Day 299: More Literature & A Golden 80’s Tune Revisited

Saturday, July 12

Ode to Tylenol Cold & Sinus Nighttime!  This magical elixir!  I slept all night, as this stuff knocked me out.  Thank God.  I got up just after 7:00 a.m. and went for a shower so that I could wake up.  My eyes were red, puffy and itchy.  What’s a girl to do??

I had breakfast and then attended the first reading of the day, which started at 9:00 a.m.  This was Pulitzer Prize nominated and founder of Dangerous Writing, author Tom Spanbauer.  His reading was extremely moving.  We had a break to stretch and then continued with a discussion on the term Witness.  It was nominally interesting.  The best part was Oregon’s Poet Laureate, Lawson Inada, led the discussion.

We had lunch outside.  It was a barbecue.  They grilled hamburgers.  I had one without the bun, with a couple of side salads.  And lemonade that was a little too sweet.

When the second reading began, I knew that Beth was packing up her tent and things.  I hoped we’d get to say good-bye before she left.  But I had a feeling I was going to miss her before she had to leave.  And sure enough, when the reading was over, I walked toward my cabin.  In the space that formerly occupied Beth’s tent, a doe was grazing.  What is up with the deer here?  Irrespective, I thought that Beth would have loved that, to know the doe had found her way to her campground.

When I got to my cabin, Beth had left me a nice note.  I was a little sad, disappointed that we didn’t get to say good-bye.  But I was still very happy that I made a new poet friend, a peer who understands the poet’s way.  Besides, there are still many good conversations to be had. 

 

Later that evening, after dinner, the final evening event was a special concert by the songwriting instructor, Marv Ross, and his wife, Rindy, both formerly of 80’s pop sensation Quarterflash.  They performed their current folksy music, including songs from the musical Marv co-wrote called The Ghosts of Celilo.  Finally, they performed what Rindy called the ‘bread and butter’ song – Harden My Heart. 

 

The song came out back in 1981, and I totally remembered it!  I sang along word for word.  Back in ’81, that was my sister’s favorite song.  It was at that tender time in our lives when I, being two years younger, wasn’t cool enough to hang out with.  She used to go into her room and lock the door and belt that song out as if she were feeling every bit of emotion that could be traced in Rindy’s powerful voice.  During the break, I chatted with Rindy, who was gracious and lovely, and I told her that story, how that song just holds memories of my young sisterhood.  She loved it.  I couldn’t wait until I was back in cell phone reception, so that I could call my sister and tell her all about it.

Day 298: Last Workshop, A Personification Poem & A Gondola Adventure

Friday, July 11

Sadly, today was the last day of our workshop.  I woke up, but not as easily.  Mainly because I actually had a great night’s sleep!  I slept in a little and got up in time for breakfast.

Today, in the workshop, we listened to some great poems.  It was exciting to listen to the progress of my workshop peers.   I read a poem I wrote from an exercise to personify something.  I personified a vine.  Here was my draft:

My roots have been cut,

Grafted onto new rootstock,

Planted in blood red earth,

Basaltic soils that are rusting,

Here, on this slope, in this row,

They have bound me, trained my arms

To this wire, bound me to this trellis, and yet –

 

My buds break, minute leaflets stretch and unfold,

And drink in phosphorescence.

My buds blossom with small, white flowerets,

And apple scents wafting through each row.

My flower caps fall and blow away

With coastal winds blowing eastward.

My leaves form canopies that

Nourish my body from the sun.

My berries form like pine cones,

Tiny and yellow-green, and then

 

They swell.  They swell all summer,

Ripening, thin-skinned, still green until

Veraison, with reddish-purple thin skin

That sometimes splits with rain, but then

The fruit clusters continue to hang.

The clusters fill out evenly, and then

They pluck my fruit with sharpest shears.

As they celebrate, I bleed.

 

All those clusters of mine – gone, taken.

My leaves break down, turn down from

The sun; change shade into a golden hue.

They dry and fall to biodegrade into

The blood red soil –

I die, but just a little.

 

Now, I have a lot of work to do to revise this draft.  But, I like where it’s going.  Beth said it reminded her of a Christ crucifixion poem.  I continued to get more great feedback from my peers.  And, as we continued to read from our work, we had a guest.  We heard footsteps approach the screened door. And there, peeking in, was a young male deer. 

He just stood there, curious, looking into the screen, listening to us read.  He had large, black inquisitive eyes, a large, wet black nose, a curious face, showing no fear.  I took some photos.  He did not flinch.  Two other deer were grazing behind him, below on the front yard.  It was mesmerizing how close this interested deer had come.  It was amazing.  Was this some other sign?  Or just the peaceful harmony of nature?  From my experiences this week, this all definitely seemed mystical!

 

After lunch, the children of Fishtrap delivered their Open Mic reading.  It was adorable!  There were many cute, creative, exuberant children attending their own special workshop.  All week they posted their creative writing written on construction paper and pinned to many of the large, gracious trees on the campground.

 

Beth and I walked down to an ATM near Russell’s.  We met Sydney, a lovely seventeen year old scholarship winner who was in our poetry workshop, and who was one of my cabin mates, and we went up the gondola to see the Wallowas.   It was exciting! 

Again, the wildlife was practically tame.  Adorable chipmunks and squirrels, babies and full grown, came right up to us.  We fed some of them.  Sydney nearly held a cute chipmunk in her palm.  We took a ton of photos.

 

     

These adorable photos were taken by Sydney

The landscape scenery was mesmerizing.  I tried to capture the dried trees, meadowy hills, and jagged rock mountains, some capped with snow, with the best shots I could take. 

 

 

The view was breath-taking.  Only, the air up there was clear, clean and even sweet.  The sky was a sharp, clean azure.  I had never been anywhere before where nature was so in harmony – where humans, nature, wild animals were so together, so playful.

Beth, me and Sydney

 

On the gondola ride back down, I shared a Dagoba organic dark chocolate bar.  It was a nice treat.

 

We walked back to the campsite and then Beth and I decided to go to Russell’s for dinner.  I was craving a burger!  We talked about the MFA program, wine and relationships.  I had a burger without the bun and with avocado, bacon, lettuce and tomato.  They cooked French fries in a fryer that only has the fries (no breaded foods), so it was gluten safe.  I had a glass of Washington Syrah with it.

 

We walked back to the campsite for this evening’s Gathering reading.  The highlight was Brenda Miller, who read a haunting essay on femininity, loneliness, sex from little girlhood, through adolescence up until middle age. 

After, we returned to Russell’s with the regular Fishtrappers.  I had one more glass of wine.  Beth and I stayed with the group that closed the place.  Walking back to my cabin, I was exhausted.  And congested.  My roommate, Sydney, left a Tylenol Cold & Sinus Nighttime, since I ran out of Claritan-D, and a Ricola throat lozenge.  It was a relief!

Day 297: Bardo, My Poetry Reading & The Blessing of a Baby Deer

Thursday, July 10

When I initially fell asleep last night, I was getting a decent night’s sleep.  This was a pleasant surprise.  However, I woke up at 4:00 a.m.  Not because of congestion.  Not because of the usual restlessness.  But because I heard a poem echoing in my head. 

I was experiencing what is called Bardo.  It’s a sacred time.  That’s usually when you know you are writing something of merit, especially as far as poetry goes.  It’s the Bardo – the Tibetan idea for luminality, a psychological, neurological, or metaphysical subjective, conscious state of being on the “threshold” of or between two different existential planes – between sleep and our waking, busy hours. 

In my head, I kept hearing the beat of an Indian drum.  A poem came to me, and I gave in to it.  I couldn’t just lay there idle without giving in.  I couldn’t roll over and go back to sleep.  I had to sneak out of the cabin with my little notebook and pen, and head to the lady’s bathroom outhouse to sit on the bench next to the showers so that I could write in light.  There, I wrote the lines of the poem that had been repeating in my head, like the beat of a drum.  It was actually to the beat of a native drum.  I wrote down the lines to a poem about Old Chief Joseph.  I called it Bones, and I worked on three revisions before I headed back to the cabin to try to sleep for just a little while longer. 

 

The adolescent hawk from yesterday afternoon landed in this poem, by the way.

 

I went back to bed, but I didn’t get back to sleep.  So, at 6:30 I decided to get up and take a shower.  I went to the dining hall just after 7:00 a.m. to work on more poems.  I hand wrote a revision to a poem I had been working on for several months, on again and off again, including while I was here at Fishtrap.  The poem was called Rhododendrons, Florence.  Florence, Oregon, that is.  The coast.

 

It was my intention to read it for the Open Mic session this evening.  I then wrote out my latest revision of Bones and made fifteen copies for the class.  After breakfast, I walked to the workshop.  I sat down and enjoyed the sharing of our class.  I passed out my copies and read the rhythmic, musical Bones to the class.  I got really great, positive feedback.  My friend Beth was especially encouraging.  I felt really good about this poem.

 

After lunch, Peter sat down with me and read my poem, Rhododendrons, Florence.  He gave me a couple of really great suggestions that really made the poem sing.  I also took the time to take the class’s suggestions to rewrite Bones.  I wasn’t sure if I would read both poems at the Open Mic session this afternoon.

Instead of an evening Open Mic, this day’s session was in the afternoon.  This was because the weekend gathering portion of Summer Fishtrap was beginning this evening, with a program including a reading a music from Kim Stafford, and a reading from Luis Urrea.  I was really looking forward to that.  Meantime, I waited my turn to read.  I wore my straw cowgirl hat with a cluster of yellow flowers for luck.  I was number ten on the list.  I was nervous.  I don’t have a problem with public speaking, but with my congestion, I was feeling off. 

 

Still, I read as clearly as I could.  I had to stop in the beginning to clear my throat, my congestion was closing me up.  I took a deep breath, cleared my throat and spoke more slowly.  When it was done, I felt relief.  I was done.  I didn’t feel like reading Bones.  I appreciated the applause and was happy as I walked off the podium.

 

After, I was outside for a moment, for a breath.  I saw a precious baby deer with its mother.  It was tiny, with its snowy spots and it kept trying to shimmy under its mother’s belly, trying to nurse; but, the mother would stomp her back leg with authority, as she was busy grazing, herself.  As she moved through the woods, her babe cautiously followed, sometimes getting a surge of independence and walking off on its wobbly little legs.  It was darling.

 

 

This evening, the Gathering opened with Kim Stafford, moving on to Luis Urrea.  It was wonderful……

 

Beth and I walked to Russel’s.  She bought our round of hot cocoas.  This evening, I got lots of praise for my reading, which really made me feel good about myself, about my work.  We only stayed for about an hour.  I was exhausted.  We stopped by the cabin where her twelve year old son was staying with his best friend and his grandmother.  Beth kissed him goodnight and we were on our way.  I was a little frightened about the roaming bear.

 

But, oh the stars!   This place just shimmers with the beauty of the summer night sky.  And the conversation, we speak so easily.  I was happy to have a new, literary, kind friend.

 

Day 296: Finally Reading My Work, An Injured Young Hawk & The Magic of Old Chief Joseph’s Memorial

Wednesday, July 9 

Again, I was in and out of sleep, not really falling into the restorative, restful sleep I yearned for and needed.  It was weird.  I wondered if there was more going on in my mind than the jumbled, recited bedtime prayers that kept repeating in my head, as well as the running thoughts about my work, my career, my writing projects.  Where did the writing fit in?  I wondered where I was going.  Not to sleep!

So I went to breakfast and hand-wrote a version of my poem Tagore’s Gardener and made 15 copies to share with the class.

After I read it aloud to the workshop, I got some great feedback.  The group went around and shared with me what they liked and what they thought worked really well.  My new friend, Beth, a woman my age who had just finished her MFA at Pacific University, gave me the copy of my poem back with really great feedback and suggestions.  All of this made me feel like this was really a worthy poem.  I was encouraged.

After lunch, I met Beth at her tent.  Miraculously, a young, adolescent hawk with a lame leg, soared down over our heads and landed, injured.  We looked at him, only about 20 yards away, through Beth’s binoculars.  He was beautiful.  He seemed to be handling his injury well enough.  I wondered if this was relatively common with these fledglings as they learned to fly.

Peter Sears’ daughter, Rivers, met us near the tent and we loaded up in Beth’s fixed up Toyota Corona, and headed over to the Old Chief Joseph Memorial on the other side of the lake. 

We walked around, took in the view, and I took several photos.  The monument, itself, was simple and yet quite dramatic and beautiful.  It was a stone structure with a lovely tree leaning over it, a tree with native symbols strung to its branches - a feather, a dream catcher and a ring of braided sweetgrass.

 

I found a nice place to sit under another lovely tree and began to write.  I took notes about what I saw before me, behind me, above me, below me.  It was a good exercise.  There was a lot to take in.

I decided to get up and wander around, to take some photos of the beautiful scenery.  I was filled with peace and delight.

Rivers commented on all of the landscape photos I was taking - she said there were no people!  That I should have at least some shots with me in them so that I could enjoy the memories of being in the Wallowas at Fishtrap.  She was right.

 

As we drove back to the campsite, I enjoyed all the different angles of the beautiful lake.  I loved how the mountains seemed to change with each new turn.  How the trees seemed to sway a different sway.  The water shined a different color.  It was magic!

After dinner, we had our second night of Open Mic readings.  It was wonderful.  One of the songwriters, Rodd, brought me to tears with his song about brining home the soldiers in Iraq.  It was very moving.  Several of the writers had me howling with laughter, as well.   An evening of laughter and tears – I was certainly entertained and engaged.  It felt good to be part of a writer’s community.  I acknowledged that I was finally getting what I really needed as a writer.

After the lively readings, Beth and I walked to Russell’s for the ‘after party’.  It was clear to me that I was making a good friend in Beth.  She was a kind of kindred spirit.  During my first moments here, I was a bit of a loner.  Reflective.  Finding my way, so to speak.  Having Beth around, in my workshop and beyond, to talk to, to think with, has been a blessing and a joy. 

I had a root beer float and listened, mostly, to others speaking.  I was tired.  We only stayed for about an hour, and then Beth and I headed back to the campsite, talking as we walked under the black night and river of stars.  I was happy to have more great conversation with my new friend.

Day 295: Docile Wildlife, More Poetry & Considering Myself a Poet

Tuesday, July 8

Again, I didn’t sleep well.  I could have used an extra pillow.  Why didn’t I bring my extra pillow!?!  My throat was sore.  I was convinced this wasn’t allergies, and it wasn’t getting any better.

 

I rolled my sad body out of bed at 7:00 a.m.  I just couldn’t lie there anymore, and yet I was in a complete fog.  I didn’t really sleep at all.  And this was going to have a suboptimal affect on my creativity and my writing.  I could only hope that I would find something in me to help me concentrate for the morning workshop.  The Claritan-D surely wasn’t making much of a difference at night.  I could only hope that standing vertical would magcially make things okay.

 

I went to breakfast had some sustenance of scrambled eggs, bacon and my gluten-free granola on milk.  I intended on working on my novel, but I had company at the table.  Two of the fellows sat down and we shared an engaging conversation about heritage and when our parents wished to make their funeral and burial plans, and how awkward that was. 

 

I walked to the workshop.  On my way I saw several dear noshing on grasses and flowers.  I had to stop to take some photos.  The presence of wildlife so up close and personal was astonishing.  It never ceased to amaze me.

 

Today, we reviewed poems by Raymond Carver, The Car, and Kathleen Fraser, Poem in Which My Legs are Accepted.  After we read and discussed these poem, we were given an exercise.  We reconvened to share work.  I held back.  I just wasn’t feeling like I was writing well.  I was a little discouraged and blamed it for the lack of sleep and fogginess.

 

At this point, though, I was feeling encouraged by Peter Sears to get my MFA in Creative Writing, specifically through a low residence program at Pacific University, a lovely campus in Forest Grove, where he teaches.

 

I was going to attend the Writing Programs at Johns Hopkins University, the part-time program for professionals, back when I lived in DC.  But I couldn’t commit to it.  I really needed some life experience under my belt before I could pay for and attend an MFA program.  Plus, I didn’t have the money for graduate school and I didn’t want to acrue anymore debt.  This is a major conundrum for me.  Put myself in debt for the MFA or try to succeed and get published without the degree?

 

After lunch I walked back down to the lake.  It was very sunny.  I talked to my mom, as I got cell phone reception down there.  It was long enough to catch up, tell her how amazing the Wallowas were, and to tell her I loved her.  I worked on two poems.

 

 

 

After dinner we had our first Open Mic night for the attendees. Fourteen people signed up to read their work.  It was very engaging – poetry, prose and some songwriting with guitar accompaniment.

 

Again, I decided against going to Russell’s.  I was really tired from the lack of sleep, congestion and sore throat and decided to go to bed early.  As I walked back to the cabin, I was a little wary of the bear roaming the grounds.  It made me nervous.  I picked up my step and darted across the main grounds of the campsite.  It was also a little exciting, too.  The fact that wildlife came up so close was exhilarating to me.  Here, I was beginning to feel different.  More connected to the earth.  More aware of my surrounds.  More deeply integrated in the natural world.  More like a writer.

 

I was really beginning to wonder about Luis Urrea’s comments about the magic of this place, how things just seemed to happen.  There’s a Nez Perce spirit that seemed to run through this place, there seemed to be an understanding about who we were, what we’re doing and why we’re here, and it seemed the magic of this place, of the trees, the mountains, the river, the lake, the native spirit, the wildlife – it all seemed to be a part of this experience.  It seems to be nurturing, willing and influencing the experience.  And I was in awe!

Day 294: Insomnia Ensues, A Morning of Poetry, An Afternoon of Wallowa Water Bliss

Monday, July 7

 

I didn’t sleep well.  It’s a portentous thing that worried me before I even got here.  So much of our behavior manifests in our minds and, well, it’s possible I willed myself to be congested.  I wish I could have taken the approach of I am going to sleep well!    But, I worried instead.  And because the seed was planted, I willed myself to not sleep well.  Part of it manifested from the congestion and sore throat I have been experiencing.  Hanging out with Susan while she was sick was not a responsible thing to do on my part - with my immune system always dodgy because of my Celiac disease, well, I knew I was taking a risk. 

 

Here at Fishtrap, I implied that my symptoms were from allergies, but, it’s more likely that I picked up my friend’s cold.  Thus, I embarked on a long wrestle with sleep, as I failed to get comfortable from unbreathable suffering.

 

I got out of bed with the breakfast bell, which made me feel like I was at summer camp or boarding school.  But I liked it.  Irregardless of the restlessness.  I sorted my stuff out on one of the empty bunk beds.  After I washed up in the restroom, I headed over to the main hall to eat.  I had fruit, a small serving of scrambled eggs, and brought in my gluten-free granola to have with milk.

 

After, I met a few members of my workshop and our instructor, poet Peter Sears.  We walked to a cabin where we would meet all week.  His wife, Anita Helle, was waiting for us in the main sitting room.  It was an engaging interaction between husband and wife poets.  First, we read aloud the poems “I Go Back to May 1937” by Sharon Olds and “I Ask You” by Billy Collins.  We had a discussion about the form and style of these poems.  And then we went outside to do a writing exercise.  We were to find a favorite spot and write about what we saw above, below, ahead and behind us.  After we returned and discussed the exercise, we were assigned our homework for the evening, to follow the form of Billy Collins’ poem and/or to write about something that happened before you were born.

 

After lunch, I bought two Fishtrap t-shirts and a ball cap.  I went to the cabin to change and went for a good, hard walk down to Wallowa Lake.  I crossed over the cement bridge with the glacial and minerally green-blue waters of the Wallowa River rushing fast, hard and loud below.

 

 

   

 

I wished I had brought my fly rod!

 

I continued to take photos of what I saw, of what inspired and moved me to stop and capture, as best I could, images of the incredible beauty that abounded.  I brought my small notebook to take some notes along the way, as well, to reflect on my observations, allowing nature to guide my imagination.  And then I was stung by a bee.  Was this a sign?

 

 

 

 

 

After basking at the lakeside, admiring the changing shades from blues to greens, I decided to walk back to the campsite.  As I wandered along, I noticed these graceful, lovely deer taking an afternoon snack at a wonderfully rustic cabin.

 

 

When I returned to the cabin I rubbed some Burt’s Bees blemish stick over the bee sting.  It had witch hazel, among other natural antiseptic ingredients.  Within seconds the swelling and redness reduced.

 

I went to Anita Helle’s afternoon lecture on Sylvia Plath and the archival of her work.  Anita recently published a book called The Unraveling Archive: Essays on Sylvia Plath.  The lecture was very interesting and it reminded me of how much I loved being a student.  It reminded me of one of the wonderful English classes I had on Modern Poetry at Sweet Briar College.  I loved listening, absorbing and learning!

 

I took a shower between the lecture and dinner.  We learned this evening that there had been a bear sighting on the camp.  This made me a little nervous. 

 

And after dinner, the fellows, all women this year, read their work to the group.  It was really impressive, especially the Argentine fellow and her dramatic delivery of her poems.

 

Instead of going out to Russell’s, I grabbed a table and got to work on one of my poems.  I was determined to write something worthy of sharing with the class.  I edited and rewrote a poem I had started in the spring called Tagore’s Gardener.  I was determined to get this poem on track.

Day 293: The Drive to Wallowa Lake

Sunday, July 6

I pretty much had everything packed up last night. It’s hard to leave the kitties behind. I put a towel behind the toilet in the spare bathroom upstairs to try to hold off a leaky pipe. I made sure the cats had plenty of food and water. I kept a few windows open an inch to circulate air and then did the last minute things I needed to do for my trip.

I made a turkey sandwich on the Ener-G gluten-free Seattle hamburger bun. I filled up my water bottle grabbed a Vitamin Water from the fridge, packed a small bag of tortilla chips, threw in a organic fruit leather snack, and I was on my way.

I was running a few minutes late when I drove toward Susan’s. I called her to let her know I was on my way. When I got there, I parked my car in the guest parking and put my bags in Susan’s trunk. I always over pack. I had one duffel bag for my shoes, towels and hats, a small suitcase for my clothes and toiletries, I bag filled with gluten-free bread and snacks, my sleeping bag and pillow, and then my laptop bag filled with empty notebooks ready to receive all of the written words I would scribble across the pages while at Fishtrap’s summer writer’s workshop and gathering.

We scooted along toward highway 84, to the Fred Meyer Gateway location. We met the van in the back and I loaded up my stuff into the van. It was a beautiful day. Perfect clear blue skies brightened with the warm sun and we loaded the van and headed out 84 East, towards the Columbia River.

There was a nice group on the bus, including three fellows for this year’s summer Fishtrap, including a woman my age from Boston, a woman from Texas and another from Montreal.  There were two elderly women from Oregon, who were quite lovely and charming, a professor from Richmond, who teaches at VCU, and a senior in high school who was really sweet and happily celebrating her 17th birthday. We were chauffered by the former Fishtrap director, and a great tour guide, Rich.

We saw many landmarks along the way, including Multnomah Falls. We had our first break near Hood River where we got some coffee and used the restrooms. As we went a little further along, we stopped at Celilo State Park and sat at picnic tables for lunch. It was very windy, it felt like we were going to lose our lunch! I took a couple photos of the River and a few people windsurfing. We had seen kite surfers launching up nearly 20-30 feet just before. This, of course, is a hotbed for extreme sport enthusiasts from around the globe.

Some of the landscape reminded me of the Middle East, with the sandy colored hillsides and the shape of the trees.

We continued along east, crossing a bridge over to the Washington side for a change of scenery. And then crossing another bridge later, back to the Oregon side. We moved on toward Grand Junction, with the sandy colored hills now starting to look alpine again. We drove through Enterprise, with gorgeous green country and sharp green and rock, reminding me very much of lovely Telluride, Colorado. We soon pulled up toward Wallowa Lake, with the mountains poking over it, the water blue as the sea, and floating rafts lined up with picnic tables. It was very cool to see this little rafts with people enjoying the sun, food and company.

We drove up past the lake into a woodsy area, passing several beautiful log cabins and A-frames. We passed a dark brown lodge that looked like it belonged in the Alps and made our way to the Wallowa Lake Methodist camp ground, home to summer Fishtrap.

We unloaded and got situated in our rooms. I was staying in a rustic cabin named Caldwell. As I approached the door, a small, brown squirrel was poking its head out from under the doorstep, which included a hole that sunk below the cabin. Our eyes met, I smiled at my curious little host, who then dipped below the cabin with caution. I entered. It was rustic alright. Old tiled floors and lines of beds and two bunks reminded me of camp, or a really bad college dorm. I selected the bed far across from the font door, against the wall. I unraveled my sleeping bag, threw down my pillow, brought in my bags and was satisfied.

We then went to the dining hall to register and have dinner. We got these cute wood nametags that looked like small cut logs, where you could count the age of the tree by its rings. At registration, I saw a kind woman named Betsy who I bonded with at the Sitka Center for Arts & Ecology workshop on the coast back in April. It was a delight to see her!

They prepared a gluten-free lasagna option for me, with brown rice, ground meat, ricotta cheese and tomato sauce. It was pretty good. I also had a salad. And then a couple cups of chamomile tea. My throat was a little sore.

After dinner, the new director, Rick, welcomed everyone and began the introductions of staff. It was an engaging opening. A highlight was listening to writer and Fishtrap instructor Luis Urrea’s words of wisdom. He told a great story about Fishtrap, being in nature, and how his friends back home in the city referred to nature as where you go out to pee. It was pretty funny, in the context of his talk. He also mentioned an experience one summer where a nest of young birds captured the attention of the group and the joke was that the birds would learn to fly away by the time the week would end. And sure enough, as Fishtrap came to an end that summer, the small birds flew away. Luis recounted, that’s what happens at Fishtrap. It’s mystical. It’s like the woods know when we’re coming. You get inspired. Things just happen. And he recounts his own story of successes as a writer, from his Fishtrap experiences.

After the opening, a group walked down to the local restaurant, called Russell’s, and I had a glass of the Snoqualmie Syrah. The staff kept bringing out endless popcorn. It was great to just relax. After I finished my glass, I walked back with another group who had flashlights and we marveled at the stars that seems endless, within reach.

Day 292: A Leak, Packing & My At-home Spa

Saturday, July 5

When I woke up, I had PBS on, the Oregon Public Broadcasting station, and watched a wonderful program I hadn’t seen before called “From the Top at Carnegie Hall”, about an 11 year-old Korean-American violinist.  She was brilliant!  At one point tears emerged, as I get so touched by such beauty.  I really get moved by such aesthetics, and just fill with wonder.  Amazing.  She’s so young, so gifted!

I spent most of the day cleaning. I hate leaving the house for a week or more without cleaning, as I don’t particularly like returning to an unclean home. There has been a weird pipe leak in my second bathroom upstairs, just under the toilet. I put a rolled towel behind it, to be safe. But, I am a little wary of leaving for a full week. I just hope it doesn’t get worse or burst. It looks like there needs to be calking to the pipe behind the toilet. I’ll have to have the property management company take a look at it when I get back.

After I cleaned and got a head start with packing, I tidied myself up and met Susan at Bridgeport for noodles at Zao. She’s getting over a bad cold, and after two days hanging out with her, my throat was starting to hurt and I was worried that I was picking up what she had.

After we ate our soup and drank our tea, we walked in and out of a few shops. I ended up picking out a very cute madras purse on sale for $19.99 at J-Crew, along with a t-shirt and tank top, all for under $44.00. There were all kinds of sales, but I was very good and didn’t splurge or go nuts.

I went home and finished packing.  I tried to unwind with a cup of Yogi chamomile tea, while I dipped my tired feet in a foot soak with a buttermilk bath powder and Dead Sea rose salts – it smelled heavenly and made the water super silky soft.  My feet just felt amazing!

On television, the repeat SNL episode was on with Jon BonJovi guest hosting and appearing on the Vinnie Vedeci sketch – which was hilarious.  For months my former co-worker Jen and I would randomly announce out loud “Jon….Bon JOVI!” in our best Vinnie Vedeci accent.  So damn funny to us eye-talians.

I was tired and needed a good night’s sleep. I was already feeling sad for leaving my kitties, worried about my upstairs bathroom leak, but excited for a week’s vacation in a beautiful, remote place. I hoped to get some really good writing in! 

291: Old Fashioned Courting & Independence Day at the St. Paul Rodeo

Friday, July 4

I slept in until 11:00 a.m., which was glorious.  It wasn’t a late night out, but I was tired, nonetheless.  I got up, sliced a ripe, white nectarine and toasted a gluten-free bagel and spread it with whipped cream cheese.  I poured a glass of lite orange juice and sat down to load photos from dinner last night.

Meantime, I turned on the tele and Masterpiece Theater was on OPB.  Fitting, on Independence Day, it was a very engaging story about Jane Austen - called Miss Austen Regrets.

Before there was Carrie Bradshaw, a single thirty-something ingenue writer contemplating love in New York City and romantically entangled with her lofty Mr. Big in Sex & The City, there was Jane Austen a single authoress who was considered an expert in the matters of love, but foiled falling into a match, herself, never finding or marrying her very own Mr. Darcy.

In Miss Austen Regrets, Jane is approaching her fortieth birthday and while she seems happily unmarried, she is asked by her twenty year old neice, Fanny, to counsel her on her potential suitors, which forces Jane to contemplate the choices she has made.

Funny, since I was a girl, I loved no writer like Jane Austen, save for Louisa May Alcott, specifically for her family classic Little Women.  There’s no character I have related to quite like Little Women’s Jo March.  I have often felt like I am living the similar life of such a character, living this drawn out single life, contemplating love, fearing the misfortune of landing in the wrong place of love, and wondering if true love really exists, waiting out, ever hopeful, for my own Professor Friedrich Bhaer, all the while wanting to be independent, free and able to write the stories in my heart and mind that should unravel into books that reflect my heart and soul - about family, sisters, mothers and even love.

This movie about Jane Austen takes a closer look at the brilliant mind that wrote the classic, timeless stories about love, freedom and duty in Pride & Prejudice, Mansfield Park, Sense & Sensibility, Emma, and so on.  It’s an interesting take on the single woman who does her best to defend, whether to herself or others, her decision to maintain maidenhood.  And, being in a similar state, I found the movie to be heartbreaking.

But, as I finished the movie, I thought about the old fashioned ways of love.  And how it might apply today.  Sadly, there are so few moments for the romance of former eras where love was, well, still romantic.  This made me a little sad.

After the movie, I went to the gym for a 30 minute run.  I was in a bit of a rush to get ready for the Rodeo.  The important question - summer dress or blue jeans?  The last two times I went to the St. Paul Rodeo I was sweating like crazy.  Summer dress.  I put on my cowgirl boots, cowgirl hat and some western jewelry.

I met Susan at the Whole Foods in Bridgeport.   We drove down to her mother and step dad’s compound in St. Paul for a barbecue.  We brought strawberry shortcake for dessert. 

It was a lovely dinner.  We had chicken, a tex-mex rice with blackbeans and peppers, a fresh green salad and I brought my gluten-free biscuits.   After dinner and dessert, we walked over to the rodeo.   It was an exciting start.  The rodeo court rode into the ring, wearing shiny cowgirl gear and tiaras on their cowgirl hats.  If I had grown up in Oregon, I would have been on a rodeo court!  Susan, Kerry and I decided we were going to be rodeo court girls for Halloween.

The Star Spangled Banner was gloriously sung while a cowboy rode the rink with an American flag.  It just doesn’t get more American than attending a rodeo on the Fourth!

The St. Paul Rodeo is one of the top 20 rodeos (per size of purse and it’s significance for qualifying for nationals in Las Vegas), out of over 700 rodeos in the USA.  It’s a very exciting show of cowboy skills - bull riding, saddle bronc, team roping, bareback riding, steer wrestling, tie-down roping, and barrel racing (the only girls event). 

Just before the program ended, we headed toward the Tack Room, a western bar set up within the arena.  We got in, used free drink chips we got from Susan’s step-brother, and took in the beauty of the masculine, brawny, western-belt-buckle-cladded, spur-boot footed, tight jean wearin’ cowboys!  I now know why the Dixie Chicks sang Cowboy Take Me Away, and why Paula Cole pondered Where Have All the Cowboys Gone? and what stirred Pam Houston to write Cowboys Are My Weakness.

Suddenly we heard fireworks.  At first notice, it could have been from the excitement of being in a room full of beautiful cowboys.  But then everyone was dashing outside and reality set in.  We hid our drinks behind a barrel within the saloon and joined the crowds outside to watch the colorful spectacle in the warm Oregon sky.  It was magnificent!

After the grand finale of glittering blasts sprouting one-by-one in the sky like a summer garden, the sparks subsided, the smell of smoke wafted and people either left the rodeo grounds or returned to the Tack Room.  We said good-bye to Susan’s parents and their guests, and returned to the fine sport of cowboy gawking.

I sware.  Jeans never looked so good.  Every turn and there was one good looking cowboy after the next.  These were real cowboys.  From all over the wild west.  And we were smitten.  We just kept gazing from one direction to the next.  We were like a trio of adolescent boys oogling at one fine bronco-bucking butt after the next.  In some ways we were mixed in a kind of role reversal as we looked at these fine specimens of grit and perfection.  And, just in time to bring me back down to earth, back to being a woman again, a young cowboy grabbed my hand for a dance. 

He was very young.  Probably twenty-one or twenty-two.  Still, my heart fluttered, my palms were a little sweaty.  He turned me then took his hat off and when he’d spin me, he’d give me a pat on my bum with his hat as he twirled me again and again.  It was intoxicating.  He kept spinning me and playfully tapping his hat to my bum with each turn.  People were all around us, stomping and clapping along.  We were the only couple dancing.  I could hear cheers as he’d turn me then playfully tap my skirted bum.  I was blushing. 

There’s something about a real cowboy playfully flirting with a girl on a western dancefloor.  And there I was, this typical feminist-tomboy, and I never felt so girlie!  He kept dipping me and spinning me and when it was all done, I was all a-flutter.  I gasped and thanked him for the dance, blushing like a school girl.  I am rarely one without words, but I was more or less speachless.

I know why Pam Houston wrote Cowboys Are My Weakness.  In the every day hum-drum of our modern world, there are few moments when we, as women, get to really feel like women.  There’s something about the old fashioned ways of cowboys that still evokes that romance between the sexes, that genteel manner of persuasion, the boot-scootin’ dancing that serves as a prelude to nothing, really.  Which was so nice, so refreshing.  I could dance with a cowboy over and over again and be content with the innocence of it, the flushed cheeks, the pitter-patters in my heart, and the joy of a simple dance that evoked in me a feeling that a cowboy was really taking me away.  And it never felt so wonderful to be a girl from Virginia in her frilly sundress, cowgirl hat and boots.

Day 290: The Start of A Long Holiday, Starting with Good Food & Drink at Clyde Common

Thursday, July 3

I woke up at 2:30 a.m. to roaring thunder!  The cats jumped off the bed.  India scrambled downstairs and Capri ducked under the bed.  We were in the middle of a crazy tunder storm.  Lightening earlier, and now bomb-blasts of crackling, booming thunder accompanied by pouring rain.  I loved it!

Today was my ‘Friday’ of the week, as tomorrow’s a holiday and we get a nice long weekend.  Of course, mine will extend even longer for my vacation next week (yay!!).  It’s like going to camp.  I am so excited!

I worked steadily to get everything done that I needed to accomplish before leaving work for a week.  I hurried home to change for an evening out with friends.  A friend, Jamie and her friend Siobhan, were in town from San Francisco.  I had made a reservation at Clyde Common.  And I was running a little late!  I quickly changed and touched up my make-up and dashed off for downtown.  Jamie and Siobhan were already seated. 

I ran in to give hugs and was looking forward to the evening.  Kerry arrived next and then Shirley.  We had a few cancellations in our group, but it ended up being a lovely girls night.  We started with a cocktail and I had ordered a kind of Manhattan with ginger instead of regular bitters.  It was refreshing.  We had pink Cremant bubbles.  Kerry brought a Riesling by Sweet Cheeks and Shirls brought a 2004 Pinot by Paul Hobbs. 

We started with olives and a smoked trout with a small side of mashed potatoes, pickled red onion served with a small sample of beer. 

I had a spinach salad with mint and fava beans with pecorino cheese - which was divine.  I then enjoyed the braised pork that literally melted off the bone. 

After dinner I enjoyed the dessert of rhubarb ice cream, fresh raspberries and a heavenly whipped cream, save from the crepe shell gluten-tolerators get to enjoy.  Still, it was delicious.  I finshed my creamy glass of pink Cremant bubbles with it.

 

After dinner, we parted ways, which was around midnight.  It was nice to leave at a decent hour, to ensure a good night’s sleep.  I was content.