Chicken and Sponge

Four Products That Will Protect You From Swine 'Flu

 

This picture doesn't have much to do with today's topic, except that I will do everything in my power to keep my daughters healthy, without the benefit of health insurance.

Today the government announced that the swine 'flu is considered a level 5 health emergency.  That is out of a possible of  six levels.  I decided to devote today's post to talking briefly about health care options and what we can do for ourselves to stay healthy.

My family of four is among the forty million Americans who have no health care coverage.  When we lived in Alaska my daughters were covered by a state plan known as Denali Kidcare.  In Oregon they call it the Oregon Health Plan, but we don't qualify.  We are just one more family that slips through the cracks.  They ( the state) say we've made too much money.  We don't see how that can even be possible, (we certainly don't see any money around here), but that is what they've declared and there is little sense in arguing with them.  To add insult to injury, when we first moved down to Oregon after my birth-mother had died, there was a little more money and I did apply for health care insurance for my family.  Only to find that three different companies outright refused to cover Mick or Samantha.  Although Mick hasn't smoked in more than 10 years, they didn't want to cover him.  Because Sam is autistic, they seemed to feel that that was a good enough reason to not cover her.  Shameful. Everybody kept saying, "Have you applied for SSI?  Have you applied for Oregon Health Plan?"  Well, we did.  After being clearly denied in no uncertain terms, and not being willing to give up my house to live in a hovel, I didn't feel like tackling all that paper work again.  State and federal government agencies win these battles by burying applicants in paperwork.

However, I didn't despair.  I got ticked off, but then I got over it.  How willing was I to go to the doctor anyway?  Before you conclude that I'm one of those people who is afraid of the doctor and therefore reluctant to go, let me explain.  I'm one of those people who has seen friends go to doctor after doctor and get a different diagnosis each time.  I'm someone who has seen people given multiple prescriptions for drugs that then leave them battling unpleasant and sometimes serious side effects. I'm someone who has watched people not get better after spending tons of money looking for relief.

When we lived in Alaska, we lived below the poverty level and in a fairly isolated location with minimal health care.  Luckily, one day when I was in the Pelican Library, a woman from an area known as Phonograph, heard me talking about some health problems I had at the time.  She told me her own tale of woe, having been desperately sick, she had flown all over Southeast Alaska to different doctors and not received any real help. What she received was about seven different diagnoses.

What saved her life is the Herbal Healer Academy.  I know some people are very suspicious about alternative medicine and unwilling to trust or try anything of this nature.  That is fine.  It's a personal choice and far be it for me to try to insist that someone venture outside their comfort zone.  I had little choice.  To go see a doctor while we lived in Alaska was not only the cost of the office visit and any prescriptions, but also a round-trip flight, hotel, cab fare, and meals.  Plus I ran the risk of getting weathered in and having these expenses double every day that I was stuck.  People up there try to schedule appointments around the ferry, usually wanting to return to their village on the ferry so that they don't get stuck, but sometimes an illness or a doctor's schedule doesn't cooperate.

I feel like Herbal Healer has saved my life more than once.  Since I didn't go to a doctor, I can't give you an exact diagnosis of what was wrong with me.  Besides, if I'd gone to two or three doctors, I might have been able to give you two or three completely different diagnoses.  But I wasn't well.  I ached, had NO energy, couldn't eat most foods ( at one time that included: milk, eggs, all nuts, flour, pop, alcohol...), I'm forgetting some, but suffice it to say that when I did ingest any of these foods, within minutes raging red hives would erupt all over my face and remain for days, thick, scaly, and miserably uncomfortable.  Later the hives migrated to other body parts.  I was the picture of misery.  I was also willing to try anything.

So I borrowed my new friend's catalog from the Herbal Healer Academy and started reading.  I can't remember what I purchased that first time.  I believe it was the grapefruit seed extract that I took --two drops a day in juice, just once a day, for 30 days.  I later found out from my sister Deanna, who had traveled to India a couple of times, that grapefruit seed extract is highly recommended when traveling in some of these other countries with compromised sanitation.

The Herbal Healer Academy is available on-line.  Membership is required, but sometimes the fee is waived, and if not, the one-time, life-time membership fee (it was $20 when I joined), is well worth it.  Marijah McCain, who is the naturopathic doctor behind the academy, has a very informative site, and is also available through the website to answer questions to your health problems once a week.  Check the site for hours of availability.  That is located toward the bottom of the home page with a graphic of Peanuts' Lucy sitting in her stand with "the doctor is in" sign. 

When I have written to Dr. McCain, I simply told her what I thought my pertinent information was, my age, sex, and symptoms.  She replied within a day or two with a recommended protocol of which supplements to buy and how much and how often to take them.  Herbal Healer ships quickly and everything is well-packed.

Besides grapefruit seed extract, another great product that can help with numerous complaints is the colloidal silver.  Many people saw the blue man on TV this past year whose skin turned blue after using colloidal silver.  That won't happen with this colloidal silver.  That man was using a system where he made his own and he applied it topically.  Herbal Healer colloidal silver is of the highest and purest quality and you ingest it, not rub it on your skin.  This stuff is great when you have a cold or virus or just for general health.  It prevents one-celled organisms from reproducing and leaves the "good stuff" alone in your gut.

Four-herb tea, bought in bulk that you brew yourself, is an amazing tonic.  Many people with cancer have been cured after taking the four-herb tea religiously.  I know.  Those are fighting words to some, and I'm not saying it cures all cancers or for everyone, but the literature is there.  Originally known as Essiac, go to Herbal Healer and read of the nurse who originally developed this tea and the history of its use and effectiveness.  Not a boring story, it reads like an international espionage thriller.  What I like about four-herb tea is that it is an all-over tonic for the body.  It doesn't just treat one symptom or illness, but strengthens the entire body.  If you have any kind of chronic condition, you can take this tea and it doesn't interfere with any medications that you may already be taking.  It will just make your body stronger.  However, buy the tea in bulk, not the capsules or the concentrate.  Those are just to use for maintenance or when traveling.

My number one recommendation from Herbal Healer is called "Physician's Strength Oregacillin". This is powerful stuff for immune support.  Here is what the back of the bottle says, and I say they are telling us the truth:  "Oregacillin is the most powerful oregano and spice extract available for maximum immune support.  Oregacillin is made from natural herbs and spices, including the proprietary P73 wild Oregano blend.  Georgetown University and independent laboratory research prove that Oregacillin kills a wide range of germs, including bacteria, viruses and fungi.  It is also a powerful antioxidant which helps protect cells from toxic damage..."  I have used this Oregacillin when nothing else would seem to help.  It is particularly effective for respiratory illnesses.

I realize that a lot of people prefer to go to their doctor and that is fine.  We do things a little differently in our family and I try to stay educated and find ways to keep my family healthy.  The Herbal Healer Academy has been instrumental in that and I can't sing their praises enough.  Check it out.  Go to www.herbalhealer.com.  Stay healthy, everyone.

The Challenges of Living With Teens

 

A weekend morning, or perhaps afternoon, Miranda tolerates a little bit of Louise.

Miranda has been the nearly perfect child.  I don't want to put pressure on her or make her egotistical, but she was always an easy and sensible child.  She was a terrible challenge as a newborn and I didn't think I'd survive the challenges of night and day mixed up, no suck reflex, failure to thrive, and COLIC.  Any parent who has dealt with colic knows that someone is going to die; whether it is the infant or the parent, the parent reaches the conclusion that someone has to go.  I wanted to be committed to an institution during that time, but lo and behold, Miranda turned two months old ( or was it three?) and the non-stop hours of screaming ceased.  She was transformed into a delightful baby, then child.  Then Sam was born and we got a second one with colic, but that is another story.

When I hit puberty, my mom was beginning to go through menopause.  Yeah, that was a fun household.  I can now sympathize more with my mom and I just have to say, Miranda has no idea how easy she has it.  Menopause hasn't started for me yet. Yes, not yet, though it's inevitable.  I'm not looking forward to it though; it's like a disease that afflicts the whole family.  But then, that applies to puberty as well.

Most of us remember our parents threatening, more like cursing us with, "Just you wait until you have kids!"  As a kid, that threat doesn't produce much more than sighs and eye-rolling.  As adults, those words can come back to haunt us.

Miranda is an awful lot like me, especially the awful parts.  Really, I wasn't that bad overall.  I wasn't one of those kids that was always getting in trouble, but I was moody and prickly.  Much more so than Miranda is, but she definitely has some moody moments.  Unfortunately she is most like me in her apathy.  To be honest, I was lazy. I'm feeling rather "apathetic" today actually, and once done with this post I will probably plant myself somewhere and do very little that is productive.  Now that I'm an adult, though, I have realized that little elves do not come out at night and do all the basic chores for us. 

Miranda is the family slob, and that's kind of saying something around here.  But she is the worst for dropping her shoes and bags right inside the front door and not putting them away.  Nor does she believe in putting her laundry away and seems to think that she should just be able to keep her clothes (that I have folded), stored on top of the washer and dryer because her drawers are full, her closet is a mess, and I need to respect her privacy and not try to fix this problem.  In her eyes, it isn't a problem.  She also leaves dirty dishes, salt shakers, and garbage ( or recycling), lying on the coffee table.  Dirty clothes are thrown behind the bathroom door, on top of a large bag of makeup that is never zipped and put away.  However, if Sam were to get into that bag,( and Sam is a girl and loves makeup, too, and doesn't have any respect for boundaries and other people's property), Miranda would be livid.

Miranda doesn't do chores.  This is my fault.  I remember being so angry that my little sister got out of doing stuff around the house just by being totally unpleasant.  I couldn't believe that my mom would give in and do the dishes herself because she couldn't tolerate finding dirty dishes ( or ones that had been chipped as my sister slammed them in the sink) put away in the cupboards.  I thought that was lame.  I felt cheated.  Shame on me.  It was my mom who was cheated and now I understand.  She was tired.  Physically and emotionally tired.  And I'm sure she was tired of playing the bad guy.  So Miranda has to unload the dishwasher ( big whup), and occasionally gets asked to take out the compost pail.  Last night's response to that request was a sigh and a dire look as she muttered, "Dad better get a bigger bucket next time".  (That is because we all know I plan on replacing our compost bucket, which is chipped, for Father's Day).  Why Miranda cares is anyone's guess, because she only takes out the bucket about four times during the month when it usually goes out about once a day.

Mick went to a Trailblazers' play-off game last night.  Miranda had play practice until 6:00.  This meant that Mick wasn't here to pick her up and I had to go get her in the pick-up.  I hate that thing.  It's like driving a tank and each time I drive it I love my minivan, without embarrassment, even more.  I'm always afraid that I'm going to get pulled over for drunk driving just because I tend to drive over the corner of the sidewalk each time I have to turn.  The point is, though, I'm the one who has to drive it.  So later on last night, Miranda says to me, "Do you know if the Blazers won or not?  I'm just wondering how many more times you're going to pick me up in that  ugly truck."  Charming.

This Friday Mick and I are going to Seattle to finally pick up our stuff from the barge.  The girls don't have school that day.  I don't know why, but they don't.  In-service, progress reports, who knows?  We're not making them go with us, though, because they would be absolutely bored and miserable.  And that would punish us more than it would punish them.  So Katie, our respite worker, will come over some time in the morning.  I'm not about to make her be here at 7:00 a.m., though.  She's a young college girl.  I'm not that cruel.  But apparently I am.  Because Miranda's words to me this morning, in a very glum tone were, "Well...I don't suppose I get to sleep in on Friday."  No, honey, you don't.  You don't because you sleep like the dead.  You sleep like a kid that used to live above a very noisy bar that stayed open all night.  And Sam sleeps like an autistic person.  If anything, she gets up even earlier on days that she doesn't go to school so that she has more time for her art and music.  Mick and I can't sleep through Sam, but Miranda could.  So if Miranda slept in, who knows what Sam would do or where she'd be?

I will let her sleep in on Saturday and Sunday.  I may even let her sleep until noon.  But for a few hours on Friday morning, before Katie arrives, Miranda will have to hold down the fort.  I know she can do it.  She may do it grudgingly, but she will do it.  She did most of Sam's personal care while I was in Pelican helping Mick to pack up.  I was never so pleased as when she said, "I never realized just how much you have to do".  I never realized how much my mom did either.  Truthfully, she did much more than I do because she worked outside the home full-time and kept her house much cleaner than mine.  I wish those elves existed and would do all the dirty work in the middle of the night, but they don't.  I wish my daughter was more willing to clean up and help with household chores, but she isn't.  And now  I understand that my mom was tired of always being the bad guy.

Miranda is a great kid.  We share a lot of the same interests and often share the same taste.  Our opinions and views are very similar.  Perhaps not toward housework, but other things.  Yes, I want her to help without me having to be the bad guy.  And if she doesn't start I may curse her with that famous and powerful mother's curse, "You just wait until you have kids!  I hope they're just like you!"

 

Miranda, my great companion, humored me in Dallas City Park one early Spring afternoon by letting me take pictures of her.

Confessions of a Fat Woman

 

Hiding in black.  Hopefully some gardening and yard work will help me in my never-ending battle.  Here, Mick and I work to Zeus-proof the garden.

This morning I did something stupid.  Once again.  I worked out for an hour, vigorously, and then when Mick was spraying the sunless tanning spray on my back ("Hey", I told him,"it's slimming) and he said, "It feels like a Busick morning to me."  I replied, "Well, don't eat anything yet."

Why he seemed surprised when I eventually emerged from the bathroom, all dressed and made up with a very particular place to go, I don't know.  Have I ever turned down food?  I don't think so.

The Busick is our favorite breakfast place over in Salem.  The food and the service is wonderful and it takes a much stronger person than me to turn it down.  Mick has turned it down before, but I never have.  He said to me, "Well, if I'd known we were going, I'd had my shoes on and the car started."

"Yeah, I know.  The only way I get to be ready first is to not tell you that yes, we are going."  Mick's idea of getting ready:  shoes and socks, car keys.  My idea of getting ready:  sunless tanning spray, followed by sunscreen, moisturizer, foundation, blush, three shades of eyeshadow, liner, mascara, eyebrow pencil, style hair, debate and decide over clothes, including which shoes or sandals to wear today (sandals, yay! and by the way, does my toe nail polish match or coordinate with my shirt?), sweater, purse, and last, but certainly not least, my book.  Did he really think it necessary to start the car and burn gas while waiting for me?

So here is the confession: I know better.  At the time I made the decision to go, I knew better and we went anyway.  I always wait for Mick to be the strong one and he sometimes is, and I know I need to change that. He deserves to have me be the strong one when he isn't and not put the pressure on him.

 Diets DO work.  Don't let anyone tell you otherwise.  People not following diets is the problem.  And exercise alone is not enough.  Exercise for weight loss only works for people with fairly good metabolisms who have just become a little sluggish and soft, not for people who are actually fat with food addictions.  I speak from years of experience.  I speak from years of being a variety of weights.  I have the wardrobes to prove it.  If I can get my weight to somewhere in the neighborhood of where I'd like to be, I have a whole wardrobe that was in style, went very out of style, and is back in style again.  Hopefully the fabric hasn't rotted as my beautiful clothes waited all these years to be worn once again.

I exercise faithfully, albeit, reluctantly and sometimes resentfully, about five days a week.  That is down from my dedicated six days a week with one day of rest.  We exercise hard, too.  For awhile Mick and I were running in the mornings.  This was right before Dallas got snow.  I used that snow for an excuse and told Mick that I just wouldn't do that anymore.  Not at this weight anyway. I felt like I was dying and it just got worse as the day went on.  But I didn't try to weenie out of exercise altogether. 

Use it or lose it!  We know too many people who can barely walk.  Some of them aren't even fat, but they exercise so little that they have no stamina or flexibility.  They've made themselves old before their times.  That is so not going to happen to us.

People are polarized over obesity in America.  Mixed messages.  On the one hand we hear so much about how unhealthy obesity is ( and I'm not arguing that ), but we also hear on talk shows that we should learn to love and accept our bodies as they are.  While I don't think fat people should be treated badly, being one myself, I have no intention of just accepting my body as it is.

I'll tell you why.  Fat doesn't feel good.  I ache.  I hurt.  And I'm not talking about some kind of psychological pain, though I'm sure Dr. Phil and his kind probably would insist that I am.  I physically hurt and I'm sick of it.  The pain migrates, too.  Remember the old Peanuts comic strip where Snoopy would be out jogging and his feet would be talking and complaining?  That's me.  Sometimes it's my feet (no doubt!  Poor things are messed up anyway and having to support all this weight!), it's always my back--that pain just doesn't seem to ever go completely away, my hips ache, and currently I'm complaining most about my shoulders.  My shoulders hurt because of all the Jillian Michaels' DVDs I was doing and I tweaked something and then just kept on going, never allowing my shoulder to heal, being in denial about how bad the pain is. 

I don't know if anyone wants to listen to one more person whine about being fat.  I don't.  I'm sick of listening to myself because after awhile someone needs to say, "Then DO something about it!".  Mick will never be that person because he loves me regardless of what I weigh.  As I do him.  This really only works when we scream it at ourselves.  When we decide to be strong for ourselves and hope that our good example inspires or encourages our loved ones.

Big sigh...love of food, love of flavor is the problem.  I don't care how many people say that fat people are eating for emotional reasons, childhood hurts and traumas.  Be that as it may, I just think it tastes good and I always want more.  That is my problem and that is what I need to get a handle on.

I have any number of diets to choose from.  I've been temporarily successful on several.  The question is: What is going to make me stick to one?  What will make me commit to a healthy life-style? Writing this may help.  Accountability.  Also, I have a couple of self-hypnosis programs.  I have them.  Now I actually need to use them.  It's like the people who buy exercise equipment and then hang their coats on it.  Or let it collect dust.  People who buy exercise DVDs and then sit on the couch and watch them.  My self-hypnosis DVDs have been collecting dust.  Well, I've got to try it.  It certainly isn't going to hurt.

Don't worry. Chicken and Sponge isn't going to turn into "Bridget Jones' Diary".  I'm not going to whine every day about my weight, write down what I ate, and record the same two pounds lost, gained, lost, and gained again.  I may never mention this embarrassing episode again.  Hopefully, in the future, I will post a photo and progress will be apparent.  In the meantime, I will try to keep another embarrassing memory in mind to inspire me.

Today would have been my grandmother's 102nd birthday.  I guess while I was thinking of her this memory came to mind.  Grandma was never a socially sensitive soul, never known for her tact.  Grandma was blunt and my mom would be the first to say that Grandma could be really embarrassing.  Here's what happened:

Mom, my sister Pam, Grandma and I went to the Southgate Mall in Missoula, Montana.  Grandma, being elderly and frail, needed help getting out of the car and walking across the parking lot.  Being a grandma's-girl, I was holding my grandmother's arm when a family from another car started walking across the parking lot right in front of us.

"Well, would you look at that!"  my grandmother said loudly, sounding positively scandalized.  "Vicki, just look at that great big fat woman wearing white slacks!  My God, I've never seen such a thing!"

"Grandma.  Shut up.  Now."

I do not want to be that poor woman in the white slacks.  Never, never, never.  God bless you, Grandma.

I Want My Mom!

 

My mom, Elva Cox, on the beach in Lincoln City, Oregon.  This picture was taken last November, on a freakishly warm and wonderful day when she and my dad, Ron, came to visit.  She will probably see this picture and be upset about  her hair. She always is.

Sometimes we just want our moms.  Soldiers in time of war, think of their moms and miss them.  Children, young and old, want their moms when they are sick.  When one has a new baby and it's crying and we don't know why, we want our moms.  This past weekend I wanted my mom so badly that I became petulant and sulked because she wasn't here and Montana is just too far from Oregon for a quick drive and consult.  My crisis could not be handled with a phone call.

I was trying to sew.  I was attempting to repair, no matter how poorly, the now 40+ pairs of shredded underwear that Sam has completely deconstructed.  Last time I updated you on this situation, we were at 27 pairs and my good intentions were to take care of it during Spring Break.  Well...me and sewing machines, a match made in Purgatory.

I had tried to repair the underwear, but had some trouble with the thread tension, ran out of time for the day, and just figured that I'd get to it later when I had more time and could really mess with it.  Yesterday was later.  I really did mess with it.  I got out the book.  I even read it.  I called up all my reserves of patience and I tried.  I honestly tried.

People think I'm a patient person because I am so patient with Sam (and Mick). ( He's a good sport and doesn't mind when I poke fun at him so now I really like to test that).  I am NOT patient with machinery, gadgetry, technology, that sort of infuriating crap.  To be honest with you, I wish I had a treadle sewing machine.  Or my mother.

Let me explain something about Elva Cox, my mother.  She will claim to her last breath that she doesn't know much about sewing or sewing machines.  She will tell you that she really isn't very good at sewing.  My mom isn't always honest.  This woman used to sometimes make her own work clothes and she wasn't working as a mechanic.  She worked in a government office and she would make pleated skirts and fitted blazers.  No one could tell that she hadn't gone to a high-end boutique to purchase these clothes unless they looked inside the articles to see no labels.  The seams were always finished.  Everything always lay flat, smoothly, perfectly spaced pleats, perfectly executed button holes.  No mistake was ever left in place.  Mom thinks she isn't a great seamstress because she would occasionally make a mistake that she would then have to fix.  And fix it she always did.  Perfectly.  She makes me sick.

I wish she were here this past weekend.  The problem I was having, no doubt in my mind, was with the thread tension.  But no matter how carefully and slowly I adjusted it, it never improved.  I'm sure, one way or another, my mom could have worked her magic and made that machine obey.  And I've always thought of my mother as "She Who Must Be Obeyed".

So I gave up.  I figure my poor machine probably needs to be serviced after having been mailed down here from Alaska and I will just have to grit my teeth and fork over some money.  I'm feeling like a poor sport about it, though.  I know my mom could have made that machine doing what it should.  It wouldn't dare refuse to cooperate for her.

In the meantime, Sam has started shredding her sports bras, too.  Actually, she is also picking apart the hems in her shirts and shorts.  I have caught her, when I realized that I was spacing out and not paying close enough attention, picking the seams in MY clothes, while I was wearing them.  So much for my patience.  I wasn't, believe me.  I was irate.  She may be going to school wearing a hefty bag with three holes cut out ( idea stolen from my cheap friend Collette Costa who used hefty bags in place of expensive and totally unnecessary rain gear).  We will not all be wearing garbage bags.  The other alternative, the one that Sam and Mick would be fine with, is moving to a nudists' colony.  However, I'm not crazy about that idea.  My mom would probably refuse to visit.

Well, the trials and tribulations of a family dealing with autism...To add insult to injury, Sam got up this weekend before 5:00 a.m. Both days.  Before I fall asleep at the computer or just have a small fit thinking about all of this, I need to sign off.  Mick and I have to go do some underwear shopping.  Again.  Mom, where are you when I need you?

The Woman Who Fell Off the Edge of the World, installement 9

 

If you haven't read any of this before, or you're confused, click on Archives, then click on My Novel in Progress, and scroll back...

 

           Later, much later, I sprawled on my bed, having chosen the lower bunk, and indulged myself in an odd, little dinner.  I was dining on crackers with cream cheese, dijon mustard, and smoked oysters.  Heaven.  I had orange juice, herbal tea, and yogurt for later on.  I’d put up a few posters even though I hadn’t had a chance to paint yet.  The dingy walls were too depressing otherwise.  I hadn’t bothered to put on any music.  The rain running down the hillside and over the roots of the big tree outside my lone window was soothing and absorbing.

            Fatigue and the sound of rain induced a meditative state.  I’d emptied my mind of the thought of the phone call I’d have to make before too long.  Thoughts of Steven Kane were like mist slipping away.  I was exhausted, yes, but finally enjoying a sense of peace.

            A sense of peace that was interrupted by approaching noise.  Giggles, mumbling, and the shuffling of feet approached from the end of the hall.  Somehow I knew, even before the knock, that that noise was coming to my door.

I thought about ignoring the knock, but I’d lived around too many strange people in my years as a college student. I didn’t want to seem like one of those people. My college years also gave me the experience to deal with about anyone.

            I opened the door to two guys and two girls.  The guys had longish hair, mustaches and sideburns.  Sideburns? One of the girls was a fat blonde with a thin person’s face, the petite brunette looked about thirteen years old and stoned out of her mind.  Make that stoned all around.  I faced four faces with tiny, red eyes and big, empty-headed grins.  The blonde guy was spokesperson for all.

            “Hey,” he said.  “Welcome.”

            I nodded politely.  “Hello.”

            “This is Jamie, Peggy, and Matt.  I’m Dan.”

            “I’m Petra,” I said, waiting to see where this would lead.

            “Well, we heard Lauren bring you in today.  We’ve only got a day or two before work starts, so we’re playing and getting to know one another.  Want to join us in the girls’ room?  We’ve got a bunch of doobie, beer, and I’ve got an eightball that we’re getting ready to smoke.  Why don’t you come on down and join the party?”

            With great effort, I didn’t roll my eyes. 

            “That’s awfully kind of you,” I said.  “You’re kind of like the Welcome Wagon, aren’t you?”

            Dan smiled seductively and leaned down into my face.  “Oh, yeah.”

            “Well, it was nice to meet all of you, but I’ll have to pass this time.  Thanks anyway.”

            I started to close the door, but Dan’s foot slid in.  I raised an eyebrow at him.

            “Oh, come on.  You don’t want to be like that!”

            “Oh, but I do,” I said.  “It’s been a long day and I’m not up to socializing.  So like I said, thanks, but no thanks.  Now, good-bye.  I took my toe and pushed his out of the way as I firmly closed the door.  There was a moment of disbelieving silence, then some rude whispers and giggles. 

            “Dyke.”  I thought that was Dan’s voice and I laughed out loud.  As if I cared.

            Despite this surreal interruption, I still felt wonderfully tranquil.  Nothing was going to spoil my sense of peace and immense relief  at getting away from bad boyfriend number one (the contemptible Bruce) and bad boyfriend number two ( the sociopath Steven) .  I decided to test my confidence and call the Ranch.

            I had noticed a pay phone outside the little grocery store, the town’s only store, which was right beside the Fish House.  I pulled on my inappropriate little penny loafers and grabbed a coat and headed outside.

            It was already dark and the rain from earlier in the day had turned into big, fat, fluffy, wet flakes of snow.  Waves lapped against the shore and pilings below.

            I sat down in the phone booth and tried to close the door, but it refused to close all the way.  This end of town appeared deserted and was quiet, but for the waves.  I dialed the Ranch and took a deep, cleansing breath as it started to ring.  As always, Kitten answered.

            “Hello?’

            “Hi, Kitten.”

            “Petey!  Am I glad you called.  Have you taken care of that little problem?”

            “Well, as a matter of fact, I have,” I told her.  “Guess what?  I’m in Alaska.”

            “Mom!  Mom!  Petra’s on the phone and needs to talk to you,” Kitten hollered.

            “Christ!  Thanks,” I muttered.  But I didn’t get a chance to bawl my sister out.  Mom must have heard the urgency in Kitten’s voice because she was on the phone before I could get my breath.

            “Petra?  Petra, what’s the matter?”

            “Nothing’s the matter, Mom.  Nothing at all.  I was just calling to visit and tell you that I’d solved my employment problem for this summer.”

            “Oh, yeah?”  Mom’s scepticism was obvious.

            “Yeah.  I’m going to work in a cannery in Alaska this summer.”

            “Oh, no you’re not.  That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve heard.  If you don’t want to help Grandma this summer or work on the Ranch, you can probably get a job babysitting or waitressing.  You wouldn’t last one day in a cannery.”

            I took a much-needed deep breath.  “Well, I guess we’re going to find out because I start work in two days.”

            “Petra, you’re not going to Alaska.  And what about school?”

            “Mom, I’m in Alaska.”  There was no response, just silence on the line.  I waited as long as I could.

            “Mom?”  I wondered if she’d fainted or was going to expire from spontaneous combustion.

            Finally, she said with frightening softness, “You’re in Alaska right now?”

            “Yes.”  My tranquility was slipping away.  More silence.  Mom’s silences could speak volumes.  I waited.

            “What about school?”

            “I took two finals early and I took two incompletes.”

            Mom sighed a very impatient sigh for my stupidity, but refrained from comment.

            “Where in Alaska, and for how long?”

            “A little village called Pelican.  It’s about an hour by floatplane from Juneau.  And if everything works out I could be here as late as October."”

            “Did your father know about this.”

            “Mom, this isn’t Dad’s fault!”

            “I didn’t say anything about fault.  I just wanted to know if he knows.”

            “I told him at the last minute.  He isn’t very happy about it either.  I just needed to get away and do something different.” I despised the trace of pleading in my voice.
            “What?  Like clean fish?  That is what people do in a cannery, isn’t it?”

            “I think so.”  God, was I tired.

            “Well, Petra, you really did it this time.  I couldn’t have imagined a stupider course of action, when you were so close to graduating.  What’s the name of the company where you’ll be working?”

            “Pelican Seafoods.”

            “Phone number?”  I breathed a sigh of relief.  Mom was becoming very efficient and Mom-like, always a good sign that she was resigned to the situation.  I told her the phone number, described my living quarters, and decided that this was not the right time to tell her that I’d been offered an eightball of cocaine a mere 15 minutes ago.

            “Richard is going to be disappointed,” Mom told me.  No phone call would be complete without a good dose of guilt thrown in.  “He tries really hard, you know.”

           

“I’m sorry,” I said.  “I really do like and appreciate Richard.  This is nothing against him at all.  I’ve always been grateful that he’s accepted me for how I am and doesn’t try to change me.”  Unlike you,  Mother, I could have added, but didn’t.

            “Well, I hope this works out for you, honey, but if it doesn’t, don’t let foolish pride keep you there.  You can always call home and we’ll bring you back here.”

            Ugh.  “Thanks, Mom.  I should probably get going now.  It’s snowing, I’m getting a little cold, and I’m really tired.”

            “OK.  Call me in a couple of days.  Call after you’ve worked a little.  I want to hear all about how exciting cleaning fish is.”

            “Sure.  I’ll call.  Tell Kitten good-bye for me.  Love you.”

            “We love you, too.  Good-by.”

            I hung up the phone and sat there for a few moments.  It’s a good thing that the quartet of Jaimie, Peggy, Matt, and Dan had dropped by before I’d made my obligatory call home and not afterwards.  I might have been tempted if they’d dropped by now.  I took a deep breath of invigorating sea air and slowly made my way back to the bunkhouse.  I felt fine.

Don't Envy Me Because I Have a Hot Tub--and Other Irritants

 

Don't envy us because we have a hot tub.  Just look at this photo and you can see why there is no reason for envy--and there is so much more than what meets the eye.

I have a tendency to spout gratitude platitudes with great frequency.  This annoying habit, or at least I assume it annoys some people, came about after having read "The Secret" a couple of years ago and becoming an adherent of the Law of Attraction.  I really am a true believer that our thoughts words,and emotions create our reality.  Attitude really does make the difference.

That said, I'm no saint and I don't go around smiling and singing ( if you heard me sing, you would thank me for that), acting as though I'd had a lobotomy or shock therapy to make life more mild and pleasant.  I do get grumpy.  Some things irritate me beyond belief, and yes, sometimes I rant.  This is one of those times.

I will work through this in non-chronological order because Mick just got off the phone to find that all our complicated plans and maneuvers for tomorrow were for naught.  Yes, how often does one get to use the word naught?  What I'm referring to was our plans to drive up to Seattle tomorrow and pick up all of our Pelican belongings from the barge.  We had reserved a U-haul, made arrangements for our respite worker to pick Sam up from the pool and bring her home tomorrow and we'd even arranged for Mick's brother Frank to drive over here tomorrow and then drive us up to Seattle.  That's because yours truly is a great big weenie who was starting to have anxiety attacks at just the thought of having to drive through Seattle and follow Mick all the way home.  I'm not fond of driving at the best of times.  We live about three and a half hours from Seattle and would also have to drive past Portland and the metro area.  Let me remind you, Seattle was voted the worst place to drive in the U.S. last year.  I doubt much has changed in a year.  Besides, my preferred way of dealing with these long trips in the car is for Mick to drive while I read and ignore him.  About every 25 miles of so I take pity on him and speak to him for about 1.7 minutes and then return to my book.  Believe it or not, he puts up with this. 

These plans for tomorrow have abruptly changed because I said to Mick, "perhaps you should call and make sure that our stuff will even be at AML".  Lo and behold, our stuff is probably not even to Canada yet.  Good call.  As irate as I can get, I can only imagine what Mick would have done, (and I can't even begin to imagine what he would have said, creative cursing master that he is), if we'd gone all the way to Seattle to find that we had nothing to pick up.  And we would have had to drive the U-haul home because I think Frank was just going to drop us off there. It wouldn't have been pretty.

So right now the above is the foremost irritant on my mind, but there is much to compete with that.  For one, look at the picture above.  I mean just look at it!  That hot tub isn't pretty either.  Yes, it's old.  I will give it that.  The wood is warped and coming off in places.  It's actually coming off in even more places than this photo reveals because last summer when I came home, there was thick green grass growing out from underneath it.  This indicated a leak somewhere.  We had that fixed.  The water level continued to fall every day, much more rapidly than evaporation or even splashing would account for.  So Mick found yet another leak.  That one's not fixed yet.  There are other problems.

Paul, our hot tub guru, is an excellent guy.  He's honest and hard working--salt of the earth.  We're starting to see so much of him that we should start planning social engagements.  The heating element went out on the hot tub about a month or so ago and he replaced that.  That little problem occurred because we hadn't kept the water level where it should be since it kept rapidly and annoyingly leaking out.  There is another problem that he keeps trying to baby along for us that has to do with the electronic panel.  Can't replace parts on that and the new panel alone costs $439.  Paul can set us up with a refurbished hot tub, larger size even, for less than $2000.  So we will wait.  However, the current problem occurred while I was up in Pelican with Mick packing up.  The water level got too low again...Can you guess what that means?  I'll give you a hint: the current temperature of the "hot" tub is 65 degrees.  So Mick called Paul's number and left a message.  It went something like this, "Uhm, Paul?  Yeah, it's us again.  Can you come out?"  Anyway, in addition to that major problem, Sam has once again broke the framing that holds the lid (that's that black contraption lying on the ground where it doesn't belong).  And in addition to that, that lid is the third one we've purchased in the past four years. Well, c'est la vie.

 

Notice where these two useless currs are.  Yes, that's right, on the other side of the door, waiting to be let in.  They look as though they are waiting patiently, but don't you believe it.  They were frantically jumping at the door moments before but became bemused over my picture-taking and settled down while they pondered this.  When they are not in this position, they are on the other side of the door i.e. in the house, begging to be let out.  We do this song and dance all day long and into the evening.  They get crated at night because they would continue to carry on in this manner if given the chance.  I know this to be true because they had been given the chance and I wasn't having any more of it.  Can we say, "dog door"?  Come on, Mick, get me a dog door!

One would think I'd done enough whining, but let me just finish with a couple more dog complaints.  Louise does a perfect imitation of that Stanley Steamer Carpet Cleaner commercial and likes to drag her nasty butt across the carpet.  We'll leave it at that.Then, not only does Zeus snack out of the litter box, but he regularly drinks too much water and then pukes.  Not to be outdone, our cats puke all the time and two days ago, I awoke to find three piles of undigested cat food in various locations, all on the carpet.  Had I been thinking, I would have just let Zeus out of his crate to clean up, but I was befuddled with sleep and not thinking straight yet.And why must pet hair continue to fall out of their bodies?  Yes, I know it's called shedding.  Mine, all four, shed 12 months of the year.  We have no shedding season.  Why aren't they bald yet?  Why hasn't some scientist figured this out and applied the knowledge to the human, balding population.  Why?

Am I done?  No more complaints?  Not by a long shot.  But tomorrow is another day, so I will save it.  Time to find something to feel grateful for.  Let's see...I can't get our stuff from the barge tomorrow so I guess that gives me a week to actually make room for it...Being weight obsessed, at least my annoying dogs are helping me to burn calories that I would otherwise just store...Hmmm...the fouler that carpet gets, the sooner we'll be able to get laminate flooring...or concrete with a drain.  See, you can always find something to be grateful for.  Irritating, isn't it?

Saddest Day of Our Lives--Not!

 

When cabin fever strikes, and it always does in Pelican, getting off the boardwalk and going for a ride can improve one's mood and perspective.

I'm wrapping this up, but no essay about life in Pelican, Alaska, or any small town, would be complete without a discussion of cabin fever.

When I first came to Pelican and worked at the cold storage, I would arrive in March and usually leave in November.  But several of my co-workers lived in the bunkhouse year-round.  They thought that made them a special breed and I guess it did.  All I know is that I often wished they'd get out over the winter because they were mighty strange when I returned each Spring.

I'll say this for them, though, the stories were interesting.  We who worked more seasonally would come back to hear about who went crazy and shot a gun in the bunkhouse, who got drunk and was just opening his door and peeing into the hallway, who was sneaking around with whom, how much fun they'd had sledding and just how much snow they'd shoveled all winter.  I was always kind of intrigued at the idea of staying for a winter, but never thought I would.  Then I met Mick and we know how that story progressed.  Ten years with only short, infrequent trips into Juneau.  Yet Winter was always my favorite season in Pelican.

Cabin fever is not confined to any one season.  Cabin fever, in my opinion, has more to do with income and social contact.  It just always happened in the past that the population seriously dwindled in the Winter, as did people's income.  Then came 1996, followed by ever-increasing difficulty.  We saw an exodus of people who'd made Pelican their home for years.  No people, very little fishing, meant very little income for most.  Having the number of cold storage employees go from 100+ to maybe about 20 was devastating.

For me, it meant that the people I'd been closest to had to leave in order to find work.  When you stand across from someone for 12 hours a day, your aching hand stuck inside the belly of a fish, there was a lot of time to get to know each other.  Man, I miss that camaraderie most of all. Not the fish bellies ( well, maybe a little), or standing on cold concrete in leaky extratuffs.  The great thing about working there and living in Pelican is that we had the chance to make friends with people we would have barely been acquainted with had we met elsewhere.

The loss of income and the loss of population, year-round and seasonal, has created a permanent state of cabin fever in Pelican.  Now when I'm in Pelican, I can feel a heaviness and a cloud of depression hanging over the place.  We've had a lot of people die in the past ten years and this, too, has caused sorrow.  Pelican's vitality has suffered.

The fishing industry has been the life's blood of that place, it's heart beat and without it,  visiting or living in Pelican is like visiting a patient in ICU.  I don't say that as a condemnation of the place.  I will always love Pelican and even though I don't live there anymore, I hope more than anything for Pelican that the fishing industry i.e. the cold storage can be revived.  Personally, I think the best way to make this happen, to ensure it, is for the city to eventually acquire Pelican Seafoods.  This is not about betrayal, this is not about stabbing friends in the back or not giving people a chance.  It's about what is best for the community to ensure that it remains a community.  I hope to see this happen.  Pelican was once full of vitality and excitement.  So many fishermen were in and out of Pelican and they loved it, too.  They would love it again if there was a reason for them to be there and a way for them to show their love and support.

So anyway, when Mick was busy packing Big Ugly Truck, an older fellow, a resident, but not a long-time resident, stopped and said to him, "Well, I guess this must be the saddest day of your life!"  Mick was taken aback.  The guy was almost smug, kind of gleeful, as though we were being run out of town.  We looked around--no mob carrying torches and pitch forks. Personally, I think he was suffering from a bad case of cabin fever.  The guy doesn't even know us.  He behaved as though our moving was due to eviction or foreclosure.  I assure you, it wasn't.  But his reaction startled us, and truthfully, kind of amused us.

Our sad days are long past.  Those sad days occurred as we watched Pelican change and the vitality ebb.  The sad days were when we had to say good-bye to friends who didn't even want to  leave, but felt they had no choice.

  Change is inevitable.  That we know.  Historians always talk about time and social change being a pendulum that swings back and forth. It's time for that pendulum to swing the other way.  It's time for Pelican to revive, for excitement to be in the air, the boardwalk crowded with fishermen walking back and forth, getting ice and groceries, visiting up and down the boardwalk, having impromptu barbeques, trips to Martini Beach and the Hot Springs, fishermen ringing the bells at the two bars, and the bunkhouse and company houses over-flowing with workers and new families.  Money flowing. That used to be the norm.

Pelican has played such a major role in my and Mick's lives.  I lived there from age 25 to 44; for Mick, he's been a part of Pelican from the age of 22 to the age of 50.  Those are very formative years, major chunks of our lives and Pelican has made us who we are.  Tough lessons can make for tough people.  There's no resentment.  I certainly can't resent someone with a bad case of cabin fever.  I can recommend taking a boat ride and just soaking in the heart-shattering beauty of the place.  It has healing qualities.

We are happy people and this is an exciting time.  We've begun to boat shop and God knows I love to shop.  Meanwhile, life is a series of adventures.  I keep threatening the people of Pelican that they will see us again.  And I do hope so.  I hope one day soon we can tie up at the cold storage, unload a boat full of kings and cohos, and then stroll down the boardwalk, visiting old friends, and making new ones.  We sold our place because it was time.  It's time for a new phase, a new chapter to begin in our lives.  We're very excited about it.  Hope to see you soon.

The Art of Moving While Remaining Happily Married

 

Mick bet Jon that I would comment on this decrepit dock's continuing presence in front of the bar as soon as I arrived.  I was distracted when I first got to Pelican on the 11th, but when I opened the curtains the next morning and was visually greeted with this eyesore, my sarcastic commentary began:" Well, would you look at that!...Who would have imagined that THAT would STILL be left sitting right THERE..."  As you might have guessed, this dock was not a welcome resident to me.

Packing.  Packing for a trip is hard enough, but packing to move is a Herculean task.  Packing with one's spouse or life partner is almost an invitation to consider divorce or prolonged separation.  Or the silent treatment. I don't know why Mick and I got along so well and I don't recall even arguing.  Perhaps the lack of space in Big Ugly Truck helped us keep our boundaries and our reason in tact.  Of course, having mailed numerous boxes to our Oregon home over the past three years helped considerably.  Had I not, I would have either needed to come up to Pelican the week before or I would have been a complete emotional mess going through boxes and having to make impossible choices.  But that didn't happen.  It was relatively easy even if it was still exhausting.

I thought I'd be flooded with memories and wallow in bittersweet regret.  Not the case.  There simply wasn't the time.  I had to stay on task and be as organized and as efficient as I could be.  My regret was that I didn't have enough time to scrub the place from top to bottom like a renter looking for the cleaning deposit back.  No time.  Not unless Bonnie wanted us to wait until the May ferry.  Luckily, Bonnie was a reasonable woman and excited to get started with her own adventures in bar ownership.

My other regret was that I ran out of time and didn't get to take one last walk around town, from one end to the other.  I'd wanted to see the new water building. Didn't make it that far.  Wanted to walk up the dump road for one last panoramic vision.  Didn't happen.  In fact, I made one trip as far as the Lisianski Cafe and the farthest I went in the other direction was Jon Williams' house.  I can't believe I didn't make it to the breakwater or to the Flats.  With all the time I've spent on the Flats over the years, the many, many memories, I'm sorry I ran out of time.

 

Samantha would wait all day for high tide just so she could go swimming.  The Flats by Deb and Keith's house was a favorite spot.

However, I have a few pictures, and even more in my head.  Occasionally during this process, the weight of the memories would slow me down.  But Mick was patient and gently called me back to the present and our time constraints.

Big Ugly Truck.  In case, Bonnie doesn't know it, that is the name of her new truck.  No mistaking which vehicle I'm talking about.  What a life saver.  We would never had made it if we'd brought a U-haul out on the ferry and tried to load and leave on the same ferry.  Never.  Thank God for good neighbors like Jon Williams who always has his Leatherman handy as well as a tape measure.  The standing joke as we packed up that monstrosity was, "Sure, there's LOTS more room".  Amazingly, there was.  The back of that truck resembled a jig-saw puzzle.  Just when you thought there was no way to add another box or object, we'd find a way to add three or four more. 

Yes, there were a few things we parted with semi-unwillingly.  We resigned ourselves, without tears of bickering, to parting with a few things. After all, they are just objects, not family or love or hope or other essentials.  Just objects that take up physical space.

There were a couple of left items left completely by accident.  Kicking ourselves, we called Bonnie and she remained a reasonable woman.  "Of course you can still have it."  Jon Williams remains the good neighbor, storing  said forgotten belongings even though he's as short on space as anyone.  That's what good friends are for.  Plus, after helping pack Big Ugly Truck, I'm sure that Jon is up to any kind of packing or storage challenge.

Ferry day arrived as all ferry days do.  Fatigue and tunnel vision rule the day.  Quick hugs given with promises to stay in touch and to return, no time or energy left for too much sentimentality or boo-hooing.  I'm so thankful for that.

Just as I'm thankful that the containers at AML are bigger than the box on Big Ugly Truck.  Piece of cake.  What took three days to load in Pelican (ok, we didn't track the hours), took two hours at AML.  Mick and I were able to do it, just the two of us.  We work well together.  I think this is because he accepts that I'm a weakling and that he is freakishly strong.  I mean it, freakishly so.  The only intimidating moment for me was moving the refrigerator out of Big Ugly, down to the ground and into the container.  We put the refrigerator on a two wheeler and Mick held onto the two wheeler and lowered the refrigerator to the ground.  I was supposed to hold on to the bottom of the refrigerator and help hold it up while guiding it down.  I can't believe Mick didn't drop it.  I tried to do my part.  I'm still not sure exactly what I did do.  My hands were a little sore and scraped, but I suspect I had almost no role in the success of this maneuver.  The rest of our beloved crap flowed easily into place and our task was completed.  Almost.

We have to drive to Seattle on Friday and pick up said belongings.  It would have been too easy for us if AML was open on the weekend, but it isn't.  Don't know  how we'll work out the particulars of this challenge.  I certainly don't want to remove Sam from school so that she can have a miserable day traveling with us with nothing fun as a reward at the end of the day.  Plus, when she sees her big, beautiful trike, she may just peddle away.  No, definitely not going to happen.  Also not going to happen?  Me driving home from Seattle.  I hope.  I will gladly pay more and rent the U-haul here and drive it round trip, rather than have to drive through Seattle and all the way home.  I mentioned that I was a weakling.  Did I mention that I'm a total pansy, too? 

These are small challenges.  Like with most things, I am fretting and giving them more weight than I should.  A little brain storming usually brings great results.  Voila!  Katie our respite worker just called and the whole logistical problem of getting Sam home from the Aquatic Center on Friday has been resolved.  Next problem?  How do I get out of driving? We'll get this figured out.  Note to self:  call AML and make sure that they actually have our container BEFORE we drive up there.

Gratitude.  I'm big on gratitude.  I'm grateful for the time I spent in Pelican, for the skills and experiences I gained.  Those are things that can never be taken away.  I'm grateful for the friends and the memories.  Right now I'm mostly grateful that my husband and I still love each other and are still talking to one another after this big move.  We are great friends.  And we are among a lucky few.

The Beginning of Our Big Move

 

The harbor in Pelican, taken a summer or two ago, believe it or not.  This last visit, there were not nearly this many boats present and much more snow on the mountains and everywhere else.

It was a strange journey, full of old memories.  The first strange, and rather wonderful thing, in fact a novelty in and of itself, was traveling by myself.  Talk about the old days.  When I first started going to Pelican, in 1990, naturally I was traveling by myself and did so for several years.  Then I got married and had two kids and life was suddenly much more complicated than I'd ever imagined possible.  Then in recent years, when Mick and I began to divide our time between Pelican and Dallas, Oregon, I became the traveling circus with two kids ( one very autistic), two cats, two dogs (one of whom gets sick each and every time he has to travel anywhere), and more luggage than you could imagine.

This trip, I had one checked piece of luggage and one carry-on.  That carry-on was reasonably light-weight ( hard to do when your favorite past time is reading).  It contained no items for anyone else except for a pair of Mick's reading glasses that I discovered lost in the depths of the many pockets.

This trip, the main objection being to pack up, remove ourselves from the Pelican scene, and hand over the keys to the new owner of the Pelican Brown Bar, was also a trip down memory lane for me.  I'm sure memories will continue to float into my brain at odd moments as I adjust to this new chapter in our lives.

The second thing that struck me, the first being how much easier travel was, was how much I've grown in recent years.  For so many years, I lived above the bar with my husband and daughters, only rarely leaving Pelican, and then only for the school swim trip or doctor appointments.  Life was routine with little variance and little reason for learning new skills.  Most of the challenges I faced were centered around child rearing, autism, or the surreal social pressures and navigation of life in such a small town.  That all changed when we made the initial move to Oregon and I had to do it with kids and by myself.  I had help from Mick's siblings, thank God, but I had to make a lot of big decisions by myself and I was sadly out of practice.

I did what needed to be done:  buying a house and getting a mortgage (huge step forward for me), getting my kids registered in a new school, buying furniture, and more.  I did it and I started to feel like an independent adult again.  Kind of like when I went off to college, but less stupid--more stupid as far as academics ( the brain atrophies), less stupid about being an adult, or maybe just less naive.

In any case, between chapters in the book I was reading, I let the memories flow freely, like a word association exercise.

What came to mind was a memory from the past, now funny, not so funny back then.  Miranda and Samantha were probably two and three years old at the time.  I needed my annual exam and I needed more birth control.  Our only choice, due to lack of funds, was for me to fly to Juneau by myself and go to an appointment.  There was no way for me to get back the same day so I had to overnight it.

This was a strange experience.  It was the first time that I'd been away from the girls since they'd been born. We had no family in Pelican.  There'd almost never been anyone who would babysit for awhile so that I could get away from it all.  This doctor's appointment was the closest thing.  Date night--a date with myself. I was nervous, but also somewhat exhilarated.  At two and three those two little girls were an exhausting dynamo.  Sam was still in diapers and Miranda was out of them but still required help in the bathroom.  Mick had said, "no problem".  We knew that I had to keep this appointment. We were both so chronically fatigued that we knew we didn't want anymore kids at that point.  So off to Juneau I flew.

It was surreal.  Not having the girls with me, needing constant attention and picking up after them was almost like an emotional amputation.  I really felt as though an appendage was missing.  I got my doctor's appointment over with and then I just stayed in my room at the Travel Lodge.  Sure, I know lots of women who would have called up friends and hit the social scene.  I was so thrilled to have an evening of peace, of rest, of actually holding the remote control in my hand and getting to watch what I wanted to watch--not sports and not Disney Channel.  I ordered room service and had a bottle of wine and a pasta dish and I savored every moment of that evening. 

I admit, I did feel a little uneasy, but Mick knew where I was and how to reach me if he needed anything.

I called the next morning from the airport to let him know that the plane would be leaving in a few moments.  He blasted me.  He let me have it.  I don't know what he expected me to do under the circumstances but he vented and got all his frustration off his chest.  He couldn't wait for the plane to land so he could hand over the mess to me.  I don't know why he hadn't called the night before.  I guess he was so angry ( and, yes, frustrated and overwhelmed), he didn't want advice from me, so he didn't get any.

Soon after I'd left Pelican for my appointment, both girls became sick.  They must have done it just to spite their father.  When I say they got sick, I mean they were really sick.  They were toxic waste.

 In times of great stress and challenging situations, all one can do is put the brain on automatic pilot and deal with each situation as it presents itself.  Both girls had projectile vomitting and diarrhea.  Masses amounts of both.  Coming out both ends at the same time.  Mick didn't realize that little kids don't know how to puke--this isn't like one's drinking buddies who can casually barf and then rejoin the party.  Little kids puke all over themselves and all over their environment. Then they look up at you with misery and startled, teary eyes.  In this case their environment consisted of every bed in the house as well as the rest of the furniture and the carpet.  Diapers over-flowed.  It was the equivilent of the projectile vomitting, but out the other end and actually even more unpleasant.  Diaper after diaper.  Bedding, more bedding, change it, change it, more bedding, more bedding, wipe up the floor, change the diapers again and again and the floor and the couch and more diapers...all I could wonder was what Mick was thinking by not starting the laundry immediately when the first bed was hit.  At what point did he finally decide that it might be a good idea to throw some sheets and blankets in the washing machine?  Did he ever grab a bucket and hold it under the kid's face while she puked?  Or did he watch in silent horror and helplessness as the girls re-enacted that famous scene from the Exorcist? 

As I said, I don't know what he expected me to do via telephone call, minutes before take-off.  However, if he'd had any inkling of what he was in for, I'm sure abstinence would have been his preferred method of birth control.  Because of course, when I landed in Pelican, they were my children.  Poor babies.

For some reason I thought of this slice of the past when I was in Juneau the night of the 10th.  Perhaps because our lives are so different now.  Both girls have been in school for many years, being sixth and eighth graders this year.  Even Sam, considered severely autistic, is quite independent these days and easy to travel with.  Maybe I thought about it because this may be one of my last trips to Juneau for a long time and that memorable trip was my first solo trip since motherhood had ensued.

I had no sense of emotional amputation.  Some worries and concerns, yes.  But no real trepidation or sense of doom.  I knew that if anything drastic happened, Miranda would show more sense than her dad had all those years ago and would at least call me.  I didn't know if Gene, my nephew would have any more sense than Mick, but I was confident about Miranda. 

The trip proceeded flawlessly.  Other than the weather being flat crappy and exceedingly unpleasant when I landed in Juneau ( and this was a good thing because it sure didn't make me feel like staying), I couldn't complain.  The weather the next day was calm and mostly clear, and I arrived about a half hour early--so early, in fact,that there was no husband waiting on the dock.  And then when we did meet up, not far from our building, he was smiling and welcoming, not irate and out of his mind like that image of him from long ago.  It was a good home-coming, my final Pelican home-coming.   Well, dear readers, more memories and observations tomorrow.

The Woman Who Fell Off the Edge of the World, installment 8

 

New readers: click on Archives, then click on My Novel in Progess, and then scroll back to the beginning.

 

 

            I had flown to the ends of the Earth.  I’d never seen so much wilderness in my life, and I’d grown up in the Rocky Mountains.

            But from the security of the floatplane, which felt smaller than my parents’ old station wagon, there was wilderness as far as the eye could see.  There were no roads or towns or even any lone buildings—just water and mountains and more water and more mountains.  An endless wilderness.  Timelessness.        

            Purportedly, there were little communities dotted here and there throughout this vast wilderness, at least according to the maps, but from Juneau to Pelican, I hadn’t seen any.

            I had flown on jets and commuter flights since childhood, but I arrived in Pelican clammy, nauseated, and white-knuckled.  The sky was thick with dark, gray clouds.  The ocean, for most of the flight was a mesmerizing, clear green, but here in the inlet, as I climbed down from the bouncing and rolling floatplane onto the dock, the water was a hostile, turbulent, dark gray, revealing none of its secrets.

            No one came to claim me. Shit.  I was unclaimed baggage.  The two people who had met the plane were frantically and efficiently unloading the plane onto a covered cart.  We were being assaulted by wind and rain and the stray waves that hit the dock with extra force.

            The young, scruffy fisherman who had ridden out to Pelican with me touched my arm.  “Was Pelican Seafoods expecting you today?” he shouted above the roar of the elements.

            “Lauren said she’d be down here to meet me.  Which way do I go?”

            He took my shoulders and turned me around.  “That’s the Plant right there.  Go up the ramp and take a left.  Pelican Seafoods is the end of the road in that direction.”

            “Thanks.”

            “Don’t mention it.”  He winked.  He was kind of cute.  Much different from the frat boys or the overly ambitious guys from school.  “Good luck.  I’m sure I’ll see you around.”  He gave me a long, slow smile then turned and sauntered off.  His presence on the plane was the only thing that had kept me from vomiting.  There was no way I’d allow myself to puke in front of a young, cute stranger.

            I turned to the two women working the plane.  “Where do I pick up my baggage?”

            “You working at the Cold Storage?” asked one.  I nodded numbly.

            “We’ll drop if off outside the bunkhouse for you.”

            “Thanks.”  I took a deep breath and turned.  Time to find my way.  I started down the dock toward the ramp and Pelican proper.

            The rain was coming down in sheets.  The wind gusts were strong, rocking the fishing boats tied in their stalls.  Miserable weather.  Too miserable to survey the town.  The rustic little houses built up on stilts looked as though they, too, were huddling against the elements.

            “Hey!”  I looked up at a tall woman holding a huge umbrella.  It looked almost big enough to have been stolen from someone’s patio picnic table.  “You Petra?”

            I nodded.

            “Here, get under with me.  I’m Lauren.  Sorry I’m late.  Let’s go to the office and I’ll take you to the bunkhouse after you fill out some paperwork.  Tired?”

            I nodded again.  “Yeah, I am.”

            My brain was going into shut-down.  Too much had happened too fast.  I was starting to feel really slow and stupid.

            The trip down the boardwalk was a blur.   The scenery was  pretty and quaint, but a blur.

            Once in the office, a little rabbit warren of tiny rooms and an illogical floor plan,  Lauren sat me down at her desk with a stack of papers while she folded her umbrella and hung up her water-logged sheepskin coat.

            “Not exactly practical outerwear for this climate, but I love it anyway.”  Lauren smiled, revealing a chipped front tooth.  She was tall and big boned, but not fat.  Long, almost bushy hair that ranged from blonde to brown to auburn, as though she’d been unable to make up her mind, hung in her eyes and in a cloud around her shoulders.  Lauren threw back her head and gave a deep, throaty laugh.  Very affected, but effective with the men, I was sure.  I imagine she’d spent a great deal of time practicing the gesture.

            “Well?” Lauren said, “are you going to say anything or just stare at me?”

            I gave her a sardonic little smile and replied, “ I think I will just stare for now.”

            Lauren looked nonplussed but handed me a stack of papers.  “OK.  Here.  Fill these out while you’re taking everything in.  Take off your coat, for God’s sake!”

            I complied.

            “Boy, are the guys going to love you!”

            I raised an inquiring eyebrow by way of reply.

            “Why?”

            “Well, look at you!  You’re voluptuous and exotic looking.  Beautiful skin, too.”

            I blinked.  Now I was the one nonplussed.  I was unaccustomed to receiving compliments, especially such extravagant compliments and from another woman, too.

            “You’ve been up north too long,” I finally said.  “I am an ugly duckling, a wallflower.  I’m not complaining or seeking sympathy, but just telling you the way it is.”

            “Yeah, right,” Lauren voice oozed  sarcasm.  But I wasn’t willing to let it go.  I had no illusions about myself.

            “You’d have to see my sisters to understand.  They’re not only model material, they’re super model material.”

            “Do they need jobs?”  Lauren asked.  I laughed out loud at the notion and shook my head.

            “Well, we don’t want too many attractive women around here, do we?”  Lauren asked.  Then she dithered around her cubicle and wandered out, so I turned my attention to the paperwork.  God, I hate paperwork.  I hate being unemployed and the act of getting officially employed.  I was having trouble focusing on the questions and had no idea how many deductions I should ask for.  I forgot how it worked.  Did I want to ask for a lot of deductions or was it more advantageous to ask for one or zero?  Crap.  I would have asked Lauren, but I wasn’t sure at this point if I’d trust any of her answers.  So far she didn’t seem to meet my expectations of a personnel director.

            My concentration was further compromised by the nagging thought that I was going to have to call the Ranch and tell them what I’d done.  The very thought knotted my stomach.      The thought that Steven Kane was more than 1000 miles away, however, made me feel more at ease than I had since I’d had the misfortune to meet him.

            Lauren popped her head back in.  “Almost done?”

            She startled me out of my reverie.  “Uh, yeah.  Here.”  I handed her the top sheet of paper.  Lauren stared back at me, dumbfounded, then looked down at the desk.

            “What have you been doing?” she asked.

            “Paperwork?”  I offered hesitantly, feeling idiotic.

            “This?”  Lauren waved the one lone sheet.

            “Uh huh.”

            Lauren sighed and picked the stack of papers off the desk. “What about these?  Now you have to fill out these,” she slowly explained to the stupid child.

            “What?”  I was somewhat outraged.  “Why?  Do you guys think this is the Pentagon, for God’s sake?  I’ve never heard of anything so ridiculous.  What is all this?  My W-2 should be enough.”

            “Well, this is a job application….”

            “I’ve already been hired.”

            “Yes, but we like to know these things anyway.  The rest of the paperwork involves safety, bunkhouse rules, etc. and you just have to read them and then sign to show that you understand.”

            “Christ!”  I muttered and sat down again, thoroughly put out.

            Lauren gave me a long, considering look.  “I think you’ll do fine here,” she said.  “At least you don’t seem at all timid or like you’d let anyone intimidate you.”

            I snorted in derision.  “If you knew my family, you’d understand how ludicrous that statement is.  No, I doubt if anyone here is going to intimidate me unless they’re actively trying to kill me.  And then I’d be so damned mad I’d probably do them in first.”

            Lauren, being completely in the dark, looked at me with wide, startled eyes.      “No, don’t ask,”  I said in response to her puzzled look.

            Lauren hopped up.  “Put on your coat, duckie, and I’ll show you to your new digs.”

            I pulled on my coat while Lauren grabbed the  umbrella and the hated paperwork.  I groaned.  “Now, now,” Lauren consoled, “ you can take your time and I’ll pick it up in the morning.”  We made our way through the rabbit warren and when Lauren went to open the outside door, a gust of wind caught it and flung the door open wide.  Wind and rain pelted us.

            “Oh, God, this sucks!”  I exclaimed.

            “Get used to it.”

            “I dealt with the bitter cold  Hellgate winds all winter on campus, but this is worst!  At least the Hellgate winds are dry.”

            Lauren looked interested.

            “What campus?”

            “U of M.”

            “Massachusetts?  Michigan?”

            “Montana.  Don’t you know this stuff?”

            “You haven’t filled out the application yet,” Lauren said pointedly.  “How could I?”

            “Well, the woman I talked to on the phone already asked a bunch of questions like that.”

            “That was Thelma,” Lauren sniffed.  “Thelma doesn’t share information.  She didn’t even have the authority to hire you like that.  But Thelma is fucking the big boss, Jeff.  It’s supposed to be a big secret, but everybody knows.”

            I didn’t comment.  We had reached a sprawling, dilapidated, two-story building that I presumed was the bunkhouse.  My luggage was sitting at the bottom of the stairs, not under the eaves, soaking up the rain.

            “Crap!”

            Wordlessly, Lauren picked up as much of the luggage as she could hold and I did the same.  We climbed up the stairs into the building and down some steps into a long, narrow, poorly lit hallway.  The words seedy and grungy sprang to mind.

            “This is the girls’ wing,” Lauren said, “but there aren’t many girls so some guys live down here, too.  But this is the girls’ bathroom.  The guys’ bathroom and  the community kitchen are upstairs.  Here, I’ve put you in number four.”

            Lauren opened the door and we moved into the room.  On the plus side, the window was large.  A hill was right outside it, but it was pretty and quiet.  I watched the rain pour down the hill and slip harmlessly beneath the building.

            “I’m starting to see why everything is built on stilts,” I said.

            “Pilings,” Lauren corrected.  I nodded.

            “Well, let’s unpack” Lauren said with enthusiasm.  “I want to see all the stuff you’ve got packed in this incredible amount of luggage.  You moving here permanently?”

            “Not likely.  I don’t think this is so much stuff.  This box is bedding…”

            “Bedding?  You’ve got to be kidding me!  Most people bring a sleeping bag.”

            I was affronted by the idea.  “I am not sleeping in a sleeping bag for months on end.”

            Lauren grinned.  “OK.  What about the rest of it?”

            I pointed to each bag or box in turn. “Work clothes, real clothes.”

            Lauren interrupted.  “I want to see your real clothes.”

            “In good time.”  I continued, “toiletries, shoes, music and books, posters, CD player, incense and a few other special little things that I wouldn’t want to live without.”

            Lauren looked rapt.  “Show me.”

            I said nothing, just smiled and commenced unpacking.  My brain was either in another time zone or the ozone or something, because it wasn’t really in the here and now.  I made my bed first and Lauren chattered at me, but little of what she said was registering.  I started to put away clothes in the cupboard, but was obliged to hold up most articles for inspection by my audience.  Lauren loved my shoes, loved my music, loved my incense, loved my posters…We were going to be great friends she kept telling me.

            “Can I paint in here?” I asked.  “Dirty yellow-beige doesn’t do it for me.”

            “Sure.  What color do you want?”

            “Well,”  I said, “I’d like purple or a bright lavender, but I don’t imagine that would be allowed.”
            “I’ll  get some for you.  I know how to mix the paint in the store.  And who cares what color you paint the walls?  This place is a hole.”

            I smiled at that.  “Yes, it is,” I agreed.

            “You’ll have to come have dinner with me some night before work really starts.  Maybe tomorrow or the next night.”
            “Sounds good,” I said.  “Where do you live?”

            “Oh, I have a cabin in that direction.” Lauren pointed.  “Number 14.  Good, that will be fun and we can get to know each other better.  Well, I know you’d probably like to relax, but I should take you to the store and help you get your gear and some food for your mini refrigerator.  You up to it?”

            I sighed and grabbed my coat.  “Let’s go get this over with.”