Mike.

My brother, Mike, died four days before Christmas 2011. I got the call from our brother Rick, his voice hard to hear, his words not making sense.

Mike was always a happy boy, one who loved telling stories. Stories that drew you in to his exuberance of reliving the facts, even if somewhat exaggerated. You smiled not only at the tale unfolding, but the shine in his eyes.
Mike was a very intelligent boy. He was always the banker at Monopoly, his two older siblings never challenging him. He moved his token, always the race car, to the appropriate square without even counting them. He yelled out, "You owe me $90.00 for landing on Marvin Gardens," before we could add the dice. Nobody wanted to play chess with him and he'd beat mom at cribbage all the time.
He talked about scientific things that made you scrunch up your eyebrows and shake your head, but he kept talking because it was super exciting to him. But if you asked him if he wanted to go play kick ball or go sledding he'd say, "Sure!" and he'd be a regular kid again.
Mike was gentle, didn't fight, didn't swear, just shrugged off things that weren't right. I wasn't so good at that. There was this kid at the bus stop, isn't there always a moron at the bus stop that looks for the quiet kid? Anyway, this guys name was Beaver. And he was mean. He scared me, but when he pushed Mike around it pushed my buttons. I always wore these big clunky "waffle stompers" and that day that Beaver had gone too far with my brother, Beaver had fallen to the ground grabbing his shins and covering his stomach. I got a red slip from the bus driver so Mom gave me and Mike a ride to school and she never scolded me once.
Mike and I were very close. Literally. Seven months apart. I was adopted and while the adoption was finalizing Mom got pregnant with Mike. They called us calico twins. We did everything together up to the sixth grade. That's when I started to think more like a preteen and Mike stayed just Mike. Then I went on to middle school and Mike had one more year of grade school.
In high school, hung out with my own friends as teenagers do. I grew impatient with Mike because he didn't do things like every one else. He wasn't bad or totally weird, just different. After school I left for college, came back home, met a guy, got married, had kids...One by one we left the nest to do our own thing. Except Mike. He stayed around, enjoying living with his parents. He never married. He liked being home.
And then, one day, he just left. Not just the house he was raised in, he left the town. He left the state. He left! We were obviously concerned, Mike hadn't ever done anything on his own like this. He was vulnerable, easily taken advantage of. But, he did it. He found work. He found a place to live. He found his way in the world. Then he came back home.
He was there while our mom was dying of cancer. This was very hard on Mike. I think he left town again after she passed away. Then he came back again. About ten years later, Dad had a stroke. Mike lived at home, helping to care for him. Dad's illness and eventually death, was painfully debilitating for Mike. Life was more challenging as he dealt with depression and anxiety. Our sister, Amber, and Rick looked after Mike, eventually helping him get his own place to live. Then, without telling anyone, he sold his trailer and moved. Again.
He called one day to check in and let us know everything was fine. And it appeared to be so. He was happy. He was living in Nevada. He was working on an invention. A top secret invention. As crazy as it may sound, it was good news. He was excited to be working on something. He was creative and focused. This went on for over a year. Life was good!
Then he bought a car and he and a friend moved to Arizona. He talked with Rick and told him about all this. He sounded good. Three days later, Mike called 911 from a gas station parking lot. He said he had a knife. He said he was going to hurt someone or kill himself if, IF, the police didn't get there fast. When asked why, he said he was tired of being schizophrenic. The police showed up. They claim he "charged" at them. Mike was shot three times.
He told them he suffered from a mental illness. He told them he only had a knife.
I sit. And I think. I ask, "How....?" I ask, "Why....?" I don't understand.

Tsunami

My NOAA alarm went off at 11:27 pm. I ran down stairs and listened to it's announcement. An earthquake hit Japan and a tsunami is coming our way. I quickly turn on the t.v. and watch, over and over again how that massive wave wiped out Sendai. We have seven hours to evacuate before it hits our beaches.

I've heard about this. I knew about this. Our small coastal town practiced this routine. I tear myself away from the horrific repetitive scene glowing in my entertainment room and start the laundry. There's no going back to sleep so I might as well have clean underwear for when it's time to go. Who knows when I'll be able to do laundry again. Seriously. That was my first thought. And I did it. Then I cleaned up the kitchen. There were just a few dishes to be washed, but I didn't want them in the sink. I wanted them clean and put in their proper places. Perhaps it was the video of houses floating down streets, one with a car resting in it's front room window, that instilled this desire for neatness. There was really no rational excuse for my behavior, it was just nervous energy. Nonetheless, when everything was tidy and the clothes in the machine, I was able to get the plastic tub out and fill it with canned tuna, powder milk, and coffee. And water and dog food. And batteries. And yarn.
Sunny, who recently moved from a tsunami save zone to join me in my beach house, shakes her head and attempts to go back to bed. We both now know how we each respond to intense situations.

I move all the vehicles, there are four between us (damn Americans), to free up the garage and I back the Westfalia van out. Our emergency home is semi ready for such an event but I add a few reinforcements, including my collection of knitting needles, as the news team is not certain whether the wave will diminish in size or grow in it's travels to our coastline.
At 5 am Sunny, the dogs, and I leave our beach home and drive five miles to my aunt and uncle's home that is out of the tsunami zone, kind of. It's out of a little tsunami zone, but not a big tsunami zone.
Because we've all been up all night, we are momentarily uncertain whether to drink wine or coffee. I join my aunty and her friend Carole in a glass of Cabernet. My nerves could use a little relaxing. Then we sit back in front of the television and wait to hear the outcome of Hawaii's hit while keeping an eye on the water line on the pier in the bay below their home.

That night turned out to be a practice run. We did pretty good. But we also had seven long hours to prepare. Word is, we're next. We're due. Next time we may only have minutes. I leave the van out in the driveway, loaded and ready to do. If we were to loose electricity I wouldn't be able to get it out of the garage. There is a prediction from really smart guys in Russia and Canada that the west coast is going to take a hit during the super moon. My truck sits at home while I drive my home on wheels everywhere, just in case. Sunny and I discuss evacuation routes and meeting places if we are separated when It hits.
My boss commented on my using the van and I explained my prepared readiness in case of an earthquake or tsunami. He says, "Where you going to go?" I just stare at him. He's right. There is no place to go. Both coastal directions, north and south, that lead to a highway exit over the mountain range first take you right along the ocean's edge. Most likely those narrow windy roads will not survive a quake. He tells me the only ones to survive here are those that grab a backpack and run up the mountain behind us.
As soon as I get home I'm upstairs in the attic digging out my bigger backpack and loading it up. It goes where I go now. I make sure Sunny has one too and that she takes hers with her everywhere she goes. The van is still ready, just in case we have time for a proper evacuation, but if time is limited, I'll grab the pack and hope I have good shoes on.

This is a new experience for me. Ketchikan is in a protected area. In the 38 years I lived there there was never a fear of natural disaster. No tornadoes. No forest fires. No earthquakes, except for that biggie in Anchorage in 1964 but we're pretty sheltered from tsunamis by all the surrounding islands.
Now I live with that nagging feeling of "If it hit right now, would you be ready?" I always know where my pack is. I've retrained myself to put my cell phone, car keys, and glasses in the same place every night. I've located the safest triangles in my home to take cover in. Then I sleep. In a warm bed. Listening to the cold rain outside and hoping it doesn't happen tonight because I don't want to be wet and cold. Then I think of the Japanese. The lucky ones are curled up on concrete floors of a school gym. I try to sleep.
In the mean time, life goes on. I finish knitting the sweater in my chair. Sunny goes back to unpacking her boxes. I call my boys to check on their well being. Japan is looking for bodies. We make grocery lists. Japan is thirsty. We talk about weekend plans. Japan is trying to calm the nukes. We keep our gas tanks full. Sendai has no roads. Sendai has no Sendai. Rockaway Beach would be gone too. Yet, we stay. We love it here. It's beauty. The beautiful ocean that gives us life could take our lives at any time. It causes me to breathe deep and notice my surroundings, thankful for every day. And my backpack.

This time last year, I was freaking out about adult decisions I was forced to make. You'd be pleased to know everything has worked out beautifully. Better than I ever imagined. If you look up Happy in the dictionary you'll see a picture of me.

I took the job at the restaurant, waiting tables, meeting people, learning the finer advantages of small talk. Connection, even when brief, is something you carry with you right along with that full stomach or the coffee in your hand. Good or bad. I have the opportunity to impact another soul. And it works both ways; as the customer's presence walks out that door I'm often left with a feeling of "whoa!" or a "wow!" Body language (75% of communication) tells it's own story. The silent couple with elbows on the table creating their own private space, staring at their food, lifting their eyes to glance out the window, seldom or never at the person across from them. Only upon finishing do their eyes connect, silently asking if the other is ready to go too.
Then there's the guy who parades in, fanning his beautiful plumage, and announces himself to the entire restaurant. He involves me in his conversation even as I am waiting on the other tables, begging for attention. All he needs is a smile and a touch on the shoulder and I've gained privilege to hearing his story and him asking about mine.
Even though we're only two states away, people love to hear about Alaska. I try to not enter that one when the floor is full because they don't want me to leave, like I am there for their dinning entertainment alone. Waitressing has been an awesome experience. It's a great way to meet community and people traveling from all over the world, and to better your knowledge of self.

Along with waitressing, I also started two businesses. One is selling yarn, notions, and my knit wears. My shop is part of another, very cool, shop here in Rockaway Beach. The Frugal Crow has six vendors, one of which is me. Ann Savage, the owner, approached me at the restaurant and asked if I'd like to sell yarn and my hats in her store. I love it!! And it's totally amazing to me. One year ago I was off to Alaska to manage a yarn shop for Cheri Pyles in Ketchikan and now I have my own in Oregon. I didn't see that one coming! It's not my bread and butter job but it's coming along. Plus it's my passion. I also teach knitting to a group of about ten ladies and one man. He is the greatest guy, knitting a billion 6 x 6 inch squares to sew together for a quilt for his mom. How many guys do you know would do that for his mom? The other gals are just a hoot too, most of them never knit before or if so, it was so long ago they might as well not have. But so far, they have completed one baby sweater, three hats, three pairs of fingerless gloves and many many ripped out rows.
My other business is actually an offspring of my girlfriend's. This wonderful woman started her own business cleaning beach houses (second homes to most) that are rented out as vacation homes. She does not advertise. The expansion of her clientele comes solely by word of mouth. She has the trust and respect of so many that last summer she started turning some folks down. Largely, they wanted yard work done and her schedule was packed with house cleans. I told her I'd take on the yards for some extra income. That offering has grown into its own and I now carry business cards with me. People stop and ask me if I have time to work on their place too! I can't believe the luck!! I love working outdoors on a yard that is so overgrown that when I'm done it looks like a new place. And it pays very well! It is hard work, keeps me fit, and keeps their property attractive and functional.
So there it is. One year later and I've found my place. In my mission statement I said I wanted to "go where my senses lead me, work where I'm needed, and give what I am able," and it has found me.

Dreams of Adventure

A friend recently asked, “What happened to your dreams of adventure?” I guess she was referring to my stationary presence here on the Oregon Coast. Yet, some adventure happens within and is less obvious than the ever roaming Westfalia. It easy for me to travel alone. Load up the van with hiking shoes, sleeping bag, camping food and water, and I head out. I know the general area I want to explore, hiking and biking trails I want to check out. I scout around for a good place to boondock at night, a mellow and welcoming coffee shop to connect with wifi, a public shower and I'm set. That's all easy stuff for me. It takes little or no interaction with others. I'm on my own agenda, exploring. On an adventure. Living with my thoughts, ideas, dreams. Just being.
My adventure these days is the adjustment to settling in a new community. It can be quite the ordeal for the introvert to form new friendships, sell my product, even seek employment as an outsider in a small town. My adventure these days is huge.
There are three knitting groups in my area that I know of. I've made it to one, twice. And I know the location of the others, I just haven't made it in the door yet. I pick up local papers announcing new and fun Happenings everywhere up and down the coast. I circle the ones that interest me, make note of the time and location. And then, when the time comes, there's always a reason for me not to go; I'm almost done knitting these gloves and I really need to finish them, it's too snotty outside, I'm not in the right mood to walk into a room full of strangers and introduce myself, or, I just don't want to spend the money.
My 18 year old son recently joined me here on the Coast. His heart crashed in Ketchikan and he really really needs to get out of town. Having been there myself, I totally understand his pain and logic. Plus, I'm his mom. “Of course you can live with me,” I tell him. We fall right into mother and son roles, except this time, I think he's a little surprised with his mother. Back in Ketchikan, I had lots of interaction with many people. That happens when you live in the community you are raised in, you just know people. Everyone. There's always someone to hike with, have dinner with, go to the movies, go out for a glass of wine after work.
After three days Shane asks, “What do you do here?”
“I warned you it was quiet here.”
“Yes, but, what do you do? Just knit all day, every day?”
“Pretty much. I also visit my aunt and uncle, walk Harley on the beach, hike on the local trails, and sometimes swim at the YMCA. I have three friends, one 60 miles north and the other two 60 miles east,” I try to explain my solo lifestyle. I don't think he had any idea I was a loner. I can't say that I really like it. I am lonely and would love to have a few friends a little closer that I could be spontaneous with, but that involves a skill I never had to develop living on an island for 30 something years; I have to learn how to make friends. Talk about adventure.
But, I'm not here for long anyway. I will be returning to Ketchikan to the people I know and a new job I will love. I may even miss this quiet place, so I'm not in a hurry to run out there and build new relationships. Or so I thought.
While here, Shane discovered an interest in Job Corps. It's an excellent program for youth starting out on their own, trying to develop a career and a place in this life. I encourage him to pursue this new focus of his. He makes numerous phone calls and is given quite the run around. We make the one hour drive to Astoria's Job Corps and are turned away at the gate because we don't have an appointment. Back to the unanswered phone calls. We learn where the main office is in Beaverton and make the hour and a half drive there only to be told to return tomorrow at 3:00 for the weekly Job Corps presentation. We do. And we learn there is a several month wait list to get in. And he has to stay in Oregon to qualify for placement in this region. And he has to not make too much money to meet criteria for acceptance.
After several sleepless nights I come to the only conclusion a supportive mother can make; I have to stay. There are good things about staying, very good things, I tell myself. I get excited about the idea. A warm sunny summer on the Coast! Farmer's Markets! Gardening! Kayaking in estuaries! Biking in Portland! Westy road trips!! Trader Joe's!!!
Then I freak out. I'm scared to death to give up what I know. A dear friend I truly love. Seeing my other son. A good job I was really really looking forward to. I tell Shane there has to be another way. He can come home with me and we'll return in October and try again. His face goes blank.
“I'm not going back there, Mom.” We sit and stare at each other. It's quiet around the house all day. I know he's right. The person I want to return to isn't there for me either. I'm creating a reality that doesn't exist. I would want what I couldn't have. I'd be miserable. He'd be miserable.
“I have a job there, Shane.”
“You could have a job here, Mom. I only need a few months and I can be in Job Corps.” We stare at each other again. I've had my eye on the job market all winter, jobs are slim. Full time jobs even slimmer.
“I will look. If I don't have one within two weeks we have to go. The job in Ketchikan I'm suppose to be taking will need time to replace me. That wouldn't be fair to them to wait too close to the season starting and I can't risk not having a job any where.”
I call my friend Dolores in Gearhart and tell her my dilemma. She tells me her co-worker just bought a cafe right here in Rockaway and is needing a waitress. She says she'll pass my need for a job onto her. Two days later I get a phone call inviting me to the cafe to meet. I come highly recommended and that's good enough for them. When can I start?
I freak out again. Is this really happening? I'm here for seven months with nothing. The moment I'm afraid to take a job and give up what I know, a job is thrown at me. The exact job I've been wanting to do. Just like that. We talk business and I ask for one day to consider it.
At home I go over the numbers. It could work. The job in Ketchikan would still be better, much better, but can I really prioritize that over my son? The son who never asks for anything is desperate for this to work. He has job applications in all over, looking for part time employment until he can be accepted into Job Corps. I already left him once, just seven months ago. Now that he really needs me how can I leave him again? I can't.
I accept the job at the cafe. Now I have to call the wonderful lady that trusted my return to run her shop. I have to accept that I no longer have a relationship with the one I love. My son Bo will have to wait. I have no idea what will happen after this summer, but for now, we are setting our roots. A new adventure has already began.

Will Knit For Love

This sabbatical thing has worked for me. I left chaos in search of peace. I roamed, wandered, explored, and relaxed. I reconnected with my need to create. I rediscovered knitting. It excites me. I found that something that keeps me going. I knit. Daily. All day some days. It helps that it's winter and raining out. My goal is to finish a project each day. And I only knit two things; hats and fingerless gloves!
I finally get the eccentric artist thing. Evon and her knives and linoleum, Ray with his pen and fish. Not that I'm comparing my skills to their level of artistry, just their of obsession for their craft. But they at least can make a living from their product. I sit in my home, knitting an average of 8 hours a day and IF I ever sell my products, I may be able to buy a bag of dog food for the boxer pacing in front of the door. Yet, I continue to knit. It's what I do. I've seen my friends whispering amongst themselves. The kind of whispering that stops when I enter the room. I think they're planning an intervention.
I'm into stripes now. Everything I've knit before is brand new again because this time I'm doing it in stripes! Separate bright, bold stripes. Soft stripes that blend together. Colors that fade in and out of each other. Stripes! Bulky knits! Worsted knits! Smooth yarn, bumpy yarn. I slide it in and out of my fingers, in love with the warmth and coosh of the fabric I've just made. I'm giving it life. Personality. Visually appealing and kinetically satisfying.
I get half way through one project and my mind is all ready wandering on to the next piece. I can't even stay committed to my current creation. My gawd! Good thing I only knit small items. There are so many options out there! Same pattern, smaller yarn, deeper stripes, whole different outcome! New images race through my mind at a pace that makes me loose track of what I'm currently knitting. I have to rip out the last two rows because my mind was writing a different pattern.
Harley's whinning at the door. The sun is shining. I put the knitting down and grab his leash. He jumps up, spinning 360's before he lands. He acts like he hasn't been out in days. Oh, maybe he hasn't. As we walk through the neighborhoood, I look at the color combinations of the houses. I make note of those I like and those I don't. I picture a hat sitting there with a yard and carport. " Hmmm. It could work. Love the green on top of the brick." I work out a brick pattern in my head. I give it a peaked top to resemble the chimney poking out the roof. We meet up with a nice lady walking her black and white collie mix. I like the way his patches create a pattern of contrast. I make another note to self. On the beach, the winter surf is rolling in new logs. The sand is littered with them. All variations of blacks, browns and beiges, some green from the newly departed trees, ripped from the shore's tree line, roots exposed, being devoured by the ocean. Layers of the beach, all before me, become the landscape for a hat.
I snap myself out of it. I've only been unemployed for five months but I fear I'll never be happy as a clock puncher again. How can I survive making hats?! I should put an ad in the personals: "Will knit for Love." Sounds pathetic. I just need to figure this out. How do you do what you love and love what you do and make the money follow? That's a lot of hats. Some people measure frivolous spending with lattes. I measure mine with hat sales. "Nice jacket! It only costs four hats!"
Time to get back to work. I pick up my number nines and look over my yarns. A swarm of reds, oranges, yellows, greens, blues, blacks, and browns flow through my brain like blood in my veins. I cast on 96 stitches and watch as the pattern emerges from my fingers. Another days work.

Wine Country

Seven days on the road, beginning and ending with the magnificent Oregon coastline. In between are the modest towns, some just settlements, existing off the traffic of highway 101 and logging, fishing, and farming. They are a hard working people who love their land. Their wealth is not measured by their possessions, but rather their pride in their chosen industry.

The winding road leads you deep into impressive redwood forest of California. The towering height and massive trunks of these giant sequoia sempervirens darken the earth below, allowing for mystical glimpses of big foots and gnomes. As quickly as you are swallowed into this fairytale land, it abruptly spits you out onto the golden rolling hills of wine country. Patches of green emerge slowly at first, increasing as you climb and fall over the hills, until you are completely saturated with vineyards, in the land of wine.

My friend Andi and I spend the next four days wandering the backroads of Russian River Valley; River Road, Dry Creek, and Bohemian Highway, discovering a new tasting opportunity around every turn. Names like C. Donatiello, Lambert Bridge, Arista, Porter Creek, Bella, and Zichichi jump out with their luring welcome signs.

Each winery is strikingly different in their landscape expression. Beautiful Japanese gardens, richly dense with manicured flower beds, herb gardens, artistic water pools and falls, olive trees, lemon trees, lime trees, rose bushes. Modern architecture, ancient design. Some grandiose, some simple. All breath taking.

It’s October. The warm air is pleasantly sweet. Leaves are rich with oranges, golds, and reds. The grapevines are exploding with fruit. Farmers are cutting free their precious harvest, preparing for the crush. The wineries are alive with activity and expectation.

By the end of the week, our vocabulary has been transformed to include descriptions of rich, savory, and sweet into our daily activities. We are quickly spoiled as we learn our personal preferences. Andi will exclaim, “It’s too much work,” and empty her glass into the dumping bucket if a sample does not agree with her delicate palate. Appreciation for a good Charles Shaw is a thing of the past.

Our evenings are spent down on the Russian River in the quaint town of Duncans Mills. Sitting around the campfire, sipping a Korbel sherry, we reminisce over the day’s tours. Night brings chilly temperatures and coyotes signing at the bright moon. Harley burrows in the safety and warmth of his sleeping bag.

We’ve only covered one wine region in Sonoma County, but I’ve decided to save the others for another trip. I am ready to head back to Oregon with a storm brewing on my tail wind. I met wonderful people, made new friends, expanded my knowledge of wine and boon-docking.

I travel back the way I came, wanting to become more familiar with the transformation of this land. Wild turkeys and a herd of elk make themselves comfortable in a farmer’s front yard along side Hwy 101. I know this 600 mile drive will be a route I frequent with the seasons, seeing something different every time, and worth every minute behind the wheel of my treasured Westfalia camper van.

Fresh Goodness

I was born in Portland, Oregon. When we lived in Salem, we had acres of corn growing behind our home. Our landlords let us pick as much as we could eat if we kept our eye on the crop.

Our neighbors, the Zelinski’s, had a large apple orchard where they hired pickers and boxed up their fruit right there. We consumed apples in every way; juice, sauce, pie, fresh picked.

Ms. Fernandez, who I really liked, had the most beautiful flower garden. When I was five, I picked all her spring blossoms on May Day and left them on her porch. I rang her door bell and ran away, just like your suppose to. Mom said it made her cry. But when she learned it was done out of love, she laughed. I think we both learned something that day.

Mrs. Utterback grew rhubarb. Her teenage son told me if I ate a stick a day, I’d learn to whistle. Only then could I play hide and seek with the big kids in the forest of corn. After about a week, I learned something then too.

My mom had a garden that she spent hours in. Everyday, she would rake, or pluck, or water, or fertilize, or pick. She could whistle and she’d whistle and hum to her garden. And it grew for her.

Every one grew something.

Then we moved to Southeast Alaska when I was six. Our basement wasn’t finished yet so we didn’t live downstairs. But it did have a huge picture window. My mom lined up as many pots and buckets on the plywood flooring as she could. She tried to recreate the garden she had to leave behind. Tomatoes, cucumbers, and zucchini grew like a jungle in that big lower window. But the harvest was minimal. The short summer season didn’t bring enough sun and heat to produce fruit. She fought with it for years; adding grow lights, trying different fertilizers, pollenating with her finger, but she could never reap what she once had in Oregon. She was in Alaska now.

Mom tried replacing her desire to grow things with the desire to catch things. She filled our freezer with salmon and halibut. Dad hunted deer and moose. It seemed to suffice but never replaced the longing for fresh from the earth vegetables and fruit that you nurtured from seed.

Now I understand that void in her life. A newbie to gardening, I first seek the shelves for herbs. Then I remember, “Wait, I have fresh rosemary right outside!” It’s a whole new way of thinking. You don’t buy apples and peaches at Safeway, you get them street side, at the plywood shelter, freshly picked, a whole basket for a dollar! And, you meet those who grew them. Onions and corn too! Cucumbers and zucchini! Berries and nectarines! Your dollars aren’t supporting a corporation, but a family. It tastes good and feels good all at once.

Even dairy is fresh. I recently bought a quart of milk with an expiration date six weeks away. That is unheard of in the far away country Alaska.

I can’t get used to the freshness of Oregon. Fresh fruits, fresh veggies, fresh dairies, lots of cattle if you’re into that. Chickens and eggs too. It’s all right here. That may seem a “duh” to many of you who don’t know any different. But, we from Alaska, know to appreciate these treats. Yes, we have fresh wild salmon, halibut, shrimp, crab, and more. But we don’t have garden fresh fruits and vegetables or sun light to keep us healthy. I’ve sure missed this. I am soaking it up like a bullhead at minus tide.