Last Sunday May 2020

My city was the site of 2 nights of rioting last night and Friday night. This is the response to a senseless murder of a black man by a white police officer in Minneapolis.

Today felt mild, sun and breezy clean air after a heavy rain yesterday. I visited the farmer's market and wore my pandemic mask. I bought spinach to eat, basil to plant.

Home and my cell phone gives off a funny buzzing alert noise, not like anything I recognize, except I know the sound to be a public service alert. The text states that there is an 8 pm curfew tonight because of the rioting. Many cities, Seattle included, have the same. It feels like further straining an already pained world. We're in a pandemic, quarantined, stressed, and now this. Our horrid leader tweets off something supporting a violent response.

There is the body of a dead mole languishing in a bucket in my yard. I had to trap it to save my garden areas of garlic beds, new cucumber starts and whole sections of herbs and flowers. It succumbed to my trap. Donning my purple rubber gloves I loosen the cinch of the trap and drop the gray body into a plastic bag. I carry it down to my little side trail lined with thick black berries and wild clematis. I Drop it into the brambles, and continue walking down the Spring water trail.

No one is out. I look up and down and the trail is empty. I have never seen it so. People must be thinking that the curfew means they shouldn't even walk the trail.  The time on my phone -8:20. The evening is lovely, with rain washed, air and sunset fading in the west. A half moon glows brighter in the sky as I walk. It is freeing not to have bikes whizzing by me. I feel rare and brave.

I decide to walk to the creek, about a quarter of a mile. Finally I see a bike, then another. When I reach Johnson Creek and turn around  a walker is coming from the west. I nod and murmur "evening". He never looks at me (should note that he is my skin color, which is not considered a color, and he was much younger than me).

Another walker passes me, a young man, soft brown skin, beautiful face that looks my way and nods, acknowledging me as as I nod back. His hands are in his pockets and his face looks solemn. I imagine he is uncomfortable with the violence which caused this curfew.

The half moon is brighter as I walk back up the side trail to my little neighborhood.
Sunday night, the edge of June. Our town so quiet here. Roses in full bloom. Yet there will be no Rose Festival this year. Our routines have been upended, our souls set adrift in the increasing chaos. My garden sits quiet, blooming as though there is a sure tomorrow.

Long Memories of Hurt

Today my Dad has been gone from life for exactly 2 months. There seems to be an existential fissure created by this lunar mark, manifesting in my emotions, the remembrances of him.

Once he told me that in the Senko family, his mom's people, there was a brother who would have been his Mom's Uncle, who was killed in an accident in a brick making factory. This loss plunged the family into a deep sadness (dare I say "depression"?). I would guess that in the late 1800"s depression was not yet a concept.
The Senko family had this dark cloud, a much loved member suddenly gone. It was painful enough to be part of the impetus for Grampa Senko to leave Czechoslovakia and give the new world, America, a go. I know this feeling. I moved to the Oregon Coast after losing my husband. The idea of starting over in a fresh, new place is a balm to the pain of loss.

The Senko family moved to Kansas first. Farming was their goal. Life must have been hard there. Grampa Senko later bought land in Cornelius, Oregon, where my Grama Augusta was a young woman and met Grandad Louis somehow. This is where I wish I could ask my Dad what the timing was. They were both Catholic, which may have been a connection.

Well, The sadness seemed to linger in the Senko family, for the lost brother, because the lost Uncle information was passed on to my Dad. Augusta was not a joyful woman. She was a perfectionist, a person driven and seemingly tortured with the compulsion to social comparison. I wonder if she married quiet, handsome Louis because his father was the Mayor and an ambitious personage in the community of Milwaukie.

Grama became a hoarder in the years when I was a child. We would go to her house and she would be sitting in her chair. Grandad was usually outside puttering in the garden. I realize now he was hiding from her. She would bark out orders to him periodically. Her house was so full there were pathways to get anywhere. Eventually Grandad was forced out and ended up living in a cheap motel off skid row in downtown Portland. I recall one night we dropped him off in front of his hotel on our way back to Seattle after a Christmas holiday visit.

Grama stayed in her packed house, with the legendary boxes of unopened Barbie Dolls which I always longed for as a kid. She gave us a few, but bought many more and kept them in the stacks. I liked her. We were both an Aquarius.I  tried to have meaningful conversations with her when I reached early adulthood. What hung her up though was that we wore blue jeans then, around the 70's.  She thought they were dirty farmer's clothes. Her persona was virtually constructed of opinions. I see now that she was obviously very smart and ambitious. I just think she married the wrong guy, or maybe she should never have been married at all, but allowed to go to college and pursue a career. She would have been a formidable boss!

Her family story limited her. Her life function became critic to those she loved.If her family story had not been a sad one of trauma carried across generations, would she and my Dad been less critical, more easy in their skin?

I have to wonder, because as much as I try, I feel that sadness sometimes. I know my older siblings were crippled by it. There is not a day I don't have to talk to the little story teller in my head and remind her that I can take a breath, open my heart, access gratitude and go forward with generosity. I like to think that if there is a heaven, my dad and my grama are looking down and enjoying life along with me, happy that I've moved the story on to better gardens.

Rally to Support Impeachment - Dec. 16, 2019

Tonight several thousand engaged citizens of Portland showed up on the banks of the Willamette River in downtown to show public support for the impeachment and removal of Donald Trump. My country's fate hangs in the balance. The cold air tonight from 5:30 to 7:30 matched the feelings those of us have for the terrible predicament in which our government now stands.

Rallies usually have some excitement to them, look at all the great signs ('Shithole President', 'Merry Impeachmass' ) Several had christmas lights decorating the sign. Yet the crowd was more subdued than any other rally I've ever attended. On the brink of disaster, one goes into a trance of action. The emotions become muted, there isn't energy for them.

The hardest question one of the speakers asked was if we, in the crowd, would pledge to not only call congress tomorrow before they vote on the articles of impeachment, but to also talk to our family and friends about this issue, I feel like so many in my own family don't want to discuss it. They go about as if it weren't happening, Lets not let politics ruin the holidays.

I don't know what to do. If this monster is elected again and his actions go unchecked, what does that say about the USA? Those of us with a conscience are trapped in this bad dream. May we awaken Christmas morning to impeachement, the best gift I can think of this year.

Questions

Questions -

Were you ever picked last for the team?

Did you ever have a mentally ill older sibling drop into your adolescence?

Did you ever find yourself a pregnant teenager in a home of strict Catholics?

Have you ever dreaded Christmas?

Did you ever think your parents were not your best allies?

Is there ever a day you think about income disparity?

Is there something fundamentally wrong with me ?

barometer

I am sitting in the chair where my Dad sat for the past few years. On the wall between the chair and the window is Dad's barometer. The old style, wood frame with gold rims. On the top the headings read: Rain - Change - Fair. I wonder about which barometer this one is. He always tapped the barometer in the morning and in the evening when I was little. I watched and thought it was a magic language only he knew.

Once, years ago when my nephew Simon was small,  maybe 3 or 4 years old, he was crying because of some conflict with his older brother. He was inconsolable. Dad (Nampa) took him in his arms and said, " I know, I know it's hard.The barometric pressure is really low today"

I watched from around the corner, and marveled at his use of a reference as esoteric as barometric pressure  to a small kid, and yet it seemed again maybe there was a magic he was invoking which those of us uninitiated into the math of meteorology could fully comprehend.

After the tearful Simon, his brother Nick and their parents left I asked him about how the barometric pressure would affect a crying child. He replied, "Oh, It was just the first thing that came into my head. I was just trying to distract him."

Brilliant.

That was my Dad. Meteorologist, navigator by the stars, comforter of little children.

Good bye Dad

                                                               Gratitude

 Dorothy and the Shindler family would like to recognize the many people who have given physical and spiritual care to Bob during his recent decline. Beatrice Khisa, Clement Viswanathan and Yeme Shiferaw, please accept our heartfelt gratitude. And to the many kind and caring med techs and staff at Overlake Terrace, your friendly compassionate care made such a difference for Bob, Dorothy and all the family. And to Father Fabian, who was and is a great spiritual comfort and friend.

                                                          Reminiscences

Bob was the first of 3 sons born to Louis and Augusta Shindler. When he was little they lived next door to the Shindler grandparents who owned 75 acres in the area of old Milwaukie.

Bob watched his Grampa William run a business, and make wine and cheese. His Grama Agnes taught him German. He learned a love of trains from his Dad who worked as a mechanic for The Southern Pacific Railroad. His Mom gave him a love of growing flowers.

He was close in both age and affection to his 2 younger brothers, Dick and George and to his cousin Franz. One of Bob's activities with them was to write a little "Newspaper" he called "The Arbutus".

During the summers Bob would spend as much as a month at a time at the Cornelius farm of his Grama and Grampa Senko, maternal grandparents. He picked cherries and berries, did farm chores. A memory he recounted just 2 weeks ago happened when he was 11 years old. He was shooting some fireworks and almost burned down a shed.

He spoke often of his grandparents, they held a prominent place in his development.  His time with them undoubtedly made him an especially involved grand parent, and then great grand parent.

He attended Catholic Grade school, and then was given the privilege of attending Central Catholic High in east Portland. It was a long street car ride from Milwaukie.
He said :"Grampa would give me 5 cents for the street car, and if I walked home I could use the rest of the fare money to buy a maple bar". He would go on in later life to help many children and grand children with the expenses of education.

He loved his years at Central Catholic, and made several life long friends there, one of whom took him to a party hosted by Dorothy Baier. He apparently was wearing the whitest T- shirt of all the young men. Bob and Dorothy soon double dated to Senior Prom. She was impressed again that he graduated as the Valedictorian.

With the second world war going on, Bob immediately entered Basic Training after graduation. He chose the Air Force. Quoting: "I had the choice to go to flight school or navigation school, I chose navigation school because it was a shorter program. I wanted to get to the war as soon as possible. Can you imagine that? " He was 19 years old. He said the young don't know the reality of war.

During these years, 1943- 1945 Bob and Dorothy stole little visits when and where they could. Mom can't look at a train station without getting teary eyed. That was often where they would meet after long absences.

With the war over, Bob and Dorothy had the chance to finalize their engagement, and  married in 1948 while Bob was still finishing his college degree at Santa Clara University. He often spoke of how valuable the GI Bill was which paid his college tuition. He again graduated as Valedictorian.

With the intention of having a large family, by 1953 the new family included Bob Jr, 4  and Anne, 3 . Anne, born in 1950 spoke wistfully of the Hillside Park years in Milwaukie, the tiny subsidized housing cottages the family  lived, where Tom and  Margi were born.  A moment here to say God rest your soul, Anne.

1956 brought Bob the job which launched his career in transportation planning. His forte was gathering statistics, writing reports and problem solving the myriad aspects of how we get around. His office was right next to the State Capitol in Salem.

Just in time with 4 children and more anticipated, Bob and Dorothy bought their first home, 4 bedrooms, 1 bathroom, in Salem. Here Therese, John, Joe and Kristin were born. 

Again, just in time, in 1967 Bob accepted a job in the far off city of Seattle with The Puget Sound Council of Governments as head of the transportation department. Now the family moved to a 5 bedroom, 3 bathroom home. Luxury! Here Stephanie was born. Bob and Dorothy remained in the Bellevue house for 46 years.

During the 1970's Mom and Dad became Nama and Nampa. They welcomed each new grandchild with great joy. Dad began to set up his model trains on the living room floor.

Forgive what I am leaving out. We will speak of so many memories later today. For now, some images:

Dad:

 * Setting up a barbecue fire with bits of apple and cherry wood, meticulously laying the briquets onto his little twig fire with his tongs.  Grilling steaks and burgers in the backyard in summer.

 * Taking the last small bit of a bar of soap, and squeezing it onto the new bar. No waste.

* Continuing the practice for years of taking the meager 5 gallon military bath.
    
* Calisthenics in the living room in the morning before work.

* Hand washing his socks and laying them to dry on the bathroom towels (so none would get lost in the family laundry)

* Shining shoes with him on Saturday to have them shiny for church on Sunday.

* Singing in the men's choir with his big, confident voice at St. Vincent's 9 o'clock mass.

* Tapping his barometer in the morning and evening to get the current reading.

* Taking the family for Sunday picnics or to Cannon Beach in summer.

* Taking each grandchild to WA DC in the spring in part because this is when the cherry trees are in bloom, given to our country by Japan, after the war, as a symbol of peace.

* Working diligently to promote light rail and public transportation systems.

* Telling us about the placement of highways, how lights are timed, how lanes are paved differently.  Traveling the roads of Oregon and Washington with him was a fascinating history lesson.

* Writing funny emails to the family and signing them from Mom's cat.

* Trying yoga out with the family group in his 80's.

* Taking on the cooking when Mom became unable. He grew practiced in the creation of good healthy soups and stews to nourish her. ( even if they ate at 11 o'clock at night)

* Standing in his back yard with his shovel or his trowel, spading his lawn borders, sifting through the huge piles of compost he created , to spread it on his flower beds or give it away to our gardens. Staring into space, his quiet time with the earth.

* Organizing the residents at Overlake Terrace to create a fund to give the floor staff a Christmas bonus.

* Teaching his children to see God in others: the poor, the dispossessed, those we disagree with, even those who do us harm.

Closing with a final image:
" I would walk the babies" he said, "when they cried and cried, often in the middle of the night."  Our Dad paced patiently back and forth, to sooth the new person we were, held over his shoulder. We, his children and grandchildren will carry that visceral memory, deep in our essential self, of being walked, of being  held and comforted in his arms, on his strong shoulder, next to his warm heart.

The Anne Chair

There was a chair, and it was painted black
when I found it in your room after
the rain dark December night when
A delivery van met you in a crosswalk.

Your body crushed, your things strewn along the rain washed street
  police cars, fire trucks and ambulance
glowing red in the dark.

Later your siblings go to your room.
Christmas lights drape over your one book shelf,
your chair next to that, your papers, letters and family pictures
laying still.
A kitchen table someone got for you,
and one chair for it, painted black, peeling in places.

Our brothers took photos of the crosswalk, and the lonely christmas lights by your chair,
the quiet reminders from your room.

The sisters efficient, gather up the left things, so our Dad won't pay
 the extra rent.
this goes here, that goes there..
I take the black chair.

 Seeing a chair painting project
 with my little grand daughters
we could be free to be inspired... no money lost.
It became our canvas, you always loved a blank canvas..
I began with rose pink
you would have approved

The little girls asked to paint their hands
and put the prints on the seat.
You would have approved, knowing your love for you own daughter and grand daughter
deep love
little hand prints,
colors bright and childish.
time passes ...

For the first memorial day after your death
I remember you by painting a flower garden
under the child hand prints
with  a patch of salmon gold sunset above
with tiny hearts strewn in paths
blown by a soft and gracious breeze.

And maybe you are free now, carried in that warm breeze,
no worries, no crazy thoughts dogging you,
released into the wild cosmos
      from which you came-
and I can say to you that I care by making art
 how I couldn't say when you were here.