Long Time Sun

may the long time sun shine upon you
all love surround you
and the pure light within you
guide your way on

Valley of the Dutch Babies and Mountains for Cowboys

I've been away. Caretaking. Driving up and down between 5800 ft and 8000 ft in the San Juan Mountains of Colorado where my father lived until he rolled his car and changed his circumstances.

One day, driving home from the hospital I saw this scene at the local Denny's. We are not in Portland any more.

I can't sort out all the emotions, ideas, revelations, and resignations of this trip just yet. Still in the midst of figuring out the fine points.

When I drove home down that mighty and magnificent Columbia river  gorge and rounded a bend to find the tip top of  my sweet Willamette Valley I could finally breathe. I tasted the moisture in the air. I drove down an everyday street in this beautiful place and saw every sort of person in every sort of dress. No cow ponies or cows at Denny's. But I did see a goat mowing a lawn and my own fine dogs dancing with joy. And, best of all, the people that I love who make this place home.

In honor of the fullness of that I made a dutch baby that my baby and I just devoured.

 

Moan at the cliche if you will, there is no denying that, for me, there is no place like home. And home is a green, wet, fertile valley that terminates at its northern border in a confluence of the Willamette and Columbia rivers and lies just a low, misty mountain pass away from the Pacific ocean.

To make a dutch baby:

Heat oven to 400 degrees f

Grab your cast iron skillet and cut up an entire stick of butter to toss into pan

Place skillet with butter in hot oven and melt

Meanwhile:

In blender or with a whisk and large mixing bowl beat 6 eggs, then add 1 1/2 cups milk, then slowly whisk in 1 1/2 cups flour and whisk/blend for a minute.

Quickly pour egg mix into melted butter in skillet. Place back in oven and cook for 20 to 25 minute. Dutch baby will puff up and become golden.

Top this golden goodness with a squeeze of lemon and powdered sugar or jam or maple syrup.

If you are wildly inspired, during the intial butter melt, toss in a couple handfuls of thinly sliced apples and a handful of brown sugar and let this cook for a few minutes in the oven before pouring over your dutch baby mix. My oh my! how your mama doing?

In other news, this is lovely and again, not news to anyone, but such a wonderful reminder. Also, via the ever lovely, often poignant Miss Whistle our beloved Stephen Fry on Kindness something my glorious mother with her generous wisdom suggested as my mantra for the trip.

Here was the view driving back to Ouray every night for the past couple of months. Spectacular.

 

The Beauty of Brown Bears and Salmon

I always joke that I could be a brown bear. My favorite foods, foods I grew up eating in Alaska, include salmon and berries. My sister-in-law just posted a link to brown bears fishing at Brooks Falls in Alaska. It is too gorgeous not to share.

Brown Bears and Salmon. A perfect marriage. They each need the other. There is no need to root for one over the other. Neither exists without the other. May they be together always.
When I was a little girl I used to love it when my parents would take us to the restaurant at the visitors center at Mendenall Glacier where I would consume the words most delicious tuna sandwiches ( I have tried to recreate these sandwiches to no avail-closest I get is buttering both sides of the bread and spreading a very light layer of mayonnaise then piling on the tuna and adding some salt). Beside the road on the drive to and from the glacier runs a creek. I remember watching it carefully as we drove up when the salmon were running. Dear reader, you could not see the water for the fish. A creek of flashing silver as far as my eyes could see. I imagined it always had and always would be so rich with life.

I remember taking my son to see the Trask River Fish Hatchery here in Oregon one fall as the Chinook were spawning. In Oregon fourth grade public school students must do a report on a state county and my beautiful child scored Tillamook County-home to so many treasures including, conveniently, Al & G Ma's beach cabin in Rockaway.We embarked on an epic exploration of all things Tillamook from the highly recommended Historical Pioneer Museum to the Cheese Factory. We decided to check out the fish hatchery after visiting a nearby Pioneer Cemetery.

There I stood, suspended on a gangplank above the river, caught completely by surprise, sobbing at the sight of so many glorious fish. I never imagined I would ever see such a richness of salmon again after leaving Alaska. I knew it was just a small, hatchery raised group that I was witnessing in the magnificent, poignant finale of a journey as mysterious as it was epic. And there I stood weeping for the bears and the salmon and the native people and the fisherfolk and the little kids (the little me) who knew abundance and now knew that richness was gone. And I wanted my son to understand that story so desperately-to recognize those fish as life-bearers, as silver and red, exhausted gods creating whole worlds with their struggle.

Brown bears can be scary even though they most often remind me of my favorite dogs. We camped on Kodiak Island and heard stories of visitors who had  to swim for their boats as they were chased off the beach by big bears. As we hiked to our cabin, we would ring bells and sing camp songs as loud as we could so the bears could avoid us. I remember marveling at my parent's good humor when all around us prowled hungry brown bears. I was sure we would eventually be eaten but I never let it deter me from running around that island with my brothers splashing into lakes and picking salmon berries.

Silly me, I thought plump children would be more delicious to summer hungry bears than fat salmon. There is nothing more delicious than fat salmon.

On my father's first week of work as state highway engineer, one of his survey crew was killed by a bear.  I knew and respected their power even as a child. And I loved them. I love them. As ferocious as they are.

I hope they live long and prosper and send descendants out into the future to meet up with an ocean tested multitude of fat, shiny, oily, rich, beautiful life-giving fish.

Mehdi Hassan

Years ago I found your voice. If Heaven  exists, your music is it's sound. Rest in peace Maestro.

A Trip to Hulda's Garden

Ugh. Not so pretty "new" interface for the bloggists Blogger.What fresh hell? Must everything be "updated"? I am having a lot of trouble with change right now and this just looks like more bad news.

Guess I should just jump in dear reader and start where I am. On a blank page.

Beautiful time of year here in old PDX. Posie published a great list of things to do when you are in Stumptown. So go check that.

Photo by moi

Made a lovely visit to the Hulda Klager Lilac Garden with my own glorious mother and my beautiful baby boy. The gardens are open every year for a couple of weeks before Mother's Day to celebrate Hulda's legacy. When I discovered that Hulda lost everything in the floods of 1948 and had to start again at age 83, I was inspired to face my own neglected garden.

10 years ago, in a fit of rage, someone I loved took an axe to my own 100 year old lilacs in the backyard. They were at least 18 feet tall and 20 feet wide-a veritable lilac perfumed forest. I suspect they were just one more thing he could be jealous about.

My dear neighbor Hazel, who was born in the house next door, told me the lilacs had bloomed that prolifically all of her long life. My house is now at least 123 years old and the lilacs were here for most of that time. I have mourned them each spring and avoided my backyard (site of the massacre) for too long.

 My mother bought a beautiful Sarah Sands lilac, hybridized by Hulda, as a gift for me. So, I'm putting on my gauntlets and heading out to do battle with a forest of blackberry and residual heartache. Wish me luck.

For Mother's Day I painted my fingers. Early in the morning, before the temperatures climbed into the very un-Portland-like high 80's, we walked over to the Cartopia food carts on Hawthorne and ate crepes in the sunshine. It was a perfect day.

I think that you are aware my dear reader of how deeply grateful I am to have been gifted the mother I have. To share two beautiful, sun-filled days with both my mother and my son in a single week was so lovely. I do hope your Mother's Day was just as sublime.

Today's highlight, in addition to planting peppermint, pineapple mint, and CHOCOLATE mint (who knew?!) was a kind comment left by one of my longtime blog-crushes Janelle from Ngorobob House: Life From the Hill. You, my dear reader Red Tara, can imagine my fan-girl excitement! She had posted to her blog this morning after a bit of a break. Reading her post made my morning, so I stopped by hers to let her know.

Since the day I gave up monkey muffins, I have relied on writers who deliver the goods for my morning indulgence ( huge latte with honey and a google reader chaser). Janelle's blog is a favorite treat.

Another eagerly anticipated blog is Tania Kindersley's, Backward in High Heels. Like me, Tanya adores horses. She recently brought her red mare home to the far north  of Scotland. I have been planning to write about her experience with a commenter who suggested that readers were bored with her new found passion for the red mare. That she was too single-minded in her posts.

I tried to leave the following comment on her post:

Tania I wish I had commented on yesterday's post. All day my mind was humming with sympathetic joy for you and the red mare and the pony and the pigeon. I don't have an eloquent way to express it, but this coup de foudre has been what finally grabbed my attention and made me a daily reader after a long time of just occasionally visiting.

I am fascinated by people's passions. Especially those of women, as we have for so long been told to keep quiet about personal delight lest we call too much attention to ourselves.

I, too, have loved a horse and part of the joy of these posts has been the stirring of my own sweet memories. But greater than that has been the (admittedly voyeuristic) pleasure of following along as you throw caution to the wind and ecstatically follow your heart's desire. We should all be so brave and so lucky.

Thank you for such tremendous pleasure and for the honesty of your work on the blog which has come to feel like a delicious present I get to unwrap each day.I am so grateful.

For some reason I couldn't leave the post but I wanted to put it someplace to remind myself that what we love, what we are moved by, is the fuel of life. I feel so bogged down in the 'shoulds', the 'what-ifs', and sometimes even, oh the shame of it!, the 'what will they think of its?' that I need reminders and fuel.

To the women and men who write about their lives and passions and everydays I can only say thank you. And, I love you.

That's all for tonight. I'll figure out this new blogger trip another day.

I am working away on some new projects. If I can tear myself away from reclaiming my land, I'll be back to fill you in on the details.

Saint Patrick's Day

Happy Saint Patrick's Day - one of my Poppa's favorite holidays. I am a proud descendent of John Kelly. I take my name from his. It means warrior. My beautiful mother, his fine daughter, sent me greetings and she closed with: "May the most you wish for be the least you get; may the best times you ever had be the worst you will ever see." And love, always love.

Noirin Ni Riain



And from Sinead

Daddy's Got a Gun

I left the comment below on Mrs. G's blog, but I wanted to put it here to remember. It fits in with a certain theme I'm vibing on. The comment was left in response to Mrs. G's request for thoughts on this video (which she said was sweeping the web and I had not yet seen-6 million viewers?):



So, Dad is quite angry. And he has a gun. And obviously, he is a parenting teenager newb. As the daughter of an angry man, I can tell you that public rants and humiliation do not forge strong parent/child bonds, healthy relationships,compliance with daddy's wishes, or respect.

We are seeing one angry dad's response to his child's teenage angst. Teenagers do that. They diss their parents. They feel "put out" by the demands their parents make. The are embarrassed and even disdainful of their parents. They can frequently be over-the-top asshats, cruel, thoughtless, and pissy mean.

This is normal human development. Normal = Not a shooting offense. Fear has no place in parent/child relationships. It is destructive to that which is most essential-trust. And, if handled correctly, (I liked to use long words about individuation and developing synaptic connections i.e. "your brain don't work so hot right now because you have a lot of synaptic connections to forge.") teenage asshatment can be talking points that enhance a teenager's sense of self and self-worth, which helps them develop connection and empathy, which makes aging parental ass-wiping highly probable (one among many of the highly desirable traits we hope to see in our offspring).

I don't advocate being a doormat for a kid, but I do believe we must show our children respect before we can demand it from them. Like all tough skills, becoming a tolerable human is a learned behavior. Takes trial and error and a very committed team routing for you to actually master the complex feat of growing up.

I have 2 beautiful adult children who at times did equally stupid, insensitive things (just as I, too, did when young-probably still do as we save all our best bullshit for those we love and trust. Sorry Mama.). I believe that they have learned how to be remarkable adult people through loving, honest, SAFE, (no cigarettes, anger, guns -heaven help us!) and respectful interactions with adults they could count on to establish boundaries and listen as often as they talked to teenagers.

I feel bad for this family. Where do you go to talk things out when the level of aggression is raised to such heights? And how can a cornered kid make a graceful retreat or attempt rapprochement when they are not shown how to handle disappointing behaviors which, let's face it parents, our kids receive from us as well.

So, that was my comment on the video. It makes me sad to think 6 million people think this is ok parenting. I call shenanigans. This dude is an amateur who could benefit from some education. I can only hope he was arrested for deploying hollow-point bullets in a residential neighborhood and that his arrest taught his daughter a little bit about how not to handle her disappointment and anger.

Oh Girl

Ah dear Sinéad Marie Bernadette O'Connor,

Universal Mother. I have loved you long time. We had our babies around the same time. I danced my beautiful son around our dark living room to the Lion and the Cobra when he couldn't sleep. I felt you there with us, your magic so real.

I see you tweeting sweet darling girl. I want to reply, to remind you that you wrote the anthem (the one I sang and played over and over to my daughter hoping to immunize her from the dangers of a self-immolating desire):

I never wanna be no man's woman
I only wanna be my own woman
I haven't traveled this far to become
no man's woman

Now, I know for all of us (especially you, me, and my girl) that doesn't mean we don't like blokes. We are more than we seem, like all women. We are glorious. We must remember.

Moonrise Kingdom

This looks amazing.



Thanks sfgirlbybay for the heads up.

Granny's Cookies

It's my birthday! So far so good. Start as you mean to go forward, so I took a long shower. Washed all the worries I am not carrying forward away. Now I am all shiny and new and ready for adventure.

Just before it struck midnight (and became MY BIRTHDAY!!!) I was making three batches of Granny Kelly's cookie dough. My mother's mother-Granny Kelly- must have learned the recipe from her mama. All my life, every Christmas my family gathers and we make Granny's cookies. We roll them out. Pick out our favorite cookie cutters (I am partial to the scotty dog and the bunny). Cut them out. Bake them. Sneak a few while they are warm. And when they have cooled, we whip up some butter cream frosting (never royal icing) and tint it whatever colors we want. Cover the table with waxed paper. Put out every sort of sprinkle, colored icing sugar, silver dragees, cinnamon red hots, bowls of frosting and get down to business. It can take hours. The youngest decorators sometime lose interest and wander off only to be drawn back to the table because it is covered in delicious sweet stuff.

Tomorrow after school my nieces will come and we will start the process. Then their parents, my little brother and sister-in-law, will show up, followed by my daughter and her sweetheart.  My son will be working but he will be home in time to eat many a cookie. And a birthday party of my favorite sort will ensue.

Down in Reno my littlest brother and his family will be making Granny's cookies this weekend too. I suspect my mother, who is spending the winter warming up in her desert home, will make a batch to give to holiday visitors.

We will all be together in spirit,gathered around the kitchen table, feeling lucky, remembering our Granny and Poppa and all the love that flows through us generation after generation.

Granny's Cookies

from the kitchen of Florence Kelly to the kitchen of her daughter and grandchildren, and now her great grandchildren

1 Cup Shortening
4 Cups Flour
1/2 t Salt
2 Eggs beaten
1 Cup Sugar
1/4 Cup Milk
1 t Vanilla
1 t Baking Soda

Sift flour and salt together. Cut in shortening (I use my cuisinart sometimes, sometimes a fork or pastry cutter). In a separate bowl combine the eggs, sugar, milk, vanilla, and baking soda. Add in flour/shortening mixture until just combined. Don't beat up the dough. Cover and chill overnight in the fridge. When it is time to bake, preheat your oven to 400 degrees F. Roll the dough out on a lightly floured surface to about 1/4 inch thickness and cut out with cookie cutters befitting the holiday (I make them sometimes for Valentine's Day and Keenan's Day too!).  Bake until golden, about 8 minutes. Cool on wire racks.

When cookies are cooled (after you've had pizza and salad and sung a round of happy birthday to me) frost and decorate. We make the frosting with varying amounts of butter, powdered sugar, milk or cream, vanilla, and a pinch of salt. Use a recipe you love and don't make it too thin because that is just mean.

As I will be making these later today (after I sleep) I don't have a picture to show you. Wait! I think I have an example from my son's birthday party 2 years ago. He decided he would rather have Granny's cookies than a birthday cake. Let me look.........





There they are. His auntie made a portrait of him being grumpy. His cousins have always called him "deeda". He isn't always grumpy. You can see we are very fond of sprinkles.

Spring Me

 

Source

Dear reader I wait with bated breath.  'With bated breath, and whispring humblenesse.'  Shakespeare, Merchant of Venice i. iii. 125

This week I notice that the sky holds light longer. Just fully dark now after 6. We have had sunny days and less rain than one could expect.  I crave bright sun, a warm, soft wind, and the smell of lilacs in my garden.The problem with January is that it's hard to hope that spring will come. So much grey. Then comes the month of sunshine that is an Oregon February. Really! Still cold, sometimes snow, sometimes rain. But sunshine. And the blossoms peeking out to inquire "is it time?"

My best beloved, my beautiful child born 23 years ago this month came home with me on a late February day of bright sun and warmth. February always gives me the best gifts. The gifts I dare to hope for in winter.

Sunflowers and Blue Skies

Photo of Elspeth by Tanza Smith from her website

Some days I wake up grieving I know not what. There's always plenty to sigh and storm over. So, most often, I don't puzzle on it too much. It is what it is or maybe it is nothing.

Today there is something. After reading Mig who wrote about justifying one's own existence (or not), I was reading Yarnstorm at Jane Brocket's little slice of the world. Jane wrote about the sad news of Elspeth Thompson's death.

Elspeth sort of enchanted me ( and I mean that in the "moved by magic" way it sounds) with her beautiful blogs, books, and columns.

I read a comment left in condolence by arusa that quoted a poem:

Why did you vanish
into the empty sky?

Even the fragile snow,
when it falls,
falls in this world.

- izumi shikibu -
woman poet of the Heian period, Japan

And then another comment that is one of my beautiful Mother's favorite poems by Mary Oliver:

Wild Geese

You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

love what it loves.

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain

are moving across the landscapes,

over the prairies and the deep trees,

the mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,

are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

the world offers itself to your imagination,

calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting

over and over announcing your place

in the family of things.

from Dream Work by Mary Oliver

published by Atlantic Monthly Press

© Mary Oliver

And lastly, I recalled this from Kathleen Raine posted by Elspeth on her own blog here:

I BELIEVE NOTHING

I believe nothing – what need

Surrounded as I am with marvels of what is,

This familiar room, books, shabby carpet on the floor,

Autumn yellow jasmine, chrysanthemums, my mother’s flower,

Earth-scent of memories, daily miracles,

Yet media-people ask, “Is there a God?”

What does the word mean

To the fish in his ocean, birds

In his skies, and stars?

I only know that when I turn in sleep

Into the invisible, it seems

I am upheld by love, and what seems is

Inexplicable here and now of joy and sorrow,

This inexhaustible, untidy world -

I would not have it otherwise.

Elspeth had that extraordinary ability to appreciate and nurture the exquisite in the ordinary and untidy. Sometimes extraordinary skills demand an excruciating sensitivity.

So, to make sense of the painful impermanence of the beautiful we can try words, frail though they be.

I like to look at my child's eyes. From his early days to now they are made of sunflowers and blue skies.

click on photo to see the sunflowers up close

They are as miraculous as anything I've known.

What is enough? Enough to convince us to stay. To see things through. To believe that there is something ahead of us or something right now that requires our presence.

To steady my gaze on the now, I claim the natural world, these eyes, and a quote that I believe originated with Pam Houston in Cowboys Are My Weakness:

"A death wish is a life wish, as love is the flip-side of fear."

And I will not judge another for their own conclusion.

Off to a Groovy Start!

Well done Oregon!

We kicked off a new decade by insisting on tax fairness. Every once in a while my fellows in the pnw surprise me with votes for justice (for example, our death with dignity vote, which was challenged and re- affirmed by Oregonians).

Again, well done you! This vote was much needed by yours truly as an affirmation of social sanity after the Supreme Court sold our democracy to the highest bidder earlier in the month (it's been a long drawn out sale-now complete. I hope the buyer doesn't notice the holes in the roof!).

I would also like to thank my Oregon peeps for the whole vote by mail deal. No dangling or pregnant chads, no corruptible Diebold machines (hackable in 4 minutes flat!). Simple is good my friends.

When my baby was younger we would make a big deal of trips to the polls. The first few rounds of vote by mail I insisted he walk the 12 blocks to elections headquarters with me. But now, it has become such a simple ritual-whoever is driving, walking, running, biking past drops our secure ballots off-saving a stamp and celebrating the fact that at least for this day, in this unique place, we are free to vote our conscience with a black or blue ink pen and a secrecy envelope and a signature.

So far, January has been more pluses than minuses. Most happily Heather & Mike welcomed Maddie's healthy and gorgeous baby sister Annabel Violet. I cried. Mama and baby are well. Life insists.

I, somehow ( I think via sfgirlbybay), discovered John&Fish's Flickr photostream:



I wonder if birds in Taiwan are indeed more colorful than in Oregon? Perhaps I am not paying close-enough attention. These photos are worth a look for the diversity of the beautiful,winged creatures so exquisitely captured by camera.

I finally have my own Rosehip Crocheted-edge Pillow Case from Beata! It's the one on top in this photo:


You can grab one for your own cozy, tiny bed from her etsy shop.

Baby brother and familia are safe in their new digs in Mexico and obnoxious father has returned safely from escorting them south to prepare for his first landing upon European soil. Peace be with all of you in the EU.

My beautiful mother enjoys the warmth of a winter sun in her secret, sunny lair. I miss her but enjoy imagining her basking in those Vitamin D rich rays.

Assorted nieces are insisting I watch Glee with them. How lovely is that! To have assorted nieces and to have them like you enough to plan movie night with you! So sweet.

My delightful son with the wicked dry sense of humor cut down the neighbor's invading bamboo forest for me and used it to create a privacy screen so that I can romp around deshabille in privacy (where are my accents?).

My daughter of choice, the glorious Alexandrea, has found her own cozy, warm, and love-filled nest. I am so very happy for her to be so well situated after so long a search for a home of her own.

Additionally, I have creative commissions to work on and a quick trip to market in Seattle next week to look forward to.

Supa Dupa so far is the verdict.

Oh Poor Me...

Hello Dear Reader Red Tara. Long time no typing. I did go to Reno for the big pizza and wine fest and retirement shindig. See proof above. The pictures are a bit wonky because I was jumping on the beds of our Circus Circus West Tower 7th floor 2 queens room with my three nieces. We were all wearing our princess dresses, cowboy boots, and tiaras. You should have been there!

Boy howdy...circus circus...I could write forever about why I am not a casino kind of girl. Cheap rooms and limited space at PTJ's are my excuses for the location. Serious good times were had without a step into a "casino". Casinos, dear reader, are where poor people go to spend their very last quarters so that they can drink free, watery rum and cokes or 7-n-7's.

Reno deserves discussion. I judged it harshly based on a devotion to the Comedy Central show Reno 911. It is actually gorgeous and retro-funky. Many of the houses are constructed of beautiful red brick and shaped uniquely. My favorite looked just like a hobbit house with a little divided front door and a wild, curly black roof. Alas, no picture. I had to be physically restrained from jumping out of the truck to offer the hobbits all my gold rings for their beautiful wee little house in Reno, Nevada. Happily, my people recognize that I am not a hobbit and that Nevada and I are just getting to know each other. We shall have to see.

Nevertheless, Reno is amazing. You are practically swimming in Lake Tahoe or skiing -whatever blows your skirt up and weather depending. It suns and rains and snows and blows and blazes all in the span of an hour. The astounding mountain ranges that surround you actually take your mind off the Donner Party those same mountains so successfully trapped. For this distraction by their sublime beauty I am eternally grateful as I tend to obsess unpleasantly about those poor starving souls when in the neighborhood of the Sierra Nevadas. And, as we are speaking of starving, significantly, Reno has two In-N-Out Burger joints. There are zero In-N-Out burger joints in Oregon. Have you ever been? I do not eat fast food. I do eat double doubles animal style.



Anyway, today I was just going to whine a bit about poor me waking up Monday morning stone deaf in my right ear. Perhaps I would type a bit about how this might be the way I am forever and what that means to a woman who loves music. Even the sound of my son's beautiful voice is different. And I am panic-stricken and such. Meh.

Before driving by blogger, I stopped in to check on Maddie's mama and daddy. 514 days. It broke my heart all over again. So, nothing profound here. Except my otolaryngologistically determined Profound deaf-ness. And being half-deaf, well it sucks, but not as much as being all deaf. No where near as much as Maddie and her loved ones having only 514 days.

So, upon reflection, I feel a bit silly whining about being somewhere around 17,094 days old with a profoundly deaf right ear. So what. I'll cry about it later. In the privacy of my closet. Or, perhaps publicly if anyone else asks me what they can do, because that is so sweet and how the feck do you not cry when you have to tell some sweet person who wants to help you that there is nothing they can do. Heather and Mike must be out of their minds with that particular grief too.

I have noticed one interesting symptom that I will share with you in the fine tradition of digression that I must observe. I have developed what I refer to as Natasha syndrome. So named because in the episode Attack of the 5 Foot Ten Woman (hey I'm 5 Foot Ten too!) of Sex and the City where Carrie is feeling inferior to Big's new hot big wife, she regains the upper hand reading a thank you note written by Natasha wherein she of the Five Feet Ten uses"their" when she should use"there". Carrie reads this note with the incorrect spelling over the phone to Samantha or Miranda or the wasp one and says "she's a big idiot" or some such.

Yeah, I'm lame. I watched the entire series in one cosmo-fueled funk spent in my jammies with the dogs looking on sympathetically. I am Natasha and their is nothing sadder than half-deaf peoples who have lost there ability to use their and there appropriately. It makes plain my disability. I suppose I should mention, though it pains me to do so, that my doctors do not agree that this symptom can be attributed to my new deafness. Another reason I look upon most physicians as quacks -they tend to disagree with me on so many fundamental and obvious things. But, as part of my healing therapy, I fully embrace my diagnosis of Natasha syndrome. Their. I have confessed my shame.

But fear not intrepid one, I promise I have love stories to tell about so many things.

A quick list in case I forget:

1. My Beloved Son in college.

He will not thank me about the picture here. First day of school pictures are a tradition. I should probably ask..but hey, I've done it before. And just you hold up little Miss tidy driveway, back off about the recycling bins! It was garbage day!!!I seem to remember a 40 foot pile of bark dust that lived in front of your house for like TWO years! Plus, my neighborhood is gentrifying at an astonishing rate. I have to do my part to defend the urban farm vibe.

Wait, I am too sensitive. You don't judge me. This is why we are pals of the first order. Nevermind.

As my devoted imaginary friends across the globe who have traveled the distance with me from ingenue to world weary homeowner of now going on 22 years will observe...the stairs, they are still a problem. What I wouldn't barter for some fancy new stairs, a screen door without tears, and an un-leaky roof! Scandalous!

But this young man...he makes every day a special day by just him being him (holla Mr. Rogers!). Sometimes the quickest glimpse of him makes it hard for me to breathe and then I can't see very well because I weep liberally at his pure exquisiteness. I have never gotten over the profound joy of his arriving. He is here! And, HE IS IN COLLEGE! Oh! and I love Posy even more for this post. Oh heavens! the LOVE! Thank goodness he is a patient and fine old soul.

2. An amazing 4 days away alone with my glorious Mother in Rockaway and all over the flat-out crazy beautiful Oregon Coast where we hiked through bogs, under and over huge root balls of fallen giants, up tall mountains, and deep into primordial forest to visit the largely unvisited oldest/largest western red cedar pictured below with said glorious mama (don't tell her I put her picture in my blog. She is very modest. But I mean really, the woman is a Goddess).


Aren't they beautiful...I told you true red tara. And all the while we were in sunshine and green it drubbed down rain upon my little Portland town. How curious was that?



3. My obnoxious father's big hootenanny half way between his San Diego house and my Portland house at babiest brother Patrick's in Reno. A ball was had by all. When said obnoxious father wasn't busy making out with strange chicks he'd just met at his party (That's how we roll), he was head pizza chef. Here he is passing on the family pizza making legacy to the youngest of the many princesses present(most of us were still in formal dress). Kneading the dough is tough work for princesses.


Daddy is in charge of thick crust "Gutbustium" style, whilst his ex-wife, my mama with the good sense makes wicked nummmy New York style. The pizza of my youth - and I can make them both!

Ah! and here be the 2 and only brothers of mine checking out John-John's recent engine swap. We traveled south to the soiree in his beloved VW Hank- not to be confused with his Loretta who is a fire engine red hottie like his wife sfj. I was proud to claim passage on Hank's inaugural road trip. J-J had just completed a multi-year long vanagon engine to subaru engine conversion BY HIMSELF!!! I think he had some huge posse of geeks on a message board or whatever it is the cool kids communicate over these days serving as advisors. That boy (I suppose he is a man to almost everyone else having just turned 45 yesterday. But not to his big sister!) gots the skilz. Babiest brother ptj (seen here climbing into the engine compartment in hysterical joy) is beyond impressed...expect conversion of his vanagon someday soon. The boys so loved my old school VW Bus (white over turquoise named OttO) that they have garages full of VW Vans. I can take credit for everything being the eldest.


4. Summer left me all loved up with bee stung lips and a smile and I am so grateful for it.

Ah Honeysuckle!

His Wild Card says Universal, Single-payer, NOW!

My father died last year. And then he didn't die. He is such a tough bastard, it was hard to imagine anything could ever kill him. I'd certainly spent many an impassioned moment trying to will him into oblivion. And he spent decades "scandalizing my name". When possible, I returned the favor.

Last year, a knee replacement turned into a hospital-acquired infection that took on every part of his body. I am serious about that -every part from stem to stern...head to toes. There were multiple surgeries-I lost count at 9, lots of times he was "almost dead", 3 sets of new knees, spinal abscesses debrided and discs collapsed, months of rehab, IV antibiotic therapy we had to manage at home, cath bags I got to carry everywhere and change, wheel chairs, physical and occupational therapy. You know, the shit no one tells you you will be doing all day once your kids leave for college.

My father is a very busy, opinionated, intelligent, hard-working man. He climbs mountains, cross country skis, does search and rescue stuff with Marines. He does not have much talent for sitting still or being unwell. My brothers and I each spent weeks as his carers. This was all the more challenging because he chooses to live a thousand miles from any of us. It was a humbling experience for everyone. It taught me that no matter how many issues I thought I had with the man, he is my Daddy, he has a ferocious will to live, and I love him. All the "baggage", all the dumb-ass stuff he has done and will (hallelujah!) do became meaningless in the face of his being permanently gone.

Forgive me. I know it is getting a bit sentimental. I have a point. Just bear with me dear reader. I know this is sort of "illness as blessing" cliche claptrap. You have heard it before. But honestly, it truly was, in so many ways, a gift to me to be so intimately reconnected with him, to care for him, to advocate for him when he could not do so for himself. A very painful and exhausting and life-changing gift. That staph infection was able to kill his toe nail fungus, but it could not whip him. It tried hard. He is a seriously tough mofo. He is back to hiking, climbing things, watching for fires on remote mountains for fun on his weekends, and working full time as a civil engineer. Feck you staph infection you rat bastard!

I bring this up for 2 reasons. First, my obnoxious father would be dead if he did not have the finest health insurance and the ability to write $20, 000.00 checks every time that finest health insurer wouldn't pony up the money required for LIFESAVING treatment. Either one without the other and he'd be my "late and obnoxious" father. He was in the ICU, looking and acting like a dead man, and the Blues were micromanaging every freakin' step his highly skilled team of physicians tried to take...many of these steps the Blues felt were beyond the terms of his very comprehensive policy. We, his team, did not. But what do we know? The piece de resistance (shout out to the French because you will be hosting said obnoxious, wine-seeking father next spring!) - his INSURERS- were expecting him to negotiate the finer points of saving his own life whilst being completely unable to communicate. Or maintain a blood pressure. Essentially, they had amortized my father and found that it was time to write him off entirely. Crap. Just when I'd found out he was such a terrific deal! WTF?

Here I want to give a BIG SHOUT OUT to Advance Directives. I am telling you loud and proud...get one and put it in the proper hands. Let those highly educated offspring write checks on your behalf with your power of attorney. Let them speak with authority and act as you wish them to. It can save your life or ease your leaving - whichever you choose - not some "death panel" despite what fools scream at town hall meetings. I've seen it happen. I applied said advanced directives myself (lots- o- times baby!It was a breeze after the first go) to a very scary situmacado and it worked a charm! Then he survived and I had to give 'em back. Happily, I still have that "unplug the bugger" card to play!

So, to those of you out there who are happy with your health insurance I say, "Hi Dumb-ass, happy your meds have kicked in." and "So was my father." I am here to tell you (yes I know I say that a lot-I got it from my father), and thankfully so is he, that if he were not a rich, white dude, he would have been a highly insured dead man. I'm serious about this and everyone in their right mind is as well. Something has got to give. Even if our political "leaders" (who are the best money can buy!where oh where is that change I can believe in Mr. President?) are unwilling, the current system is unsustainable. And my child and theirs and even yours will know health security one day. Because we are Americans. We are not animals.

Just sayin'.

And secondly, tonight my father told me that of all his legions of children he always thinks of me as his wild card. "The other 3 are fairly predictable. Whatcha see is whatcha get," he says, "but not you". "Could be a couple of deuces. Could be a full house. You just never know."

How feckin' awesome is that?!

As his only biological daughter (which is a bio-hazard kind of deal and mentioned only to indicate that he has another daughter who is free of his genes and, therefore, a superior specimen), I can't adequately express how delightful that statement is to me. Just beautiful. One of the nicest things he has ever said to me. Thanks Daddy. And thank you for teaching me to swear when I was a toddler. That has provided me with years of entertainment just watching my lovely mother turn pink.

So, dear reader Red Tara I conclude -can you believe it- and I thank you for the link to http://twitter.com/shitmydadsays. I am so happy my Dad can say shit to me too.

I was here...

Hey Red Tara!

Tag you are it!