life on the Oregon Coast – Page 17

This old lady watched the Super Bowl

I watched the Super Bowl yesterday. Yeah, so? Didn’t everybody? No.

I don’t usually spend my Sundays watching football. I’m busy playing music, doing chores, walking the dog, napping or . . . well, anything. I don’t do football. I have never been to a professional football game. Gasp. But in recent years, I watch the Super Bowl.

I watch for the commercials, the halftime show, and yes, the game. Now. Thanks to my late husband Fred.

I didn’t grow up watching football. My father didn’t show any interest at all. My mother listened to Giants baseball on the radio, but on Sundays after church, we didn’t settle in front of the TV to watch a bunch of big men chase a little ball. We did yard work, we visited relatives, or we “went for a ride” to the beach, mountains, or a lake. We did not sit in front of the TV.

My first husband wasn’t into team sports either. He preferred hunting, fishing, or hiking. Plus, in our poverty-stricken life, we couldn’t afford a TV.

But Fred was different. He was, how shall I put this, a fanatic. He had played in high school and junior college, and he grew up watching the games live or on TV with his mom, dad and brothers. Throughout our marriage, he watched college games on Saturday, pros on Sunday, and Monday night football. Born in Los Angeles, he rooted for Southern California teams, especially the University of Southern California Trojans and the Rams, sticking with the latter even after they moved to St. Louis. The Raiders got some attention, too. But if they weren’t on, he would watch any team play anywhere.

A few weeks after our first date, back in 1984, Fred took me to a Super Bowl party. I didn’t know our hosts. I didn’t understand the game. Longest four hours of my life. But if you’re a football wife, you learn to appreciate the game. You start watching the schedule to know when he’ll be glued to the TV. You start figuring out the rules so you can follow what the commentators are babbling about. You understand that you can either join him or amuse yourself. It doesn’t matter as long as you don’t talk or block the TV screen.

Normally a quiet man, Fred would get loud watching football. I would hear him shouting, “Go, go, go!” or “No! Damn it! You idiots!” He’d pound the arms of his easy chair in frustration and pout if his teams lost.

The TV sits pretty quiet on Sundays now, but not yesterday. I watched the New England-Philadelphia Super Bowl game from before the kickoff to the awarding of the Vince Lombardi Trophy. I ate my dinner—salad, pasta and turkey meatballs–on a card table in the den. I was in such a hurry to cook the pasta that I opened the bag too fast and spilled “wagon wheels” all over the floor. For Annie, it was like a piñata bursting. Crunchy treats everywhere. Not good for her, I know, but she beat me to them and the commercials were almost over.

I didn’t just watch the game. There’s a lot of time between plays. A football minute lasts forever. They can even stop the clock for a timeout. If only we could do that in real life. I washed, dried and folded three loads of laundry, updated the chemicals in the hot tub, and sorted through a stack of old sheet music, playing a lot of it on my guitar. But I wore Fred’s old blue Ram’s shirt and found myself shouting, “Go! Go! Go!” and “No! I don’t believe it!” I even pounded the table a little.

I rooted for New England. I didn’t really care, but my friend Pat and my grandfather both came from Massachusetts, so why not? By halftime, I did care. They almost won, didn’t they?

The Super Bowl is more suspenseful than the Hallmark movie I could have watched on the Lifetime channel. Plus I was part of the collective consciousness, watching the same thing people were watching all over the country. When the Eagles sacked Tom Brady and grabbed the football, if you listened real hard, you could heard cheers and gasps all across the United States. I like being part of that.

There was no Super Bowl until I was 13 years old. What did the NFL do at the end of the season before that? I have no idea. Perhaps you readers could enlighten me.

Maybe someday I’ll even join or host a Super Bowl party. I’ll put on the regalia, eat the nachos and drink the beer. Or not. But yes, I watched the Super Bowl. Fred would be proud.

How did your Super Bowl Sunday go? Did you go all football crazy or ignore the whole thing?

When you’re all alone, take a ‘selfie’!

Sue selfie Jan 2018 Let’s talk about photographs. Of ourselves.

I recently got my picture taken for the church directory. This ponytailed kid young enough to be my grandson put me through all the poses he’d been instructed to use for women: sit, stand, tilt your head, smile. Afterward, he took me into the other room for the big sales pitch. These guys don’t make their money on church directories. They make their money selling photo packages for the folks to give to their friends and families. The sample photos all showed happy couples and moms and dads with their kids, no singles like me.

I wasn’t planning to buy any fancy framed photos. Four years ago, I bought a CD containing all the shots and used them as author publicity photos. I thought I might do that again if the pictures were good. Just in case, I got my hair cut and put on eyeliner and my mother’s blue scarf. But I hated this year’s pictures. My smile was fake, and I never realized I had so many wrinkles.

The photographer insisted on flipping through the options anyway. I felt like I was at the eye doctor: which do you like better, 1 or 2, 3 or 4? None. I picked the least obnoxious shot for the directory.

“Don’t you want to give copies to your children and grandchildren?” he asked.

“I don’t have any,” I said.

“Oh!” Apparently it never occurred to him that someone my age might not have anyone who was interested in putting her picture on display. It’s one of those things people who are not alone don’t think about.

I don’t get my photo taken very often. Not a single picture of me was taken at Thanksgiving or Christmas. I received Christmas cards full of photos of kids, dogs, and retired couples on cruises, the same stuff I see on Facebook. But I had no pictures to send.

I’d be invisible but for selfies, pictures I take of myself, and I’m terrible at them. If I manage to get my whole face in the picture, it shows my frustration or it’s at such a weird angle that I delete it right away. Once in a while when I’m dressed up and feeling attractive, I’ll try again. Sometimes I succeed. My new Facebook profile photo is the latest effort. Was my nose always so big? Don’t answer that.

I prefer to pretend I’m gorgeous and 25 years old. A little self-delusion is healthy.

Sitting on my desk waiting to be scanned are two of my parents’ photo albums from the early days of their marriage. I love going through them, seeing how young and attractive they were, studying pictures of my brother and myself as we grew up. Mom and Dad documented everything with their old-fashioned box cameras, shooting eight or twelve pictures to a roll in black and white, saving the prints in their albums. Most of the pictures look as good now as they did 60 years ago. I don’t know what will happen with today’s digital photos stored in our computers.

But I’m straying off course. As a widow with no kids, I have no one to be photographed by or to take pictures of. Nor do I have someone to inherit the photos when I die. My selfies are a temporary fix.

What is the purpose of “selfies” anyway? Although some of my Facebook friends seem to post new selfies every day (Ego? A need for FB friends to compliment them?), it seems like most people use them to shoot pictures of themselves with someone else. It’s like those old-time photo booths you can still find at theme parks, where two people squeeze in and make goofy faces at the camera. Now, one person holds up the cell phone, they get close together and make goofy faces.

If my parents had had “selfies,” maybe there wouldn’t be so many pictures of my mother standing alone in front of a monument or a tree or a museum. She and Dad would both be standing in front of the monument or tree or museum.

Cell phone selfies, a 21st century phenomenon, are not the first instance of people photographing themselves. Ever since we had cameras, people have been devising ways to run around in front and get themselves in the picture. I tried putting the camera on a tripod, setting the timer and dashing around to pose. The pictures were always awful. There’s also the mirror method, in which you point your camera at your reflection in a mirror, but they always show a camera in your face and your features come out backward. Only recently have we had cameras designed to turn the lens on ourselves. The cameras are embedded in our cell phones, tablets and laptop computers.

“Selfie” is a relatively new word. The rumor is it came from an Australian guy who bashed his lip and took a picture of it to post online. He called it a “selfie.” The word was added to the Oxford English Dictionary in 2013. I keep thinking that grammatically, it should be spelled selfy. How do you conjugate that thing? To selfie? selfying, selfied, had selfied?

I hate staring at myself while taking a selfie. I look ugly. Why does my mouth move so weird? Why don’t the sides of my hair ever match? The old way of getting your picture taken and not seeing the results for at least a week had some definite advantages.

I need to work on my selfie technique. I found some good advice online: Avoid shadows, use natural light, hold the camera at your eye level, don’t over-pose, and feel free to edit the picture—but not too much. Chin down, tilt head slightly just like that church photographer told me to do. Actually just like every photographer my whole life has told me to do. Here’s another new word: Smize. It’s when you smile with your eyes while keeping your lips and teeth neutral. It’s supposed to be sexy. When I try it, I see a bad case of RBF, resting bitch face.

My selfie technique needs work, but if I want a picture of myself, rather than going to the young punks who want to charge me hundreds of dollars for the privilege, I’ll hold up my cell phone, strike a pose and do it myself-ie.

I found a YouTube video on how to take a perfect selfie. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vbqIQcKNE7E Well sure, with her face . . .

Here are some other links about the selfie phenomenon:

“How to take a good selfie: 12 selfie tips to consider”

“History of the Selfie: a Photo Phenomenon”

“Art at Arm’s Length: A History of the Selfie”

Do you take selfies? Alone or with others? When? Why? How do they turn out? Do you have any advice or special techniques to share? Feel free to share your own selfies, the good ones or the embarrassing ones.

Psst! Wanna read a novel that’s not out yet?

I’m doing something that really scares me. I’m inviting people to be “beta readers” for my unpublished novel, Up Beaver Creek.

The experts say that’s the thing to do before you independently publish. So I’m sending out copies and asking people for their honest answers to questions about the book, things like: Do you like the title? Can you identify with the main character? Do you get confused or bored? Have I got the setting right? Do the events that happen sound real? This story takes place on the Oregon coast, and I live in fear that my fellow Oregonians will tell me I’ve got it all wrong.

The thing is, I feel done with the book. I put it through the critique group wringer, rewrote it several times, pitched it all over hell and gone, and I’m more than ready to have it out in the world. With today’s technology and Amazon’s Createspace, I could make that a reality this week. But the experts say I need to get feedback and do a final rewrite first. What if I don’t want to know? Too bad.

Writing is a crazy business. If I were a plumber, I wouldn’t invite people to come look at my work and tell me whether or not they like how I did it. Unless the pipes burst or the sink overflowed, I’d pack up my tools, collect my money, and never look back.

Being a newspaper reporter was a little that way, too. You write it, turn it in, and move on. Once in a while, someone might object or you might get special praise for a particularly good story, but in general, I just moved on to the next assignment.

But in this book biz, your work is forever being analyzed, reviewed and criticized. You revise, revise, and revise again. Before you publish, you do your best to make sure it’s as close to perfect as possible. I’m not just talking about typos, although every single one is an embarrassment. No, I mean the whole story overall. Does it make sense? Will the reader finish thinking, “Huh?” “That was lame,” or “Wow, that was good”? We want the latter, of course.

Your family and friends will usually tell you it’s wonderful, even if it isn’t. Hence, the beta readers. The name comes from the high-tech world where programmers release a beta version of a new program to outside people who will test it. The alpha version could be compared to the first draft, which the programmers test in-house.

I could still use a few more readers. It’s a novel, a light-hearted one which should be fun to read. The questions are not difficult. Beta readers will receive a finished copy of the paperback and their names will be listed in the acknowledgements. If you’re interested, click on bit.ly/2qM9zJt for the enrollment form. To read an excerpt from the book, click on https://suelick.com/new-novel-up-beaver-creek.

This is a lot like letting people see me without makeup. Or maybe more like inviting strangers to comment on my face. No way! But a book is just words. They can be changed.

Thank you for being here. I welcome your comments.

Ding-Dong, the Pellet Stove is Dead

45f2e-dscn3711 Let’s talk about heat. I didn’t think too much about it growing up in San Jose. The old-time gas heater embedded in the floor between the living room and the hall poured out sufficient heat to keep us warm in our three-bedroom tract house. It was also a great place to spy on the grownups because we kids could look through the grill from the hall and see what was going on, especially on Mom’s canasta club nights. The only drawback was our marbles falling through the grate and into the depths when we were shooting them across the brown tweed carpet. Bang, rattle, rattle. Quick, get it out before Dad catches us.

No, we didn’t think much about heat. The outside temperature stayed above 70 degrees most of the time, and it rarely rained. The heater would come on with a gentle whuff, and all was well. Deep inside, the blue flame of the pilot light kept burning. Almost 70 years later, it still works. The fireplace, also a trap for errant marbles, was mainly for entertainment, not for warmth. It hasn’t been lit since the Loma Prieta earthquake in 1989.

In San Jose, we thought more about avoiding heat. The temperature crept into the 80s, 90s and 100s from late spring through fall, but ours was a low-tech house. Air conditioning? Open a window. Turn on a fan. (Don’t touch the fan, it will cut your hand off.) That old house with its minimal insulation soaked in the heat. Still does. When I walked in last summer to visit my father, it was so hot I wanted to walk right back out. The only place I could find any relief was on the front porch, and even that was relative. At night, I’d sleep uncovered and backwards, feet on the pillow, trying to get my head as close to the window as possible. My hair almost touching the dusty screen, I was still sweating.

But here on the Oregon coast, heat is an issue, not like in the places where houses and cars are buried in snow. I don’t know how folks in the Midwest and East Coast stand it. Our temperature is more chilly than cold, I guess, miserable, but not life-threatening. When I woke up this morning, it was 46 outside and 62 inside. No big deal, just turn on the heater, right? Ah, but in the forest where I live, heating is funky. Natural gas lines do not reach this far, and few houses have whole-house heating systems. Or cooling systems, as if we ever need that. We have baseboard heaters, cadet heaters, plug-in portable heaters, woodstoves, fireplaces, and pellet stoves. Most houses, including mine, have firewood stacked high and deep for the winter. Shops selling pellets have a hard time keeping them in stock.

With all of these heat sources, a body has to think about heat. Chop the wood, light the fire, fill the pellet stove, turn it on, clean it out, buy more pellets. Turn on the little heaters or not? Don’t forget to turn them off lest you burn the house down. We think about heat all the time. We turn on NPR in the morning, listen to the weather report and groan.

I’ve got five different thermometers in the house, one of them an indoor-outdoor one. I’m constantly checking. Is it warm enough inside? Should I turn something on or off? How cold is it outside? Do I need a coat and gloves or just a hoodie? Dare I sit out on the deck and read my book? Is it going to freeze? Should I cover my pipes? Will I be able to drive to church or the store if there’s ice on the road?

Heat. For years, I have been posting about and cursing about my pellet stove. Yesterday, a repairman declared the old Quadra-Fire dead. Unplugged forever. May it rest in peace, amen. How many hours have I stood in front of that thing reading, writing, thinking, playing my guitar, or gazing out the window, usually with my feet straddling the dog. I singed the back of my old bathrobe getting too close. If I could add up all the time I’ve spent feeding it and cleaning out ashes and half-burnt pellets, it would probably come out to a couple of weeks. If I added up all the time I have spent waiting for repairmen to fix it, it’s probably a year. But now that it’s done for, I’m sad. Forever hopeful, I had just bought 15 bags of pellets and given the stove a name: Charlie. I probably jinxed it.

When Kevin from Airrow Heating pulled it apart yesterday, he exposed the ruined heat exchange mechanism as well as an information panel that said the stove was installed in 1992, six years before Fred and I bought the house. Twenty-five years and change, a longer-than-average lifespan for a pellet stove.

I have ordered a new one, opting to stick with the devil I know rather than try a different system. It’s coming a week from Thursday. It’s going to cost far more than I can afford. I’m going to be doing some fancy financial footwork for a while. A miracle infusion of cash would be helpful.

Meanwhile, I’ve got a patchwork of little heaters that make it almost warm enough. My body is adapting. Right now I’m overly warm in my bathrobe, and my office thermometer says it’s 62 degrees in here. At a jam session Sunday night, I got so hot I had to strip down to my tee shirt.

Am I doing the right thing ordering another pellet stove? I don’t know. But I will never take heat for granted again.

The Houseplants That Wouldn’t Die

IMG_20180108_084024329[1] I’m not great with houseplants. They’re lucky if I remember to water them once a week. Feed, mist, dust, re-pot, pluck off the dead parts? Ha. I only pay attention when they’re either dead or threatening to become monsters like “Audrey II” in “Little Shop of Horrors.” And yet I have four plants (and their offspring) that over 36 years have outlived 11 moves and a whole marriage. These plants are tough.

Meet Gloria. She’s the Croton with the four arms spread so wide I don’t know where to put her anymore. She’s also the diva who droops her leaves when I have forgotten to water. As soon as I give her a drink, her leaves go back up, their yellow speckles shining. You see her cousins everywhere, but they’re not usually as leggy as my girl, which probably comes from ignoring her needs at a critical time. Cut her down to size? No way!

IMG_20180108_084127555[1] Meet Mikey, a Devil’s Ivy plant who just grows and grows and grows. He lives in my bathroom where it’s pleasantly damp. I know should trim or guide his wild growth, but he never complains. He doesn’t even mind that he’s on top of the toilet tank.

Then there’s Spider, the spider plant who lives these days atop my refrigerator. At times, her leaves and babies get caught in my freezer door, but she keeps going. Her baby, on the kitchen windowsill, is having babies now.

IMG_20180108_084101212[1] Finally, there’s Mother-in-Law, who has outgrown two pots and obviously needs a third. She’s just leaves with sharp points on the ends, but you’ve got to admire a plant that grows so profusely in such difficult conditions. She doesn’t even seem to mind that I have been calling her by the wrong name all these years, mistaking her for a plant I had back in the 1970s. She is a Cast-Iron Plant, Apidistra elatior. Turns out she doesn’t need all the sunlight I’ve been giving her all these years, but look at her grow.

IMG_20180108_084043731[1] All four of these plants came into my life around 1982, when I was working as a reporter for the Pacifica Tribune. I was divorced, living in an apartment two blocks from the office, which was good because my car, a VW Rabbit, was always in the shop. When I wasn’t working, I was singing, dating, or taking moody walks on the beach, so these plants didn’t get much TLC.

When I quit my job and gave up my apartment to sing with a traveling show, I housed them at the Tribune office. When the show went bust and I moved in with my parents until I could get another newspaper job, I brought them with me. When I moved in with Fred, who became my second husband, my plant children came along. And they’re still with me.

Not all of my plants do this well. I’m about to discard yet another dead African violet, and my philodendron isn’t looking too good. My amaryllis lacks both leaves and flowers at the moment. It will recover, or it won’t. You’ve got to be tough to survive here.

I didn’t grow up with houseplants. The only plants inside my parents’ house were either printed on the wallpaper or made of plastic. Dad has a profusion of geraniums in the yard and some roses that could use a little TLC, but even before he broke his leg, he was not into coddling his flowers (or his kids). Guess I’m a cutting off the same vine. But Gloria, Mikey, Spider, and Mother-in-Law don’t need coddling. They don’t like to be fussed over. At this rate, they might outlast me.

I invite your comments. Are you a houseplant guru? Are you dying to come over and rescue my plants? Have I got their names wrong? How many houseplants do you have? How old is your oldest one? Do you pamper your plants or do you neglect them like me? Or do you believe that greenery belongs outside? Care to share a picture of your favorite plant child?

Text and photos copyright 2018 Sue Fagalde Lick

Tiny notes of happiness bring smiles

Three years ago, I wrote things that made me happy on tiny slips of paper and put them into a jar. The object was to do it every day and then read them when the year was over. I’m a little late. That was 2015, and now it’s 2018. But these multicolored pieces of paper still make me happy. Three years ago, I was getting over a badly sprained ankle that I injured between Christmas and New Year’s. (read the blog posts about that here and here). My father had survived his heart surgery and had not yet broken his hip. Like now, I was playing and singing at Sacred Heart and plugging away at my writing career. Annie and I walked these coastal woods most days. Her muzzle wasn’t all white then. The tree had not fallen on my fence and house. And gosh, Medicare was way in the future.

I’m thinking I’ll write little happy notes for this year, too. I can start with this morning’s beautiful pink sunrise. Or maybe last night’s full moon. Or the moment after yesterday’s walk when Annie and I visited with our neighbor Pat and the dogs Harley and Cooper. Three big dogs to pet at once and a friend to talk to: Heaven. Even in the midst of horrible times, we can still find little things to be grateful for.

Here are some of the things that made me smile in 2015.

The ankle:

* First sun in winter. First soak in the hot tub since my injury.

* Buying my own groceries despite limping in with a crutch

* Walking to the end of the block

* New ankle brace arrived. Put shoe on, was able to walk almost like a normal person.

* A real dog walk on my sprained ankle, and it didn’t feel too bad.

* Walking on two good feet.

Food!

* Ham and eggs

* Tuna melt at Fishtails

* Turkey sandwich with cranberry sauce and iced tea

* Big salad with slices of linguica on top, Portuguese sweet bread on the side

* Marionberry pie with vanilla ice cream at The Chalet

* Fresh-baked peanut butter cookies

Writing

* Kind words from an editor who called my novel a feel-good book and my writing masterful

* Reading my poems to the kids and parents in Siletz, feeling like a rock star

* I won a writing contest!

* Reading poems I wrote 34 years ago and finding them good

* Sitting in the sun writing a poem

Music

* Creating a choir of strangers for the World Day of Prayer and making beautiful music from a few pages of words and notes

* Singing full out with mandolin, fiddles, and guitar all in perfect harmony at the South Beach jam

* Feeling the power of my fingers on the keys of a perfectly tuned piano

Miscellaneous

* Laughing with Dad on his 93rd birthday

* Stunning quiet of the coastal forest in soft spring sun. Moss-wrapped fir trees

* The first perfect pink camellia blooms appear on my neighbor’s bush

* Shiny new library books

* Nice repairman makes dryer hum

* Admiring the lawn I just mowed

* Reading and dozing in the loveseat by the fire with Annie sound asleep in my lap

* Spinning out on ice and surviving

* A great night’s sleep

* Doc says I’m healthy

Instead of a jar, this year I’m using a tall, sturdy box with sayings about dogs printed on it. A gift from a friend came in that box, which makes it all the more special.

Join me in saving those little moments. When life gets tough, we can reach in and remember that there are good things to celebrate every day. You’re welcome to share your “moments” here.

Happy New Year to everyone.

Sue

Every woman has a “me too” story

Christmas was swell. Thank you to everyone who helped make it bright and shiny this year. And now, as we ease into the new year, I have decided to add my bit to the raging sexual harassment conversation.

I have had a lot of bosses in my life—my first editor, Jan, who taught an innocent intern some choice swear words; Pat, who coached me through my divorce; Erle, who threw things at us when he was displeased; Bill, who worried about everything, and Tom, who worried about nothing. But I will never forget Chuck.

I was 23, newly married and newly graduated from journalism school. It was the age of long hair and short skirts. Chuck, probably in his 50s, published a trade newspaper for the appliance and electronics industries. I didn’t have great interest in those subjects, but I needed a job. I showed up in my best mini-dress, and he hired me immediately as his editor. I would be the only employee. In addition to writing articles, taking photos, proofing ads, and delivering copies of the paper to our advertisers, I would also be expected to attend evening events with him. I was so excited about the editor part I glossed over the rest.

Our first event was in San Francisco. I rode with Chuck in his Buick. I was supposed to take pictures and write a story. We walked into a cocktail party full of men in suits. Chuck slipped his arm around my waist and introduced me to his friends. Then he led me to the bar and asked what I wanted to drink. “Water,” I said. I was on a diabetic diet and not drinking at all. Besides, we were working. He narrowed his eyes, then sent me off to take a picture. I had trouble with the dim lighting and the unfamiliar camera with its huge flash attachment. As I struggled to get my shots and write peoples’ names on my steno pad, Chuck waltzed over, exchanged a laugh with his cronies about his new assistant and handed me a glass. I took a sip. Vodka. I set it back on the bar and walked away. He scowled at me.

Chuck hung close to me all evening, often touching, making it appear to his friends that I was his date, while I kept trying to do my job. The event was the kickoff for a new brand of recording tape. The topic was dull and incomprehensible to me, but I took notes, took pictures, and tried to form a story in my head. Chuck was trying to form a different kind of story.

He took me to a restaurant afterward. I sat in the bench seat opposite him. He got up and sat next to me, so close we were thigh to thigh. “I’m hard of hearing,” he said. I moved away; he moved closer. I have no idea what we ate. I don’t think I was hungry. I do know that I protested the vodka stunt and that he spent most of the meal lecturing me about how I needed a better attitude, that I would not get full pay until my attitude improved.

“I just want to keep this professional,” I said. “I’m married. I just want to do my job.”

I worked hard. Most days, Chuck wasn’t in the office. Instead he left cassette tapes on which he had dictated instructions and stories for me to type up. I could hear the clinking of his glass in the background. His speech would become increasingly slurred until I could barely understand him. I diligently did my editorial tasks and continued to insist I was not interested in a personal relationship. I loved my husband. Chuck was old, ugly, and a drunk. After that first time, I insisted on driving myself in my beat-up VW to interviews and events. Chuck did not like that.

I never did get full pay. After five months, Chuck walked in one day after lunch and fired me. Officially he had decided he needed a secretary more than an editor. But we both knew the real reason.

It was the ‘70s. I didn’t know how to file an abuse claim. He didn’t physically harm me. I moved on to a much better job.

Every woman who worked in those days had to put up with sleazy bosses and co-workers with sex on their minds. I have had men come on to me during interviews and while I was walking down the street. I’ve had men try to get me drunk and try to get me naked. It was “normal” behavior and male bosses would side with their male employees if we complained.

Now, women are coming forward, exposing what men did to them in the past. I applaud their courage. Wrongs are finally being righted. Call me politically incorrect, but I also grieve for the otherwise wonderful men whose lives are being ruined over their horny transgressions of the past.

At this point, I wouldn’t go after Chuck or any of the other men who acted improperly in the past. I managed to dodge and joke my way through relatively unscathed. Chuck is probably dead now anyway. But as the crusade goes on, I do want to add my voice and say, “Me too.”

How about you?

Let’s hope that in 2018 men and women finally learn how to respect each other.

I wish you all a year full of peace and blessings.

Here’s my bloggy Christmas card to you

Twas the blog before Christmas, and I can’t send Christmas cards to the whole world, although God knows I have received enough cards and mailing labels from charities to card several countries, so this is my Christmas card to you.

How the heck are you? If I haven’t heard from you since last Christmas, are you still alive and living in the same place? If you haven’t heard from me, well the phone works both ways, you know. Oh, wait, I mean, gee, I hope you’re all right.

I don’t know if you send cards. A lot of people don’t, but I have all these cards and I bought stamps, so I might as well send them out and let you enjoy the pretty pictures. I’m struggling to remember who’s Christian and who bristles at a hint of religion. Is this dog picture okay? A cottage in the snow? Peace or puppies? Virgin Mary or Santa Claus? Should I have bought Christmas stamps instead of flags? Who cares, right?

Are Christmas cards even a “thing” anymore? We were talking about this at choir practice the other day, and we’re all wavering. We receive fewer and fewer cards, we all have too much to do, and how important is a printed card with our signature on it anyway? Plus those newsletters full of information about other people’s great vacations and kids we don’t even know just make us feel bad. It all goes in the recycling bin eventually—unless you’re like me and keep cards for fear the person will die and that’s the last signature we have of theirs . . .

Anyway, the cards are ready to mail. The gifts are on their way, even that one I had no clue how to wrap. To that relative who doesn’t want to exchange gifts with me anymore, tough. I’m still sending presents because I want to. If you don’t buy anything for me, fine. Last week, I received an amazing box at my doorstep from a Secret Santa with seven, SEVEN, little wrapped gifts inside. They may be the only presents under my tree. I was so grateful I cried. I need to do the same thing for somebody else next year.

You have no idea how many people are alone like me during the holidays. That’s the subject of my next book, people living alone. I don’t mean people who sleep alone but are in constant contact with their kids and grandkids. I mean really alone, with no family anywhere nearby and no neighbors dropping in like on every TV sitcom. People who may not see other people for days or weeks. If you’re alone like that and willing to be interviewed, let me know.

Speaking of books, it’s not too late to boogie over to Amazon, look me up and order some or all of my books. They have this two-day delivery thing. They’ll even gift-wrap them. Click here to see what’s available, including my latest, Unleashed in Oregon: Best from the Blog.

Annie and I are well. We’ve got a few dents and rattles, but keep running like fine old cars. Annie had surgery in May for not one but two torn ligaments in her back right knee. She has healed well. My dad broke his leg in March. Shattered is a better word. His leg has not recovered; he’s still rocking the walker. After stints in two different nursing homes, he’s back at the house with intermittent caregivers whom he plans to fire any day now.

A massive tree from my neighbor’s yard destroyed my fences and trashed the gutters on my house last April. That led to months of upheaval, but now the fences are fixed, the gutters have been replaced, the trunk of the fallen tree remains next door like a weird statue, and I have a bigger chunk of sky to look at.

I didn’t go to Europe or a fancy resort, but I did go to Cleveland in October to speak at the NotMom Summit. I visited San Jose seven times, and made a few jaunts to Portland. My Honda Element turned over 100,000 miles, and now it’s up to 106,000. I bought new tires, and the service light has been on since Thanksgiving.

I’m still writing most days, got a few poems and two essays published this year. I’m co-chair of the coast branch of Willamette Writers. Check us out on Facebook. I exceeded my Goodreads goal of reading 60 books, and I’m still going. You don’t know about Goodreads? Click it and get on board.

I’m still playing piano, singing and leading choirs at Sacred Heart Church in Newport and going to the song circle in Waldport on Fridays. Still playing guitar in spite of my arthritic hands.

I turned 65 in March and signed up for Medicare. I had my interview for Social Security earlier this month and will start receiving full benefits in March when I turn 66. Thank you, Uncle Sam. President Trump, keep your paws off my money and my medical insurance. I earned it.

What else? Breakfast, lunch and dinner. Walking the dog. She’s a relentless personal trainer who keeps me exercised in sun, rain and snow. I wore out another pair of shoes, and the replacements hurt, so I’m still looking for the ideal footwear for all-terrain hikes. Mowing the lawn. Feeding the pellet stove. Blogging here and at Childless by Marriage. Trying to sell my memoir, novel and a book of poems (Hey publishers, they’re really good).

I re-watched “Wild” on TV last night. Still love the Cheryl Strayed book and the movie starring Reese Witherspoon. I’m binge-watching “Grace Under Fire,” a 90s sitcom about a divorced woman with three kids and her lovable friends. They give me comfort in hard times. TV Christmases always turn out happy and loving in the end, even if everything is a mess at the beginning of the episode.

The days pass, you know? Suddenly it’s Christmas again, and I haven’t been nearly as good a friend as I should have. But I’m trying. I appreciate every one of you. I wish you a joyous Christmas or whatever you celebrate and a new year full of blessings and love.

Love,

Sue and Annie

Dear Hitchhikers, I am Not Heartless

I-5 112116C Today I am sharing with you a poem I wrote on my recent trip to California. I see hitchhikers often. I never pick them up, but I wish they could hear what I’m saying and thinking as I whiz by. Do you stop for hitchhikers? Why or why not? Please share in the comments.

DEAR HITCHHIKER

Sitting, standing, squatting
with your backpack, guitar, dog,
I see you. I want to stop.
I’m not a heartless woman.
You can’t hear what I say
as you breathe in my exhaust:

I’m on the freeway, fool,
going 70 miles per hour!
Are you nuts? I can’t stop here
with cars on every side. I’m just
trying to stay alive.
Go stand somewhere else.

Are you too lazy to stand up?
Or too worn out to even try?
I’m only going down the road.
That’s not much help to you.
Besides, my car is full of stuff,
Groceries and clothes and such.

Oh gosh, you look so tired.
And what a darling dog.
You might be fine, you play guitar.
But what if you have a knife?
Or a gun? Or drugs?
I don’t want to die today.

I know you see my big old car,
and then you see old gray-haired me.
You look on down the road.
Old ladies never stop, and yet
you’re someone’s little boy.
Perhaps someday I will.

Old Cypress School Brings Back Memories

IMG_20171122_134613513[1] Walking the streets from my childhood home on Fenley Avenue to Cypress School is different now. I’m taller, and I’m not carrying schoolbooks. I walk alone, my best friend Sherri moved to Texas, most of the other kids on the block gone, too. New people, mostly young Silicon Valley workers, live in the homes I pass. Some of the early 1950s houses have been replaced by mini-mansions or apartments. Cars line the streets and fill the driveways.

The dozens of baby boomer kids who walked to Cypress every morning are senior citizens now. So is our school. Cypress became a senior center in the early 1980s. My late husband, Fred, helped supervise its development and oversaw the staff as a supervisor in the San Jose Recreation Department. Where once the space was full of children, now it welcomes seniors for lunches, stitchery classes, concerts, and other activities.

People rent the big multi-purpose room for private events. We had my 50th birthday party and the celebration of life for my aunt and uncle there. That room has so many memories: tumbling and trampolining, eating cafeteria spaghetti on long fold-down tables, playing a wicked stepsister in a Girl Scout production of Cinderella, singing with the school choir, sitting through assemblies and movies. I can feel the dusty green linoleum under my bare legs as we sat on the floor playing jacks or doing lessons in our skirts and saddle shoes.

IMG_20171122_134704284[1]

Much later, when it was a senior center, I sang and played guitar for the seniors. I did concerts in that room with the Valley Chorale. I played music at my birthday party, too, which was the last event my mother attended before she died of cancer.

While the multi-purpose room is still full of life, more than half the school was demolished years ago, replaced by a senior apartment complex occupied by elderly Asians. Only the front wing with the offices, kindergarten, shop and home ec classrooms remains. The other classrooms and the field where I used to run and play are long gone.

I walk to Cypress now for exercise and respite from taking care of my dad, who still lives in the house on Fenley Avenue. On this particular day, there’s a warm breeze. I hear Lee Greenwood’s “IOU” playing on someone’s stereo. I hear hammering and voices from the apartments going up across the street. An elderly Vietnamese man shuffles by as I sit on the bench outside the multipurpose room. Through the window, I see chairs lined up facing the stage. A sign proclaims “Happy Thanksgiving.”

It’s so quiet I hear the dry leaves falling from the trees. I wish I knew what kind of trees these are. Liquidamber? I know they’re not cypress. I know they weren’t here when I was a child lining up in this parking lot for red and yellow alerts in anticipation of nuclear attacks. With a yellow alert, we supposedly had time to go home. In a red alert, we were to take shelter under our desks or under a bench outside. More than half a century later, we know those moves wouldn’t have done us any good if the bomb hit, but we diligently gathered while our teachers took roll and assured us we would be all right if we followed instructions.

I attended Cypress School from first through eighth grade. A red line across the playground separated the big kids from the little ones. All those years, it was a safe place filled with children’s voices, the smells of paste and pencil lead, and sun shining through the big windows. It feels odd to be here now and realize I could walk in and sign up for senior citizen programs. No one seems to question my being here, my wrinkles and graying hair all the qualification I need.

Like my father, I feel driven to share my memories. I want to tell people: This is where we played four-square, this is where we lined up for lunch, this is where the P.E. teacher tried to teach us the foxtrot, this is where I got my first period, this is where Mr. Blackwell encouraged me to be a writer . . . I expect our longtime principal Mrs. Blyther to come out of the office. I can almost smell the spaghetti, the best I ever tasted. I expect to hear the bell ring any minute, calling me to class.

But the hammering continues. The leaves fall. The light is fading, and my father will be wondering where I am. I snap some pictures on my cell phone, and start walking home.