Fleeting memories of moments of passion so deep and precious make me cry.
Category: Remembering
When I was a Weaver
This is a hand woven pillow top completed in 1973. That’s 50 years ago! It’s made of 100% rustic wool on a large floor loom while taking classes at the Multnomah Art Center. I cannot remember what breed of wool or the pattern but it was a marvelous experience. It changed my life.
I bought several looms over the years and enjoyed weaving. I learned to spin, as well. Recently, I sold all my weaving and spinning supplies.
It took years to admit that I would not ever weave again, so I kept my equipment and supplies far too long. Thanks to my mom and dad’s persistant support, I have always been proud that I never let anything stop me from doing whatever I’ve chosen to do regardless of… well, there came a time that I had to give up on this craft and many others.
I have little to show for this time in my life with the exception of a few pieces, including this one. Though it is the worse for wear, I will sew it into a pillow cover again. It makes me nostalgic for those beautiful years.
Short-lived Era to Make Me New
1966… a baby in my back pocket.
I rode out on a wave never to return, at least not as before.
Looking for more than what was enough for those happy for the end of war.
Old enough to work, to make my own way, old enough to make my own mistakes.
A road less traveled, by I. Golden hair and flowered shirts, light shows, smoke filled rooms and poetry.
Walking barefoot in the parks, lying under the trees hoping there was more.
Dismayed by offerings of a world gone mad, finding it’s always been bad. How sad.
Yet joy was found in promises of change that never came. And pot to wake me up to possibilities and LSD to blow my mind.
To help me find a new way of imagining a new way of living.
The Beginning of the End ~ A Nurse to the End
It was January 21, 2010. I woke at 4:34 AM thinking that it’s still too early to get up for work. But then I realized that Mom was calling me. She tells me that she can’t breathe and can no longer function. I knew this day was coming but I wasn’t ready for her to go yet.
She tells me to call the Portland Clinic, and I do. Her long time physician, Dr. Craven, is not on call. The doctor on-call calls back after 20 minutes.
When I explained what is happening and I tell him that she wants to go to the hospital in an ambulance. He says to call 911. I do.
I sit beside Mom, holding her hand, helpless. In the meantime, I call Kristi and Steve to tell them what is happening.
First, a fire truck arrives, lights flashing, lighting up our small street. Four large men, dressed in blue, crowded into Mom’s bedroom with their cases of equipment and tools hanging from their belts. I stand aside.
Mom had advanced directives not to code but in violation of her own predetermined decisions, she tells them she wants help breathing. She tells them in full sentences, everything they need to know while she’s struggling to breathe. They take her vitals. I stand silent knowing instinctively who’s in charge.
Then, the ambulance arrives. More men squeeze into Mom’s, what seems now to be a, very tiny bedroom, each carrying more equipment. Mom reiterates everything to the EMTs that she just told the other guys.
Quickly, they wrap her up in her blankets like a sausage and two guys grab handfuls of the blankets from the top and carry her into the living room where they put her on a gurney. Then they wheeled her out to the ambulance.
Two guys are in back with Mom and I climb in front with the driver. Mom continues to tell them what they need to know. She struggles to breathe until they use a c-pap to blow large quantities of oxygen into her lungs. She can no longer talk. I can’t believe she’s been talking through this whole ordeal.
After the EMTs get an IV started, we take off across the St. Johns bridge. Once we get across and onto Hwy. 30, the lights and sirens are turned on, as Matt tells the driver to step on it. I can’t see Mom and I can’t hear her. This is not how I want it to end.
In the emergency room, the nurses and doctors get to work putting who knows what in the IV.
Before looking, the doctor shows me the chest x-ray along with an old x-ray from 2005. Her lungs are hazy and her heart is large. There is fluid around the lungs, a sign of congestive heart failure. It’s something she’s had for 10 years. He says she probably won’t live long.
Mom is breathing with the help of oxygen and the doctor wants to keep her in the hospital. When she’s stable they move her to a private room. Here she stays for a couple of weeks.
Mom was in her element. This very hospital is where she spent 40 years as a career nurse. She seemed to have recovered from the emergency. For those two weeks, I visit her daily while friends and family stream in and out. Many visitors were physicians and co-workers who stopped to tell stories of working with her, or under her supervision and nurses who were once students who she had mentored.
I learned more about her professional life in those weeks than I ever knew before. I knew she was a VIP, but I didn’t know how respected and loved she was.
Mom talked about going into a home when she leaves the hospital. She swore up and down that she wanted to. We had already gone over and over this. I didn’t believe her. “No! Mom. Absolutely not. You can stay home, this is where you’ll stay.”
Kristi and I decided to acquiesce and went to look at a few small care homes just to satisfy Mom. Though Mom and I had lived together for nearly 20 years, she kept insisting that she did not want to burden me. After visiting, we were more convinced than ever that she wasn’t going into a home.
How would we manage to go to see her if she weren’t at home with me? It was enough just to go to work and back again, run errands, cook dinner, shop, etc., without having to drive across town to visit Mom. And I knew Mom didn’t really want that, she just didn’t want to put me out.
For the next four months, Mom sits or lies in a hospital bed situated in the living room directly in front of the windows. From here she can see what passes in front of the house. She can also see her many visitors arriving.
I took family medical leave until hospice care came in to relieve me five days a week so that I could return to work. And Kristi drove hundreds of miles every weekend to help out.
Mom lost all strength in her legs but every other function worked perfectly well. That meant that she needed assistance to maintain her hygiene. Though these were not chores I relished, I did them with love. Unlike Mom, I had no inclination to nurse but I would not abandon her. She had seen me through polio and cancer. This was the least I could do.
Mom and I had dinner together every evening and she filled me in on her day with the caretakers. Apparently, she enjoyed their companionship and had many stories to tell.
Just as any good nurse would, she was keeping her own chart: recorded type and time of medication administration, size and frequency of BMs and urine output, blood pressure, heart rate, temperature, etc.
I served Mom in bed, while I sat not far away at the dining room table. Soon after finishing her dinner each evening, she was ready for dessert, which I was to bring, post haste. Eventually, I had to gently tell her that I wasn’t her nurse’s aid and that once I had finished my dinner, I would bring dessert. She understood immediately and was quite apologetic.
Though I helped her with her toilet each evening, I also had to tell her that I wasn’t going to estimate her output in size and quantity. She was sorely disappointed but did not utter one disgruntled word. Eventually, I also asked her to either give up charting or trust me to bring her meds on time. It was annoying to be reminded constantly that in 20 minutes it would be time for such and such. She got it. She kept her chart, but kept silent about it.
If one didn’t know why she was in bed, one wouldn’t know that this beautiful lady was just months, then weeks, then days away from death. Nightly, I would mix a dry, dirty martini, Beefeater Gin only please, with 3 green olives or 3 cocktail onions for her and something wonderful for me. Then we would chat and watch Jeapardy and Wheel of Fortune and whatever else was on that we wanted to watch. Mom was a very sociable and gracious companion.
Mostly during the day, while I was at work, Mom would entertain friends or family who came to visit. I don’t believe she had one boring day. If she had a quiet day, Mom would read, do crossword puzzles, read the newspapers and watch the news. The living room filled with cards and flowers.
As we knew would happen, the day came for her passing. She called me in the early morning hours. It was May but not yet light out. I turned on a dim light and I sat with her on her bed and took her soft hand, as she asked me to help her “get off of this”, as she motioned with her hand, touching her chest from where her heart was, out into the air. I asked her what she meant but she would just make the same hand gesture and repeat the same words. I offered suggestions such as, a road, a path, or a trail. But with each suggestion she would say, “no smaller”.
Mom was very calm. I so wanted to understand what it was that she wanted me to do. How can I help her to “get off of this” if I don’t know what “this” is? I knew she was ready to die because we had talked about this at infinitium. But she was worried about leaving me alone. She wanted me to be loved by someone and to be cared for.
I finally remembered something I had learned many years before. It was that our soul is connected to eternity with a golden thread. When I said, Mom, is it a thread?” She suddenly relaxed. I told her that I couldn’t cut it for her but that she was free to go, that I would be fine, and that I loved her more than she would ever know and I knew how much she loved me. I have no idea if she understood when I said a thread, except that it seemed to satisfy her. Maybe I had finally mentioned something that was actually small enough.
We sat there until the sun came up. This morning there were no ablutions, no coffee, no breakfast. She really didn’t want anything. I don’t even remember what we said to one another but I know we spoke soft words.
Mom had everything in order and didn’t need to ask me for anything. Besides the family and close friends I knew who to call. Family began to show up as did her friends to say goodbye. For a good part of the day she would speak to people as they would come and go. But as the day wore on she spoke less and began to spend her time, her final hours, with her eyes closed. When one would speak to her she would make a soft sound as if to say I know you’re there.
Slowly people went away having said their goodbyes. This left Hannah, Kristi and I alone with her to accompany her as she passed away. The hospice nurse that showed up towards the end of the day, stayed to pronounce her death and to sign the appropriate papers. She melted into the background and was hardly noticeable. She told us that as a person dies their last sense to go is their hearing and encouraged us speak to her.
We sat on her bed, touching her. We told her that we loved her and that we would miss her but that it was also okay for her to go, she didn’t need to hold on. She was so relaxed and her face softened with a pink glow and her wrinkles seemed to disappear. Soon we had no more words and all we could do was hum and sing without words. Mom almost imperceptibly took her last breath. It took us some time before we could move away from her. By this time, it was nearing midnight.
Mom had donated her body to the OHSU Body Donation Program. While we waited for them to come for her, we sat talking and looking at this beautiful body that had belonged to someone that had served so many and would be remembered for her love, intelligence and so much more.
But right up until her dying day, Mom was in charge. Two things that I will always remember is hearing Dad say, “Norma, you’re not in charge here at home.” Second, was numerous people saying they’d never heard her say a bad word about anyone. Now that’s a legacy!
Ode to the Old Lemon Tree
Today, I’ll make lemon pudding, I thought. I’ll squeeze the fat fruit. I’ll scrape the bright rind. I’ll stir the cornstarch and sugar together with the zest then I’ll pour in the juice. I’ll stir in sweet milk and when it begins to thicken, I’ll add in the creamy butter.
Then there came a memory like they are wont to do.
A lemon tree stood alone in the yard, scarce of leaf, bent and rough of bark, unexpectedly laden with fruit.
That old tree brought me joy on days when I tired of rice and onions. I’d go to gather the flawed, dimpled, sun-like yellow fruit to make pudding.
All I needed then was sugar, an egg, a lemon and cornstarch to stir until thickened. Lemon desserts aren’t lemon to me unless they make my jaw hurt from the tartness.
Now that I have the luxury of butter and milk, it doesn’t diminish the sweet and tart lemon pudding I made when I was poor… more poor than I am now.
The old lemon tree is far away but I’m sure it still stands. Why would anyone dare to cut down such a bountiful tree. But then who knows for sure what others might do. At least in my memory it still stands.
Now, I buy lemons from the bins at the store, the same store where I buy the butter and milk. I don’t know where any of them have come from or how far they’ve traveled.
I’d prefer anyday to go out and gather lemons from the old lemon tree. I’d fill my pockets with the warm fruit, heavy with juice and make the simple pudding that makes life good.
Held in Liminal Space
This morning’s weather reminds me of when I was younger. It shows just how Portland I am.
It’s grey everywhere except for the explosion of some small Spring flowers. It’s cold. It’s raining but not pouring but it’s constant.
The wind is blowing. It’s blowing hard enough that I can hear the bells hanging on the porch.
The trees are still barren with just small buds of green showing. The exceptions are the Magnolia and Tulip trees that have full blooms, now drooping and dripping. The Japanese quince, stiff and thorny, is showing pink.
I walked the dog and I was reluctant to come back into the house. But Yum Yum was wet (her least favourite state) and ready for her treats.
Now, I’m sitting in my room and the rain is tapping on the windows. The big and old trees are swaying slightly against the wind.
I can hear the heater motor and see the fake fire inside my electric stove. Somehow warming.
The cat is sleeping on my bed so there’s no reason to make it up. She has made beautiful swirls in the blankets.
It’s very dim in my room and I don’t want to turn on any lights. I like this gloom and deep shadowed corners that are inviting and welcoming.
I think I will have a cup of tea and a little bit of dark chocolate and slices of the orange sitting in a ramen bowl.
I don’t miss the invasion of the bright rays of the sun that is hiding behind the charcoal clouds as they scud by, pushed along by the wind. There is a brightness in the far distant horizon where the clouds have thinned.
I might even doze a bit today. The gentle pitter and the patter of the rain are the perfect lyric and rhythm that can enduce slumber for any troubled mind.
I’m held in the arms of Portland weather and memories. Let the world go by. I’m not interested.
Small Gifts
Too many times I’ve brought you dust,
Empty shells and things that rust.
You’ve turned these small gifts into gold,
Something warm from something cold.
Paper, metal, cloth and clay,
Bits of earth, broken shards,
A hundred stones turned into stars.
No one’s heart holds half as much,
As little bits of this and such.
The Jungle, the Barge, Ipreet and the Yogi.
The shadows in the jungle were deeply green and impenetrable to those without eyes to see. The soft breeze was cool, yet the air was also warm and cloying. Her light, filmy garments clung to her wet skin. She felt… she felt like she was warmly alive, sensual, moved.
She had come to the pools of Naemahn. How she had come, she didn’t know. Why was she here? Who had brought her? What was she to do? And yet, not knowing was not unsettling as she stood at the edge of the water. These were subtle and slow moving streams connecting miles of waterways.
The water was covered completely with green algae, large pads of lily with erect stems supported graceful and large, creamy pink blossoms. Through the soft light, blossoms of ruby, violet and golden flowers could be seen peeking out along small paths into the interior catching what light penetrated the shadows.
Large birds with soft grey feathers and long beaks stood on spindly legs that pierced the water. Brightly colored parrots flew randomly and silently through the dense canopy above the water. Other creatures moved through the underbrush, soundlessly on soft padded feet, eyes glowing as they lowered their heads to drink from the pools. All the sounds were muffled and murmured almost imperceptibly to those without ears to hear.
A luxurious flat bottomed barge painted with many colors pulled up in front of her. It was draped in silk fabrics that waved softly as they caught the breeze and completely obscured what was inside. A stunning woman dressed in purple and lavender, embroidered in golden thread, appeared on the deck and invited her to board. Without hesitation she stepped aboard, noticing only at that moment that other rafts similar to this one were seemingly languishing but slowly floating through the waterway.
The woman held open the curtains and a fragrant interior slowly came to light as her eyes adjusted to the candle light. Smoke from incense filled the room. The heady scents of frangipani, myrrh, frankincense, bergamot, rose, clove, cedar, patchouli and more seemed to sedate her. The interior was filled with a pallet and cushions that were covered in the most lush fabrics in saturated jewel tones. The many shades of greens, blues, reds and yellows dazzled the eyes. Every sense was heightened.
The woman motioned for her to sit among the many cushions. She did not resist. She saw no reason to. The barge rocked slowly as it moved away from the shore. The woman, whose name was Ipreet, began to loosen her clothes and slipped them from her shoulders. She sat next to her and gently laid her back on the cushions. The pleasure she felt from the movement of the boat, the many fragrances, the soft light, and Ipreet’s hands, caused her to move gently like a cat.
Ipreet began to massage her slowly and softly with oil of which she could not identify. Its fragrance and softness was like nothing she had ever experienced before. Slowly Ipreet had removed her clothes entirely and was massaging her breasts, her thighs, her stomach, arms and feet and reaching to touch her most delicate parts causing her to reach the heights of ecstasy without letting her reach the peak where every feeling would be released.
After sometime, she felt someone board the raft and enter the room. It was a man. He was dressed in a pure white robe, a white turban and he was barefoot. He had a white beard and deep brown eyes that were almost black and there was a golden light emanating from them. Her legs were open and he sat at her feet.
Ipreet brought him a brass plate with a fragrant smoke climbing sensually to the ceiling. She was feeling an intense desire for this man, though she did not know him. She wanted him to touch her… to continue what Ipreet had started. Where he sat, she could see that he had a large penis. She moved sensually as to arouse him but he remained flacid. She wanted him to enter her. She wanted to have what she knew would be the most remarkable fireworks of her life but he sat there and only smiled at her showing perfectly white teeth and full lips.
Ipreet slowly covered her body as she lay there. She remained uncovered from the waist down. She made no effort to cover her private parts. She wanted the man to make love to her, but he brought the plate between her legs and blew the warm smoke into her. As he did this, she exploded into a million stars of every color. He stayed there, it seemed to her, for seconds, minutes or hours, she didn’t know.
She fell into a deep and mystical sleep filled with beautiful and strange dreams. When she awoke, she was at the waters edge, rocking gently. She was alone. Ipreet and the stranger were gone. The dim interior of the barge was still lit with candles and the incense still burned. She moved to get up and she was aware that she was once again clothed. Her skin felt soft and the fragrance lingered on her skin and in her hair, evidence that she had not been dreaming.
She stepped off the boat onto the jungle floor and moved into the shadows. It was as if no time had passed. She needed no guide. She seemed to know her way out. She felt more alive and fulfilled than she had ever felt before.
She would not soon forget what had happened to her this day… or was it night?
Jeff Died. Heartbreak or Suicide.
A TRAIN OF THOUGHTS RUN THROUGH MY BRAIN
A friend of mine, Jeff, was found dead in his apartment. He worked for me for many years. I don’t know any details yet and I’m not sure that I will. He was totally depressed after retirement. He had at least a million dollars saved and a huge retirement package.
Jeff was forced to retire after working at OHSU for more than 40 years. He didn’t have any health issues and so I don’t know the cause of death. He might have taken his own life but I don’t know that. I will really miss hearing from him.
Jeff and I were friends for more than 20 years and he worked for me for at least 10 of those years. We became quite close and he told me a lot about himself, his family and his life. I knew him before he went through rehab for drinking and probably other drugs and I knew him after he got through rehab. I knew he was depressed and that he didn’t really want to go on living once he was forced into retirement but I didn’t think he would take his own life but I don’t know. Unless his friend Shirley contacts me to tell me what she knows, I may never know what happened.
I spent the day he died on the phone with people who knew Jeff and wanted to console me. My son came over and we had dinner together and before that he and my daughter went out for a hike in the snow.
I went upstairs and ate some Ginger snaps and drank a cup of tea and watched something on Netflix or YouTube. It’s hard for me to keep my mind off of what happened to Jeff. I want to know how he died. I want to know if there’s going to be an obituary… whether there’s going to be a memorial service. I’m just filled with questions. He didn’t have any family until he found some cousins some years back. His mom had passed away and he never knew his dad. I want to know who’s handling taking care of his body and his burial. Hopefully he had directives and plans for all of that. I’m just at a loss.
I talked to his friend Shirley for about an hour that night. She doesn’t know what he died from but he was in bed when she found him and he was already cold. He had lost so much weight and he was a tall bean pole anyway. He was so skinny he couldn’t keep his pants up. She had been taking him brunch and dinner everyday because she was worried about him. The day he died she had taken breakfast over. He sat in his chair. When she went back that evening with food, he was still sitting in his chair with the breakfast plate in his lap, only partially eaten. After he ate what she brought for dinner, she saw that he climbed into bed. The next day when she took a new breakfast, she found him dead.
She didn’t know the cause of death, but she’s calling the coroner’s office today. My friend Judith, who also knew Jeff, said he died of a broken heart. That might be. He was so hopeless and lonely. He really wanted a female companion and he did not want to retire.
He had FB friends but other than Shirley and James, he didn’t see anyone. He had, in the last years, found family and was so thrilled. He had photos, and histories… they were quite well off. He found out who his father was and found his half brother. His half brother is coming from California to settle Jeff’s affairs. If family members are his beneficiaries, they’re going to inherit quite a fortune.
The cousins I contacted are in shock. I also contacted his oldest friend… since childhood, and he’s really shocked, too.
Shirley doesn’t believe he would take his own life. She’s known him longer than I have, so I tend to believe her. No blood, no vomit, no pained look on his face or uncomfortable posture. It was as though he just passed over.
I hope his brother arranges some kind of get together.
I hope I learn more. If his brother doesn’t arrange to clear out his apartment, I’m going to go over and help Shirley do it.
I tend to believe that I will never find out the real cause of his death, that thought is good enough for me. He was miserable and no matter what I said to him it didn’t change how he felt. Jeff loved food. For him not to be eating meant a lot. Maybe he just let go.
You and I both know that we can’t control another person’s life if they don’t want to live. It’s really their own personal choice and we have no say in it no matter how much we love them. We have to let each person that we love walk their own path without our interference. But we, who are Left Behind in these circumstances, suffer a great deal of loss and pain. Jeff now is out of pain; he’s out of misery.
It seems like he had been to the doctor but wasn’t going back. He was having back pain. He really didn’t see any reason to go on; he had no purpose in life, he thought. He was lonely and miserable and had obviously started drinking again after years and years of abstinence. Jeff was done. He wanted to step off and he did.
For some reason I decided I would go over and help Shirley clean the apartment. Jeff’s brother has come and gone. He took what he wanted. I don’t know what he took since this is the first time I’ve been in his house. All of the furniture is still there. Nothing worth saving really. The books are mainly packed up. I gathered up all the DVDs, CDs, videos. His old friend, Shirley, is cleaning his kitchen, bathroom, and getting rid of his clothes. His electronic devices are still there, nothing worth much. I spent all my time today gathering papers from every drawer, nooks, crannies and shelves, in every room. I’ll spend tomorrow sorting. I don’t have any more heavy things to lift, thank goodness. There is one small table I want… well, two, but I’ll check with Shirley. I don’t really have any right to them. I’m just doing this to honor Jeff. He was one of the kindest men I ever knew. He was wild in his youth, but always kind and a loyal friend. He was my best employee. Really brilliant. It’s so sad he had only found his family in recent years. I just want to help preserve something of him.
He had a nice home. Books, entertainment, money but even with friends and new found family, it wasn’t enough to make life worthwhile without work. I’ve never been depressed so I don’t understand it.
He obviously had kidney problems because they don’t just fail suddenly but he never said a word. Maybe I’ll find evidence of it in his papers. Funny, he was a wonderful archives assistant, yet his own papers are in total disarray. His place is beyond dirty. He could have easily hired a house keeper. He ate very well. He loved food. Good old fashioned American fare. But, once forced to retire, he lapsed into drinking again. Dammit!
When I got home from Jeff’s. I took a bath using a CBD bath bomb. That was so relaxing. I have another day over at Jeff’s to be done with not only his paperwork but boxing up his books and throwing away a ton of paperwork, knick knacks, clothes and the like.
There’s no one who gives a damn but me and Shirley. Today, Shirley stayed and helped haul stuff out to the dumpster. I have gathered up at least 2 boxes of things to send to his family. I’ll have a large box of his writings. I actually don’t know what to do with them. The boxes will go to Powell”s bookstore or to the Goodwill or the management co. will deal with them. There is a box full of land deeds from his family. I wonder if they still own all this land and just don’t know about it. I’m going to try to find out who to send them to tonight.
Nobody is here who cares.
Shirley is my age and a long time alcoholic. But more importantly, she’s a Blood/Blackfeet Indian. She’s been married to a white man for 23 years who’s been in love with a black woman for the last 5 or 6 years. She’s full of tales of abuse and fighting, of arguing, of jealousy and the cops coming to the house. Funny though, I like her as long as she doesn’t say anything about trump. How can a Canadian-American Indian say anything good about trump. The only thing I can figure out is that her husband is a racist/ redneck and so she’s getting her political views from him.
She’s a tiny, skinny woman and a hard worker and strong. She’s been married 5 times but only has one, gigantic, son who is 32 and a daughter. She’s toothless but has a good figure and I think at one time was probably quite attractive. She has bronze skin and deep brown eyes and a typical Indian nose… long, slightly hooked and wide, on a round face with high cheekbones and with long black hair that she dyes. She’s letting it grow out and the white is shockingly white. She tells of Indian wisdom and yet she allows herself to be humiliated. She says she is stuck in this relationship. Her husband is one of Jeff’s oldest friends and Jeff was the best man at their wedding. She came to love Jeff as a brother and cared for him, having him over for all holidays, sending him home with food for him to cook or with leftovers every week, taking him shopping. James and Shirley were companions to Jeff through rehab but now everybody drinks and smokes. She got a call from James twice while we were working and he wanted her to take his stimulus check and go out and buy whiskey and beer.
She told me the story of a time that he burned her with chile by throwing it on her off the stove and all over the couch. Now James has had a stroke and he can’t walk and he can’t hurt her anymore and the black woman doesn’t want him. Shirley wants him though, at least she needs him. Yesterday, I had to deliver Jeff’s keys to her house. Shirley wasn’t home but James was laying on the couch yelling at me to open the door. At 1st I didn’t hear him and so he yelled forcefully to open the door. Their house is cozy. They have nice things.
Shirley has worked hard all of her life. She got fired just recently though because her company found out she had voted for trump, that’s what she says. They said it was ethical for them to fire her. Between James and Shirley’s social security and maybe retirement they probably have enough to live on without Shirley working. She could put James in a nursing home and she could move back to the reservation where she has family. She might be happier there but she wants to stay close to her son Calvin even though her daughter lives on the reservation.
It’s not funny how we get stuck in situations that are not good for us and yet we stay. I wish Shirley all of the best. I think I might miss seeing her. I couldn’t really socialize with her at home, but perhaps I could meet her for coffee some times. She’s a very generous person. Perhaps if she moved back to the reservation she could see how trump is a bastard.
I’m happy. I hope you’re happy too. I have a sense of accomplishment for working over at Jeff’s even though it was not my responsibility. I feel good that I was able to do something for him even though he doesn’t give a rat’s ass what happens to his material belongings now that he has passed on to something, somewhere, we know not where or what or how. For now his family will have a sense of who Jeff was though they barely knew him. What a terrible father he had not to let his other kids know about their brother. He was all alone for many years. He was the offspring of an affair… but unwanted. That’s very sad.
Bye, my friend.
Bulldozing Montgomery
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.
eyeamdust 