Jaci Dawn

This exercise is supposed to delve into “what if I had taken that chance”, but I’ve always been pretty good at jumping and taking that chance.

Take the year 1977, for instance. I traveled by bus across America, by myself (blogged about here and ending here).

I haven’t taken those kinds of chances in ages, but I took a wild chance when I first applied for a job in the real estate industry (as an admin, not a real estate agent). I’ve made that a “career” – been at this for 17 years this October.

I took a crazy chance when I pulled my kids out of public school and started homeschooling them through middle school and high school (they may resent some of that, but they turned out to be pretty intelligent, well-read, and successful people).

Sometimes, I feel like I am stuck – the career is stale, maybe. I’m aging. I have so much art to paint and so many stories to write. Again, I’ve moved into the proactive mode: I have a mentor in art, now, and a life coach. I’m making goals and following through. I chip away at writing with exercises like this and a few hundred words a night on my novel.

I remind myself that my mother always encouraged me by telling me the story of Grandma Moses. My mother chose to die when she was 63, but she didn’t want that for me. I’ve inherited her Scots stubbornness, and I fully intend to push through and reach my goals before I age much more.

This all leads into: I intend to have my website, an Etsy store, my Facebook business page, and an Instagram business page all up and functioning before my 61st birthday. Talk about jumping off the deep end without a life jacket!

Now I *have* to be accountable to all of my readership, not just my coach!

(I’ll post links to all of those sites before October 22nd. I turn 61 in November.)

I am skipping over exercise #9 (what would you do if you suddenly came into a lot of money? A. Invest and Save) and working on #10 (What is a typical writer’s day in your mind? Describe.)

Mine would be a “typical writer/artist’s weekend”, the end result of which is *I hurt all over*. I’ll rub arnica lotion in before I crawl in bed tonight and hope I feel better in the morning when I have to get up to go to the Day Job. The Day Job currently pays the bills, but if I didn’t have to go to the Day Job, and I made money writing and painting, this weekend would be pretty typical.

Saturday, I pulled furniture away from three walls in the living room and washed those walls. I dusted all the shelves and items on display (sorry, no photos), and I washed the oak hardwoods with Murphy’s Oil before replacing the furniture. I cleaned out all the runners for the sliding windows (here, in the Pacific Northwest, mildew and moss is a huge problem, but they weren’t too bad). I washed each wooden slat on the Venetian blinds, and then I washed the big picture window and the small picture window (inside). That done, I gave the rest of the house “a lick and a promise” – deep cleaning is better left on a room-by-room basis.

Then I moved outside. I finished hacking at the rhododendron in front of the front stoop – I hate that plant! It’s pretty only when it blooms, but it covers up the front entrance, and for safety’s sake (mine), it needs to be hacked short every few years. It was also blocking the house numbers (has been for a couple of years). Suffice it to say, you can see our front door now. It was a butcher job, and – sorry – no pics.

A third of my lilac died last summer, and I got out the tree saw and cut out all the dead wood from that. I left the branches on the lawn because by that time, I was DONE. The only other thing of note that I did was to wash off the stoop and steps, and I met the newest new neighbors. (Our neighborhood has been in flux this year: we got a new neighbor across the street to the south, a new neighbor across the street to the east, two elderly neighbors vacated their homes [OK, Virginia died, but Selma moved to a retirement home and her house is now for rent]. And the neighbors across from Selma’s old place just sold their place. Their replacement is who I met). Daniel & Katie and the most adorable Staffordshire Bull Terrier ever. I mean, this guy up and climbed the retaining wall to sniff my pants and tell me how much he likes being our new neighbor. I like this dog!

Then I sat and waited for my husband to call because we were supposed to meet in Estacada for a particular brewery celebration. Don was out hiking with friends and said he’d borrow someone’s cell to call me when it was time. I watched Trolls (horrid, really – who recommended that?). I sorted laundry. I waited. I napped. I waited.

So this isn’t exactly an ideal day in the life of an artist/writer. But he finally called and it turned out that our plans had been canceled by other people and he was coming home. Life happens. Instead, we went down to Feckin’ Brewery and Smokehouse and listened to a pretty darn good cover band (Trying to Sleep). Then we watched a horrid French movie that I still haven’t figured out yet.

Today, however, has been the perfect example of a good writer/artist day. I had popcorn for breakfast, courtesy of the local produce store, Spicer Brothers. Bought pasteurized, but not homogenized milk from Garry’s Dairy, in glass jars. Whole milk. Came home and sank the bird feeder into a bucket with bleach and water.

Don was trimming up the rhododendrons out front, including my butcher job. We have to keep them trimmed up about four to six feet so I can see under them when I come home late at night (safety, ladies!) and we have to keep them trimmed away from the house by 2′, including the gutters. They generate a lot of dead material. (Bonus: he cut up and disposed of the lilac mess I left him.)

I moved to the back yard and took a tree saw to the horrid Oregon Grape I planted 14 years ago. I thought ALL Oregon Grape was a low growing shrub with pretty yellow flowers, so I planted this stuff in innocent bliss. I had little idea that there was a commercialized variety that grows 10-12′ tall and basically takes over your life. The smallish shrub I have always enjoyed turned into a gargantuan monster that shaded out my southwestern garden corner. Last year, I began the move of killing it all and restoring balance to that corner of the garden.

I cut down three of four bushes last year, but was stymied on the fourth: too many tree-like stalks growing out of the ground. The three I cut down last year, I have continued to hack all summer, and I hope will eventually die because I refuse to let them grow. Don came out and helped me kill the fourth – and final – beast. I now understand why my friend, Tori, stated that she “hated Oregon grape”. I thought she was being over-dramatic. Hah!

Still no photos.

We broke for a beer break and opened the first of the beers in Donald’s prize case from Feckin’ (for the barbecue): Feckin’s tasty IRA. It’s a red ale, not too hoppy, and very low on the IPA scale (I hate IPAs, just for the record). An excellent ale.

Then we watched bees. This is a note to not be underrated: bees. I can name three neighbors who use chemicals to kill weeds and insects. I have a sign in our front yard proclaiming us to be chemical free. Fifteen years ago, our first summer in the garden was spent asking ourselves, “Where are the insects?” We had no insects, no birds.

Fifteen years later, we have a plethora of bees: green, black, honey, bumble. Wasps (I welcome all except yellowjackets). Spiders. The birds are amazing.

Speaking of birds, I cleaned the bird feeder, stewed down some suet and added dried mealworms. We rehung the birdfeeder full of black oil sunflower seeds and one suet feeder. Then I came out to see my car covered in this:

The little shits shat all over my car. Pretty certain it was hummingbirds who were upset with Don trimming the rhododendrons, but – really???

I spenbt the rest of the afternoon tracking down insects with my Google Pixel (it takes better macro photos than my DSLR). The bees weren’t cooperative, but the fall wolf spiders were.

Finally, after showers, laundry, dinner – I was able to sit at the computer and write, scan, and create. Perfect day for me. 🙂

I still have time to work on a chapter in my novel.

Something you’ve always loved is coming to a close unexpectedly… What is it? Why is it important to you? And how do you convince someone to drop everything and go with you in a short time frame?

The End of the World’s Largest Independent Bookseller

Powell’s City of Books? Closing? Forever? The iconic, three-level, largest bookstore on the West Coast – closing its doors? Suddenly, with no explanation? Can you hear every librarian, teacher, bibliophile west of the Mississippi screaming a collective, “Nooooooooo!”??

There it was: headlines on the evening news: all the books to be sold at a fraction of their ISBN code price. The retail and resell book seller was going out of business, permanently. All locations, but you know the one set between NW 10th and 11th, facing West Burnside has always been the best one: the new location out in Beaverton doesn’t have that musty old book smell to it, but smells like a Barnes and Noble store, with a Starbucks kiosk and nice carpeting.

I picked up my phone: who to call? Who would want to go downtown with me, armed with bags and a credit card? Who did I know in real life that is as rabid a bibliophile as I am? It’s not like I actually have any more room for books, but just the thought of all those books… The originals. The classics. The poetries. The plays. Children’s books. Novels and novellas. Mysteries. Science fiction, fantasy, historical fictions, histories, biographies, and controversial writings.

It didn’t take much arguing to convince Mary that we needed to go. The history of Powell’s Books was enough to convince her that this was a last minute, last moment of our life time. Audio books, how to books, crafting books. Old and new books. Antique books. We knew time was of the essence, before other collectors depleted the massive store’s supplies. We also knew that we were the only two suited for the long lines, the impatient jostling, the reaching-over-your-shoulder-book-grabbing madness that we were about the descend into…

When I turn ninety, I expect a party. I want costumes and music and dancing. We’ll tell jokes and funny stories and embarrass each other royally. I want every generation  living to come and spend the day with me, and some not so living (ghosts will be welcome).

When I turn ninety, the menu will be lasagna, and cake, and ice cream.

When I turn ninety, I want you to rent a horse so I can go for a ride.

When I turn ninety, I want to give away all my books to all my guests.

I want to wear toe socks and my very best hat that doesn’t match anything I own.

When I turn ninety, I may not have all my faculties – or even all my teeth – so treat me kindly, and make me laugh.

When I turn ninety, I want hugs from everyone – just don’t spill my wine. It’s probably the only glass of wine I’ll get in my nineties!

When I turn ninety, I want Hallowe’en candy and Christmas decorations and all the fine china set out (and who cares if a piece gets broken?).

When I turn ninety, I expect a party. I want costumes and music and dancing.

When I turn ninety.

“What do you see out your window?”

I see a boring view of a suburban street canting downhill at an angle. There’s a dead lodgepole pine in the center of the view, with an empty bird feeder hanging from a limb and three empty suet feeders hanging from nails in the trunk. I didn’t put the nails there: they came with the tree, which came with the house. The tree wasn’t dead when it came with the house, but died in increments of some mysterious fungal disease or bug infestation. There’s a large hydrangea planted under the tree, I planced it there so the roots would be in acidic soil and the flowers on the hydrangea would be a deep teal blue-green.

Beyond the tree, beyond the short retaining wall, there is the street and mailboxes. In mid-summer, just in front of the retaining wall, the bright orange day lilies bloom for weeks. In the winter, the street looks like a creek as water from the rains wash down it and swirl out onto the cross street and down.

Suburban ranch style homes built in the 1950’s line the south side of the street, with their little rectangle front lawns and requisite azalea and rhododendron bushes. A row of Douglas fir trees line the north side, their branches trimmed up so that I can see the traffic coming and going. These are not my trees, but belong to the neighbor in the green house directly opposite us. A bright orange fire hydrant marks the sharp corner to our street, and the corner of the neighbor’s yard.

I have hummingbird feeders hanging from the eave of the small porch roof. I can watch the Anna’s hummingbird all year, and the rufous-sided hummingbird in the summer. Red breasted nuthatches and black-capped chickadees drink from the ant moat (an inverted bowl of water hanging above the hummer feeders, designed to keep sugar ants out of the feeders). Chestnut-sided chickadees, bushtits, and white-breasted nuthatches utilize the dead lodgepole. I bird watch through this window.

It’s a boring view, an ordinary view, a view that is most often wet and dreary throughout the long rainy season. It is a perfect view of changing seasons, migrating birds, and the various nattering squirrels who come to depend on the bird feeder being filled all through the winter. It is my view.

This *is* a challenge: “Write five or six different emotions on little slips of paper and put them in a bowl. Draw one at random. Write a review of a recent movie or TV show you’ve seen using only the one emotion you drew.”

Can I redraw?

JOY

I have had Arthur and the Invisibles on my Netflix queue for quite some time now. My husband slides right over it on those nights when I get to choose the movie we watch. Last night, I had the television to myself, so I poured a glass of wine and turned on the movie of my choice. It was everything it promised to be.

I wasn’t prepared for the animation or for Arthur to shrink (I thought he stayed a regular boy and found the Invisibles living in the grass, or something along that line). I certainly wasn’t prepared for the large Masai-styled warriors, complete with shields and primitive costumes (but who spoke perfect American-English). In fact, the movie has quite a few surprises in it!

The tale is wrapped around a classic plot of evil-developer-out-to-steal-poor-woman’s-country-acreage-to-put-up-a-mall, and you know from the very beginning that the story is going to have a classic happy ending, but how the tale gets from A to B is where the meat of the tale is: and it is an amusing, happy tale where Good triumphs over Bad, and you even half-way like the Bad guy (The Evil M).

The story is dorky, quirky, funny, and perfect for a Home Alone movie for a 60 year old woman who doesn’t want to think. It made me smile.

Best of all is the joy it will bring me when I make my husband watch it. He will have to watch it. David Bowie is the voice of The Evil M, and the character even looks a tad bit like the late rock star – one of my husband’s favorite musicians.

~The End~