An imperturbable demeanor comes from perfect patience. Quiet minds cannot be perplexed or frightened, but go on in fortune and misfortune at their own private pace like a clock during a thunderstorm.—Robert Louis Stevenson
I was reading a personal essay by a writer with her debut about to drop. She’d always dreamed of a purely literary life as a college professor, perhaps, who wrote in the evenings and weekends, during the breaks between terms. It was the lifestyle she thought she wanted. Instead, she had worked during recent years in a grocery store. She didn’t mind the work and interacted daily with dozens of other people. When she clocked out of work, she moved straight on to the writing and finished her memoir.
She still envied friends and fellow MFA graduates with work teaching at universities and colleges. Then she noted that they were badly paid, poorly treated, worked for hours past their “workday” and often between jobs. They struggled to find time and energy to write.
I bought a flat of primroses a couple of years ago. This one is still blooming. A survivor.Continue reading →
I had an idea of where I was going when I started Part 1, but that got lost. The most magical thing I do is writing—making a reality that hadn’t existed before I created it. I think it through. I trust the process to yield.
The dawn, the dawning of an idea, the beginning that is colorful enough to foreshadow an ending. All begins with the best of intentions for meaning, the hope that completion makes an understandable whole.Continue reading →
Twenty-twenty-four was a great year for finding my way in editing and understanding my own work on the page.
A story, two reviews, and a novel found homes. All of them needed revision after acceptance. It’s the way things work in publishing. I revised. I will be asked to approve edits on that short story. I’ll manage.
Seven drafts of the novel alone. I am so very tired of revision that I wrote in my secret revised 2025 Resolutions not to write or work on any fiction this entire year. Nothing. Make a quilt or knit a sweater or weave, I promised. Do all those things. Blog. Send emails. No work on fiction. Don’t try to revise anything old. Don’t look for anything new to write. No fiction for the duration! Just a month before, my goal had been to complete a new and polished draft of A SINGLE FACT, and now I can’t bear to think of doing that.
This is what I should be working on: something with these glorious greens and violets, or the Coral Sea warp, or the pink-striped sweater…Continue reading →
I was reading an article about why older people need more friends and suggestions about how to find them (do something different, take up a hobby or join a club) when a woman we met on the beach a couple of times this week and chatted to, rang our garage doorbell and offered her contact information.
Life is wonderful that way sometimes. Full up with wonder.
Early snapshots from my family’s summers at Arch Cape. One at left is dated 1913 when this was still called Cannon Beach. In the middle is the old “beach house” my family used Memorial Day to Labor Day until the 1940s. At right is the first cannon found onshore in 1846 (rediscovered in 1898 according to Wikipedia), my grandmother Fay Fletcher Jackson Smith just after the Great War, and my Aunt Marcia as a toddler in 1925. Gary insists we sort them all by the end of summer. He warns: “It’s going to take weeks.”Continue reading →
When I was showing dogs back in the 1970s, we had an unpopular bloodline, an unpopular “type” of Afghan Hound. Our dogs were descended from early imports out of Afghanistan and specifically from a Dutch kennel, van de Orange Menage of Eta Pauptit who was a horsewoman to start with. She cared about soundness. She insisted that her dogs be functional. Their feet and frame, the musculature and minds of dogs from the vdOM kennel were consistently tough. They were smart during a period when Afghans were being bred to be flashy. Sturdy when during a period where breeders were choosing fine bones and narrow heads, what a local breeder bragged was “swan”-like.
Our dogs were strong.
I’m not certain who this is, he’s not one of our pups but what most of ours looked like at five or six weeks. The black edging mostly grows out, leaving a black-masked red dog. Gary’s dog Manny looked like this. Grown, he had ears red as an Irish Setter. In the afghan I crocheted out of different colors of Afghan hair, it’s easy to pick out Manny’s ears. While a black mask on an otherwise red or gold or cream dog was the typical color of early Afghan Hounds, it wasn’t trendy when I was showing dogs of that color.Continue reading →
When you live more than five miles from the nearest small and overpriced grocery store, fifteen miles from the nearest full grocery store (also overpriced), and thirty-five miles from Costco, shopping during the pandemic simply played on your habits of shopping rarely and large.
Shopping locally in our tourist economy meant the our monthly drive to a large city farmers’ market and even the city stores considered overpriced were relative bargains for us. Whole Foods prices were in line with or lower than what we found locally and better quality and more variety.
Now that we spend nights In Portland, we have three or four favorite grocery stores within easy walking distance. We love New Seasons, Fred Meyer is cheaper for some things, and there’s always Zupans when we want something special. But the habits of nearly forty-five years without easy access to such stores are still a powerful influence. The toughest to overcome is the most recent: ordering online.
Buying too much and ordering online are hard habits to break. Yesterday I made a vegetarian lasagna that turned out really well. I’m not pressed for time as I was when I was teaching and I am not cooking for two growing boys as well as ourselves. That lasagna will provide meals for Gary and I for three days…
During the recent perilous weather in the Pacific NW, we stayed home and I cooked from what I had in freezer, fridge, and pantry. I also ordered the organic whole wheat noodles I used for the lasagna. I have five more boxes of flat noodles in my drawer and six pounds of whole wheat angel hair pasta. I’m set for a while.
I finished a warp this month and plan to begin another this week. The overall goal is to use up much of my yarn stash, but then I ordered a skein of yarn a couple weeks ago. That gorgeous bright handspun fits in with a warp I was planning, but interferes with the important goal of cutting back my yarn stash.
406 yards Handspun SW Merino/Silk (75/25) in “Color Blast Fun Run” colorway from Etsy. $49 from MimiHandspun and worth every penny. I don’t make money weaving with yarn like this, but it is a pleasure nonetheless.
I need to buy less.
It feels like I’ve done this before. Haven’t I vowed to cut back on purchases? Haven’t I actually done that from time to time?
February needs to be a no-purchase month. Food is okay. No clothing, no yarn, no fabric, no books. I have plenty of everything. I can afford to swear off all unnecessary purchases. It’s a short month. My pantry shelves look leaner and tidier from not shopping much this month. My beach closet is very lean from a recent culling. I need to continue making progress with the yarn and quilting fabrics. I can resist Liberty cottons and batik’s for a month. I can. I probably can.
I’ve had almost everything here for several years—not at long as what is shown right which dates back decades.I wear only the black dress on left and the purple velvet dress (for special occasions) but love the kimonos/
Cutting back on purchases is like cutting back on food. I can recall eating as a child until my stomach hurt. And I was a thin child because I walked and ran everywhere. It’s different as an adult. It’s different as a retired adult in nasty weather where I go out but for an hour instead of three hours, and I eat because I cooked too much. I learned when I shifted over my diet to a healthier balance in 2020, that feeling a little hungry is a good thing.
There are projects waiting for my attention, and I really could learnt to cook for two if I troubled to do it. I have more books in my to-read stack(s) than I ever have had in my entire life. I can cut the shawl to make a pillow cover. I can put on the neutral warp. I can cast on the sweater I promised myself a dozen years ago—the yarn is right there. Ideas for quilts swimming about in my head do not require any fabric other than what I have stored.
April will be Camp NaNo and I will work on short stories. Between now and then I can make progress on projects: three more warps if I am quick, a knitted something, and two sewing projects. With discipline, I can avoid purchasing anything other than food for four weeks. That’s what I’ll do.
I will not buy yarn, a rosebush, black wool pants, more socks, food in bulk, magazines, books, fabric even though it love it and it’s on sale, a new chair or two, a used table for Gary’s coffee (he’s using the window-ledge in the new living room configuration), knitting notions, or anything I cannot consume within a week. I promise.
I should have got a photo. I caught Gary vacuuming his woodpile.
Somewhere in this photo is a hummingbird feeding off the rhododendron that began blooming a week or so ago. I can only spot it because I compared my photo to the view and spotted the smudge. We’ve had snow since, but the hummingbird is still alive.Continue reading →
Gary and I are working on our future. Eventually the upkeep and isolation of the Arch Cape house will be too much. Our sons do not seem attached to the coast—oh, they say they miss it, but they seldom come out to visit. Once a year, or twice. They lead busy lives. That means we’ll be on our own for day to day assistance with what we’ll need if we try to stay there forever. Shopping, repairs… No simple workaround in our unincorporated community and no fewer local political issues. In our 70s and in good health, we manage fine now. We did, after all get the new roof on and Gary spread compost. We drive to Costco once a month. I’d like to think we might become ninety-something-year-olds who manage on their own till death takes us. But as a compulsive planner, I’m not counting on that.
I woke too early this morning. That happens a lot these days. Sometimes I can get back to sleep. Sometimes I go to work. Lately I am knitting and revising my novel. Doesn’t that sound wonderful to myself: revising my novel!
Our son Alan and his daughter E.V. wearing the sweater I knit her for Christmas.
I had to think hard about what happened in 2021. It was not a terrible year, not even a bad one. “Inconvenient”, as a friend suggested in 2020, a year that felt much worse. So goodbye to two years of pandemic and hello to a third. I have plans.
&PRIDE Press 