Parking Places

Please excuse me for my deliberate exuberance. Besides missing my wonderful, beautiful boys and others nearest and dearest to my heart, my life is incredible. My dad always said, “If you live right, you get good parking places.” I tell you, boys and girls, I must be living right. I left a negative and hostile work environment in search for something a little less damaging to the soul. I found it!

First, I met this incredible woman in Gearhart, Oregon who took in this stranger and her dog for a week and a half with promises of more assistance with Harley when I fly into Las Vegas to get my van. I really didn’t even have a plan.

“I’m just waiting for it to cool down a bit before I have to retrieve my van/home,” I shamefully try to explain.

“We’ll just see how it goes with the dogs. You’re welcome to stay as long as you need.” Dolores takes in the homeless and wounded. Usually it’s the four legged desperados she opens her home to, so I think Harley was my ticket in. Whatever the case, I met a beautiful human and four very charming and lucky canines: a homeless and hungry Great Dane , a horny Chihuahua in love with the Great Dane, a Monkey Terrier (I call her Monster) that came to Dolores with two broken hind legs and a sweet little old golden thing pushing three hundred years old. I’m sure it’s Dolores’ love that keeps her alive. It must be pet owners like me that shorten a dog’s life. First sign of anal seepage and it’s time to put the beast down.

So, after settling in Gearhart and working out the kinks from our previous life and the ferry trip, Harley and I jump in the truck and head south to look up my aunt and uncle. Being raised on an island in Alaska with all my distant family in Oregon, I didn’t get to spend as much time with these fine folks as one would expect when you are close. Emotionally close, that is. I drive to their home, but of course, these two are out on an adventure some place so I leave a note on torn paper adhered with duct tape to their door. The next day I get a call and I’m back down to see them. Long lovey dovey visit made short, Aunty tells me they never sold the cabin that I have so many family memories in. They moved out a year ago but because of the real estate market being what it is, they decided to hang on to it and maintain both homes. Wow. She has a home that is peopleless and I am a people that is homeless. Doesn’t get much sweeter than that, especially on the coast of Oregon with seven miles of sandy beach out my back door. Just point me to the tsunami route and I’m in heaven! They are happy as well.

I tell you, only two weeks into my sabbatical adventure and I’m getting pretty good parking places. I must be doing something right. I wish I could explain that philosophy to Harley. He keeps pissing on kids’ sand castles. I tell him, “Dude, that’s going to catch up with you!”

I know people who live like that. They don’t live by an acceptance of right and wrong, but more of a matter of what they can get away with. I feel bad for these people. They may believe they are successful in life all the while looking behind their backs. That’s no way to live. Now, I'm not claiming to be perfect, but the effort to do what is right by yourself and others is a code of ethics I can't sleep without. And the parking gods don’t miss a thing. I'm positive Dolores will have free parking where ever she goes in life.

Stepping Out

I was sitting in my truck, door open, writing a note for the door of my family's beach house in Oregon. There are no connected phone lines so we check in with torn pieces of envelope adhered to the window with duct tape.

The neighbor, an older gentleman working on the dividing fence is being pestered by the woman who lives across the street.

"I really am anti-social," she says, sitting way too close.

"You are, huh?"

"Yes!" she insists, her shoulder now touching his.

"When are you anti-social?"

"At night."

"And when at night does this anti-social behavior begin?"

"At 5:00."

He drops his hammer and grabs his knees before he falls over in disbelief and laughter.

My friend takes me to a wine bar and bistro called Yummy! in Seaside Oregon. She introduces me to the owners and they sit her at her favorite spot on the corner couch where she can watch her friends and the activity in the kitchen. I too am watching. There is a pleasant energy about the place, coworkers and patrons alike. It's clean, open, relaxing and inviting. I am comfortable here. Yummy! attracts a population that I am familiar with, folks I 'know' with out knowing.

"I could work here. This is what I'm looking for," I tell my friend.

When the tall slender woman returns with our wine my friend asks if they are still looking to hire someone.

"On the busy nights, yes. Are you interested?"

"Deb is."

The waitress leaves to get me an application.

"Wow. Just like that," I say, excited about the opportunity of being a part of an establishment like this.

Three days later, that application is still sitting on the table at home. Where is the confidence I was feeling then, after 5:00, in the company of wine and a friend. My anti-social behavior is most evident when I'm alone in my quiet zone. It's hard to step out of it at times. Intimidating, almost. I'll take a walk and discuss this behavior of mine, encourage myself to get out and participate in a climate I was once excited about. But the odds are, as much as I want to be that person who can walk up to new people with a friendly smile and make them feel warmly included, I probably won't be.

Call it introvert, shy, or anti-social, it all means the same thing; difficult, awkward, sometimes painful social interactions. But that is what this adventure of mine is all about. Stepping out of what has been my comfortable norm for the last 30 years and doing something different. Even something that I'm afraid of.

Before I left Southeast Alaska, I bought an inflatable kayak. Inflatable because I want to be able to carry it solo and store it in my van during my travels. I love the ocean the same time I fear it. I saw Jaws way too young and not being able to see that giant sea creature surface at the very spot I am presently occupying terrifies me. Because I know it can happen. No. I know it will happen. So, I practice. I take out my kayak and hugging the shoreline, I tell myself I'm not being rational. I force myself to work on this silly fear of sharing the Pacific with orcas, humpbacks, and sea lions. Every time I go out it gets a little easier. At least that's what I tell myself. It's actually not any easier, I just remind myself I didn't get eaten the last time I went out so go enjoy the beauty of it all.

I should go get that anti-social neighbor lady at 4:45 and tell her we're going out and it's going to be fun. Even if we only stay until 5:30. And then, I will turn in that application and meet new people and learn new skills and have a new job in a new atmosphere. Maybe tomorrow.

Finding Normal

Back home in Ketchikan, I had routine. I knew when to wake up. I knew how to dress, where to go, what to do. I knew when to go home, when to eat, when to go to bed. I didn't even have to think about it. My choices were determined by what day of the week it was. Saturday and Sunday were reserved to cram as much life into 48 hours that you could; time with the kids, time with the pet, time with your partner, time with yourself. Then it's Monday again. And you didn't even get the laundry done.

That's all changed now. I have to think about what it is I am going to do today. "Easy task," you may say, "Just give me the option." As pathetic as it may sound, it can be a chore to keep yourself busy. It's kind of like deciding what to cook for dinner 365 days of the year. I don't mind cooking, I just hated being the one to decide what to cook every day. Some days I wanted to say to my family, "I'm not cooking until someone tells me what to cook." Being creative or trying to please others with food was the difficult part.

Staying busy is important. It gives purpose. Stimulation. Drive. Creativity, exploration, and learning is all part of life. It's up to me now and I need each component for a healthy lifestyle. I'm only one week into my new adventure and I already feel the importance of staying active. I awoke today with a sense of emptiness. This was new to me. I've taken many two or three week road trip vacations. Never felt empty. It's different when you are looking at an open calendar. What is my new normal? What will my new routines be? I now understand why retirees return to work. We are conditioned to follow a set schedule of obligations.

It's time to redefine self. With the absence of family and friends, you only have yourself to rely on. I must call upon what is important to me and not let it go to wayside. Even a sabbatical takes work. Make it count. Do something. I need to feel good about myself, my choices, before lying down to bed each night. I need to discover my new normal.

Leaving Normal

36 hours on a ferry. I'm relaxing. Sitting in the sun on the windless side of the the ship, almost too warm. The orcas and humpbacks ease out of the water just enough to cause chaos amongst the camera clickers. In the far distance they see a tail wave at them and the long nosed zoom lenses jump in front of the pocket shots. I may have to retreat to the cooler side of the boat just to see the water.

I read. Then knit. Then work a sudoku puzzle. Then read some more. And I have it pretty easy. Harley is down below. The back seat of the truck is his second home, but that is where familiarity ends. I have to roll down the windows to give him some air flow in the heat of the hull. There's the constant roar of the engines, slamming car doors, echos of amplified bangs and clangs and voices. Every six hours I am able to release him from his small quarters for a hug of reassurance and a walk through the narrow isles between the rows of vehicles. I encourage him to do his business. We only have 15 minutes. I try to keep him moving in hopes of getting the process moving, but Harley wants to meet the howlers and whiners and barkers he has been listening to. Everyone is friendly in this place that nobody can claim as their own. Socialization is important, so we stop for the meet and greet sniffs, then continue walking. Other owners are mopping up doggy elimination off the steel floor. I take Harley over to smell the potty place. He still refuses. It's just wrong to pee inside on the floor.

The announcement tells me our time is up. I plead with Harley, "Go pee, go pee!" He keeps looking for the grassy place. I coax him with food and water. Nothing. No eat, no drink, no pee. The car deck is still very warm so I crack open the rear sliding window as well. It is going to be a long night for Harley.

I'm in the cabin deck lounge, curled up on a four foot long table bench with my blanket over my head and ear plugs in my ears to drown out the conversations of others. I'm trying my best to zone out the world and get some rest. The week prior was emotionally challenging so the quite rest is welcoming.

About two hours into this bliss I hear my name over the loud speaker. "Debora Carney, please come to the purser's counter." I knew sleeping fully dressed was a good idea. I find my glasses, run my fingers through my hair and stumble down the stairs, following the instructions of the booming voice. A man I recognize from the car deck is standing there with no expression. "Your dog escaped and is running around the car deck." I laugh. He does not. I couldn't get Harley to jump through that window all summer. I tried to coax him to climb through so he could have access to water and food in the bed of the truck while I was working. The plain faced man escorts me down below so that I may apprehend my criminal. Harley peaks around a car, sees me and wiggles his way over, so happy to see me I dare not scold him. He went looking for me and he found me. I lead him back to his truck, close the window and tell him I'll see him in the morning. I hope he at least got a pee out of his adventure.

The next morning, before the car deck call, I order a cheese and sausage omlet. I don't care for sausage much but I can mix it with Harley's kibble to get him to eat. I enjoy the egg and cheese, put all the meat stuff in a napkin and smuggle it out of the cafe.

The sausage was eaten, but that was about it. He followed it with a few laps of water and we began our routine. Still nothing. At least he ate and drank so I know he won't collapse from hunger or dehydration before me meet land, but he may explode in my truck. I keep my fingers crossed that he took advantage of his freedoms the night before.

The rest of the day went along uneventfully; reading, knitting, puzzling, walking, sniffing, greeting. The next morning we pulled into Bellingham. I drove across the street from the terminal to the nearest patch of grassy earth that thankfully also provided a trail, and we walked and walked and did our business and walked some more. Harley smiled, relieved in several different ways, until I opened the back seat door again. He just starred at me. "I'm going in too. One long drive and we're done, I promise! Next stop, Oregon Coast!"

The Wait

The work is done. I am packed up and out of my home, bumming off my very dear friend. I am officially unemployed and homeless. Waiting. Waiting for the date on the calendar to match the date on my Alaska Marine Highway ticket.

My gear is spread all over her exercise room. I do what I can while I wait. I'm really good at the dishes. Not bad at keeping the floors clean. I even threw some laundry in the washer. Harley and I walk or hike every day. I made soup and muffins. My friend smiles when she comes home from work. We are playing house and she is grateful for the company and contributions I offer for my stay. Yet, every day I stay, waiting, we are putting off the good bye. It started out as an 11 day wait. It is now day six, five to go. It's slowly becoming more intense. Nobody wants to say good bye. It's an uncomfortable, emotional, sad and happy thing to do. It seems almost cruel to have a departure date so far away. I thought I would need more time to tie up loose ends.

While running errands through town I inevitably run into folks I know. "Are you still here?" "Yes," I say, with an understandable nod. There has been lots of talk about this woman who quit her job and sold everything to voluntarily live in her car when our beloved country is in an economical crisis. Yet she is still here, is this a hoax? No. It's not a hoax. Be patient. I am leaving. But leaving is a process:

First, down size; sell, donate, throw away, or store it. Check.

All that is left is what you are taking with you. Pack. Check.

Turn all bank and summary statements from paper to e-statements. Check.

Open a bank account that is more accessible in the lower 48. Check.

Cancel Netflix, Full Circle Farms, phone and electric. Check.

Cancel Post Office delivery. Leave forwarding address. Check.

Pay any and all over due library fees. Check.

Clean your home for the next inhabitants. Check.

Leave your home. Check.

Spend quality time with friends and family. Tell them you love them. Check.

Allow them to throw you a party, or two, or three.

Only then is it safe to go. Leaving is a process. One does not want any regrets on the road.