Category: life on the Oregon Coast

So this is the last day of 2018. I’m okay with that. 2018 has been a beast, but I’m full of hope for 2019.

As the year ends, my email inbox is loaded with pleas for money from charities and literary organizations. Last chance! Match these funds! Help us meet our goal! We can’t survive without you! I know that most literary magazines and writers’ organizations survive on volunteers and pin money, but I can’t give to everybody. They all make me feel guilty and uncaring. If the literary magazine goes under, it’s my fault. If the podcast goes silent, it’s on me. Know what I mean?

By the time I finish writing this page, I will have received five more emails asking for money. They all imply that if they don’t get it by midnight, something dreadful will happen. No. We’ll all be just as poor in the morning.

I get requests for money in the mail, too. This morning I threw away a plea from the local hospital and from the National Parks Conservation Association. I want the hospital to thrive. I love our national parks (And I hate that they are suffering under the current ridiculous government shutdown). I have tossed out pleas from the blind and the paralyzed, from veterans and Native Americans. Some of these agencies send me “gifts:” calendars, return address labels, greeting cards, tote bags, and more. Then they send me bills, asking whether I have gotten around to paying for those “gifts” yet. I don’t want them, I didn’t ask for them, and I don’t have to pay for them, but oh the guilt.

A year or so ago, I resolved to stop trying to give to everyone and focus my charitable giving on my church, feeding the hungry, and Alzheimer’s Disease, the cruel malady that took my husband. Once in a while, if I know the people involved and they really need help, I will contribute to a GoFundMe campaign. But I have to be stingy there, too. I might chip in for cancer treatment, but I’m not going to fund someone’s new house or trip to Europe.

Have you noticed the new Facebook practice of linking people’s birthdays to charity giving? It’s no longer enough to offer a loving “Happy birthday!” Now I have to give to their charity, too? Stop! Let me love you without getting out my credit card.

I sound like such a Grinch. But I’m not a mean person. I just feel that spreading my limited funds in a million directions doesn’t really help anyone.

Besides, there are lots of needs that don’t involve money. My aunt put it well the other night when we were talking about my dad. At 96, living alone, chained to a walker and unable to drive, he needs lots of help these days. Paid caregivers do things like cook meals, clean the house, and take him to the grocery store, the bank, or the pharmacy. But what he needs most of all, she said, is company. He needs someone to sit and listen to his stories, to make him feel not alone. That’s all. Just spend time with him.

Honestly, I need that too sometimes. The world is full of lonely people who just need someone to make them feel less alone, to show that someone cares. I will continue to delete and shred most of the pleas for money that come my way, but I want to reach out more, especially to those who are alone.

I have been working on writing something about people like me who are going through life as a party of one. But you don’t have to be a writer to notice the old man eating at the Pig n Pancake by himself, the woman with just a few items in her shopping cart at Fred Meyer, or the person who sits in church alone every week. If nothing else, smile, offer a hand, strike up a conversation. That’s worth more than all the free calendars in the world.

I hope and pray our new year is full of good things. After a couple weeks of storms, the sun is shining in South Beach this morning. I’m hopeful.

MY GIFT TO YOU: Email me at suelick.bluehydrangea@gmail.com by Jan. 31 and mention that you read this blog post, and I will send you a free paperback copy of Shoes Full of Sand or Unleashed in Oregon. Free. See my book page for details on the books.

Happy New Year to one and all.

So I’m lolling in the pink bathtub browsing through the antique store in my brain when I hit upon the fact that it’s Dec. 17. Oh! I say, my eyes popping wide open. Oh.

It’s the 35th anniversary of my first date with Fred Lick, who changed my life. We met at a Christmas party at my brother’s house. I was divorced, my latest relationship come to a disastrous ending. I had quit my newspaper job to sing with this country music show that was supposed to travel the country and make us all rich, but we only got as far as Redding, California before it went bankrupt. I was doing temporary secretary work, singing a few gigs with an accordion-playing friend, and living with my parents again. Everyone else seemed to be coupled and happily employed, and I felt like a 31 ½ year old loser sitting by the Christmas tree with my parents.

I went to the kitchen to get a drink. There was Fred, sipping wine by the refrigerator. He had been my brother’s boss in the San Jose Recreation Department—back before Mike became a hotshot lawyer and judge—and now they were friends. I had met him once before, but he was with his wife then and seemed so very married. Now, his marriage of 25 years had fallen apart. We started talking. It felt easy and right. He asked if he could call me. Suddenly everything looked bright and shiny.

On our date, Fred took me to Mirassou Winery to pick up wine he had ordered for Christmas—who buys that much wine, I thought—to dinner at a Chinese restaurant, and then to a video store to pick up a couple VHS tapes to watch at his cozy rented house in Willow Glen. One thing led to another and . . . we didn’t see the end of the second movie. Gasp. Should I tell you that?

That was the beginning. We knew right away that this was it.We were married in May 1985 in the amphitheater at Evergreen Community College by a Methodist minister. Yes, Catholic friends, it wasn’t in a church, but I know God was there. I’m sure God brought us together. The men wore Mexican wedding shirts, I wore an embroidered dress imported from Mexico and a garland of baby’s breath flowers in my curly hair. The music for the wedding came from a mix tape we made of our favorite songs. We held the reception in the backyard of the house we were renting on Ardis Avenue, using tables and chairs borrowed from the recreation department. Our friend Pat Silva cooked a Portuguese feast. Our favorite piano bar player Scotty Wright played my piano in the patio. It was wonderful.

Fred was the best. As most readers know, he died of complications from Alzheimer’s Disease in 2011 after nine years of that rotten condition. To the end, he loved me probably more than I deserved. And he gave me so much. I miss him all the time, especially during the holidays. But I am grateful.

Now, in my pink bathtub, I think about all he gave me, including this oversized house and enough money to keep living here, where I can loll in my pink bathtub with the big dog just outside the door and my office in the next room. But it’s not just tangible things. He gave me a love like I had never felt, and he taught me to love life. Life is good. People are good, he always said.

Where would I be without him? Still living in the one-bedroom apartment two blocks from my parents that I rented shortly after I met him, the one where ants kept invading and my elderly neighbor Vicki Schultz covered my counters with bay leaves? Or maybe I’d be far from there, having had to follow the newspaper jobs wherever I could find one. And what would I have done when the newspaper business started laying people off by the hundreds? I fell victim to several layoffs over the years, including the one at the Hayward Daily Review shortly after Fred and I were married. But thanks to Fred, I didn’t need a full-time job anymore. I could work part-time and write the books I’d dreamed of writing. And sing. Fred was always my biggest fan, happy to be my roadie and attend every performance.

Shoot, without Fred, I couldn’t even afford a microwave. I was lucky to have a car that worked some of the time. Ooh, flash back to that horrible temp job in Sunnyvale where my dad came to tow my dead, dented, primered VW bug with me in it behind his truck down Lawrence Expressway—oh my God. Fred, thank you for saving me.

I would not be in this house on the Oregon coast, where I can hear the storm-tossed ocean churning nearby. I probably would have stayed in California. I could have wound up in Paradise, the town that just burned in the massive Camp Fire. I interviewed for a job at the paper there ages ago. One of those destroyed homes could have been mine.

By the time I met Fred, I was sure I’d be alone forever, but I might have married someone else. I might have had children and grandchildren instead of just dogs. But surely we couldn’t love each other as much as Fred and I did. I have never met anyone as kind and smart and funny as he was. He wasn’t perfect, but that’s okay. We traveled, we sang, we laughed, we made love, we held each other when we cried. We were blessed.

Yes, we had a good first date. We used to celebrate two anniversaries, Dec. 17 and May 18. And now Dec. 17th has come again. It’s too early in the day for wine, so I’ll drink an orange juice toast and wish Fred a merry Christmas in heaven.

Now let’s buckle up. They say the storm coming later today is going to be a whopper.

***

Hey, you know what’s good to do during a storm? Read! If you want to read more about Fred and me, check out my books, particularly Shoes Full of Sand and Unleashed in Oregon. 

As I write this, I have been sitting with Annie up against my thigh for so long that my legs have gone numb, but I have no intention of moving. We are symbiotic creatures, attached to each other. I pause with my pen above the page. She’s having a dream. Her lips quivering, she bares her teeth and paddles her feet as if she’s running. I pet her long, tan flank. “It’s okay,” I whisper. After a minute, she opens her eyes, sees my reassuring face, sighs, and goes back to sleep. I go back to writing.

If Annie were a 10-year-old human, I guarantee she would not be snuggling with me here on the love seat. She would be squirming to get free, complaining that she’s bored, or asking for food. She might very well tell me that I look awful with no makeup and should not still be in my fuzzy bathrobe at 10 o’clock in the morning. Dogs just don’t do that.

Here are a few other reasons raising dogs is easier than raising children.

• They love you unconditionally, even if you’re an idiot.

• Dogs never get too old for snuggling.

• You’re never too old to have a dog.

• If you accidentally step on their toes or eat a whole piece of chicken without sharing, they forget about it in a minute. Dogs do not hold grudges.

• Dogs never say, “I hate you.”

• When you need some “me time,” you can shove them out the back door and they entertain themselves.

• It’s perfectly fine to put a dog on a leash.

• Dogs never need school clothes or new shoes.

• Dogs don’t expect presents for Christmas or their birthdays. In fact, they don’t understand why we make such a fuss over certain days when ordinary days are the best.

• Dogs won’t spend your money. They might eat it, but they won’t spend it, and they definitely won’t use your credit cards.

• Dogs are much less fussy about their food. They’ll eat poop if you let them.

• Dogs are always up for a race or a game of fetch.

• Dogs never complain about your driving; they’re just happy to be in the car.

• Anyone who has taken a child to the doctor, can testify that it’s a lot more fun to visit the vet’s office, where you can get an appointment right away, the waiting room is full of dogs, and there’s a cookie jar on the counter.

• Dogs don’t enjoy wearing Christmas ribbons or reindeer antlers, but they will if it makes you happy.

• While it’s a pain to take little kids out to eat, most restaurants won’t even let your pooch in the door. They don’t get it. When a toddler finishes eating, there’s food all over the floor. When a dog finishes, the floor is spotless, and the plates are so shiny you don’t even need to wash them. 🙂

So that’s my offering for today. Please share your own suggestions for why dogs are superior. And parents, don’t get in a snit. I love children and wish I had some, but I love being a dog mom.

Also, get yourself a copy of Pick of the Litter’s 2019 calendar. It’s full of wonderful pet pictures, much better than the usual dog and cat calendars. My Annie is the gorgeous tan dog in one of the small photos on the August page. Visit one of the local stores listed or order online by scrolling to the bottom of the page. It’s only $10. All the money raised supports the Lincoln County Animal Shelter.

Christmas is in two weeks. Ack! Happy holidays to one and all.

On my way home from my Thanksgiving trip to California last week, I was paying my bill for lunch at the Black Bear Diner in Willows when I heard the woman behind me tell someone she was heading back to Paradise, the town that had just suffered the worst wildfire in California history.

I had to ask. “How did you make out?”

“Oh, we lost everything,” she said.

What do you say to that? “I’m so sorry?” Do you just reach into your wallet and give them all of your cash? Do you buy them a stuffed bear from the gift shop for comfort? I think I just shook my head and said, “Oh wow.”

The woman and her husband looked like any other couple having lunch. Who would guess that whatever they had in their car was all they had left? No one. But there they were, heading home to a pile of ashes.

They just have each other, along with the friends and family who survived, standing here on planet Earth asking, “Now what?”

The Camp Fire, as it was called, killed 88 people, destroyed nearly 19,000 buildings, most of them homes, and burned 153,336 acres.

I drove 1-5 to the Bay Area. The Camp Fire, still burning, was farther west, but its smoke spread throughout the state and was thick near that restaurant in Willows. I didn’t see the damage from that fire, but I did see some of the damage from the fires that happened earlier this year near Mt. Shasta and Redding. Like the Camp Fire, they burned thousands of acres. I passed miles of blackened ground and forests of burnt trees, their trunks black, their leaves and needles an odd shade of orange. It was frightening to see.

Fires have raged throughout California and done quite a number on its neighboring states, including Oregon. Look at this list of fires just this year, just from California.

At the same time the Camp Fire raged in Northern California, the Woolsey Fire tore through Southern California. Thank God the rain finally started, but the trouble is not over. A major blessing for the firefighters trying to contain the massive blazes, the storms also made recovery more difficult. Now, with nothing to hold the ground in place, people worry about flooding and mudslides.

I heard on 60 Minutes that the Camp Fire was growing at the rate of an acre a second. How do you prepare your home and possessions for that? You can’t. Some of the people who died were in their cars trying to get away. And some of them couldn’t stop to collect their pets. They just opened the doors and let them go.

For the most part, the newscasters have already moved on, but the damage remains. People who lived in Paradise are still seeking shelter, still waiting for FEMA (Federal Emergency Management Agency) to bring trailers, still wondering how to remake their lives, which have been changed forever. They are mourning lost friends and family, lost pets and livestock, and a whole way of life. At this point, many don’t even have a mailing address.

As I drove home, I found myself looking at every house, every barn, every business that didn’t burn up, and feeling grateful. Eucalyptus trees, olive trees, pine trees. Mt. Shasta still standing. Klamath River still there. I returned to my dog and my home just as I left them. God, I’m so lucky.

My friends, while we make ourselves crazy buying gifts and doing all the things we tell ourselves are necessary this holiday season, let’s stop and think about how it might all disappear in a heartbeat.

Right now the sun has turned the tops of my trees golden against a blue sky. It looks safe, especially with all the moisture around here, but fire officials warn that fire could roar through here, too. Or we could have that tsunami we keep hearing about. Anything can happen at any time. Have you seen the pictures from the Alaska earthquake?

At Thanksgiving a year ago, my brother drove my dad and me around the areas that burned very close to his home near Yosemite. The fire came right to the gate of his housing development. When his family returned after evacuating for a week, his house was unscathed except for the smoke and the food that rotted in the refrigerator, but they have not forgotten the fear. This Thanksgiving, Mike showed me around his property. He has cut all the weeds to the ground and has been working his way through the trees, cutting away the low-hanging branches most likely to catch fire. He also showed where his creek flooded last winter, remaking the landscape. The rushing water left burnt logs from the fire on his land. He is trying to be ready when another fire comes.

The fire victims still need help. You can donate to the California Community Foundation Wildfire Relief Fund or the American Red Cross.

When you’re feeling overwhelmed with everything there is to do, stop and look around. In the end, your only job is to stay alive, count your blessings, and be good to each other. The rest doesn’t matter that much.

Last night I realized I have been writing and submitting my work for publication for 50 years. At least. I wrote my first poem when I was seven. By eighth grade I was writing a novel. (It was about a little girl named Emily whose house burns down, killing both her parents. She hits the road by herself and embarks on a series of adventures.) My first non-school publication was a short poem I sold to a magazine when I was a junior in high school. There was never any question I was going to be a writer.

My Grandma Rachel, who wrote poetry herself, gave me my first copies of Writer’s Digest. I followed the instructions given there for submitting my work to magazines and newspapers. I got plenty of rejections in the mail on little slips of colored paper, but I also won some prizes and got some things published. I still have copies of those early publications.

I would have stuck with poetry and fiction, but a girl needs to earn a living, so I majored in journalism and went to work for a series of newspapers in the Bay Area, starting with the Milpitas Post in 1973. Name a South Bay newspaper, and I probably wrote for it, either as a staff writer or freelancer. Most of those papers have now either folded or merged into one big company owned by Bay Area News Group, but I had a good time back then. Before and after work, I was still doing my own writing and sending stuff out because I was a writer.

After Fred and I moved to Oregon and I wore out all the Oregon Coast papers, I went back to school, earning my master of fine arts degree in creative nonfiction through Antioch University Los Angeles’ low-residency program. Today I’m still writing, seeking markets, and sending stuff out. My God, the reams of paper I have sullied.

I have no idea how many articles I have published. Lots. Plus eight books and numerous poems, essays, and stories. (See my book page. Buy one or two.)

A lot has changed. Instead of rejection slips that come in the mail, we get emails offering the same message: “Sorry, we can’t use this. Good luck with your writing.” Some publications exist only online, living in cyberspace only as long as we have electricity, WiFi and compatible formats. I like the way people all over the world can read them immediately, but I still treasure the smell of paper and ink, the heft of a book in my hand, and a page that has my name and my words on it.

One thing that hasn’t changed is the pay. Literary magazines pay mostly in copies of the magazine. Some pay a few dollars, but not much more than they paid 50 years ago. Journalism paid better until the Internet ate the newspaper business. If you need lots of money, become a plumber.

In the end, none of that matters. It’s the writing, capturing the moments and the ideas that would otherwise slip away, writing things that make readers stay up all night to find out what happens or that make them nod their heads and say, “Yeah.”

I’m still submitting my work. My odds have improved, although I still get rejections. I belong to a Facebook group of poets trying to get 100 rejections in a year. As of this moment, I’m up to 71. But it’s not all rejections. You can see some of my recent publications on my website, and I’ve got a couple other things coming out soon. It’s a gamble. I tell people I don’t need to go to casinos or play the lottery; I’m a writer.

Fifty years. Wow. I thought of this while reading an interview with the new editor of The Paris Review. She wasn’t even born 50 years ago, but I remember sending my baby poems to The Paris Review way back in the early days. Rejected, of course.

Rejected or not, I’m still scribbling. I was always going to be a writer—except for that one year in high school when I decided to become a home economist because writing was too hard. But then I published that poem . . .

Thank you for reading what I write. Forgive my absence last week. I was back in San Jose visiting my dad, but was writing in my notebook the whole time. The ideas kept coming.

Here’s what it’s like to be a writer: I was on my way to the hot tub last night when I saw that article in Poets and Writers about The Paris Review and got this idea. I grabbed my journal. Four pages and 45 minutes later, I was still on the floor by the pellet stove wearing nothing but a terrycloth robe, writing as fast as I could.

Sometimes people ask me if I’m still writing. Silly question. Fifty years, and I’m just getting started.