One Big Snow Cone

White. Everything is white with snow that fell during the night. Unable to drink from her frozen water bowl, Annie vacuums up the snow. Her world is one giant snow cone. As I crunch along in my slippers, I look up and see blue sky with white etchings, the top of the Sitka spruce tipped with sunlight, the leafless branches of the red alders flocked with snow.

It has been a crazy-weather weekend. Just last Friday, I sat outside in the sun reading a book while Annie chewed on a branch fallen from the last wind storm. Saturday we had light rain, but the snow predictions seemed unrealistic. Sunday, I awoke to the sound of Annie barking at the hail banging on the skylights. But that soon stopped. In church, as we stood to go to Communion, I glanced out the window and saw snow falling. So beautiful and so worrisome. We all had to drive home. But by the time Mass ended, the snow was gone, everything merely wet.

The restless dog and I went walking, she just in her collar, I so bundled up I could barely move. Tiny flecks of hail fell around us, no big deal. It wasn’t until we turned back onto our street that the serious hail came,  half-inch balls of ice pounding on our heads, gathering on my coat and Annie’s fur. “Hurry!” I urged, but the dog kept trying to dive under bushes instead of heading for the sure security of the house. When the hail stopped a few minutes later, the earth seemed to sigh as the pounding ceased.

Around 4:00, the snow finally came, thick, fluffy, some of the flakes looking like shreds of paper floating down onto deck, lawn and concrete. Staring at it made me dizzy, but I couldn’t look away. Annie stood beside me at the window, amazed. Beneath the arborvitae out front, two dark-feathered birds flittered around, pecking for bugs, undaunted.

For the rest of the night, the snow came and went, but this morning, everything was covered in smooth white, untracked until Annie started eating it. Our ratty patio furniture looked perfect, its nicks and rust-stains hidden in a coat of snow. Sunlight sparkled off the white surface, making everything glow. Ah, snow. Online, I read reports of cars sliding around, danger on the roads, homeless people gathering in a shelter at the fairgrounds, but here at home, all is safe and special today.

We first saw snow here in February 1996, when Fred and I drove up from California for the annual Newport Seafood and Wine Festival. Prepared for rain, we were surprised by the biting cold and had to go buy warmer clothing. Staying at the Ester Lee in Lincoln City, we awoke to snow on the window sills and on the beach. Does it snow here on the central Oregon coast, we wondered. We needed to know because we were already planning to move here. Oh no, people told us. This never happens. Snow on the beach? Nah.

Hah. Yes, it does. It’s the beach, but it’s also the Northwest. Nearly every year, it gets cold enough to snow, and if the rain comes at that time, it does snow right here on the beach and all around us. It’s icy, slippery, dangerous, and so pretty. Would we have moved here if we knew this? Probably. We wouldn’t have believed it. Just like Annie keeps putting her tongue on that frozen water, expecting to get a drink.

I’ve got puppy pictures

I promised pictures of my neighbor’s puppies, and here they are. They will soon be leaving for new homes, but meanwhile, when they’re out, I’m surrounded by squeaking puppies. So here they are with Sande, the proud grandma. Enjoy.

(copyright 2012 Sue Fagalde Lick)

Happiness is a Warm Puppy

Is there anything sweeter than a puppy? I don’t think so. For years, my Annie has been trading barks with the dog that lives on the property behind mine. Her name is Jamie. A golden retriever-yellow Lab mix, she looks a lot like Annie, only with longer fur, and is one of the nicest dogs I have ever met. My dog is spayed, and I figured Jamie was too, so I was amazed when her owner, Sande, stopped her truck beside Annie and me on one of our walks to tell me about Jamie’s puppies. Bred with a golden retriever from the next block, she had nine puppies. Sande whipped out her cell phone and showed me pictures. Shortly after birth, they looked like a clump of tan piglets.

From time to time in recent weeks, I have heard puppies squeaking from beyond the fence, but I didn’t see them in person until necessity forced me to seek help from the neighbor. You see, I’m not good at asking for help. When Annie got another ear infection, requiring me to put medicine in her ears every day for a week, I tried everything to do it by myself. But I couldn’t even get the stuff out before Annie fled. I chased her. I tried to corral her in the corner. I tried bribing her, but Annie did not want me messing with her ears. I can’t blame her. They hurt, and the medicine stinks. The last straw came when I tried to do it in the car, figuring I could pin her in the passenger seat while she eagerly awaited a trip to the dog park. Nope. She leapt into the back seat, and I sprained my thumb trying to hold her. Not a good thing for a musician.

I took her and her bottles of gunk to the park, hoping another dog owner would help with this two-person operation, one to hold the dog, the other to dose her. The only dog owner there, someone I didn’t know, saw Annie coming, leashed up her anti-social, muzzled fur factory, and left.

Okay, okay. I called Sande. She was happy to help. Her life these days revolves around dogs. Nine puppies, plus Jamie, are almost a full-time job. As Annie and I walked up her driveway, Jamie barked a greeting. Then I saw the pups in this gigantic basket on the front lawn. Oh my gosh. At six weeks, they are now the same size that Annie was when I first saw her. All tan, with wrinkled faces. Sande was holding one in her arms. We laughed as she pointed out the red toenails on one of her front paws. It was the only way to tell her apart from the others.

Sande scooped another pup out of the basket. “Would you like to hold one?”

Oh yes. It was the softest thing I have ever felt, and it felt so good as the puppy snuggled against my chest. Annie just watched, curious, not having seen dogs so small since she was little. “Would you like a baby brother or sister?” I asked. She waved her tail cautiously. I laughed. “Not happening, kiddo.” But what a gift, just being able to hold it for a minute. And why would anyone want anything but a big yellow dog?

Sande held Annie and gave her treats while I gooped up her ears, and we made arrangements to do it again daily for a week. The vet visit and medications were expensive, and Annie still doesn’t enjoy her daily treatments, but her ears are already visibly better and we get to see Jamie and her puppies every day before they go to their new owners next weekend.

Life could be worse. We’re lucky dogs.

P.S. My hands have been pretty full, but I’ll try to get a picture to share with you next time.

What’s a nice girl like me doing in a place like this?

If she weren’t already dead, my mother would die of the shock. Her daughter is sitting in a Lincoln City bar alone, drinking beer, talking to drunk guys. I must be insane. But it’s all for a story. I’m writing about jam sessions in Lincoln County. It turns out most of them are in bars.

When I pull out a notebook and camera, guys swarm. “You’re a writer! Write about me. Take my picture. Have I got a story for you.”

I want to seem cool, even though my music is more church than Clapton, so I order a beer. A third of the way through one glass, I feel drunk. Enjoying the glow, I sigh and settle into my chair, even though when the music starts I’m afraid I’ll never hear again. I haven’t heard that kind of loud since high school dances in the ’60s. When the drummer hits the drum hard, I literally leave my seat. But I’m trying to be cool. A drunk guy with a bandanna and tattooed arms, comes out, says, “I’m Kerry. What’s your name?” He has glazed eyes, missing teeth. I’m old enough to be his mother, but apparently it doesn’t show yet. “Hi, I’m Sue.” I’m relieved when he wanders away.

A long-haired guy named Mike comes over, shakes my hand, tells me he’s a music teacher, but all I see is a wasted baby boomer who looks like a lost member of the Grateful Dead. When he plays his guitar, he goes into a trance, and my ears bleed. If I were home, I’d turn it off in a hurry. But I joke with the band, take their pictures and tells them I love their music. I decline their offers to let me sit in. I don’t even know how to play an electric guitar.

My notes mostly say, “Loud.”

On break, Mike talks to me, tells me he has twin daughters back in California. It turns out we lived in the same area, went to the same bars 40 years ago when I was learning that my ex liked to drink too much. I have almost forgotten my recent dead husband for a while, despite weeping into my dog’s fur when the clock struck 12 on New Year’s Eve, a mere 16 hours earlier.
 
Late afternoon on New Year’s Day, the bar is full of men in baseball caps, just a few women.There’s this young blond guy, curly hair, drunk out of his mind, barely able to sit up at the bar. A wizened old guy in a cap too big for his head, gets up and dances stiff-legged in the middle of the floor. It’s getting dark, and I know I’m not going to get a lot of usable quotes here. I sip at my beer, knowing I should leave. I’m getting drunk and have a long way to drive. I still have other bars to check out, all in the interest of a story.

Three nights ago, I visited a pub in Yachats. Pouring rain, winds threatening to push my car off the bridges, but I had a story to do. Another jam, another beer, better music, more drunk people wanting me to write about them.

Now I spray my mouth with Binaca and head south to Newport to visit jams at Harpoon Hannah’s and the notorious Bay Haven. I’m relieved to find that Hannah’s is closed, a For Rent sign in the window. From the corner, I can hear the music coming out of the Bay Haven. Okay, I have to at least look inside. I stand in front of the wooden door with its sign that says, “No minors permitted on these premises,” pray for protection, and go in. This time, the band is so into their music they don’t have time to drink or hit on strangers with notebooks. Here at last is a real jam. Except for one wasted woman in the corner, everyone is here for the music. As I take my last pictures of the day, I think I might come back sometime. The music is good, the old wooden tables are inviting, and there’s something about a bar that makes everything outside go away for a while.

Don’t worry, Mom, I’m not going anywhere without my notebook. I’m working. Really. Next time, I’ll order a diet Pepsi.

Ah, Christmas on the Oregon coast

Rain and wind have returned, with a forecast of storm after storm. The Coast Guard warns of giant waves and wild surf. Only fools will walk on the beach now. Ah, at last the weather is normal. I do love sunshine, but not when it comes with freezing temperatures. Ice frightens me, forces me to keep the dog inside at night, and makes me wear so many layers of clothing it’s hard to move. This is better. Beach weather.

 
We have a new church choir member, a nun who started singing with us on Christmas weekend. It was raining a bit on Christmas morning. I mentioned that the weather was finally more typical for December. She looked at me with alarm. It is? Oh Sister, hold onto your rain hat.
Our choir made it through three Masses with tons of music, including songs and solos before the official service. The church glittered with white candles and white lights on the tree and white poinsettias all over the altar. The congregation was a riot of red and green with the occasional jingle bell. How glorious it felt to stand on the altar as the cantor and sing, “Born today . . .” after weeks of Advent when we sang and talked about waiting for Jesus to come.
The big Mass was at 5:30 on Christmas Eve. We struggled to fit in all the singers and guitar players in the choir loft, and we had lots of solos. As is our tradition, the choir went to Lee’s Wok in Newport for dinner. While we waited for our massive plates of fried food, we played our gift-trading game in which people pick numbers, choose a gift, then hope no one will steal it from them. With our shouting and laughter, I’m afraid we’re quite annoying to other people trying to have a peaceful dinner.
Stuffed with food all the way up to our vocal chords, a few of us returned to church for the late-night Mass, falling into bed afterward with the sound of “Gloria in excelsis deo” echoing in our heads. On Christmas morning, we rose for one more Mass before we were finally free to open presents and join our friends and families for Christmas.
I spent the afternoon with the Cramer family, friends from church who always make me feel like one of the family rather than the lonely widow who needs a place to go for Christmas. It was a beautiful time.
Do I miss Fred? So much. A few times I thought I heard his deep voice singing beside me on the piano bench. I also miss my mother and all the others who have passed away. I miss being with my family in California, but I had work to do here.
For church musicians, Christmas is not a vacation, but it is a celebration. I hope your holidays have been full of music, love, gifts and fabulous food. If they weren’t as happy as you wished, I hope you can still find one good thing to hang onto as we move into the new year. May 2012 be full of blessings for us all.
P.S. My brother and sister-in-law sent me long underwear and a thick yellow afghan for Christmas. They seem to think I’m cold up here. Not anymore. It’s raining.

New Liturgy=Babel in the Pews

Four weeks into using the new translation of the Catholic liturgy, we can be sure of one thing: Every time the priest says, “The Lord be with you,” 50 percent of the congregation will say, “And also with you,” the old response, and 50 percent will say, “And with your spirit,” the new response. Both groups will say it loudly and confidently, but some will follow it up with a quiet curse. Dang, screwed it up again. We have been saying the same words for 40 years. It’s going to take a while to change things.

Meanwhile, we cling to our cheat sheets. Last week, when I left the keyboard to sing in the choir, I looked down and noticed Julian, our young guitar player, with the old version of the Creed in front of him. I could see his expression becoming more and more confused as his words didn’t match ours. The new Creed even starts on a different word, “I” instead of “We.” Yesterday, we had a visiting singer who didn’t seem to know about the cheat sheets either. Confusion on his face, too.

It’s tricky for this old piano player, too. I’m used to certain cues. When Father mentions the angels singing praise, my fingers hit the keys to play the “Holy, Holy.” “When he says, “Through him and with him . . . ” I’m set to play the “Amen.” With the changes, I’m thinking: “Now?” The end of the Mass is still a muddle. Nobody is sure when to say, “Amen,” “Thanks Be to God” or “Coffee and donuts are being served in the hall.”

We’ll get it. Just not this year. I can’t wait to see the confused looks next weekend when all those folks who only show up at Christmas discover that things have changed.

Meanwhile, the good thing is that it makes us pay attention and think about what we’re saying and why we’re saying it.

So, the Lord be with you. And with your spirit.

Merry Christmas to you all. Even if you don’t believe Jesus is God, He was pretty cool, so celebrate.

It’s Still All About Keeping Warm

Annie raced out the dog door to her bowl early this morning for a drink. To her surprise, her tongue touched ice. She licked and licked, but never hit water. Luckily she has a defrosted water bowl inside.

At 6 a.m., when the restless dog woke me up, the moon was shining so bright I could see everything. Stars dotted the black sky. The deck and lawn sparkled with ice as Annie skated across to do her business.  Then, happy and ready for a new day, Annie zoomed back to me, tail wagging. I could read her mind: Give me some food and then let’s play. Nope, I replied, it’s still dark. We’re going back to bed, where it’s toasty. I still have dreams to be dreamed.

In these December days, life is about keeping warm. I go through more than a 40-pound bag of wood pellets a day keeping the pellet stove burning. I keep space heaters and baseboard heaters going in the occupied rooms. I sleep under an electric blanket. I’m wearing my flannel nightgown at night and my long underwear during the day. Annie sleeps on the old couch by the pellet stove. In her crate in the laundry room, she’d turn into a pupsicle.

In the mornings it’s in the 30s outside, the 40s in the laundry room, which has no ceiling, just a bare roof, and it’s right around 50 in the den. The living room has made it to the low 60s, but the pellet stove is empty again, and the temperature is dropping. 

I know it gets a lot colder elsewhere, but for this California-born Oregonian, it’s cold! It’s also oddly dry. We haven’t had real rain for a couple weeks. If precipitation comes now, we could have a white Christmas. Think it can’t snow at the beach? Oh yes it can. The photo is from a previous December when Annie experienced her first snow. She doesn’t look happy.

Keep warm, friends.

Wait, That’s Not Wood-It’s a Bird

We’ve had a spectacular run of blue skies and starry nights. No rain, which is surprising for December on the Oregon coast. But it’s cold, so cold. Still frosty in the shade at noon. If there were precipitation, it would be snow. Every day, it’s a battle to stay warm. Here in the trees, we don’t have gas or central heating. Most houses have wood stacked up for winter. I have a woodshed outside the house with a diminishing supply of raggedy wood, which Annie occasionally takes to the lawn for chew toys. She has created a wonderful supply of kindling for me. After she chews it up, I put it in a bucket to use for starting fires in the woodstove in the den.

I don’t light a fire every day. I have other options, including a space heater and a persnickety pellet stove in the den, our main source of heat.
The pellet stove is annoying. It often fails to come on. If it gets too much ash, not enough pellets or is just in a bad mood, it will start up, hum for a while, then decrescendo into silence. When the power goes off, it doesn’t work at all. This time of year, it eats a 40-pound bag of pellets a day. When it works, it’s a beautiful golden source of heat. Annie and I spend a lot of time warming ourselves in front of the pellet stove, taking care not to get burnt.
I love a wood fire. But you have to tend it. If you forget it for an hour, it goes out, so I only use it when I’m feeling ambitious or when we don’t have electricity. The other night I decided to start my fire. I didn’t have my glasses on and had only a dim lamp for light. As the first sparks were starting to shoot out of the kindling, something didn’t look right in there. A piece of wood near the door looked furry. As I looked closer, I realized it wasn’t fur; it was feathers. I had a dead bird in the woodstove. It had made the incredible journey past the chimney captain, down the chimney, and down the long black stove pipe, including a bend near the ceiling. It probably died on impact. I heard no flapping or chirping.
I grabbed a paper towel and took the bird out, carefully avoiding the growing fire. Cradling the bird in the towel, I took the opportunity to look closely. Shyly, I touched it. So, so soft. Possibly a junco or a finch, it had black tail feathers, a gray chest, and a stubby beak. I felt so sorry for it. After a while, I took it outside and laid it to rest in the ivy with a little prayer.
It’s all about heat around here lately. The other morning, I plugged in a space heater in the bedroom because I just couldn’t seem to get warm. Then I went to blow-dry my hair. I had one side of my hair done when the power went out on the whole south side of the house. The circuit couldn’t take the addition of the heater. Now I know: I can either style my hair or be warm. Given the choice, I’d rather be warm.

The New Mass has begun

Last night at Mass, I led the choir at Sacred Heart Church in new songs for a new Mass. For over 40 years, we Catholics have been saying the same words every Sunday. The priest said, “The Lord be with you” and we answered “And also with you.”

But now, the words have changed. We are to respond “And with your spirit.”

That is only one of many changes. The words of the Gloria, the Creed, and the Communion prayers are all different. The meaning is the same, but all over the English-speaking world, Catholics are saying different words this weekend. It’s the biggest change since the post-Vatican II overhaul in the 1960s.

Prior to Vatican II, the Mass was said in Latin, and the priest did most of the talking. The New Mass was spoken in the language of the people, and they played a much larger role, with spoken and sung responses. They held hands during the Lord’s Prayer and offered each other a sign of peace. Older people who were used to the way Mass had always been said had a hard time adjusting, and some dropped out of the church. My parents were among them.

This time, the changes are not quite as drastic, but they are profound. The church fathers have written a new translation from Latin into English which we began using this first weekend of Advent.

After Thanksgiving Mass on Thursday, parishioners took the old books out of the pews and replaced them with new ones. In the choir room, we took all the old service music out of the binders and files. Entire collections of service music are no longer allowed to be sung. We moved mountains of paper. Out with the old, in with the new.

Last night, I felt honored to be able to lead the choir for the debut of the new 2012 Mass. Some of the words are the same, but enough have changed that suddenly we have to pay attention and listen to what we’re saying. We all made mistakes. Many of the responses came out as a mix of old and new. The old words are so engrained in our minds. But I’m glad I was there.

The only “disaster” of the Saturday vigil Mass had nothing to do with the new liturgy. For some unknown reason, the ushers started taking a second collection after Communion. We didn’t have one planned. As the baskets were being passed, Father Brian stared out at the pews. “I don’t believe we have a second collection.” But it was too late. People had already put money in the baskets. Rather than take it back, they opted to give it to the local food pantry.

At the end of Mass, Fr. Brian raised his hands and said, “The Lord be with you.” Some of us, armed with cheat sheets, responded, “And with your spirit.” Others answered, as always, “And also with you.” It’s going to take a while, but the new Mass has begun.

Black Friday? Not for me

If we’re to believe what we see and hear in the media, everybody is shopping today. Stores opened ridiculously early and in some cases, they opened last night, so shoppers didn’t even have time to digest their turkey and pumpkin pie. I know people who were almost as excited about shopping today as that crazy woman on the Target TV commercials they’ve been airing approximately every five minutes. But I’m not going anywhere near a store today. I hate shopping and I hate crowds. Plus there’s a rumor the sun might make an appearance on the Oregon Coast. After this last week of wild storms, I don’t want to get stuck in a store and miss it.

Instead I’m doing some writing and cleaning up the layers of stuff dumped all over the house. I might dig out the Christmas music, and I might start the Christmas cards.  Or I might just go hang out at the dog park.

This year’s Christmas cards present a dilemma. Not everyone on my list knows that my husband Fred died in April, seven months and two days ago. I hate to break the news in a Christmas card, but I know I’m going to get lots of cards addressed to “Fred and Sue” this year, and I need to explain why my cards are signed by only “Sue.” What a downer. This is actually my third Christmas without Fred because he was living in a nursing home, so it’s not as hard as you might think, but it’s odd not being able to buy gifts for him or sign my cards with both our names. He loved Christmas so much. I know he’d be bugging me today to go get a Christmas tree. But things change and we adapt.

The other big news this year was the publication of my book, Shoes Full of Sand, in July. I like to think it honors the memories Fred and I shared of our early years in Oregon. Don’t want to fight the crowds this Christmas? Buy books. Some of my favorite bookstores are closing at the end of the year because they’re not selling enough books anymore. If you love books, support your local bookseller. Remember, books are easy to wrap and easy to mail, and they last forever.

Two weeks ago today, I had my second cataract surgery, so I’m typing this without glasses. My closeup vision is amazing. I see a lot of things I never noticed before. I’m still going to need glasses for distance vision, and I can’t order them for a few more weeks because my vision has not stabilized yet. It’s frustrating and exciting at the same time.

That’s the Black Friday news from South Beach. Happy holidays to everybody.