March madness, various dates, 2006-2009

I finished up a round of painting in the back house today. Filled up the third to last day of my vacation in a very handy and dandy kind of way. It's always nice to lay down paint. I love the way it looks, the way that it tells you the moment you walk into the room that some form of "newness" is going on around there.

Newness, indeed. That house is stripped down to a few basic pieces of furniture that I haven't had the heart to move. I think of moving and know that that is my least favorite thing to do right now but I did it very well this last month and know that I could do it again if I had to. But what's funny is trying to understand why I have such a hard time moving forward, or moving along, or moving to the next square whenever I think of you. It's not as if time has stood still or that we are still stuggling for answers. Those answers were spelled out all so long ago. It's just..well, it's just..something that speaks to the humanities major in me. That talks to me from deep in my chest, heck, all the way up from my gonads. That voice that I hear is not something supernatural or psychotic, it's just the voice of the ages, the one that speaks for the heart, the one that fuels poets and mystics and writers of great literature.

That voice is the one that says hold on. That says stand fast. That says honor that conviction, those utterances, that heartbeat. For whatever it's worth.

Four years. Four seasons of late winter, first bloom of spring. Four times around the sun and still you manage to color my world. I see the first blooms on the cherry trees, the breaking of the soil and the eruption of color that the crocuses and daffodils bring and they immediately make me think of you, of rejoicing, of the satisfaction that no matter what anyone said I am still here, working and living and breathing. And thinking of you.

Life marches on, as it should in March. Family has come and gone. Spring breaks have either been worth the bother or have broken the spirit. I have seen a parent leave this earth, have seen my children grow before my eyes, have seen you peek at a homemade book I made for you out of the trunk of your car. I have witnessed us grieve at the thought of new schedules, have kissed you in the rolls of rugs at IKEA, have sat through many, many moments where I wondered if I would ever see you again and then there you go, car whizzing down the road, break lights lit because you managed to see out your rear view mirror.

I know that to march is to move unless you are marching in place. I have moved forward in so many other ways but I have to wonder if what I see in myself is stubborness or some sort of desire to just wait. I don't care too much for waiting, that much I know. I know that when it comes to buses I walk to the next stop, look over my shoulder, check my watch and know that there isn't any percentage in standing around. Might as well walk a bit more.

That's how I felt today when I finished up that first part of my paint job. I can't sit in my house and wonder if I'll see you pass on the street, but I can get my house ready for a new adventure, somewhat like when you were here helping me choose a paint color for the living room. I know that you are out there somewhere in the world, blossoming like those cherry trees, finding new adventures, so I am on to new adventures, too. I am happy right now filling my world with people and meaningful work. I am loving life just knowing that spring is here again and in the not too distant future my car will be on the road once more and so my adventures with my children will start anew.

I have thought about you daily, and in the thinking know that something akin to great literature is happening here. I don't know what it is but it colors my world, somewhat like those buds that rise from the earth these days. You did and still do color my world, Professora. That in itself is a form of marking time, of moving forward, of marching along to the beat of a very decent and wonderous drummer.

I hear that beat and know that it's my heart. It beats for me, for life and for you.

Love, your WHMB

The little things, Little House excavation, 3/09

So, the moving job is done. The cottage is emptied and so with the shifting of that box comes the end of that life that was lived over there. And while they weren't overt, the house was still loaded with clues, my dear, clues of another life lived, if only someone bothered to look hard at finding a secretive life buried away in the remains.

It was something else, though, that moving job. All too much stuff. It wasn't quite what I had expected to do with those things, you know? I shopped and hoarded and saved things back there because, as the months went by I firmly believed that somehow you would jump ship over there and come away with me. I was "setting up house". Silly me. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I would be melding those things from the little house with all the stuff left behind in the big house. Artwork, sure. Books and music, certainly. But all of it? All those little things it takes to run a house? Furniture, crockery, glassware, mirrors, clocks and pots and pans? I know that I am man who likes to accumulate things but enough is enough. A garage sale can't come too soon in my life.

But aside from spatulas and bath towels and beer glasses I still managed to find small reminders of you tucked away here and there. Not in a big way, mind you, as I managed to clear out most things related to you ages ago. Filled that satchel upstairs next to my bed to the brim. But still, a good detective would have found stuff if he knew what to look for, and so I did:

One copper foiled framed print. This one I passed along to you in the fall and you gave back to me on All Soul's Day in '06. It was that print of the boy, the one looking down at the frog. The Young Biologist, something like that. It was that frog that did it. Just like the one on the sink, the one that rides on my car dash. Figured you would appreciate it. You have one, too. Had a whole bag of them. Yes, and you're welcome.

One poppy pod, sans poppy seeds. I saved seeds for both of us from the harvest of poppy pods that came from that pack of seeds you floated me there that spring. Punkin and I planted those along with a raftful of wildflower seeds. Of course they didn't come back as strong or as beautiful as that first round of flowers did, but they were there as a reminder that life is that way. You need to catch and enjoy that first bloom. That's where the dreams reside.

One bird watcher's poster. That one came with a feeder and bird bath on birthday, along with many other gifts that night. The bird bath is still strapped to the trellis but the squirrels destroyed the feeder the first day I hung it up. But I used that poster almost every day to see what it was that I was seeing on the patio and at another feeder I bought later on that January. Between that poster and the Stokes guide I was getting pretty good at knowing who was coming around to eat. I have to admit that there wasn't any mention on that poster about squirrels or rats, though, but there you go!

One letter written to you, stuck away in a book From This Day Forward. I wrote it yet never gave it to you. Penned it right after I saw you at the library on your birthday. Put you on the spot that day. Found you and your girls out by the new books, over by the circ desk. Sang Happy Birthday to you right there on the library floor. I can still feel the heat in your cheeks. You were doing your best to shake our memory and that letter pointed out to me how desparate I was to hold onto it. It almost hurt to read those words. Sort of like it does to mention this right now.

Then there was road script from those Boise rides. My copy of The Lord of the Rings that I read after my outpatient surgery. A map of Dungeness Spit State Park. Yahtzee instructions. A Leavenworth postcard. A copy of the March issue of Sunset, still open to the page with the Sandtorte recipe on it. Red bandanas, worn by N and I during our evening trip to see the second Pirates of the Carribean episode, the same one that you and your girls went to see, somewhere there on same lot there at the Rodeo drive-in. A black espresso maker. A Colorado souvenier plate. A bagful of plastic oy horses I meant to scatter on your lawn in the dead of night. Lot's of little things.

But it is the little things that add up. The bits and pieces and flotsam of life, things that in and unto themselves support no life at all but once touched suddenly have a life of their own. They become magic totems, touchstones, reminders that somewhere, somehow we lived. I suppose that's why I stay here in this little town, hold onto this little house of mine. It's not only my place of refuge, a home I share with my kids when they come to visit, but also a place that is, well, not so much a "museum", not a masoleum, either, but a place of rest for those memories that we expended there. They rest, waiting. Waiting for someone to pick them up and remember again.

The cottage where I took refuge that year when the storms in my life were raging is now shut down and awaiting a new tenant. Now I'm back home again, in a place where I don't had to have hide away anything anymore. Everything is out in the open. I suppose you still have to know what to look for. Most people will never see what I see, but you might. Bird books, strange rocks from the beach, homemade cassette tapes, Italian coffee pots, cherished photographs, all of it is out now. Now... now I can let it all be. No more hiding life away in little houses anymore.

Love, your WHMB

Watchable Prairie Blondes

Sam Elliot,The Quick and the Dead. A fairly toss off kind of movie. But what I loved about it was that constant tension between the rough hewn mountain man kind of guy and the married Eastern Gal. The character played by Tom Conti was grand, too, the quiet man who had had his share of violence and for the sake of his family and his soul chosen the path of peace. Not neccesarily the best thing in the post-war West, but it made for a decent drama. Did it make the man a pussy cat? Watch the movie and make your own judgement call.

But it was that final scene, that "take care of yourself, Sarah" line, that reminded me so much of me and you. That respect, that say goodbye for the sake of the kids, for the sake of convention, that we hammered out so well. I never said goodbye, Jane, but like that Sam Elliot character, I rode off into the distance to other adventures, with you forever burned into my heart.

See you at sunset, Jane.

Love, your WHMB

Calcopo Artifacts, Little House, 3/6

Calcopo is dead, long live Calcopo.

Books, books, books. Miserable job, clearing out that little house. I have accumulated far too many books that I thought I needed and now that they are a liability as I have no way of unloading them. No boxes, no car to haul them out of here. I have a tenant who wants to move in soon and the house is still a mess. Paint is needed in a big way. Slow but sure things come back home, but for every move forward, least ways, for the moment, there seems to be a step or step and a half back. A complete and total drag.

Right now the bookshelves are unloaded, the kitchen cupboards are cleaned out. Kitchen goods are coming over slow by sure, with all too many spare this and thats cluttering my counter space and tabletop. Right now I can see all too clearly your written and phoned in words. Now I can see that this house, with all my life packed into it, is much too small for a family as large as the one I have. Had around me.

Nevertheless it's been an adventure of sorts cleaning out the past. I've been tripping back into a time that I thought was long behind me, but in uncovering artifacts it comes jarringly into my present. It's more than just uncovering dust bunnies and spider webs, it's coming across old letters and photos and such. Not just ours but those from life in general. Snaps of The Boy from his youngest possible days, journals filled with poetry written for wives and lovers other than you. Art projects left undone. Notes scribbled and left behind. Recipes left unmade. Books left unread.

It didn't take much to find bits and pieces of our life amongst the rubble of the life I lived in that house. Some may say that we didn't have one, a life, but in our shared, shadow world, we did. For a time it was vibrant, pulsating. Not pitch perfect, but the humm of a song that was on it's way to becoming a full fledged orchestral piece. I know that those fully packed days could do nothing less than leave pieces of evidence behind. I like to think of those bits of life left behind in that little house as artifacts secreted away from some distant faraway time and place, somewhat like shards of jars found in miden heap leftover from some ancient civilization.

There was much left behind from our Calcopo bookgroup. For the longest time I would glean and buy duplicate copies of old bookgroup books, titles like Bel Canto, Cold Mountain, This House of Sky. I remember how much we loved Five Quarters of an Orange, and how we pretty much dismissed The Persian Pickle Club. I can remember, too, how you would, month after month, set aside The Liar's Club. That title was allittle too close to home. The title was too easy to relate to.

I found a package of caps that I bought for your youngest who, at that time, was deep into her cowgirl phase. That was to go along with that copy of Demerest's Cowboy ABC that's now stuck a box of books headed for the basement. I found a empty pod leftover from the poppies that I grew that summer, the ones that bloomed from the seeds you threw my way that spring. I came across a huge stash of fire crackers left over from that somewhat crazed 4th, the one that you attended up off Banner Road. You reported that they were good fun on your end. Big house party. Lots of people. I suppose mine had lots of people, too. The streets were loaded that night. So was I.

Then there was that Golden bird book I bought for you on that first road trip I took to California, the one that I sent to you from Hemet. What the hell was I thinking when I did that? There was also the Stokes bird book that came my way on my birthday. There was also a much used one that rode around in the car for awhile. I figured since you shared that love of birding with me I could pass that love along to my kids.

A copper framed print of The Young Biologist was resting among the books in the back room. That print was touched by you. You knew that frog in the print, for it was the same one that rested on my bathroom sink throughout the year, the same one that took flight and then, through some act of divine guidance, found it's way out of the yew. It rides along with me now, a reminder of the 27th of September, the only day I ever made you cry out of meanness.

I finally came across that Aztec print that was up on my icebox for so long. I finally found the box that went along with that Los Lobos collection I played for you that one night, that night we danced to Sabor a Mi. Then there was that book of postcards, Pre-Raphelite stuff, the one that I cadged that Sleeping Beauty postcard from.

But what brought me to the present was finding a letter I sent to you on the 2nd of September in 2006. Even then we knew that what we had was too hard to handle. We let it go long before, but struggled with that whole letting go thing. Funny how that letter was discovered by the Estranged One the day after Thanksgiving, almost in the same fashion that your email box was discovered oh so long ago. Those letters she found were full of left over passion, like spent shells, like old firecrackers gone soft with age and time. I suppose to someone falling on them the way that she did I could expect outrage, but what she read was only the dull notes of old perfume. What we had between was all gone long.

But even now, to have read that letter, I could see that what we had had going on had the half life of spent uranium.

Still does. Even at this distance. Even this far away from the scene of the crime.

That house is a crime scene, one strewn with evidence of some sort of nefarious activity. Infamous behaviour, indeed.

Yeah, we loved out of turn. Left all too much behind. Discarded what we could and buried the rest.

Buried it skin deep. Readily accessed. Easily found in our hearts. And all too easy to see in our eyes.

Never mind all that, just know that Calcopo finally rests, all to be saved for another day.

Sweet dreams, Professora.

Your WHMB

Certifiably something or other, branch window, 4:30, 3/4

First, to his credit and for your sake, he must be a very lovely fellow, a delightful soul, a generous and giving companion, a stellar business man and upright staff in your religious community.

Possibly. Maybe. But, a kind man? I've had a taste of that. Not so much.

But I must tell you, it doesn't take much to pick that head of his out of a crowd. Thin on top, somewhat shiny. It was the eyes that did it, though, that clicked that face of his into total recognition. They're still, after all this time, edgy, somewhat mean, narrowly focused. If we were in a prison population that stare that he was giving out would be considered "mad dogging". It was that forced, angry look you give when you really don't know you're giving it, when your thoughts betray you ahead of your words. He was peering hard through that window of ours for a shape or a vision or a sighting, something to vent his spleen on. Whether or not he saw me I saw him.

I played it off to a colleague. I mentioned that there was this very mad looking gentleman staring through our window, giving out very heavy and somewhat negative vibes. I knew he hadn't been inside so I figured it was time for me to go outside and take a walk home for supper. Funny, after all this time, I had to laugh. But still, I felt my mouth get dry and my heart began to race. Was this finally going to be THE moment of confrontation? A chance to finally say what I wanted to say and put those dukes of mine up in righteous indignation?

I had to find out and there was only one way to do it. I picked up my coat and headed out the door. Saw the distinctive silver Focus pull forward into the parking lot, but didn't see the hula girl on the dash. Wasn't totally sure but left my head uncovered and crossed the street which would have allowed for full and total recognition when he pulled out of the lot. Stepped up to an open parking space next to Myres. Waited for the signal, waited for my fate. I might as well been waiting for Godot. Stood out there next to the curb, naked to the world, in a world harboring a hostile man who, still, after all these years, can't stand the fact that I exist and that he was burned. Couldn't handle the fact that he found out that he wasn't the top dog that he thought he was.

Ha.

I suppose by posting things like this I am rubbing his nose in it, the way that you don't do these days to a bad dog. But darlin', he was and still is a bad dog. A jealous man with a mean and vindictive streak a mile wide. I am sorry, not for what we were, but for the environment that you chose to continue to live in. It can't be anything but hard, God on your side or not.

I see what I saw and say to myself, "three years down, seventeen or less to go". Type A's don't have longevity, that much I know. Good fortune to me, poor health to him. And to the victor goes...well, a tall glass of water and thee to hand it over at the end of the race. Here's to cool, cool water, Professora.

Your WHMB

Coffee break photograph, June '06

I have been cleaning out the back house this last week. It's been hard work on many levels. First off, there's all that junk back there. I know when I was buying it here and there I didn't think that way, but then again, that's why they call them junk shops! Talking to my friend Ross put in perspective. When it's boxed and in some sort of order it's a breeze to move. But to look at it the way it is now, all loose and scattered throughout the house, all time estimates are thrown to the wind. I constantly find myself stopping in some contemplative spot, someplace that is way outside my head, someplace locked away deep within in my heart.

I came across about a dozen box cameras yesterday, all stuck in a long unused dresser drawer. I know that somewhere along the line I need to get into the habit of marking dates on those box cameras, something to give a clue as to when and where they were snapped. Right now they are all jumbled together and so I have no idea what's contained on those exposed rolls of film. Right now I can see and appreciate the value of a digital camera. I would love to be able to scan, enjoy, print off or delete those images. But in order to rescue them I'll have to take them down to Rite Aid or Walgreens. What a crap shoot.

They are going to be little time machines, though, no doubt about it. I know that that trip I took with my kids to California to see my mom back in November of '06 is contained in that pile. I know that day trip to Portland I took with Rosie is in there, too. I know that during times of extreme frustration with The Estranged One I took pictures of the messy house. Those snaps are in that stack, too. But what I will find mostly are many photos of the kids. Those pictures are already three years old now. Time flies and then those kids, those little kids, grow up and turn into something else: little people.

Time flies, indeed. Unearthing those goods in the back house reminds me all too well of plans and dreams and long, long days that have come and gone. I remember the day I took you back there the first time, to see the mess that went along with the toy soldier business. It was a few months later that you had a key to that space, and with that key came plates of cheesecake, thermos jugs of coffee and hastily scribbled notes. Time went on and that back house was to become my refuge. You saw that set up, too. We didn't dare test it out. Looking at it all was temptation enough.

That house. Gosh, what that house has witnessed. But what brought you to mind was a stack of notes I found stuck in a drawer, thoughts penned as I raced back and forth to Boise back in the winter and spring of 05 and 06. I came across those scribbled notes and knew that they needed to find a proper home in that satchel of ours. In doing that I stumbled across a couple photos from a camera I had developed last May, one that contained the last snaps I took of you. One photo was taken moments before your shift began on your last day of work at the branch. And the other was an arm's length shot of both of us taken before our June staff meeting, when you stopped at my house for a cup of coffee.

That image, now resting on the mantle piece, conjuered up dreams of you last night. I saw you living next door to me. You were older, and you had little boys over at your house. Were they nephews? Grandchildren? All I know in the dream it was strange to see you. All I could do was to look at you as you talked. I know that someday I will have that happen. That running into you moment. That long silence. That awe of finally seeing you again.

In dreams and photographs and in unearthing of old, long lost goods we visit old places of where latent energy dwells. That photo, that dream, all of it says that your presence is still felt here in my house and in my life. To look at that mantle piece is a verification of that. One peek at it and suddenly you appear. To be found once again in my dreams is not much of a stretch.

So, more shifting and moving of goods await me this afternoon. And while I know I won't find any more fresh or forgotten images of you, I look forward to seeing those photos. All of it somehow snakes it's way back, back to times filled with hopes and wishes and dreams. Dreams filled with a lifetime of you.

Your WHMB