And now take the time to write, knit, weave and crochet... I eat good food, I walk the dog and I care about what people think about everything. While I have shelter and sustenance, I am calm and peaceful, but I'm not assured that the serenity I live in now will abide if I were to lose my income and lived under a bridge. I do not live under any illusions that life is fair. I have had too much heartbreak to believe in justice and so have you.
Mom did laundry in an old wringer washing machine all the time I was growing up. She used a crooked stick to take the clean laundry out of the tub to push the clothes into the wringer.
Once clean, she hung our clothes out to dry. In the winter, she hung them to dry in the basement next to the giant oil furnace that had arms like a giant spider that led to every vent in the house.
Mom never asked for help with the laundry. Do you think that the memories of when she was a kid, Uncle John got his arm stuck in the wringer and tore his forearm skin clean off, kept her from wanting us to help?
Once I was in high school, a Fred Meyers was built with an attached laundro-mat a few blocks from home. Then, and only then, did she ask for help with the laundry.
She never had a washer and dryer until her and Dad sold the house and moved to an apartment complex in Beaverton in the 70s. Even then, it wan’t her washer and dryer.
After Dad died and she retired, she moved in with us when she turned 62. The first thing she bought was a brand new Sears & Roebuck washer and dryer.
Mom lived with me until she passed away at 89 years old and I never did another load of clothes until she passed away.
I wake to another cold and rainy day. What a relief after our brutal Summer and Fall where the earth cried for rain. From what’s predicted, we should have nothing but welcome cold and clouds and rain through the middle of the month, at least. May it be so until Spring arrives in our neck of the woods
As long as I have my coffee in the morning and my lovely warm bed and my beautiful room and knitting to do and the cats and dog lying about, I can’t imagine being more content on this November 1st.
I’m trying to put aside the earth’s sorrow and just enjoy that the holidays are here. Though I love every season I might say that this is my favorite time of year, though I can find something in every season to bring me joy.
But I love the dark days and I love when people start to put up the twinkling lights. I love to walk by houses with lights in the windows at 5:00 in the evening. I can imagine a warm welcome for everyone. I love the gatherings with drink and food and at least an appearance of love and goodwill. I love the giving of gifts no matter how great or small.
Contrary to what many, or maybe even most think that these are Christian holidays, for me they are not and never have been. Rituals of celebration and gatherings and the giving of gifts existed way before what people think of as commercialization. Make your days of celebration be what you will.
I am too much of a realist to wish a cozy home and enough food to sustain through the dark months for every person and being on the Earth… and peace… at least peace. And yet I wish it so.
Remember that I told you that Dhillon suddenly stopped calling altogether, I mean really sudden? It’s just not like him because never has a month gone by since 2002 that I haven’t heard from him.
That’s 20 years, over 20 years. Mostly, even if I wouldn’t pick up the phone, he tried to call me every week. If he was anything, he was persistent.
Anyway, last night I dreamt that I went to my grandmother’s house and Dhillon’s whole family was there. What I didn’t know was that we were all gathered there for Dhillon to tell me that he had a baby with a woman named Lois. I asked him if he had gotten her pregnant while we were still together and he said yes. I sensed that there was someone in the bedroom and felt it was Lois and maybe his baby.
He had aways raised my suspicion. I had no reason ever to trust him. And here was the proof. My thought was that he had cheated on me and so sadly and somewhat distraught, I tried to leave. But before I could leave, everyone, but his Indian ex-wife, hugged me and had tears in their eyes which, never would have happened. Not one person in his family ever liked me in the least, not as his girlfriend and not even as his friend nor even as a person who helped him as a secretary.
I dated Dhillon for 8 years and still, he did not ever say to them what I was to him. Dhillon tried to talk to me but I turned and walked away and closed the door behind me as he was moving towards me. I had no reason to want to talk to him.
Strangely, Tony, an old friend, was sitting in a chair by the dining room table against the wall. It appeared that she was a friend of the family. She did not get up. I looked at her and asked if she knew about all this and she nodded her head. I told her she was no longer my friend and I didn’t want to ever hear from her again. That did not seem to phase her.
I then drove to a small apartment downtown where more of Dhillon’s family (maybe cousins) were living. They were in the tiny kitchen and the stove was pulled out from the wall at an odd angle stretching the gas line. It worried me. They told me it was because their dad had told them it had to be that way even though I was trying to shove it back into place. So, I pulled it back out to where they had it initially.
I asked them about Dhillon and they weren’t really interested in talking to me about him. There was another close friend of mine with dark hair, I can’t remember exactly who it was, standing in the kitchen. I asked her if she knew about Dhillon having had a baby with this woman named Lois, and she said yes. I also told her that I never wanted to speak to her again and that she was not my friend. Just like Tony, it didn’t phase her that I was hurt and wanted to never see her again. She also seemed to be very close to Dhillon’s family.
I went down onto the street and some children, who were also Dhillon’s family, were standing across the street waiting for Dhillon. I looked to see that he was walking up the street towards us. I could see him at least two blocks away coming from the direction of his first restaurant. I wanted to see him and yet I didn’t want to see him. When he got close, I turned to walk away and he wanted to walk with me and talk to me but I rejected him, telling him to go away.
I awoke remembering the tiniest, what seemed to be, insignificant details.
I thought the answer to why he had disappeared from my life, so suddenly and curiously, could be in this dream. I had conjectured that he couldn’t contact me because of family but I couldn’t know for sure. Since I rarely remember a dream, I believe the answer is somewhere in there, perhaps only in the symbols.
Just waiting on the buttons to finish the button hole band.
The long awaited Ranger sweater, by Jared Flood, is done except for the button hole band… we’re waiting on the buttons.
Jesse (son and fortunate recipient) has ordered some Native American handmade silver buttons that will really enhance this cardigan.
The yarn is local to me and made of Brooklyn Tweed, Shelter, in the colorway, Artifact. The yarn is spun of Targhee-Columbia wool. It’s worsted weight and is woolen spun into a very light 2 ply that if not careful can be pulled apart almost as easily as unspun yarn like the beautiful Swedish Nutiden yarn.
Soon, I’ll be giving it a good soak in warm water and then I’ll pin it to block it to hopefully give it a perfect fit. I can’t hardly wait to see the stitches bloom and come together in the most pleasing way.
Jesse will be wearing this sweater when the weather warrants a big cozy jumper. When the warm monsoon like rains of fall turn into bone chilling shards of icy and soaking rains, he’ll be warm. Because wool, even when wet. or covered in snow, remains warming. Just ask any sheep.
This was not an easy project. I warn you that if you’re not familiar with garment making and reading a complex pattern, start with something easier. Bette Hunter, of Scotland’s Oban Seil Farm, says that some patterns read like a foreign language. These challenge even the most experienced knitters.
I did a number of techniques that I have not attempted before. First and foremost was knitting a sweater from the bottom up. I will, I swear from this day forward, reject any pattern that starts you at the bottom. How are you suppose to know if it’s going to fit if you can’t try it on along the way? I learned so much from knitting this beauty, but it put me through my paces.
I love the yarn, I love the sweater but please universe, don’t let me do this again.
My trip to Arizona was amazing. Tracy and Kelly and I visited historic sites to view missions and petroglyphs. We visited mountains and canyons, the desert and rivers and creeks.
We hiked in the Madera Canyon in the Santa Rita Mountains and did a lot of birdwatching. A coati came right to the door of our cabin… not once but three times.
Deer and wild turkeys were abundant as were the afternoon thunder storms with raindrops the size of marbles. The food we ate on our travels was a cultural adventure.
Tracy drove us along the rim of Box Canyon, an adrenaline rush to be sure. Where the road was washed out and only wide enough for the truck, we laughed or held our breath as we looked into the depths of the Canyon, yelling and telling Tracy not to look but to keep her eyes on the road.
The skies in Arizona are wide and blue or black with giant storm clouds the size of mountains. The roads are strewn with washes and signs warning of flash floods and cattle wandering the open ranges.
I greet the saguaro as we pass by. They seem like old friends and maybe ancestors. I love all of the cactus that I see as we drive long, long stretches of road through the reservations and small towns and seeming nothingness except the land, the mountains and sky. But there’s something special about the saguaro that I can’t explain.
Though October is rattler explosion time, I thankfully didn’t see a one and I thankfully didn’t see not even one bear or big cat. The universe heard my cry.
We knew the elusive Red Start was near because we could hear it’s song. We were never able to spot it until moments before we left the cabin when it hopped upon our door jamb as though to mock us and to say goodbye.
Back home we visited the Cosanti studio again where they bought me another bell. We swam in the pool and looked at the sky and read the books we bought along the way. We watched a movie or two and discussed life in general and in particular as we loved on the three old dogs and cats.
I came upon this book while scrolling one day. The cover grabbed me as did the overview… “good as Stephen King”, they said. I’ve never read horror, nor Stephen King but I was fascinated by the tags: #fairy tales, #horror. Then I lost it and couldn’t remember title or author.
Friends helped me search but no luck. I turned to bookstores explaining that I knew nothing about it except there was a scary pen and ink drawing of a hare on the jacket. Though they tried, no one could help me.
Finally, on a trip in Arizona, I went into the “Quail Run” bookstore in Green Valley, where the man at the counter made a few research attempts when I asked, “Can you help me find this book? Nope, no author name and no title”. As expected, he came up with nothing. But, as I turned to leave, he said, “Wait, my wife might be able to help”.
If I relied on looks, I never would have pegged her as a researcher. As she walked up the aisle, she might have been a waitress or a hairdresser maybe: long nails, even longer eyelashes, bleached and permed hair, skin tight jeans and t-shirt and skinny as a rail.
Soon, “Miss Quail Run” was at the computer tapping away. “No, nope, no, thats not it”, I said as she offered this one and another. Her husband, now not so sure said, “Welp, we tried…” She cut him off and said with a wink, “Don’t be so hasty. I’m not ready to give up yet, are you?”.
I was happy that I had found someone willing to try harder. Why, I wondered since the book I was looking for was way out of my “comfort genre”, did I care so much whether she found it or not? She kept tapping and asking the same question while I kept repeating, “no, nope”.
Suddenly, she said, “Look at this”. There on the screen was a YouTube video with a woman holding up two books. The images were tiny but as she zoomed in, there it was, the illusive book I had been looking for. Winterset Hollow, by Jonathon Edward Durham. I knew she had found it only because of the freaky, very freaky, hare on the cover.
My companions heard me yelp from the back of the store. When I asked her how she found it, she simply said, “I’ve always had a knack”. She explained that since she was little she could always find things.
Unfortunately, they didn’t have any in stock but not to fear, Amazon is here to save the day. Tracy (daughter) ordered 2 copies, one for me and one for her. Perhaps, I have found a new genre to enjoy. We’ll see if it was worth all the trouble that me and several other people went through just to find a book based only on a drawing on a book jacket.
It just goes to show that in research it’s best to not ever give up…. nor judge a book by its cover like I did with the “diner waitress” looking researcher. She was a crackerjack!!!
It’s the Pacific Northwest, Portland. We have dry, hot winds from the east out of the Gorge blowing in from the desert-like High Steppes.
Everything is tinder dry and crackling. The ground forms fissures like open mouths waiting for a drop of water to quench its thirst.
For the first time, I’m hearing the Cosanti bell ringing more, as our porch, where it hangs, faces east. It’s so lovely, but I’m wishing for wet, Fall weather with hard winds coming from the southwest, heavy with water from the ocean.
We need days of rain… days and days, maybe even weeks… months. We need cooler, cold, temperatures to make the sap run into the roots of the trees, so the leaves can change color and drop to the ground in soggy layers. This persistent summer-like heat feels strange, unnatural, even.
People… we look at each other in shorts and t-shirts, eating out of doors at sidewalk cafés, strolling after dark as if it were mid-summer. We smile uncomfortably, commenting about the strange weather, attemting to make light of something so unfamiliar.
Will it end? Will we get back to rain bouncing off the pavement, forming puddles, streaming from the roof, filling the gutters. Can we get back to running from the house to the car and into the store, school, coffee shop, trying not to get wet? Will the streams and rivers rise to flood levels again? Will children have to wear raincoats over their Halloween costumes ever again?
Can we get back to sweaters, raincoats and boots? Can we get back to complaining about the dark days and constant rain? Please.
“If I have any debt to pay, I will pay it to god.” That sentence and that image kept me out of jail… I think.
Just out of high school and barely 18, I got my first job. Well, my first job was as a theater usher at the age of 16 for $1.50 an hour but this was my first real grownup job.
No one had encouraged me to go to college. I guess making something of myself, in the traditional sense, was not an option. This was 1967 so smoking weed and taking LSD and going to live dance venues represented adulthood and freedom and a meaningful education in real time. My main occupation was expanding my mind. But in order to do this, I needed a job.
I’m out of the house, I have my own apartment and my frontal lobe obviously was not fully developed. Good sense hadn’t even occured to me yet. Making reasonably good decisions was not my strong suit, let alone a priority. But finding a job to support my new lifestyle was.
I could do retail, I told myself. The most interesting shop around was Import Plaza owned by Bill and Sam Naito. I applied and was immediately hired, on what merit, I hadn’t a clue. But this was my first step in becoming an independent woman. This is where fate took over.
This is where I met my new best friend, Laurel Lee. Yes, it was that Laurel Lee (may she rest in peace), author of Walking Through the Fire, and subsequently, many other books. She was working there before she became famous so that she and her husband, Richard, could travel to Alaska in a house he was building on the back of a truck.
This was a general retail position. I stocked shelves, put price stickers on new items, straightened the merchandise throughout the store, helped at the cash register bagging purchases and that kind of thing… in other words, anything I was asked to do.
I proved to be reliable and a good worker. I was promoted to cashier and merchandising. The Naito brothers liked me and soon, but not warranted, they put their trust in me. I was given the keys to the store to open and close. Before long, I was invited into the office where they discussed training as a buyer. I had met the current head buyer and I liked her. This would mean international travel as a trainee. But how did I fuck this up?
I was not new to fucking up. I had a couple of opportunities while in high school that I passed up that could have set me up for a successful future. The first was working as a designer for Star Sapphire. My art instructor saw potential that others did not see. She knew people and set me up with an interview. Without going in to painful detail, suffice it to say, I foolishly let that slip through my fingers.
My second opportunity was with the Portland Junior Symphony. Again, a teacher saw potential, this time in my musical abilities. I auditioned and interviewed and was accepted. But once again I let an incredible opportunity pass me by. I won’t go into great embarrassing detail but it’s another example of me fucking up.
So continuing on with the story of the perils of being young and an already established history of being really foolish, I made a bigger mess of things. I’ll make this short.
First, my criminal escapades started with taking smoked oysters and exotic crackers off the shelf to eat lunch with Laurel. She was already taking from the store. Richard would come to pick her up and I noticed that he was leaving with goods without paying. His strategy was to pick up several things, pay for one or two and stash the rest in a bag leaving with the stolen goods.
As time went on, I was taking small imported objects to decorate my apartment and imported cookies from Belgium, baskets from Thailand, fabrics from India, stained glass lamps from Morocco. Once I was closing the store, I took a rattan “King Chair” from Indonesia. I took, unabashedly, jewelry from around the world.
What was I doing? I had never even shoplifted the odd candy bar or lipstick or mascara as a kid. My parents taught me perfectly. Don’t lie. Don’t steal. Don’t walk across the neighbor’s lawn. Don’t skip school. Don’t cheat. Be kind and conscientious. And they were good examples as far as I knew. I grew up happy for the most part. So what was I up to now?
I liked to justify my actions with excuses like, I was taking from the rich and giving to the poor… the poor which included myself. I was obviously deluded and a liar… and a thief. What I was actually doing was taking from people who were trying to give me a chance in life. I was stealing from people who wanted to help me.
My “career” as a thief did not end there. As a cashier and a manager, I was able to steal money, as well. I thought I was so clever. Even at this point, I allowed a friend to come after closing and he loaded up his car with stolen goods.
I was doing all of this while expanding my mind with psychedelics and entering the world of Eastern religion. My studies alone should have deterred me from the path I was on. I really don’t know what I was thinking. I suppose you could say I wasn’t thinking at all and you would be right.
They say that all criminals, that get caught, fuck up in some way. I had been fucking up for a long time and in many ways without even knowing. The end of it for me came quite suddenly and was over quickly. It happened one day as I was cashiering. Three men in suits came in and approached me at the cash register in front of a line of customers. They said to follow them to their car and I did, heart in my throat.
I was taken to another building down the street owned by the Naito brothers and was escorted into an austere office. Both Sam and Bill were there. These were kind and generous and important businessmen in the community. These were men who had trusted me. These were men who saw potential in me just as my two high school instructors had. Here I was again having failed and fucking things up.
I sat and looked into their eyes and saw that they were sad for me. This was really painful. They could have allowed the investigation to be done by the professionals but instead they sat in front of me and talked face-to-face. First of all they asked me what kind of grades I got in math in high school. I replied that I had very good grades in math in high school, that all of my grades were good in high school. And then they put a box of cash register receipts in front of me and asked me to explain why then do these not match the amount of merchandise going out the door.
If I remember correctly, I sat silently having no answer for them. Then they showed a video of what I had been doing at the cash register. Again, I had nothing to say. I had been caught with my hand in the cookie jar.
I was crying. Both brothers stood up and turned their backs to me and walked slowly out the door without turning around and without having anything more to say. The investigators once again asked me to follow them out to their car and we went to my apartment and they confiscated all the stolen goods. They said that the Naito brothers were contemplating whether they should press charges or not but in the meantime, I would be free on my own recognizance.
My theivery added up to grand larceny and could have ruined my life but for the kindness of the Naito brothers. They did not deserve my arrogant response. At the time I didn’t even realize my response was arrogant and was completely inappropriate and out of hand. Within a few days, I received a letter from the courts saying that I would be called and not to travel outside of the state. I wasn’t going anywhere anyhow.
While waiting for the court to call me, I tried to figure out what to do and worried about going to jail. I was suddenly dragged from a dream. I was fully aware that what I had done was wrong. How was I going to make up for it except by going to jail?
While all of this was happening to me, Laurel and Richard had left for Alaska just as they had planned. I received some letters from Laurel and I guess you could say the most significant was one in which she told a story of how they had met Jesus on a dirt road in Alaska. According to Laurel, which evidence proved out through the rest of her life, she had been transformed.
From this day forward, Laurel was a devout Christian. But what made this significant for me was that inside the envelope was a small card with a painting of Jesus ascending into the clouds. The card was about 2″ by 3″. I always kept Laurel’s letters because she was a wonderful storyteller and her letters were always full of great stories. Suddenly that card held more importance than I could have imagined.
I wanted to apologize to Sam and Bill but I didn’t know how. “I had a brilliant idea”, she says sarcastically. “I’ll write them a letter and include the card and ask them if it wouldn’t be all right for me to pay my debt to God.” This is entirely cringe worthy.
Apparently, my letter got to them because I received a letter asking me to meet with them. My biggest punishment was having to meet with them face-to-face again. They were not going to press charges, they said. The worst that they were going to do to me was to never recommend me for a job working with money. However, they would give me a good recommendation based on my skills and work ethics.
How could they have ever said anything about ethics concerning me. After that meeting, I slunk out of the office, my head hanging and my tail tucked under. Next was an official document from the court saying that all charges had been dropped.
I have no idea whether that little card had any influence on the Naito’s decision to forgive me or not. I’m sorry to have used Jesus, since I’m not a believer. Perhaps I could just as well have used a card with an image of the Buddha or any of the Hindu gods or any mythical images of gods and goddesses but perhaps it served its purpose.
As a girl who was under 20 years old, I sure was lucky. I had no criminal record and I would spend no time in jail. In fact, there was very little punishment other than humiliation in the face of love and generosity. I’ll never forget Bill and Sam Naito. These men are long gone, having passed away, but among many other things, their legacy lives on in me.
Bill and Sam NaitoLaurel and her the children. Years later.
eyeamdust 