The beautiful weather of August taunts me as I find myself spending a week as assistant, caregiver, tile fixer, paint crew laison and "chief cook and bottle washer" here in suburbia turned small wealthy city via microsoft.
(My window spell check puts the angry red line under the word 'microsoft')
I went to the local Home Depot, which is probably the closest one to the famed area of downtown Bellevue, and it is busy as a beehive. Outside in the parking lot stand 10-12 Hispanic men waiting for day labor. The contrast is striking between the white population shopping, and this little group at the edges of the economy. As I leave the store with my little tube of silicone caulking, I fantasize about hiring one of them to sit and "platicar" en Espanol for an hour at the nearby Starbucks. An easy 12.00/hour or whatever their going rate is. It seems like a good story, and a great way to get my conversational Spanish up to traveling standards. Maybe I will do it in the winter, when being inside will be a welcome option.
Right now the weather in the Pacific Northwest is just lovely. When I set my Mom up for a massage yesterday, we didn't need extra heaters or blankets. The air was toasty warm naturally. We take it when we can get it.
Mom turns 87 on Friday. We have been having mini birthday events all week, including a cherry pie I made just like the ones she made from our cherries in Salem, OR, where we lived when I was little. It was a different time and place, not like this Bellevue life. Reminiscing is one of my folk's favorite pastimes these days. I totally relate, as I am old enough to love that too. I'm sure my sons have had enough of my stories about how cute they were and what funny things they did with words when they were little. Someday they may understand, as they pile on the years and realize how much there is in the old memory banks. Some precious bits bear pulling out every now and then to look at like the jewelry in safe deposit box.
Later today my sister and I will go through 45+ years of accumulated books, to find homes for them, maybe a little cash too. I'm sure the children's books will bring a little tear of nostalgia, knowing they were read to our little children by their loving grandparents. Some things will never happen again, but we hold their essence in our hearts.
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
Monday, July 30, 2012
End of July
The perennial question: where does the summer go? Already we have arrived to the last days of July, and so August with part of September is left, our last chance to be in summer. Being is the trick. Being in this time of warmth, long nights, fresh berries and fruits coming along in a kind of gentle sequence. Friends visiting who like the view and the relative cool.
Last weekend was wine tasting with my sis Therese and her man Greg. Curtis drove the hills, with Greg up front, Therese and I sitting in back being the girls, being who we have always been with each other, taking the best of the moment and laughing a whole bunch.
The four of us, playing poker into the wee hours, with our pennies and our wine. She and I laugh, the kind of laughs which bring tears and cleanse the body. The laugh we inherited from our Grama. The laugh I remember viscerally, so grateful that I can still experience that feeling. It is a way of saying to life:
"I am so in the moment, I can feel this abandon, even though 26 Billionaires may be trying to steal my country even as I write."
Sparrow writes, in 'Poor Sparrow's Almanac', (August Sun Magazine):
"The rich chuckle; the poor laugh."
I think I would rather laugh if given the choice. My car is old and dusty, but it knows the way to the best wineries in our neighborhood, the insurance is low, and it always starts.
July, the month of dust, green grapes, ripe radishes and raspberries, lots of visitors who like scones and home roasted coffee in the morning, with all that crazy jam we made last fall.
August will bring the blackberries and cabbage, astors and dahlias, carrots and basil. My mom, who is good at laughing and giggling will turn 87 in August, and I think her daughters will be there to get some good belly busters going, kleenex on hand. We will invoke her mom, Brama, our queen of the good giggle.
Last weekend was wine tasting with my sis Therese and her man Greg. Curtis drove the hills, with Greg up front, Therese and I sitting in back being the girls, being who we have always been with each other, taking the best of the moment and laughing a whole bunch.
The four of us, playing poker into the wee hours, with our pennies and our wine. She and I laugh, the kind of laughs which bring tears and cleanse the body. The laugh we inherited from our Grama. The laugh I remember viscerally, so grateful that I can still experience that feeling. It is a way of saying to life:
"I am so in the moment, I can feel this abandon, even though 26 Billionaires may be trying to steal my country even as I write."
Sparrow writes, in 'Poor Sparrow's Almanac', (August Sun Magazine):
"The rich chuckle; the poor laugh."
I think I would rather laugh if given the choice. My car is old and dusty, but it knows the way to the best wineries in our neighborhood, the insurance is low, and it always starts.
July, the month of dust, green grapes, ripe radishes and raspberries, lots of visitors who like scones and home roasted coffee in the morning, with all that crazy jam we made last fall.
August will bring the blackberries and cabbage, astors and dahlias, carrots and basil. My mom, who is good at laughing and giggling will turn 87 in August, and I think her daughters will be there to get some good belly busters going, kleenex on hand. We will invoke her mom, Brama, our queen of the good giggle.
Monday, July 2, 2012
Forty Years Later ~
Recently I received an invitation in the mail to attend the Garfield High School Class of '72 reunion. So many memories returned as I read the details, and briefly considered attending, if only to tell my story and find closure to a painful memory.
I couldn't figure out why I got the invitation, because I only attended Garfield for a month. One of the longest, scariest, most challenging months of my life. Certainly at 15, it was the hardest cause I'd ever undertaken. I was a white kid from the suburbs who volunteered to get bussed across Lake
Washington into the inner city of Seattle, to a high school which was 80% black. We could have also chosen Franklin High School, which had a 30/30/30 split of the races, but Lori, Diane and I, ( we called ourselves 'the Garfield three') chose the greatest challenge on purpose. Fresh out of Junior High and looking for a way out of the snobbery and shallow culture of Bellevue, we signed on to what amounted to 'reverse busing' to a place we thought would be exciting and new.
To this day I do not know whose idea that program was. It had merit, but as you shall see, there was no support system set up for the hapless young students who thought they were just entering a sort of "Room 222" or "Welcome Back Cotter" type world. For those of you born after the 70's, that is a reference to two popular TV sitcoms about inner city high schools. They were funny and clever, and everyone was so congenial and cool. Ah... an example of how the media creates its own reality.
It was 1972. The political situation regarding race was complicated. The Black Panthers were strong and the Civil Rights struggles were fresh. However, we idealistic youngsters were naive enough to believe that racism in America was essentially over. Forty years later I am stunned to find that racism in America seems to be increasing.
The story of our month was this: We attended classes, and walked the halls. Some days it seemed OK, we would only get questions from out of the blue like, "Are you from Mercer Island?" Too often, though, girls would follow us asking for money. "White bitch, gimme a quarter". Going into some of the bathrooms was an exercise in courage. There would be a few girls hanging out at the sinks, staring with burning hate as I walked past. I know what it feels like to try not to exist. After a few weeks I began to understand from the inside out what living as a black person in America felt like.
On a Friday in the 4th week of school, there was a football game rally during the last hour of the day. Everyone was hyped up. I could feel the energy, and I knew I did not belong. It was hard to feel a part of the school when we went home to a whole different town, even likely to go to the football game at our local high school, Sammamish.
The five of us who took the same bus stood waiting at our corner behind the school gym. The bus didn't come on time, and the minutes went by, until it was over an hour late. We stood there, not knowing what to do. This is before cell phones, remember how that was? We didn't have access to a phone nearby, and no idea even who to call to find out what was happening with the bus.
Meanwhile a group of kids was leaving the rally, and they saw us on the sidewalk. They began calling us names and getting very close, screaming at us. They hit one girl in the face. I can still see the red mark, her broken glasses, and her stunned look. She was from another school, and we didn't know her very well. She was a small, serious girl and I could not figure out why they hit her. We all began to walk away, to get off that corner to somewhere, anywhere to ask for help. A police car cruised by, and we turned to it with relief. The black kids following us quickly disappeared.
The police asked us what we were doing there, and what was going on. We explained our predicament, and I remember them looking at each other and chuckling, like we were so stupid to get our dumbass white selves into that crazy situation. I felt such disappointment in these men, (both white) who were there to "serve and protect". They reluctantly offered us a ride up to a store which had a phone. They acted callous, even as we were clearly traumatized and scared.
We called the school district office and they were able to tell us that a tanker truck had overturned on the Lake Washington Bridge. Our bus was stuck on the wrong side of the accident. They assured us that it would arrive within the hour. We waited at the store, and the bus finally made it. The rest of the night is a blur. The last part of the memory is that I never wanted to go back to Garfield again. I felt like a coward, but I never did make myself go back.
So when I got the reunion invitation, I fantasized about showing up, just to see if there was anyone who remembered any of my month. It amazes me to think that some of those students are now almost 60 years old, we all have many years between us and the complicated angst filled days of high school in Vietnam War- Nixon era America. If I could bet on the type of person putting on this event, I am betting it was not one of those angry girls hanging in the bathrooms, or following me calling me names. I wasn't there long enough to make connections with the kind people. Consequently I remember the angry people forever. Yet, maybe it was only youth and the insecurities of adolescence which caused the hatred. Oh, and economic inequality, a history of slavery and violence, and that thing which dogged us then, and dogs us now - ignorance.
The dates have passed and I can only hope the reunion was a success and the class of '72 had fun. Maybe if they invite me again to the 50th, I'll try to attend.
Recently I received an invitation in the mail to attend the Garfield High School Class of '72 reunion. So many memories returned as I read the details, and briefly considered attending, if only to tell my story and find closure to a painful memory.
I couldn't figure out why I got the invitation, because I only attended Garfield for a month. One of the longest, scariest, most challenging months of my life. Certainly at 15, it was the hardest cause I'd ever undertaken. I was a white kid from the suburbs who volunteered to get bussed across Lake
Washington into the inner city of Seattle, to a high school which was 80% black. We could have also chosen Franklin High School, which had a 30/30/30 split of the races, but Lori, Diane and I, ( we called ourselves 'the Garfield three') chose the greatest challenge on purpose. Fresh out of Junior High and looking for a way out of the snobbery and shallow culture of Bellevue, we signed on to what amounted to 'reverse busing' to a place we thought would be exciting and new.
To this day I do not know whose idea that program was. It had merit, but as you shall see, there was no support system set up for the hapless young students who thought they were just entering a sort of "Room 222" or "Welcome Back Cotter" type world. For those of you born after the 70's, that is a reference to two popular TV sitcoms about inner city high schools. They were funny and clever, and everyone was so congenial and cool. Ah... an example of how the media creates its own reality.
It was 1972. The political situation regarding race was complicated. The Black Panthers were strong and the Civil Rights struggles were fresh. However, we idealistic youngsters were naive enough to believe that racism in America was essentially over. Forty years later I am stunned to find that racism in America seems to be increasing.
The story of our month was this: We attended classes, and walked the halls. Some days it seemed OK, we would only get questions from out of the blue like, "Are you from Mercer Island?" Too often, though, girls would follow us asking for money. "White bitch, gimme a quarter". Going into some of the bathrooms was an exercise in courage. There would be a few girls hanging out at the sinks, staring with burning hate as I walked past. I know what it feels like to try not to exist. After a few weeks I began to understand from the inside out what living as a black person in America felt like.
On a Friday in the 4th week of school, there was a football game rally during the last hour of the day. Everyone was hyped up. I could feel the energy, and I knew I did not belong. It was hard to feel a part of the school when we went home to a whole different town, even likely to go to the football game at our local high school, Sammamish.
The five of us who took the same bus stood waiting at our corner behind the school gym. The bus didn't come on time, and the minutes went by, until it was over an hour late. We stood there, not knowing what to do. This is before cell phones, remember how that was? We didn't have access to a phone nearby, and no idea even who to call to find out what was happening with the bus.
Meanwhile a group of kids was leaving the rally, and they saw us on the sidewalk. They began calling us names and getting very close, screaming at us. They hit one girl in the face. I can still see the red mark, her broken glasses, and her stunned look. She was from another school, and we didn't know her very well. She was a small, serious girl and I could not figure out why they hit her. We all began to walk away, to get off that corner to somewhere, anywhere to ask for help. A police car cruised by, and we turned to it with relief. The black kids following us quickly disappeared.
The police asked us what we were doing there, and what was going on. We explained our predicament, and I remember them looking at each other and chuckling, like we were so stupid to get our dumbass white selves into that crazy situation. I felt such disappointment in these men, (both white) who were there to "serve and protect". They reluctantly offered us a ride up to a store which had a phone. They acted callous, even as we were clearly traumatized and scared.
We called the school district office and they were able to tell us that a tanker truck had overturned on the Lake Washington Bridge. Our bus was stuck on the wrong side of the accident. They assured us that it would arrive within the hour. We waited at the store, and the bus finally made it. The rest of the night is a blur. The last part of the memory is that I never wanted to go back to Garfield again. I felt like a coward, but I never did make myself go back.
So when I got the reunion invitation, I fantasized about showing up, just to see if there was anyone who remembered any of my month. It amazes me to think that some of those students are now almost 60 years old, we all have many years between us and the complicated angst filled days of high school in Vietnam War- Nixon era America. If I could bet on the type of person putting on this event, I am betting it was not one of those angry girls hanging in the bathrooms, or following me calling me names. I wasn't there long enough to make connections with the kind people. Consequently I remember the angry people forever. Yet, maybe it was only youth and the insecurities of adolescence which caused the hatred. Oh, and economic inequality, a history of slavery and violence, and that thing which dogged us then, and dogs us now - ignorance.
The dates have passed and I can only hope the reunion was a success and the class of '72 had fun. Maybe if they invite me again to the 50th, I'll try to attend.
Saturday, June 9, 2012
Wildflower Mountains
We walk, my brother and his sons, through wildflowers
covering the hillsides of a mountain peak
We climb and talk, climb and talk,
reach the top to eat our lunch.
Cherries from my yard, cheese and bread.
My brother offers me a slice of apple.
My brother who rode me on his bike to school
who brought my little kids here -
who invited me to attend the birth of his first child,
who always hugs me like I am cherished
who sings with me at campfire time.
Who was the first to take me to the mountains.
We four walk back, down the long trail,
the verdant forest standing by as we pass.
Switch back by switch back,
dappled sunlight on moss.
Chatting easily I learn about the boys,
Our conversations all in stride, our stride down the mountain
of foot moving forward imprinting trail dust,
next foot, and the next.
There is no need for much, it is all here,
we four, walking a summer day away.
covering the hillsides of a mountain peak
We climb and talk, climb and talk,
reach the top to eat our lunch.
Cherries from my yard, cheese and bread.
My brother offers me a slice of apple.
My brother who rode me on his bike to school
who brought my little kids here -
who invited me to attend the birth of his first child,
who always hugs me like I am cherished
who sings with me at campfire time.
Who was the first to take me to the mountains.
We four walk back, down the long trail,
the verdant forest standing by as we pass.
Switch back by switch back,
dappled sunlight on moss.
Chatting easily I learn about the boys,
Our conversations all in stride, our stride down the mountain
of foot moving forward imprinting trail dust,
next foot, and the next.
There is no need for much, it is all here,
we four, walking a summer day away.
Sunday, June 3, 2012
Bake Sale for Civics Textbooks
Last week the Yamhill County Oregon Democrats held a bake sale. The proceeds from this sale go to purchase civics textbooks for our county's secondary schools. How about that. In the U.S.A., the country which is fond of bragging about our superiority, we have dropped the ball on nurturing our children into becoming citizens.
I have several ideas (fears) about why this has happened. The worst is that the money powers, the same ones who decide what is 'news' have decided that young people can be easily diverted from knowing what is really going. Their attentions can be drawn into a vapid pop culture full of useless celebrities who exhibit the behaviors of wealth which they themselves will never attain. Their youth spent in a dearth of knowledge about the political process at the most basic local level.
Yes, and money too is a problem. We know our state coffers are empty, our budgets being cut everywhere. Yet, I see "Smartboards" in every classroom, carts of laptops, whole rooms full of computers. Why is a decent civics textbook not as important as a computer?
I welcome comments.
I have several ideas (fears) about why this has happened. The worst is that the money powers, the same ones who decide what is 'news' have decided that young people can be easily diverted from knowing what is really going. Their attentions can be drawn into a vapid pop culture full of useless celebrities who exhibit the behaviors of wealth which they themselves will never attain. Their youth spent in a dearth of knowledge about the political process at the most basic local level.
Yes, and money too is a problem. We know our state coffers are empty, our budgets being cut everywhere. Yet, I see "Smartboards" in every classroom, carts of laptops, whole rooms full of computers. Why is a decent civics textbook not as important as a computer?
I welcome comments.
Saturday, May 12, 2012
To Mother - From The Road
April 11, 1976
Seattle to the Grand Canyon by Bicycle
Today my eyes sting warmly from the sun,
And all about I look to cliff and hill.
My many thoughts have rolled into just one,
The memory of you, so very still.
The road is long and weary in the day,
I wish for quiet places I might hide.
Sometimes a tree will beckon me to stay,
But always in the morning I must ride.
Today, beneath the juniper I lie,
to write my humble love into a song,
and wonder what you do for us, and why.
Your gentle patience never turned a wrong.
I like to go away on journeys thus,
to breath and see the newness of the earth.
But always as I look into the dusk,
I ponder heavily my place of birth.
And one who I know lovingly you bore,
you sang and taught with joy so plain to see.
Played games and laughed the gaiety you wore,
that person, I am sure, is almost me.
So when the evening comes to end the day,
I look towards myriads of stars above,
and reaching out to them my soul will pray,
To bless my mother with a world of love.
Given again, 36 years later, and still almost me....
Seattle to the Grand Canyon by Bicycle
Today my eyes sting warmly from the sun,
And all about I look to cliff and hill.
My many thoughts have rolled into just one,
The memory of you, so very still.
The road is long and weary in the day,
I wish for quiet places I might hide.
Sometimes a tree will beckon me to stay,
But always in the morning I must ride.
Today, beneath the juniper I lie,
to write my humble love into a song,
and wonder what you do for us, and why.
Your gentle patience never turned a wrong.
I like to go away on journeys thus,
to breath and see the newness of the earth.
But always as I look into the dusk,
I ponder heavily my place of birth.
And one who I know lovingly you bore,
you sang and taught with joy so plain to see.
Played games and laughed the gaiety you wore,
that person, I am sure, is almost me.
So when the evening comes to end the day,
I look towards myriads of stars above,
and reaching out to them my soul will pray,
To bless my mother with a world of love.
Given again, 36 years later, and still almost me....
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
Later, on the Train
Later, on the Train
Click clicking, thump hooting, chug northward between stations
brief glimpses, blurred houses, riverponds, rolling past.
Neat sequence, clouds lifting, oh so slightly, over marshes
New maple, all fancy, all broadleaf, all May Day
The world, my friend, spreads inspired from a train,
the hum rolling forward into a good future.
Some destination where loved ones wait there at another station
Sweet anticipation, and still the trees, sky, light on water.
The seat shifts backward, only a twist of the toggle -
way back, twice as far as an airplane seat would.
No security xray, foregone shoes, invasion of gear.
We passengers stride boldly past chugging engines, to find our car.
Train, train, I wanted you since childhood,
gazed longingly down your tracks and wished to climb those steps aboard.
Six years old , I could not know this luxury,
To buy my fare while sitting in my office chair.
Ah, there, slides by, a small house with
the porch light on, an answer against this gloaming.
So recently a rain, over spring's thick greenness, muddy land,
everything newly wet, porch light illuminating apple trees in bloom.
Passengers, we share this car, this brief ride North
Out of the window train thoughts I hear:
One stray cell conversation closed with:
"I ain't forgot aboutcha love."
Click clicking, thump hooting, chug northward between stations
brief glimpses, blurred houses, riverponds, rolling past.
Neat sequence, clouds lifting, oh so slightly, over marshes
New maple, all fancy, all broadleaf, all May Day
The world, my friend, spreads inspired from a train,
the hum rolling forward into a good future.
Some destination where loved ones wait there at another station
Sweet anticipation, and still the trees, sky, light on water.
The seat shifts backward, only a twist of the toggle -
way back, twice as far as an airplane seat would.
No security xray, foregone shoes, invasion of gear.
We passengers stride boldly past chugging engines, to find our car.
Train, train, I wanted you since childhood,
gazed longingly down your tracks and wished to climb those steps aboard.
Six years old , I could not know this luxury,
To buy my fare while sitting in my office chair.
Ah, there, slides by, a small house with
the porch light on, an answer against this gloaming.
So recently a rain, over spring's thick greenness, muddy land,
everything newly wet, porch light illuminating apple trees in bloom.
Passengers, we share this car, this brief ride North
Out of the window train thoughts I hear:
One stray cell conversation closed with:
"I ain't forgot aboutcha love."
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