Ah, Warm Again

Here in the forest, the difference between being warm and being miserable depends on the state of the pellet stove. If I run out of pellets, brrr. And if one little wire decides to short out one little fuse, I have to put on my long underwear and ski jacket just to be warm. In fact, these days it’s warmer outside than in.

It happened on a Sunday, of course, and in the winter, when the area’s one guy qualified to fix these things is booked solid. Turn up the thermostat. Nothing. Push the reset button. Nothing. Play with the plug. Nothing. The stove was cold and so was I. The little electric heater barely warmed a square foot right in front of it. The cold laughed at its puny efforts. I cursed. I thought about moving to a house with a real heater. I daydreamed about warm air coming through vents at the flick of a switch.

I dreaded having the stove guy out, not just for the expense and disruption of my day but for the lectures he inflicts on his customers. On and on. “Now, Sue, take a look at this. . . ” I know. Just fix it.

It was the worth the lecture to have him come out this morning and fix the stove before the walls started to mold. He rearranged his schedule and gave me the “poor woman living alone” discount (not that he said so, but I can read). Now a yellow-orange flame burns hotly in the newly cleaned window as the fan pours out heat. Annie the dog and I jostle for space in front of the stove. Ahh, warm again.

Another birthday survived

I did it. I made it through another birthday. For once, I didn’t cry. It’s all Mom’s fault. She did this Queen for a Day thing where I woke up with my bed covered with gifts, went to school wearing something new, got to eat whatever I wanted and always had a family gathering with cake and more presents. She set a precedent. Now I want every birthday to be like that. As an adult, I got in the habit of taking off for the day to the coast, the woods, or a historical site. But I always knew we’d be celebrating in the evening. Except for the year my dear husband misunderstood and didn’t get me a cake because he thought I was on a diet. Diets do not include your birthday. Never.

Now, however, I live up here in Oregon’s coastal forest with my dog Annie. The dog does not do birthdays. She wants to play keep-away with the stick, go for walks, sleep on my lap, eat lots of “cookies” and chase invisible invaders in the dark.

I have had some lonely birthdays up here, and I thought this might be the loneliest. But no. I dragged my slightly older body to yoga class, where I proved to myself that I’m in darned good shape for my age. At the end of class, a friend asked what I was doing for my birthday. “Not much,” I said. “Well, how about if we go out for dinner?” she asked. So we did. She brought her husband, and another yoga couple met us at the Noodle House on Newport’s Bayfront. Great food, great conversation, a great ocean view, and they even gave me presents. No cake. But we did have these interesting cinnamon noodle rolls with a candle in the middle of the plate.

When you do yoga together, you create a bond. How can you not be friends when you stick your rear end up in the air in downward-facing dog, fall down trying to balance on one foot, and twist your arms and legs in ways they never intended to go?

Thank you, Lin, Jackson, Fran and Bill. It was great.

P.S. Don’t let me drink champagne next time.

Namaste.

Did I really see that?



On my long drives to and from Salem last month, I saw some amazing things. One of the wildest was a guy dressed up like the Statue of Liberty. He was advertising a tax preparation service. I had stopped at a light on Lancaster, and there he was. By the time I got my camera out, he had almost moved out of frame, but if you look closely, you’ll see him all in green.

Another guy nearly caused an accident. I was just driving onto the Yaquina Bridge here in Newport on my way to church, when I saw a group coming out of the Seafood and Wine Festival. One of them, a young man, had his pants down so low his entire butt cheeks were showing. He was clutching his pants in front. I don’t understand what was going on. Were his jeans severely damaged? Did he do it on a dare? Was he that drunk?

Sometimes I just see beautiful things, like a great sunset. As I came up over the hill and down into Newport, there it was. I changed course and drove straight to Yaquina Bay State Park where I snapped this shot.

Keep your eyes open, folks. There’s always something to see.

A Moment


Busy days and then suddenly, yoga class was cancelled, I had everything ready for the writing class I was teaching that night, and . . . I had time. Glorious sun lit the coastal forest and sparkled off the pond that spills into Thiel Creek. Trees cast shadows on the road as Annie and I walked. How strange it felt to not be wearing a coat, to feel sun on my bare arms. We walked up hill and down, Annie’s tan and white paws padding beside my gray Reeboks. As we U-turned at the dead end of Cedar Street, Annie was panting. My two-year-old pup is not used to heat.

At home, she lapped water of of her bowl while I drained my glass. Then we lounged on the deck, which was finally dry after weeks of wet. As I lay back, soaking in the warm wood and blue sky, Annie snuggled against me, her head on my chest. “Ah, girl,” I said. “We’ve been through a lot, you and I, but God has blessed us with this moment.” I held onto that moment carefully, like a butterfly that had landed in the palm of my hand, soon to fly away.

A Slice of Heaven



It pleasures my bloodshot eyes.

That’s what I chanted as I left Salem for the wide open spaces on the road to Mt. Angel Abbey last Friday. It was a rare sunny day that brightened vast emerald fields of grass, red barns, brown cows, and baby sheep running across the fields. Clouds shot across the blue sky like flying angels.

For so long I hadn’t driven anywhere except Albany to visit Fred and Salem to teach my writing classes. I hadn’t run away in ages. It felt so good.

I always thought Mt. Angel was just a seminary, monastery and retreat center, but it’s also a town, population approximately 3,700. Clearly the town banks on its connection to the abbey. Most of the downtown shops sport signs written in biblical lettering. The spires of St. Mary’s church rise into the clouds on the road to the seminary. Buildings housing the Benedictine sisters rise up on both sides of Mt. Angel Road.

Quaint old houses gave way to trees as I turned up the mountain. I saw all these little white buildings along the side of the road. Bus stops? Prayer stations? Each enclosed a picture of Jesus on the Way of the Cross, his path from conviction to crucifixion. Soon I saw a monk in brown robes. I can see this as an arduous meditative walk. The road is steep.

Cars filled the parking lot at the end of the road. I took an elevator to the main level and entered the bookstore. A soft hymn played through speakers overhead as I browsed through the books, statues and crucifixes. Deep sigh. Peace.

Being a seminary for men, Mt. Angel made me conscious of my gender, especially when I passed a classroom full of young men who watched me go by. But I saw signs on the doors of the guest house welcoming women by name, and I was relieved to find restrooms with the familiar skirted symbol for women.

Beyond the brick buildings and the massive church, one can see forever. The whole Willamette Valley spreads out below. Past the green fields and trees, I could see a snow-capped mountain peak poking through the clouds. So beautiful.

But you see the everyday, too. As I gazed eastward, I heard someone singing. This giant Chicano seminarian came out carrying a sack of garbage. He continued to sing as he dumped it in the dumpster and went back inside. He sang in a high falsetto. I wondered how that might go over when he’s a priest in his own parish, but it certainly would help in choir singing. Every choir needs a good high tenor.

I didn’t have to wear a jacket that day. Amazing. So warm, so sunny, so pretty.

I always want to do whatever I see. I can’t be priest, but I could be a nun at the Benedictine convent. Or I could move out there, work on the newspaper—they must have one–play some music, make quilts, grow flowers. Be warm. Attend the annual beer and sausage celebration called Wurstfest, which is happening this weekend. Plus, it’s only 40 miles from Portland.

Of course when I got home, I was less eager to move, and brown is not a good color on me. But while I was at Mt. Angel, time disappeared and I wanted to stay forever.

I can’t stay forever, but anyone can stay overnight or for a few days. I could take that long walk along the Stations of the Cross. See the website at www.mountangelabbey.org for information on retreats there.

From Mt. Angel, I rolled back into Salem and treated myself to lunch at Marie Callender’s. Seated in the chintz and floral dining room with a huge slice of corn bread with honey butter and all the iced tea I could drink, I knew there was a God.

Roadside blessings

After my last sad post about my dog Chico, I thought I’d give you a few happy notes from my weekly trip east to Albany to see my husband Fred and Salem to teach my creative writing class at Chemeketa Community College.

A string of Canada geese squawks overhead as I leave Burger King after a pit stop. They’re flying north early. They fly in the shape of the top of a crown. Later, walking around the pond at Waverly Park with Fred, I’ll see another batch in a V formation. On the ground, ducks and local geese vie for bread being tossed out by a young couple and their little boy. In their midst, I notice a few sea gulls trying to blend in. It works fine till they try to quack.
***
A church in the far west portion of Corvallis has a sign out front that says Ch__ch. Beneath is another sign that says, “This is a church; what is missing?” The answer? UR. Clever.
***
Sighted on I-5 just north of Albany: A dark-haired woman in the car next to me is blowing a gigantic bubble—about 3 inches in diameter. I’m already laughing when she eases ahead and I see the sign on the back of her car: “Naked Cleaning.” What? Her license plate says: ntr spy. Hmm.
***
Back at home, I look up into the bright sky and see a double rainbow around the full moon. Complete circles with color. You don’t usually see color at night. “Hey, Annie, look!” I call, but of course the dog has her nose to the ground.

I did a little research. It’s not a rainbow or a moonbow, although there is such a thing, produced by light reflected off the surface of the moon. Colored rings close to the moon are a corona caused by ice crystals that reflect and refract the light of the moon. They are red on the inside, blue on the outside.

One of the great things about living in Oregon’s coastal forest is the constant sky show. Without smog or ambient light, the sky always offers something new to see.
***
Life can be challenging, but it’s full of blessings, too, if you look for them.

Adios, Chico


My big black dog Chico is gone. I drove him to the Willamette Humane Society shelter in Salem on Saturday and “surrendered” him. Now I can only hope and pray that a wonderful family adopts him and enjoys his loving personality until he’s an old dog with a gray muzzle. Ironically, this was Chico’s 23-month birthday. We almost made it to two years.

He was eager to go for a ride, but as the curves piled one on another during our two-hour journey, he rested his head against the back of the car seat with an expression that said I don’t feel too good, but I will endure. As I drove, I pet his soft fur, felt his massive paws against my thigh and tried not to cry. He had been an angel lately, obeying every command, looking for what I wanted him to do next. He lay his big head on my knee while I worked and put up with wearing a leash every time he went out. I could not help but notice that he appeared to be better looking, more loving, and more obedient than his sister Annie, whom I am keeping. If only Chico hadn’t learned to jump so high that no fence could keep him in. If only he hadn’t tried to kill other dogs. If only my chubby wide-eyed puppy hadn’t gotten so big that he could easily pull me off my feet. I had spent the last five weeks trying to find someone who would take him. Everyone was leery of his size and his half pit bull heritage.

A young woman took him away as soon as I got to the counter. “Bye, honey,” I said, barely able to speak. That was the last I would see of him. The Humane Society will not give updates on what is happening with dogs that have been surrendered. He’s not mine anymore. I feel as if I have totally betrayed him, but I know I had no choice. With everything else that’s going on, with my husband in a nursing home and no one to help me with these big dogs, I had to let him go.

The Willamette Humane Society is a large property with lots of space for dogs to run and play. It was jammed on Saturday with people looking for pets and a Girl Scout troop on tour. The woman who went over my paperwork assured me that they have good luck finding families for surrendered animals. Last year 600 were adopted. She knew it was hard, but I shouldn’t worry about Chico, she said.

Oh, but it hurt to walk out alone. I drove to an empty lot outside a nearby construction warehouse and sobbed. I cried all the way to Philomath, where I bought myself an ice cream cone at Dairy Queen. Vanilla dipped in chocolate. A childlike reward for doing something so painful.

By the time I returned to South Beach, it was dark. I stopped at the Post Office and took down Chico’s poster, tossing it into the recycle bin, then went home to begin life as a duo, just Annie and me. She climbed into my lap, licked my face, and sighed.

And they float, too, like Ivory soap

It was amazing. There I was all dressed up in my new second-hand blazer and black slacks, visiting the restroom at the Sweet Waters Restaurant in Albany. I was on my way to spend some time with Fred at the nursing home before going on to Salem to teach my first class of the quarter at Chemeketa Community College. Ms. important, carrying her cell phone in her pocket lest she miss a call.

And then, all of a sudden, I heard something drop. Into the water. Yes, my cell phone. As I saw it floating, green lights glowing on the screen, I laughed. Of all the disasters I might have expected that day, I would never have expected that. Nor would I have expected that after I got the phone somewhat dried off with paper seat covers, it rang. Yes, there in the pink bathroom stall. It was an important call that I had been waiting for, and I subsequently became one of those people we hate who talk talk talk on their cell phones in the middle of a restaurant. My food, the post-holiday diet plate, came, and I just stared at it as I talked. Food, schmood, I had business to take care of.

Much later, when Fred and I were touring the local Petco, squeezing the dog toys and watching a turtle calmly eat a curl of lettuce, my phone rang again. I retreated into the depths of the cat food for a work call.

On Jan. 1, Oregon’s new law prohibiting hand-held use of cell phones while driving went into effect. I bought a do-hickey to stick in my ear, but I haven’t mastered the use of it yet. The only time I relaxed on the hour-and-a-half drive to the Willamette Valley was on that section of Highway 20 with no cell phone reception. No service? Ah, free at last from the phone. Crank up the radio. And then, as I approached the Burnt Woods store, the phone chimed. It was back in service, and I had a message. I parked at the store, listened to my voicemail, called the person back, left a message on her voicemail.

I think we’re all becoming seriously demented these days and not in the way the folks at my husband’s nursing home are. We need something electronic going at all times. Silence scares us.

It’s something to ponder, along with how my phone survived its swim in the toilet. Is there a five-second rule for soaked cell phones? They float pretty well, although I don’t advise trying it.

Happy New Year!

It’s a new year, a new decade, and I feel filled with hope for the future. Even though we drag our old problems past midnight into the next day, week, month and year, I feel as if 2010 brings a chance to start fresh.

For those who are following the dog saga, Chico is back in the kennel until I can find a shelter that will take him. I swear he’s sweet and lovable in normal times. If I’m sitting in my office and call him, he’ll come trotting in from wherever he is and rest his chin in my lap. He’s eager to please. But outside, he keeps jumping the fences, and he has proven that he can’t get along with other dogs. Last Tuesday, he went after a visiting dog and got both him and me with his teeth. We’ll both live, but it was scary. My old dog didn’t get along with other animals either, but she rarely met them face to face; we were able to control her whereabouts. Not so with Chico. He’s in exile, and Annie is with me. Enough on that subject.

We got a break from the rain today, and I can even see some blue sky up there. Around these parts, when the sun makes an appearance, we drop everything and go outside. Annie and I took a walk and played with her big stick–and proved that young knees work a lot better than aging ones. I’m working hard to train her more consistently so that her bully genes don’t cause any problems like the ones mentioned above.

Tonight I play the vigil Mass for the Epiphany–the Feast of the Three Kings. Once more through the Christmas songs. When I finished practicing this afternoon, I rocked out on some old 60s songs. Boy, it was fun. It’s a new year, and I’m ready to jam.

I’ve got my Christmas decorations down and my calendars up, and I’m ready for the new year. My resolutions? Just to get those things done that I kept putting off last year and to count my blessings instead of my injuries. How about you? Any resolutions?

Thanks for reading me this last year. We’ll venture into new territory each week, usually on Thursdays. I look forward to exploring my world with you.

Boxing Day

I could use a punching bag today, but the pugilistic type of boxing is not what the title refers to. It’s a UK tradition referring to how people box everything up and put it away the day after Christmas. I’m doing a little of that, but I’m also playing referee between my dog Chico and the world. I had taken him back to the kennel for Christmas. I was going to be gone most of Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. He seemed happy enough to return to the world of concrete cages and barking dogs of all types. Annie and I settled into happy togetherness. I thought I would pick Chico up tomorrow.

But today, a day when I planned to relax, a woman called about Chico. She was very anxious to meet him and willing to drive an hour and half to the kennel if she could meet him today. Okay. Trying very hard to put it all into God’s hands, I drove up the frosty winding road to the kennel, parking just as she arrived. But oh, Chico. He came out like a speeding bullet, jumped all over me and almost pulled me off the hill. I got him to sit and lie down long enough for her to pet him and decide he was very cute. But they had him on a leash the width of a shoestring and that didn’t work. He needs a big-dog collar and big-dog leash. She tried to walk him and decided he was too much for her. Apologizing, she said no.

Since I was already there, I paid his bill and brought him home. If someone else calls, it will be easier if I have him with me.

When we arrived, he and Annie went into full fight mode, but they calmed down pretty quickly. However, Chico will not play with her, and as soon as I opened the door he flew over the fence. It was quite amazing. Such a graceful arc through air, up and over. If I leave the gate open, he checks in from time to time, but I can’t let Annie out now. Meanwhile, I had just started to type this when I heard my neighbor by the gate trying to call Chico, trying to bribe him into coming home. She doesn’t understand that he’s no longer the docile little puppy he used to be. At dark, I will corral him, but I can’t hold this animal that doesn’t want to stay here, and I can’t keep him if he endangers people and animals in his path. I’m giving it two weeks, then taking him to an animal shelter.

When the setting sun gilds the tops of the trees, I’ll lock him in for the night. He’ll go to sleep, blocky head on his massive paws. Both dogs will sleep in the laundry room with a portable heater going against the intense cold that has set in again. I’ll give them cookies, assure them I love them, and wish them “Boa noite” as I shut the door.

I pray that someone else, someone strong, someone with a fence and no cats, someone willing to give a bully dog a break, will call.

****
While Chico was gone, Christmas happened. This was my first one without any family and without Fred. The best parts happened during the hours I was playing music with the church choir onChristmas Eve and Christmas. I opened my gifts alone, so conscious of Fred’s empty chair. There weren’t many gifts until the last minute, but each one is a special blessing. I am so grateful for my friends and for the family members who remembered me from afar.

Instead of having Christmas dinner, I drove to Albany to visit Fred in the nursing home. It was a pretty ordinary day there. I doubt the residents knew it was Christmas. I read Fred’s Christmas cards to him and helped him open his gifts. Then we adjourned to the living room area for warm peanut butter cookies with sprinkles and a Christmas carol singalong with staff members. I dozed on Fred’s shoulder through part of a Christmas movie.

The same woman is still saying it’s time to go home. Loy is still hollaring “Hey!” Eugene stood up and his pants fell down, exposing his diapers and skinny white legs. And Fred and I parted with tears in our eyes.

Life has its ups and downs. In spite of everything that has happened this year, I’m hopeful for 2010. I hope you are, too.

Christmas is over. Hooray! Happy New Year!