the mediocrity of American midsize towns which lie too close to big military bases. You are proof positive that there is a tide rising - a tide of women who won't take the same shit, and who have the words to tell the real stories, who love fiercely and realistically and passionately all at once.
Women who write, and write with courage. A whole bunch of shit's been buried you know ( you do).
The buried shit, some of it is too awful to dredge up, but some just needs the light of day, to compost and become fertile ground for new life. You, I am confident, will give it the light of day. The old and the new, mix it up sistah.
If you had been my sister in childhood, you would have taught me fearless being, you would have taken me to the right places and showed me what is what. Instead I met you when I was 52 years old, and you 39. You asked me to read some poetry with a group for Women's History month. I can't imagine what luck it was to find your writing group during my lonely lost winter in a new town.
Today I sit writing this at Crystal Crane Hotsprings in what you might loving refer to as B.F. nowhere, Southeastern Oregon. (The road sign last night said 'Winnamucca, NV- 222 miles'). From this desert I write this love letter up to the islands of Puget Sound, on this gorgeous August day.
Write girl! Write like you are on fire. Write like no one's watching. Write for women throughout time who never had the time or opportunity because they were enmeshed in a patriarchical world which did not want their stories to travel. Write like a dance that moves to a perfect rhythm.
You are my beacon as I sit writing this, trying to put words to life.
From my camp spot with the funny, stolid cows, we all salute you!
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
A Centuries Old Practice
Driving down the dusty hills this morning, in the dark, preparing my mind to lead an early morning yoga class, the radio told me more than I wanted to know. The stock market fell 2000 points. Immediately I switched the station, and my head, back to the present. I refuse to be drawn into the negative emotions of the money world, even as it is all too apparent that my IRA's will be of questionable worth, if and when I need them. My yoga practice is still worth millions though, and gaining each month. My practice is my health plan, my retirement happiness plan, my being a grama someday plan, and my staying creative and inspired plan.
One of my students today pointed out that yoga has survived worse historical times, in it's 5,500 years. It will prevail on, and those of us lucky enough to come together in the 6 am dark to share it are reaping the benefits.
What can we do when things look tough? Breath first, that is a natural place to begin. Secondly, we can do our homework, what ever that is. Today my homework is writing, because I've been away from that part of my practice.
I just spent 3 days out on the North Santiam with a group event called "The Fishing Trip". We noted this year that it seems to be more about wine and food than fish. Of course most sport fisherman on the rivers now don't keep the fish, they throw them back to keep the populations growing. Grapes, however, are becoming plentiful, and wine is our consolation prize for being human.
The Fishing Trip consists of 50-75 people camping out in an old growth fir grove along Whitewater Creek. It has been happening for 44 years, always in early August. The regulars work to create the campsite kitchen, showers, sanitary facilities, trails, bridges, food, firewood, and so many more things too numerous to list. Every year I am amazed, and every year I learn something about the power of human cooperation and altruism. The camp goes up in a day or 2 and in 2 weeks it is gone, only the trees and the cold flowing snowmelt fed creek remain.
In camp, after a day of hiking, swimming, a group baseball game, even a golf tournament, folks sit about the fire in the evening. This, after some lovely healthy dinner, like stir fried veggies and salad, not many sugary or processed foods around camp.
We sing into the night, the same songs shared every year, and some new ones. The old and the young sing together. The trees I'm sure listen, I can feel them telling me they remember when my kids were little, and came here with their Uncle Tom to play with the other camp kids. Now all those children have graduated from college, and are part of the working world. The trees remember for me though. When I find my way back to the tent in the dark, I can feel the years, and the trees show the way.
One of my students today pointed out that yoga has survived worse historical times, in it's 5,500 years. It will prevail on, and those of us lucky enough to come together in the 6 am dark to share it are reaping the benefits.
What can we do when things look tough? Breath first, that is a natural place to begin. Secondly, we can do our homework, what ever that is. Today my homework is writing, because I've been away from that part of my practice.
I just spent 3 days out on the North Santiam with a group event called "The Fishing Trip". We noted this year that it seems to be more about wine and food than fish. Of course most sport fisherman on the rivers now don't keep the fish, they throw them back to keep the populations growing. Grapes, however, are becoming plentiful, and wine is our consolation prize for being human.
The Fishing Trip consists of 50-75 people camping out in an old growth fir grove along Whitewater Creek. It has been happening for 44 years, always in early August. The regulars work to create the campsite kitchen, showers, sanitary facilities, trails, bridges, food, firewood, and so many more things too numerous to list. Every year I am amazed, and every year I learn something about the power of human cooperation and altruism. The camp goes up in a day or 2 and in 2 weeks it is gone, only the trees and the cold flowing snowmelt fed creek remain.
In camp, after a day of hiking, swimming, a group baseball game, even a golf tournament, folks sit about the fire in the evening. This, after some lovely healthy dinner, like stir fried veggies and salad, not many sugary or processed foods around camp.
We sing into the night, the same songs shared every year, and some new ones. The old and the young sing together. The trees I'm sure listen, I can feel them telling me they remember when my kids were little, and came here with their Uncle Tom to play with the other camp kids. Now all those children have graduated from college, and are part of the working world. The trees remember for me though. When I find my way back to the tent in the dark, I can feel the years, and the trees show the way.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Hot Springs, Montana
These days, when it is common to make internet hotel reservations for places one has never visited, there is a small amount of gambling to the traveling experience. How lucky we found The Alameda Motel, which is not fancy, but there is a lovely vegetable garden, to which Paul, the owner, immediately gives you free access. Baby carrots, the real thing, still covered with the silt of the Missoula flood soil of this western Montana land.
We hiked up to the hill above, where a view of the snow covered Rockies rises in the east. The little town, struggling for years after it's main resort closed, lies in a a bowl below.
The Hotel owner tells us about the town, while we eat honey sweetened, no sugar, whole wheat cinnamon rolls in the breakfast area. There are lots of organic slow food lovers here, so unique for such a tiny community. There are no franchises. Paul wants to build geothermal greenhouses, and have his hot spring water drain off to have a double use. I practiced yoga in his dome tent, which has a clay floor heated with hot spring water. Lovely!
We imagine the day when this town will come back, as it slowly is. The Zen Cafe will be the lunch spot, and The old Symes Hotel will carry the history. What a cool experience this is, being in Hot Springs!
We hiked up to the hill above, where a view of the snow covered Rockies rises in the east. The little town, struggling for years after it's main resort closed, lies in a a bowl below.
The Hotel owner tells us about the town, while we eat honey sweetened, no sugar, whole wheat cinnamon rolls in the breakfast area. There are lots of organic slow food lovers here, so unique for such a tiny community. There are no franchises. Paul wants to build geothermal greenhouses, and have his hot spring water drain off to have a double use. I practiced yoga in his dome tent, which has a clay floor heated with hot spring water. Lovely!
We imagine the day when this town will come back, as it slowly is. The Zen Cafe will be the lunch spot, and The old Symes Hotel will carry the history. What a cool experience this is, being in Hot Springs!
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
The Montana Baroque Festival
Since I have been with my partner Curtis, 2 and a half years now, I have had to hear every summer about his week long venture out to Paradise, Montana, where he plays with The Portland baroque Orchestra in a small music festival at a little hot springs resort.
'Paradise" is located in a little valley inside the Bitterroot Mountains of Western Montana, where the Clark Fork River flows along in it's slow green glacial advance toward the North. How fitting for me to be blogging on 'Heaven Now' from 'Paradise'. Fortune sometimes smiles on the least of us.
This year I was invited to go along, so I cleared the calendar for months in advance to make it work. One never knows what to expect when tagging along as the girlfriend, yet I am finding this trip a lovely and unique series of experiences and opportunities to be truly 'away'.
The drive here from Portland was long, we left at 4 am so we had time to stop along the way in Spokane, at the only Independant bookstore within hundreds of miles. Aunties in Spokane is a fabulous place, highly recommeded.
The subsequent drive through Idaho on I-90 is all winding up and down high mountain passes. Huge climbs and long downgrades where one can only hope the brakes are all in order. From Idaho into Montana the mountains continue, and then the turn off, left toward St. Regis and Glacier National Park.
We arrived at Quinn's Resort by 2:30, narrowly passing through a small forest fire which later caused a temporary road closure.
The weather is warm, and there are cherry trees all over the place! The first thing I did after we dumped our stuff in the room was to walk out to see the river. I passed a pie cherry tree loaded with fruit. A rare type of cherry these days. The cherry of my childhood. That reminded me of Trog, the cherry picker I met on the ferry to Alaska back in 1976. He picked cherries in Montana. ( Trog, short for 'troglodyte' hitchhiked with me and we got a ride from 2 guys in a big RV, all of us bound for Fairbanks. We played poker at night in those huge Alaska valleys with barely a sunset and dusk in June.)
Traveling I guess does this, conjures up memories of the distant past. Well, I don't want to digress from being here now. How lucky that life goes on and 36 years later, after my gypsy youth, I am still doing little gypsy things.
The musicians are out warming up at dress rehearsal, I can hear the violins. Monica Hugget, the reason this festival exists, has arrived in her dusty rented Subaru. My own dusty Subaru sits in the parking lot. A strong mountain wind has kicked up, and the outdoor stage is set.My man has gone to work, making music. I get to watch, and hope the rainstorm coming in is kind to this diligent, talented group of interesting players.
Music in the mountains... more later!
'Paradise" is located in a little valley inside the Bitterroot Mountains of Western Montana, where the Clark Fork River flows along in it's slow green glacial advance toward the North. How fitting for me to be blogging on 'Heaven Now' from 'Paradise'. Fortune sometimes smiles on the least of us.
This year I was invited to go along, so I cleared the calendar for months in advance to make it work. One never knows what to expect when tagging along as the girlfriend, yet I am finding this trip a lovely and unique series of experiences and opportunities to be truly 'away'.
The drive here from Portland was long, we left at 4 am so we had time to stop along the way in Spokane, at the only Independant bookstore within hundreds of miles. Aunties in Spokane is a fabulous place, highly recommeded.
The subsequent drive through Idaho on I-90 is all winding up and down high mountain passes. Huge climbs and long downgrades where one can only hope the brakes are all in order. From Idaho into Montana the mountains continue, and then the turn off, left toward St. Regis and Glacier National Park.
We arrived at Quinn's Resort by 2:30, narrowly passing through a small forest fire which later caused a temporary road closure.
The weather is warm, and there are cherry trees all over the place! The first thing I did after we dumped our stuff in the room was to walk out to see the river. I passed a pie cherry tree loaded with fruit. A rare type of cherry these days. The cherry of my childhood. That reminded me of Trog, the cherry picker I met on the ferry to Alaska back in 1976. He picked cherries in Montana. ( Trog, short for 'troglodyte' hitchhiked with me and we got a ride from 2 guys in a big RV, all of us bound for Fairbanks. We played poker at night in those huge Alaska valleys with barely a sunset and dusk in June.)
Traveling I guess does this, conjures up memories of the distant past. Well, I don't want to digress from being here now. How lucky that life goes on and 36 years later, after my gypsy youth, I am still doing little gypsy things.
The musicians are out warming up at dress rehearsal, I can hear the violins. Monica Hugget, the reason this festival exists, has arrived in her dusty rented Subaru. My own dusty Subaru sits in the parking lot. A strong mountain wind has kicked up, and the outdoor stage is set.My man has gone to work, making music. I get to watch, and hope the rainstorm coming in is kind to this diligent, talented group of interesting players.
Music in the mountains... more later!
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Grandmother pies
Are there grandmothers now who will give the children buckets, and instruct them to go out and pick some berries, bring them home, and she will make a pie for dinner? Grandmothers who will let those children wander the dirt roads between the cottages, even if they might fall into the brambles sometimes, and come home scratched but proud to have gathered part of the family dinner?
I visited the ocean today, where my Grama cared for us as children. I walked the beach, past the twin sisters rocks where my sister and I would stand while the tide came in. The beach was filled with people but no crabs in the pools around the rocks we used to call 'crab holes'. It has been 20 years since my grama died, even as she lived to be 96. It has been 10 years since I lived near this beach in my fourth life.
After my walk, I went to the little lot I own, south of Cannon, my last connection with the coast. Blackberries overtake it like a plague. I cut vines and stacked them up for over an hour. Any work I do seems to never be enough. I left plenty of long uncut berry vine tentacles behind in order to make it back inland in time for dinner. On the drive home every blackberry thicket called out to me, those wild boisterous, audacious Himalayan blackberries, covered with white blooms which will be berries in a few weeks. They were usually ripe for my mom's birthday on August 17.
Today I marked again my luck in having Amy, we called Brama. I called her only daughter on the cell phone and held it up to the waves at Silver Point, so she could hear her Mama's ocean once again. She may never see it again because she is failing in health and can't travel anymore. The sound of the sea on a cell phone may be the last she hears. This felt strange, and not strange at once. It is where I find myself now, where she finds herself. We all do the best we can.
I want to be a grandma who gives the child a bucket and says "Here, pick us some berries, and I will make a pie for dinner. We can go for a walk in the sunset later, and watch the moon rise over the ocean."
I visited the ocean today, where my Grama cared for us as children. I walked the beach, past the twin sisters rocks where my sister and I would stand while the tide came in. The beach was filled with people but no crabs in the pools around the rocks we used to call 'crab holes'. It has been 20 years since my grama died, even as she lived to be 96. It has been 10 years since I lived near this beach in my fourth life.
After my walk, I went to the little lot I own, south of Cannon, my last connection with the coast. Blackberries overtake it like a plague. I cut vines and stacked them up for over an hour. Any work I do seems to never be enough. I left plenty of long uncut berry vine tentacles behind in order to make it back inland in time for dinner. On the drive home every blackberry thicket called out to me, those wild boisterous, audacious Himalayan blackberries, covered with white blooms which will be berries in a few weeks. They were usually ripe for my mom's birthday on August 17.
Today I marked again my luck in having Amy, we called Brama. I called her only daughter on the cell phone and held it up to the waves at Silver Point, so she could hear her Mama's ocean once again. She may never see it again because she is failing in health and can't travel anymore. The sound of the sea on a cell phone may be the last she hears. This felt strange, and not strange at once. It is where I find myself now, where she finds herself. We all do the best we can.
I want to be a grandma who gives the child a bucket and says "Here, pick us some berries, and I will make a pie for dinner. We can go for a walk in the sunset later, and watch the moon rise over the ocean."
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Broken Hay Balers and Garlic Scapes
The life of a farmer is intense during the height of the summer. My neighbor Steve's hay baler was malfunctioning. The hay is cut and laying in the fields drying nicely, but one never knows when rain will come. My dear mechanic, Curtis, went with me on an errand down the hill to return potluck dishes to our neighbors. I told him about the broken baler, so he went over to Steve's shop.
Yesterday afternoon and on into the evening the two guys worked together to find the problem. Curtis cannot be deterred from a mission, so by about 8:30 they had the 1967 Massey Ferguson Baler ready to go for the morning. The boys and girls then got together to toast with beers and dinner at 10:00 pm.
Today I went out to cut garlic scapes. I didn't know the flower part which turns into a seed pod was called that, but farmer Steve told me. You see I had delusions of selling these tender little green garlic shoots to any of the fancy restaurants nearby... fresh, organic, unique, local - what more could a discerning palate ask for? I made my calls, (maybe too close to the lunch rush?), left messages, and have heard nothing since. Oh well.
You can fix things sometimes, and sometimes what you have to sell is not wanted. Life in farm country.
The strawberries are ripe, I've tried several. It is hard to enjoy them when I see in my mind's eye the farmer driving through those picturesque green rows all spring spraying and spraying. Finally I saw him and asked what the name of the spray was. He told me 'Switch'. So there you have it. My mechanic, musician, lover looked up 'Switch' to find that it is indeed harmful to living things. Sigh.
The farmer tells me he has $20,000 into these fields by now, and he has to spray to keep the berries from rotting against each other. The spray is an anti-fungal. He is a nice guy and he lets me pick berries to bring for my Dad's waffle breakfast with out asking for any payment.
I learned the name of the garlic tops today, and also how to program my new cell phone. I also learned that I must be conscious of my posture when I am doing repetitive tasks like trimming garlic scapes.
Being conscious, I realize, will always be my practice.
Today in the background is the milestone that 22 years ago I became a widow. It was a terrible day, and since then no day has ever compared, and so I consider myself fortunate. Fleeting images of that time cross my thoughts like movie scenes. I have always felt the greatest sadness for my sons on this anniversary. We were all so young, how could we know death would visit us so instantly and ruthlessly?
It reminds me anyway, to stay conscious and to embrace and appreciate life.
Yesterday afternoon and on into the evening the two guys worked together to find the problem. Curtis cannot be deterred from a mission, so by about 8:30 they had the 1967 Massey Ferguson Baler ready to go for the morning. The boys and girls then got together to toast with beers and dinner at 10:00 pm.
Today I went out to cut garlic scapes. I didn't know the flower part which turns into a seed pod was called that, but farmer Steve told me. You see I had delusions of selling these tender little green garlic shoots to any of the fancy restaurants nearby... fresh, organic, unique, local - what more could a discerning palate ask for? I made my calls, (maybe too close to the lunch rush?), left messages, and have heard nothing since. Oh well.
You can fix things sometimes, and sometimes what you have to sell is not wanted. Life in farm country.
The strawberries are ripe, I've tried several. It is hard to enjoy them when I see in my mind's eye the farmer driving through those picturesque green rows all spring spraying and spraying. Finally I saw him and asked what the name of the spray was. He told me 'Switch'. So there you have it. My mechanic, musician, lover looked up 'Switch' to find that it is indeed harmful to living things. Sigh.
The farmer tells me he has $20,000 into these fields by now, and he has to spray to keep the berries from rotting against each other. The spray is an anti-fungal. He is a nice guy and he lets me pick berries to bring for my Dad's waffle breakfast with out asking for any payment.
I learned the name of the garlic tops today, and also how to program my new cell phone. I also learned that I must be conscious of my posture when I am doing repetitive tasks like trimming garlic scapes.
Being conscious, I realize, will always be my practice.
Today in the background is the milestone that 22 years ago I became a widow. It was a terrible day, and since then no day has ever compared, and so I consider myself fortunate. Fleeting images of that time cross my thoughts like movie scenes. I have always felt the greatest sadness for my sons on this anniversary. We were all so young, how could we know death would visit us so instantly and ruthlessly?
It reminds me anyway, to stay conscious and to embrace and appreciate life.
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