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Hello December 2020

Today was harder than it should have been. 2020, right? It’s not like we haven’t been blessed this year: no immediate family members have passed or even contracted COVID. WE have not contracted COVID. I know too many who have contracted it, lost family or friends, and/or have long term health issues due to having contracted it. But today was still harder than it should have been.

I got to sleep in today. Last night was my night to get up with the puppy and take him outside for his potty/poopy run. I put him back in his kennel and let my husband get up with him ninety minutes later. In the puppy’s defense, he is now sleeping 7-8 hours straight at night. He’s still getting up on Idaho time to eat hs first meal of the day. Tomorrow is my morning to get up with him.

Oh – we named him “Ruger” (ROO-grr) after the weapons manufacturer. He *is* a gun dog and while the name doesn’t fit him as a puppy, it will fit him as an adult dog. We call him a lot of other names like “Roscoe” and “Poop-head”, too. He is currently chewing on one of my walking sticks and growling at it.

Today. I had plans to pay bills, write cards, and pick up a table top Christmas tree. That’s not hard. Well, the cards are hard: sympathy cards are always hard and I have a few to write and send. Deaths during the Holiday season are especially hard. I also have some encouragement cards to send and those can be difficult, too – I don’t want to write some stupid platitude about how things will get better (they will) because I know how dark that tunnel can be (and how you just know that when a light comes on at the end of it, it’s a freight train headed your way, not the end of the tunnel). I’ve had some hard Christmas seasons and some hard years. Platitudes are nice and mean well, but they rarely connect and I want to connect with those hurting. Let them know I get it.

To the point: I wasted an hour on email and coffee (is it ever a waste of time drinking that first cuppa without interruption? I really think not but I suppose some people do). Then I got an ocular migraine. I rarely get the headache that follows, but the ocular migraine in and of itself is miserable, I lose vision in both eyes and it often lasts 45-75 minutes. I can function but I can’t drive, write, or do math. You can research the condition but don’t believe what WebMD says about it. It happens frequently and it affects both eyes although I suspect the impairment is really just in one eye. Mine usually last at least 45 minutes. I have suffered them for over 40 years. There’s no cure.

I digress. I used the time to pick up around the house and take Ruger outside for a brisk (east wind!) exercise. I waited until I could see again.

And then I got the headache. Well, crud. I just gave up on writing cards and paying first of the month bills. I could at least see to drive so I bundled up and headed to the pharmacy to pick up a prescription and a few items I forgot the last time I went grocery shopping. I try to keep trips to the outside to a minimum. I have cute masks to wear but I have to admit this whole mask wearing and hand washing after every stop is getting old.

I tried – again – to settle down and pay bills. I just signed up up for another year of health insurance under the ACA. Our premium jumped $90 for the same plan. There are cheaper plans but if we want to keep our doctor (we do) then the only plan that works is the one we’ve been on. Also, the cheaper plans are mostly Kaiser Permanente and Kaiser is only good in our neck of the woods. We travel. We need insurance that works outside of our area. I hate the ACA as health insurance has only gotten more expensive and deductibles have only gotten higher. Next November I am eligible for medicare and that brings its own list of issues. The entire system is rigged to benefit insurance companies. AND – to top it off – it took me a full half hour to figure out how to pay that new increased premium just so we could activate the damn insurance.

It should have been simple. I’m tech savvy. The websites are not.

I moved on to paying the other bills. I like to pay some bills manually rather than have them automatically deducted. I can see the numbers and budget. Some credit bills I like to add a certain amount over the minimum payments, but not always (like December, when I want to save extra money for purchasing gifts). That all should have been simple but Northwest Natural changed their website (again) and I had to navigate those changes. I’ll have to resave the link as the old link is no longer valid. WHY?!

Did I mention Christmas trees? I know I did. After I picked up my meds, I drove down to see if the tree lot we sometimes buy from was even open. NOPE. Great, thanks, COVID. I checked the local community Facebook page for links to tree lots open. NONE. There are Christmas tree farms, most by appointment only, and very few that offer table top sized Noble firs.

I searched Amazon for unlit fake ones and found two under $40 that could possibly work. Then I hit my husband up. Would he be willing to have a fake tree for one year and just resell the thing next year (or give it away)? My level of anxiety vs. Christmas tree hunting as up for debate.

So, yeah. I bought my first ever fake tree. We had one (briefly) when I was a kid and all of us hated it except Dad (who had to go pick a real one in a state where real ones were sold at a premium). Dad bowed to the majority when we moved to an area where he could just cut one in the woods. So his first cut tree was a piss-fir (white pine) that smelled like cat you-know-what and satisfied the rest of us that he was truly back on track for real trees. Funny how you can justify the smell of a certain real tree over a fake tree.

I bought a fake tree. Let that sink in. It’s three feet tall (less than a meter) and will sit on the kitchen table. Ruger is too young, too rambunctious, and still teething. I don’t need a tree on the floor and my ornaments don’t deserve Ruger. I’ll use half our ornaments and create a themed tree (birds). The tree arrives sometime next week.

THEN I decided to order Christmas gifts online (there are only a few that need to be ordered online this year). Yay, COVID. The gifts I ordered for the Alaska grands will arrive between now and December 24. I’m glad i didn’t wait a day to order! Ordering for my mother-in-law should have been simple, but no… NO. An hour later I finished her order on Shutterfly and argued with the system abut where to send the gift. And argued with the system on the price. I had to back out completely, go back in, and order. WHY IS THIS SO HARD!?

I’m done. I still have cards to write. Bills are paid, orders are finished, and my husband’s pants arrived from Carhartt. His pants are wrong. I want to curl up in a ball and hibernate. I am exhausted. Today should not have been this hard. It is 10:30PM.

Here’s a picture of Ruger to make this post worth reading:

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WE have been waiting two years to get a puppy from the same breeder we got Murphy from. Murphy died just over two years ago, and our other dog, Harvey, died a short time later. It has been a long time with NO pets. I promised I wouldn’t look for a cat until we had a new dog. All we have had are the backyard birds (and squirrels), so when we learned a new litter had been whelped back in September, we were thrilled and begand to make plans for Puppy’s arrival.

Only our plan was to pick him up when he turned 8 weeks old the week before Thanksgiving. We would make a leisurely drive over to La Grande, Oregon, where my husband’s family still lives and spend a couple nights with them. Then a marathon drive to (almost) Twin Falls, Idaho, to pick out the pup and drive back to La Grande the same day – weather permitting. Finally, a leisurely drive home after seeing family again and resting up.

Don had First Pick of all the males, of which there were five.

Last Tuesday, the 10th, the breeder called to see where we were. Somehow, he had us coming for Puppy a week early. There were probably several reasons for the mixup: he had local buyers who were itching to pick out a pup, he was going on a Black Powder hunt the weekend of the 14-15, outdoor temperatures were dropping below freezing, and the nine puppies were getting far too active for a working man to keep up with. They were getting to be a pain in the ass.

Not wanting to lose our First Pick option and wanting to appease the breeder, we decided to go a week early. As in RIGHT NOW. We were late getting on the road (mid-morning) and I had just a smidgeon of time to request travel prayers. We hydroplaned through the Columbia River Gorge and sailed over the mountain passes to La Grande and Grandma’s house, where we holed up over night. Darn Grandma reminded us we were dealing with a Time Change between Oregon and Idaho, and it wasn’t in our favor.

We were up at zero-dark-thirty on Veteran’s Day so we could make out Idaho Time appointment. Snow, snow plows, snow packed roads, rain, and sun glare. We zipped through Boise unhindered (that’s like zipping through Seattle unhindered: a huge accomplishment given Boise’s growing pains). Forgot our Idaho map, but I was beyond certain that we needed to take the second exit into Bliss in order to reach our destination (Filer) on US Highway 30.

I love this stretch of road. You go through a bunch of small Idaho towns, follow the Snake River through the scenic Thousand Springs canyon, and avoid Twin Falls entirely. I haven’t been through Twin Falls in over 50 years but I know Highway 30 like the back of my hand. Only our breeder moved and we had to enter his address into my cell phone: gotta love those Idaho country addresses.

We arrived within our window of time.

Meeting puppies is a crazy business. We have always been last on the list for puppies and got the last pup to leave home. That doesn’t mean we got the runty or the stupid one (well, in Sadie’s case, it did mean we got the stupid one), just that we didn’t have choice in which dog we got to bring home. They’ve all been good dogs (even Sadie who helped raise our kids).

This time, however, we were the first to pick out a pup. And, yes, we took the Pick of the Litter. the big guy. First born. Boldest. Friendliest (although . that was a tie with a smaller sibling). The other three males just weren’t as interested in us and one was more interested in going his own way than in people. I could see him being a replica of our last Griffon, Murphy. Five roly poly busy puppies chewing on something.

Papers were signed, vaccination records passed over to us, and the first puppy to leave home was loaded into the car. He was too little to put in the big dog crate, so he curled up on Don’s lap for the ride home.

And ralphed on Don’s lap before we were back on I-84 West.

He was fine with the four point five hour drive back to La Grande on an empty stomach. Slept most of the way. The snow, ice, rain, and wind disappeared. We were back at Grandma’s in daylight hours some ten hours after we’d left in the morning. Puppy was a little disoriented but being the bold character he is, he was unfazed. Even the 18 year old cat didn’t faze him – too much. She did land a swat on the face that warned him not to mess with her. She’s raised a number of German Shepherd pups in her life and has no qualms about setting a puppy to rights about Cat Social Distancing Zones.

The honeymoon. Puppy went to sleep around 7:00PM Pacific time and slept until around 6:30AM. He whined a few times, looking for one of those eight siblings he’d just left behind, but a soft voice put him back to sleep. He curled up in the big kennel and slept. He made a few mistakes on Grandma’s carpet, but she’s raised more puppies than the cat has trained (and more kittens). Grandma spoiled puppy with a ton of toys, only a few of which we took along home.

There was a big storm threatening to move in on Thursday. Snow in the mountains, wind in the gorge, and copious amounts of rain. We decided we’d overstayed our window of time to make it back to the Portland area on good roads and left early. Over the mountains, through the passes, down Cabbage Hill, and into the fog at Boardman, we sailed at just over Oregon speed limits. No wind, dry pavement, no rain or snow. Puppy slept almost the entire way home.

He didn’t sleep through the night. Don thinks he is still on Idaho Time. He is learning how to tell us when he needs to go outside to poo and pee (some accidents have occurred). He understands the word, “NO!” He goes hard for a couple of hours then crashes for a while. He’s been on his first walk around the block on a leash. He fell in love with our yard during the first ten minutes of his life here. He thinks our house is the perfect home.

He just does not have a name. All the names we thought we would use don’t seem to fit. Don wants to use a single syllable name. Most dog names are two syllables (more is pointless, especially with a hunting dog ). Two of the grandchildren have thrown in suggestions (“Gator” – really? This came from the child whose father – our son – refers to him as “gator bait” when hiking or camping. They live in Florida).

He’s a normal puppy terror: sharp teeth and newspaper shredding. He tries to eat every plant in the back yard (not a good idea). He “talks”. He nips. He sleeps. He plays hard. He’s smart, but not in a devious way: he wants to please. He’s already picked out the pecking order: Don first, me second, him third. He doesn’t challenge me like Murphy did. His wiry hair hasn’t grown in but he promises to be a wiry dog in his adulthood. He is not afraid of anything but he’s not aggressive. He even likes rain.

He’s not my dog. I can’t initiate a dog naming contest because it will only irritate my partner and my husband of 40 years. He’s seven weeks old, born September 24th, 2020. He’s smart, independent, and – I hope – the best dog we have ever had to date. I’m in love.

You can send me your name ideas and I will try to run them past the Man In Charge. Ultimately, though, Don has to decide.

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The imposed lock-down that kept most of us home over the summer proved to be a boon to the hobby of back-yard birding. There were reports that birds changed their songs in some cities, and other articles about how loud the birds seemed as traffic noises dwindled in some cities (not here!). We certainly heard and saw more birds as we had little else to occupy our lazy summer afternoons when it was too hot to work and too nice to be inside the house. We positioned patio chairs around the lawn to maximize both sunshine and shade, as well as the view about our yard and flower beds.     

                  This was another summer without a dog or cat: the pup we looked forward to in May was a miscarried pregnancy. Wild birds took this as a boon, as did the squirrels: Eastern Fox and Eastern Grey, both invasive to urban areas of the Western United States. We settled in after the morning chores were finished (weeding, planting, digging out new flower beds) and popped the top of a beer to watch the birds and the antics of our invasive clowns, grey and red. We were never disappointed.

                My husband and I hail from very different political backgrounds but what we have in common is out love for the outdoors, insects, arachnids, flora and fauna, and birds. He grows vegetables. I grow flowers and herbs. He fills the birdfeeders with black oil sunflower seeds. I render pure suet down to pour over mounds of dried mealworms and red pepper flakes, eschewing the commercial suet fillers which are filled with GMO corn chips and other things birds neither like nor eat (and which attract the damn squirrels). I boil the nectar and clean/refill the hummingbird feeders as quickly as the little buggers empty them. He studies and names the myriad of native bees and bumblebees my flowers attract. We both stalk the spiders hoping for a award-winning photo opportunity.

                Mid-summer found a pair of chestnut-backed chickadees checking in to the little ornamental bird house I have hanging from a Shepherd’s hook next to the Hawthorne. We weren’t certain when they actually moved in so it was hard to gauge how far along the eggs must be. Then I could hear the tinniest little dee-dee-dee from within the bird house next to my head. (Yes, I meant tinniest, but tiniest will also do.) We tried to calculate how far along the babies were. They fledged on an afternoon when my husband was out of town, but I was sitting next to the bird house playing on my cell phone.

                During the weeks that followed, the crazy little birds flew back and forth between us, often narrowly missing our heads on the wobbly little wings. They didn’t fear us: our voices were ever in their ears from before their hatching. Three tiny daredevils. Two proud chickadee parents.

Maiden flight

                The scrub jays brought their fledgling into our yard. We made a platform feeder for the crows (which, sad to say, mostly avoided our yard this summer as last years’ fledglings all died of Avian pox). This platform was a boon to the scrub jays with their loud squawking praises for the bounty of peanuts as they raced the squirrels for the prizes. One afternoon as we sat with our back to the Hawthorne, we were startled by an unearthly scream. We jumped up as the Hawthorne shuddered and an angry sharp-shinned hawk beat its wings in a backstroke to get out of the mess of inch long thorns. It flew up and out of our yard. Inside the heart of the Hawthorne, the scrub jay fledgling huddled having just escaped with its feathers intact.

                We saw fledges of nearly every backyard bird: golden-crowned sparrow, Downy woodpecker, Northern (red-shafted) flicker, Dark-eyed (Oregon) Junco, Lesser Goldfinch, Anna’s hummingbirds, bushtits, black-capped chickadees, and even this year’s crows. The Bewicks Wrens, which only last year raised their young inside our garage, eluded us (they were here but not as visible). So, too, the Spotted (rufous-sided) Towhee.

                Overhead, we watched bald eagles and turkey vultures each their young to catch thermals. The osprey young had a harder time with thermals and often dropped to just over our home on the bluff before they caught the rising air and could slowly circle up to dizzying heights, ever chirping. The eagles are by far the largest of the big birds. Red tailed hawk and owls sometimes migrated through the neighborhood, the hawks screaming their eerie call.

                A week ago, we saw the first of the turkey vulture migration south. Fifty plus birds caught thermals and soared, single file, overhead. Two days ago, during a break in the October rains, we watched in awe as three other kettles of turkey vultures (or buzzards) catching thermals and racing south for the winter. (Kettle=flock or group, but specific to vultures.) They will return in March.

                We are preparing the feeders for the winter. Many of our small birds over winter: song sparrow, junco, bushtit, both chickadees, Townsend’s warbler, white-breasted nuthatch, red-breasted nuthatch, Downy woodpecker, scrub jay, and Anna’s hummingbirds. We will have a dog next summer, and perhaps a cat. It will be a very different birding year.

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                Summer ended a couple weeks ago. I wasn’t ready. We were still sitting in the fog of fire haze as the best time of summer passed us by. Still, the garden thrived, and wild birds continued to flock to our yard, and life – such as it has been in 2020 – continued at its relentless pace. One season turned into another with little fanfare.

                We received good news at the end of September: a puppy we have been waiting almost two years for was whelped on the 24th and would be available for us to pick up mid-November. Because we have waited so long, we get pick of the litter (male). Someone else who has waited longer gets pick of the litter (female). Already we are making plans to welcome this little bundle of energy: I’ve pulled the dog food dishes, leashes, and miscellaneous gear out of the attic where I stored it the year we lost both Harvey and Murphy. Don will be cleaning the doghouse and adding new bedding. I am clearing a space for the indoor kennel.

                Our oldest called to tell us they were buying a house and property with plenty of room for their kids to run and grow. Our youngest grandson called from another state to tell us how excited he was to receive his birthday present (a remote-controlled car).

                Good things.

                So why am I in such a funk? I stare at blank canvas before setting everything aside with a heavy sigh: I will not paint or draw or color today. I will not sculpt. I will not write. The words don’t come. The muse is asleep. I have never felt quite as sad as I do this year, this Autumn, facing the rainy season down.

                It isn’t circumstance. Lord knows we have seen worse times. I’ve lost 3/5’s of my family. We’ve been homeless – with children. We’ve been sued. We have been knocked down, lied about, betrayed. We have sometimes deserved some of the things that came our way. We have been poor.

                This morning I walked outside with the intent to just talk to God about my plunging emotions. I didn’t intend to beg Him (or Her) to do anything about it – my emotions are my own and I control how I face the world – but I wanted a sounding board. A non-judgmental ear.

                The overcast had begun to break up. Robins could be heard everywhere as they gather into large flocks for their short migration away from here. All the little birds were busy in the Hawthorne, the Camellia, and the evening primroses I left bordering one side of a flower bed. The golden-crowned sparrow, new to our yard this summer, worked the platform feeder with a dark-eyed junco. A Townsend’s warbler (formerly Audubon’s) creeped through the Camellia to look at me – they only visit our yard in the winter months, hanging out at the big feeder out front. A red-breasted nuthatch came even closer, its tiny eyes studying me. The lesser goldfinches worked over the evening primrose – they are also new to our yard this summer, staying longer than their usually migratory passing in the Spring.

                I came inside, grabbed my DSLR. What happened was the magic through which God speaks to me: Nature. Birds. Even the bushtits cooperated, those tiny feather-balls of dull grey and a ridiculous long tail.

                When the birds and squirrels were fed and sated, I went to work on my overgrown rosemary bush. I hacked back all the unruly branches threatening my precious tree peony on one side, the curry bush on another, and a regular peony on the other side. I discovered I had two rosemary bushes as one branch had grown along the ground and put down roots. I divided them. One bush will go out front along the stone wall. Don thinks I should make it a topiary of some kind.

                And I admitted I don’t have the room to dry rosemary, nor do I need to dry any as I have jars on hand from previous years. The hoarder in me stuffed the pruned branches into the yard debris bin.

                I have a long way to go to feel purged of this year, but I feel like I am fighting now. It is time to embrace a new season: October, November, December. Holiday season. I already have the Hallowe’en decorations pulled out and ready to install.

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I always fall off the wagon when it comes to writing and summertime. I spend it OUTSIDE. However, at the moment – and for the past few days – I have been unable to be outside.

I am listening to Band of Heathens’ “Hurricane” as I begin this post. Ironically, our son and his family are weathering Hurricane Sally in the Florida panhandle.

At least he’s getting rain. We just came out of another long dry summer in the Pacific Northwest making it something like seven years of drought. That added to years of poor forest management, and an unprecedented early windstorm, and our forests went up in flames. Fast moving firestorm forest fire flames. Devastating fires in some areas of the state: Jackson County, Lincoln County, Marion County, and Clackamas County with entire communities wiped out. The Beachie Fire in Marion County and southern Clackamas County wiped out several small hamlets down the Santiam Canyon. Friends of mine lost their home outside of Otis, Oregon, in Lincoln County.

I would have stayed outside, playing in my garden, ignoring the siren call of my blog and the duty call of inside housework except for those fires. Smoke from the Beachie Fire and the Riverside Fire in Clackamas County shut down any outdoor activity for this asthmatic early last week, shortly after we raked up most of the oak leaves the winds blew into our yard. The sun and moon turned red. The air turned orange. The winds gusted into Wednesday evening, but on Thursday morning the world went silent around us. Silent as a snow day.

And dark as night.

Thursday, the 10th emergency services started to publish Evacuation Levels. The Arabian horse rescue I support decided preemptively to move all 28 horses out of their barn near Estacada (ess tah KAY dah). Originally, evac centers were set up in Molalla (MO la la), but by Friday morning, Molalla was under Level 2 evacuation warning and everything was moved here, to Oregon City, some 15 miles north (or so). Colton, Estacada, Molalla and much of the rural area around here is old logging country. Cowboy country. Horse country.

Interesting fact: when my daughter did 4-H, Clackamas County had more horses per person than anywhere else in the USA. Horses are like pet dogs and cats to those who love them and moving them to a safe place is a huge undertaking. Clackamas County Fairgrounds was at capacity before the end of the day. I heard there were even three camels lodged there with the llamas, alpacas, cattle, horses, goats, and more. Some friends opted to leave their cows in the pasture.

So that’s not exactly scary. Worrisome, maybe. Then the Evacuation Zones were redrawn and to our surprise, we were in a Level Two zone. In town. In the center of town.

Level One is “Be prepared for Level Two. Follow the news.”

Level Two is “Pack what you need to grab and set it by your door in case you go to Level Three.”

Level Three is “Pack that shit and GO.”

I still was not panicked, just – well, you know the saying? “This happens to other people.” And “This happens in California, not here.” I was feeling a little stunned.

Colton, Estacada, and Molalla were raised to Level Three. Entire communities with all their livestock. This also meant that the Evac Centers in Oregon City needed to be, well, moved again. Trailers full of toys (ATVs and such) as well as prized horses and livestock were once again migrating further north. Clackamas County Fairgrounds began the work of moving all the animals in their care to another facility. Oregon City is something of the hub between Molalla, Colton, and Clackamas County Fairgrounds. All that traffic had to flow through our small community to get north.

Many people who were just notified of their Level Two standing decided to also go rather than wait for a Level Three notice. Traffic ground to a halt on every artery through town. Even our little side street (which is a main street) got really busy as people tried to cut through town. We watched in awe.

Why didn’t we go?

The fires were still many miles south of us and while wildfire can travel fifteen miles in a few hours, there wasn’t enough wind pushing this one. My husband has fought forest fire. The air was unhealthy, but we weren’t in any imminent danger of a conflagration such as Paradise, California saw. We looked at maps while we fielded phone calls, texts, and IMs from concerned friends and family. We knew where we were and where it was most dangerous, and it simply didn’t seem prudent to pack up and leave. If we had to go, we could go after the arteries out of town unclogged.

Had we gone, we would have fled to Eastern Oregon and the sanctuary of my husband’s mother’s house, but her air quality wasn’t much better than ours.

So we stayed here, stuck inside, venturing outside long enough to wash out bird baths and refilling them with clean water. (cough cough, hack hack).

Meanwhile, rumors began to fly on Social Media. BLM was setting fires. (Doh! The BLM in this case is the Bureau of Land Management, Department of the Interior, not Black Lives Matter.) Arson was reportedly the main cause of the fires while law enforcement kept repeating they hadn’t had time to look into the cause of the fires (that’s usually done once a wildland fire is contained). Antifa, Proud Boys, anyone who could be blamed is being blamed.

The Riverside Fire is known to be human caused. I don’t know if that means it was caused by fireworks, a gender reveal party, arson, or – most likely – an untended illegal campfire. The woods have been closed to campfires for the summer, but that never seems to stop some people who think that if they are camping, they MUST have a campfire. S’mores, you know. I can’t tell you the number of times my husband and I have come across a smouldering abandoned campfire. People don’t realize those things don’t put themselves out. You must douse it heavily with water and stir the embers and ash in the fire ring until they are all soaked. Smokey the Bear has officially rolled over in his grave.

I do know that a lot of redneck cowboys with Trump sympathies picked up their polaskies, shovels, and pickaxes to dig unofficial fire lines around rural homes. In fact, we saw a very large rural county come together as people donated food, water, supplies, barn and pasture space, stock trailers, and more to help their neighbors. Businesses closed their doors to help evacuate and to donate their food and beer. The local Facebook community was alive with offers and requests and answers. Politics were tossed aside as were COVID-19 fears.

Saturday night at ten PM, we received the call: we are downgraded to level one. There’s still danger and level three hasn’t changed, but we could take a huge sigh of relief.

If only we could breathe.

(Thank you to EVERYONE who inquired, offered help, offered a place to stay.)

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That’s it. All I know.

Teach me, friends.

I am listening.

I see you.

I hear you.

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This is not my story. It is my son’s story. I will try to respect his boundaries and tell his story from my perspective. I will leave out key details that are his to tell.

We homeschooled. I pulled the kids out of public school when “Goals 2000” was being implemented. I had an educational disagreement to the bill, the movement, and the theory. I read the entire bill. I was active on all the boards. I was vocal.

And I lost. Goals 2000 and “No Child Left behind” became law. Those laws have morphed into the current educational philosophy that I continue to disagree with. We are failing our children, but that is a rant for another time.

This is the story of how we got where we are. How we studied history. The movies, the races, the marginalized.

I think it was mostly accidental that we studied the Civil Rights Movement and watched movies about the 1960’s from the African American point of view. The church we attended was multiracial. The only time our kids were exposed to blatant racism was in the presence of certain relatives who also exposed the kids to all the swear words I unlearned in order to raise children.

The mother of some of my grandchildren came into our lives in 2008. She was from Bakersfield, California, a bi-racial beauty with a radiant smile. They produced three beautiful children during their brief period of marriage. When the marriage dissolved, our son became the custodian of those children. The father. Mom has secondary rights, visitation rights. Dad has the kids most of the year.

He has remarried. He has more children with his second wife. His second wife has taken on those three kids as her very own. His second wife is as white as my (our) heritage. The three kids from that first marriage range in skin color from light brown to very brown. They are African American children. Bi-racial children.

And we have these riots. We have murdered Black men and women. The year is 2020. It’s not 1968 or 1974. It is fucking 2020.

All Lives Matter. Blue Lives Matter. Got that. My family – and my daughter-in-law’s family – are law enforcement. Blue Lives Matter.

But Black Lives. My grandsons. They will be teenagers only too soon. They might have attitude. No more attitude than their father did when harassed by police in the City of Gresham as a white BMX rider. But they are NOT white. The actions of their father reflected in their behavior could lead to their deaths. My son was white and rebellious. The most he might have gotten was a ticket.

His children could be murdered.

The middle son, especially, is a reflection of his father at the same age. I’ve seen that rebellious chin turn up. But the difference is the color of their skin.

This Has To End. It should have ended before 1970. It should have ended before Martin Luther King Jr was assassinated. It should have ended when my family fought in the American Civil War on the side of the Union. It should have ended before the City of Tulsa eliminated half the population. It should have ended when Abraham Lincoln was assassinated by John Ford.

Red. Black. Yellow. Brown. White. We all bleed the same ABO blood.

Rainbow bleeds the same ABO.


(I may not have edited this to suit the political climate)

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I have no more words.

My garden is all I have to offer.

Late peonies/ Jerusalem sage.

A new flower bed.

A blank vegetable garden space.

Color juxtaposed upon color.

A curious squirrel.

A bathing scrub jay.

Bird baths/Garden art.

All I have to offer.

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We are in the midst of a pandemic and race riots, the latter of which remind me of growing up in the 1960’s and watching Los Angeles burn on the television. I am reminded of Angels. My Angels.

The Bible tells us that Angels can come to us disguised in Hebrews 13.2: Be not forgetful to entertain strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.

I have met some of those angels and like the angel in The Shack by William P. Young, they have taken surprising form.

1977 I am traveling north from Louisville, Kentucky on the midnight bus. My destination on this leg of my trip is Toronto, Canada. I have no real plan, just my back pack and my heart. I will go through the three C’s of Ohio in the dark: Cincinnati, Columbus, Cleveland. I am 20 and alone.

A man boards the bus in Cincinnati and sits a few rows ahead of me, in the aisle. He keeps looking back at me and I avoid eye contact. The hairs on the back of my neck are working overtime. Even the hairs on my arms re pricked up. We stop briefly in Columbus, but no one gets off, only more get on. A little African-American woman gets on and sits down behind me somewhere. She doesn’t meet my eyes. She’s just about her business.

In Cleveland, we need to change buses and take a late dinner break. Everyone has to off-board. I am nervous as the man has been checking me out more frequently and he stares hard at the Cleveland bus station. I dilly dally getting off.

A soft dry hand touches my arm. “I seen that man. You follow me straight to the women’s restaurant like you know me.” She leads me off the bus and through the crowded bus station. We say nothing to each other and the man stares on last time as we disappear into the restroom.

There, the woman does her thing and I wait. We leave together, never touching. She scans the bus stop and nods. “You safe now.”

I never got her name, never touched her except for that first brief moment. I never saw the man again. She changed my life and I know it, want desperately to tell her thank you. She is gone.

Many years later, my friend comes to stay with me while her father is dying in a Portland area nursing home. My friend is broken and I am trying to be her strength. I drive her often to the nursing home to visit her father, going in with her every time but often feeling at odds about the experience.

On this day, there is a wizened African American woman in a wheel chair near the door My friend passes her, but she reaches out to me as I step by.

“You Pentecostal.” It’s not a question. It is a statement. She’s read my spirit as I walked past and I cannot deny to her that I am a Christian who has been ‘baptized in the Holy Spirit with the gift of speaking in tongues’ – I am Pentecostal.

She takes my hand and says, “Follow me.” I follow.

We go to her room which is in the basement. She only has a small window to the outside and it is in a well. I can’t tell you what the room looked like or anything else, because the minute we were in that cell of a room, she lifted her hands heavenward and began to call on the Holy Spirit. She spoke in tongues unlike anyone I have heard before or since. She sang. She praised God. Loudly. the entire nursing home could hear her. She was unashamed. She was glowing. She was touching the hem of Jesus and I was but a weak witness to the glory of her prayer and praise.

I did join in. I raised my hands. I felt the glory of God pass through that pitiful room. I knew I was bonding with someone but I couldn’t begin to tell why.

When she stopped, she told me she was the mother of a well-known Pentecostal Black preacher in North Portland. She knew me for who I was in the Spirit as soon as she saw me. She told me I was a prayer warrior. She blessed me as I left her room.

I never saw her again. My friend’s father passed and I had no reason to visit the nursing home. I had small children.

I feel her all the time. I feel her right now. She has her hands on the back of my neck and is speaking in tongues I don’t understand.

My angels. We are the same. These women formed me. They protected me. Sheltered me. Gifted me. And they are not the only ones – they are merely the ones who spring to my mind first. The others are there.


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I was a child when race riots rampaged through Los Angeles. I remember watching the riots on a black and white television with Walter Cronkite narrating. Little white girl, hiding under the sofa, watching the television, understanding more than the adults gave me credit for.

I never understood judging people by their skin color. My first best friend was Peggy Garfield, a Native American from the “Indian Village” within the city limits of Winnemucca. I wanted her to come to my 6th birthday party but between her and my mother, I was discouraged from even sending an invite. I wanted to spend the night with her or have her spend the night with me, but they both repeated words I didn’t understand. That Peggy – the same age as me – understood those words grieves me to this day. Indians and Whites don’t get along. They don’t mix. That’s why Indians live on Reservations or in segregated parts of town.

We camped with the Hortons, sort of. All the company of the Sage Stompers, a 4-Wheel Drive Club of the late 1960’s in Nevada, camped together. Except the Hortons. They camped off to the side. Mr. Horton was Black. Mrs. Horton was white. Their daughters were friends with all of us kids and we wanted the girls to spend the night with us in our tent.

My mom tried to explain to me why that couldn’t happen. Mr. Horton was Black.

My mother served on a jury in the late 1960’s. The police found seeds in a dresser drawer of a teenager my brother went to school with. Her father, Mr. W., was arrested and put on trial for drug possession. He was Black. The jury found him Not Guilty.

My mother told me later – much later – that it was a clear cut case of racism. She could not vote to have him sentenced under such conditions. Other jurors – all white – felt the same. Mr. W. was only one of a few Black citizens in a remote Nevada town.

I watched the Watts riots unfold on television.

I am not Black. I am not African American, Native American, or any race that is not pure Aryan. I am Nordic, Irish, Scottish, Welsh, British, German. I have no idea what it is to be a person of color.

But – I am the grandmother of children of color. I am the grandmother of boys who will grow up to be men of color. Boys who will have to walk, jog, and do business in the South. Boys whose skin color is clearly not as Aryan as mine. Boys with blue eyes and green eyes, with dimples, and wide smiles. Boys with fire in their hearts that comes from the seeds of their father’s fathers. Fire that comes from my side of the family. Irish and Scots. Boys whose skin is dark.

The murder of George Floyd sears a scar into this nation (and it was murder). Premeditated, cold-blooded murder caught on tape by a minority group that the perpetrator clearly didn’t think had the legal influence to put him in jail for the rest of his life for. Murder that his comrades clearly condoned. Murder that emphasized a knee to the flag during our National Anthem.

But those riots? That vandalism? The destruction of businesses, many of which are owned by African Americans? Those are Outsiders. White Supremacists trying to light the fire of division amongst us. Those are gang bangers with no allegiance to anyone but their own gang affiliation. Those are people not gifted with reason. They are not Martin Luther King Junior.

I am sick tonight, sick at heart. I am fearful for my grandsons and granddaughters, white and black. I am fearful for mixed-race relationships. I am fearful for white parents raising black children (my son is remarried and his second wife is as white as I am). I am fearful for the Blacks I knew growing up who had to deal with that shit in their lifetime and were hoping the next generation would have more sense.

I am angry at the outside inciters, most of whom are White Supremacists and some of whom are the easily persuaded members of a targeted ethnic group.

Did we learn nothing from the Second World War? Did we learn nothing from the Watts riots? Did we learn nothing from the American Civil war and the 620,000+/- soldiers who died over the issue of slavery?

Apparently not. And there I rest my case. I am sad. i m angry.

I refuse to participate in this game of skin color. And noone had better EVER touch my grandsons of color.

I will kill you. No riots necessary. I will kill you. That is not a threat to be taken lightly. You touch my babies and I am coming for you. You better fear me more than you fear law enforcement or any other entity, because I am one bad ass grandmother.

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