Sue Fagalde Lick books – Unleashed in Oregon

What treat will come in the mail today?

WIN_20200803_11_17_42_Pro It’s like Christmas every day around here. Last Monday, the mail carrier brought me a book, bubble envelopes and what I thought would be a flowing yellow blouse that turned out to have no sides. Poncho? Vest? Alb? I don’t know, but it’s pretty.

Another day, my mailbox held sky blue curtains I ordered to replace the broken blinds in my bedroom. For $31, they’re cheesy and don’t quite reach all the way across my windows, but they’ll work. The new blind-free view revealed my beat-up garden shed that really needs a new door and a coat of paint. Home Depot delivers!

This weekend, I ordered more bubble envelopes, another book, and three online auction items that I could totally live without. I have been ordering new stuff almost every day of the COVID pandemic shutdown. Normally I hate shopping, but this is so easy, and who doesn’t need something bright, shiny and new about now?

Some of what I have ordered: a crazy-colored cardigan (shown in photo), two pairs of earrings, a dog ramp, mandolin music, books, books, and more books. And then there was the ocarina. Shaped like . . . an ibis head? . . . it’s a musical instrument that sounded so beautiful on the video I had to have one. Turns out it plays like a recorder with the holes all turned around, and it’s extremely difficult to play in tune. Did I need to learn another instrument? Let’s see, I have one piano, one keyboard, three guitars, two mandolins, a ukulele, countless harmonicas and recorders, a couple kazoos, two tambourines, and my grandfather’s accordion. Uh, no.

Some of my orders have been things I needed, office supplies, for example. The dog ramp seemed essential after the last time I tried to lift 75-pound, bad-knees Annie into the SUV, couldn’t do it, and we stood in a parking lot staring at each other for a long time before I mustered the heave-ho to get her in. I’m still working on training her to go up the ramp and not around it.

Most of what I have ordered could not be found in local stores, even pre-COVID. This is a small town. Staples moved out. Our music store has downsized to a cubbyhole. I’m not thrilled about the clothes at Fred Meyer, plus I haven’t even looked there in the coronavirus era. Like most of my friends, I buy the groceries I need, get out ASAP, and sanitize the heck out of myself and everything that came out of the store.

But day after day at my computer, here’s Facebook–which knows everything I ever Googled or peeked at in any online store–dangling pretty things in front of me when I should be working. If I click on them, they keep coming back. You know you want them. You know you want them. Just give in and click “buy.”

That’s how I got the crazy cardigan. One day, after many viewings, I said, “If it shows up again today, I’m buying it.” It did, and I did. It took almost two months to arrive, and it’s even gaudier than it looked in the picture, but I kind of like it.

I just love getting packages. In my childless, widowed, orphaned state, I don’t get much for Christmas or my birthday, but why wait? Click, and it’s mine. I don’t have to touch any actual money, so the cost doesn’t sink in.

I think COVID has made us all a little nuts in this regard. A few Sundays ago, when in normal times I’d be at church, I posted on Facebook: “I will not buy anything online today, I will not buy anything online today, I will not . . .” One friend after another commented that she too was buying all kinds of stuff online. Many had bought something already that day. I held off, but on Monday, I was back at it.

I love the mailman and the UPS man—they are men in my neighborhood. Some things take forever to arrive—I’m still waiting for my iced tea machine replacement pitcher which I really do need–but other things, wow. Those bubble envelopes were here the next day. I can’t imagine how Amazon did that.

All this shopping seems to be a crazy COVID side effect. Not only are we at home and online way more than usual, but I think many of us have a feeling of why not enjoy ourselves now. We could get COVID and die next week.

What have I ordered today? Bigger bubble envelopes for my bigger books (which I would be delighted to mail to you. See suelick.com.)

Self-indulgent? You bet. But we all need a little dose of happiness these days.

So, how about you? Are you buying more than usual online? Is this the Internet equivalent of the Home Shopping Network? What’s the best or weirdest thing you have bought during the pandemic?

New book features stories about diners

Big Guy's Diner Remember the Big Guy’s Diner? I do. Located in Newport, Oregon, it was a block of white bricks with red window trim. A bell rang when you entered the door. Often the big guy himself, owner Mark Jones, was cooking at the grill. You could sit anywhere. It was casual, and if the plasticized menus were a little sticky and the bathrooms slightly disgusting, so what? You could get a milkshake there that would cure just about anything, and the Monte Cristo sandwiches were heavenly. Although some of our friends decided The Big Guy’s was not up to their standards, Fred and I went there a lot. He was a fan of the two-two-two breakfast: two eggs, two slices of bacon, two pancakes. My order depended on my mood. Feeling virtuous: a BLT and soup or salad with iced tea. Just don’t care anymore: the Monte Cristo with fries and a vanilla milkshake.

After Fred’s Alzheimer’s diagnosis, I attended support group meetings in an office across the street in the Sea Towne shopping center. Fred would meet me afterward at the Big Guy’s. It was like a date. I’d park my Honda next to his blue pickup, and we’d say hello as if we were surprised and delighted to run into each other.

Alas, when Fred couldn’t drive anymore, our Big Guy’s dates ended. Soon after that, the restaurant closed. The property sat vacant for years, but finally the old building was razed, and O’Reilly Auto Parts moved in. Fishtails in South Beach became our regular lunch spot.

Dine_Cover_Front_Only_For_Web_06.20 Searching through old posts, I’m surprised I didn’t write anything about the Big Guy’s Diner here before. Now I don’t want to say too much because my essay about that piece of Newport history is soon to be published by Hippocampus Press in a new anthology of true stories called Dine. Imagine a whole book devoted to our favorite “greasy spoon” restaurants. They shared the cover last week. Preorders begin in August, with publication Oct. 1. Read more about the book here.

That means I will be promoting two books in October, Dine and my poetry chapbook Gravel Road Ahead. The chapbook is a collection of poems about being the wife of a person with Alzheimer’s disease, from diagnosis to the inevitable end. Preorders for that book are being taken now. I need my friends to order lots of copies to ensure a full press run. Click here, order, tell your friends. If you want an autographed copy or just don’t want to mess with the publisher’s forms, contact me directly at sufalick@gmail.com to let me know how many copies you want, and I’ll put you on the list.

Lick_Sue_Fagalde_COV_EM I also have a piece on sex (gasp!) about to appear in Creative Nonfiction magazine, and a second chapbook, Widow at the Piano: Confessions of a Distracted Catholic, is coming out from The Poetry Box next March. I have already had poems appear this year in Rattle and Atticus Review. Although 2019 has been the pits personally—all the Dad drama, Annie’s surgery, and certain personal ailments I don’t care to discuss, professionally it has been amazing. Odd-numbered years seem to be good for my writer self.

I feel a little guilty about all this advertising and bragging, but when a friend asked yesterday what I was writing, all I could think of was promotional material for all of these publications. There’s a lot of behind-the-scenes work for every book that comes out.

So, who remembers the Big Guy’s? Now that it’s gone, do you have any suggestions for Oregon diners that would be good for book-signing parties? I can’t think of a better combination than crisp, salty French fries and a good book.

If You Give Us the Tools, We Can Do It

43947533 - red tool drawer Kitchens are for girls, garages are for boys. Girls sew, boys saw. That’s the way it was when I grew up. While I was in the home economics class learning how to poach eggs and set a proper table, the boys were in the classroom next door learning how to take apart an engine and make small wooden shelves. While Mom helped me with my knitting, Dad showed my brother how to change the oil on the Buick.

That’s the way it was back in the ’50s and ’60s when I was growing up. Girls needn’t worry their pretty little heads about so-called men’s work. The man of the house would do it.

Bull pucky. What if there is no man? Or what if a woman wants to do it herself? All she needs is the skills. God, I wish there was a shop class I could take now.

Last week, I installed a new toilet seat. I took apart my sink to unclog it. My pellet stove requires constant attention. With my husband gone, no kids, and no money to pay someone, who else is going to do these things?

It has been a week for mechanical difficulties. On Wednesday, seven days after I came home from my trip to San Jose, I realized my “landline” phone had not rung in ages. I don’t get a lot of calls, but this seemed strange. I tried calling myself with the cell phone. My phone started to ring then cut off. Being me, I did this about seven times before I decided I had to call the phone company.

Yesterday, a nice man spent two hours here checking all my phones and wires. He had to get at all five phone jacks, which meant moving my dresser, crawling under my desk, and getting right in the middle of my mess, while I watched, helpless and embarrassed. I could have done most of what he did.

In the end, he fixed a short in the wires and determined that two of my five phones were dead. I sang “Taps” and put them out for the garbage, then pulled ancient “princess” phones out of a drawer and watched him plug them in. I put “buy phones” on my to-do list. Why does one person have five phones? Part of it is that with my fading hearing I can’t hear the phone ring if I’m not nearby. Part of it is just that once upon a time there were more people here.

The phone guy was observant. He asked about my guitars. He commented on the giant Styrofoam image of Fred from his retirement party. He talked about his own retirement plans. I kept talking about “we.” “We” had two businesses, “we” moved the phone jacks. I never mentioned that “we” is just me now. He might have figured it out from the shrine in the bedroom.

After he left, I set out to work on the lawnmower. Last Friday it worked fine while I mowed the front lawn. Since then, it huffs and it puffs, but it won’t start. I tried adding gas, checked the oil, turned it upside down and shook it, unscrewed the top and stared inside, and watched a video on YouTube. Okay, the problem could be fuel, compression or spark plug. I decided the spark plug was the culprit. Apparently you’re supposed to change them once in a while. Timidly, I pulled off the rubber do-hickey and exposed the white end of the spark plug. Now, how does a body get that thing out of there? And what is this business about “gapping?”

Too much. I walked across the street to ask my neighbor. He wasn’t home, but the dog was overjoyed to see me. Unfortunately, the dog does not have hands.

Hey, YouTube.

A YouTube guy with a long beard and southern accent described the process. You get your 3/8 ratchet and your 13/16 socket and pull out the plug and . . .

Wait. What?

Somewhere in the garage were sockets and ratchets. I opened drawers till I found them lined up in their little boxes like my crochet hooks in different sizes. But which one is for spark plugs?

Later. It was almost time to start making dinner. It was going to rain soon. I still had a section of jungle I needed to weed-whack. I pulled out the weed trimmer. It hummed, but it didn’t cut. I checked the string. How different is it from thread in a bobbin? Not very. I straightened that sucker out, pushed the switch, and shouted in jubilation as the weed parts flew. No wonder guys like power tools. I cut and cut, even when the rain started pelting my hair and darkening Fred’s old green shirt. I finished the job and went in to make dinner.

I pulled a package of rolls out of the freezer. The bag broke. Bread and sesame seeds littered the floor. Seriously? My language scared the dog.

Yesterday, I conquered the weed-whacker. Today I will conquer the spark plug. If I can change a guitar string, I can do this.

Men, share your tools with your wives and daughters. We’ll show you how to bake a cake and run the vacuum cleaner. Women, go out to the garage and refuse to leave until the guys show you how to do what they do. Don’t just bring them a beer and go back to the kitchen. You need to know this stuff.

I welcome your comments.

Photo copyright: peeranat / 123RF Stock Photo

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My new novel Up Beaver Creek is coming soon. The interior pages are complete, and the cover is in progress. It will be available next month. Meanwhile, check out my Amazon page for other books you might want to read. I’ll be outside working on the lawnmower.

Unleashed in Oregon blog book is born

Unleashed PB cover Well, I did it. Soon I’ll be holding a paperback book copy of Unleashed from Oregon: Best from the Blog. It will have tangible form, unlike these weekly blog posts in cyberspace, which could disappear if something happened to WordPress, Wi-Fi or the Internet. It will also put together related posts from various times and places to create a new story.

What’s in it? You’ll find the answers to these questions and more. What is a Californigonian? What was waiting by the door that night? What possessed us to adopt two puppies at once? How is playing the piano like ice skating? Why stay in Oregon when it rains all the time and the family is still back in California? Chapters will look at the glamorous life of a writer and the equally glamorous life of a musician, true stories from a whiny traveler, being the sole human occupant of a house in the woods, and dogs, so much about dogs.

With over 500 posts published over the last 10 years, I had to leave a lot out. Frankly, many of those posts deserved to be left out. They made sense at the time, but now not so much. The photos in the book are black and white because the cost of color photos was prohibitive and this isn’t a coffee table book. I refuse to charge people $40 a copy. I wanted it to be fun and inexpensive. And it is.

Putting Unleashed the book together has been a challenge. The cover I loved for the e-book didn’t work for the paperback, so they’re different. Choosing the posts, finding the files, and finding the original photos (I need a better system!) took time. Remind me not to try formatting another book with pictures. Also remind me to use a real camera instead of my phone. Getting photos, page numbers, and headers to line up, yikes, but I think you’ll like the result.

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