Category: Fear

When Giants Came A’Calling

An ominous sky

While sitting here in my chair by the open door, suddenly the scent of rain hit me and I lifted my head to look outside to see that it was pouring. We were expecting a storm with thunder and lightening… the precursor to rain all week long.

I’m so happy, otherwise if we don’t get enough rain in Oregon and Washington we are going to be on fire this summer. Blessed rain. This is the Pacific Northwest and I am not a stranger to rain nor to thunderstorms.

Though I have lived where there was big sky, there’s something about being four stories up where you feel like you could touch the sky. I’m not just four stories up, I am on a knoll on the side of Rocky Butte… an extinct volcano cone.

My view is mostly sky but it’s even broader than that. Stretching up to the sky are giant Douglas fir and deciduous trees of all kinds including the beautiful spring blossoming cherry and plum. It’s been a spectacular spring.

But beyond that, I can see busy Sandy Boulevard and beyond to the airport and beyond that to the Columbia River and even beyond that into Washington. Then the eye travels up into the sky.

Really, I think besides not having to pay utilities, I moved into this small apartment because of the view. The living room wall is mostly glass leading to a Juliet balcony. My view is unobstructed.

Though there is nature all around, which includes the heavily forested Grotto next door and the Rocky Butte Nature Park,  the sounds of traffic and of the airport creates an urban soundgarden.

From my favorite chair at the door, I watch hawks and crows and every kind of small bird… some even land on the railing of my balcony. This panorama makes me wish I had my mom’s old binoculars.

But what holds my attention most is the sky. From my vantage point, I have been watching some of the most spectacular Portland sunsets that I’ve been privileged to witness. I’ve always lived, while in Portland, on the city streets and we’re surrounded by hills. So to the East and to the West we rarely see the sunsets and the sunrises except for the amazing colors reflected up onto the clouds.

That is not to say that we don’t have stunning sunsets because we do but there’s something about being up higher that changes the view. One’s perspective is altered.

So back to Friday’s sky and the storms. Most of you who know me, know that I’m afraid of everything. And nothing more pronounced and intense than of nature.

Quoting Georgia O’Keeffe, I have been absolutely terrified every moment of my life… and I’ve never let it keep me from doing a single thing that I have wanted to do. Because I have felt this way for most of my life, it has been such a comfort to read such a quote from an artist that I so admire.

I have been bold and brave. I survived two illnesses that nearly killed me and yet I have hiked up mountains, swam in the ocean and big rivers, ridden mountain bikes, I’ve traveled alone throughout Mexico, and attended four universities and had an exciting career. And yet fear was my constant companion.

For the first time I think, I felt fear of the sky yesterday night. The black clouds came out of the North, dragging curtains of heavy rain, darkening what had been a sunny day. They came in low towards me roiling and lumbering appearing like angry giants. Out towards the West there was a line of clear sky over the hills where lightning flashed repeatedly.

Those dark entities seemed creature like or perhaps more like wild spirits. But too heavy to be ghost or spirit like. More like giants whose arms and hands could reach down through the clouds to carry one away. I stood my ground, not looking away but marveling at their power as they seemed likely to soon engulf my house.

I was mesmerized and watched the clouds and the pouring rain until night came on, melding Darkness with Darkness, and until all that was left was the flashing light out over the West Hills, too far away to be audible.

Did those creatures carrying their cloaks of grey and the blackest clouds think of me as bold and brave as I stood my ground against them? I believe it’s possible.

Now That I’m Old. Where Am I Going?

My loft: packing up

After 13 years of living together with my daughter in a big old house in NE Portland, with my two grandchildren, it’s time for us to part ways. The children are grown and my daughter is seeking her freedom.

If it were plausible and possible, I would stay here for the rest of my life. But now that I’m 77 years old, it’s time for me to have found cheaper digs and fewer stairs.

I’d be lying if I didn’t say that I’m full of trepidation about my physical well – being. I survived polio at 5 years old that left me with a weak right arm, the deltoid not having survived the paralysis. I also survived a terrible bout with cancer and 8 months of chemo when I was 56 years old. One does not escape cancer or chemo unscathed.

I’ve had a very eventful and adventurous life. I went full bore into it. Because of this, my body, my soul, my head and my heart are full of memories. I realize now that there are fewer years ahead of me than are behind me and I fully enjoy reminiscing and writing about my life.

I have said this before and I’ll say it again. I’m not afraid of dying, but I am afraid of living. Age is taking its toll on me with crackling joints and weakening muscles, a slower and less elegant gait and increasing girth.

I understand fully our vulnerability. We are assailed on all sides by decline and a world made very scary by other humans, natural disasters and accidents and by other living things and the intervention of technology. But I have lived bravely and brightly.

So because of my age, I admit to some fear about moving on my own into unfamiliar territory and at this age, when I am not in my prime… not even close to it. And we are living in uncertain times. Let’s not get into politics, except to say:

I would be foolish to not wonder if this country will continue to support me with MY Social Security and MY retirement fund, which I have earned and are not a hand out from the government.

What began this story was when a friend asked if I were worried about my daughter going basically on her own without children and without me. I responded with a resounding, NO! and here’s why:

At her age, I had been divorced. Had started going to university. Spent a year in Mexico, including a semester at the University of Queretero and traveled throughout Mexico with the curator of the Museum of Art of the same cty.

Upon returning I had an amazing 3 year affair with a beautiful Cuban. Moved to Tallahassee on a fellowship, traveled cross country on a train. I found shortly after one semester that the deep south was not for me.

So I moved to Santa Monica to attend UCLA on another fellowship. By that time, I had finished 11 years of university at 5 different schools. I moved back to Portland and started a beautiful career at OHSU as their first and only professional archivist, retiring after 16 years.

When I moved back to Portland, I moved my mother in with me. Fell for an Indian Sikh. Had cancer and survived surgery, and 8 months of chemo. My mother and I lived together 8 years when she passed away. She stayed at home with me until the day she passed.

Since moving back to Portland, I had moved 4 times by the time I moved in here with my daughter. And now, here I am, moving again, not totally by choice.

So do I have any worries concerning my daughter?

She is made up of the same stuff as I am and maybe more. It’s her story so without giving any detail, I will just say, she got her massage therapy license while she raised two children alone and finished her BS degree. She’s now Spa Drector where she has worked as lead therapist for 14 years. She supports herself. She’s physically healthy and strong.

Nope, I’m not worried about her at all, any more than any mother would. For sure this is more about me than about her. But when my friend asked, if I was worried about this time of change, it caused me to reflect on life. Actually, I look forward to hearing about her adventures from here on out, about her brave and bright life.

The Cat that Stalks Me

I can’t believe I’m able to do this. I can’t believe that day after day, I can put one foot in front of the other and put one thing in a box, and one thing in a bag, and end the day, still putting things in bags and boxes.

Useless, precious, beautiful objects of my affection. Proof of my existence. And one day no one will care for them nor remember me.

This hard work and I still don’t know what the hell I’m doing or where I’m going. And even less whatI I’m supposed to be doing or where I should be going. I try not to think about it too much. I just keep doing.

This is how I’ve lived my life. When a door opens, I just go in. Not putting much thought into it. And here I am getting closer and closer to the end of my life and still living the same way. But more aware than ever of futility.

And now worry stalks me like a dangerous and silent cat in the wild would. I am it’s prey and it, my predator.

I think it’s always been with me. I used to not notice it. But these days, I’m made aware of it by weakness creeping in, by my slowing gait, by increasing frailty.

I’m aware of its footsteps falling almost imperceptible except for a rare snap of a twig, or a small tumble of a stone. but still closely behind. I’m beginning to hear it’s heavy breathing when I hush. I hear its snuffling at my foot prints left in the soft soil I call my life.

It is there in the night with only the stars and the moon as my companions… no protection at all but, I remind myself, I still can call up fire. But it never rests and so neither can I. I can sometimes see its eyes glowing in the flickering flames.

During the daylight hours, I am distracted mostly, but these days, not like in the past. What will I do when I can no longer move forward, when I must lay down, when rest is needed more than life itself?

Then I will lie down. Then worry and wonder and unknowing will no longer stalk me. Then I will rest.  Then, I will no longer need the strength that now I do.

So now, before I lay me down, I will put some more things in bags and I will put some more things in boxes.

Good night, big and beautiful and wild cat. I hear you breathing softly.

Hobos and the Cut

Hobos: Men down on their luck

We had a small forested area that ran along the railroad tracks at the end of our street, maybe 3 blocks to the East. The “Cut” we called it.

Trains went (cut) through our neighborhood to cross the train bridge over the Willamette River to the Union Pacific railroad station on the West side.

At night, we could hear the trains chugging by and blowing their whistles. Chug, chug, whoo hoo. It was a mysterious and forelorn sound to me.

Hobos jumped the train as it slowed to cross the narrow bridge. All the boys were allowed to play in the Cut but were instructed to head for home when the train passed, leaving a group of hobos.

It was a pleasant place to camp out, treed with wild grasses sofening the hard ground. They were out of sight because the tracks were cut deep into the terrain, but we all knew that this was αΊƒhere the hobos jumped off.

They started camp fires to warm mostly cans of beans. My brother told me this because, being a girl, I wasn’t allowed in the Cut. I was too afraid of those worn and tattered fellows, anyway. Dad, who worked for the railroad, always said they were just men who were down on their luck.

My brother and the neighbirhood boys went down into the Cut as soon as the hobos hopped the next train. They were probably secretly dreaming about one day hopping a train outta there.

They were sure they’d find treasure in the cold ashes around the camp.  Something, anything. But mostly, they found cigarette butts and tin cans.

The boys played hobos, tying a kitchen towel or big red or blue handkerchiefs around the end of a long stick fllling it with cans of beans and peanut butter sandwiches pretending to run away from home. They slung that hobo sack over their shoulder, walking down the street as if they were really leaving.

The hobos never caused a bit of trouble, unlike the “hoods.” The hoods were a group of teenage ruffians from school. They drank, smoked and harassed us girls, and fought with each other in small gangs. They never did much damage to the neighborhood or to each other. They were just tough acting. 

They stormed around the neighborhood in souped-up cars, wearing tight t-shirts and narrow leather belts on their Levis. To our parent’s chagrin, we fell in love with the bad boys.

That’s who our parents should have warned us about, not the hobos.

How many of us girls got knocked up by hobos? None.

How many by the boys? Lots.

What is the Lifespan of a Bug?

Last night late, I was lying in bed watching a Turkish series that I’m into. For some reason a big black insect of some kind caught my attention. It was on the ceiling. It walked until it was almost directly over me. Suddenly it dropped onto the bed and started scurrying towards me. It was heading directly for me, probably for the light that my phone was giving off. I quickly jumped up and tried to catch it in the covers and I thought I did.

I don’t like to squash insects but I thought, I don’t want that big thing walking around on my bed, around on the floor where it can get back up on the bed or on the walls or on the ceiling and drop on me again and perhaps bite me.

I thought I captured it and squished it between two folds of the blanket. I have killed bugs like that and I hate the feeling of the crunch and then the squish and I think insects have every right to live out their lives.

When I slowly opened the fold, I expected to see a squished bug but I found nothing, not even a carcass. So do you think I could go to sleep? Of course not. I kept thinking that I was feeling something crawling on me or in my hair or coming towards me on the bed. I thought it might be on the floor and that it would eventually come for me. I couldn’t sleep until I unknowingly fell fast asleep.

When I woke up this morning the first thing I did was look for the bug and now I keep scanning my surroundings. The big question now is, what is the lifespan of a bug? I don’t hate insects I just don’t want one on me.

I’m laughing at myself but I’m dead serious.😟