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

A is for Apple Tree

A is for apple and the apple tree I've known all my life. Apple Tree lives in the orchard at my Mom's. The property was my Grandparents and Apple Tree was given its honored spot in the orchard close to 70 years ago. Care was given I am certain as she was placed in the rich dark earth by strong, yet gentle Norwegian hands. Nurtured and loved was she as new shoots reached high and her broad limbs strengthened. 

  As children we would sit in her limbs when Grandpa wasn't paying attention, and shimmy down in a hurry when he realized where we were. Our own offspring perform similar antics. For decades now Apple Tree has shared her treasured fruit and provided a peaceful resting spot beneath her canopy.

Apple Tree has watched children, grands, and great-grands ramble and wrestle in the tender, emerald blades surrounding her base. Silent watchman over generations at play.
 
As they have played and rested, so have the same generations cared for Apple Tree and her friends in the tiny orchard on the Northern California seaside prairie. New clan members and caregivers will learn of Apple Tree. They will learn of her strength, her loyalty, and her willingness to share abundant fruit and ample shade.

Some stay and some go out to find their own treasured plots and build new sacred places much like their forefathers found and built this homestead. They scatter much like Apple Tree's leaves in the late fall breeze. Fruits of labor they will remain, spreading branches and blooms of their own amongst the orchards of life. Earth keeps spinning and life goes on. And for now, A is for Apple Tree.



T. Bundy
Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Location:Lost in the DP, Humboldt County

Spring Cleaning

February 23 marked 10 years since my Dad passed away.  In France, on vacation, unexpectedly, passed away.  Gone from this earth.  Left behind a legacy of family, friends, living for the day, falling down, dusting off, and Irish Humor.  Anyone who knew my Dad, however briefly, learned something from him.  I perhaps learned the falling down and dusting off the best.  I expect it of myself, and I accept it in others.  The hardest falls teach the most valuable lessons.  Falling comes in unexpected ways, over unexpected edges. Surely though, falling comes to all.  It is the dusting off that counts.  Even if we are dusty for a long while.  Even if we, or those next to us are so covered by yesterdays sandstorm we are hard to recognize, it is the dusting off that counts. 

It is important to dust ourselves, and just as important to dust others.  There are after all, spots we just don't think we can reach.  Don't be afraid to hand someone your duster and ask them to get that spot for you.  Help from others in your dusting might make your task a bit easier.  Of course, they might refuse.  If that is the case, kindly take your duster back for future use, back up against your obstacle, rub a little harder, and remove it yourself.  Equally, don't be afraid to help dust someone else if they ask.  If they hand you their own duster and it appears too rough or bristly, offer to use your own  feather duster. Gentle dusting is best when it comes to others. 

Dusting can be difficult.  Lots of places those dust bunnies can hide.  Be patient and attentive, and you'll find them though.  Go slowly and deliberately so as not to just scatter the dust.  Discard or cleanse thoroughly the used dusters for future use.

Dust is everywhere. Dust does not discriminate where it lands.  When someone falls or is stationary long enough, they will get dusty.   While falling and getting dusting can't be avoided, dusting off can be.  Don't avoid dusting.  I've found a little wine or Guinness can make the task easier.  Hey, I said a little.  Dust off people. Spring is coming.

Oh Shoe-T

Be warned, shoes can get you in trouble if you're not careful with them.  I know this because my shoes have gotten me into some odd situations.   Two of which are as memorable to those who witnessed these episodes  as they are  to me.  It's good I'm writing this because when I relate these two events aloud, the laughter usually interrupts the story before it's finished.  My laughter that is.  Those listening usually have facial expressions somewhere between disbelief and "She's really gone nuts this time".   If you don't know me, you might find it hard to believe.  If you do know me, you understand it is true.  Every last sole-ful word of it is true.

I have never, ever, ever, (thanks Taylor) owned a pair of high heels.  The tallest heels I've ever owned are the 2 inches on my old shit-kickers.  At 5'9" I don't have a desire to be taller.  As the proud owner of the nickname "Grace" growing up, I don't have a need for twisted ankles and scraped limbs from falling down steps.  I've had plenty of those while in my sneakers and flats.  I suppose my ragged relationship with shoes comes from just having to wear them at all.  I never used to take good care of my shoes.  I paid little attention to my shoes, and I suppose it was a matter of time before they and their friends revolted and gave me a footwear's version of a tongue lashing.

Event 1 in being schooled by my shoes began on a calm fall day showing no signs of what lie ahead.  I needed new work shoes.  I worked as an instructional aid and had "yard-duty" every day, which led me to comfy cozy shoes just high enough to keep my pant hems from dragging in the puddles and other nastiness found on middle school playgrounds.  I found what I was looking for in a pair of Munro shoes,  and was so fond of the fit that I purchased them in black, and in blue.  I liked them even more because Munro is an American company. My black and blue shoes made by a red, white, and blue company. 

I decided to take my new shoes on a test run (OK, walk) that evening.  My husband and I were picking up my little brother and his wife to go out to dinner.  We pulled in their driveway and I joyfully stepped out of the car as usual.  Sister-in-law Susie walked towards me and I raised my right foot, twirling it around, showing off my latest purchase.  All leather upper and strong last.  "I like them so much I got them in blue too" said I.  "I see that", said she.  Weird response thought I.  Giggle, giggle tee-hee, went she.  As I opened the car door to climb in, I took another look at my brand new shoes. My black and blue shoes.   My right black shoe, my left blue shoe.  You get the picture.  "Gyppo, we need to run back by the house" said I.   Enough said. 

Event 2 in being schooled by my shoes, and the lesson that finally made the point, came on a cold winter day in Weaverville, CA.  We were going to a dinner as our sons guests and had driven over from the coast a couple hours before. I had hurriedly tossed some things in a bag to change when we got to his house.  We had minutes to spare as I changed in his extra bedroom.  I put on a clean blouse and slipped my feet into my shoes.  Well, I slipped my right foot into a black right shoe.  My left foot had a little trouble.  There was no left shoe.  There was no left black shoe.  There was however, a right blue shoe.  My two right shoes. My black and blue shoes.

Six o'clock on a Saturday in Weaverville, CA there is no hope for purchasing shoes.  My daughter-in-law wears a size itty-bitty or something that doesn't stand a chance of housing my size 10's .   The muddy hikers I wore over weren't going to work either.  "Wag 'em and shag 'em", I hear from a trio of loggers ready to leave.  Heading out the door into 30 degrees and light snow, the Gyppo wisely says "Put on your damn shoes".  A lament he's all too familiar with living with me. "I will when we get there" I growled.   I attempted a brief explanation of my dilemma to no avail.  I don't remember if the noise in the truck for the next 10 minutes was supportive, or ridiculing.  Probably ridiculing.  I do know that as we made our way into the community hall ( full of about 200 people), I quickly made my way to our assigned table.  Two right shoes make it a little difficult to walk so I kind of waddled to our table.  By the time everyone had a round or two, my two right shoes were old news.  Except to my two big toes which were still recovering from major cramping. 

Such were my lessons in taking care of my shoes.  I realize shoe care may not be priority to many people.  I do suggest however, that you give your shoes the respect they need.  Wipe them down with a cool cloth after a hard days work or a night out dancing.  Give them a little spray of freshener on their over-tugged on tongues once in a while.  And please, wash the dogs business off the poor soles, don't just do the grass wipe and run.  That's a shoe's pet peeve.  Neglected shoes, overworked and overrun, can rebel fiercely and form a mini confederate army of sorts.  Rebel shoes come from all walks of life, and their leather uppers are brazen enough to sabotage any owner.  And rebel shoes have friends. They have friends with all the newest shoe technology and reinforced lasts just waiting to give a little pay-back for the mistreatment of generations.  So take heed, and take heel.  Be true to your shoes.

Old Cozy

All summer long it waits patiently, stuck behind shorter pants and summer dresses. My Old Cozy Sweater waits. Year after year it's just as soft and warm as it was the year before. My Old Cozy Sweater so soft. Through cool fall mornings and cold winter evenings it never complains about being tugged at and shivered in. Not a word does it whisper when left on the couch back or rocking chair for an afternoon. Old Cozy offers its' pockets for chapstick, found coins, kleenex, and runaway socks. Age and wear don't stop Old Cozy from early morning grocery store visits or midnight 7-11 runs. Over the years it has shouldered much laughter, as well as tears of joy and sorrow as it warms these shoulders of mine. It is somewhat mystic my Old Cozy Sweater. And its purple.