Visitors from another planet

First-time visitors from the San Francisco Bay Area don’t seem to “get” where I live. They come from a land where everything is paved and ringed with freeways, where you can find multiples of every kind of chain store and restaurant, where everything you need is within driving distance. It’s a land where nature rarely intrudes on a schedule laced with work, school, driving, and social life, always connected by computers or computer-like telephones.

They get here, and I say no, we don’t have a (fill in the blank). And yes, we get regular visits from garter snakes, deer, racoons and other critters. We don’t have sewer hookup or gas here in South Beach. We heat the house with wood or pellet stoves. Air conditioning? Open a window. Costco is a hundred-mile round trip away–and guess what, we can live without it. Yes, cell phone reception is bad. But look at that sky. Have you ever seen a sky so blue? Or a place so quiet you can hear a gentle wind? Look at the ocean sparkling to the west.

I used to drive to the old port of Alviso or up into the east foothills, desperate to get some taste of nature. It came with sewage smells, rattlesnakes and other people’s loud radios. Here, I just look out my window.

Don’t you miss California, they ask. I miss California the way it used to be, when Santa Clara Valley was not yet called Silicon Valley, and it was full of farms instead of industrial parks. My history is there. I miss my family very much. Sometimes I miss the work opportunities there. But look around. This is better.

Not everyone gets it. My sister-in-law says she’s not coming back. Some of my cousins are baffled because they don’t know any other life. But some folks understand and move here, like we did. And they stay.
*****
[I didn’t plan to plug my book, but this leads to it so nicely. Shoes Full of Sand is about our transformation into Oregonians. Available in print and ebook.]

The Writing Life II: Authors Fair

Sixty authors, boodles of books, guest speakers at the Bijou Theater. Come to the Northwest Authors Fair in Lincoln City. Well, I had to go to that. Yes, I remembered that I sold only one book when I attended that same event two years ago. The year before that, I did slightly better and I got great information for a column, but I fried in the sun. This time I had a new book, Shoes Full of Sand. Folks would see that it’s local and lovely and buy it for their beach bags. After all, the fair is sponsored by Bob’s Beach Books, which sells “beach reads.” Shoes Full of Sand, perfect.

Um, right.

Lincoln City on a summer Saturday is one big traffic jam. Highway 101 is the city’s two-lane main street with no left-turn lanes or lights and limited parking. It took me an hour, and I was on time, but it was only by the grace of God that I entered the parking lot behind the store just as a family vacated a spot. Mine!

Dragging my wheeled cart of books to the plaza next to the store, I walked right into a snarl of confused writers, tables so close you couldn’t walk between them, and wind so heavy people screamed every time the canopies rocked. Most of the tables were already full. I found a space on the end between the canopies so I could get sunburned and windblown at the same time. Put anything on the table and it blew off. My books were just heavy enough, but the gales threatened to tear off the covers. Despite the blue sky, it was freezing in the wind-tunnel where I sat between two fantasy writers with my utterly factual Stories Grandma Never Told, Shoes Full of Sand, and Freelancing for Newspapers. Apparently it was warm everywhere else.

We zipped up our jackets and hunkered down, waiting for crowds that never really arrived. The city was full of people, but most didn’t get out of their cars. Some authors didn’t sell anything. Most of us sold a few books to other authors and to the bookstore. Occasionally we stumbled up the back stairs of the bookstore for trips to the bathroom–unisex, full of new books waiting to go on the shelves–and the kitchen, where one could get coffee and cut-up vegetables. We looked at our watches a lot.

Occasionally someone would come, pick up a book, read the back cover, admire the front cover, ask if we were the author. We held our breaths, thinking “come on, buy it,” trying to be as cheerful and encouraging as possible without being pushy.  Usually they walked away. But sometimes . . . it’s called partial reinforcement; it’s why people gamble, and why we show up at book fairs.

One new twist this year was a reception at a gorgeous house in a gated community in the waterfront community called Roads End. We enjoyed stuffed mushrooms, mini-quiches, giant shrimp, and Willamette Valley wines. After our afternoon in the wind, most of us authors felt like poor relations, but it was nice. If nothing else, it got us authors together. Thanks to Bob and his crew for all their hard work.

Go buy a book at Bob’s, 17th and 101, Lincoln City, Oregon. On my restroom trips, I could barely resist buying everything I saw on the shelves while waiting in line. So many authors, so many good books!

The Writing Life: Sheer Glamor

When Carrie Bradshaw on Sex and the City had her book-release party, the whole city turned out. She had a new dress, new shoes, a new hairdo. People drank champagne and ate caviar. She was the queen of the world for that day.

My booksignings are not quite like that. When Stories Grandma Never Told came out, the book was introduced at the Dia de Portugal celebration at San Jose Historical Museum. We stood in a booth outside, thronged by fans all day. My aunt brought me a malasada—Portuguese donut. I probably brought my own iced tea. I had help from two reps from the publishing house, and we sold dozens of books. That was the best.

For the next signing, at a bookstore in Willow Glen, I attracted about four people, two of whom bought books. At another event in Stockton, I sold one book, to the other author sharing my table.

The first event for my new book, Shoes Full of Sand, was actually better than average. It started out rough. Everything I touched getting ready, I knocked over or spilled. As I walked out the door, juggling a box of books, my purse, and a grocery bag with tea, an apple and a box of granola bars, something dripped on my pants. I attributed it to morning dew from the rosemary bush. But there were more drips when I arrived at the shopping center in Newport.

My feet thundered over the wooden planks of this nautical-themed center with more empty shops than functioning ones. Irish folk music wafted from speakers tucked into the eaves, and the neon bookstore sign said “Open.” Passing a gift shop and a hair salon, I pushed into the bookstore, scanning the window and the nearly bare bulletin board for some sign of my appearance. Nothing.

Inside, a brown card table and a single chair awaited me. “Hi, Sue,” said Bill, the owner, rushing forward to relieve me of my box of books and postcards. “Would you like some book stands?” Yes.

I reached into my cloth grocery bag and felt wetness. My tea had leaked all over, soaking the box of granola bars and the flyer I had brought to hang up for my writing group event. Now I had a wet hand, a wet chair, and was in danger of soaking the wooden floor. I went to Bill’s “back room,” a cubbyhole full of office supplies, coffee, mini fridge and such. A package of white napkins sat on the top shelf. As I reached for one, a dozen fluttered to the floor around me. Sigh. As I picked them up, I noticed a Cheerio sitting amid the dust and dirt. Nice.

I didn’t sit down for a while. It wasn’t as if people were waiting to meet me. It was just me and Bill. The bookstore owner is in his early 70s, grizzled, skinny, missing a lower front tooth, a bit of southern in his accent. He’s a talker. His first wife was Portuguese, so he always wants to talk about that. His father died in February, and he needed to tell the whole gory story. But his stories are good, and it was something to do while I avoided my damp folding chair and waited for my fans to show up.

The bookstore used to occupy a bigger space in the same center. But sales went sour with the advent of the Internet and the crash of the economy, so Bill moved into this much smaller space. As he continued the story of his life, I eased into my folding chair.

People did come, not the people who told me they were coming, but people. The owner of the center’s Champagne Patio restaurant, a Swiss guy named Joseph, not only bought a book but invited me to come by afterward for a free lunch. He sent other people to meet me and buy books. My shrink came and bought a copy of the new book. Another woman bought Freelancing for Newspapers for her boyfriend. Tourists, friends of Bill, and strangers bought books. Eight in all. My ego was pleasantly fluffed.

The hours squeaked by. My stomach grumbled. Down to my last books, I began to worry that I might run out. But I had just enough. Bill and I toted up our sales and he wrote me a check. I did some quick math. I hated to say it, but something was wrong. He refigured and discovered he had given me 40 percent instead of 60 percent. As he wrote a new check, he said, “I can see you’re a hard woman to cheat. My first wife was like that. I don’t know if it’s the Portuguese . . .”

No, it’s math, Bill.

A couple minutes after 2, I left with my box of remaining books, my soggy bag and my overstuffed purse, passed the beauty parlor, now closed, and the gift shop and put my stuff in the car. I had an appointment at 3, so I had to decline the Champagne Patio lunch.

Instead, I stuffed down a Burger King guacamole burger and French fries while being stared at by a young woman playing with a gray cat on a leash.

I think, if I remember correctly, Carrie Bradshaw, went home with a handsome man and had sex while somebody else dealt with books and money. Burger King and soggy granola bars never entered the picture.

What is that green stuff they put in the burger anyway? It can’t be avocado.

Copyright 2011 Sue Fagalde Lick

Skygazing

I lie on the grass, soaking in Oregon’s August sun, wondering why I need to do anything else. I have food, I have shelter, I have clothing, I am healthy. What other animal feels the need to busy itself every waking hour working, creating, or seeking entertainment?
Annie sits next to me, her face high above mine, her tongue out, panting in the heat. Whenever I glance her way or touch her fur, she wags her tail. Whenever she dips toward my face for a lick, I laugh and dodge her long tongue. The wind waves over us, ruffling her fur, cooling my skin, scattering the leaves on the lawn.
The trees don’t feel the need to do something. They simply stand, growing, cells changing, providing homes and food for birds, squirrels and bugs. I don’t know what trees think—or if they think—but I doubt that they feel any urgency to read a book, listen to the news, check Facebook, earn money or be anything except a tree.
So why are we different? Why not just lie in the sun, letting it warm through our clothes into our skin and into our bones? Winter will come soon enough, and I will sorrow at the loss of this warmth, struggle to replace it with the pellet stove, hot baths and the electric blanket. I will curse the shortness of daylight and the length of darkness. My mood will darken with the sky.
But now, now when the sky is so blue and clear, when the wind is so gentle, when the lawn is dry and sweet-smelling, surely the creator of all this wants us to lie in the midst of it, simply being alive for a while.
When was the last time you did absolutely nothing but appreciate being alive? Try it for a little while. Turn off the radio, computer and cell phone. Just be.You have time. I promise.

The Ring Finger is Bare

Yesterday I took off my wedding ring. This may not seem like a big deal, but it has been a part of my body for 26 years and four months. The jeweler made our rings snug. After all these years, mine was tight, with puffy skin above it and calluses above and below. Every day since my husband Fred died in April, I have thought about how I need to take it off. I love the ring, love the way it shines in the light, but I’m not married anymore.

Finally in the shower, when my hand was soapy, I forced the ring off. As I shoved, my finger turned red and puffy. It hurt. It would have been so easy to just push the ring back into the place where the skin is white against the tan, but I kept pushing until it finally slid over the knuckle and came off.
Now the ring sits in the guest room on the nightstand next to Fred’s. I have tried on other rings to cover the blank spot, but none fits well, so I will work on making that finger the same color as the others.
Our rings were unique, created by a Los Angeles jeweler whom we met at an art and wine festival in Cupertino, California. We had been looking at various festivals and antique shops for something different. We brought the jeweler a bag full of old gold jewelry that Fred’s mother had given us to lower the price. After looking through her designs, we came up with antiqued filigreed bands with smooth borders, one in size 7 and one in size 10.
Fred was still wearing his ring when he died. My friend slipped it off his finger. He had lost so much weight it was loose by then. I knew mine needed to come off, too. You might wonder why. I could wear it forever if I wanted to. But the ring says I’m married, and I’m not. I needed to remove it to move on.
So far no one has mentioned the absence of my ring. I am surprised at how often I touched it, turned it, fingered its rough edges. I reach for it now, and there’s nothing there. My finger feels cold, as if I just took its coat off. It feels light as if it will just fly up in the air on its own.
Married twice, I have worn a wedding ring most of my adult life. Will I ever wear one again? I don’t know.
It will be four months on Tuesday since Fred died. One-third of a year. Most people have stopped coming up to say how sorry they are. Now they’re congratulating me on my new book. (Shoes Full of Sand).
But I am all too aware that a piece of me is missing. And not just jewelry.

Ah, Nature

Nature can be seen as the wilderness, but it can also be seen as the life we all experience.

I live in the coastal forest. It’s not far from town, but I grew up in suburbia, so when I see a bear, I get excited. (see previous post). I also get excited when I’m working in my yard and a snake suddenly slithers across my path. I yelp and jump back every time, even though I know the snakes here are not dangerous. It’s some kind of instinctual reaction. At least I can say the word “snake.” I’ve got a friend who calls them “fluffies.”

Today, I saw one snake, a short one, did my scream and dance, then went back to work, figuring that was my snake sighting for the day. Not so. A few minutes later, a much longer snake appeared out of nowhere. As I shrieked and backpedaled, Annie stood stunned as the snake wiggled through her legs and away under the fence. I had to sit down and take a breath after that. Then I saw a snake skin that one of my reptilian tenants had shed.

Deciding we’d had enough yard work, I leashed up the pup and we went to the nearby Beaver Creek wilderness area, a new Oregon State park that is just beautiful. It’s real wilderness, winding along the creek and through the marshes. What was the first thing we saw as we set paw on the path? Another snake, this one a long garter snake with a vermillion stripe. I don’t remember a more beautiful summer here, and I guess the snakes feel the same way.

Signs noted that bears and cougars had been seen around, but all we saw were bumblebees and, oddly, a rooster. Annie, who had no idea what it was, stared until I pulled her away. Still panting, she’s glad to be back on the sofa now.

Annie has had a busy few days. Saturday at the dog park, she fell in love for the first time. A dog-show-worthy doberman came trotting to the gate with his owner. Both dogs started whining to get together. Once the dobie was inside, Annie made a perfect fool of herself, dancing and posing as they sniffed each other’s parts. They ran together, then sniffed some more. The dobie, Frisco, was as smitten as Annie was. Cue the theme from Romeo and Juliet. Unfortunately, Frisco is an intact, purebred show dog, while Annie is a slightly overweight spayed mutt. But love is part of nature, and we can’t help who we fall in love with, can we?

Barks in the Night

1:30 a.m. Deep sleep for the first time in a week. Barking. Barking. Barking. As I gradually swim back to consciousness, I realize this is not just making-noise barking. There’s something out in the yard. Fresh from our recent bear sighting, I peel myself off the sheets and hurry barefoot to the door.
I can’t see Annie, but I hear her doing her fiercest I’m-going-to-kill-you bark. Oh, Lord.
It’s dark, clouds obscuring any moon or stars. I can’t see anything, but Annie is under the table at the west end of the deck. Between barks, I hear something else, something growling. “Annie,” I say, “we’re not alone out here.” Bark.
I run back in to get the big flashlight and shine it around. Finally, I see something moving through the deck railing. I grab Annie and drag her into the house, then come back out to take a closer look. A raccoon stares at me, its eyes shining in the flashlight. It appears to be caught between the deck and the chain link fence of the dog pen. These days, weeds and berries have grown so thick that nothing can move in there. If it can’t get out on its own, I don’t know what to do.
I go back in, telling Annie to sleep on the sofa where she dozes most of the time. But no, she wants to share my bed. It’s like having an elephant in the bed, a panting, stinky-breathed, sharp-clawed elephant who wants to lie on top of you with its feet in your face. Pretty soon I kick her out and take another look in the backyard.
My flashlight catches the raccoon hanging off the fence, its feet clinging to the chain link, its head facing downward. Swell. I go back to bed, ordering the dog to sleep on the couch, shutting my door so I can go peacefully back to dreamland. I hear Annie pacing outside my door and decide to ignore her until daylight.
My dreams are a blend of raccoons in the yard and The Bachelorette TV show for which I just watched the three-hour finale. She chose J.P., broke Ben’s heart, walked hand in hand into the sunset.
6:30 a.m. Daylight. Cloudy and still. Annie is waiting at the door. No way am I keeping her in now. We both hurry to where we last saw the raccoon.
It’s gone. Whew. Nothing but weeds in there. Annie sniffs at the fence and deck, then jumps down to the grass and sniffs the whole yard while I go back to bed and try to sleep. No go.I’m awake.
Time for orange juice for me and Kibbles and Bits for the dog. As she does her breakfast dance, I see that she has two shallow scratches on her nose. We didn’t imagine it; the raccoon was here. For both our sakes, I hope it doesn’t come back.
Thank God it wasn’t the bear.
***
More Oregon adventures can be found in Shoes Full of Sand, my new book, available in paperback and ebook form. Click here for details.

Seeking the end of the road

I always wondered what lay at the end of Thiel Creek Road, also known as 98th Street, the road I take to my house in South Beach. I had heard rumors that you could drive all the way to the city of Toledo, Oregon on it. A couple times I started out on it, but in those days I had more of a city car. When the road turned to gravel and then got so narrow I feared I would soon run out of room, I chickened out. I also kind of feared to meet the villains from “Deliverance,” if you remember that movie.

But I have a sturdy four-wheel drive now, and since I have become a widow, I am more daring. In the face of recent events, every other challenge seems pretty small.

So, one grouchy day last week, after a mid-day post office run, I turned onto 98th Street from Highway 101 and thought: Why not drive that road all the way to the end? The weather was great, and I had no reason to hurry home.

The road comes to a V just past Cedar Street. The north portion goes uphill into the sun, and the south branch goes down into the trees. I took the latter, a damp and shady road.

To my amazement, as soon as I left the paved portion, a bear ran across the road in front of me. Although I have heard many tales of bear sightings, I had never actually seen one here. This black bear was on the small side, streaking across the road and disappearing into the bushes, not far from where my dog Annie and I walk several times a week. 

I stopped the car, my heart pounding. “I saw a bear! I saw a bear!” Thank God I was in my car and not on foot.

Well, that turned my bum day around. Excited by my bear sighting, I drove on.

The road was narrow and mostly gravel. I passed the deserted blue house where Annie and her siblings were born. Beyond that, the road narrowed and the trees closed in. Ferns filled the roadside among the spruce and Douglas firs.Thiel Creek gurgled through marshland. Milepost 1.

I passed another house, then a for-sale sign and a big clearing with a bulldozer parked on it. More houses were hidden among the trees, one with a white goat in the front yard, but much of the road was unoccupied. On the right (south), a vast green area opened up. The road rose higher. I could see another road heading south down below but it was blocked by a gate and one of many no-trespassing signs. Milepost 2.

Although the road was already so narrow I didn’t know what I’d do if another car came, a sign warned of a “one lane road” up ahead. Narrower, wetter, darker. Time to turn around, I thought, not wanting to chicken out again, but not wanting to get stuck either.

Suddenly the road took a big curve north and I ended up on someone’s property. Thiel Creek Road ended at the front door of a massive blue house. Definitely the end of the road. If it ever went to Toledo, it didn’t now.

The road was riddled with private property signs, but I had thought they meant the areas to the sides. On the way back, I saw a blue gate that I had missed the first time. Oops. I really was trespassing.
I turned around and bumbled along the gravel road toward home, happy in my adventure, seeing a bear and making it to the end of Thiel Creek Road.

Now I know.

Frogs in the rain

I have to get over my attitude of: “They asked me, so I have to say yes.” That’s what I was thinking Saturday as I sat with my books in a persistent drizzle at the Jefferson Mint Festival and Frog Jump in Jefferson Oregon. Population 3,100, it’s located in farm country near Salem. My pants were wet, I had a headache, and I hadn’t sold any books yet.
It was the first outing with the new book, Shoes Full of Sand. I shared the booth with Elizabeth Fournier, a mortician who has published a book called All Men are Cremated Equal. No, it’s not about funeral homes, although she works for one. It’s a funny book about the year she went on 77 blind dates in search of a husband. Ironically, she wound up marrying another mortician whom she did not meet on a blind date. A gorgeous blonde with a deep sexy voice, Fournier also does voice work for commercials and such and teaches ballroom dancing. A fascinating woman. It turned out we both had connections with the same people in San Jose. Small world.
And it was a small town festival. The frog jump didn’t actually happen until Sunday, although there were rubber frogs, plastic balloon frogs, ceramic frogs and frogs made out of yarn for sale. Sipping weak mint tea,I cruised the three rows of booths selling knickknacks, plants, tie-dye clothing, books, etc. One row was all food, elephant ears bigger than a large pizza, two foot-long corn dogs, hamburgers, nachos, ice cream, all that healthy stuff.

Kids bounced around in a castle, swung around on what looked like a bungee spider and rode a little cow train while grownups listened to country rock bands and admired classic cars parked on the grass. Yellow-haired girls with poofy skirts twirled hoola hoops while bigger girls with flower wreaths on their hair strolled and flirted with football-player boys in baseball caps. Older couples pulled their tiny dogs around and bought gifts for the grandchildren. It was all so small-town Oregon.

I didn’t sell a lot of books, but I ate the most amazing Polish hot dog with sauerkraut, and now I know where Jefferson is. In the end, I broke even, and I was glad I said yes.

Dog Agility: Weave? Why?

Annie and I made our annual trek last weekend to the WAG (Willamette Agility Group) dog agility trials held at Newport Intermediate School. It was a bright sunny day, and the field was full of dogs, from chihuahuas and pugs to shepherds and weimeraners. Plus one yellow lab-terrier mix who couldn’t care less.

I love watching agility competitions. I’m always amazed at the connection between dog and owner. In the good teams, they barely need to communicate. The owner unleashes her dog, gestures toward the first hurdle, and the dog zooms onto the course, weaving, jumping and tunneling as if it’s the most fun it ever had.

Of course some dogs aren’t quite as cooperative. It takes lots of training to succeed at agility. You get the dogs who stand in the middle of the course barking, as if to say, what do you mean weave? I want to play. You get the ones who are eager to please but can’t quite figure out which way to go. You also get the ones who pick this most inopportune time to relieve themselves.

 

My own dear Annie has no interest in agility competition. Folks have set up several agility-type obstacles at our dog park, but I can’t get her to set paw on any of them. At the trials, she’s the kid out in left field picking daisies and chasing bumblebees.I’ll say, “Annie, watch this dog.” No thanks. I look around and she’s facing the other direction, watching a butterfly. So be it.