Month: October 2013

Torn between Oregon and California

The thing with living distant from your family, whether it be in another state or another country, is that, if you have a loving relationship, you will always be traveling back and forth. Thanksgiving, Christmas, weddings and funerals all draw me south, back to California. in the last 17 years, I have made at least 40 trips.

The airport is so far it’s not worth the trouble to fly, and it’s not an easy drive. Hot in summer, snow, rain and wind in winter, traffic year-round in the Bay Area. Last Thanksgiving, I drove through intense rain and wind that left trees, signs and roofs scattered all over western Oregon while I struggled to keep my car on the road. When I thought the hard part was over, I ran over a bicycle in the middle of the 680 freeway, shredding my tire. When I arrived at Dad’s house, I declared “never again.”

Not only was the drive horrendous, but I was missing work, had to leave Annie at the kennel and generally turned my life upside down. But as long as I live in Oregon, and my family lives in California, I will do it again and again. I love my family, and most of them are not free to come to Oregon.

When my mother was dying, I wore out the I-5 freeway driving back and forth. Now my father is ill. I always knew that someday I’d need to rush down to help Dad. That time has come. I’m into my third week in the house where I grew up. I’m cooking, cleaning, washing clothes, taking out the garbage, buying the groceries and driving Dad back and forth to Kaiser hospital. He’s 91 and facing open heart surgery. We talk for hours and he keeps showing me things I’ll need to know if the worst happens. He keeps saying things like “when I conk out . . .” But we have spent magical hours going over old photos and sharing memories. We have laughed together. This time is a gift in many ways.

It’s not all fun. I miss my work, my dog, my WiFi, but none of that really matters right now. My father may die soon. Every time he falls asleep in front of the TV, I check to make sure he’s still breathing. He was sick in bed all day yesterday while I tiptoed around and prayed a lot. He’s a strong man, but nobody lives forever.

Meanwhile, I’m loving the California sunshine and easy access to the rest of the family. Between crises, I’m sleeping soundly in my old bedroom. This house is warm and cozy, not dependent on woodstoves to heat it. As I sit in my mother’s chair by the living room window writing in the glow of a pink and blue sunrise while my father sleeps, for the first time in years I don’t feel divided between two states. But I can’t stay here. I live in Oregon now.

I don’t know what the next few weeks will bring. We hope for a successful surgery and strong recovery that will allow Dad to live on his own again. Whether or not that happens, when my father doesn’t need me anymore, Oregon waits for me like a patient lover who will never give up on me, even though I leave it again and again.

Listening to the Master Storyteller


My father is a talker. I mean, good luck getting a word in edgewise, and don’t expect a phone call to last less than an hour. Some people find it tiresome. Hang around a while, and you’re bound to hear some reruns, told with exactly the same words. Being an active listener can wear a person out. Yes, no, wow, uh-huh, really. But Dad tells good stories. At 91, he has a lot of them.
I suspect he is part of the reason I became a writer and why I write the kinds of things I do. Dad is not a writer. He grew up working on a prune ranch, worked on airplanes in World War II and ultimately became an electrician. Until he retired, he didn’t read much. But he knows how to make a story. His stories have characters, dialogue, suspense, all the good stuff we writers strive for. Like me, he’s curious, and he’s nosy. I may have unconsciously learned to shape stories listening to him all these years. I added lots of formal education, but the basics came from Dad.
Back home on an extended visit, I have been taking notes on Dad’s stories, just as I used to do with my grandfather, another great storyteller. Dad’s stories reach back to 1922 and include his grandfather’s work driving a horse-drawn road-watering truck on San Jose’s dirt roads and later running a service station even though he knew very little about cars; his own youth on the ranch on Dry Creek Road; his experiences in Australia, the Philippines and New Guinea during the war; epic fishing and camping trips; travels across the country, tales about various family members, and his most recent trip to the bank.
Yesterday he brought out stacks of unorganized photos for me to see. We sat together on the fold-out couch in the sunny middle bedroom-turned den and went through them one by one. It was a slow process because every picture had a story. It knew as it happened that this was a blessing for both of us. Nobody else takes the time to look and listen, he says, but I find it fascinating. This is my history. I want as much as I can get. You can’t learn this kind of stuff on the Internet, and Dad, the last of the older generation, won’t be around forever.
The stories continued at dinner. I took notes on my paper napkin. I thank God for this time, even though it has thrown my work all off schedule. I haven’t blogged in over a week. I haven’t even gotten online much (no WiFi), but does it matter?
I’ll bet your family has stories, too, especially the older ones. Ask them questions. Ask to see the old photos—remember film and pictures you could hold in your hand?—and ask for the stories behind them. It could be a beautiful experience for both of you.

Restored room becomes no-clutter zone


The installers from Carpet One must have thought I was crazy when I kept thanking them, tears in my eyes. It was a just a job to them, but in four hours, these burly guys removed all the furniture left in my den, took out the old nail strips and put in new ones, laid down padding and installed the new carpet. After which they vacuumed it and put my furniture back. My dog, banished through the whole process, was ticked off, but I couldn’t believe how beautiful the new carpet looked, much prettier than the dirty old Berber and of course better than the stained concrete I’d been living with since August.

Now, with furniture in place and books in the new shelves, I still can’t believe how pretty it looks. The rest of the house? Blech. I want to disown the other rooms, which don’t measure up at all. But maybe I can work the same magic there–without the flood.
The carpet came on a rainy Wednesday. I spent the next few days moving stuff back in, analyzing each thing to decide whether I really wanted it. I don’t know when I have ever felt so tired. But yes, I am getting rid of things. Two big boxes of books to follow the two I already gave to the church bazaar. Another box of clothing. Two boxes of knick-knacks. Does anybody want an old-fashioned chiming clock that ticks but doesn’t keep accurate time? I am determined not to put anything extra in that room. It used to be an obstacle course. Walk around the TV, the keyboard, the chair, the pile of magazines, the box of videos that I never figured out to do with . . . No more. I have room to do my yoga in there now, and the carpet is clean. Controlling my clutter is like trying to hold the ocean back, but I’m going to do my best to keep it that way.
Thank you for putting up with this endless saga. I promise to move on to other topics next week.