Bad Day Story

 If you are looking for a story that leaves you feeling as if life is all sweet wine and beautifully scented roses, this is NOT it.  This is also not a Readers Digest Condensed version, so I’ve put the punch line up front for those of you who skim and just want to know how a story ends. Our sweet, loving, loyal, and brave little dog Mocha was killed Friday morning by a rattlesnake, while right next to me. She most likely saved me from getting bit. It was frightening. It was messy.  It was confusing.  It was terrifying. It was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day, and my apologies to Judith Viorst but Alexanders' Day was nothing in comparison.      

I was working in the yard as I often do in the early morning hours here in the Northern Sacramento Valley.  Hummingbirds were humming and dipping into the dew laden daylilies edging the garden path.  Doves were gently cooing from their perches in the drooping olives trees across the yard.  My 11-pound Doxie mix Mocha was at my side as usual.  A few low-lying long leaf bushes were less than 2 feet behind me as I worked cleaning a nearby area.  Mocha was between me and the little bushes, resting in the still gentle sun of the new day, tired from our already completed sunrise walk.  I finished the clipping task in front of me and lifted a last rake full of trimmings to the trash can.  A fence lizard skittled across the patios end near us and Mocha rose.  She took a couple steps, and nosed into the little bushes behind me, then jumped back very slightly as is her common lizard inspecting behavior.  I bent down and attached her leash on as we were going to head to the front yard, my hands literally brushing in the little bushes at our feet.  “Let’s go sweetie”, said I.  On her first step, Mocha stumbled.   Oblivious, I encouraged her to come along.  She then attempted to follow me but only managed a couple wobbly steps.  A strong sense of alarm went off in my brain, bright lights flashing in my eyes, my ears were ringing, as the hairs on my arms stood and my throat began to tighten with fear. I instinctively grabbed my rake and stuck it into the bushes as I reached for Mocha.  A soft rattling sounded much like a gentle rustle of dried leaves caused me to gasp.  Within seconds a now full panic set into my body as I tried to focus on getting Mocha towards the house.  Once to the door I ran to get a blanket, grabbed my phone and called my son Nick.  Mocha was now lying down and vomiting.  A racing, yet somehow also slow motion feeling of blurriness enveloped me as simultaneously I cried into the phone and ran to the car, dog and blanket wrapped in my arms.

Mochas' usual vet is a 25-minute drive if one hits the traffic lights right.  A closer option was 5 minutes away if I punched it.  I absolutely exceeded the speed limit and broke several other traffic laws.  This vet had never seen Mocha, simply because we had felt more comfortable with Dr. Tom and chose to make the drive for the commonplace vet needs.  This day however, the obvious choice was the nearest.   I prayed that this office had the anti-venom in stock.  As I haphazardly parked, I realized it was not quite 8:00 a.m.  The door was locked.  In the small parking lot, a woman whose description I do not recall leaned against her car door looking at her phone and barely raised an eyebrow at me as I shook the locked door.   A man standing on the curb in front of another vehicle answered, “I don’t know” to my obviously frightened question, "What time do they open?”.  I am sure I was not calm in the least, but this guys' tone was so nasty that I immediately awarded him the forever title of “Mean Man”.  As I held Mocha in my arms, Mean Man and Lady Who Could Not Care Any Less both gave me a look of annoyance.  I saw a shadow on the glass door as it shook once, then opened slightly.  I grabbed the door, swung it open and yelled, “Please help”. Mean Man, who could also be a stand in for Captain Obvious, stepped toward me and stated sarcastically, “They are open now”.  The word "asshat" appeared in my cartoon talk bubble, though I did not verbalize it.  At least I don’t think I did. 

The following 5 minutes were filled with a fury of Mocha being taken from me by a concerned vet tech as she asked pertinent questions and gave me information. “Are you sure it was a rattlesnake?”, “How long has it been?”  Pointing to an open examination room someone directed me to “Sit in there and we’ll get her stabilized.”   I sat, I cried, I felt my son Nicks arm around my shoulder.  What I think was no more than 10 minutes and felt like 1000, another tech walked into the claustrophobic space and laid Mocha on the exam table, still wrapped in her coverings from home. I could hear her words, though I was having trouble processing. “I am so sorry.  It wouldn’t have mattered if you’d gotten her here in 5 minutes.  She was bit in the face, and it just went too fast.  The venom most likely moved quickly to her brain. I am so sorry.”   I remember saying I would take Mocha home and bury her.  The obviously saddened yet practiced vet tech asked if I would like her to “package Mocha up” and I remember thinking the question sounded so cold and uncaring. I answered that I would take her home just as she was. 

Sweet little Mocha.  A little dog with a big heart who had joined our family 7 1/2 years ago when she was just 12 weeks old as a rescue.  Mocha, who had brought us laughter and tears, countless joys and unconditional love, now lent a sorrow that felt frighteningly deep.  Mocha was gone.  I already felt the reality that daily life would be immensely different without her.  Her absence was already physically painful. Sorrow and tears cloaked the short drive home.  Mocha would be buried down by the giant bamboo she loved to play near.  We will be lost without her here.  

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Of Trains and Prayers

At Dunsmuir Railroad Resort a model train on a track traversing a cement model of the Castle Crags was not running, regardless of how many times our grandson (and others) pushed the appointed red button. Each time we were near, Maverick made the plea “Can I try and push the button just one more time?”  Each time we let him try, accompanied by words of caution that it probably wouldn’t work.  It did not work. Not a sound from the stout little engine, not a puff of smoke or poof of steam. Despite little boy eyes peering, and little boy hopes held high, the engine sat cold and liveless on the adventurous looking track winding its way through realistic rock mountains.  As we began to turn away, we watched through watering grandparent eyes as Maverick stood, almost at attention, eyes closed, hands posed in prayer. A moment passed, maybe 2 before he turned and happily skipped towards us, grabbing our grandparent hands, and announced, “I prayered”.   Our grandparent eyes watered a bit more.  We climbed on a retired Willamette Shay logging engine, dined in an old passenger car, spent the night in an aged caboose of days past, accumulating memories of moments present.  

Boys and Trains

Breakfast was had in the same dining car as dinner, and we were greeted as we entered by a cheery “Sit anywhere you’d like” from a now familiar hostess. Maverick decidedly chose the same table we’d sat at the evening prior, one with a view of the model train which remained sitting cold and unmoving in the morning frost.  As we enjoyed plates of fluffy hotcakes and warmed ourselves with hot cocoa, we watched other children push repeatedly on “the button” to no avail before eventually wandering to other areas of the railroad park.  When we’d had our fill of the trainman meals,  a smiling proudly five-year-old doorman with a trace of hot chocolate mustache held back the weathered, rusty train door as we exited the dining car.  

Nothing warms a soul like breakfast in a train dining car.

We descended the metal steps and were once again faced with the courtyard centerpiece model mountain and its’ motionless locomotive.  Our young doorman now reverted back to hopeful 5-year-old train enthusiast asked, “Can I push the button just one more time”?  “You can” we replied, followed by my meek attempt to weaken the disappointment I was certain would follow.  “Just remember that it is probably still broken but we will come back another time when it is working”.  

I am fairly certain Maverick did not hear my warning, as he rushed to the red button mounted on the nearby train shed wall.  Little boy fingers flattened against the wooden plank building as a little boy thumb stretched and pushed.  A little boy head holding hope filled eyes swiveled to look backward towards the model then back to the button as he, more desperately this time, pushed, and pushed, and pushed.  Then we heard it. A light but steady huffing sound as if a bellows were being pumped, faster and faster. “It’s going, it’s going buddy!”, a shocked Papa not so calmly and not at all quietly shouted, as Maverick turned and ran the few steps to the edge of the model.  Looking amazed, but with an understanding tone in his voice, Maverick quite calmly and matter-of-factly declared “I told you I prayered.” Attempting to describe the happiness of this little train loving dreamer is difficult. Pure joy. Pure, pure, joy.   

Castle Crag model at Dunsmuir Train Resort

Time was spent there, on this morning in Dunsmuir, California, following the little engine as it led its cars and the caboose that “looks just like the one we slept in” around and through, over and under, the features on its’ skillfully built track.  The red button was pushed again, and again, and yet again.  Finally satisfied, with fingertips freezing and cheeks aglow from the morning chill, we were two thankful grandparents and an absolutely content five-year-old, descendants of a long-ago logging train brakeman making our way back to the warmth of retired McCloud River 228 Caboose.  Quite certain were we, that a Great-Great-Grandfather and his train crew from 1933 watched with ancestral pride from a Roundhouse high above. 

1933-Hammond Lumber Company Logging Train Crew at
Crannell Roundhouse - Mavericks’ Great Great Grandfather at far right. 

Behind the Photographs- Camino Life

Life on The Camino de Santiago is amazing.  Amazingly peaceful, amazingly beautiful, amazingly thought provoking and inspirational.  Life on the Camino De Santiago is also amazingly real.  Real life.  Pack your determination, and your humor.  Leave your self judgement behind. Turned out to be the two most important things I took along, and the one I didn’t miss at all. 

Look  - Simple.  The Camino is simple.  Nothing to do but walk.  Unlike everyday walks at home, each Camino day brings new sights, landscapes, challenges.  Being lost in thought with a new view in sight is incredibly freeing.  Look outward, look inward. 

Humidity, sweat, and overall dampness- I’ll get straight to the point. You just might start the day out with wet underwear.  You just might end the day with wet underwear, and wet clothing. The humidity can be high on the Portugués Camino routes.  Clothing items washed out in hostel/hotel sinks don’t always dry overnight.  Or ever. Unless you’ve used an entire packing cube just for underpinnings, you’ll likely have a wet bra or panty band to start the day. Just saying. Speaking of the humidity, you’ll likely not notice the wet areas of your undergarments after an hour or two on the trail because everything will be wet from the humidity and the reaction of the human body to it. Everything. Wet.  Enough said. 

Bread. And bread.  And more bread.   Served with every meal, (in abundance) bread definitely helps fill the belly of hungry pilgrims. I think the description of “bread basket” for ones’ middle area may have begun on the Camino.  Bread gets bonus points for holding up well when carried in the backpack.  Unlike bananas.  How 7 pounds came off my body while walking the Portugués Coastal Camino I’ll never know given the amount of bread I consumed.  I miss the excuse of calories expended walking to eat more bread now that I’m home.  I still eat a lot of bread, I just miss that excuse.  

The Portugués Coastal Camino is a fairly flat route.  Not really. Compared to other routes? Possibly.  The terrain may not be nearing perpendicular but calling it “gently sloping” would be misleading.  Grossly misleading.  Long ascents were frequent.  Lots of uphill leading to lots of downhill sidestepping to protect 60-something year old knees. Lots of sweating.  Thus the need to rinse things in the sink at night.  And the excuse to eat bread.  And to chug Advil.  I think the only thing I consumed more of than bread, was Advil. 

Santiago Cake (aka More Bread) - A simple Spanish almond cake served with almost every cup of coffee (and in most cafes with any drink ordered) along the Camino.  Yummy.   I’ve already made it at home.  If you come to my house and have anything at all to drink, you’ll likely be offered a piece of Santiago Cake.  If you come to my house for any reason, you might be offered Santiago Cake.  On further thought, I may have consumed more Santiago Cake than Advil.  May have. 

C-19 - Don’t come down with CoVid on your Camino.  Or any illness.  You may need an additional rest day if you do.  If you do, eat more bread, eat more Santiago Cake, take more Advil.  CoVid may make your remaining walking days a bit difficult. You may not think straight with a Covid Fever.  A good sister can help with that. Be thankful if you are walking with your sister.  

Finish if you can - Honor your desire to walk the Camino. Walk with your eyes and your heart wide open. Walk. Climb. Eat the bread. Eat lots. Take the Advil.  Take lots. Think the thoughts.  Pray the prayers. Smile the smiles, shed the tears. Feel the feelings.  Honor your desire to finish.  Finish if you can. You’ll be ever thankful you did.  

Written for an old friend.  Me. 

It’s Decided Then—-Pre Camino

My Camino De Santiago Compostela actually began days, weeks, months, before the physical journeying.  I’d read of this phenomenon.  I’d heard first hand from others who had walked “The Way of St. James” that their own Camino had actually begun before setting foot in a plane, train, or automobile.  Most travels do begin before the actual physical journey with plans and preparations but this seemed to mean more of an emotional beginning.  Possibly of realizing of “why” one wants to walk the Camino, a desire to “find” something, a spiritual call for some.  

The Camino was historically a religious pilgrimage to the tomb of St. James and lo today many people (about 25%) still walk for a religious or spiritual reason.  https://hiketheway.com/blog/top-5-reasons-people-walk-the-camino-de-santiago

During the planning phase of this trip, still several weeks ahead but close enough that I was getting excited about post-covid travel,   I was talking to Father Aiden Rontoni in Redding, CA.  Father Aidan is a fairly young priest who livens up our overwhelmingly aging population at All Saints Church in Redding.  I appreciate his way of sharing different thoughts and ideas while remaining reverent to history and traditions.  I told Father Aidan of a couple challenges I was facing in preparing both mentally and physically for this journey. Father Aidan, with a huge smile and confident, calm tone said “Your Camino has already begun”.  I don’t remember the date, the time, and no, not what I’d had for lunch,  but I remember that moment as the one when I realized my Camino had indeed, begun.  

The  Camino De Santiago, also known as the Way of St James, is a network of ancient pilgrimage routes that leads to Santiago de Compostela. https://theculturetrip.com/europe/spain/articles/a-brief-history-of-the-camino-de-santiago/?amp=1

Walking the Camino De Santiago Compostela was on my radar though not on the “must do before I die” list.  I hadn’t thrown the Camino into the proverbial bucket mainly because I couldn’t imagine being away from my husband, kids, and grandkids for several weeks.  I don’t spend a lot of time on myself by choice.  I whine at times about it, joke about having my grandchildren so much, fuss about no “me time”, but it’s a choice I make.  I enjoy every second I spend with my grandchildren and my entire family.  Grandma Daycare is the best job for me.  Caring for and supporting others, that’s absolutely my game.  Well, baseball is too but that’s a story for another time.  I simply didn’t like the idea of missing my family and not being around to share their lives and support their highs and lows for several weeks.  Then……my wee bit older than me sister Sharon called.

Sharon and I are “Irish Twins”.  We miss the technical definition of “born within a year i of each other”  by 18 days but we claim the title regardless. With respect to our mother who delivered 5 children in slightly leas than 9 years we still often call ourselves Moms “Irish Twins”  Mom was Norwegian and Finnish. Our Irish comes from our Dad, but that’s a story for another time too.  

Sharon asked if I would “pretty please” walk the Portuguese Coastal Route of the Camino De Santiago Compostela with her.  Mmmmmmmm, I said.  “Please” Sharon said.  “Can I think about it for a week?” I said.  “Yes” Sharon replied. A week later, after much contemplation, prayer, and conversations with my family,   “Yes”  said I. 

https://www.caminodesantiago.gal/en/make-plans/the-ways/portuguese-coastal-way

   I love my siblings fiercely…..not an overstatement.  Siblings carry our history along with theirs and remain our link to the past when parents, aunts, uncles pass on.  Siblings are a touchstone to the inner child I believe none of us wants to leave behind.  My inner child began to get excited about supporting Sharons’ Camino walk.  My inner child and my adult self in all it’s jumbled disorder began to get excited about walking “her own Camino”  too. 

We planned.  We planned and we planned.  We replanned and rearranged plans.  Sharon did the bulk of the planning as that is her thing.  With my input on specific questions, ideas, must dos, must not dos,  and with Sharons’ magnificent travel experience, we planned a dream journey.  We talked about how even though we would be doing this together, we would also be walking our own Caminos.  We would have times when we would choose different paths, go different directions.   We would start in Porto, Portugal and end in Santiago de Compostela, Spain.  

We had a game plan, and on May 30th, 2022 it would be Game On! 

March (ing) to a Different Tune

We are all going to have to get through the next several weeks in ways that are uncomfortable.   Those who think the world is overreacting will have to deal with situations they find unnecessary.  Those who are fearful may or may not be comforted by various actions being taken around the globe and in our communities. It is not fear mongering to be prepared and to leave space for others to prepare.  It is not panicking to be concerned for our elders and protective of the emotional status of our children.  It is being a good human.

Please take care of yourself even if you don’t feel it necessary. Even if you are certain you are able to weather “COVID-19” without precautions, take steps for those among us who are not as sturdy. This is not a time for blowing caution to the wind and ignoring guidelines. Those who know me understand how difficult it is for me to “Do as I am told”.  I have no personal and little family history of conforming that is for certain.  That said, there are times in life when after weighing the facts we need to walk paths unfamiliar to us. The way I see it, this is one of those times.   A long list of what we “can’t do” hangs before us. Along with it and very doable is a growing list of what we “can do”.

We can be cautionary and prepared to weather this storm should it worsen while maintaining our sense of self (and our sense of humor). We can take care of ourselves while being aware of the needs of others and helping when possible.  We can be especially cognizant of elders and help when possible. We can be protective of our young people and respectful of their fears. Our children and their emotional status will be guiding the future. We can absolutely remain kind in our words and deeds.  Together in those same words and deeds, we will get through this.

42 Years and Counting

Anyone who has been married more than 10 minutes and tells you it’s all been wonderful, is most likely fibbing. At least a little.   Marriage is hard work from the get-go.  Marriage is work that is "worth it" and the rewards are great.  Arguably I suppose, some of the best rewards life has to offer come from the work of being married.   Marriage is comfort and companionship.  Different factors of the equation for each couple, the sum of which is Love.  Marriage is also frustration, sorrow, anger, and compromise.  Lots and lots of compromise.

I wouldn’t, we wouldn’t, trade a moment of our 42 years and counting. Maybe change a few of them a little, give a tweak here or there, but not change them.  February of 1976 I owned a pair of Levi 501’s, a pair of brown corduroy pants (also Levis I think), 4 tops, a journal, a transistor radio, and a pair of tennis shoes from Food Mart. Joe had a rented apartment, a green Chevy pick-up, and a Honda 550 Four (also green). Both the truck and bike had payments.  Wells Fargo technically owned them. We wanted to get married.  Joe worked in the woods during the logging season and at the Chevron Station during the winter.  Redwood National Park woes were heavy in Humboldt County.  He was a hard worker and that helped him have work when others didn’t.

Nina and Earl Walton were the owners of the Chevron Station at the time.  For those of you old McKinley-Villians, the station was on Central Avenue across the street from where the old Safeway was (now Eureka Natural Foods).  I think it is an empty lot today.  Nina and Earl were two of the most honest and kind people we have ever known.  They taught Joe and I a lot.  And they helped us get married. Nina and Earl gave Joe $300.00 and told him to go get married before he went back to work in the woods for the year.  They knew that once the season started, work hours would postpone any hopes for nuptials.  With their blessing, and a look of surprise on the faces of both our Mothers in the rearview mirrors, we quickly ran off to Reno.  It was February so we settled for the confines of the Chevy instead of the freedom of the Honda.  The $300.00 from Nina and Earl bought us the following:

• A dress for me 
• A shirt for Joe
• 2 gold bands from Weisfields at the old mall in Eureka (sized in Redding on the way to Reno
• Gas for the Chevy
• 2 nights at the Golden West Motor Lodge on North Virginia Street in Reno
• A 126 camera from a Pawn Shop on South Virginia Street in Reno
• A marriage license from Washoe County, Nevada
• A Start

The only photo we have of our “wedding” was taken by the JOP mid-nuptials with the 126 camera from the pawn shop.  With a look of amusement on his Wizard of Oz looking face, he kindly set down his book, picked up the camera, clicked a photo, picked his book back up and resumed his official duty.  Also in attendance were two courthouse clerks (neither one of which resembled an Oz character)  we had rounded up for witnesses.  We hadn't known we had to have witnesses until arriving at the courthouse.  I held my Moms bible and an embroidered hankey of my Grandma’s.  Joe held my hand.

Hand holding is directly connected to heartstrings.  That handholding has helped carry us through 42 years and counting.  Those 42 years have brought us among other things, the following:

• Immeasurable laughter
• Uncountable tears (both of joy and sorrow)
• 2 grown sons who bring us joy and pride every day and who have given us 2 bonus daughters and 6 grandchildren.
• Love we didn’t understand until our children were born, and again when given the gift of grandchildren
• Lost baby’s our arms still ache to hold and lost parents we wish we could speak to again
• Proof that loyalty to our siblings is always worth it - Part of our promise to each other before we were married was that neither of us would ever have to choose between each other and our brothers or sisters.  We never have.
• 35 years of Gyppo Logging and stories the likes of which number in the thousands
• Friends, many who started as employees, who we would do absolutely anything for; some we lost touch with, some have passed.  We have tried to learn from every one of them,  and while some may not remain in “our corner”, we will always remain in theirs.
• A life

The past 42 years and counting brought us a life.  We still have a truck payment, the Honda has long been gone.  We have a house payment and yardwork to do.  We stay in touch with and enjoy time with our brothers and sisters.  We don’t know if we should go out to a sit down dinner or just grab a beer and burger (most likely) before picking up groceries for the week.  We talk to or see our children and grandchildren every single day.  They put up with us.  We have years of experiences, learning, and memories.  Our "Still Want To Do" list is long and varied.   We have an unshakable knowledge that whatever the joy, whatever the trouble, we will go through it together tugging heartstrings, holding hands.   42 years and counting.

Because Sometimes Church Brings Me To Tears

 "Do you go to church?", and "Why?"

Yes, I go to church. Not every week, sometimes not for a couple weeks. I was baptized in the Episcopal Church and attended as a child. I do admit I have sometimes gone years without going to church.  The obvious reasons lead me to church.  I believe in God.  Sometimes I have problems that I just don't want to burden anyone with except God.  Sometimes I have problems that no one can solve except God.  Most days, I am so thankful for my life and the people in it that I want to thank everyone, especially God.  These days I attend All Saints Episcopal Church here in Redding on a "mostly regular" basis.  Regularly for me anyway.  Sometimes,  if I'm lucky, church makes me cry. 

Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve  2014, was one of those times. We had a new priest at All Saints. He might have had something to do with it. Father Paul has a voice that makes me want to listen. Father Paul has a voice that makes me happy to be in church, happy to believe. I am not always a good believer. He is from England, our Father Paul, with an accent appropriate to what you'd expect of a middle aged Priest from England. Sometimes those voices make people want to listen. Especially we here in America who I think draw a rather romantic notion when we hear those accents of the old country.  It is not just the accent that makes my Irish ears perk up.   It is the tone and emotion I hear in the words of a person speaking, preaching if you wish, about Faith. To be fair it's happened to me with other Priests and even without a priest around at all, this tearing up of mine at church. Not often, and rare as it is I find the tears joyful.

This midnight mass the pews were full.  Arriving a few minutes late as seems to be our habit, my husband and I sat in the last empty pew at the rear of the church. At least we were on the right side. I try to always sit on the right. It is closer to the door which makes it easier to sneak in given our habitual tardiness. I get all thrown off kilter if I sit on the other side. The incense and prayer at the columbarium, combined with Father Paul's story about Brother Froilan and the children in Northern Spain showing their parents the Christmas story through hand carved wooden nativity scenes, the candles we each held....it all wrapped warmly around 120 or so souls looking to feel the peace of God in their hearts. I did. My view from the farthest rear pew on the right of others in attendance told me I was not the only one to feel it.

The knowledge, the feeling of absolutely knowing that Christ is real, that the Holy Spirit is present and is being felt by others as deeply as I am feeling it is a bit surreal in itself. Most often I feel that way when I'm alone in my garden. Sometimes I feel it in the darkness of 3 a.m. on a sleepless night. Sometimes, I actually feel it at church.

The feeling is strong, a peaceful warmth tugging at my heart, and it makes me want to be at church more often. Tears can be joyful and these are joyful tears. Tears of thankfulness and pure peace. Tears that run through my heart as much as stream down my face. It is a feeling that when gone I am anxious for it to return. I want to feel that unexplainable, untouchable peace in my heart again. So, I go back. Yes, I go to church. Because sometimes, church brings me to tears.

Location:Redding, CA