He’s driving a little bit buzzed and fast because he believes he’s above the law.
Got his rocks off with a couple of prostitutes on 82nd and Sandy.
After, while driving home, blue and red lights behind him flashed.
His brown skin alone and that he’s also draped in gold make him immediately suspect.
“Roll down the window”, they shout. Get out of the car, and put your hands above your head. Put your hands behind your head. Spread your legs,” they shout, as they pat him down. Do you have a gun”?
Now, the confidence, the natural bravado drained from his brain and his body. “Yes, I was with a prostitute. Yes, I paid for sex, ” he offers, though they hadn’t asked that question, says he.
They shouted something about red lights and red lights, they keep repeating. His body shakes. ICE is rounding up immigrants. And what he doesn’t know is that he’s part of a sting. Though he is a naturalized citizen, the news spreads fear… nevertheless.
He doesn’t know how lucky he is. He walked away only the worse for wear. The citation reads: solicitation for prostitution. Nothing about a red light.
He reads it confused and brings it to me. I explained: a class A misdemeanor, up to a year in jail and over a $6400 fine. There’s also a court date.
What he doesn’t know either is that some johns had their cars impounded and were jailed that night. He finds out from friends that his name is published online.
“How many more stupid things are you going to do that I have to help you with,” i hiss through my teeth, over a bowl of phò.
Find a high-powered lawyer. $8500 retainer. Attend classes. Go to court. Maybe go to jail.
Enough money, and his god will help him, he believes. “God did this,” he relentlessly reiterates.
On the stand, he’ll perjer himself. He lies. A big liar. The lawyer will try to keep him off the stand.
Through all of his other petty crimes, he has never had to suffer the consequences. “God helps me,” he says, and he really believes it. I sigh and say, “Money talks.” He doesn’t believe me. He never does.
I talked to Jack for a long time today. What I love about still being able to be close to him is that our memories are the same and that we share those memories.
My dad, in jest, used to call himself “dirty dog Anderson,” and my brother Steve, when he was in high school, called himself, “Beatleman”. If you saw how he dressed, you would know why.
There’s no one else on earth that would know those things. We have laughed about them now for 60 years. I don’t know if you can possibly know how precious this is to me. If Jack and I were completely estranged, which for a while, I thought we would always be, we wouldn’t be able to share these memories.
My family loved our dog Gypsy so much that when we would see home movies of her, the entire family would be in tears. I found Gypsy, a small, tan, beagle type dog lost in front of our house. Jack and I share this memory. His memory is so sharp that he remembers things in such clear detail that he can fill in areas that I no longer can remember.
He remembered today, exactly the little secondhand shop where he bought me an authentic Navajo ring of carved silver set with a deeply orange/red carnelian stone. I’ve been remembering how much of myself was formed as a young girl from 16 through our entire relationship because of things that Jack said and did. I remember the things that he bought me. He encouraged me to learn and to stay curious.
He bought me art supplies and paid for art classes. He introduced me to music and artists, and literature that I may not have run into on my own so early in life.
He bought me clothes and artwork of all kinds and taught me the value of handmade everything. We shared foreign films on days when we didn’t feel like going to school. Instead, we would spend time in the art museum, in galleries, in cinema houses and the library. We lived in houses with character and historical value. I could go on and on, but I don’t know where we went off the rails.
But off the rails, we did go… some 30 years after we started. We used terrible words with each other, though we knew so many beautiful words. We hurt one another, and yet we held it together for so many years. I’m not sure that we could have salvaged our relationship. I don’t think I could stand it if I thought we could have saved it. It’s easier and less painful for me to think that our parting was necessary for our growth. Just as a plant needs pruning to continue to grow and produce flowers and fruits and vegetables. Sometimes, those plants need to move away from one another and give each more room to grow.
Regardless, I treasure the times now when we do talk, and when we remember. It’s good to know people who have known you through the journey.
And now, as far as my immediate family, there’s just Steve who knew me back when. Maybe it’s our ages, but with these two, Jack and Steve, my life has contiguous meaning.
His long, curly, disorderly salt and pepper hair exposed his age, for his body did not.
Every morning, he sailed his small fishing boat out into the bay of Zihuatanejo and back again in early afternoon.
The rest of the day was spent selling fish and cleaning the boat inside of a small boat house perched over the bay. Fe Dáncio had been a fisherman from childhood and had lived in Zihuatanejo from birth.
While in Zihuatanejo, I spent my days on the beach where the pounding waves pummeled me, where I lay in the sun, where I ate in the small cafés along the beach, where at night I could be found in the small clubs along the beach, dancing.
Tired early, I returned nightly to a small hotel just steps up from the sand. At one time, it had been painted pink with white balustrades with cool orntamental Spanish tiles to walk on. I slept on the balcony in a hammock swinging under palms and flowering plants. I slept soundly. The soft breezes swished through the leaves, murmuring secrets from the past, as did the waves on the sand.
I woke early with the sun and watched the fishing boats bobbing out into the bay. All I wanted to do was the same thing that I did yesterday and the day before and the day before that. For a few dollars, a small cafe next door offered my favorite breakfast of pancakes, papaya, and other fresh fruits and all of the orange juice I could drink… And Nescafe.
Throwing on a swimsuit and a pair of shorts, i would walk into the sea, spending hours doing nothing. The waves were unpredictable. At times, they were gently rolling, and at other times, they came in violently, casting me to the hard sandy bottom. More than once, I hit my head on a rock. My brown skin was often bruised.
From my place in the sand, I could see the fishermen coming in, and as usual, Fe Dáncio drew my attention as he walked from the boathouse. I can’t explain it, but to me, he was muyatractivo. His skin was dark. He was muscular. He was weathered but smooth and shiny, if you could imagine it, and his hair was wild and wind blown. I, of course, noticed that he had an eye for the women.
One day, he approached me. We took up a conversation, and he invited me into the boathouse to see his small fishing boat. Since I am fluent in Spanish, we talked for hours, and he told me about his life. We sat in the sand later, continuing our conversation. He seemed as curious about me as I was about him. We ate some dinner, and then he invited me to his house.
(My acceptance of his invitation was not unusual for me, for I visited many houses belonging to strangers. Remind me to tell you the story of visiting a family on an island in a yellow lagoon in a village that grew coconuts only accessable by flat bottom boats.)
Not Fe Dáncio’s place
We walked to a secluded area of the beach where the locals lived in small houses, surrounded by gardens. He lived in a small board cabin outside of his mother’s house in the soft sand among mango trees and lush plants. His mother offered to feed us, but we declined having just eaten.
It grew dark. We sat in his house and talked into the wee hours of the night. I grew tired. He offered his bed for me to lie down on. As he laid down beside me, he offered me a smoke. We smoked quietly, staring into the darkness of the sky. The candle light was dim, and I began to drift away. I was high like I had never been before. I was mesmerized by his gentle touch.
Once in a while, he would send me to the outdoor shower where soft, cool, and refreshing water woke me once again to a night so pleasant, I didn’t want it to end. I only remember waking to a chicken crowing in a tree outside his front door.
Fe Dáncio had gone fishing. He left me a plate of mango and papaya and a glass of orange juice. I hadn’t heard him wake or leave. I slowly dressed. After a night of such indescribable hallucinations and pleasure, I was surprisingly refreshed. I went to my regular café for breakfast and returned to the beach to swim and to lie in the sun.
I never saw Fe Dáncio again. I did not see his boat return, nor did I see him walking along the beach. Though I spent weeks in Zihuatanejo, I was left only with this memory of him. It is so vivid, yet I wonder if it really ever happened at all.
Han found an old skein of yarn at a garage sale in a basket labeled , “Everything, $1.00”.
When she brought it home, she asked for socks. No surprise there. “Of course,” I said. I wasn’t sure it would make a pair, but I was willing to give it a shot. So I made some shorties. This yarn was obviously discontinued, and more was nowhere to be found.
The yarn is Coatsand Clark, Red Heart, Knitting Worsted, 100% virgin wool. The colorway is Ancient Gold. It’s actually pretty cool, and I liked working with it, and I love the color. There’s little black fibers running through it.
This was a nice reprieve from larger projects while my damn arthritic thumb healed from overuse or the pain at least subsided a little.
I’ve already given up needlework, weaving and spinning, and book making. Must I give up knitting, as well?
Say it isn’t so. Guess not. A year later, I’m still knitting.
I’ve been wanting to make the Balvoniee Bonnet by Corinne Tomlinson for a long time. Corrinne says that her inspiration for this hat was Balvonie of Inshes in Inverness, Scotland, where she grew up and spent long school breaks there with her family. The bonnet is “traditional Scottish woolen brimless cap; a bunnet (Sir Walter Scott).”
I ordered the kit from Wooley Thistle this winter. The yarn is by Jamieson and Smith, a 100% Shetland wool from the Shetland Islands. But I’ve been stuck in a place of no motivation for knitting except to finish a pair of socks for Hannah. The socks are out of Arne and Carlos Schachenmeyr sock yarn. They were supposed to be done for Christmas. Then they were supposed to be done in February for her birthday. But I just finished them this past weekend. So now I’ve got time to do the bonnet.
Also, if you look closely, you can see the Cascade 220 yarn in lipstick red in the background. That is going to be a striped sweater with bright pink and this red for Hannah. I’ll post more about that as I get into it. The pattern is called the Compliment Sweater. Hannah has asked me to make her something out of yarns that were not my favorite but turned out to be my favorite in the end after completing the project. I think this will be the same. Lots of summer knitting to do.
I could almost feel the warm midwest winter sunshine on your hair.
Your hair is the colors of burnished bronze, copper, and gold. Some strands are thick and lustrous as if made of spun silver.
Unruly, some with a mind of their own are spiraling away from the rest, up into the air with a strong sense of whimsy in defiance of gravity.
Flecks of dust are flying around your head in a ray of sun, animated by the air, stirred by the swish of wool and cotton.
Beautiful visuals punctuated by laughter.
I loved it all on this cold, wet, dark day in Portland on the west coast.
Wordsmith: Enora Hall
I watch a lot of knitting podcasts because I’m a knitter. I love some, and some I don’t love. The Fat Squittel falls into the former… in my list of top five, she’s hard to beat.
She’s intelligent, well-read, informed, and always filled with abundant humor. There’s beauty that isn’t unfounded in other podcasts, but there’s something rare in the presentation… in the filming, in her talent as a textile artist.
Once, I thought I was writing to her to tell her of my appreciation, but sent it unknowingly to some random poster writing about Mary Todd Lincoln. Thankfully, someone commented on my comment, and the lost poem was found. Here you have it.
I wake up with a start when a gunshot explodes next to my left ear. I check to see if someone is in my room, but when I see no one, I worry that somebody is in the house and perhaps shot my daughter. It takes just a few minutes before I realize that it really wasn’t a gun. But where did the sound come from?
A bomb goes off in my room, apparently on top of my bed. I’m startled, and fortunately, the sound was just in my head. The shock was such that I find it hard to go back to sleep. My body reacts as though it was real.
As I duck under a large branch of an old oak tree, I bump my head hard on the huge branch. A loud thudding sound is emitted like my head might have burst open. I reached to touch my head to make sure I’m in one piece.
Somebody slaps me across the face with a loud slapping sound. I involuntarily jerk my face away, and I’m suddenly awake but feeling no sting from the hand that hit me.
I’m falling, and I’m falling hard, and I roll on the ground. My real body reaction wakes me with a shock as I keep myself from falling off the bed!
This is real.
In the beginning, before I knew what was happening to me, I was afraid I was having a stroke or was something bursting in my brain? Or was something even more serious happening? Was I dying? Was I going crazy?
Before I panicked, I decided to do some research and look up my symptoms on the internet. This was as easy as ABC or 123.
You can’t imagine my relief whenI found that this was Exploding HeadSyndrome and that it was not attached to any serious illnesses. However, it is a sleep disorder. It is not painful. This condition might last only for one incident or a few times or longer-term, but it comes and goes of its own volition. There really is no treatment or cure.
It is startling and disconcerting. The loud noises seem as real as real can be. Real gunfire or bombs going off is frightening enough. But having it happen right in your bed and in your head is very unpleasant. But that’s as bad as it gets.
I’ve attached a link that has more information if you’re interested in more details or maybe you have this syndrome yourself. I hope this doesn’t happen to you. But if it does not to worry, you’re fine..
Yesterday, I was going through old photographs and there was Auntie Wilma, her midriff top pulled off her shoulders, in shorts and looking quite glamorous. So, I’m eating cinnamon toast in her honor today. Sometimes after school she would come over and we’d make cinnamon toast and eat until we had finished the entire loaf of bread. It was the same when I went to Grandma’s house when Auntie Wilma came over.
If I could wish for everyone something good, it would be that they grew up with an Auntie Wilma. She drove an all black Ford Fairlaine, totally tricked out in chrome with big fins. The back seat was littered with candy wrappers, empty bags of chips, and empty soda bottles.
Auntie Wilma’s1956 Ford Fairlane
When I was in grade school, she worked as a soda jerk in the bowling alley across the street from my school. Mom and Dad forbid us to bother her on the job, but occasionally we’d get to go in to get a chocolate milkshake… on the house. I was so proud of Auntie Willma and loved to see her coming and I loved to tell my friends that she worked in the bowling alley and she was MY aunt.
Sometimes on the weekends, if there was a bowling tournament, she would pick us kids up and take us to watch her bowl and to eat all of the chips, and sodas, and ice cream we could stuff into our mouths. Either on our way to the bowling alley or on the way back home, she would surely stop and buy us hamburgers and milkshakes that we were allowed to eat in her car. If we asked her where we were going, she would always answer with one word, “Timbuktu”. We had no idea what she was talking about but we were just so happy to be hanging out with Auntie Wilma. Later, I found out that Grandpa used to answer her that way when they would go out for drives.
Auntie Wilma had shelves with trophies for swimming, for diving, for bowling, and golfing. She had a great figure and loved showing it off. She loved going out dancing and was an award winning jitter bugger. When I was in high school, she liked coming over, not only to eat cinnamon toast but to show me that she could fit into my clothes. She loved flirting with my boyfriends. I think they liked it, too.
As a child, there was nothing better than having Auntie Wilma come over or to take us out in her big black car. When I was about eleven years old, she adopted a child. Occasionally, I would babysit for her because she was usually working as a night bartender. I thought she was quite lucky and lived an exciting life. And I was lucky because she would bring me home Chinese food or some other food from some bar or restaurant where she was working. She’d wake me up after 2 o’clock in the morning, and we’d share the food and we’d talk. Now, I can’t imagine what we had to talk about, but we were close.
It wasn’t until I was an adult that I found out that Auntie Wilma rarely made good choices in her life. She must have been the source of a lot of pain and suffering for Grandma and Grandpa. There’s some really bad things that she did in the family that I won’t mention here, because I loved her so and this is a post about me honoring Auntie Wilma today with cinnamon toast. It hurts me to think about those things because when I was younger she was magical.
No matter what, she was loved, and she loved us. Only if you had someone in your life while you were growing up, like Auntie Wilma, will you understand what I mean. I don’t even know if she was happy or not. All I know was that she was pedal to the metal. I don’t ever remember Mom and Dad saying one negative word about her, not even to warn us against turning out like her. Before I knew better, I practically worshiped her. I know better, and I’m glad she was not my only role model but only one of them because she was fun as hell.
PS: While looking at more photographs this afternoon, I ran into photos of Auntie Wilma in office wear, looking very professional. Somewhere tucked deep in my mind are memories of hearing that at some point she had office jobs, maybe even before I was born or before I was totally aware that she was my aunt.
To be fair. I also want to mention that she was a great fisher and hunter of, in particular, venison. We often went fishing with her and often went to the beach with Grandma and Grandpa and Auntie Wilma. Dad, Auntie Wilma, and Grandpa would swim out into the frigid Pacific Ocean and have been known to swim with seals.
No matter how much I write about her it doesn’t seem to be enough.
Today I sat and watched the bees drinking at the “bee bar” and gathering pollen from the lavender, the gladiolus, the sweet William, the kiwi, apples, the lily’s and more. One guy caught my eye.
He watched as other bees entered a particularly attractive squash blossom. Once the unsuspecting bee got deep within, this guy… (I don’t know if it was a guy or not, but I suspected as much, as his seeming thuggery led me to believe so) followed him or her in from behind.
Within seconds, he dragged the other bee out of the blossom, slammed it on the ground, gave it a good going over, released it, then both flew away. In seconds the scene was repeated.
Either this was characteristic of territorial behavior, violent love making or a rape. I couldn’t tear my eyes away until the brutality was too much for me to continue to witness. 😂
eyeamdust 