At this point I can play with sentences, with ideas (what I've usually done, anyway). I found a new room on the internet to do so, and I moved my stuff from here over there, to Substack.
In a bit I'll probably delete my Blogger account. Of course none of this will happen on a linear schedule. I wrote a little the other day about my fluid approach to projects. It was fun.
I hope all of you bloggy folk are well and enjoying what you get to do.
She stands between the window sill and their bed. When I pass by, her back is to the open door. She stands a long while. He is away at an appointment, and I pace their living room, from a window overlooking the courtyard to the kitchen table and back. While pacing I read several pages of the book I’m currently into. Earlier I sat in his recliner during her nap. Now she is up, standing and staring.
Her stare, I have learned, isn’t blank. There’s stuff going on behind it: questions and figuring out, or at least trying to ask, seeking to figure. Like she has always done, except now the process is different. Gummed up, somehow. Confusing.
She apologizes for being confused. “I just hate it,” she says softly and shakes her head.
“It’s okay. Don’t be sorry. I love you.”
Later he rolls through the door in his power chair. “Hello, Mrs!” he calls.
She brightens. She straightens, smiles, responds. “Hello!” Echoes glimmer in her eyes.
My grandson Edmund has had a busy summer. He turned nine in June, and I had planned to give him an original story on the day (per his request, months before).
But I've been living a busy life. (My lack of blogging for more than a year is one result.) As patiently as a distance runner seeking his personal best, Edmund waited for my story's completion. He didn't want me to tell him anything about it. Just an occasional update regarding which chapter I was working on satisfied him. Thankfully.
Meanwhile, I reread or listened to some childhood favorites of mine. Kavik, the Wolf Dog was one I hadn't opened in 50 years. The story contains scenes set near or on the Salish Sea, but in 1968 Seattle's main waterway was known only as Puget Sound, as it was during my preteen years when I fished out there with my dad. I didn't have any trouble writing the location and the climactic scene, as they came basically from life. But I set out meaning to write fiction. My dog stories and others reminded me that in fiction the main character needs a problem. I had nearly finished Chapter Two when I recognized that I was relating a bunch of information to Edmund but had not given the main character, April, a problem.
After pacing my office/cottage a few times, I thought of something, also related to my life in and after the sixth grade. It was interesting and fun to tease out a couple of pieces from those bygone days and let them carry the narrative. I hoped what I ended up doing might interest my grandson. The day I finally handed it to him, he wandered off with it, engaged. After Chapter One he asked me to read Two and Three. We enjoyed reading together, at a picnic table on a beautiful day, able to carry on side discussions as we went. Afterward, he said a couple things seemed real enough to be based on actual events, and he jumped for joy when I told him they were, and that his great-grandpa matches the dad in the story.
Edmund also gave me permission to self-publish the tale online. I have no idea if doing so will get me back to blogging, but I thought it would be fun.
If I do put up more posts here, I'll enjoy sharing about recent events. I have little to no wish, however, to become greatly engaged again with blogging. Please feel no compulsion to read or interact, because I can't promise to reciprocate. I'm just having fun.
April & the Salish Sea
Chapter One
In June, just after school ended for summer vacation, April went as always with her parents to their cabin by the Salish Sea. This is near the Pacific Ocean coastline, in the northwest corner of Washington State. If you visit Tacoma, Seattle, or Bellingham, there’s a long body of water you might notice nearby. This is the Salish Sea, and it is affected by tides.
Like every other summer, when April got out of the car she took a deep breath, inhaling the sweet scent of flowers and fir tree needles mixed with saltiness from the Sea. The smell was like joy, like school being canceled forever.
The only difference this year for April was her feeling of super-sadness. She missed school! How crazy. She knew she would never feel this same way again, because this year she was missing Mr. Jones.
He had been her home room teacher these past months, during her first year of middle school, and he also taught her literature and history classes. He was the best. But she was never going to see him again.
The afternoon sunshine warming her hair helped April feel slightly better. She started to wander downhill toward the water that sparkled and lapped at the shore.
“First carry your stuff to the cabin!” Mom called before she got far. April obeyed, lugging her suitcase with one arm and her sleeping bag with the other. Finally she returned to the driveway and clumped downhill, trying to look forward with enthusiasm to seeing their little section of beach.
It was difficult to be happy after recent events. Mr. Jones had been injured in a hiking accident a few weeks before school let out for the summer. After some time in recovery, he returned to home room class one morning and announced that in June he and his family were moving to Arizona. When she heard this, April’s stomach acted like a car with no brakes, careening down a steep hill. Her insides thudded — clunk. At her desk, in front of everyone, she wiped away two tears.
She had expected to be in at least one class he taught next year. She looked forward to seeing him in the hallway, to hearing his cheerful greeting. It made the thought of school bearable.
Mr. Jones treated every student alike. He didn’t play favorites; he cared. After five years in public grade school, April could tell how teachers felt about their jobs, and Mr. Jones was one who actually liked his. He liked his students. He enjoyed life.
During lunch later that day, a girl from April’s class snickered to her friends, “Man, April’s so got a crush on Mr. J!”
She wasn’t in love with her teacher; that comment was particularly dumb. But as always when sitting alone at lunch, she didn’t say anything in reply. Students at her school were, pretty much, idiots.
Now, at the bottom of the driveway, April saw the water greeting her like a forgotten friend. Because it was high tide when she got there, little waves nearly reached the three gravelly steps down.
She crouched on the bottom step, inspecting. She found a live sand dollar lying mostly underwater. Gently she caressed its fuzzy, gray shell. Soon a hermit crab scrabbled past, its bulky home on its back sticking out of the shallows.
A half hour later, after Dad finished unloading things and inspecting the cabin, he walked down to the shore and stood beside April. He carried two fishing poles and his tackle box. Not surprisingly he said, “Want to test the boat with me?”
April stood up and helped Dad wrestle with the small wooden boat, which was upside down on the ground a little ways uphill. It had to be stored far enough so the highest tides couldn’t move it, yet not too far, so it could be slid downhill into the water. Bottom side up, the boat had a U shape. Its wood slats had lost most of their paint and were brownish gray. Each summer the boat had floated well as they fished from it, far out in the Sea if Dad felt like rowing a while.
The two of them grasped and pulled up on one side of the boat, straining and heaving, until finally it flipped right side up. Dad moved aside the anchor and the pair of oars, which had been stored underneath. Then they both pushed against the stern (another name for the boat’s rear part), and it slid downhill with the crunching sound of wood against sand and gravel.
They set the fishing poles and other gear between the boat’s two bench seats. “Let’s see if she’s still a seaworthy vessel!” Dad said, pushing while firmly grasping the edge. Quickly April climbed into the bow (the boat’s front), hefting a long, smooth oar. She sighed, thinking Dad said the same thing every year.
Although she enjoyed doing things with her father, sometimes April wished he was more like Mr. Jones. She wished he knew how to be more fun.
For instance, one Thursday afternoon in history, when all the kids were either daydreaming or checking their phones, Mr. Jones jumped onto his desk with a swift motion. His shoes landed on wood — bam! He crouched there a moment, smiling. His eyes twinkled. “Wake up!” You could tell he enjoyed surprising them. No one could believe someone his age was able do things like this, but he did.
Mr. Jones read stories to the literature class, books like Tom Sawyer and Treasure Island. He even read a book about Mario, Yoshi, and friends. April’s dad was too tired after work each night ever to read to her. That had been Mom’s job, and of course now April read her own books. She even wrote some stories. She had shyly shown a couple of these to Mr. Jones, and he asked her to read them aloud to the class. It was scary, but she actually did read them in front of everyone. The other students seemed not to look at her as such a weirdo after that.
The boat began floating and Dad climbed in. He sat on the center bench, turning his back to April after she handed him both oars. Dad dipped the oars, one on each side, into dark water rippling beneath them. His arms made long, circular strokes, and in minutes they sped along. The breeze tousled April’s hair. Watching the shore and path to their cabin become small in the distance, she felt a familiar thrill in her middle. Soon they were far enough away from shore to start fishing. Dad said “Okay, drop the anchor.”
While April and Dad were out in the little boat fishing, Mom was up at the cabin. She looked into all the corners of the pinewood-paneled rooms, checking to see how well things had weathered the winter months.
The cabin’s main outside door opened into a kitchen with a sink and cupboards. Past the kitchen stood the small dining table and the living room. A right turn led to the short hallway and two bedrooms plus a bathroom.
“Hm, dusty as usual,” Mom said to herself. She got out her rag and a broom and spiffed things up. While working she hummed a tune. It felt good to be back here with the breeze blowing outside and the quiet inside.
In this cabin there was no electricity. No light bulbs, no television, no refrigerator, oven, or dishwasher, not even a computer, and they didn’t receive internet service. This was part of the fun of staying here.
Standing in the kitchen, Mom bent down and checked what they brought in their large cooler for dinner. Amid the bags of ice keeping things cool were sandwich and salad ingredients. “Maybe fish tonight, too,” she murmured hopefully, “if those two catch something tasty.” Mom straightened up and gazed through the living room window which faced their shoreline on the Salish Sea. A ways out in the deep blue water the familiar boat now floated. She could just make out her husband as he cast his fishing line. Up in the bow, April held her fishing pole, looking very small, her dark hair blowing across her face.
Chapter Two
Mom stayed busy in the cabin, while in the boat April helped Dad. First she had lifted the heavy metal anchor, making sure the yellow rope was tied on tightly, and then she dropped it over the side and watched the long line of rope unwinding and straightening beneath the surface. The anchor sank clear to the bottom and kept the boat from drifting with the current.
Next Dad set up the line for April’s pole, tying on a round metal weight with a hole in the middle (it was gray like the anchor, but a thousandth its size). On the same line, beneath the weight, he tied the hook. “Here,” he said, handing her a piece of raw shrimp to stick onto it for bait. April was only slightly squeamish about poking the hook through the shrimp. (At least, she thought, there’s no blood involved.)
Her right hand grasped the fishing pole she held over the water. With her thumb she pressed a white button that released the very thin line. The weight and the shrimp on the hook went in — plop! — and sank, just as the anchor had done.
April drew her knees up under her chin, balancing her pole’s cork handle between them, and waited for a tug on her fishing line. The breeze blew the line in a curve, so she turned her fishing reel’s rotating handle a few clicks, and then the line was straight like Dad’s. He now had his own line in the water, and he also waited. It was quiet out here. Only little waves lapping against the boat made sounds.
Several types of fish liked to sample pieces of shrimp. April wondered what sort she might reel in. Would she feel a quick, sharp tug? That might mean a flounder (they tasted good after Mom cooked them).
Very soon her fishing pole tip bent steadily. “Got something!” Dad said. She held on.
April pulled her pole upward and turned the reel’s handle, bringing in the line as fast as she could. Soon she saw the ugly face, bony back, and broad mouth of a bullhead rising to the surface. Yuk, no one wants to eat bullheads!
“Oh well,” Dad said. “Toss him back.”
With one hand April carefully pinched the edge of the fish’s mouth as it gasped and wriggled. With her other hand she removed the hook from the fishy lip. The shrimp bait was gone — probably now the fish did not consider his easy snack very worthwhile. While April worked, Dad got a tug on his fishing line. By the time she let her fish go and watched it swim away, Dad reeled up his own bullhead. “Bleh,” she said as he released his ugly catch.
With fresh bait on their hooks, they waited. Soon even the breezy waves and sunshine were boring. April shifted on her small bench.
She thought how bored she was going to remain, staying in the cabin tonight and for many days with her parents and without much to do. Mom and Dad would have gladly brought along one of her friends, but those kids were busy doing summer vacation things with their families, too.
Her best friend from church, Katrina, was traveling with her parents and her three brothers to her grandparents’ place in eastern Oregon. Katrina often complained to April about her annoying little brothers. It made sense, but still April wished for a sibling. Even an annoying one would be company.
Mom and Dad had tried to have more children after April was born, but Mom had been through two miscarriages. April sensed her mother putting on a brave face when they were around other women talking about their pregnancies. Once in a while Mom would say to April, “You are our gift from God.”
Dad’s fishing reel made a swift, whirring sound. His pole suddenly arched over, bending almost double. Dad gave her a quick look. “Hm, big,” he said.
He turned the reel with all his strength. April peered over the side, and far below she saw a dark shadow in the water. Once before she had seen this. The narrow nose and the thrashing, knife-like fins and tail were those of a shark.
But she knew it wasn’t a large shark like you see on TV. They called these dogfish, and this one was probably two feet long. Still pretty powerful.
“A dogfish!” she told Dad.
“Thought so,” he said. “Take my pole so I can row us in.”
April reeled in her line and set her pole down in the boat. Then she reached for Dad’s. She was just strong enough to hold tight with both hands — her arms vibrating with the effort as the dogfish fought to be released. The line stretched taught behind them while Dad rowed.
She felt a fearful tug in her middle. But she had done this before, last year, the one other time they caught a dogfish.
Last time, they rowed to shore, pulling the large fish behind them, because both their net and their tiny boat were too small to hold it. Even now Dad was muttering he had meant to buy a larger net before they left home and had forgotten.
Last summer they pulled their thrashing fish to shore, where in the shallow water it broke the line and swam away. Over the past winter, Dad tried to prepare in case they caught another. He watched internet videos on how to grill shark meat. Mom was less than thrilled about this.
Now the bow of the boat crunched the shore in the shallow water. Dad hopped out and pulled the boat farther up, shouting to April to hang on. She hung on. He grabbed a rock and splashed out to the fishing line, moving quicker than she usually saw him move. Dark circles of sweat showed under his arms.
Dad plunged into the water, thrashed a little while with the dogfish, and then konked it on the head with the rock. The stunned fish paused. Dad lifted it up by its neck and tail. “Got him!”
Mom had rushed down to meet them. “Well, you did it, Gary,” she said, hands on hips. “Now we have to deal with a shark dinner.” She stuck out her lower lip and shook her head. But she also smiled a little.
***
Thanks to YouTube videos he had watched, Dad actually cooked an edible dogfish dinner. He breaded the meat and fried it in their skillet on top of the camp stove.
First, of course, he had to “clean” the fish, by slicing it open and taking out the guts and bones. This he did sitting on a stool out beside the cabin, and April didn’t watch much of that process. Mom stayed totally away.
The three of them ate fish and salad at the table. After their places were cleared, Mom washed dishes at the sink while April rinsed, using water they heated in a large pan. Then Mom dried that pan and used it to pop popcorn which they munched while playing a card game called War. April won two of the hands (you could call them “battles”), but Dad won three.
Later, on her bed in the darkness, April lay awake a while. She heard Dad from the other room saying to Mom, “Goodnight, sweet Rosalee.”
Like Mom, she enjoyed the quiet. It was just almost too quiet right now. She had nothing to look forward to tomorrow, except things from today repeating themselves.
Maybe I can go for a walk, she thought. Maybe by myself. Somewhere different. Anything different would be nice.
Chapter Three
Dad got up early the next day and fished. Before he left, April heard him stop at her slightly-open door, and she was sure he looked in, wondering if she would come along. But she kept her eyes shut. It felt too good resting this morning and planning where she might go later, on her own.
Her chance came right after lunch. Mom needed to pick up a few groceries and more ice. When she asked April to go with her, April shrugged. “Can’t you manage without me? I would go, but I wanted to watch the baby crabs at low tide.”
This wasn’t a lie. April did hope to be down near the water when the tide was coming in, and she did like to watch tiny crabs scurrying around, their shiny brown, blue, or green outer armor glinting in the sunlight. But she didn’t tell Mom she planned to walk along the shore, as far as her feet would carry her.
April couldn’t help wondering if maybe her journey today would lead her to the shore of someone else’s cabin. She had imagined, while lying in bed this morning, that perhaps on her walk she might meet a girl — maybe even a boy — someone who was also stuck with their parents for the summer. The two of them could become friends and make secret plans. April might row herself and this person out in the little boat from her shore to . . . where? Maybe an island no one else had set foot on before.
“That’s fine, April,” Mom answered. “I just wondered if you wanted to get out of the cabin and load something onto your tablet.”
“Thanks, Mom, for thinking of me, but I’ll pass,” she said.
Mom left.
Once she had everything ready, which included wearing her best walking shoes and a floppy, lavender sun hat, April left the cabin and — it felt like, anyway — floated down the driveway (she half skipped and hopped). She was happy and excited. She didn’t expect Dad to be standing right in front of the three steps down to the shoreline. She had thought he was out in the boat again. Instead, he had it pulled it up and was using a square piece of sandpaper on the top edge near the bow where she always sat.
“Hi!” He grinned. “I thought you went with Mom.”
“No! I —” April didn’t know what to say. So she went with her earlier story. “I want to watch baby crabs.”
“Oh, okay.” Dad nodded. “Well, I’m tired, so I was going up to take a nap.” He straightened, stretched a little, and carried his sandpaper with him past April.
She had to go and say a stupid thing, which ruined her plan. “I guess I might take a long walk, too. It’s so nice out, and the tide will be low for hours.”
Dad paused. “You need to wait for Mom. She won’t be gone long, and I’m sure she’ll walk with you.”
“But —” This was truly awful. “Dad, I need to stretch my legs! It can be a short walk…just, just, by myself!” She crossed her arms and stomped. Beneath her shoe, gravel scattered.
“You need to wait for your mother.” Dad’s tone meant business. No more arguing. He turned toward the cabin while she groaned her loudest groan.
April raised her fists and shook them. Dad’s back grew smaller as he climbed the driveway. She ran a few steps along the shore, along the route she had planned to travel so happily only moments before. But now it was awful. Ruined. Her great idea.
Why, she wondered, why didn’t her dad take time to care about what she liked and really needed? Why wasn’t he funny and clever? Why couldn’t he be more like Mr. Jones? “I’ll bet Mr. J’s kids never feel stuck with their parents,” she muttered, nudging a baby crab with her shoe so hard it flipped over. April crouched down and turned it right-side-up. “Sorry,” she told it as it scurried away.
She stood a while looking out over the water. She was about to kick the boat’s side, when another idea — possibly great — came to her. Immediately she felt better and headed up the driveway to the cabin.
As she figured, Mom had not yet returned, and Dad was asleep on the couch. He liked taking afternoon naps. He almost always snored and slept through just about anything.
She was surprised, then, that Dad opened his eyes when she started talking.
“How about I take the boat out and fish a while?”
Her last word dropped to a whisper when Dad looked at her. But he answered, “Okay. You can do that. Just row straight, like I showed you. If you hook a dogfish, don’t worry. You can cut the line and row back in.”
His eyes closed, as if he’d never heard her or said a thing. April didn’t ask again. She was out the door and down the driveway in, it seemed, five seconds.
The boat waited for her. It wasn’t another person, but it felt like a friend. She picked up her fishing pole from where it lay close to the steps and set it inside, next to the middle bench. Then she went to the stern and began shoving the boat toward the water. Doing this took all her strength. Her feet nearly flew out from under her a couple of times, but the boat moved. It moved and moved, until the front tip nosed into the Salish Sea.
April needed to be careful not to push it too far in before she jumped inside. As she worked, she felt the thrill of fear. There. She hopped over the edge, just as the boat floated! Settling herself on the middle seat facing the shore, she picked up first one oar and then the other and started rowing.
A few times last year, Dad had let her row the boat when they were coming back from fishing. It was difficult to go straight, because one arm or the other would push unevenly, especially after a while. Now April was patient with herself, watching the cabin up above and adjusting the boat with one oar, and then again with the other. This way, she finally rowed out nearly as far as she and Dad had gone yesterday. Then she lowered the anchor. The bag of bait near her foot had a few shrimp left in it. She set up her fishing line and swung her pole out over the right side, lowering the baited hook.
Again it was a beautiful afternoon. April was glad she had worn her hat; the sun beat down. She loved the feeling of being out here. The salty smell made her inhale deeply. Whether or not she caught anything didn’t matter. A seagull and two other birds passed overhead. Far in the distance off to the right, a tiny cloud lay on the horizon.
She leaned back against the side. Ahh. She felt relaxed, as though she could write a hundred stories before dinner. Just when she thought she might reel in her line and forget fishing, a large tug pulled her pole tip downward.
A flounder! She was sure it must be one, although she couldn’t see down far enough to know. She reeled and reeled, but it pulled and pulled. Not as strongly as a dogfish, but this flounder must be pretty big.
Mom would be proud of her. Dinner would be delicious. She kept turning her pole’s reel, and though it was hard work, the breeze picked up and cooled her forehead.
April glanced up to her right. More dark clouds were there, growing in number and speeding her way. The wind had really picked up. The water’s motion made larger ripples, even some small waves. She hoped the flounder would break the surface soon.
***
When Mom parked the car outside the cabin, the breeze began increasing. She entered to find her husband napping on the couch. Setting her bags on the table, she looked around.
“Gary,” she said, waking him. “Where’s April?”
As she spoke, she glanced out the window toward the Sea. “Gary!”
***
April’s lavender hat blew off her head and into the water. She had bigger worries. The sky had darkened, and slanting rain fell. She’d decided to cut her line and let the fish go. But she couldn’t find Dad’s pocket knife. Ugh. She yanked her pole’s tip upward, and the line broke. Good. She set the pole down and pulled hand-over-hand as fast as she could to raise the anchor. It clunked near her feet as she began rowing toward the shore.
Now the wind and waves were storm-strength, the sunlight gone. Even though April mightily rowed with her left arm to turn the stern toward home, it was a major battle. She rowed hard and made some progress, but finally the wind kept the boat facing sideways. It was blowing her past the cabin and away along the shore.
Dad came running down the driveway, bounding over the three steps and toward her. His hair blew wildly; his shorts and shirt were drenched. “Keep rowing!” he called, a note in his voice she hadn’t heard before. “You can do it! Keep rowing!”
April couldn’t fight the storm’s fury. But she had to. Dad ran like she’d never seen him run. He made it to her position and splashed into the waves. “Come on! Keep coming!”
Her arms like spaghetti, she rowed toward Dad. He waded farther. The boat’s momentum took it and her out of his reach…
Then Dad surged forward again and caught the side. One hand held on. Then two. He pulled, backing up. At last the crunching sound of the shore welcomed them.
Shaking, April climbed out. Together they dragged the boat in silence along the shore, both of them breathing heavily. Mom had watched from the top step. Now she ran toward them. April knew Dad would get bawled out for letting her try fishing alone. But this moment, in the driving rain, the three of them met with a group hug and kisses.
“I’m sorry I lost my hat, and a flounder,” said April.
“Oh, well,” Dad said. “I was scared to death we’d lose you.” Smiling, he set his hand gently on her wet head. “I’m just glad I didn’t pee my pants.”
Last Saturday my dad planned to go fishing. He figured out all the details: riding the city bus to meet two of his good friends up at Leaburg Dam; packing into his power wheelchair sandwiches, telescoping fishing pole, and tackle; how he would get home later. But a cool wind blew early on that spring morning, chilling him as he powered his "chariot" to the bus stop. He knew this would only feel worse the longer he journeyed. At 86, you sometimes--well, often--have to revise plans. He came back home and called me with the news.
I had been happy for him to get this chance, but hearing the change I was relieved. My dreams Friday night included him making his effort with varying outcomes. It worried me.
Dad's fishing friends are younger than he; I think the older one is only 84. They became acquainted with Dad in college. In photos tugged from my parents' file boxes these men grin, their dear wives next to them sporting the permanent wave hairdo and mandatory skirts and gloves of their era. Now Dad's friends are widowers. My parents both deal with health issues and mild confusion, but they still, so far, deal with these things together.
Today as I write this, I mark eight years since entering into my days as Grandmom. This morning we were together with Edmund and his family at church. On the Julian calendar this year, June 10th is the Feast of Ascension, 40 days after Pascha. All Orthodox Christians observe the leave-taking of Jesus Christ from his apostles on earth into heaven. When he ascended Jesus remained human, I've come to believe, just as when, at birth--having entered into the humanity of his mother on earth from heaven--he remained God. I equate this with a child gaining attributes from both of his parents. In Edmund's case, he is both Hershiser and Titus. His complexity is an interweaving that is never a globulous mass, never a confusion, always unique. He is a person bearing the marks of where he came from.
Edmund is also a total kid--all arms and legs and loud singing in the restroom during our church service. Afterward he reacted with joyful amazement to Tim's and my card. Eight dollars!! What a gift to be there for his first recognition that cards can bear more than signatures.
It looks like days are coming when togetherness can look different, and better, from our past months' revisions. Life ever flows unstagnated. This amazes us, old and young. This has taken on complex new meanings for me in church, and I wish to carry these meanings forward.
It seems there are always long times to go through. Slowly we emerge from one long time and enter into another. Multiple long times tend also to take place concurrently and overlap, each made up of particular aspects, perspectives, and details. They are seasons and journeys, ordeals and struggles.
I find myself lately journeying through a long rearrangement of our house and its members. Right this minute, our Clover kitty huddles on my tall chair near the computer (acting nonchalant in the manner of cats asleep, while poised to leap and follow whenever I exit the area). From the roof we hear thumps, footsteps, and staccato beats, as men with power tools replace the overlapping aspects of a housetop. We need our shelter to remain stable, and it's been a very long time since the roof was last renewed.
Come August, I will have lived with Tim in our current home 30 years. At this point of early June back in 1991, we hoped with great hopefulness for the sale closing (the price way lower than the 2.5K it would sell for today), our two benefactors the government (FHA home loans) and Tim's rich uncle from Colorado, who loaned us the down payment at five per cent interest. We managed to pay back his uncle, as well as the city after they immediately put in a sewer connection to replace the ubiquitous septic tanks in our neighborhood.
Financially speaking, we lived on love in this marriage for a very long while.
Now an early June high pressure front has warmed and dried our city, making work on the new, brown roof tiles go quickly. We'll see how long the dry months stretch this summer: we don't know yet whether or not forest fire smoke will choke a brown landscape. But it's nice that this bit of land (link is to the journal that published my piece about our place) is stocked with drought-resistant plantings, thanks to our son, James. And I will view them from the new building out back pictured above and below (James approves!): my office/"she shed"/yet-to-be-named retreat.
As well as giving me space, the "shed" will provide storage areas, after my sister-in-law Stephanie (Tim's sister) moves into my current office space and the other bedroom. She'll bring her own two kitties. Clover will face challenges besides having new companions. We each pray to enter into this possibly long time, this new season, jointly with life and love and willingness to struggle. The adventure should be well worthwhile.
At sunrise there appeared deep pink painted clouds, brushes of violet beneath. I drew forth my small, lensed instrument, the one allowing me a momentary exhale. I carried the camera to the front porch, and it captured pleasing eastward images.
The door locked behind me. In bathrobe I knocked, and he opened to my chilly fingers, my dubious response to his assumption that I lingered in my office. We chanted the tone of martyric mornings, our song, our glances and rolled eyes, even, the elements of a caress. We readied for today’s deployment.
There’s no reasoning it out; life is crowded. Not in our rooms. Mostly, no. How I wish I could linger there, but to be needed, by parents and friends facing hardships, is good. For months I’ve envied others’ isolation, their expanses of stillness, loneliness a price I’d be willing to pay. You may as well know I’ve been this way long before we faced COVID seasons. Only now more critical doings require my time. They line my soul’s hallway, stacked, jutting enough so I trip in the darkness, wandering and anticipating any pale hint of dawn.
I took time after breakfast to survey my camera’s images. Dark limbs stretched across the morning cloudscape, above the neighbors’ rooftop. Trunks raised their branches hymning nature, praising beauties of pink tones and indrawn, exhaled breath. Enjoying interaction sure to carry them over the long haul of gray slab backdrops and frost, maybe an ice encasement or two.
When I think it through, I regret my many plunges into dissatisfaction. I confess: these inner workings have arisen on my singular terms, from a flat perspective that succumbs to the second law of thermodynamics.
I long for something deeper and fuller than my whirling thoughts reveal. Something lasting. If I could imitate this dawn of bare limbs lifted, might I exhale wonder at the gift before me? Treasure chilled fingers and shaded hues? For me to do so would be as if a strong human being could be allowed inside the hallway of soul I now pace, and dexterously the one entering could sort, lift, and carry away each off-kilter pile, leaving behind fresh breaths of order, of hymnody and gratitude.
From my office desk I watch dark leaves on our outstretched maple greet the neighbors' cherry branches, their gossip unheard through closed windows. Blue polygons of sky show between leaf clusters, while ground shadows mingle with tanned August light. Muted riffs by cars play half a block north on Maxwell Avenue; faint sirens wail along River Road. Prominent and steady, a wall clock ticks behind me near the door. Tim's great-uncle left it to the family, its face from a tree slab - a burl? maybe driftwood. Uncle Harold sanded it smooth and covered it with clear resin before attaching numbers and the pointing hands. Heartbeat movements of the second hand remain constant during a text-buzz from my phone, the jangle of our hallway landline.
I barely remember Uncle Harold, whom I met probably once before he died. His wife, Virgie, whose death preceded his, liked to write. On our shelf sits her meditative booklet, All Things to Enjoy. These pieces of their lives that we do enjoy remain part of this place, our sensory life in motion.
Someone recently wrote on social media that it was time to “choose up sides,” as if there was a line in the sand on which to make a stand. Obviously, this came from someone who didn’t have all the lights turned on upstairs. But more importantly, that kind of talk only throws gas on the fire.We don’t need inflammatory speech like that. The temperature in the land has already busted the top of the societal thermometer. We’ve had enough.
Everyone has had enough: enough of riot and destruction, enough of bigotry and injustice.
On all sides.
Because when it comes to humanity and justice, peace and unity, there can be no “sides.” We are one country, one human race.
Every human being should be horrified by the torturous execution of +George Floyd. Every human with a sense of justice (and this should cover everyone made in the image of God) should be angered by the delay in the arrest of the fired officer who murdered him, and the ongoing delay of the arrest of the other three ex-officers who are accomplices in the murder. Every adult who’s seen death up close will shake his head in disbelief at the official autopsy: asphyxiation cannot be camouflaged by euphemism.
It is logically and Christianly impossible to excuse or minimize this injustice. And, frankly, there is much reasonable cause for social protest.
But there is no cause at all for riot and rampage … no cause for water bottle throwing, cherry bomb and bottle-rocket firing, and in-your-face spouting of cursing and vulgarity … no cause (except for cheap criminality) for breaking windows and looting … no cause on heaven or earth (but maybe hell) for setting buildings ablaze.
There is, at the same time, no cause at all for the President to clear a street with militarized police, tear gas, and flash grenades – all of this just to brandish a Holy Bible in a gesture that I, a PK who’s watched thousands of Billy Graham-type sermons, have never seen.
The Bible cannot and must not be held up as a sign of hardfisted power.
I've been consumed for a few years by care for my parents, so writing has fallen by the wayside. In and for my heart, this has become a ...
