It suddenly felt damp, really wet, in the house. I smelled dirt and vegetation. I was sweating profusely. I felt anxious.
And then it began, the lights went out, lightning flickered in the dark sky and then the rain poured.
It poured in big and small drops creating a curtain of cascading water.
Here is the thunder rolling across the heavens.
People in the streets are running to close doors and windows.
And now it begins.
We lived on Montgomery St., just below Vista Avenue, before Hwy 26 went in. The construction destroyed miles of large beautiful houses built at the turn of the century.
Portland exemplfies the song “Yellow Taxi” written by Joni Mitchell, which goes, they paved paradise and put up a parking lot… Portland was being raped and thousands of long time residents displaced. No one who was making a killing cared.
Our yellow house was built with four apartments. The front was built at street level on a steep hill leading towards downtown to the East, and to the North, the land was even steeper giving each apartment spectacular views of the city.
Each apartment took up an entire floor. The ceilings were at least 10 feet in height with windows almost to the ceilings. There were at least three bedrooms, a large living room, a kitchen and with just one bathroom. The back door opened out from the kitchen onto a balcony with stairs that led to the ground below.
This was in the late 60’s. Pure LSD was easily had and weed was $10 a “lid”. Our rent, if I remember right, was under $100/month. We didn’t need much money to live, so we bought pounds of marijuana, divided it into plastic sandwich bags and we put them in a large container just inside the front door. Whoever wanted to buy pot from us could leave their money and grab however much they wanted. The honor system at work.
Marijuana, LSD, psilocybin, peyote and the like, were all illegal. But at the time, we were more concerned that the house would be raided by FBI agents looking for draft dodgers and those who were AWOL. It had happened and it was scarey but if they’re looking for people, they had no jurisdiction to bust us for drugs.
Our life on Montgomery street was mostly peaceful. It was a good time for exploring both internally and the world around us. We were protesting the right of the US and other countries to invade others to procure resources. We were protesting a culture dictated by corporate greed and materialism. We wanted a simpler and more peaceful world.
Unfortunately, our idealism could not, and has not, changed the white and wealthy. We were using psychedelics, meditation and exploration into philosophies both western and eastern, to found a new path to a kinder and gentler world. But what I know now, is what history teaches us: the few wealthy are lords in the earth and the rest of us… well, we work for them and try to keep our heads above water. No one benefits from war but the wealthy and the young are sacrificed to that purpose.
Those were days that I would return to. Those were days when we thought that on that LSD trip, the answer had been given to us but language failed us. The answer slipped away as we “came down”. One definition of reality that I can recall so clearly came out as I sat looking out over the city as “loud tomato raisin”. I’m still looking for the translation. Perhaps one day I’ll be enlightened enough to translate. 🤭
Those were days of infinite sexual energy, which I didn’t experience again until my 40s and 50s. Hormone saturated freedoms. Dancing in the moonlight. Light shows. Live music and open mic poetry readings. Unbridled idealism anchored and tempered by existential nightmares that things always stay the same.
David Byrne sang, “Burning Down the House… same as it ever was, same as it ever was…” and it appears that we are burning down the house. We can see the ashes. But now it’s not just the big beautiful houses that were once our abodes but it’s the planet where we live.
A bit of love remembered:
I finally retired in October 2014. Kristi had retired about a year before me. One day we met for coffee at an intimate, neighborhood cafe in Woodstock to celebrate.
We bought these cups as a symbol of our promise to be companions as we aged, to take trips together and maybe even one day to live together. Little did we know that within just two weeks, she would die in a terrible car accident.
Two days ago I was drinking coffee out of my cup and I thought about these promises we made to one another. I wondered if Kristi’s kids had found her cup amongst her things.
I sent them a message and in a short time, I got a message back from Sharon, her oldest daughter, with a photo of the cup saying that she drinks out of it often.
I cried for loss but also for gladness. A girl could not have had a better sister. My memories of her span 64 years, so they are many.
When she was only 3 years old, I contracted polio, and for the rest of our time together, she did for me what I could not do for myself. She was my confidant. She was my buddy. She was my heart.
I miss her so. When I drink from her promise cup, my heart fills to overflowing. I’m so happy to know that my promise cup to her still exists.
Weird day. I took the bus to Wal-Mart. Wrong idea. Nothing at all of interest. Next door is the Vallarta Mall. Less of interest there. I need tank tops. How could they not have decent tank tops? Everything is extremely air conditioned. I started to feel sick, so I got out of there.
At least I saw where the cruise ships dock right across the road and walked straight into heavily armed military guys who looked to me like teenagers.
In order to catch my bus home, I have to pass thru Old Vallarta so I decided, of course, why not go to the beach. I was getting hungry and as is my wont, I started asking where the good comida corrida is. After walking blocks and blocks, I was getting parched. I saw inside a building alot of tables with no tourists, just locals. There was no sign but a placard that said, Comida Corrida, $65 pesos. That’s a little over $4.00 USD. Soup, shrimp fajitas, salad, beans, rice, agua fresca and dessert. Now that’s what I’m talking about.
Then for a long hot walk on the beach. I was parched again and needed to get out of the sun so again I stopped at a place with no name, broken chairs, worn out umbrellas, and desperate beach guys waving menus. I was at the end of my energy, so gratefully sat at a table and ordered 2X1 mojitos. It was taking so long for them to come, I almost left.
Soon handsome beach guy, Armando, came with my drink. He was not young but was probably approaching 50 but extremely handsome. He carefully stirred and stirred the best mojito I’ve had to date. We chatted for awhile and I learned that he sleeps at the place.
While I watched a large group of really big, heavily tatooed men with women and children playing in the water, drinking and talking, I found myself thinking that the guys had hydraulicly operated hot rods with amazing paint jobs and guns and knives and that they loved their wives, girlfriends and kids. Its amazing what stories I can make up out of stereotypes.
Well, so as not to make this story any longer than it already is, while drinking my second mojito, Armando ended up massaging my right shoulder, sending healing energy into it and declared that I had a piece of metal in there (which I do) but that he could heal me. I’m suppose to go back tomorrow.
I don’t know, maybe I’ll go back, or maybe I’ll have a facial.
Born tiny but came tough.
White blonde. Green eyes. Under Mercury.
Born into deep love. Enough to keep me safe? Nobody knew.
That dark morning when paralysis came. Then months in helpless isolation.
Only to fall. The pavement won. Muscles failed to protect. A broken skeleton.
I came tough. Rose up. But was knocked down again.
Saws, knives… cutting into bone and flesh.
Shoulder bolt. Only to bend when met with a wall.
Again deep bone cutting. Another bolt. A scalpel slip.
Pathways of feeling and blood severed. Spilling everywhere.
But I came tough. Big, deep, wide painful scars encircles shoulder and slices across my chest.
Forever a reminder; I came tough. I can carry that cast.
I can carry pounds of plaster, though it leaves a dent in my hip and covers just one breast.
I played hard. I was not crippled or disabled Mom and Dad said.
I danced, played music, wrote stories, played sports. Kissed boys.
I fell but got up again, bleeding. Scars on my knees to prove it. I came tough.
I’ll leave here tough.
Fragrant chubby rose buds.
You stayed beyond your bouquet.
How can I discard you?
Alas! I cannot.
For those of you who know me, you know that I am a pleasure seeker. I love lushness in my surroundings, my fragrance, my food and my drinks. Well, once, I got this lucky, Lucky Strike that is.
Lucky Strike is a small lush place serving stunning Sichuan food. Dark brown walls, lipstick red chandeliers, plush purple chairs that invite you to sink into their plushness. The art is oversized and encourages you to stare. And the food… well, is hot!
We had Dan Dan noodles thick and chewy with a layer of ground pork, peanuts and scallions.
The pork filled pot stickers had a heavy yet silky wrapper and were plump, barely fitting into the pot filled with mouth watering deliciousness.
We also ordered the green beans dotted liberally with red chilies and Sichuan peppercorns that slowly exploded in our mouths leading first with citrus, then flower blossoms and then a tongue and lip tingling sensation, leaving us numb and helpless, begging for more.
The pineapple rice is not meant as an entree and is pretty bland. The sazerac was too sweet and it took the bartender at least a half hour to make our drinks. I can sit peacefully for an hour waiting for my food if I have a gorgeous sazerac in my hand. Our pleasure was only interrupted by his inattention.
But all in all, I was fully satisfied and left exhausted with pleasure.
Unlucky for you, this incredibly decadent restaurant’s doors are permanently closed. And unlucky for me because I only had the pleasure of indulging my desires there once. Lastima!
Can a restaurant be described as sensual, sexy? Yes. Yes it can.
Photos courtesy of Zomato
Adrian was an old friend. I knew him from high school. A Swedish boy with white blonde hair and, gleaming, even whiter teeth. When he smiled he lit up a room. He was more than handsome.
Adrian came from a large family. I believe there were 5 boys and one sister. Each of them with the same hair and teeth and confident and charismatic demeanor.
After high school I was searching for life’s meaning. Not finding what I was looking for in LSD and other psychedelics, one day Adrian knocked on our door.
His had been a similar path but according to him he had found “the way”. He had a Bible under his arm and was ready to show us “where the light was”. He was determined to drag us to church.
After a few determined visits, we acquiesced and followed him to Maranatha Church, where Reverend Wendall Wallace preached and held sway.
In red cords, a red and blue flowered shirt and barefoot, I sat in a pew near the back. Richard Probosco played the piano and the choir sang and rocked back and forth clapping in synchopated rhythm in their black robes.
Wallace was on fire as he preached to a congregation of black and white and the young and the old. The auditorium was packed.
I didn’t really hear his words but I was moved deep inside somewhere, without comprehension. This wasn’t the 1st time I was moved by music and rhythm and I had smoked some weed before leaving home, which increased the warmth and sensuality of the atmosphere.
I was moved but also apprehensive because I knew where this was going. I was in no way naive. And then it came: the invitation to come up front and give one’s life to Jesus. The music and the singing were pleading and Wallace’s voice was trying to draw us in. ” Is there anyone here”, he said, who will come down and give their life to Jesus? Jesus loves you”, he said again and again, with pregnant pauses, while he waited for responses.
A few people responded and began to walk down the aisle towards the altar. “Okay. Why not?”, I thought. “Let’s go.” I walked down the aisle and knelt at the altar and said, ” Jesus, if you are who you say you are then show it to me”.
At that moment I felt that I was flying through the air, through the clouds, at a high rate of speed. I don’t know what that was but it was very real. I stayed there kneeling for I don’t know how long but I eventually stood up and Wallace took my hand and lifted it in the air while he praised God and shouted Hallelujah.
Something really had changed. From that moment I started looking into The Bible like I had looked into Eastern religions previously. Adrian had located a huge house in northeast Portland that had stained glass and beveled glass windows that reflected rainbows on the floors and the walls. He convinced the church to support this house where “hippies” who were being converted to Christianity could live while they were in the process of changing their lives.
I lived there at the House of Rainbows for a time. Food was provided, the utilities and rent were paid and a ride to church was provided every Sunday and Wednesday nights.
Adrian, from that time onwards until his death was a street evangelist. He spent all of his time on the street bringing people out of drug addiction and alcoholism and violence to give their hearts to Jesus. But he not only preached the gospel but but he provided food and housing and clothing.
In spite of Adrian’s well meaning efforts towards me, I was always a skeptic and never a true believer in spite of my experience at the altar at Maranatha church. I tried for years but it just never rang true to me. I haven’t had anything to do with any church since the early 70’s. But I can’t deny the good that Adrian did for many, many people, perhaps hundreds of people.
I haven’t seen Adrian since around 1972-74, but he frequently comes to mind. Many were convinced that Adrian and I would hook up but we didn’t ever have that kind of relationship. The women at Maranatha made me a patchwork quilt of embroidered squares and one of the patches had a picture of Adrian and I as a married couple. In spite of the fact that Jack and I married, we had that quilt on our bed for many years until it was destroyed in a house fire.
Adrian was the witness who signed our marriage license and reverend Wendell Wallace married us out in the forest on a beautiful sunny August day.
I called Jack yesterday and told him that Adrian had passed on. He was only 74, our age, but apparently had been ill and died of an injury. We commiserated and were sad at his passing. Though we are not believers we are certainly appreciative of all the good that Adrian did in his life. Who can fault a man who has spent his life helping so many get off drugs and alcohol and has shown them a way to live that is not harmful to themselves or others.
Good bye, Adrian. You’ve had a good life. We loved you. Many have loved you.
While living in Mexico, I learned what the rainy season really is. We’re talking rain so thick, so heavy, so hard that it comes through the roof.
We’re talking thunder so loud and that lasts so long that I swore that it alone could kill me.
And the lightening. Lightening that lights up the world every bit as bright as daylight.
We’re talking the jungle itself being torn away and swept into the streets… torrents of water carrying trees, and plants that wash down from the hillsides, into the streets and into the ocean turning it into a swirling brown mass of debris.
The only thing to do was to climb onto the bed, open the balcony doors and watch the show. Sometimes the storms would last so long that my nerves would shatter.
Geckos and insects would come in to shelter on the walls and take cover in the corners of the ceiling.
And then it would be over as quickly as it started. The heat persisted because the rainy season happens in summer… 100° and 100% humidity. Was it refreshing? No.
Always sweating, always wet. It was too hot and wet for hair, for jewelry, for underwear. Earrings would heat up and burn my neck. I cut off my hair to the scalp. And underwear? What for?
My roof leaked. Not leak like I could catch water in buckets, but water that stood inches deep that I sloshed out and off the balcony and into the street with a broom.
I’d had enough: I called Juan Manuel to fix my roof.
Juan Manuel sent Juan Manuel and Manuel to fix my roof. Meanwhile, Juan came. I thought Juan was sent by Juan Manuel but he wasn’t. I had to send Juan away. So Juan Manuel and Manuel fixed my roof. Sorry Juan for the confusion.
I don’t know who sent Juan.
True story.
By Peter Christen Asbjörnsen and Jörgen Moe from “East of the Sun and West of the Moon”. Read by Karen Peterson.
This is a story that Jack read to the children on Christmas Eve for many years.
I hope you enjoy listening to it as much as we always have. Of course, I don’t read it half as well as Jack always did.
Happy Yule Tide
eyeamdust 