I am Eve

 Having spent considerable time looking under the hood of an extremely dysfunctional extended family,the dysfunction including incest alongside fundamentalist churching,I've come to wonder about the nature and origin of evil. That includes ponderings of the original Fall. You know, the Story of Adam and Eve from the Book of Genesis in the Old Testament, pick-your-version.

Last Sunday, I peeked in on services at First Reformed Church in Oak Harbor. I hop around churches a bit. I'm not a joiner, but a sampler.  Coincidental to my latest interest, the sermon was on the subject of the Fall. The pastor told of the Creation, the making of Adam and Eve, Paradise, and the temptation of Eve by the Serpent.

Eve took the bait, made Adam take it too, and when confronted by God, blamed the whole mistake on the snake. And as we all know, God threw everybody out of the garden, condemned the snake to crawl on his belly in the dust, and that was the beginning of sin and the loosing of evil upon the land.

Or something else. How about Free Will? What evil act does not come out of a choice, of free will? I saw this on website owned by a therapist who works with sex offenders (I wish I could find it again, I'd cite it): The offender asks the psychiatrist why he offends. The psychiatrist replies something like this: "You do that because you want to. You thought you would try it once and see if it felt good, and it did, so you did it again. You had no consideration for the child whose body you took control over. You are evil."

The church was built to keep man in touch with God, and through fellowship and teaching, keep evil from taking over altogether. Churches, like other institutions, have a leadership structure. To simplify, I'll call it a shepherd and a flock.

What is the shepherd's responsibility? Certainly to keep the flock from wandering off and also to maintain the health and well-being of each individual. In his human flock, the pastor leads his congregation spirtually, chosing the doctrine and delivering the teachings.

The less dissension and more cohesiveness the easier the job. "Discipleship," coupled with evangelism fills the bill in some churches. Campus Crusade for Christ is the best example I can think of, and it also happens to associate with many churches using this programming. (Now that I've looked at their website, they don't talk about discipling out in the open. But Bill Bright, the founder of CCC, created the model in the 1950s. In this model, disciplers program disciples, who when finished become disciplers, "evangelize" to find new disciples, and in this way build churches. It is not for the new convert to discover until he's been prepared for it. Since the website reaches out to new converts, I can see why the model is not explained there.)

In Christianity, disciples were the students of Jesus during his ministry. In Campus Crusade for Christ, and churches structured in this way,disciples are the followers of organization leaders. There is more than a subtle difference between discipling the son of God and discipling a human being. Certainly there is room for error! Classic power abuses bring about such things as isolation (from "non-believers," including family), humiliation, and financial fraud, borne of human arrogance.

Man-made disciplers in some of these churches take unquestionable authority over their parishioners. A member would make no decision in his personal life without the approval of the discipler. He gives full confession in front of full congregations to create intimacy with the group. "He hears such words as obey, submit, die to self, and brokeness." (Mary Alice Chrnalogar). Is this a well-intentioned attempt at throwing off free will in order to get back into the Garden? Whose Garden?

It's virtual enslavement and absence of privacy. By giving up free will, and the critical thinking that goes with that, how can a person navigate moral waters on his own? "Animal nature" does not go away, it learns to hide. And evil crawls around on it's belly in the dark places where light cannot penetrate. In darkness, it keeps secrets.

Free will expresses man's dual nature of evil and good. Yes, free will is indeed an instrument of pure misery, but it is also an instrument of the most profound love.

I am Eve, and I will not live inside man's Garden. I'm outside, and I'm looking into the eyes of the child victim. It is my free will, and I decide to take his hand and say to him, "There are no walls here in the bright sunlight, and you are free. I can love you and accept you. I'll stand by you while you get your balance and your footing, then learn to walk without chains."

(I want to note that not all church organizations are so dangerous. Most respect the individual, and members work as equals to build healthy community.)

Duck

It's been a terrifying year for me. You and I have looked at each other and tried to focus on the past twenty years and how we could be so strange to each other. How can two people commit the same crimes over and over, harmful patterns repeating, repeating...?

What are the lessons learned from heartache and tears? What is the return on investment?

There have been two women working on us, counselors, applying their wisdom and their persistence. Like attorneys for the psyche and the soul. Stubborn things, these intimate parts. Unyielding things, they chafe and they burn, raw and tender.

I prayed to God often for relief.

One particularly stressful day while working around the apartments, I found a white duck abandoned underneath a tarp. She was just hours from death, so I put her in a box and took her home. She was too weak to stand, and could only squeak. I washed the filth off of her and looked her over. Her feet and bill were too large for her body, and that meant she'd never had good nutrition, distorted growth through wasted muscle and sparse feathering.

I crated her until she was strong enough to stand and quack. Her appetite grew from sipping a little water and just a few bites of food to robust and enthusiastic eater, and she began to gain weight. I asked you to make-shift a pen for her, and you did that for me.

Duck was grateful. She greeted me with loud quacking when I came to feed her twice a day, she wagged her tail feathers and flapped her wings. Two, then three weeks passed. Plumage was appearing a bit fuller each day, I thought, and then I noticed the eye infection. I treated it with antibiotic ointment, and it seemed to be getting a little better.

One day I took her to the pond and set her down into the water. She sank almost to her neck. Her feet could not paddle straight, and she struggled to the bank. I pulled her out and set her on the lawn, and she began drying herself with her beak as ducks do. And feathers fell like rain from her body.

I examined the feathers. They were pin-feathers, and those are the new growth that should emerge filled with blood as they grow out. As they progress from quill to feather, the blood will recede and be replaced with air... that is how a bird gets the lightness to float or to fly.

These pin feathers contained no blood. They were dead. This is a set back, I thought to myself, and I finished drying duck with a towel, returning her to her pen.

The next morning when I went to feed her I noticed blood coming from her injured eye. This is worse than a set back, I realized, and she cannot survive this. What to do? First thing, I'll give her a good meal.

Remembering that you raised meat rabbits as a kid, I called you from my cell phone and asked if you could euthanize the duck. She cannot survive her current state, I explained, it is so very sad for me. I am in the car on my way to work, and I would be very grateful if you could help me with this. Can you? It's just a duck, right?

I came home at six o'clock like I usually do, and I saw that the pen was gone, not a single feather remaining where it sat. Not a trace of duck.

I found you in the kitchen and your eyes were red from crying. You were waiting for me.

Not just a duck? I said to you. No, not just a duck, you said back to me.

Thank you, I said, both of us with now with tearful eyes.

And you took my hand and we sat at the table together.

Yellow and White

Jake and I arrived at the garden wedding just five minutes late, so we sat down quickly in a couple of the plastic chairs at the back of the lawn. It was a beautiful spring day, just after a rain, everything fresh and bright for the new couple to begin their lives together.

There were about a hundred people there. I knew some of them, and waved my hand at the few who looked our way. I knew Jake and I looked good together. He was so gorgeous in his new suit (and looked even better out of it). I put my arm through his, and squeezed his bicep. He kissed me on the top of my head.

The ceremony began and I aimed my eyes forward.

Yellow and white were the colors the bride chose, the groom and his men wore medium gray. Daisy bouquets with just a dash of emerald green fern and gray-green eucalyptus. Perfect for a such a day in Sonoma, I was thinking. I was half-way listening to the words the pastor said to the young couple and half-way remembering the ceremony Jake and I enjoyed just three years earlier. Almost to the day.

The couple was pronounced man and wife and the guests began to stand up to applaud the union.

A round-ish boy about seven years old suddenly appeared and pushed me over backward. My chair tipped up and my purse flew out of my lap as I fell hard on the lawn. The kid grabbed the bag before it hit the ground and he ran fast behind the lattice fence and hedge, tripping over an azalea bush.

"Stop!" I yelled, as Jake rose to his feet and looked toward the boy with puzzled expression.

I rubbed my elbow and noticed I was bleeding a little bit. There were grass stains on my new dress. I pulled myself up while people stared at us.

"Get him!" I yelled to my husband, who had one foot in the aisle. He took a hesitant step. "Come on!" I said, "He's getting back up!" The boy arose and began to run again. Chubby legs not moving him as fast as they might have on a lighter frame.

Why can't he catch that kid, I wondered. I watched the two of them round the corner of the block, Jake still not even with the boy.

I ran to the car, which was parked at the curb, and started it up. I found Jake and the boy talking to each other not far from where I lost sight of them, with the boy still holding my purse. He was gazing up at my husband, face all red and eyes all teary.

I got out of the car and stood with my hands on my hips between the two of them.

"Who do you belong to?" I demanded of the boy, my face showing anger and disbelief. The boy looked down and did not answer. His fists were clenched and his face was red with rage. I wrenched my purse away from him, glancing inside to see if anything was missing. He tried to kick me. I asked the boy again where he lived. Still no answer.

"Ah, Jenny, he's just a kid. Don't be the heavy. You got your purse back, let's let him go."

"The 'just a kid' assaulted me and took my purse. Get in the car, Jake, and put him in with you. We'll go to the police station and get this sorted out. He can't get away with this. Why shoud he?" Jake took the kid by the arm and steered him into the back seat. As I drove the half mile or so to the station, I glanced into the mirror and saw that Jake was letting the boy play a video game on his i phone. Huh? No time to ask, we'd arrived and I told Jake to hold onto the kid's hand while we entered the building. The boy made a sudden break and ran down the sidewalk and through a hedge.

"Just let him go, Jenny. It's not worth chasing him." He saw the expression on my face and said, "OK, I'll go find him." How's he going to do that? I wondered, but Jake was well-underway in the direction the kid fled, so I went back to the officer to make my statement.

A half-hour went by, and Jake appeared with the boy, who now had the name Danny to identify him. I saw Jake's suit coat open and noticed he wasn't wearing a belt. "You got dressed without a belt this morning?" Jake looked down and smiled, shrugged his shoulders and yawned. "I hate getting dressed up. You know that."

"Do we really need to go through all this, Jenny? Danny is ready to apologize for what he did and I think he's too little to be so tough on." Jake gave me his most charming smile, and yawned again.

He's looking pretty relaxed, I thought to myself.

Jake sat down on a bench. The boy, Danny, sat next to him and glared at me. "How did you find the little criminal?" I asked Jake. Jake told me the kid told him where he lived when they were in the car. So he simply went to the house and got him. "Where is his mother?" I asked. Apparently, she was still at the house. "Well, dontcha think we should involve her?" I was feeling a little incredulous.

"Oh, Jenny. She's a nice woman. She works two jobs and she's all alone with Danny. I told her I'd sort this out for her."

Now this was getting bizzarre.

"Give me her name and address and I'll go deal with her myself." So, I took a slip of paper from the officer with Loralee Shultz's address on it, got in the car and drove the five blocks to her address. Yellow house with white shutters. A short, pretty brunette opened the door the moment I knocked. Her smile faded quickly when she saw me standing there.

In her hand was Jake's belt.

(fiction)

Sun

The Westlake Villas is a pretty fair-sized condominium development in Peoria, Arizona. I've come here to visit my friend, Gail for a long weekend. Adobe colored, almost identical stucco residences, block after block. Rock gardens punctuated with cactus and citrus trees. Graceful streets, immaculate driveways... some people actually paint em and wax em.

This place is where the Cadillacs go when they leave the dealer lots. There is one in every other driveway, I think.

The Arizona sun in late January is brilliant but benign and softly warm. It's on my face as I glide through the water in the clubhouse pool, what passes as a backstroke. Ever so slowly, I am really enjoying this cool tourmaline water, convected air, bright light. It's delightful, stimulating, kinda sexy, even... but oh so soothing. No, I'm in no hurry at all.

I notice two old Jewish men checking me out. I am 54 years old, but still a Shiksa. The unapproved and disallowed and interesting. I smile.

Gail is dog paddling near me and talking non-stop. Talking non-stop is what Gail does. I think she has no inner dialogue. But I can't hear her with the waterline above my ears. And it doesn't seem to matter.

We are the same age. She is way better looking than I am, and she works very hard at it. Scandinavian for sure, she is blonde with blue eyes, slender and beautifully proportioned. She dresses in white and jewel tones, very classic. You cannot tell by looking at her that she is dying.

Gail gets up early. She runs a mile with Bella, the dog, then makes me breakfast. I cannot make my own breakfast. "No, you can't use that bowl because it doesn't fit in the dishwasher. Use this one. And here is the spoon we use for the yogurt. These Asian pears are ready to cut, but these are not. That coffee is too expensive. We only use that one for the first pot, then we use this cheaper stuff later in the morning. You take your shower now and I'll have your breakfast ready when you get out."

We sit on the patio and get caught up on each other's lives. She offers me a cigarette. "These aren't going to get me," she says, "The Hep C is way ahead of them." If she's smoking, I'm smoking. She does not allow a choice, but I'm willing.

I ask her, "How are you, Gail?"

She tells me if she weren't a type A personality she would already be in the ground. "I have to keep moving, and the way I am I like to keep moving," she tells me. "If I don't move, I stiffen up. Something hurts all of the time. I can't think about it. I stay very busy. But sometimes I feel like I have the flu and I have no choice but to be still and keep warm. I hate that most of all."

Gail got the disease through a blood transfusion in 1986. She did not know she was sick for at least fifteen years after that, when the symptoms were practically screaming at her physician. No one knows if earlier treatments would have made her more comfortable now. She does know that she has a highly resistant strain and the chemotherapy she went under for a period of time did not put a dent in it. She relies on some convential medicine, but mostly alternative medicine. The alternative medicine is busy stuff ("I put this on my skin here, then one of these patches, and this goes on my cereal... I drink some of this at noon, and take some of these at bedtime.") But if it makes her feel like she's wielding some kind of weapon at the demon, who would question her practices?

She and her husband have their rituals. An early morning walk, Bible study, an early evening walk before dinner. Clark is out on a golf course for half of each day. That is when Gail should be resting or hobbying. But today we are at the pool soaking up sun and splashing around a bit.

Gail directs Clark with the zeal of George Patton. He follows orders like the best of the general's soldiers. But his eyes shine with deep love for her. Clark is tall and good-looking, he looks very much like the retired executive he is.

Clark is a master at getting a word in edgewise. Gail interrupts him constantly, but he continues speaking in a low but undistracted tone if he wants to get a point across. The listener, if agile of ear, can follow both of them.

"I am so glad we came to Peoria," she says, "I feel so much better here in this weather. The cold and damp of Washington kill me. And all the relatives are still up there. We didn't even come home for Christmas... Clark and I just don't care. No craziness, no dramas... it's just so nice here."

At the end of this day, I pack my suitcase for my evening flight home. Clark will take me to the airport. Gail is on the sofa covered in a blanket. "I can't go with you," she apologizes. I can see pain in her eyes and she is very still. "It's like the flu, like I told you. I'll feel better tomorrow."

"I love you," I say to her. She says, "God bless you."

Clark opens the door for me, and the little dog, Bella, goes to Gail and curls up next to her.

The Old and the Young

I think it was early September of 1997. Beautiful day in Victoria, BC, just below 80 degrees and bright sun. We were trying to hurry down Humbolt Street to Wharf Street where our bus would arrive in ten minutes.

"Not now, Ross," I pleaded with the five year old boy. "Just another three blocks and we'll be at the bus. Then you can sleep." Ross went limp like a sixties civil rights activist and lay in a whining lump on the sidewalk.

I had my backpack on and an overnight bag slung over my shoulder. John was carrying the packages from the Bay Company. I tried raising Ross up with one hand around his resisting arm.

"Ow!" yelled the little boy. "You're hurting me, Mom!" We gained five feet of progress along the sidewalk.

It had been a long day for the kid. John and I hadn't been to Victoria in years, and we probably should have left Ross with his grandparents. But there was the Bug Museum, the taxi boats of the Inner Harbor, Madame Toussaude's Wax Museum that we were sure he'd like, so here he was.

He liked the Bug Museum, but he didn't like the hotel because it didn't have a pool. He didn't like the wax museum because he couldn't touch anything, and the taxi boats weren't running today. I spent way more time in Munro's Bookstore than he thought I should. John was worried we'd miss the bus back to the ferry because I had to run into Murchie's to get a box of Empress Blend tea.

The Empress Blend is black pekoe and darjeeling teas blended the way no one else can do it. The aroma is deep and floral. The taste delicate and earthy. I couldn't leave Victoria without it, and because of me we were in a rush. But who knew when we could return?

The black cardboard box with the gold embossed logo was tucked inside my backpack. That was sitting nicely, but the overnight bag fell over my shoulder, then to the ground as I struggled with the child. Ross jumped to his feet and ran ahead of us to a wooden bench. He lay down on one end of it and announced he wasn't moving.

There was an old, severe looking woman sitting at the other end of the bench. She wore a muted plaid wool coat and scarf on this almost hot day. Her wiry grey hair lay in neat curls under a brown beret.

"I'm tired," Ross said. "You can't make me move."

The old woman spoke.

"You should take a switch to that boy. You'd be doing him a favor. Worst thing you can do to a kid is spoil him."

I turned to get a better look at her. I saw a face that hadn't smiled in a long time.

"No, you shouldn't spoil him. He won't turn out right. I can tell that for myself, nobody ever did nothin for me, and it's a good thing, too. I always made my own way from the time I was a girl. My folks never bothered to fuss, and then my father passed away when I was a teenager. I joined the army at seventeen and worked my way up the ranks as a trained nurse. I put my money away, as much as I could so I could retire to Oak Bay. And now I have a nice house there.

"Nobody did it for me, I done it myself. If Id'a been spoiled I would have nothin today."

Then she fell silent, watching John try to coax Ross off the bench. John gave the boy a juice box from my backpack and said some soothing words to him.

"Do you have any family to enjoy your retirement with?" I asked her.

"No. There was no time for that and I couldn't rely on anyone let alone a man. Never married, and dedicated myself as an army nurse, I did. I have medals.

"Nobody ever gave me anything," she repeated.

I reached into my backpack for the Murchie's Empress Tea.

"This is from me to you," I said. "I hope it's the kind you like. It is my own favorite."

The woman did not reply, but took the tea and quickly got up and walked away. She did not look back at me.

Ross watched the woman for a moment, got off the bench, took John's hand and we walked the last two blocks to the bus for home.

Poker Face

I remember very well what the fortune teller said to me last week. But I did not understand when she held onto my hand and repeated, "You must now make your eyes see clearly what your heart does not want to acknowledge."

I know my eyes got wide and I could feel a little butterflies in my stomach. "See what? I don't know what you are talking about."

"I think you do," she replied. And that's all she would say.

Cecil and some friends were still playing cards at a picnic table shaded from the hot tropical sun by ironwood trees. There were five middle aged men drinking beer and eating boiled peanuts, like they did every Sunday after mass. My husband usually lost whatever money he brought to the table, but it was only ten or fifteen dollars, nothing to worry about. Good cheap entertainment, and it kept him busy while I had time with my own new friends making the dinner.

The move to Kahului from Honolulu had been sudden. Cecil had gotten into some bad company at Matson Shipping where he worked in a warehouse. Between my job as a waitress and his job as a team leader, I thought we were doing pretty well. We put some savings aside, and we'd bought a house last year. No sickness in the family, children growing strong.

Some guy Cecil worked with knew we had that money put aside and talked to Cecil about investing in a plate lunch restaurant near the Matson building they both worked in. The friend, Brian, was so sure this idea would make them both rich.

"We can work the plate lunch from five a.m. to two p.m. then we're done for the day, man. And we can write off any food we take home for the family. Business expense, yeah? And think of all the cash that comes in. The goverment doesn't need to know about all of it."

"Cecil," I said, "I don't like this dishonest stuff. If we owe taxes, we should pay. What do you know about selling food? What does Brian know?"

No matter how many good reasons I had for staying out of this partnership, Cecil and Brian, and then Brian's wife, Angela, had winning argument.

"Ok," said Angela. "I don't like two sets of books either. Let's you and me run the books and we can keep it honest. There will be plenty of income to keep us and the tax man happy."

And worn down, I consented. I liked Angela. She was energetic, optimistic, and wanted to be my friend. Soon, we did everything together, and it felt so good to have that closeness. We called the plate lunch restaurant Pa'uli, or Blue Plate.

But just in case, I found an accountant who would oversee the set up in the office, and who would teach us organization. I'm not afraid to say when I don't know something that I need help with it. Angela said she was pleased that we were learning alongside each other. We worked hard. We made good product and we made good sales. Angela and I got tips, too, and we put them in a jar for splitting at the end of each day.

The men both quit Matson and worked in the kitchen.

One time when we were making dinner at Angela's house, I saw a bag of rice like the kind we used at the restaurant. She cheerfully admitted that she'd taken it home.

"It's a business expense. You should take some home yourself." I wondered where the pork came from, and the sodas she gave to our children. I asked Cecil about it when we got home.

"If Angela says it's ok, it's ok. She and Brian are very smart business people. You could learn a lot from them." I'm sure I looked shocked, but Cecil did not seem to notice. Angela this, Brian that, it's all I ever heard from Cecil. The three of them were thick, that's for sure, and I felt a little like an outsider.

"Brian says there's a store for sale on Kaneohe side. If we jump on it, we can buy it for almost nothing." I told Cecil I did not want to do that. I explained it was too far away, and we hadn't been doing what we're doing long enough to know if we could take on more.

Cecil said, "It's a goldmine. We have to do this. Don't you want to have nice things? You could visit you mother in Manila twice a year instead of just once a year. We can go on cruises and send our children to private school."

I said it was just too soon to take on more. Then Cecil lowered his eyes and said that the store was already under contract, he'd signed my name to the purchase and sale agreement. Brian had said he should do that because it was easier to ask forgiveness than permission in these cases. He thought I'd be grateful in the long run. It's good business.

Angela came over about then with a bottle of champagne.

"Isn't this wonderful?" she said, "We're going to be tycoons! I've been talking to a banker all week about how to pull this off, and he says we can borrow for the new place on the strength of our working restaurant. He's impressed with what we've done so far. We just put them both in one corporation. We'll show the store to you in the morning. I want to know what you think of the color swatches I've picked out."

"Why didn't you tell me about this before?" I asked, my heart pounding. What did I feel? Hurt? Anger? Shock? I wasn't sure. My husband loves me and these are my friends. They all believe this is a good thing.

Cecil explained since Angela has such a head for business, that they thought she should noodle the whole process out and present it. Cecil handed me a copy of the contract with my signature in his handwriting.

Three days passed, while I tried to sort out what I thought was making me feel afraid and unsure. Angela and I continued to work side by side at Pa'uli. She worked every bit as hard as ever and was every bit as cheerful as ever.

At the end of the day, I brought the tip jar to her. "There's no tip money in here," I said. "What happened?"

"Oh," she smiled, "Cecil and Brian said I can have the tip money to compensate me for all the work I did putting the Pa'uli Two deal together. I put a lot of time into that. Didn't you tell Cecil it's ok?"

I didn't answer, but turned my back and shrugged my shoulders. I had to leave quickly so she wouldn't see my face. "Bye! See you tomorrow!" she called after me.

Cecil was at the kitchen table with a beer. He smiled at me, then frowned when he saw how red and angry my face was.

I stood squarely in front of him and said, "You and Angela and Brian can have Pa'uli Two. I will go along with it. Then on the day after the closing I am going to file for divorce and I will not be nice." I left Cecil with his eyes bugging out and got in the car. I drove down to the beach and parked the car. I took my shoes off and put my bare feet in the soft sand along the shoreline. The cool water felt good and the tradewinds felt like comforting arms around me. I must have walked two miles up and down before I went back to the car and home.

I'm glad I have the CPA and a current copy of the books, I thought to myself.

I found Cecil crying in the living room. "Don't leave me," he said.

"Do you want me to unplug this deal?" And he nodded at me. "Alright then." I reached for the phone.

"Angela, this is Carmen. I will not sign anymore anything. You let us out now. Otherwise, I go to the county courthouse first thing tomorrow and file for divorce from Cecil. You will not have clear title on Pa'uli One and you'll lose your earnest money. If you want to buy us out, you'd better do it fast."

And that's when the real Angela and Brian revealed themselves. They yelled, they cursed, they screamed. Violent acts were promised. They said they would ruin us. Our friends told us they'd visited each of them and said we'd cheated them and were bad people. Of course, our friends knew better.

So, long story short, the lawyer got our money back plus some gain and we moved to Kahului. Matson agreed to hire Cecil at that warehouse complex. I still look over my shoulder because I don't know how far Brian will go with his rage.

"We made money on that," says Cecil, "It turned out well in the long run."

Yesterday Cecil brought home a motorcycle. He told me his friend, Pat, said it was a good deal and after all he works hard for his money. Pat's going to buy a motorcycle, too. They should spend sometime riding together because Pat doesn't have it too good at home. He has an unhappy wife who complains that Pat thinks he's right all the time. What's Pat supposed to do? Be wrong?

And I was thinking about this as the five men set up their card game today. Gabriel was there first. He's the guy who seems to get Cecil's money each week. I asked him how he plays cards so good.

And Gabriel said,"Well it's statistics and human nature. A study of both. Some of us are pretty good at it."

"So you're saying you can read Cecil but he can't read you?" I asked.

"Yeah, that's about it."

I think I see something now. And my heart is no longer standing in the way.

On Turning Eighty

I turned 54 this week. My friend, Sue, had a birthday, too, and she is older than me. We talked on the phone today, and agreed that if it were not for mirrors and aches we would not know what age we are... it could depend on where we are and who we are with how old we feel. Especially if we have our glasses off because that makes the lines in our friends' faces disappear.

Another good friend turned eighty four days before my birthday. Over the years, we'd wish each other happy birthday because the dates are close together.

Doug Burton owns Burton Jewelers in Anacortes. His father established it when he was a child, and he is about to hand it to his own son, Phillip. Doug and his wife Laura were two of the first people I met when my family moved to Anacortes in 1968. I was just 12 years old that summer, and was sorely missing my friends in California. I wandered around exploring the small town, and Burton Jewelers was stocked with lots of interesting things. Not just jewelry, but fine porcelain, crystal, sculpture, and art glass from all over the world.

Doug's wife, Laura, made me feel welcome, and I spent quite a bit of time with her. She took treasures out of the safe and let me handle them. Gems of all colors, species and sizes... she and Doug told me about the facts and qualities and characteristics of each piece. Laura told me about all the places in the world they traveled to find and purchase the very special items. Blown glass from Venice, Italy and crystal vases from Poland. Baccarat sculpture they bought at the source in France.

Ooh. Ahhh. See and touch and share stories. I'd forget about homesickness for awhile.

I've checked in with the Burtons over the years since then. Forty years have gone by, and I watched their son, Phillip, get his education then return to learn the business. We watched with great sadness when Laura became ill with cancer and faded before our eyes about four years ago. I gave her a book when she couldn't work any more, one I put alot of thought into and hoped she'd enjoy. I inscribed it with a note of thanks for a friendship that made a difference in my life.

Phillip gave an after-hours party for his dad in the store. I got an invitation, and meant to attend. It was promised that the first certain number of attendees would receive an envelope with a gem in it, one of which would be a 1/2 carat diamond. Quite the party favor! That sounded like it would generate quite a crowd, so I came by an hour early with a card and a bottle of wine. Doug loves fine wine among the other finer things. Thinking I'd be able to bestow the honor and avoid the crowd, I left the gift with Pam. He probably wouldn't know if I was at the party or not.

Today I received a card from him: "I'm glad you could make it to the party, and I'm glad I'm here at eighty, but I'm sorry that Laura wasn't here to share the joy... enclosed is a verse I wrote on my birthday."

On Being Eighty

The evening of my life has come
but my work is not done
For I still have work to do I feel
and still much to learn
Bright morning is long past
and those who nurtured me are gone
High noon came into my life with joy
and I began a long romance
As the zenith became more mellow
we learned of strength and weakness
But love surmounted all in a golden afternoon
as the shadows lengthened
So now comes evening, my favorite time of day
and let me still sing praises to the
Lord of it all.

Douglas Burton
12 November 2009

The Story of Ross

Ross is my seventeen year old son. I think he's a really good kid. He doesn't have much focus on school, and no thought at all about adulthood, but after raising the two other boys, I've learned that might not be so bad. The other two are just about finished, even though they are 28 and 31.

He's pretty spoiled, and has every right to be. I think that boy has been indulged in every way we could think of. He'd been to one Disney property or another eight times by the time he was twelve years old, for example.

Classic overcompensation.

His way into the world was not simple. At the first checkpoint in my pregnancy, Dr. Stalsbroten told me that there was an indicator in my blood that there could be a neural tube defect. At my advanced age of 36, he was concerned about Down's Syndrome or spina bifida. But it's borderline, he said. We could do amniocentesis and know for sure. But what would I do about it if I knew for certain? Nope, just leave it alone and let it happen.

Same Dr. Stalsbroten informed me of a mass in my abdomen during the first ultrasound. He sent me to Dr. Ely, an obstetrical surgeon, for a consult. The object was in between golf ball and tennis ball size and attached to an ovary by a stem. This is not good, said Ely, because even if it is something benign it could twist and necrotize. And if it is malignant it needs to get out of there quick so it doesn't kill you. Let's just open you up, take it, biopsy it, and deal with it while you are still under anesthetic. That's the efficient thing.

What about my baby? At twelve weeks' gestation isn't that a little tough on him? You would likely miscarry, said Ely. But if there's a malignancy, we'd have to clean everything out anyway.

This guy is steely, I thought to myself. Who else can we talk to? Stalsbroten sent me to Robert Pringle in Mount Vernon, who told me pretty much the same thing with one exception. He asked me: What do you want to do? I asked him: What are possible scenarios? How likely is it I'd survive cancer, anyway? What if I let the baby have his own life and worry about mine later?

Dr. Pringle the Human Being said let's wait a little while, then. If we get you to six months, the odds are good I can stop a miscarriage in surgery. I can wake you up in the middle of the process if I find malignancy, and you can tell me what you want me to do.

And that is what we did. He found something called a teratoma cyst, which is a very interesting growth. It's an egg that has not absorbed sperm, but is ripe at the time of conception. Pregnancy hormones stimulate it to grow, but without a blueprint, it's willy nilly. So you might see a tooth, or a strand of hair... even brain tissue. That's one theory. Another is that the cyst was my fraternal twin and it had been there as long as I've been, but three pregnancies had stimulated it to grow until it was noticed. It has no one's DNA but mine, so it's hard to prove where it came from.

What a relief to wake up in a recovery room intact! I had some early labor contractions, but the Good Dr. Pringle put a stop to them, and we ran for the finish line over the final weeks.

But there's more, said Billy Ray.

I went back to work at the Prosector's Office at the end of my leave (with a couple of interesting detours as a temp for Steve Skelton, Doug Owens, and the Public Defenders Office). I had a wonderful daycare that was run by the right kind of Mormon family. Say whatever you want, but these people can be some of the most ethical and kind folks you'll ever meet. Jim and Kathy Christianson are two of the finest people I know and I'll say it right here!

I digress.

After the five month checkpoint, Dr. Stalsbroten called me at work. He said that Ross' head growth was outside the chart, and he made an appointment for us at Children's Hospital the following Tuesday. What does that mean, I asked. Stalsbroten said he thought he should not speculate, but leave the entire process to Children's Hospital.

Bang. I'm taking my break, I announced, and walked outside. Two blocks away was a used book store, the closest I was going to get to a library in fifteen minutes. I found a 1962 family medical encyclopedia and within a few minutes I read something like this:

"Hydrocephalus is sometimes found in the womb or sometime during infancy... large head, downward cast of eyes... shiny scalp... fontanels that don't seem to be closing as normal...." Yep, that's Ross.

"Prognosis: as there is no surgical remedy, the patient gradually grows lethargic and sleepy and slips into a coma from which he does not awake. Death is inevitable."

Back to my office. I must speak with Stalsbroten. He's not too busy to take my call dammit.

You'd better explain this, I said. He asked where I got the medical information and I told him. He said well there are surgical remedies now, and yes he was very sure it's hydrocephalus and it was too early to start dreading. The child does not have a death sentence, there is excellent management in this modern age.

My boss sent me home. Thank you, Mavis, for having a heart.

Tuesday was in the middle of Thanksgiving week, and things at Children's were winding down for the four day weekend. We got right into radiology, though, and the tech scanned Ross' tiny head. We could see a big, fat ominous-looking X taking up most of the space in his skull. The radiologist said, "I can't interpret this image for you, but I can't pretend you don't see it, either. Walk directly to neurology, and I'll send the images over to them as quick as I can get it there."Hydrocephalic/Normal

We carried our son as directed and waited about half an hour. After a quick course on neurology, brain surgery, and shunt appliances, we were told that they could probably schedule the procedure for the following Tuesday, what with Thanksgiving and all.

We'd been talking to resident surrounded by medical students in short white coats. "See, this kid has all the classic signs." Four of them touched Ross' head and said, "Very large fontinal. Sunset eyes. Yes, the skin is tightened across the skull and has a shiny cast, just like in the books." They were delighted.

NO! I practically shouted. Look at how fast this came onto this baby! What can happen to his intellect between now and then? Can you answer that?

The resident and the white coats made a quick retreat. And then they came back.

Tomorrow morning at 9:00. We filled out the admittance papers and I extended my Skagit County employee's insurance card. Thanks again, Mavis, for having a seat for me when my leave was over.

Dandy-Walker Malformation is a neural tube defect. How about that?

There were many, many fears and obstacles ahead after the very successful surgery. Would the boy have deficits? He did. He had poor balance, low muscle tone, and some dyslexia. He repeated Kindergarten and still couldn't write the alphabet in the correct order until about the end of first grade. Letters were sometimes backward until third grade. He could not peddle a tricycle until he was four. He had headaches until he was about fourteen.

In his infancy, he could have stopped breathing, or his heart could have quit because of the odd formation of his cerebellum (the cyst on the fourth ventricle split the cerebellum down the middle, kinda) Nerve connections could have been incomplete. He had sinus infections. Those are oddly-shaped, too.

He decided he wanted to skate on a hockey team in Mount Vernon when he was nine, but first he had to learn to skate. It was painful to watch, but he went from parallel to upright in about three months of trying hard. He made the team and played two seasons before he went on to the next interest.

Skateboarding. Dangerous stuff. I seldom watch because it gives me the shudders, but he's quite good at it.

Of course, we never told him he had deficits, and the school system is too self-absorbed to test him and tell him.

You're a miracle. Three times over a miracle, I told him when I caught him with marijuana. Don't you dare screw your brain up with chemicals. I'll kick your ass.

I look at him at seventeen and I think... it's time now I can stop worrying about his development. You cannot tell him apart from the other guys. You really can't unless you x-ray him.

Ordinary is about the best a kid can be.

Spring Cleaning

Ok. I'm going to clean out the kitchen drawer that grabs the stuff I'm clearing from the counters when company is imminent. That false impression I like to give that it's tidy around here. Sometimes it is.

Receipts are easy. Those go in a folding file. The M-80s I took away from the teenagers can stay there until July. Here's the silver plumeria earring I thought I lost. And here's a sample of barbecue rub... I'll just put that on the counter. I might use it tonight.

Here are two ticket stubs from July 2006. Crosby Stills Nash & Young at Red Rocks Ampitheater, Denver, Colorado. My adult son, Chris, and I were there. Unforgettable. David Crosby said in his second biography that the Red Rocks Freedom of Speech gig was one of the best they ever played. Hey! We were there!

The itinerary from here to Spearfish, South Dakota was one of my good ideas. Nobody in my household was interested in the Hoverson family reunion but me. "South Dakota in July? Too hot! Are you nuts?" Mom and Dad would drive, as usual, out of consideration for the little dog that goes everywhere they go.

Airfare from Seattle or Bellingham to Rapid City was about $700. But what if I flew into Denver and visit with my friend, Amber, then rent a car and drive from Denver to Spearfish and back? Those airplane tickets are $220. I looked around for things to do in Denver (why not?). Never been to Denver before.

"Hey, Chris. Wanna fly to Denver with me? We can see Crosby Stills Nash and Young at Red Rocks Amphitheater, stay overnight, and then drive up to Spearfish for that family reunion. We'll stay two days and drive back to Denver for the flight home. Wouldn't that be an adventure?"

My 29 year old son has inherited my good sense, so he could see a good time and quickly agreed. After all, we could both fly and ride for less than the cost of one direct ticket. Two for one. And rock and roll superstars in brand new territory.

The Denver airport is not in Denver but quite a ways east in Aurora. Right in the path of lightning storms and blizzards. We avoided the blizzards, it being July, but did arrive with lighting around our heads. Landing was ok, but it was waiting for baggage that took an hour or so. They can't send the baggage carriers out it for fear of lighting strikes, but the clouds move by like trains with several minutes in between.

We got the rental car, and nice stodgy Ford Taurus, and set out for Denver. Not knowing where I'm going has never stopped me and I'm used to surprises. The hotel was in Lakewood, not Denver. The concert was in Morrison, not Denver. "Denver" doesn't mean Denver, necessarily, and all of these places are twenty miles from downtown. Fortunately, Lakewood is on the same side of Denver as Morrison is. Amber lives in Golden. Not too bad.

The hotel clerk suggested we get an early start for Morrison to beat the traffic. She said parking was pretty far from the event, and we might like a taxi. We took her advice and she called one for us. Very easy ride to a place we never would have guessed was there. The amphitheatre is tucked into foothills that rise into the Rocky Mountains.

We stepped out of the cab and looked for the entrance. I bet we walked a mile up switchbacked trail until we reached the seating. Remembering we started upward from "the Mile High City," we took our time. There were paramedics at two stations for those of us whose hearts might seize up from the altitude and aerobics. It happens.

Ah, here we are. We walked through a gauntlet of charitable organization groups occupying booths and practicing free speech. You can speak freely, too, if you agree with them. Otherwise prepare for nasty insults. I'd learned that lesson long ago, so went straight for the beverage vendors. Chris and I each got a tasty beer, then climbed another 70 feet in altitude to our assigned seats.

What a beautiful place! The City of Denver owns this huge, perfectly acoustic venue. Rock formations and boulders make it perfect for the outdoor performances that have been going on since the early 1900s. It can seat over 9,000 people.

We got Kosher hotdogs and waited for the performance.

Rock gods! You can read reviews of the three concerts given that weekend at Red Rocks, so I won't even attempt one. As the sky grew dark, we could see lightning storms over the city of Denver and its skyscrapers twenty miles or so away. There were no clouds where we sat.

"Guinevere" and "Helplessly Hoping" gave me goosebumps. "Almost Cut my Hair" made me laugh. The old guys played until almost midnight.

Back at the entrance, we looked around for a taxi. Someone said there'd be plenty of them arriving soon. We observed tour buses near where we stood. A van unloaded six cases of Stella Artois. I asked one of the drivers, "Is the band here?" He said heck no, they'd left for their hotel right after the last note played. Hmmm... well, I wouldn't bother them, but at least I was standing pretty close. That's kinda exciting.

We got up the next morning as early as we could stand it and found the road to Spearfish woven through greater Denver, past the airport and north on Interstate 25. About two hours into the drive, we thought we could eat. Fort Collins Next Exit. Hey, that's where Dan's Bake Sale was! Let's go check it out!

For those of you in Rio Linda who don't know what Dan's Bake Sale was about, I should spare you the story... but those of us who know would want to check it out.

There aren't any signs of that 1993 event in Fort Collins now, but it is a really nice little college town (University of Colorado). It's also the home of New Belgium Brewery and a bunch of tech companies. It's got to be one of the prettiest places I've seen, with the Pouder River running through it, lots of green park area, and the Colorado Front Range alongside.

We found a really great Japanese restaurant with sidewalk tables. We watched the slow and easy downtown traffic and enjoyed the warm breezes, just right. Ok, we'll stop at one brewery.

O'Dell Brewery for just a few minutes... we shared a sampler. Pretty darned competent brewer. I bought a six pack to take home to John, without thinking about the season and outside temperatures. As a result, I carried it with me the whole trip to avoid letting it sit in the car and overheat. Just like a handbag.

Back in the car for hours and hours. Cheyenne, Wyoming was interesting, but we couldn't stop because we'd lost too much time in Fort Collins. Prairie dog towns line the freeway... hundreds of miles of rodent condos. Holes and mounds. A sentinel here, a sentinel there. No trees, no water, no cell phone signal. They could send a good 30% of Wyoming up to Alaska and no one would miss it, I think. Big ranch lands with long gravel driveways that disappear into seemingly nothing. One driveway had a billboard that said "Boner Ranch 10 Miles East." Chris made me turn around and stop the car so he I could take his photo standing next to it. There were other ranches that had signs mentioning an ownership by the Boner Family Ranch. You couldn't help but think... oh, never mind.

You can google "Boner Ranch" and you can find that lots of people have found this photo op irresistible. Amazing, since you can drive over an hour at a time and not meet another car.

The map required us to leave I-25 at US-85, which leads one from Lusk to Newcastle. My cousin told me that from Newcastle we had three choices of highway to Spearfish, but she couldn't give me a preference having never traveled to Newcastle herself.

You won't see much town in Lusk. Newcastle is clearly the center of activity for a hundred miles in any direction. There may be 3,000 people there but you'll only see 25 of them, maybe. We found a cafe on the top floor of an old granary. There was a drive-through liquor store on the ground level. What are you going to do?

The Old Mill Inn is probably the cleanest eatery I've ever set foot in. All paneled in melamine, it really shines. There is a dining room in the rear that has antelope antler chandeliers and a prime rib buffet on special nights. We waived the ambiance for the efficiency of the cafe front and had some pretty good cheeseburgers.

We asked around for directions to Spearfish using road map we got at the last gas stop. Everyone we asked peered at it and pointed at one of the three routes saying things like, "This one looks the shortest," "This one goes through the prairie and around the hills." "I think I've been on this one once." It turned out that no one we asked had ever been to Spearfish even though it was only about 60 miles away! We chose the one that went through the prairie and around the Black Hills just because someone said antelope are active at night and like to jump out in front of cars. We'd seen the carcasses positioned along the freeway, about one every five miles in differing states of decomposition. Straight, flat road sounded like the best visibility now that it was nighttime. Could someone have mentioned that 20 miles of that road was in gravel because of a repaving project? How would they know?

Three hours later we found Spearfish, the motel, and the boxy beds. But we slept very, very soundly. Chris came out of his room first and brought me coffee, sweet thing. Then we went to meet the relatives at the Booth History Fish Hatchery, where my cousin Randi is curator. Tours and lunch, then on your own until dinner for everyone at the Bay Leaf Cafe, $20 per person.

Mom and Dad arrived just in time for dinner, after an engine change in Billings, Montana. That's another story, and so many bad things could have happened to them except for the good nature of so many small town Americans. May God bless that mechanic.

I won't describe the town of Spearfish and the family reunion except to say that the Black Hills is beautiful country and there are lots of really old people who go to those things. We had a very nice visit and even got to see the Reptile Gardens in Rapid City. If you get a chance, be sure and see this most famous roadside attraction. It's been perpetuated with great class since 1937.

The car ride back to Denver was long and dull. It was hard to miss anything on the first pass through because there is so little to see. Lots of odometer watching. Cheyenne might be worth exploring someday.

We spent that night at Amber's house (she was back from a business trip), got a mini tour of Golden and downtown Denver the next day, then back to the friendly skies. We were home just after midnight and thoroughly worn out.

So today, I'm staring at these concert tickets and the messy drawer. I've wasted a half hour daydreaming, remembering... now I need a nap.

There's still enough room in the drawer for more junk. Why worry?

Departure

Not long ago, an acquaintence of mine took his own life. He was well-known to most of the town, but no one could see this coming. Not me, not any of his friends, not close associates in the business community.

And there were many, many people who loved him.

In late middle age, Chad had a catering business. Chad had been a florist, a landscaper, and a general building contractor. He worked with his hands, and although you couldn't say his work was that much better than his competitors, it was his charm that won him clients. And he was our first openly homosexual business leader. He was matter-of-fact about it, and he didn't "look like one." Chad could act a little "swishy" if he thought that's what you wanted to see, but really he was a fairly modest man.

"Some of them are as good as me, some of them are better than me, but they don't have that faggot touch," he'd laugh.

Not so good with money. He loved fine food, fine wine, and beautiful surroundings. His mother left him her house, which was a 50's working-class single level home on an average lot a couple of blocks from downtown. He'd put loads of money into it. Stuccoed interior walls with coved ceilings, Brazilian cherry cabinets, French doors, oriental rugs and a commercial kitchen inside. Meticulous plantings, terra cotta tile and even a brick oven outside. Many pieces of art were purchased from local artists because he loved to socialize with them and sponsor them. The piece de resistance was a ten year old Bentley parked in the driveway.

Rob Peter to pay Paul was his financial practice. I'm sure it enraged some people, but Chad could pull the fat out of the fire, so to speak, at the last moment most times.

Chad often donated his services at charity events. He might offer a dinner for eight in his home to the highest bidder at a live auction for, say, Youth Sports Coalition, and that would be one of the most popular and highest premium items.

I used to visit with one of his secretaries who is a good friend of mine. Cheryl and I had worked on political fundraisers in years past, so we'd talk about current events, how people we knew in politics were faring, the weather, family news... Sometimes Chad would join us, always in good cheer.

I remember one day we were talking about gay issues. I asked Chad those things a person might typically ask like "How and when did you know? "Are gay men any kind of threat to young boys?" "Should gay people marry?" He said I could ask him anything. But what I remember most, was the saddness in his voice when he told me he was lonely.

I said I didn't understand that because I knew he lived with a man named Jacob and they were seen everywhere together.

Not everyone knew, he explained, that he and Jacob were not lovers, but were friends.

"We're like a couple of old ladies." I remember those words very well, although I wasn't sure what he meant.

I heard through the buzz around town that Chad sold his business to pay IRS liens. I heard he put his beautiful home up for sale and leased it to a family until it could sell. He was renting a room somewhere. Someone said Jacob moved to Oregon.

I don't know who it was that found Chad's body. He was in his Bentley in a closed up garage with the engine still running. He had been drinking a twenty-year-old Bordeaux and listening to opera cds.

There was a big Catholic funeral. The church overflowed and the wake went well past midnight.

Then life went on. Months later, the house is still on the market like so many houses are in this recession, and the catering company is struggling. Some say it's closing it's doors.

I guess it's lost it's touch.

Where Do Angels Walk?

How many of us have seen those articles or even emails about angels? You can find talisman-like angels next to cash registers at Lowe's Hardware. Carry one of these charms in your pocket, and you will be blessed by some angel somewhere. Angels are all around us. Some are visible, some are invisible... so they say.

Go look in the mirror. See if you can find one there.

My father is getting pretty old. He worries about his physical body "going bad on him." He worries about his memory and his ability to do tasks that were once second nature. It takes him ten minutes to log on to the computer and find his email. He watches my mother's health deteriorate in tiny increments each day and worries about the day she might not wake up. What if he leaves a burner on the range and starts a fire? If Social Security and his savings fail to keep the house bills paid?

Larry Perl is twelve years younger than Dad. He was an apprentice to Dad way back in the 1960s when Dad owned an autobody repair business. He was a hippie, a musician... he had long hair. And he was a very intelligent, quick learner.

"He's got a gift for making something out of nothing," I remember Dad saying.

Larry knew every part in inventory, by number, by quantity, by quality. He could mix and blend paint colors effortlessly. Metalwork was flawless.  Dad thought he was pretty amazing. And Larry was cool. He played drums in a local rock band. We went to watch his band perform at a street dance near the high school. Very, very cool, I thought.

The young man helped us move from Livermore to Anacortes. We were packing boxes in June of 1968 while the tv news broadcasted reports of the assassination of Robert Kennedy. Late in the evening, Dad passed around take out chicken and Larry passed around that great California hippie wine, Red Mountain in the gallon jug.

I remember the evening winding down and Larry standing up from the table, saying, "Gotta make it... night all." How California hippie. How cool.

He came to visit us in Anacortes with his new wife and baby son. I was 13 or 14 and starting to get interested in listening to music other than what was on AM radio. He said the Allman Brothers are cool. Buy a copy of Eat a Peach. And then we lost touch.

Everytime I hear anything by the Allman Brothers I think of Larry Perl and wonder where he wound up.

So, not long ago, I was standing around with Dad in his front yard, and someone next door had the radio on. I could hear Duane Allman's song, "Melissa."

"Whatever happened to Larry Perl?" I asked my dad.

"Oh, gee whiz... I haven't heard from him since he came to see us on Ninth Street." said my dad. "It sure would be good to see him. I really liked that young man."

Dad smiled and said, "He's probably not so young anymore."

One night, during my middle-aged insomnia, I googled "Larry Perl." To make the long story short, I found an old article from a Livermore history page written by his sister. The Perl family, including Larry, were glider plane hobbiests and pilots. Then I googled his sister's name, found a bulletin board with her email address included and sent her a note.

"Yes," said Toodie Perl-Marshall, "That Larry Perl is the man who worked for your dad. And I remember your dad. We were just talking about him a few days ago. Such a good man your father is, and Larry would so love to hear from him. He has not had it easy for some time... quite a few challenges. I'll pass your contact information to him."

I heard from Larry within twenty-four hours. He told me my own dad was one of the people who influenced him the most, and someone he is grateful to for many good lessons. He'd often thought of how to get back in touch.

Dad and Larry are talking on the phone and writing to each other now. Invitations have issued. Dad is animated. He's talking about all the years they will catch up on. Mom is making up the guest room and looking up recipes to welcome Larry.

Dad is organizing the slide projector to show him the children, the grandchildren, and the single-engine airplane flights to Barrow, Alaska. Forty years of story telling are in the works, and I'm sure Larry is making the same preparations.

We did not know until today that Larry has a health crisis and has been in crisis for more than a decade. Only recently have his doctors found a resolution that looks very hopeful. In the next two weeks or so, Larry will know if he is out of the woods and can have some distance from the hospitals that keep him going. He says his goal is to come see my dad.

My friends and family would not tell you I am a religious person. I do not church. But I do believe the Spirit lives within all of us and does connect us. Maybe He speaks to us, and if we happen to be listening through the noise of day to day living, we can be instruments of small wonders.

I can't hear any better than anyone else does.

Could be I was listening at the right time, or maybe this is pure chance. My dad and his friend, Larry Perl, are helping each other be well.

I still can't say if I believe in angels. But I think I can say that each of us could be "as angels" in very simple ways.

I can't fix the economy, I can't make world peace, but I did facilitate a meeting that makes my dad (and his friend Larry) feel some happiness. Not too old or too sick to anticipate a renewed friendship.

A small miracle.

Anacortes on a Summer Night 1968

At 4:30 in the afternoon, the air was still warm. It would be daylight until after nine p.m. or so. I'd written to my friends in California about the longer days, the green landscapes, and the unbelievably cold water of Puget Sound. And the air got cold at night, even in August. The lushness was beautiful, but as a price you got as much rain as you did sun. So different from "home."

They wrote me back about pool parties and suntans.

Livermore was a small town in a valley of rolling hillsides. In summer the hills were golden with dried grasses and dotted with oak trees. Almost desert, the days' temperatures passed 100 degrees, while the nights "cooled" to the low 80s. We ran barefoot on the warm sidewalks until bedtime, and sometimes the heat made it hard to fall asleep. Once in awhile, on a really hot day, the Fire Department would open a hydrant in our neighborhood. The parched street would fill with water, several inches deep at the kerb, and we'd jump in it, roll in it, scoop it up until it quickly disappeared into the drains.

You wouldn't do that in Anacortes. Water outside the house came in one temperature: bone achingly cold. One entry at West Beach was all I needed to decide that.

Just the summer before this one, our family came to visit my uncle Curt and aunt Shirley at Whidbey Island. Dad saw Puget Sound for the first time and definitely not the last. The next thing we knew, our house was up for sale and we were northbound. We knew no one in this place called Anacortes. And then we got the news that Uncle Curt was transfered to Memphis!

Twelve years old, I was sitting on the steps in front of the 1910 wood frame house that we'd moved into just a month or two before. My dad was in the basement trying to figure out a plumbing problem (those would be endless) while my mom was next door at the Pirak's visiting Sylvia. I was mourning the loss of all things familiar.

The Pirak's were the middle-aged couple next door. They were the first to welcome us, and the only people we knew so far. Mike and Sylvia had three grown children and one daughter named Marie who was about to start her senior year in high school. We hadn't met Marie yet because she was working through summer at an Alaska fish cannery.

I could see Mom and Sylvia through the Pirak's picture window. She and Sylvia were drinking red wine in water glasses, Yugoslavian style. Mike, at the parking strip on the street, was under the hood of Marie's 1959 Chevrolet swearing at the engine. I'd never heard language like that, and was thinking I'd better get used to it.

Sylvia saw me, and like she would anytime she saw one of us kids during happy hour, called me into her kitchen. I hadn't learned yet to stay out of her sight after 4:00.

"You'll come in and meet Marie. She's home from Kodiak."

Marie was in her room, off the kitchen in their shot-gun style house. She was unpacking clothing that smelled faintly of fish guts. About 5'3" and heavy set, Marie had dark hair and dark eyes. She gave me a big smile and said, "You must be Mouse."

Never tell a Yugoslav your childhood nickname. They'll call you that for life. Mom told Sylvia they'd called me Mouse when I was two because I worked very quietly at toddler-mischief. And I do remember thinking, "If I'm caught, I'll be stopped."

Sylvia emptied her glass and went to the kitchen to finish preparing dinner. Mike must eat not one minute after 5:00.

"You come back at 5:30." She said, abruptly.

Marie smiled again and said, "See you later, Mouse."

At our house, Mom made sandwiches. Dad was still struggling with the pipes below us, so Mom told him his supper was in the refrigerator and we'd be at Pirak's.

Sylvia poured herself and Mom a glass of Vino Fino from the gallon jug. Mike stood up.

"On Tuesdays he takes the paper to his mother and his aunt Mary," said Sylvia. Mike asked if I wanted to go along. Marie was on the phone and I was beginning to get uncomfortable with Sylvia. She had lots of opinions and was looking at me a little too closely.

"Sure."

"Get your jacket."

We walked the three blocks to Safeway where Mike purchased three Anacortes Americans. Then we walked Commercial Avenue past the storefronts and taverns. Mike glanced inside the taverns, not entering, and made remarks about who should be home and who hadn't been seen at Mass for months. We turned the corner at 4th Street and went up the steps of an old white Cape Cod. An old woman with white hair, coke bottle glasses and a worn housedress greeted us.

"Mother," said Mike in greeting. Their conversation was in Yugoslavian with an occasional, "No kidding!" or "That's right!" from Mike. Mrs. Pirak offered me some strange smelling cookies that I politely declined. I found out later the aroma I didn't like was aniseed.

We left Mrs. Pirak's house and walked about five blocks zig and zag to Mary Bachlich's house, a big dark bungalow with a wide porch. Old hardwood and wool rugs that looked age-worn and maybe a little grimy. The smell was of stove oil and mothballs.

"Sylvia says I have to watch you take your pills, Mary," said Mike.

Mary, a woman of 80-something, ankles swollen and color terrible, hobbled up to the sink. In the cabinet she found a juice glass and filled it half way with water. Mike handed her several small pills. She tossed the pills down the drain and dumped the water in after them.

"There. Tell Sylvia I took them from you."

Entering the Pirak's front door I could see that Mom and Sylvia had a similar facial expression. Marie stood to greet me and said, "Let's go drag the gut, Mousey." Whatever that is. She got the Chevy going after several tugs at the key and we were on our way.

Up and down Commercial Avenue. Honk and wave. Turn around at Jorgenson's market at the high end, Reisner Distributing at the other end. The Beatles' White Album over and over again. Marie had bought the new eight-track deck with her cannery money and she only had enough left to buy one tape. We got milk shakes at A&W. "You owe me 75 cents, Mouse, but I'll pay for the gas."

We checked it at 9:00. Mom and Sylvia were looking for moths. "Mike found one in his closet so we have to find the other two before we can sit down." There are always three moths in Yugoslavian households. Soon enough, Sylvia was able to present two fresh kills to Mike.

"Now take your heart medicine and go to bed."

She opened a pill bottle and put one in his hand along with a water glass. Mike took a pill and Sylvia took a pill.

Mom said, "I thought that was Mike's medicine."

"It is," replied Sylvia, "He won't take it unless I do." Sylvia described how Mike wore garlic around his neck when they met and she made him get rid of it before she would go out with him. So, he blamed her for every cold he caught and made sure she got one whenever he did.

The adults went off to slumber, and Marie asked me to stay and watch a movie with her. Then another movie. There's no tv in Kodiak, she explained.

At 1:15 a.m. she jumped up and put her coat on. She told me to get in the car. So, I did, and we went back downtown. She pulled into the Thrifty Mart parking lot and took one of the spaces facing Commercial Avenue and Vi & Pete's Cafe.

"We're going to Watch the Drunks Come In," she said. And about then the first car arrived, stopping about three feet from the kerb. The passenger door opened, and a woman put her foot out, misjudging the pavement. Down she tumbled, and she cussed at the driver. He got out, walked behind the car and stood, swaying a bit with both hands pushed into his lower back, elbows out. Squinting, he went back a few paces, then put a hand over one eye. He staggered over to help his companion up from the street and together they made the sidewalk with only two tries. Just in time, too, because the next driver would have hit that first man, and he stopped just short of the rear bumper when he popped the clutch.

It was pretty funny, so I had to laugh out loud with Marie.

When all the Tuesday night revelers were seated at the U shaped counter and taking their black coffee, Marie and I left Thrifty. One more drag up Commercial Avenue and back down, making way for a last-minute arrival to Vi & Petes who'd been on-foot, running down the center line of the street.

We parked on the street in front of Marie's house and saw a man exiting two doors down from hers. He got in a car and drove off. Another man came up the sidewalk, staggering, with a pistol held loosely in his right hand.

"That's Bob, Doris' boyfriend," said Marie. "She's a prostitute. Bob gets jealous sometimes." She turned her back to him as he passed by and I scooted in front of her to her door.

"Ok if I stay a few minutes?" I asked, with an anxious glance toward Doris' house.

"Naw. You can go home. Nighty-night, Misch!" She closed and locked the door. I shivvered and ran home as fast as I could, quiet as a...

Misch? That's Yugoslavian for Mouse.

Steve and the Gypsy Woman

Livermore lies about 40 miles east of San Francisco, and in 1966 it was still a pretty small town. The downtown core was surrounded with middle class neighborhoods of the three bedroom, one and three-quarter bath, twelve hundred square foot rambler plans.The streets and cul de sacs ran back-to-back with no alleys, and boys often walked the fence lines to get to each other's houses. That really got on my mom's nerves because sometimes she'd still be in her house coat when a kid jumped down in front of the kitchen window, startling her.

"Can't you tell your friends to go to the front door and ring the bell?"

One 95 degree July afternoon, my friend Leslee and I were out in the cool garage inside a cardboard refrigerator box. We were playing, "Grapes of Wrath" after a book and movie our parents couldn't stop talking about. Her mother's and my mother's families had arrived in California when the dust bowl hit Oklahoma in the late 1930s and they couldn't remind us often enough of the hard times they lived through and how good we kids had it. Nine years old each, Leslee and I made entertainment out of it.

A cardboard refrigerator box became a tent at the edge of a sugar beet field somewhere in the Central Valley. We were "suffering," complaining of our empty stomachs and dirty faces. Leslee had taken two packages of Jello mix from her mom's kitchen,and we were dipping our fingers in it, licking it off, and proclaiming our good fortune in finding a meal for the day. She called me "Malcolm" and I called her "Clem," and we talked in phony Okie accents about the Mexicans who stole the gasoline out of our pitiful truck and left us stuck in an empty crop field. We were going to miss the hops harvest in Fresno.

We heard the gate open and close. Then the man-door of the garage opened, and in walked Annette. She found us. Annette was the five year old girl who lived next door. She was a very sweet little girl with the dark eyes, olive skin and wavy brown hair of her Sicilian family. Her brother and sister were in high school, so she had no siblings to play with, and her mother wouldn't let her leave the yard. Mrs. Certa was in her late 40s, at least. Always tired looking, stooped shouldered and baggy-eyed, she ambled along with her slip showing below a calico skirt. She usually wore a colorful apron with ruffles and seemed to be always cooking something. Mom complained that Mrs. Certa couldn't understand English, so didn't seem to get it when Mom sent Annette home several times a day.

"I tell Annette to go home and she won't stay home. I tell Mrs. Certa to keep her daughter at home, and she just smiles and nods at me. Annette walks into my house without knocking and always looks and smells like she needs a bath."

Certa's backyard was filled with tomato plants, strawberries and basil in very tidy rows. A small cement patio held two metal adirondack chairs with a small table stood in the middle, with gardening tools leaning against the house siding.

Annette wanted to play with us in the Stockton migrant workers' camp. She didn't want to go home.

"Tell you what," said Leslee, offering her soggy box of Jello. "You can play with us if we can go in your back yard and look at your garden. That was agreeable to Annette. So the three of us sat in the shade of an imaginary oak tree reminising about Oklahoma in the days of glory before the drought. Annette smiled at her orange Jello stained finger, and smiled at Leslee and me.

"Let's see that garden." said Leslee.

Annette said we should be quiet and not wake up her mother.

We crept through the mirror image of our own gate and tiptoed along the side path. The tomatoes were as tall as we were! There were bell shaped fruits we hadn't seen before, some huge red ones, ("Beefsteaks," pronounced Leslee), and some small round cherry tomatoes. At the far side of the yard in the semi shade was the basil, but we didn't know what that was. And in between the two crops were three rows of big, glistening strawberries.

I walked into a row of the pear shaped tomatoes and took a big whiff of herbaceous air. Leslee followed and held up a branch.

"Lookit!" She cried, then crouched down quickly realizing she'd breached the hush.

She held in her hand a big caterpillar-worm-looking creature. It was three inches long, bright green with red and yellow spots. There was a horn-like hook at the tail end. We easily found more and put them inside a terra cotta planting pot. They began to crawl out. By that time, we'd remembered the strawberries.

Annette said, "No! No! Can't have!" But Leslee and I already had our mouths full and we were filling the bottoms of our t shirts like pouches.

"I'll take some tomatoes to my mom," said Leslee, remembering the dust bowl.

Just then, my little brother, Steve came walking along the fence top. Pestier even than Annette, he wanted to see what we were doing.

"HEY!" He shouted at us.

Just then, Mrs. Certa began to open the patio door, her voice ahead of her, talking loudly in Italian. Steve hightailed it, and that distraction allowed Leslee, Annette and I to creep out the gate unnoticed. All the woman could see was the back side of my brother before he dropped into another back yard for safety.

Annette quietly went home, out the gate and through her own front door. Leslee walked down the street to share the produce bounty with her family.

Steve came home a few hours later after playing somewhere with his friends. He'd left his skateboard behind a previous visit, so was traveling via sidewalk rather than fenceline. He came running up from Hillcrest Avenue all sweaty and excited.

"Some Gyspy lady was following me!" he said. "I started up our street from Madeira Way and she was walking behind me. I didn't want to come all the way home because then she'd know where I live. I went around Duke Way and there she was again!"

He looked at Mom and Dad, who were a little doubtful. Steve was supposed to be home an hour earlier to clean his room, and it seemed a likely story.

"I went around Pestana Way and down to East Avenue, then up Hillcrest to get away from her. I think she's trying to kidnap me!"

Mom gave him chocolate milk to calm his nerves, then he went off to his room. Leslee and I had moved to the kitchen by then, and were examing a bottle of baby aspirin next to the toaster. She was just about to suggest we eat a few of those, when the doorbell rang. Mom yelled at Steve to answer the door.

He performed the duty and gave a loud scream, "It's her! Mom! It's the Gypsy and she's here to get me!"

We ran to the front room to rescue my little brother and see the Gypsy.

Little brown-eyed Annette peeked out from behind the colorful skirt of Mrs. Certa.

"She thinks he stole her strawberries," Annette said, eyes downcast.

The next time Annette came into our house without knocking, Mom put her in our bathtub.

Ethel Alice Brown Hoverson

Today is my the birthday of my paternal grandmother. I always remember it, although she passed away in 1989. I'll call my dad and we'll recall a story or two and express our sense of loss. No one lives forever, of course, and her last years were pretty uncomfortable as Parkinson's Disease ran it's course.

I remember seeing her in the nursing home, unable to eat or drink (her wish not to be tubed or IV'd). Dad and I brought family photos for her to look at, so we'd have something to cheer her with. My aunt, whose care she was in, said she probably couldn't hear us and wouldn't likely respond. Dad showed Grandma a photo of herself and her brothers taken when she was in her late teens. Right after the photo was taken, her brother, Donald, shoved a handful of snow in her face.

She laughed! We all cried.

I miss her so very much. She was a constant source of love and approval all of the years she was in my life.

Dad sent her an orchid every year since he was high school age. She would refrigerate it and wear it to Sunday church services.

She and Grandpa never missed an important event in their grandchildren's lives. Even when we moved from California to Washington, we would get visits at least twice a year, and we would visit them at least twice a year.

I probably stayed out of alot of trouble because I cared so much what they thought of me.

Grandma told me she could trace her family history all the way back to the time of Napolean. She showed me a gold watch that had a circle of red velvet inside it. An ancestor fought in Napolean's army, and the general would give his officers these watches with a piece of his coat to carry into battle. My aunt has this watch.

I have a black pot that was brought over from Scotland by my ancestor, David Brown. He was born in 1836 Kilmarnock Parish, Ayrshire, Scotland and was a hotelier. He sold his holdings and migrated to Canada, then to Grand Forks, ND where he married Mary Jane Sheppard and raised a family including my great-grandfather, W.D. Brown. W.D. married Lucy Moore after his first wife passed away, and those two are my grandmother's parents.
Grandma kept reading materials in the pot, and so do I.

David Brown was kind of a local big shot, I heard. He was friends with James J. Hill, of the Great Northern Railroad, and was one of the thirteen private investors in a holding company intended for expansion of the railroad to the west coast and into the southwest. The US Government called this a monopoly, and ordered all the investments returned, so our family missed it's shot at obscene wealth. We don't know where David Brown's fortune went, he would have willed it to the child of his first marriage and the children of his second marriage... maybe it went into stock investments that were depleted in 1929 (the year my father was born).



His son, my grandmother's father, W.D. Brown did have a good-sized farm in Manvel and it was prosperous enough that his family lived in a house in town. There are photos of my grandmother fashionably dressed on the porch of a nice, big frame house. Her hair is always "marceled." I have her curling iron. She was sought after by many young men, but my grandpa Rueben Hoverson is the man who won her.

Dad has a photo of W.D. and Lucy Brown. They have their arms around each other and they are laughing.

I can't find much information on geneology sites about the Hoversons. I know that my grandpa's parents came separately from Norway, and met and married in Grand Forks, ND.

I can see David Brown's place of birth, his date and place of death, but not much else.


David Brown's wife, my grandma's grandmother, was Mary Jane Sheppard. Here's where I found surprises. You can follow her line all the way to England before the landing of the pilgrims in Massachusetts. One of our ancestors, Francis Willoughby, came to Massachusetts Bay Colony from London around 1640 and sometime during his life, was a lieutenant governor and wrote a book on puritanism and government. His lot came from England, remember, to escape religious persecution, but a little reading will tell you the puritans were pretty intolerant themselves.

Francis Willoughby also built the first shipyard in Massachusetts Bay, but I can't find anymore than that.

Grandma and Grandpa had a quarter section farm in Manvel, ND., where their three children were born. My father, Rodgers Hoverson, is the youngest. Grandpa could see that the quarter section would not be much split three ways as an inheritance, so he leased it to one of his brothers and moved the family to Sonoma, CA when my dad was about 12 years old. He drove a truck for Standard Oil Co., and invested in a few rental properties around Sonoma. The family moved to Vallejo after a year or so.

He was right that there was more opportunity for his children's future in California. Grandpa kept the Manvel farm with his nephew as a tenant farmer (surviving the brother) until his death at 95 years old. It's since been sold and the proceeds distributed to his children.

I've seen family pictures taken in my grandparent's front yard with WW2 dirigibles floating in the air above the house. Those had personnel in them who watched for Japanese fighter planes in the case they were still pressing after the Pearl Harbor attack.

I wish I'd paid more attention to the stories Grandma told me about our family history... but the most important things she left me came through the love and example she gave me as a child. Every bit the lady, she taught me manners, values, and even corrected my grammar in a most gentle and humorous way. We played cards, talked politics, and she had almost enough patience to teach me knitting.

A few years ago, on her birthday, I was having coffee with my dad. I complained that aging was such a humiliating process: my girth expands, my face falls, my vocabulary is becoming elusive. He said to me, "You are the image of your grandmother. I see and remember my mother just looking at you. You be proud of that."

I am.