Who Keeps Us Safe? (sometimes we never know)

On By Mary KochIn Uncategorized1 Comment

Savoring my morning coffee, scrolling through email, I suddenly became aware of a red rope slowly snaking downward outside my thirteenth floor window. What the …!? No way of telling where it came from or where it was going. Before long it was joined by a blue rope, the two of them swaying in the breeze, a sinuous tango, occasionally touching, then parting.

Mystified, I went about my morning ablutions. When I emerged from my bathroom, I discovered a man in a boatswain’s chair outside my window, expertly clearing away soap with his squeegee. I’ve long admired the efficiency of professional window washers. With just a few graceful swoops, they make the world brighter and more clear than it was. Still, I prefer to watch them work when they have both feet planted on the ground, or on a low ladder. Because of my own exaggerated fear of heights, I don’t like to see anyone in precariously high locations.

The window washer, noticing me, smiled and waved. I placed my hands over my heart to signal both apprehension and appreciation. He put his hands together and gave a bow. Then, as he began to lower himself to the twelfth floor, he pantomimed falling, first with a startled expression that gave way to a big grin. Obviously an act he’s perfected over the years.

I can’t shake from my mind how relaxed, at ease he was, trusting his life to just two ropes. No doubt he regularly scrutinizes them with an eagle eye. Still, it’s a leap of faith, not only in his equipment, but faith in whoever ran the machine that braided those ropes in the first place. He’s vitally connected with someone he’ll likely never meet.

Window cleaning isn’t on the list of the hundred most dangerous occupations, compiled by the National Institute for Occupational Safety and Health. OSHA reports eighty-eight window cleaning accidents over a fifteen-year period, sixty-two of them fatal. That’s out of millions and millions of windows washed. Squeegee Squad, a commercial window cleaning firm, claims that “statistically speaking, it’s safer to be a high rise window cleaner than it is to drive a cab.”

Or, safer than driving on rural two-lane highways, which is where I’ve driven most of my life. A federal safety initiative reports that more than twelve thousand deaths occur each year on rural roadways because drivers cross the center line or run off the road. That’s about a third of all annual highway fatalities, even though the interstates and city roads handle way more vehicles.

I used to think about that in my frequent travels along SR97, the north-south highway that bisects Washington state. I’d watch vehicles hurtling toward me at sixty mph (usually more) and think, I’ll never meet that driver, but my life depends entirely on their sobriety and attention. I’d silently message them: be aware, be safe. Then there were the occasional heart-in-throat moments when drivers passed recklessly, forcing others to brake and pull onto the shoulder. My messages were less silent and not kind.

“We are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny,” wrote Martin Luther King Jr. in his remarkable Letter from Birmingham Jail. “What affects one directly, affects all indirectly.”

We think we’re such independent individuals. But whether we’re washing windows on the thirteenth floor or driving along a two-lane highway or just reading words on a screen, we’re all as closely connected as one heart beat, one breath.

When It’s Time to Take Flight

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Inquiring minds have been asking: with dozens of retirement communities to choose from, how did I select Horizon House on Seattle’s First Hill? Simple. When I moved here two months ago, I was following Raven, who’s a significant totem in Northwest native stories. A stunning yet obstreperous bird, Raven has magical power — both good and bad. In my case, all good.

I refer to Raven as represented in a magnificent mask created by British Columbia native carver Garry Rice. I first saw the mask when it hung in the oceanside home of my longtime friend Jill. Despite the hypnotizing view of the vast Pacific, it was the raven mask that dominated her living room. Extending five feet from thatched topknot to forceful beak, its eyes declare “you are being watched.” The beak agape suggests an oracle about to speak.

The late writer and clairvoyant Ted Andrews, in his book “Animal-Speak,” said Raven was credited with bringing forth life and order by stealing the sunlight “from one who would keep the world in darkness.” 

Winter is an ideal season for people whose totem is Raven, Andrews wrote. After Winter Solstice, the light lingers a little longer each day — symbolic of Raven’s influence: “It teaches how to go into the dark and bring forth the light. With each trip in, we develop the ability to bring more light out.” Raven’s black feathers are especially significant, Andrews suggested: “In blackness, everything mingles until drawn forth, out into the light. Because of this, raven can help you shape-shift your life or your being.”

Apropos for carver Rice, who was originally a fisherman and logger. Injuries forced a career-change at midlife, and he became a respected and renowned creator of indigenous art. Last year it was time for me, too, to shape-shift my life and being.

A few years ago Jill had left the ocean and moved to a retirement community. Her new apartment was too small for the mask, but that establishment declined her offer to hang it for public viewing. She decided to donate it to Horizon House, which boasts a stunning, curated collection of art throughout all public areas. Much of it has been donated by residents who faced the same pickle as Jill. She mentioned the donation to me at the time. I’d never heard of Horizon House, but the seed was planted. Some day, I thought, I might want to live there. 

When that some day dawned last year, I knew I might be inclined to make a hasty or emotional decision. I invited my niece — a wise and successful businesswoman — to tour Horizon House with me. While I repeatedly veered off-course to study yet another sculpture or painting, Sandy stayed on-point, asking significant questions I’d never thought of. Ultimately we reached the corridor where Raven once again is a dominating force. Exquisite lighting allows the mask’s reflection to appear on interior windows across the hall. A few steps away from Raven, our tour guide opened the door to the serene aqua of a salt-water swimming pool. 

Art! Raven! Salt-water pool! Where do I sign?

Twice since I moved into my thirteenth story apartment, a crow has landed on the air conditioner ledge outside my window. Crows and ravens are cousins in the Corvidae family. On both those visits, the crow peered through the window just long enough to observe, “Okay. You seem to be settling in,” before flying off. 

***

NOTE: For those who may want more, uhm, straightforward information about choosing a retirement community, I recommend (for Washington residents) this information page on the Washington Continuing Care Residents Association site or outside Washington, the National Continuing Care Residents Association.

We Don’t Know What’s Ahead (thank God)

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Surely one of the greatest gifts Creator bestowed on humanity is our short-sightedness. We can celebrate New Year’s Eve with abandon because we have no idea what’s just around the corner. 

I’m thinking back to Dec. 31, 2022, when I quietly observed the passing of the year in my cozy home on the river. If I’d foreseen that 2023 would include the deaths of three of my dearest friends and that by the next New Year’s Eve I’d be living on the thirteenth floor of a Seattle high-rise — I believe I’d have gone to bed, pulled the covers over my head, and never come out again. 

When I do know of coming events, they tend to loom rather than promise. I’m pessimistic when I needn’t be. Example: plans for my massive, three-day moving sale filled me with dread. It turned out to be one of the best, most fun parties I’ve ever hosted.

I look back on this year of tumult — globally and in my personal life — with both mourning and gratitude. I mourn the loss of life and separation from friends. I’m grateful for the love that has supported and sustained me, and the Divine Love that persists in sustaining us all.

Overview of Omak, WA, a slice of the Okanogan Valley and Tiffany Mountains in the distance

In November, I expressed my gratitude in a letter meant for publication in the newspaper that my husband and I long ago owned. For unknown reasons, my words never made it into print. I’ve been assured the letter will be published in the next edition. Just in case, though, and because not everyone subscribes to that (or sad to say, any) newspaper, I decided to share it here. It’s a love letter, a fond farewell to an exquisite valley that stretches across an international boundary, a valley bordered by vital shrubsteppes that climb to forested mountains, a valley thinly populated with generous, kindly people:

“When I recently moved from the Okanogan Valley to Seattle, I left behind something important: a large part of my heart. For more than forty-four years I have been nurtured and inspired by the beauty of the Okanogan landscape and the vibrancy of her people. 

“It is a joy and honor to be part of a community that is so committed and supportive. This was especially true during the fourteen years after a devastating stroke paralyzed my late husband, former Chronicle publisher John E. Andrist. That same level of care and support prevailed as I prepared to move. Friends, family and neighbors generously stepped up to help with the many challenges. 

“I’d love to name names, but I fear leaving someone out. I especially thank members of various groups: Okanogan Valley Orchestra and Chorus (OVOC), St. Anne’s Episcopal Church, the NonViolent Communication practice group (LOLO – Language Of Life in the Okanogan), and a particular circle of women who joyfully share their creativity and love of beauty. 

“The part of my heart that I’ve managed to hang onto is deeply grateful.”

As we move into a new year, many prognosticators are planting seeds of fear and foreboding. I would remind us of Casey Stengel’s wisdom: “Never make predictions, especially about the future.” Blissfully ignorant, may we lurch onward.

Be It Ever So Humble

On By Mary KochIn Uncategorized4 Comments

“Money must be a consideration,” said the drop-in visitor as she glanced around my 340-square-foot studio apartment. I was just moving into our downtown Seattle retirement community of 378 apartments (another 152 to come in five or six years). Mine is one of the smallest, least expensive. She was right. Money was a consideration, but probably not in the way she was thinking.

For years I’ve used a coin purse featuring a cartoon character pulling green dollars out of her billfold. My coin purse is so well worn that the caption is becoming unreadable, but still memorable: “Mo’ Money, Mo’ Problems.” 

Snug, liveable, and more than adequate

Those “mo’ problems” were a factor but not the driving motivation for giving up the home and community I loved to move here. I want to reduce my footprint on our Mother Earth as I age. I want to use fewer resources, live in community, take up less space, and spend less money to maintain house, car, etc. Not yet two months into this venture, I occasionally feel unsettled, mourning what I’ve given up, suppressing envy over larger apartments. So I go for a walk. 

From the west wing, I walk across Freeway Park, where I see two camping tents. There are no signs of life but I’m certain the tents are occupied. I walk past a man who is seated, holding a crutch, staring at nothing. He’ll still be there hours later when I return.

I enter the glass-encased Convention Center, take escalators down four floors, and I’m in the heart of downtown. Heading to Pike Place Market I notice a mummy-style sleeping bag stretched out on the sidewalk in an alcove. It appears to have a body in it. I pray that it’s a live body, though I wonder if life itself is any kind of blessing for this mummified soul. 

That same day the Seattle Times reported that both nationally and in Washington state, homelessness is “growing at a rate never seen before.” The official national count is a 12 percent increase over 2022, and in this state 11 percent. That’s based on the annual Point-In-Time Count. I helped with that count as a volunteer at the Okanogan homeless shelter. We simply recorded the number of folks sheltering on the appointed evening. Shelter populations can vary wildly depending on weather, time of month, and other factors. Nevertheless, we know that on a given night there were at least 28,000 people in Washington who had no place to be. That’s higher than the populations of Mercer Island or Moses Lake.

But those are only numbers that don’t really tell the stories — except for some stunning numbers offered the next day, again in the Times, by columnist Danny Westneat. There’s a building boom downtown. Some 7,200 living units (aka apartments) are under construction. Help for people with no homes? Not so much.

“This boomlet isn’t visible at street level,” Westneat writes. “It’s in the sky.” Once again Seattle has more construction cranes dotting the skyline — forty-five of ’em — than any other U.S. city. The columnist warns that high-rise apartments are likely to turn downtown into a “gated community … only vertical.”  He cites the example of a penthouse atop the 58-story Rainier Tower, renting for $19,999 per MONTH. 

I can’t imagine what it would feel like to drive my luxury car from the garage below my $20K-a-month apartment and spot a homeless person, wrapped in a sleeping bag in the sidewalk. It’s hard enough for me, having just left my snug studio, to walk on by, even with a prayer in my heart.

Carried away by the spirit of the season, I bought more than I intended at the Market. The walk back, with awkward packages, was a slog. Arriving home, I was more grateful than ever for a home to arrive to. Gratitude guarantees contentment. 

I’m not so naive to believe that moving into a tiny apartment or giving up my car is going to solve climate issues or homelessness or myriad other problems. But isn’t that a basic message of Christmas? Just another baby born in an insignificant town, and everything changed. It’s clear — to me, anyway — that if enough of us care a little more, live with a little less, we too can make a significant difference. That’s my prayer for 2024.

Uneasily At Ease

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A question frequently asked by we who are s-aging is: “How (*insert) did I get here?”

(*Insert whatever exclamatory phrase you prefer, e.g., “How in the world …” or, “How on earth …” or, “How the hell,” etc.)

The “here,” when that question floated into my head, was the lobby of the retirement community that I’d moved into a few weeks earlier. The lobby is nicely furnished, not ornate but more like a mid-priced boutique hotel. On that particular day, the start of the holiday season, it was buzzing with activity and people. The automatic glass doors would barely whoosh shut before they’d glide open again, admitting a constant flow of family delegations coming either to visit or whisk away “Granny,” or “Gramps,” or in my case, “Auntie.”

It’s a significant part of family celebrations — thoughtful inclusion of the oldest generation. Often it requires extra effort, like going out of one’s way to provide transportation, figuring out how to cram a walker or wheelchair into the car trunk, altering the dinner menu in consideration of special diets, arranging chairs and tables just so. I’d done it all many times and loved doing it. 

“What we have once enjoyed we can never lose,” suggests Helen Keller. “All that we love deeply becomes a part of us.”

I believe she was talking about nostalgia, which was striking a resounding chord as I sat waiting in the lobby, feeling out of place. How (*) did I get there? I would no longer be providing for the senior generation. I’m now part of it. My niece and grand-niece would be picking me up, their car loaded with desserts and salads that I had no part in preparing. Arriving at the celebration, I would eye the kitchen filled with busy folks, leave them to it and sit, casually conversing with other elders. Uneasily at ease.

If “My Generation” is uneasy with old age, we have only ourselves to blame. We’ve been in denial since the turbulent ‘60s, when The Who released their signature song. Peter Townshend, who penned the line, “Hope I die before I get old,” is now 78. Roger Daltrey, who — as one critic wrote, “sneeringly” sang it — is 79. 

“Don’t trust anyone over 30.” Jack Weinberg, whose comment went viral before there was such a thing as viral, is now 83. Weinberg has devoted his life to social and environmental activism. In an interview he observed, “I’ve done some things in my life I think are very important, and my one sentence in history turns out to be something I said off the top of my head which became completely distorted and misunderstood. But I’ve become more accepting of fate as I get older.”

The wisdom of age: to more become accepting. Even to welcome, as in the classic Welcoming Prayer, written by contemplative Mary Mrozowski: “I welcome everything that comes to me in this moment because I know it is for my healing.”

Thus I welcomed the opportunity at the end of Thanksgiving dinner to roll up my sleeves and sink my hands into hot, soapy dishwater — no longer feeling out of place, because when it’s time to clean up, there’s ample room in the kitchen for helpers of all ages.

FINDING HOME: Wherever It Is

On By Mary KochIn Uncategorized5 Comments

The stretch of Interstate 5 between Seattle and Tacoma is long familiar to me. The man-made landmarks have changed over the decades I’ve driven this route. But the Creator-made landmark, the mountain that we inappropriately call Rainier,* is constant, standing vigil over this vast and turbulent Puget Sound territory.

“You’re home,” The Mountain said to me as I drove a steady 60 mph (being steadily passed by fretful Puget Sounders). “I’m home,” I murmured, startled. Instantly the next thought landed: “Did I just dream the past forty-four years of my life?” Did I out-Ripple Van Winkle? Was I picked up by some tornado and set down in a land of Oz, aka the Okanogan Valley? Did I just spend more than half my life in a place that doesn’t really exist? For surely, the Okanogan — its land and its people — are too good to be true.

The state of Washington is really two states. Of mind. Some people call the massive north-south mountain range that divides the state the “Cascade Curtain,” recalling the infamous Red Curtain of the Cold War. Western Washington is perceived as urban, densely populated, gridlocked and expensive. East is rural, agricultural, with wide-open spaces that are getting expensive. West is the “wet” side, East dry.

In my thirties, during a stint as Washington state editor for the Associated Press, I learned to love the state’s diversity of people, landscape, culture, and ecology. It felt — and still feels — like this rich state has something for everyone.

Still, I was content on the west side until, at age thirty-five, I got swept eastward by a tornado named John E. Andrist and dropped into the Okanogan. It’s a land shaped by glaciers and a people shaped by the land. Rugged. Solid. Nurturing. Bountiful. Beautiful. The next fourteen years I lived my dream, sharing the fun and frustration of publishing the best doggone weekly community newspaper we could. The dream was rudely interrupted by John’s stroke and another fourteen years devoted to the frustration and fulfillment of caregiving.

If I’d follow the every-fourteen-year pattern, I would’ve moved two years ago. I couldn’t pull myself from my cozy home by the Okanogan River. I couldn’t pull away from the land nor — most of all — from the people who are so deeply rooted in that land. 

Somehow, a few weeks ago, I yanked myself away. Now I’m sitting in a thirteenth floor apartment on Seattle’s First Hill, gazing at the city skyline and mostly at the sky. I’m no longer soaking up the river’s flowing energy, but I’m energized by the equally constant flow of clouds, birds, planes. Every once in a while my gaze is distracted by the stream of tiny vehicles and pedestrians below.

My computer isn’t convinced that this is our new reality. No matter how many times I update the settings, it insists on alerting me to weather in the Okanogan. Please, all of you who are technologically more adept than I, do NOT by any means send instructions on how to “correct” the computer. There’s that saying: home is where the heart is. The reverse is also true: my heart is where my home is. The computer reminds me that my heart still beats to the rhythm of the Okanogan, and it always will.

*Indigenous people had perfectly lovely names for Washington state’s signature mountain before the Europeans arrived. One was pronounced something like “Taquoma” and meant “mother of all waters.” The name “Rainier” stuck after Captain George Vancouver named it for his buddy, an admiral in the British Navy who never saw the  mountain and fought against Americans in the Revolutionary War. Efforts to rename the mountain haven’t gained much traction, but the name change of Alaska’s Mount McKinley to Mount Denali in 2015 may signal a change of attitudes.

Letting Go

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One reason for moving from my house to a studio apartment is to simplify life: live with less. But living on the light side is counter-cultural if not downright unpatriotic. After all, the “Consumer Confidence Index” — meaning our willingness to buy — is vital to the nation’s economic well-being. We Americans cooperate. We’re apparently more eager to buy than to vote.

The late comedian George Carlin, in a now-classic standup routine, summarized Americans’ obsession with acquisition in one word: “stuff.” The “whole meaning of life,” Carlin claims in oft-viewed videos, is “finding a place for your stuff.” That may be true until you reach a certain age. Then the meaning of life revolves around letting go of your stuff.

It’s painful, but it can be profitable. If you hold a yard or garage sale, you’re part of a grassroots market that puts an estimated $1.5 to $2 billion into American pockets annually. That’s a guesstimate by encyclopedia.com. The 6.5 to 9 million garage/yard sales held throughout the year are largely unofficial, unreported — and untaxed.

You can always let stuff go without letting go, but it’ll cost. Some ten percent of Americans pay an average upwards of $100 monthly to hang on to whatever. The booming storage rental industry makes $38 billion a year, including $65 million from auctioning off contents of units when renters forget to pay the rent, run out of money, no longer care, die, or whatever. 

If you try to salve your letting-go wounds by recycling, sorry, but it may not be all that effective. A  recent study, “America’s Broken Recycling System,” concludes that less than a third of the items left at recycling centers actually do get recycled or composted. Nonetheless, the recycling and/or landfill industry ballooned from $82 billion in 2021 to $91 billion last year. (Those figures are national and do not reflect the efficiency of local recycling efforts.)

I opted for a three-day moving sale, held on a sunny weekend, made entirely possible by volunteer workers from the Okanogan Valley Orchestra and Chorus, which got half the proceeds. Thanks to them, it was a heap of fun. In a rural community where everybody knows everybody, shoppers learned even more about me — A to Z — from my taste in Art to Zippered storage bags. I celebrated with grinning shoppers who strolled out with a new-to-them treasure that I had long treasured. “What a steal,” they were thinking. “For both of us,” I was thinking.

Alternative D — donating — satisfies the soul, especially if it’s really good stuff. I dreaded the thought of selling my car online, so I donated it to public radio. They’ll pick up your car at your door and give you a tax write-off.

I like to believe that I have winnowed my possessions so I no longer have mere “stuff,” but a higher class of items: “things.” It required only a pickup truck pulling a twelve-foot trailer to haul my “things” to my new apartment in Seattle. Carefully labeled boxes are stacked in a corner, leaving just enough space for bed and chairs. Uh, but I sold those.

Right. Gotta go shopping.

Moving day: All it takes is a rental trailer and ace truck driver, my niece Sandy

Heart Medicine

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Six p.m. Time to feed the dog. Except that the dog’s absence is the loudest presence in my silent house. Giving up my canine companion is one of the sadder parts of moving from my small-town, riverside house to a thirteenth floor studio apartment in downtown Seattle.

Tawny arrived at my front door in the arms of a friend eight years ago. She’d found him abandoned in the park across the river from my home. I named him for his tawny color, a mix of gold and amber. He’s also a mix of whatever breeds you want to assign him. 

I should’ve named him Coyote after the mythical coyote trickster of Native American lore. Tawny would play his little tricks, like tearing around the house with an illicitly acquired shoe in his mouth. At my command he’d drop the shoe, perk up his big ears, and give me a wide-mouthed grin as if to say, “Wasn’t that fun?!” The dog trainer said he had an “attitude,” but that’s a lousy name for a dog.

I’d always thought I’d stay in this house at least through the end of Tawny’s life — surely another five years, or more. Recently, it became increasingly clear that the time to move was now. I made the decision sooner and more quickly than I ever imagined. With that decision came the certainty (the hope?) that there would be a good new home for Tawny.

As weeks went by, my certainty wavered. Friends repeatedly sighed,  “We’d love to take him, but …” My ear-worm kept repeating that beautiful Bernstein/Sondheim song from “West Side Story:” Someday, somewhere … there’s a place for us. 

Somehow, somewhere, there’d be a place for Tawny. I envisioned plenty of space for him to run around — within a sturdy fence.

The call came shortly before the Feast of St. Francis of Assisi. It’s Francis’ sculpture you see in gardens, most often with a bird perched on his shoulder. He wrote the poem celebrating “all creatures of our God and King.” Many Christian churches celebrate St. Francis’ feast day by inviting people to bring their pets to church for a blessing. On the Feast of St. Francis, Tawny was invited not to church but to a new home, inhabited by a dog-adoring human and surrounded by two beautiful acres of fenced green grass. 

Tawny’s new human partner recently lost her longtime canine companion, leaving her with a hole in her heart — a hole that Tawny is snuggling into. He can’t fill that hole — nothing could — but he can make it feel less huge. 

Adopting out a healthy dog is not as heart-breaking as making the end-of-life decision for a cherished animal who’s in pain. Still, I’m bereft because Tawny is the last in a long line of faithful dogs — and occasional cats — who have enriched my life, grounded, entertained, and inspired me. Each, in their departure, left a hole in my heart. And each made my heart a little fuller, a little stronger.

Sure Signs

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Just as the bull moose disappeared into the early evening shadows, my neighbor commented, “You’re not gonna be seeing this in Seattle.” 

A few minutes earlier, he’d phoned me and asked, “You lookin’ out your window?” I hadn’t been.

“There’s a moose walking down the middle of the river in your direction.”

This was a first. I’ve lived along the Okanogan River — a humble little tributary to the great Columbia — for forty years. I’ve seen an extraordinary variety of wildlife: eagles, osprey, all sorts of ducks, raucous Canada geese, beaver, river otters, great blue heron, fish jumping, sun-bathing humans on floating inflatables, and one time (I’m not making this up) a pelican. But never a moose.

I almost didn’t see this one. Despite my neighbor’s phone alert, I didn’t immediately spot the moose as he waded past my house. He was camouflaged in the reflection of trees that grow on the opposite river bank. Then, a few yards downriver, he suddenly came into view, backlighted by the last glimmer of twilight. If my neighbor hadn’t called, I would’ve thought it a mirage. 

Moose are, after all, larger than life. They can weigh up to sixteen hundred pounds and measure six feet from hoof to shoulder. At this time of year the Okanogan River is so shallow, this fellow had no trouble keeping his massive head and horns above water.

“I wonder where he’ll get out,” I said to my neighbor.

“Anywhere he wants,” was the reply.

Those fleeting moments — staring at a moose on his evening promenade — felt like a final gift from a river that has nurtured and inspired me through the years. At the end of the month I’ll move to the thirteenth floor of a high-rise in downtown Seattle with a view of city skyline. I don’t mean to be totally self-absorbed, as if the moose’s appearance were some kind of sign meant just for me. Still, I asked a Native American friend what it might’ve meant. His response was both practical and mystical. He said it’s time for the moose to migrate in order to thrive now and in the future. Conditions are always changing, and moose know when the time is right. Yes, it was a sign.

Signs have been coming my way for quite a while. At first they’re just little nudges, fleeting thoughts, offhand comments that somehow resonate. At some point, you begin to pay attention. You wonder where this is leading. Finally the signs become billboards in flashing neon. The direction is clear: time to follow a different path.

After the decision comes the checklist: 

  • Inform and try to explain the decision to family and friends (not to mention myself). Check.
  • Hold a gigantic moving sale that, with a lot of help from friends, was bigger and as much fun as any party I’ve ever hosted. Check.
  • “Stage” the house to make it look livable but not personal — like a hotel lobby. Check.
  • List the house for sale with all the necessary marketing tools, signs, photos, internet videos. Check.
  • Accept an offer on the house within an unbelievable twenty-four hours. Check.

Again, it’s evening. As I write,  I watch the rosy glow of sunset reflected on the river. No moose tonight but the ducks are staging an aerial show that never fails to take my breath away. Flying in perfect formation like Air Force Blue Angels, they land as a squadron with a singular splash.

Not long from now, when the river freezes over, the ducks will head to open water on the Columbia. Earlier today I heard the sandhill cranes overhead on their way south. 

The signs are always clear when it’s time to move on.

Just Like That

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“Just like that, here we are,” said the son of the deceased.

We were standing in a parking lot, reminiscing about events stretching back fifty or more years. The memorial celebration was over, chairs and tables stored away, guests and caterer departed. No reason to hang around and every reason not to go.

The deceased, Lee, with his wife Lou, had been a significant part of my life for more than five decades. Their son’s observation, “just like that,” named the dismay I’d been feeling but hadn’t been able to put in words. A life completed. For me, three lives completed. And with those three lives, an era was finished. Like a snap of the fingers. 

I met Lee when his wife Lou, who I barely knew at the time, arranged a blind date for us. We were living on Vashon Island, in Puget Sound. When Lou learned that I commuted to Tacoma every Wednesday evening for choir rehearsal, she declared, “You can carpool with my husband.” Lee was attending evening classes at Tacoma Community College. Carpooling would lower our ferry costs. It also meant having supper together at a little restaurant near the ferry dock. 

The restaurant was renowned for its clam chowder, which Lee and I both ordered. When the bowls were placed before us, Lee reached for the condiment tray and, with unbridled gusto, poured tabasco sauce into the creamy white chowder. When I gasped, he looked at me quizzically. 

“T-t-t-basco in CLAM CHOWDER?!” I remarked. (Ah, but I neglected to mention. Lee and Lou were immigrants to the Northwest. Their native country was Texas.) Lee shrugged and gave me a pitying look. He’d often feel called to do so through the coming decades of friendship. These days people use the dismissive, “Get a life.” Lee was too kind for that. He’d silently resort to a disbelieving shake of his head. Either I didn’t get it, or he didn’t get me.

As years flew by, Lou, Lee and I grew close. Their four kids honored me with the sobriquet “Aunt Mary.” Lee and I would never see eye-to-eye on issues that weren’t worth discussing anyway, like religion and politics. That freed us to focus on what did matter: the Three B’s — Blues and Bluegrass music and Barbecue.

Then, when some real spice showed up in my life — namely a newspaper editor from a rural, eastern Washington town — I wondered how the newcomer would fit in. I needn’t have. John wore cowboy boots when the occasion warranted, and he owned a respectable collection of firearms. That was all the character reference Lee required. 

LEE’S CORVETTE: A Roaring Farewell

Though we lived miles apart over the years, we four managed to rendezvous pretty much wherever Lee’s work took them — as far one time as Pusan, Korea. Always there was good music and something spicy. I learned to love Korean kimchee but couldn’t quite embrace the deep-fried dill pickles of Biloxi, Miss. And there was the day Lee paid John the ultimate compliment:  letting him drive Lee’s cherished, classic Corvette on the wide-open roads of Texas.

When John died in 2007, Lee and Lou came to offer comfort. When Lou died three years ago, I was at her bedside. At the end of July I drove to Portland to be with Lee as he lay dying. We did something we’d never done through all those years. We held hands. 

I returned to Portland for Lee’s memorial Sept. 9. The Corvette was parked front and center for the occasion. His daughter started it up and gunned the engine in a roaring farewell. 

I feel like the survivor in one of those fabled agreements, where the last person alive gets the dust-covered bottle of fine wine. Only for me, it’s a bottle of tabasco, which I’ll be sprinkling on my clam chowder.