David Crosby

I'm a fan. Not for his political and social views, because I think he sounds like an idiot. We can all sound like idiots, I'm sure, but most of us don't get national press.

But he is a fascination of mine. This man, Crosby, is a brilliant songwriter with a natural unaffected voice. As a young man, he was simply beautiful to look at. I remember when I was a teenager and looking at the photo of him, below, there was something in his eyes that made me feel a little uncomfortable. I remember I couldn't look at it very long.

As a full grown woman, I can see why. He was the very image of Pan, the ancient god of Greek mythology. Of fields and forests, of shepherds and flocks... and fertility. Pan had great appetites for everything in his domain. He played his pan-pipes, made wine, and chased (and caught) nymphs with complete abandon.

David Crosby was blessed with that pure and beautiful tenor voice and a gift for writing enchanting lyrics, delivered with a slight lisp that still gives me chills. And, like Pan, he lusted and consumed. Crosby, though, is not a god but a man. The stories of his drug addictions and sometimes badly executed sexual relationships are well-known and he is quite candid about them. It's amazing he's alive.

David's written two books, Long Time Gone (1988) and Since Then (2007). They are eye-opening. He seems to take full responsibility for all of the events he describes. He conquer ed and discarded countless women, fathered children out of wedlock, betrayed friendships, took amazing quantities of drugs, defaulted on contracts and financial obligations... there was no sin unsinned except for murder. He knows mansions and jails and gutters equally well.

His good looks faded early on because of all the self-abuse, but he miraculously held on to his musical talents and that captivating voice. I saw him perform live with Stephen Stills, Graham Nash, and Neil Young in 2006, twice. It's still there, as vibrant as it was when he was a young man. Some kind of miracle, gotta be.

He is paunchy and his white hair is thin and whispy. His face and arms are scarred by burns he got passing out with a free-base torch left on so many times.  He is a wiser man now, maybe just worn down, but I understand he lives quite happily with his wife, Jan Dance, who has stuck with him for at least three decades. She's seen him through his worst, and lived it all with him. She's a miracle survivor herself. He's met the children who grew up without him, integrated them with the ones he has raised, and made amends with most of the people he severely let down during his fall from grace.

A happy man, I think. I hope so. He'll never impress me with his opinions, but I can easily ignore that.

Look at those dancers gliding around

Seems as if their feet

Don't hardly touch the ground

Look at them smiling like they knew one another

And they never would come down

Turn around and hold me

I'd like to see your face alone

I'm hoping there's someone home

I'd like to meet you.

Who do you see?

Introduce yourself to whichever of me is nearby

Close behind your eyes you're laughing at me

And I'm stuck here with no instructions

That I can easily steer by

Stick around, it's tricky ground

I'd like to see your face alone

I'm hoping there's someone home...

In My Dreams, David Crosby

Beautiful Things

I finished my riding lesson and changed my clothes to reduce the "horsey" smell so I could merge with the public. As much as I enjoyed the horse ride, and as much as I'd like a nap afterward, I just wasn't ready to go home. It's a beautiful house on lush acreage with a pond. Big rooms paneled in oak, sumptuous furnishings. But there is tension there, along with all of the chores I've felt too paralyzed to complete. Home is a place of things caught up in the air, unsettled spirits.

It was rare weather for Western Washington, sunny and hot. Where to go? I thought of Fairhaven and it's tree shaded downtown, which is tucked between the south side of Bellingham and the Bellingham Bay. There's lots of charm in this place. Always interesting. It's close to Western Washington University, so it has that eclecticism college towns are known for.

Fairhaven is a very old town (although now it is part of Bellingham), and it's history is preserved through renovation of old buildings and covenants that require any new construction fit the 19th century style of the architectural treasures, such as Sycamore Square. This particular building is one of my all-time favorites. It was originally built to be the Puget Sound terminus of the Great Northern Railroad, but has had many lives and uses since those days. I love the big atrium that is the center. I walk up the stairs and marvel at the woodwork and the views from each floor. There are old photos in frames that tell of Fairhaven's days as a transportation hub. Besides the railroad, there were and still are a bus depot and the southern end of the Alaska Marine Highway. You can start here and go all the way by ferry to Dutch Harbor at the end of the Aleutian Island Chain. Cruise ships come and go, too.

My usual course is to park in front of Sycamore Square, and walk down to the harbor, feel the cool breezes from the bay as I watch the activity and the boats, then walk up the opposite side of the street and return to my car. It's a an hour or two of good diversion, and I get lunch some where on the journey... so many interesting choices.

On my way down the street, I peeked into shops. There is fine art on the first corner, and I imagined a big acrylic painting of sailboats at rest in dry dock hanging in my living room. And small brass sculpture of wood ducks on the fireplace mantel. Beautiful things of water and air. But such things are hard to place in a restless atmosphere.

I looked in a consignment shop filled with festive gowns and colorful ensembles "pre-loved" and marked at bargain prices. I imagined where they'd been. High school proms, wedding receptions, cruise ship dining salons. In and out of suitcases, in and out of the closets of people unknown to me. And I thought, these beautiful things are mementos of other peoples' lives.

In the window of a jewelry store I saw a gold and amethyst pendant. A beautiful thing I could picture around the neck of a younger woman of high spirits and hopeful future. A gift from a lover, perhaps.

Inside an antique shop I found two nicely seasoned cast iron skillets. Beautiful things I could take home and put to good use. The clerk put them in a reusable cloth shopping bag with the company logo printed on it for just a dollar extra. So "green" they are in Bellingham. Through the door and on the sidewalk I thought about how I used to enjoy cooking, but haven't found much joy in that or anything around the house, and why in the world am I now carrying heavy skillets around with me?

I continued my walk to Squalicum Harbor where I gazed at the choppy water and the sea gulls dipping from the blue of the sky to the blue of the bay. And I said a prayer for the beautiful things and my loss of connection with them. Then back to the sidewalk and the uphill walk returning to my car and the freeway and home.

Just past the Persian carpet seller I sat down on a bench and rested for a moment. The bag of skillets was heavy and I had several blocks left to go, and uphill, too. I rose to start the trudge. Just then a young man appeared and said, "That bag looks heavy, why don't you let me carry it for you?" Surprised I turned to him and saw the bluest eyes, blue as the summer sky above us. And he reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet, "Here, you can hold this if you think I'm going to run off with your bag." Amazed at the stranger's friendliness, I took the wallet in dumb reaction. He took my bag. We introduced each other, he said his name was Michael.

He looked inside the bag, "Perfectly seasoned skillets, beautiful things. No telling how old they are.  Do you like to cook?"

"Oh, I used to," I answered him, "Not as much these days. I don't know why I bought them. Right now they're just heavy."

Michael said, "If you think hard, you might remember something about them."

"My grandma used pans just like these," I said, softly. "She showed me how to fry chicken, make the perfect grilled cheese sandwich, and how to keep the skillet seasoned. She made it look so easy."

As we walked, I studied the young man. I saw a very kind face with just a few lines. Hard to guess his age, maybe 25, maybe 35. Average height, slight of build, but I remember his eyes best, the bluest eyes, the color of calm seas.

"Where are you going?" I asked Michael. And he said,"Anywhere, everywhere. I travel light, and don't stay in any place very long. The world is big and my needs are small. I find good company where ever I am. I'm thinking of boarding the ferry and exploring the stops along Alaska Marine Highway."

"All the way to Dutch?" I asked him.

"No particular destination." He smiled. "There are beautiful things all along any route, or any wandering. I always find them. Some might call me a drifter, but it seems to be my calling."

"Look!" he said, "Cupcakes!" We were alongside a small shop that sold cupcakes, only cupcakes, with good coffee and tea. Beautiful things as seen from the window, very inviting. I asked if he'd let me treat him to one and he said sure. We went inside the store, decorated as you might expect in pastel colors with whitewashed chairs and tables. He chose Black Forest and I chose Very Vanilla and we sat down to enjoy. Michael's blue eyes shone as he sipped his coffee, eyes as blue as royal velvet.

On the wall, hung high, were some badly done acrylic paintings of dark content. One was a very disturbing landscape with a chilly blue house on the far left. Dayglow footprints led from the house to what looked like a child in pajamas lying down before a long-toothed bear that might eat him. Two "Red Riding Hoods" stood smiling passively nearby, while a wolf hid behind a tree.

I pointed it out to Michael, and I said, "What on earth is that doing in this place? So parents can bring their children here for a goodie and a nightmare?"

"It is an interesting contrast," said Michael. "But notice that it's hung pretty high up on the wall. I doubt a child would notice anything but the clashing colors and harsh brushstrokes. A child's eye would rather consider the glass cases of cupcakes and the delight of eating them."

"A parent should notice, you'd think one would suggest that the owner take that horrible thing down," I said. At the next table sat a daddy and a beautiful little girl. He sipped coffee and chatted with her while she took apart her cupcake, eating the cake first and then the icing. Michael clearly enjoyed watching them. After the treat was all gone, the father and daughter stood up and started for the door. The daddy glanced up at the awful painting, then reached for his little girl's hand. She smiled at him and hugged his leg. They left, laughing.

I returned my attention to Michael and my cupcake and the good coffee. Beautiful things. His blue eyes, as blue as Ceylon sapphires, the aroma of the Columbian coffee, the softness and sweetness of the confection, the easy companionship.

"The most beautiful things are personal," said Michael, "And those things beheld and shared with another are the most beautiful of all. Even the ugly falls away when that beauty is present."

As we got up to leave the shop, I remembered Michael's wallet and gave it to him, smiling. I picked up my bag.

"Well, you go on with your travels, Michael. This bag isn't so heavy and I've only got another block to my car."

We gave each other goodbyes and best wishes. He went back down the street toward the waterfront, and I found my car where I left it.

And the bag wasn't heavy at all.

Overheard at Star Bar

Star Bar is an elegant restaurant by Anacortes standards. There is a classically trained chef in the kitchen, not usual in a little town like this. It can be an expensive place to eat, and we save it for special occasions around here. But there's a secret. You can go in there and sit in the bar at a quiet table. No one will notice you while you order soup and bread from the kitchen. You might spend ten bucks including tip and it's pretty darned good. Chef works magic with veal stock reductions and fresh vegetable purees.

The decor is Moorish-chic, maybe. That influence comes through the two women who own Star Bar. They are an interesting and beautiful blend of Pakistani, East Indian, Portuguese, French and I-can't-remember-what-else. Farrah and Shinahz come from a family of some wealth, are educated and have lived all over the world, and somehow have chosen Anacortes for home.

There are beautiful fabrics, natural wood, and handpainted ceramics decorating the long rooms. Farrah and Shinahz also commissioned hammered steel sculpture in star motif, made by our own Paul Thorne, a master blacksmith. There are cozy little sitting areas built into one side of the bar. Satin, brocade, and velvet cushions placed here and there with voile curtain work for semi-privacy.

You can wander in most any mid-afternoon and have it all to yourself. That's the time of day some of us feel a bit lagged. If you can't get a nap, I recommend a break here. Quiet refreshment.

There I was with my fresh pea and asparagus soup drizzled with truffle oil, and a glass of iced tea, just the other day. I could see kitchen staff going back and forth through the bar and in between the kitchen and the pantry getting ready for dinner.

Two nicely dressed women about middle age appeared and sat at the next table. I recognized them from Chamber of Commerce events. I don't think they saw me with the drapery in between us.

"I just don't know why he doesn't get it. I told him come pick me up in an hour and you think he could stay gone. Go to the Brown Lantern, find some friends and a beer, I said. I can call you when I'm done," said the first voice.

The second voice replied, "I don't even tell my husband I'm going. They're all the same that way. It's like some little voice tells them to come stomping in with big boots and ruin the moment."

And the first voice said, "Yeah, I was in the chair with my People magazine reading about Sandra Bullock's divorce. I'd taken my feet out of the bath and Tran had applied the lotion to my legs. He'd started that nice, slow massage up and down my calves and down to my toes. I was just starting to feel that three-day migraine starting to fade, when in walks Jerry asking if I've got a twenty because he doesn't want to use a credit card at the bar. And he looks down at me and Tran and he's shocked. Like, what does he think is going on and who invited him? He makes a remark about Pol Pot missing one and I'm so embarrassed and I can't move because I'm covered with that lotion from the knees down, my shoes are under the chair, and I'm, like, stunned. I don't know what to say.

"Come on," she continued,"It's not like I'd bought the guy dinner or anything. And his wife's right there doing a manicure on Patsy..."

"How much did you tip?"

"Oh, five dollars. I really felt bad."

I waved at the bartender and motioned to the currency I'd laid on the table. Quick exit through the dining room... It's probably better those women don't know anyone heard that.

Jack and Lisa

Jack and Lisa have lived in our apartments about three years. Jack showed up first. He is a large man in his fifties with some sort of deficit. I thought he might be mentally retarded and wondered how he could live independently, so I was skeptical of his application. He'd been living at Cascade West Apartments, which is notorious for poor management, criminal activity and disrepair. Pizza companies will not deliver there.

Jack told me he couldn't sleep at night because he was worried someone would break in and that he kept a baseball bat at every door and window. He said he had to get out of there before someone got hurt. "I don't want to hurt anyone," he said, "But you can see I'm a big guy and I'll defend myself if I have to." Yes, he is a very big guy. I thought of Lou Ferrigno as the Hulk in late middle age.

I took his application and faxed it to Orca Information for screening. With three vacancies in our complex, I was hoping he'd be clear, but his appearance made me a little doubtful.

The next day, Lisa came into the office. She's probably in her late forties and also presents with a deficit of some kind. About 5'2" dark haired, blue-eyed, stoop-shouldered and a bit heavy. Lisa looks like an aging child with a constant what-me-worry smile. She had her mother, named Leona, with her. Leona explained that Lisa had been living in Cascade West and had problems with some of the other residents and she was concerned for her safety there. I assured Leona that we ran a pretty tight ship and we'd be happy to show her around.

Leona explained that Lisa's rent was guaranteed and that she kept in close contact with Lisa. That always sounds good to me, so I gave them an application (everybody gets screened) and asked them to check back in a couple hours. Leona asked me if Jack had been approved. Jack? Yes, Lisa's friend Jack had also applied, and although Jack is not a relative, she kinda looks after him, too. Jack and Lisa met in a group home ten years ago and they've been friends ever since. Not boyfriend and girlfriend, just friends, but they keep each other company. They tried sharing an apartment once but that didn't work, so they each need their own place.

Well. Leona saw me looking a little doubtful and said, "You're worried about Jack. He's ok. The problem at Cascade West is he's on the third floor and stairs make him nervous. He doesn't like walking up that high. And some of the neighbors taunt him. There was an attempted break in a few months ago and he doesn't know who it was, so he's afraid of everyone there. It's a bad place for him and Lisa, so we're looking around for something better. He and Lisa both have financial aid and you don't have to worry about the rent."

Orca Information said they were ok, so I approved them and they got to move in the next weekend. Two out of three vacancies filled quickly. That felt good.

Neither of them drive. They take the bus or Leona drives them. I see them walk by the office quite often, and sometimes they stop in and talk to me. Of course, I cannot diagnose them, but I can sure tell when medication is adjusted. There are days when one or the other of them cannot shut up. It's happy banter, though, not about any topic in particular. It just takes up time, and I have to shoo them off after awhile so I can work.

Not long ago, Jack came into the office with a miniature poodle. DSHS gave him the dog for "therapy." He has "someone" to care for and keep him from feeling lonely and frightened at night. He paid the pet deposit as agreed, and we talked about the goofy things pets do to entertain us. I mentioned America's Funniest Home Videos. Jack said, "It's funny you should mention that show because I've been on it. But you probably didn't recognize me because I was a horse that day." He went on to describe a scene in which a horse did some clever math with his hoof.

I raised my eyebrows.

"You probably don't believe me but I've been turned into a horse lots of times. I had a girlfriend when I lived at Cascade West who got really mad at me when I broke up with her. She learned how to cast spells and for about three years there I'd turn into a horse for a few hours at a time. The Catholic Church finally found out about her and took her book of spells away. But let me tell you, it's pretty scary when you don't know when it's going to happen. Once I lost my job and got arrested all in the same day." He paused, and looked carefully at my face to see if I was paying attention.

I was.

"I was driving a delivery truck with another guy on the passenger side. We were on the freeway to go drop off some packages. I felt the spell coming on and I said to the guy, "You'd better take the wheel while I figure out how to get to the side of the road. And the guy wouldn't listen, so I had to practically scream at him that I was about to turn into a horse and I wouldn't have any hands. He finally took the wheel and scooted over as I crawled into the back of the van. We must have been driving erratically, because the police pulled the van over and that's when I got arrested."

"You got arrested for driving erratically?" I asked.

"No, it wasn't for that," he explained. "When they looked into the back of the van they found me, and you know what horses wear."

Not everyone needs a driver's license. Not everyone should have a driver's license.

The SKAT buses are good-sized and can accommodate people of all sizes and shapes. Even the occasional horse.

What if Jack's poodle turned into a horse?

Spring Break

Eight teenaged boys and a fire ring. On an island on a small lake in the middle of Fidalgo Island.

Seated in a circle.

A ring of boys, around a ring of fire, on an island with a ring of water on a bigger island surrounded by another body of water, surrounded by a continent surrounded by ocean.

A mandala.

Maybe something magical.

Except Colin is one of them, and I think that was an M-80 I heard.

Stop that! The police are not part of the mediation.

And now they're back in the house.

Trail

"Do you want to walk dogs with me?" I asked my son, Chris, over the phone, "They have new halters and leashes and I haven't test driven them yet." The day was cloudy but pleasant, a good day to be outside.

I have two miniature pinschers that are house dogs. Can't really take them anywhere because if they see something, they go after it, and are not coming back until they're good and ready. It's the nature of the breed. They are darlings in the house. Very clean and sweet-natured. Bright and entertaining. I keep them in the yard using electronic "fence."

So, I thought if I took Chris along on the walk, he could help with the chase-and-corner if one of them managed to slip free from her halter.

We chose the Tommy Thompson Trail. This four-mile rails-to-trails paved route goes from about 15th Street past Fidalgo Bay RV Park and used to go over Fidalgo Bay to the edge of the refineries' property. Last year, an arsonist burned a span of the trestle crossing, so you can only go as far as the barricades. A heroic community effort is underway to rebuild the pilings and walkway section. It's the only thing I can remember the community uniting over and getting right to work on. Everything else requires endless hearings, a lawsuit or two, and protesters from all over the state. The paper says it will be finished the middle of next month.









The trail follows the water's edge. It's elevated above rip-rap and tidal flats. Across the bay are Tesoro and Shell refineries, but they are far enough away they don't spoil the scenery. Mount Baker rises behind them, and Hat Island fronts a line of evergreen islands. You can sit on one of the benches placed here and there and watch tankers pull up to the piers, or watch pintail ducks pursue crustaceans. Mostly you can watch people, as this is a very popular trail. Every kind of walker, jogger, biker and canine make up light, but steady traffic on nice days.

There are a few sculptures made by local artists placed along the way. My favorite is a granite river otter in a playful but not too fanciful pose.


There is one condominium project along the trail. It was expensively and inefficiently built, and took years to sell out. I saw the full-occupancy and I noted this to Chris, who made a wry face and said he was sure they'd all find it very nice until one of those cat crackers at the refineries blows. I imagined that. Each lanai has a clear view of the potential disaster. A little like living at the foot of Mount Aetna, I suppose. People do it.

With that cheery thought hanging, we went through the list of family and personal bummers, as moms are wont to do. After we checked them off, I asked him if he was ok with all the material, and he shrugged and said, "It's just news. I'm glad you keep me in the loop."

I was pleased that the dogs stayed tethered to us and were having such a good time they'd given up growling and lunging at the occasional bicycle. They still strained at their leashes and got tangled up at cross-purposes. I said to Chris that they were doing pretty good for the type of dogs they are. He said he thought management could use improvement and winked at me. I told him that they really don't like management.

The dogs like to act tough when they see other dogs. Size differences matter not, and a chihuahua is greeted the same way a pit bull is (why do people seek out and buy pit bulls?). Hackles up, posture rigid, shooting the mouth off. And us owners of these stupid dogs look at each other and apologize. I marvel at Ava, especially. At ten pounds she's afraid of nothing. I remark to the baffled owner of a rottweiler, "She looks even bigger when she's got her fur up, doesn't she?"

We passed through the RV park, which is now owned by the Samish Tribe. I noted that it appeared well-cared for, with the exception of some semi-permanent ratty-looking trailers along the rear edge. What a great place to hide out, I thought to myself.

And then at the beginning of the trestle platform, we saw lots of work in progress. There is a crane and soon to be a pile driver in place. The charred debris has been removed and progress should be made quickly. The portion we could walk on, before the barricades, was pleasantly familiar. Shattered clamshells litter the pavement. Sea gulls dine here, after dropping the live creatures and dashing them to bits.

We stood together at the trail's end for a few minutes, gazing into the water, taking in the views of industry, Highway 20, and nature in 360 degrees. The salt air chilly but clean-feeling, and it's good to breathe in deeply.

We turned our backs to the cyclone fencing and began the return, little dogs now confident of the route, their new harnesses feeling more comfortable... not so much straining.

"Are you up for a beer at the Wheelhouse?" I asked my son.

"Sure," he said, "You buying?"

Of course.

Wasted Youth

Last night was the Anacortes Youth Sports dinner and auction. I think this is worthwhile. The AYS is an excellent organization which has raised enough money to pay for some pretty spectacular sports fields for the kids to enjoy and to help carry them to athletic careers, if that's what they want to do.

Lot of Anacortes business people attend. There are long tables of silent auction items, and it all comes from people you see here. Kinda cool that you bid on goods and service you'd probably buy anyway, and the money goes into the community with little interference. A local volunteer-run organization can do that.

We chatted with people we do business with and parents of kids Ross hangs out with. One couple, perplexed that their second-youngest son has participated in sports from little league baseball to high school varsity football, but is this day in his third week of in-patient drug and alcohol treatment. Yes, we've watched Zach grow up, too. He attended all of Ross' birthday parties from kindergarten on. He hasn't been over to visit in awhile, though, being the number one suspect in the theft of some cash from Ross' room.

Zach's been a mess for awhile, and it's been painful to watch. Stole his dad's car and put it in a ditch two years ago. Ran away from home last year and was gone a few weeks. Skipped so much school that he is a certified drop out now.

The parents: Still married to each other. Active in their church. Owners of a fairly large construction company. Stay at home mom. They have been permissive in parenting style, but I don't think that's what went wrong. The other three children have turned out just fine.

Speaking to Mike and Karen I said I hoped Zach emerged from the treatment healthy again, and that I thought he had good parents. He's a good kid raw-material-wise, I opined, wanting to offer some optimism. Mike doesn't have much hope for him, and Karen looks pained. He's a stupid kid, said Mike. He's going to have to hit some rocks for awhile.

We came home from the event around 10:30. Ross and about ten friends were out on the island enjoying a fire and whatever it is they talk about. He came into the house and asked if he could take the sedan into town. "Dakota's been arrested for having a little weed in his pocket and he needs someone to drive his car home."

Dakota is an A student who is working hard to win college scholarships. But his parents have been split most of his childhood, and his mom is allowing her boyfriend to set rules and limits on him. He resents it. I'm not surprised.

Ross tells me arrests for having a little weed in one's pocket are increasing, and there have even been a few searches at the high school. I tell him I'm glad to hear this because the previous lack of law enforcement has made all this drug stuff look ok. There's way too much of it. Anacortes is worse than towns along I-5. I waited up till Ross got back from town, without Dakota, who was facing a disappointed mom and verbose male companion. Everything looked alright on the island so told the boys I want everyone to go home by 1:00. I went to bed.

Ross woke me up around 12:30, eyes clear and breath clean. "I shouldn't have let Cody bring beer, Mom. I didn't drink any, so I thought it would be alright." I sat upright and turned on the lamp.

"What do you think I should do?" I asked him. Now, I know these kids have partied before. The rule is You Can't Do That Here and I'll Make Sure You Have Food and Pop. All the parents know I expect them to respect that rule. The parents who have bothered to check with me, I mean. I've actually met very few of them.

"Nobody's drunk but Cody," said Ross. I summoned the group off of the island. Thinking fast, I said that everyone should go home now, those who can't drive must not drive, those who can't get home will go to bed now on the living room floor. I'm deciding whether I should call parents based on what's in front of my face in the next ten minutes. After a movement like rats out of an aquaduct, we were left looking at Cody, who had thrown up on the patio and was wiping his face with his sleeve.

Inside the house, I spoke with Ross. Should I call Cody's mom?

"Cody's mom moved to Colorado when Cody said he'd rather live with his dad. She went to be with a man there. Cody's dad just finished chemotherapy for his cancer and they think they got it out of his bones so he'll live another few months. He's stuck in bed for a week or so. And Cody just found out his girlfriend is pregnant. His own mom won't talk to him." Ross looked down at the floor so I wouldn't see tears in his eyes.

I see. There is no one to call. When Ross lifted his eyes I told him that no matter what happened between his dad and me there would be no abandonment. Ever.

When Cody's stomach was finished erupting, Ross made him a bed on a couch.

"Hey, man," I said to Cody this morning, "You've got a lot of bad stuff happening to you. If your dad wants you to hang here once in awhile, you can. But you have to behave yourself."

It's late afternoon and I'm happy to report that Cody kept his breakfast down and is getting hungry for dinner.

I need a nap.

Epilogue, March 30: There have been no more boozy parties. Rules have been observed. Cody was here last night, and this morning told me his girlfriend had miscarried. I asked him how he feels. He said he supposed it was for the best. And we agreed it was also ok to feel sadness. How's he doing? Well, his dad is not going to live much longer, but he graduates with a good GPA in June and he has a decent-paying job lined up. He should be alright.

Epilogue, May 23: Cody's dad lost his battle with cancer. I found this obituary, and it made my heart glad to see that Cody had a very loving father who taught him good things. Cody told me he and his siblings wrote this obitiuary. (cut and paste isn't working, so go to: www.goskagit.com, then to "obituaries" and search John Michael Hernandez)