Jaci Dawn

I have been struggling with how to write this. On one hand, I want to be gracious. I don’t know the other side of the story and I may never know it. There may be something deeper at work here than I have the right to judge. Or not.

And on the other hand, I am rather ticked off.

I am not as ticked off at the circumstances surrounding my car as I am at other circumstances in my life (which I cannot write about right now), and that puts things into perspective.

I have been in a few accidents. Most of them involved a bump, a quick check of the damage and a shrug: “Well, your car is hurt more than mine and it’s not enough to even call a repair shop about”. I was rear-ended when my son was four, and that was probably the worst as it totaled my car and happened at a time in our lives when money was so tight we were picking up cans on the side of the road to buy gas.

And I rear-ended a school bus. Emotionally, that was the WORST. Thankfully, there was no damage to the bus or the students inside and minimal damage to my rig. All the serious damage was to my emotional well-being. The school bus driver called her dispatch and they decided to not worry about it since there was no damage. In my defense, roads were extremely slick and she stopped suddenly. OK, there’s no defense. I will carry that one to the grave.

It didn’t help that co-workers posted funny signs on my office door, making fun of my accident. I really felt the LOVE.

The day my car was totaled, I made several decisions. My son was my constant companion and in those days, it was still acceptable to put a car seat in the front passenger seat. He was tired and whiny, however, and I left him in the back seat in the hopes that he would fall asleep before too long. I had two coffee cups on the dash on the passenger side. I was driving a 1983 Ford Escort hatchback that we still owed more money on than it was worth. Two cars were ahead of me and one slowed to turn left into a driveway. I slowed to about 35mph.

The half-ton Chevy pick-up that was following me didn’t slow down at all. She hit me square on. Coffee cups bounced off the fabric of the front passenger seat and then rebounded forward, clinking together and breaking into pieces. My son looked up and said, “What was that?” The seat belt gripped my shoulders and my body strained against it.

She had no Driver’s License and no insurance. I filed an accident report and called my insurance company. In the end, my car was beyond repair but was still drive-able. We were paid off by insurance for what the car was worth, but it still left us with a huge car payment for the remained of our loan and a severely damaged car that we desperately needed to transport two small children.

I drove that car until it died on Highway 213 at over 100,000 miles. The hatchback leaked, it was spewing oil and had bad valves. It was a great car and was paid off when I finally killed it, but I still shudder to think how much interest we paid and how much I wished I could have had it repaired by SOMEONE ELSE’S INSURANCE.

Our rates did not go up, but the whole claim was laid on our insurance company, SafeCo.

That was over 20 years ago.

Last Friday, I decided to sneak through downtown Portland on my way to my dentist appointment in Milwaukie. I could have taken US Hwy 26, but I kind of like the drive along W. Burnside, dodging bicyclists, taxis, Tri-Met, and pedestrians. It was a clear, sunny day with no obstructions. I was under the shady canopy of trees in the Park Blocks section (which is a really short block) of Burnside. Right lane because I was going to soon move further right to position myself for the crossing of the Burnside Bridge and my right turn onto Grand. (Is it Grand? I lose track of the names of Portland City streets these days. MLK Jr runs north & I think it is still Grand that runs south).

There was a pedestrian in the crosswalk a car ahead of me. I eased into position, coming to a full stop. The cars in the left lane were stopped and I was keeping an eye on the car behind me – not because it was a problem but because I’d just been followed by an obnoxious tail-gater down W. Burnside from Skyline. It’s only 40 through there and he wanted to go 50, despite the fact that I had cars in front of me going 40.

And then my car went CRUNCH.

Seriously? I wasn’t moving, traffic wasn’t moving, and someone just turned into me?

We pulled off as soon as safety allowed it, just east of 8th Avenue. No witnesses pulled off, a factor that kind of pisses me off. I have *always* stopped when I witnessed an accident. I have *always* given my contact info to the driver in the right. I have often been called on to give a statement. IT’S YOUR DUTY AS A DRIVER!

Karma was not my friend on Friday: no one stopped and I know a lot of people witnessed the accident. Whatever. I never believed in Karma, anyway. So there.

The other driver was a nice middle-aged woman, probably the same age as me. A really nice woman. Sweet, even. She was upset that she’d driven into me and worried about what her husband was going to say.

I pause here to digress: in our marriage, I sometimes worry about what Donald will say, but I am never afraid of what he will say. I think he’s more afraid of what I will say, and he knows that I will bluster and then calm down. But I am not afraid of him and he really isn’t afraid of me. We’re two people who live together in relative harmony who trust and respect each other. If I do something stupid, he knows. If he does something stupid, I know. We still love each other.

That was one red flag.

She had no insurance card. Second red flag. Said it was at home, on a dish on the table. Mine is in my glove compartment, with my registration and all the info on oil changes, tires, and KIA manuals. I’m obsessive. The only thing not in the glove compartment is the gas mileage notebook – it’s in the console so I can fill it out every time I get gas. Yes, seriously. My family is OCD about gas mileage. My dad had a notebook, my mom had a notebook, my brother has a notebook, I have a notebook. My husband rolls his eyes.

We exchanged as much information as possible and I told her several times that I was trusting her for the info. I knew I was in deep water.

I called insurance as soon as I got to my appointment and started my claim.

After my appointment, I drove home (mouth numb) and was received by two voice mail messages regarding the accident, both asking me to *not* file insurance. TOO late. I talked to her later and felt my blood pressure rise.

Then I justified it because she really was a nice person. I’d like to go out for coffee with her. I think we’d connect. Be friends, even.

I tried to consider her husband’s request: let them pay for it.

But the damage to my car exceeded the law: $1500. And my family is from law enforcement. My dad, my brother. I really had no choice. The law is clear.

I’m sad because I’m not sure insurance is going to be fair to me. It’s all on my insurance because the other driver is now in hiding. It’s not a big deal: this is why we have insurance. I pay my premiums, I am a good driver, I get it. Money is… well, money is not as big of a problem now as it was over 20 years ago when my car was totaled and I still had to pay for it. And it’s *only* money.

No humans were hurt. Seriously. That is wonderful. I am thankful a million times over for that.

I am sad because there was a moment when I thought I could reach out to the other driver and we could be friends despite the stupid accident. We still could. I don’t really care if she does the right thing or not at this point in time. I sense that she needs a friend.

Today’s column is just that: if you are the other driver and you are still reading my blog… I’m not feeling vindictive. I have bigger problems in other areas of my life. It’s only money. Money is precious and I really don’t need this expense, but I thought you reached out for something.

Call me in about three weeks, after the dust has settled, if you can’t do it now and be honest. I can forgive. I may be the friend you need. I’m pretty certain you know this wasn’t random. Maybe Karma was your friend on May 10.

I’m offering you friendship. No questions asked. You have my email and phone number. We’ll have coffee.

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This is what greeted me on Saturday morning: a black-headed grosbeak in the suet feeder, with suet stuck to its beak.

I am amazed at how birds adapt to the feeding situation. The suet has mealworms embedded in it, and insects are what birds are hungry for right now – when insects are not as plentiful as they will be in a couple of weeks.

Of course, grosbeaks are known for this: their ability to crunch the hard shells of seeds. The second grosbeak parked itself in the sunflower feeder.

80 degrees Farenheit and a bathing spa! This is a bird’s dream!

What a handsome fellow in the reflection there!

Ahhhh. Water.

Is it an Angry Bird?

Nope – just a robin in its element.

And robins crack me up when one of them gets into the bird bath.

All done now.

Thank you.

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I woke up this morning to the news that the identities of the two men suspected of being the Boston Marathon bombers had been identified, and, further, that one of them was already dead, killed in a shoot-out with Boston police. It wasn’t really that simple, but the initial reports made it sound that simple.

I got sucked into the play-by-play of the story because the radio station I listen to for traffic updates during my commute happened to be also running the play-by-play of the hunt for the remaining fugitive. It was bizarre, in an O.J. Simpson police chase sort of way. My mind began to see the whole thing as something of a real-life Bruce Willis “Die Hard” movie, an impression that was solidified by some Boston reporters who started tossing back and forth the titles of Tom Petty Songs that seemed to fit the moment and then followed that up with a reference to a movie.

At work, I kept CNN up on the Internet so I could follow the news.

Honestly, I am not such a news junkie, but there was just something about this story that kept sucking me into it. Maybe it was the humanity of Boston, or the circus of media following the police around (the only moving people in Boston today: the FBI, National Guard, Police, and news crews with satellite dishes on their vans). I cannot honestly tell you why it was so fascinating.

Maybe it was the uncle of the suspects as he stood before cameras and microphones and publicly denounced the behavior of his nephews. I felt for him. I understood his anguish. I wanted to tell him that America understands (but I know there are people who will still target his family and ethnicity in some deranged sense of seeking justice). I understood that he watched the news unfold, saw his nephews throwing grenades and explosives at police and realized they were not being framed, but this was real and he was related to psychos. (The father of the boys did not elicit such sympathy from me as he declared with blind parental love that his sons had been “framed”. Right.)

The situation had not (yet) resolved itself when I got into my car at 5PM and I discovered that any traffic problems Portland, Oregon was having did not warrant any reporting: the radio station never broke for a traffic update, but followed the Boston siege (it was a siege by then) entirely. It would have been nice to know what traffic was doing, but I found myself sucked into the blow-by-blow of a nineteen year old holed up in someone’s parked boat in a driveway.

I was rooting for the nineteen-year-old to live. To survive. So young. Like the officials, I want answers: did they act alone or did someone put them up to this? Why Chechen insurgents? It’s kind of a thin and bizarre line.

It was with some relief that the last radio news was that the nineteen year old had been taken, alive.

So I came into the house and tuned into the television where I watched the ambulance head out to whatever hospital in Boston with the wounded young man. And I watched as the police, FBI and others left the scene – to a standing ovation by the citizens of Boston.

A Standing Ovation.

I do not pretend to know how this will play out. I’m not pretending to guess at motives or even conspiracy theories. It doesn’t matter. All I really want to convey is the standing ovation: how citizens of Boston and of the neighborhoods that were searched and held under siege and who – supposedly – were put into a tail-spin of terror did not succumb to that terror, but who also stood up and cheered and clapped when Boston’s Finest wrapped it all up.

I don’t know the whole story yet. But I want to tell Boston’s Finest that I am cheering for them and I appreciate everything they did today, including trying so hard to take the young man alive so he could answer their questions. I think if this was a “conspiracy” issue, they would have killed the last known witness to that conspiracy, but they didn’t. They brought him in alive.

Thank you, Boston.

(And I am humbly open to being proven wrong if there really is a conspiracy theory that can be proven.)

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I talked my husband into going to the Garden Palooza over in Aurora. It is, apparently, an annual event that has never been on our radar before. It would have been a lot more fun if Spring hadn’t notched it up weather-wise today, but that’s the hazard of living here in, say, April. Or almost any month except August and September. It down-poured, it hailed, it sprinkled, and the sun came out briefly before it started all over again.

The parking lot was a muddy mess. The greenhouses, covered awnings and buildings where the 40+ vendors had their wares displayed were crowded with no elbow room. Umbrellas were opened and closed. Hoods went up and down. Foot traffic stalled, backed up, milled around, and was generally difficult to navigate. We saw a lot of plants we’d love to add to our garden, but the thought of trying to carry them around while still shopping gave us second thoughts. There was a Will Call Plant Pick-Up area, but one look at the stream of cars trying to get through the lane was enough to give us pause. So we collected business cards and made mental notes of what plants we want to add and what local nursery sells them. And we left without buying anything – but we will be checking out at least one garden art gallery in the near future: Garden Gallery Iron Works.

On the way home, we stopped at an Estate Sale. I think they had exactly 20 items left. It’s a bad sign when you walk up to an Estate Sale and the people leaving are going out empty-handed. Even for their lack of items, they were unwilling to dicker on the price of items, so I left one find behind – because, really, if you want to sell it, you’ll dicker with the price.

I found this charming wishing well in the shop out back for $2. It’s a nice, solid construction and I just need to decide where in my garden it will go.

This was one of the items I attempted to dicker on. It was only $2 to start with, so I took it at $2. The other item was $5, and I wasn’t paying that much for it. (Harvey had to check out the dead bug smell.)

My two bucks paid for cobwebs and a couple dead flies, but who’s complaining? I’ll hang it out by the doorbell and one of my spiders will take up residence. (Harvey liked this item. Smelled good?)

Well, that was a bust. And the rain was making any thought of working in the yard unappealing. So, I did what I do every Saturday: I went grocery shopping. Ho-hum. I had two stops to make (plus gas for my car), but I decided to toss in Goodwill, too. For one thing, it’s right next door to BiMart. If you don’t have a BiMart, I’m sorry. For a minimal expense, you can have a life-time membership and they sell just about everything that an old-fashioned general store might, plus a nice selection of electronics. I often find things here that Home Depot doesn’t have or for less money than the local Kroger. The downside: BiMart is small and they don’t carry everything.

Anyway, I digress. I walked across the parking lot to Goodwill in search of a glass plate to put on the Faerie House I just finished.

I wanted a see-through plate to top it off and I found one – and only one! – at Goodwill for $2.

But I also found two more items that totaled $12 between them.

This bird house is just adorable! The awning is broken off of it (the red-and-white striped piece of wood), but it’s easily fixed.

I just like this photo. The house doesn’t really slant like that or Harvey would slide down the floor and out the door.

He’s not sure he likes the bird house.

“Really Mom? Because birds would go for a hamburger diner?” He’s such a critic!

It isn’t for me, anyway. I just found out that a friend collects bird houses like this and I think she’d love this one.

This was the greatest find. The sales clerk called it a rabbit, but I say it’s a hare. Look at those long ears!

Is that not cool? It’s ceramic. It needs a paint job. It’s going to become a black-tail jack rabbit, I think.

I thought about making it a snowshoe hare, but it’s feet aren’t quite big enough or furry enough and we have snowshoe hares in the Cascades.

We have white-tailed jack rabbits in the Willamette Valley, but they’re pretty elusive.

I really miss black-tailed jack rabbits. They’re the most common hare of the western states, and the one I grew up with in Nevada.

Harvey isn’t sure what he thinks.

He’s gone to sleep to dream of Pookas shaped like hares and named Harvey.

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It was fun, and a couple people came very close, but… no one got every last actress.

#1 – Betty Grable – She had “million dollar legs”.  1916 – 1973

#2 – Ann Sheridan. Born in Texas in 1915, died in 1967. She starred in “I Was a Male War Bride” among many others.

#3 – Lana Turner, one of Hollywood’s favorite “femme fatales”.  1921 – 1995

#4 – Claudette Colbert. 1903 – 1996; she became a U.S. Citizen in 1912.

#5 – Lucille Ball.  1911 – 1989.

#6 – Greer Garson. (I love that name!)  1904 – 1996. She was a British actress (hence Pride & Prejudice – she starred as Elizabeth Bennett).

#7 – Bette Davis. So I made the hint too obvious. It’s my favorite scary Bette Davis movie, ever. I made my oldest daughter watch it with me when the boys weren’t home.  1908 – 1989.

#8 – Judy Garland. 1922 – 1969. She was my mother’s favorite actress. My mom was quite sad when Judy died at the very young age of 47.

#9. Rita Hayworth. 1918 – 1987. I was so taken by her biography when I was looking up the actresses: she was born Margarita Carmen Cansino. But when she went into acting, they did everything they could to hide her Hispanic heritage and Anglicize her, including permanently removing the hair that created her “widow’s peak”!! (I find that shocking and sad!)

#10 – Alice Faye. 1915 – 1998. She has a fascinating history, too, including a start with Rudy Valle’s band and a stint (at the age of 14) as a chorus girl.

And that brings us to the one *I* could not figure out. My brother remembered who she was, however. The GT on the coat was a hint, after all. I really did type several search parameters into the internet and never did snag anything on an actress with the initials GT. Which is sad.

Because Gene Tierney was hot. 1920 – 1991. She was touted as “the most under-rated actress of the Golden Era.”

So there you have it.

And, yes, dear friend Mary – the men are sadly missing. I don’t know why. I think if my mother had a favorite male actor, it was probably Gregory Peck.

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I find odd things of Levi’s. One time, there were the mutilated Little Green Army Men. I almost put them in a box for him to show his children when they grew up, but thought better of it and quietly disposed of them. Who wants to know their dad mutilated hapless Little Green Army Men?

Then there are the notes. Or the cards he made me. I found one such card that said, simply, “The computer was down so I drew a card for you. Happy Birthday Mom.”

I have a May Day card from him that shows an airplane going into a spin and a frightened pilot frantically calling on the radio. “MAY DAY MAY DAY MAY DAY!”

In my search for Arwen’s baby things and my mother’s heirloom Easter dress, I uncovered items that perhaps are not Levi’s fondest memories: Cub Scout memorabilia.

I think he liked  Cub Scouts, but he burned out on Boy Scouts. For years, we left our house on Tuesday night, drove over to pick up Levi’s buddy, Evan, and then drove into town for Den meetings. Evan and Levi sang silly songs and drove us nuts. Don was Cub Master, so we couldn’t escape the meetings.

There were Regattas and Pine Car Derbies, camp outs, and Jamborees. There was the ER visit the year Levi decided to find out what happens when a nail pierces your wrist. (You get a tetanus shot if you don’t sever an artery.) And there was the ever popular craft, usually sponsored by Martha Stewart. The Den mothers found it amusing that my husband relied heavily on Martha Stewart for inspiration. I think he earned a reputation as a Renaissance Man: all hunting and came, but able to sit down and read Martha Stewart magazine from front to back, and do the crafts on top.

And there was the moose. He was the flag stand: there’s a hole in the top of his head where the American flag goes, so the boys could salute and repeat the Pledge of Allegiance while staring at this ridiculous moose. (I commandeered the moose for Christmas decorations after Levi left Scouting.)

Over the weekend, I found more Cub Scout memorabilia.

Don’s Den Master shirt.

Levi’s Cub Scout shirt, with all of his patches, pins, sash, bandana, ribbons, and so on. His entire Cub Scout history..

At some point, the boys moved on from the moose and became The Ravens. I made this banner for them.

I cut out the raven and appliqued it to the banner (he’s actually in several smaller pieces, quilt-like). The sun behind him is also applique.

I hate to sew, and cannot imagine taking the time to do this now. It was all done on my mother’s antique Singer Featherweight sewing machine (straight stitch only). It’s a heavy banner.

Troop 161 in Mulino still exists. But this banner was particular to the boys who were there when my son was in Scouts and belonged – like the moose – to them. And now it belongs to Levi.

I hope he at least keeps that raven. That was a lot of work for a woman who hates to sew!

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