Month: August 2012

Time to clean the garage

My garage was looking pretty good until I cleaned out the storage locker. That 10 x 6 cubicle that Fred and I rented “for a few months” in 2001 was jammed with stuff that was getting mildewed and mouse-eaten. It wasn’t worth paying $45 a month to store things I never used. Where did I put everything? In the garage, in my single-car cobweb-covered already-full garage.

We’re talking camera and computer gear, an old TV, a semi-broken chair, a nightstand from my in-laws’ house, sewing paraphernalia and fabric up the wazoo, ancient stereo components, the old dog crate, boxes of old newspapers that I wrote articles for in the ‘70s, and books, books, books. Mucho stuff. Plus I save boxes just in case I might need to mail books or move, and I’ve got Fred’s wheelchair, clothing I’ve been cleaning out of the closets to give to Goodwill or somebody, and umpteen plastic bags and bottles that need recycling. It’s a good thing I have a relatively small car.
When I unloaded the storage locker, it was snowing. This is . . . September? Right. It’s been on my to-do list, honest. Well, one day last week, after I got a particularly nasty comment about something I had written, I tore into that garage. I worked up a sweat going through all the junk and putting it into piles: Goodwill, church bazaar, recycle, the dump, and oh maybe I’ll keep it. I’m happy to report the latter pile was small. Some things I might have kept but for the rust or mildew that made me not even want to touch them. Out, out, out.
The trouble is that everything contains a memory. It’s not just stuff; it’s my life. I remember when I used to develop film in the kitchen and print pictures in the bathroom with black cloth blocking out the light. I remember when I read all those books. I remember when I made the dress cut from that cloth. I admit I’m a saver, although not quite a hoarder. The older I get the more I like hanging onto my memories. But I can’t keep all this stuff.
So far, I have hit the recycle center and Goodwill and loaded the bazaar stuff into the car. I will go to the dump soon. And I’m going through those boxes of newspapers and tossing most of them. I remember each bylined story and what it was like to be a young reporter running around Gilroy or Milpitas or Pacifica in my VW bug doing interviews. I loved those days. But . . .
There’s one box I’m not tossing. It contains jacks, marbles, balls, a wooden flute, a harmonica, a couple of dolls, hopscotch charms, and other toys. I still want to play with my toys. Why not? They’re mine.
As the garage empties, I feel freer and lighter. But this is one of those jobs that don’t stay done. On my way home from Goodwill, I stopped at a garage sale, where I picked up a suitcase and a George Foreman grill for $3. What a deal. Now, where am I going to put them?

Blindfold experience teaches important lessons

I walk through my world quickly, always thinking about the next task, my attention darting everywhere. But a writing exercise yesterday changed my perspective. As the first part of a workshop with nature writer Ceiridwyn (CARE-i-dwyn) Terrill, she blindfolded us and had us walk through a woodsy course behind the library with only a string to follow.

I was first in line. Ceiridwyn led me over a protruding root to the flat part of the trail, then let go. It seemed easy at first, like walking down the hallway at night, but then I ran into this tree. A smooth-barked alder, it seemed to mark the end of the course. “Is this the end?” I hollered. “No,” came the reply. “Figure it out.” I could hear the other writers chattering and laughing up above the trail, but my world had shrunk to one thing: find the path. Straight ahead I felt tree and shrubs, probably honeysuckle or salal. To the left, under the string, seemed to be nothing but open air. I couldn’t move unless I went under the string, but would I fall? I had no choice. Dorothy, the next writer in line, was coming, waiting for me to find the way for both of us. I went under the string and found more path.

Without being able to see the sky and the trail, it was hard to keep my balance. I walked with tiny steps, unlike my usual strides, until I ran into another tree, broad enough to hug, its bark rough against my hands and arms as I felt around it and determined that the string ended there. Or did it? Dorothy insisted she felt more string; we had to go on. No, I argued, this was the end. Blindfolded, neither one of us could be sure. Our world had shrunk to this tiny place on the path, to this tree and this string. Nothing else mattered.

When we were allowed to remove our blindfolds, we discovered that this was indeed the end of the course and Dorothy had felt a loop of string that went nowhere.We hadn’t actually walked very far.

Blindfolded, we depended on each other and on that little bit of string. We could not let our minds fly all over the place; we had to concentrate on moving forward and not falling down.

I don’t want to be blindfolded again. I hate that helpless feeling. I hate having to ask for help. I hate having to consult with other people before pushing ahead on my own. But I think there are many lessons to be learned here. Sometimes you have to ask for help, to trust other people, and sometimes you have to do just one thing, take one tiny step at a time.

(I’d offer photos, but I couldn’t see!)

Ave Maria Amen

            I am not a classically trained pianist. I did not grow up taking lessons or doing recitals in frilly dresses and Mary Jane shoes. My education consisted of Mom showing me Middle C on the old upright and giving me the books she learned with. Fascinated, I plunked away, but nobody in my family wanted to hear me play. It’s hard to listen to somebody just learning an instrument, all those stops and starts and wrong notes. Inevitably, my parents would tell me to stop or they would come in and turn the TV on and glare at me because they couldn’t hear their show.
            I became a stealth piano player, stealing time when no one was around. In college, I would sneak into the practice rooms for an hour between classes. I made progress, but not on the level of someone who is working with a teacher, playing in front of other people all the time. Some things, like fingering, I learned incorrectly. Now I have friends who are piano teachers and I watch their 7-year-old students do things I still can’t do in my AARP years.
            Yet somehow I play the piano for money now. I also play it for solace and for fun. But I play it at Sacred Heart Church in Newport for Mass every weekend and occasionally for funerals. At first I was a nervous wreck. Gradually, I almost relaxed. When the choir is singing and I can simplify the arrangements to a comfortable level, most people can’t hear my mistakes. In my head, I know they’re not even listening to me. I feel blessed that the little girl who loved the piano so much that she played whenever she could sneak in a little time at the keys is now sitting up in front of the church playing for the congregation and getting paid for it. I have worked hard. Playing different songs every weekend at church while singing and leading a choir forces one to practice every day and get better at it. Thanks to Fred, I have my own piano, which I can play whenever I want.
            Last Saturday, I played for a funeral where they wanted “Ave Maria” and “Pachelbel’s Canon.” “Oh Lord,” I prayed, “please help me do this.” I practiced till my fingers were sore, and I was shaking as I played those first few notes in the deep pre-funeral silence. I’d like to say the songs just flowed from my fingers like magic, but they didn’t. I made some mistakes, but overall, I got through them, and those who don’t know the arrangements might not have noticed my errors.
            I was so relieved when all we had left were the normal songs of the funeral Mass, all things I have played many times. Most families choose the same basic songs: “On Eagles’ Wings,” “Be Not Afraid,” “Amazing Grace,” “Song of Farewell,” “Shepherd Me O God,” “How Great Thou Art.” Plus we sing the parts of the Mass. No problem.
            I had a choir of three sopranos and me, everyone else traveling or busy with the church picnic getting started outside at the same time as the funeral. We launched into our songs and it was good. And then, cocky because I conquered those two big classical hits, I totally screwed up the “Amen.” I started in the wrong key and had to start over. Then I did the same thing for the “Lamb of God.” Being in church, I couldn’t curse. I could only swallow my pride and play as if every song was “Ave Maria.”
            Up in heaven, God was laughing hysterically.
           

Speed-walking in Newport: It’s finishing the race that counts

Every time I turn on the TV these days, I see people running on a track. Skinny people in tight, bright-colored outfits competing in the Olympics. They run fast, determination in their eyes, streaking toward the finish line and a medal that will make them rich and famous. The camera focuses on the runners in the front, the ones who will take home a gold, silver or bronze medal . It does not show us the people in the back, the losers, unless they fall or have prosthetic legs like that amazing guy from South Africa. Yet the people who fall behind and finish the race unheralded also trained hard, also took the hopes of their country to London, also hoped to win a gold medal.

Well, in the Newport Walking Club, I’m that person in the back of the pack, walking hard with no hope of catching up with the folks in the front. At least that’s how it was on my first walk. I showed up with my backpack laden with my camera, water, phone, cash, insurance cards, and info about my new book just in case somebody wanted to talk about it when we stopped to chat.
Uh no. This was not that kind of walk. This was serious exercise. The group started fast and never slowed down. We walked this amazing trail I didn’t know existed. It runs from the east side of the Agate Beach parking lot through the woods to the Big Creek reservoir. The tree-shaded trail is partly paved and includes numerous wooden bridges over wetlands full of ferns and enormous skunk cabbages. Signs along the way describe the vegetation. After walking about a mile and a half, we emerged on a street that led south to Big Creek Park and the Newport swimming pool and east to the reservoir. We walked along the road beside reservoir. It went on forever. And then we turned around and walked back.
  
Meanwhile, I kept trying to take pictures and read the little signs. Every time I looked up, the group was ahead of me. No gold medals for me. I came in last, but hey, I made it back to the parking lot before everybody left. Afterward, I thought we should adjourn to a bar for margaritas, but no. I guess that would negate the fitness aspects of the walk.
Annie and I went back to that path a couple weeks later. She enjoyed a soak in the creek, and I marveled as an eagle flew right over our heads. We both paused often, Annie to sniff, and me to look around at this path I would never have discovered without the walking group. Next time, I’ll leave the backpack at home and see if I can make it to the middle of the group. Gotta represent South Beach.
The Newport Walking Club does several walks a week, including noon expeditions in town and longer walks at 5:15 p.m. on Mondays and Thursdays. Recent trips have included walks at Yaquina Head and from Nye Beach to the jetty. This week’s walks include a trip to Idaho Point. Visit http://www.meetup.com to sign up and see the schedule.