ADDING UP

We’ve been having an exciting spring so far, which reminds me of that Chinese curse: May you live in interesting times. It’s an English translation of a genuine Chinese curse, but I heard it when I was still quite young, perhaps in my 20s. Wikipedia reminds us of the obvious that the “expression is ironic: ‘interesting’ times are usually times of trouble.” I would add complication and challenge. Today’s interesting times mostly seem concerned with graft and bullying and self-aggrandizement. Alas, I am not the one profiting, gaining power, or advancing my image.

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RESIDENCY, day 5

A little short of sleep, but went out for a short run at 6am and felt better. At the beach, I run to landmarks, in Portland I count city blocks, but here I run purely for time—measuring my slow ten-minute miles. Gary is coming to see me this morning, and I am ridiculously excited about that. I don’t think I have slept without him since I left this program in 2007. I have managed to make my own coffee, but miss the conversation. I miss him.

The weather forecast was for 63° and “partly sunny” at 8am, but it was already 68° and not a cloud by at that time, so I’m thinking a hot day.

The darkish/blackish blot in the center is a bumblebee—so many all over campus! There are several species of bumblebees native to Oregon, two of them are indistinguishable except under a microscope. I know this from my friend and neighbor Mary Jo, who has such a microscope and reports to bee people at OSU. [The honeybees we sometimes see are all imports gone wild; bees are not what you might call fully domesticated.]
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ANNIVERSARY

Yesterday was the 49th anniversary of our wedding. Gary and I were married under the pagoda tree in my parents’ backyard. We wrote our vows, a friends officiated, I made the wedding cake, a fruit cake, from a 100-year-old recipe, Joyce brought lasagna, The Chieftains sang on a record, and my dad toasted us from Shakespeare as his “warrior children”.

The nice man from Gresham who we talked to last week was horrified by the plankton bloom. He kept calling it “terrible”. What’s shown here is entirely gone, with a narrow line of fresh plankton at the tideline. It’s not terrible or bad in any way. It just is. I will run the beach tomorrow!

Our anniversary rings, more about goldsmithing, the Hood to Coast relay, and my preferred running conditions.

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FRESH BREAD

This is what happens when you bake weekly for almost three years. A high rounded loaf just the way you assumed it would come out of the oven. Without support beyond experience, bread is the result of healthy ingredients and practice. That’s the way life goes, I think. We work at it, do the best we can, and we eat what we take from the oven.

About 10″ across and 5″ tall, I “wind up” the dough to shape a loaf without a pan. It was baked in the middle of a flat pizza pan. (Even the Haystack loaves had special pans with short sides providing some support and structure.)

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EXERCISE

I got in a couple of running miles this morning. We have pretty much nailed down our weekly routine but I still have to think when I first wake: Where am I?

We found nineteen pieces of sea glass yesterday, seventeen the day before.

This photo isn’t from yesterday, big pieces but representative of the colors we most often find: colorless, pale greens, brighter greens, and brown. There are colors we each particularly rejoice to find. Gary once found a large cobalt blue piece. I love a peculiar intense and old blue-green.
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pied-à-terre

One of our tenants believes in the “good old days.” He is young. He thinks the fifties and sixties and seventies were times of idyllic freedom. I look at his long hair and think: You’d have been beaten half to death living around here in the 60s; you’d have been jailed for what you smoke. Times were only good in some ways and for some people. I had to wear a skirt to school every single day and had the bloody knees to show for it. School counselors, aptitude tests, and my own mother assumed my primary role in life was to get married and stay home with children. Gary was nearly expelled from school because his hair touched his collar and was not encouraged to pursue . . . anything beyond 9-5 employment or perhaps death in the war. (Gary graduated with honors from the UW and Phi Beta Kappa. He dropped out of grad school to care for his family while his father was dying of cancer.) Our opportunities were limited by gender and class and the draft. And we are reasonably smart and able white people. (So is our tenant, which might be another reason he’s nostalgic for a time that only looks good if you don’t look too closely.)

A crow was perched on top of what we term the “turnaround rock” because walking to and around it marks a three-mile journey from our home. That crow flew the instant I took my camera out of my pocket—the little black blot in the middle of the photo. I’ve been running a nine-minute mile three or four times a week, usually right past this rock. On the back side, the ocean goes quiet.

My 50-year high school reunion was this past weekend, about 200 miles north of where I’ve lived since soon after my undergraduate years. I did not attend. The group photo shows a fraction of my 600 fellow graduates standing shoulder to shoulder. Only a handful wear masks. A friend said she could not recall the events reported to her about shared high school experiences. But I wonder who of us can remember all events important to other people? In the group photograph she and her husband are the only people I immediately recognize.

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WHAT NOW?

IMG_20200520_163802There are the things we are not doing just now, but more interesting are the things we may never do again, the things we might do less often, and what we might do instead. But first, confession.

Yes, it’s true I ordered yarn. The colors at left are close to how they will look when they arrive tomorrow, except the color at the bottom is not gray (as it might appear); it’s a pale smokey violet, one of my favorite colors that I use often in warps of all colors. And the terrible thing is that none of these colors works into either of the warps I am considering next. “Strawberry” wants reds and pinks and a particular soft sage green. “Carnival” wants variegated super-bright primaries plus spectrum green all in the same yarn.

We have not attended a party or traveled more than we absolutely must to get food and mail and for my root canal. We venture out in masks and sanitize before touching anything. We strip down and wash all our clothing when we get home again. We have not seen any family members except online, and not often enough even there. We have, once each, been handed things on the beach—a shell, a scrap of paper—by people we know and who have been self-isolating. We held our breath while that exchange occurred. We washed carefully after. We did not touch our face.

I think we never need to enter Safeway again. When we were in college in Seattle, the local Safeway was a terrible place, Pike Place Market was perfect, but there were no local farmers markets as there are in Seattle now. Safeway was always being sued for unfair and illegal employment practices, losing those suits, and then going right on doing underpaying women employees or violating other laws. Gary went to the local Safeway the other day for the first time in over two months. As a former grocer he was genuinely distressed by both the running of the store and the carelessness of customers. Costco and Natural Foods and even Freddie’s have offered better shopping experiences. I miss the Portland Farmers Market very much, and we might go again someday. Someday soon, I hope. A day trip the way we used to two times a month to buy vegetables. The Market is set up with fewer, spaced-out stalls and with limits on the number of shoppers allowed in order to maintain distancing.

We do not need paper napkins ever again, and we’ve been using the same roll of paper towels for three months. It is only half gone and I think should last us through the summer. Gary uses a paper towel to wipe out my cast iron pans. I use a piece of a paper towel to wipe up egg white from cracking eggs on the counter. The sponges and cloths and napkins go into the washing machine.

Gary has not bought a lottery ticket since January, but he probably will again when it’s safe to touch a keypad. We rarely ate out—not at all now—but probably even more rarely in future. Hotels? Will we visit the Kennedy School and The Sylvia Beach Hotel? Drive to Victoria to stay at Elaine’s? Perhaps we will. Movies in theaters on the other hand? Good riddance. I have always thought that films people insist “must be seen on a big screen” must also be weak if that is the only way they are impressive. I can sit closer to the my TV in a dark room, turn the sound up too loud, and mimic the movie theater experience without people talking behind me or a man coughing on my neck. Live theater on the other hand will revive, at least I hope so. There is a critical connection between performers and audience, an experience impossible to replicate at home.

“A huge majority of respondents in The Post’s early May poll — 82 percent — said they opposed the reopening of movie theaters more than any other category of business (with gyms not far behind). Another mid-May survey found that even if the cost was the same, only 13 percent of respondents would prefer to watch a first-run movie in a theater as opposed to their living rooms.”—The Washington Post

We obviously have internet, though no cable or other regular television. That decision was made last summer. We paid to stream a movie the other day, the first time we’d done that. Though we watched at midday and the room with our television is bright with windows and two skylights, the experience was good. We will likely do that again. We also have Netflix and Acorn and BritBox at the moment, which collectively cost considerably less than our old cable bill. Amazon is a concern. We have Prime, but are trying to use only the videos and MarketPlace for Gary’s used CD orders. Eventually, despite a future without Mrs. Maisel, we will cut Prime. Putting entertainment where our voice says?

Going forward, I have been running. Saturday I managed eight minutes in two minute intervals. This morning I will pull out new shoes and try for ten minutes [I managed eleven and am now running every other day with very gradual increases in time]. I have running tights and my Ghost 12 shoes and will fake the rest. Though I kept gear, I discovered that I have no sport bras, not a single one saved. So I went online to Title Nine the other day and ordered a bra. It will be June before I have it. In the past, I always felt I had to earn the right to purchase gear, and I did myself harm by not starting out with the right shoes, bras, and running tights. Not this time. I will do better.


Today is Memorial Day, the day we are supposed to honor those who fought (and died) for the safety of our nation. Among my immediate relatives are my father who fought in the Army as far as Germany, and my aunt who was a Marine in San Francisco. My mother-in-law and father-in-law also served during WW2.

For all the flag-waving and whining about “freedom” I think the people protesting the lockdown mean for others to die for them, while they refuse to rise to this challenge. I know some people who are barely inconvenienced at all while others work in hospitals and grocery stores and delivery, dangerous occupations. I know people working from home and families with no income at all. I know people who ignore the rules about travel and distancing and also those with preexisting conditions that make them particularly vulnerable and cautious.

One hundred years ago communities struggled to cope with a disease that had no vaccine or reliable treatment. The communities and entire cities that practiced rigorous social distancing, isolated the sick, and those that took these unpopular precautions longest, faired best. Fewer people died and local economies bounced back faster where the isolation lasted longest. We have, in fact, a great deal of evidence to support a conservative approach to reopening. It isn’t merely computers modeling what the future is likely to bring, it is the lived experiences of great and great great grandparents.

Human beings have always existed in groups. We are not solo individuals but communal. We agree to rules in order to better support one another. One of our rules should be that we do what is best for everyone over just what is good for ourself, that the old and sick and frail should not suffer due to the heedlessness of the young and strong and selfish among us.

We should follow the rules established for everyone, even when we think we know better because most often we do not know any better.

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I was afraid to take a photo of the entire halo for fear of damaging my camera. But that half circle at the top of the image? That was a circle around the sun. “RIngs around the sun are caused by cirrus clouds — high altitude clouds that form above 30,000 feet. Cirrus clouds form when water droplets condense around tiny mineral particles in the air, then freeze. The clouds appear to form a ring around the sun — or the moon — when light reflects off the ice crystals and refracts by passing through them.”

RETURNING TO THE RACE

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Memorial Day weekend and the sky is dangerously clearing. We might have wished that rain we woke to at dawn had gone right on. Our state is opening up next Tuesday, and the official word is: please stay home this weekend. That means that all the most aware and considerate people will stay home, but the self-important so-and-sos will be here. The whimbrels are already taking precautions. I’ve been working hard on stories cutting and fiddling, trying to catch every single error before sharing. Since I had a bowl of ice cream yesterday, I regained a pound.

But I have begun running.

When I first began running on April Fools Day of 1995, I was fully prepared to fail. Gary and I had always walked, but I am short and short-legged—nothing resembling a runner’s body. I had tried running once before in the 1970s, wearing totaling inappropriate shoes and overalls. It did not go well.

The head coach of the cross country team used to insist that cross country required no special equipment. He meant no protective gear or balls or bats, nets or courts. But running does require larger shoes, good socks, non-chaffing clothing, and for nearly all women a proper sport bra. [Fair warning—the rest of this post is mostly about running, literal running.] Continue reading

SPROUTS

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At the base of Hug Point, above, there is a roadway cut into the stone. You can see it, the cliff drops straight down to a short level place and then a little hump just to the left. That is how my great grand aunts, my grandparents, and my mother and her sister got to the beach from 1911 until the mid-1930s. They drove over a rough roadway cut into stone.

My tomato seedlings are growing their second set of true leaves, a sprouted mango pit needs to be put into soil, and the other night I dreamt about a former student, the only student I’ve ever had who I would still have said I disliked. Continue reading