Jaci Dawn

My mother. She died much too young for my children were too young to properly remember her. She died much too young, period. But that is not what this post is about. It is about who she was, in the hopes that my children will see how she influenced my life, and so they will get to know her a little bit.

Mary Lou Melrose was the youngest of three daughters born to John and Emma (Robinson) Melrose. Emma came from a large family. John (“Jack”) was the youngest son of two boys; his older brother (the favorite) died in 1917 of “complications due to scarlet fever” (more on that at some other time). They were devout Baptists, and by “devout” I mean that my mother didn’t know what menses were until she was thirteen, sat on the toilet, and thought she was hemorrhaging and her mother was forced to tell her.

The three girls were never as prudish as the mother; quite the opposite, in fact. Grandma never did approve of the drinking, and she never did approve of my father. Grandpa, however, enjoyed my father’s company and they often were “locked in the basement” by Grandma because they’d been drinking. Scandalous!

Aunt Donna (standing) is the middle child. Aunt Phyllis is the oldest. Mary Lou (front) was the youngest. This was taken when they journeyed from Wisconsin to the Oregon Coast (mid 1940’s). Mom never mentioned the reason for the trip, but two of the girls were so taken with the West Coast that they ended up spending their lives out here.

Mom grew up in a podunk dot on the map called Rock Falls, Wisconsin, just south of Eau Claire. The windy road between Rock Falls and Eau Claire is pretty much the same today as it was then (better pavement and more Amish now). Melroses and Robinsons fill the cemetery at Rock Falls, along with such notables as Robert Browning (of Browning Rifles) and his dog.

Mom loved dogs and hated chickens (and all caged birds, by association*) and horses**.

I learned the story behind Rusty the dog (pictured above) when our own beloved Butchy died. It must have happened shortly after this photo was taken – Mom was still a girl, but old enough to remember the feelings. Rusty was hit by a car on the highway out front and died in her arms.

*I learned this fact when I was about 9 or 10. We had an annual Christmas tradition where Dad took each one of us shopping for a gift for Mom. It was my date, and we were in the Five and Dime. Parakeets were for sale and I wanted (really, really, really wanted) to buy Mom a parakeet. It would, of course, really be for me. Dad squashed that hope with a firm, “Your mother hates birds.”

I later confronted her on this item and she looked me square in the eye. “They peck.”

**Mom told me this story in an effort to discourage me from loving horses so much. Or maybe it was just an honest confession when she sat on the bed in her room, my sister and I cuddled up to her, begging for stories from her childhood.

She’d ridden a horse. Once. It was a friend’s horse, perhaps Pat’s horse (in the photo above). An old, dumpy, barn sour horse. It was fine, until it was Mom’s turn to ride it alone, and they happened to turn in the direction of the barn. The horse suddenly went from dumpy and old to something akin to War Admiral. Not only did its gait change from a tired walk to an all-out run for the money, it was headed for a clothesline that was right about neck level for my mother. She managed to bail before being decapitated, and only her ego was bruised, but – well, horses were purely evil in her mind.

I have the same aversion to primates. They are purely evil.

Mom was a quick study in wit. All the Melrose girls were. I learned interesting phrases from her, like this gem: “She thought her sh*t was chocolate ice cream.” Hm. I take it my mother didn’t like that girl in school. (The phrase came in handy as I faced my own demons in 5th-8th grade.)

“The ship hit the sand” – You tell me a nicer way to say that! (The sh*t hit the fan)

Mom was a born rebel. Her high school graduation paper was on “What I Want to do When I Grow Up.” Every other girl wrote about how they wanted to be typists, stenographers, mothers, nurses… Mom wrote about becoming a beach comber on the Oregon Coast. She got an “F”.

She was also a follower and a little bit needy in her younger days. Aunt Phyllis married her best friend and beau. Mom married his best friend. Aunt Phyllis is still married to Uncle Bob. Mom divorced her husband before two years were out because he manipulated and (she never actually said it) abused her. I don’t know if it was verbal or physical. It was, however, the last time.

She was an HSP, like me. Do.Not.Startle us. I learned this on an April Fool’s when my brother decided it would be smart to plug the exhaust pipe on Mom’s car with a potato. It’s supposed to be funny. Fortunately (for my brother) Dad caught him. Dad was even nice about it. “Son, you do NOT want to startle your mother. Trust me.” That was when we learned about the exploding cigarette.

Mom was a secretary(civilian) for the U.S. Army at Camp Hanford, Washington. Dad was a regular there every other weekend, just paying his dues until the Army released him. I believe Mom was still married or in the throes of divorce. April Fools – Dad loaded Mom’s cigarettes with those little explosives that are supposed to startle and amuse.

He had to take her home from work. She was hysterical. A basket case. I totally relate. Do.Not.Startle.Me.

There’s so much more I could write about my mother here. She was the funniest person I have ever had the pleasure of knowing (“Look! A Lert!” mime a hunchback-creature) (Next to Lisa Thompson, only). She was the stubbornest person I have ever met (next to my brother. Or myself. Or… Myself).

I knew this was going to have to be in parts when I started it. This is Part One, but i don’t know of how many parts.

Not sure what is on her head, but… Yeah. That’s where I get it from.

Ah – I love Autumn. We had a beautiful weekend (yet again) and I busted my chops trying to get the yard ready for winter. Gotta get those flower beds edged one last time, dig up all the irises and pull the grass roots out of them – and divide the over-grown clumps, and catch up on the last minute pruning that should have been done back in June (oh well, who needs lilacs blooming in the Spting? Apparently, not me). Don got out the lawn mower and attacked the grass that has rejuvenated since the last few rain storms (gosh, it grows FAST: from virtually dead to a foot tall in just a couple weeks’ time!).

But all was not obsessive work. We filled the two garden compost bins and called it a day by 1:30PM. I broke out the camera and snapped a few of the yard.

There’s this crazy aster growing in the crack of the sidewalk. I dug it up and moved it three years ago, but there was just enough root left under the sidewalk that it has pushed its way back into the corner here. I don’t mind if it doesn’t mind: it’s my favorite aster.

My crazy grapevine! It still is growing out. I had to turn in back on itself at the far end. Not much for grapes this year (they’re still ripening). I have to keep the clothesline folded or the grape will take over that, too. Next year, I will plan a different path for the grape to grow. I have all winter to come up with a plan…

The black-cap also grew like a plant possessed. This was the second year in this location and it apparently loves the new venue. I’ve already cut out the dead canes. The thing is challenging the Oregon Grape for space.

Speaking of Oregon Grape – these were a colossal mistake. I didn’t even know there was a variety of Oregon Grape that grew ten feet tall. I thought of all Oregon Grape as a small bush. A ground cover. Not this stuff – and I have four plants. Er, tall bushes. I have come to hate it.

I will hack it down to the ground before winter – all four plants. No worries, I won’t kill it. I don’t think you can kill it.

Definitely one of my greatest garden fails.

I planted bird’s nest gourds last spring. They didn’t like the location, I guess. This was the biggest one I could find – most of the others have just rotted off (or were eaten).

No sooner had I snapped the prior photo than I looked up – AHA! There’s a six-inch long gourd hiding up there. Now I am happy. It’s only one, but – hey. It’s one.

We had a young man stay with us a couple months ago, and he cleared out the blackberry/ivy/holly/nightshade mess. It’s weird to be able to see the ground where that mess once stood.

It’s also a little embarrassing to see my first attempts at dog-proofing the fence from Harvey. I guess you can make out the white wire fence that is sort of haphazardly placed along the neighbor’s high privacy fence. We couldn’t see under the hazelnut before, so it didn’t matter that it was haphazard. Now that we can see under the tree… well, I guess I have all winter to come up with a better fence plan. This works, it’s just… shrug.

Keeping with a theme here – since I took a photo of an early Harvey blockade, I thought I’d take a photo of a much later (and more effective) Harvey blockade. Besides, I like my insulator collection. And that rock.

I have to get the garden winterized and then I’ll return to posting memories. It’s an obsessive thing with me (gardening).

We had a lovely break in the weather here that opened the door for me to spend a few (as in 5.5) hours working on getting the flower beds ready for the change of season. Yes, I hurt – the arthritis in my hands is screaming loudly tonight. I’ll find some new muscles tomorrow when they start to ache.

I can remember a time when working in the yard was seen as a punishment for misdeeds, most of which I cannot recall. Whatever the misdeeds were, they usually entailed all three of us getting a two-week sentence to hard labor in the summer sun while our neighbors and friends got to play. We became handy with a hoe and a spade, and we learned to identify a “weed” from a preferred plant (although I never did agree with my father on the status of hollyhocks – those are flowers, but he considered them weeds). We learned to hate crab grass and salt grass.

You would think, after all those hours – and they seemed infinitesimal when the punishment cut into our summer vacation, that we would have grown up hating gardening. I can’t speak for my brother and my sister is long gone (but I can safely assume gardening never was her thing), but I grew to love the smell of loam and the satisfaction of seeing a neat garden bed emerge from the tangle of weeds.

I planted my first flower bed from scratch around the door step of a little rental I lived in when I was 22. I believe I planted annuals purchased from the grocery store parking lot. My next attempt was weeding out the Bishop’s Weed that grew along the walkway of another rental, this one I shared with a girlfriend or two. But I didn’t actually begin gardening until the second year I was married, when my husband and I moved back into that little rental with the Bishop’s Weed along the walkway. It had honeysuckle and peonies out front as well. That was when I fell in love with peonies.

Don and I tilled up a sunny spot in the back yard and bought our first seeds from a catalog. I remember which catalog: Nichols Herb Garden. We still buy our seeds from them, but nowadays we drive up the Willamette River Valley to their location in Albany rather than ordering via catalog.

Don built a cold frame along one side of the house and we harvested potatoes, tomatoes, corn, beans, lettuce.

We moved from Baker City in the high desert country to the northern end of the Willamette Valley in 1983. Our first home here was a rental with an acre of land, hidden behind a huge bay laurel hedge and shaded by tall fir trees. The yard was an undiscovered gem of roses, lilies, peonies, rhododendrons, azaleas, and more. We were pleasantly surprised with the advent of the Dragon lily that summer – a magnificent, if not stinky, arum. I spent hours hand picking slugs off of plants and drowning them in a vain attempt to get ahead of the voracious pests. Too much shade, too much debris to shelter in.

We stole the Dragon lily from the yard when we moved. We figured no one would appreciate it like we did, and no one knew it was there, and no one would miss it.

Our first home had a lovely yard that sloped down to a giant Douglas Fir and a big yucca that bloomed every summer. Vinca minor (aka periwinkle) covered the side hill until I began to pull it back and discovered a plethora of crowded out plants underneath it. Candy tuft, azalea, roses. I planted delphiniums and gladiolas. I began to love my time in the garden, rearranging, replanting, and building up. We experimented with raised beds for the vegetable garden.

It was not until we lost everything and had to start over, however, that I really fell in love with gardening. We purchased an old single wide trailer that we set up in a rural park that a friend owned. 14×70′ of living space, complete with the hitch left on (a joke – we fully expected to leave the trailer behind within five years, and so we insisted the hitch stay on). The yard was about the same dimensions, shaded by fir and planted pine trees. I guess, technically, our yard was the back yard, but we came to a quick agreement with our first neighbors who had children the same age as ours: they could have the back yard for their kids (and ours) to play in. I took over the front yard (which was the back yard to a series of different residents, none of whom ever cared what the set up was).

That was the second yard I designed. But this time, I had a blank pallet and the design was entirely my own making. I cut out a small place for a lawn – fish shaped, although that was not on purpose. I had a clothes line across the back, and then there was the dog’s part of the yard where I also planted my first black cap raspberry.

I had a black cap when I was 16. It grew in the strangest place in the yard – in total shade, along a strip of lawn just 3′ wide, between our house and the chain link fence separating us from our neighbor. I harvested the berries all summer, eating them as they ripened. One summer, when my parents were gone, the neighbor cut it down. I freaked. My mom called him and he promised he’d never cut it down again. (Thinking about it, I planted my first Shasta Daisies at that house – a gift from the elderly Jehovah’s Witness across the street that I used to visit. She had a wooden leg. She wrote me letters until her death in the early 1980’s.)

The trailer park afforded me just enough room to have a few roses and plant a small double set of raised beds for a vegetable garden. The roses – and the Dragon lily, which we were still carrying with us – were the only flowers we purchased. I decided to plant only native plants in that yard, and I harvested them off of the adjacent 80 acres where my horse was boarded: flowering currant, wild irises, giant lupins, sword ferns, native columbine, foxglove. My husband planted our first espalier apple tree.

That garden taught me how to control slugs and how to make huge mistakes. One year, I planted fireweed. The next year, I pulled it all out. I eliminated hiding places for slugs and they wandered elsewhere. I forced my blackcap to grow one direction one year and then turned it the next year so I could easily cut out the dead canes.

We lived there longer than five years – the joke being on us. Two years, we tried a communal garden with the rest of the residents (seven trailers, seven families). It was a disaster. We grew dahlias and I weeded religiously. The others didn’t weed so much. One neighbor watered his portion overnight, draining the communal well.

In 2002, we found this house and bought it. The yard had a lot to do with why we bought it: it was overgrown with grass, blackberries, nightshade, and untended rhododendrons. There were faded peonies buried in the grass. We brought our Dragon lily and my husband dug up a Hawthorne out of the pasture. I brought my mother’s irises.

We planted Oregon grape along the fence, only to discover it is a variety that grows six feet tall. I hope to dig that out next summer.

I’m not a green thumb. I just like getting my hands into the loam, smelling the rot of plant matter, and trying to see what grows – and where. I’ve moved my new black cap raspberry three times (it finally took off this summer). I just separated my irises and pulled up as many of the grape hyacinths as I could find – they will go out on the street with a FREE sign. I have a huge yucca that blooms every year, purloined from someone else’s FREE pile. I planted a grape that took over my yard this summer – the crazy thing grew twenty-five feet! I’ve lost three rosemary bushes and have yet to coax a flowering currant to like this yard.

I don’t touch the vegetable garden except to harvest things – that belongs to Donald. Our espalier apple trees do poorly here. We have a hazelnut that has grown by leaps and bounds (and for which the jays and squirrels thank us).

Today, I dug out all the wild violets. They never bloom. They crowd out several peonies. I think I will put some of my irises in that corner – the irises I keep. My mother’s irises. We have so many Dragon lilies now, all descended from the one we stole from a rental in 1984.

I don’t know a lot about gardening – I just jump in and make mistakes, then tear them out again.

Soon, I will be in the heart of Faerieworlds, playing dress up. This year, my costume is more elaborate than in past years – I’m going with a mask and as a character I have created.

The Realm is advertised as a transport to Middle Earth, and I think this is part of what draws me. The mystique of Middle Earth, the strangeness of the creatures, the realm of fantasy worlds that I usually can only sink my teeth into when I have a great novel in hand – I can go and enter the Realm and live it.

I read an article in the early 1980’s about adults who have a very full fantasy life – not one of those X-rated “fantasy” sort, but one full of imagination, alter-egos, novel-length story lines. The gist of the article was about how these adults often hid their rich imaginations out of fear of ridicule.

I was one of those adults and I wondered if there would ever be a place for me in society. A place that would accept my freedom of expression, my creativity, and whatever alter-ego I wished to be.

I especially wondered if God might find a way to smile upon this activity of mine – after all, He created me in His image.

I am a born-again Christian stepping into a realm populated more by pagans, pantheists, and wiccans. Didn’t God create actors? This is my actual question; I’m not worried about my faith being absorbed by those other faiths . I question why God made me like I am and why I am drawn to this world of mirror and smoke.

I don’t question that I am drawn to it. That’s a fact. I love the pretend, the costumes, the absurdity, the earthiness, the drum beat of the Celtic music, the colors, the feel of the earth beneath my feet. When a young pantheist tells me how she’s so “in tune” with the yew that she cut to create her wings, I wonder if she really can feel the heart of the yew… but I know I have felt the earth move under my feet (thank you, Carole King). I love to stand barefoot and feel the earth.

I think it was my second Faerieworlds when I heard the first disparaging comments against Christianity. I remember saying, softly, “But you know I’m a Christian, right?” No argument, just a statement. This is who I am. Who I believe in. Who I bring with me to the Realm.

A couple years ago, we debated different religions as we drove to the site of Faerieworlds. Why do you believe what you do? And why do you come to Faerieworlds?

I can answer the one. I can’t answer the other.

I want to say it started with J.R.R. Tolkien, but that would not be right. It goes back further. I remember a March day, standing in the sunlight of the picture window at 64 East Minor Street. I was ready for school. Had my green on. Was certain I would capture a leprechaun. My mother cautioned me, trying to tell me they weren’t real.

BUT I KNEW.

Eighth grade art. Mr. Little let me go outside to sketch while he leered at the girls who were developing breasts and threatened to feed “camel snot” to the boys who mouthed off in class. I felt like his star pupil – and maybe I was. He never treated me as anything but an artist. I never knew he was a lecher until I was older and he was dead. But I remember his disappointment when I turned in my sketch of a dragon in a tree outside the school.

Really? He said. A dragon? Can’t you draw what’s there?

Ah, but dragons were there, if only he would have looked.

This is why I go to Faerieworlds: because – as my father once exclaimed*, “There be dragons out there!”

*My dad was normally quite sober and not given to imagination. Therefore, when during a wild drive in the dark across ditch and sagebrush with a frog gig hanging over the hood of a Jeep being driven by a less-snockered person than my father, he drunkenly asserted that dragons existed, it became my mantra. (Should I have used commas???)

THERE BE DRAGONS OUT THERE!