Sarah Palin Hates Witches

It was 6pm and I was lying on a blanket next to a middle-aged team member on the lawn in her trailer park. While the carpenter ants landed on our shoulders and legs, Candy sifted through the essential books of Wicca. I've changed her name, so she will not get burned for practicing her religion. Candy explained to me that in Brazil, people believed to be witches continue to be tortured and burned as they were in Salem many moons ago. Candy said Sarah Palin, if elected, wanted to go after witches like they do in Brazil. To me, it sounded like she read that on piece of political junk mail that circulates e-world and has little truth...but it is Sarah Palin, so there is probably truth to that. Sarah Palin hates witches. You betcha!

Candy continued to explain Wicca and to be honest, much of it made a lot of sense with the exception of the spells they cast and their propensity for revenge. Somewhere within the hour, her husband, baby, and sister-in-law showed up. Much like in my own family, her husband is afraid to drive and had to wait for his sister to drive him to Morton, so he could renew his anti-anxiety medication. Her husband also does not work, rarely leaves the house or cleans, and never wants to move away from Randle. He is a nice guy, though. Candy has been married twice before, and had two other children from different men. One of her daughters' Dad, stole the child and told Candy that she could come get her, but he would blow her fucking head off as soon as she walked through the door. Candy has been chased by bears and cougars, broken every bone in her body, and been stabbed in the leg. She can tell a story better than Mr. Rogers, all the while blowing cigarette smoke in your face. Candy is a character and one of my favorite team members. I am 23 and most of the other ten Cispus Americorps members are closer to my age, but I find myself making excuses as to why I cannot hang out with them. The members of my generation are not devoid of crisis, but they all grew-up in upper middle-class households with a fair amount of stability. We have never had a lot of money, but I would also say that I had a fair amount of stability surrounded by chaotic craziness. I don't know what it is, but I find myself hanging out with The Mayhem and Candy, two women around 40 who tell insane stories, much more than the recent college grads who sit around bon fires drinking cheap beer, making phallic jokes, and fucking each other. I would much rather sit on a blanket in a trailer park listening to magical tales of witches with the familiar sound of white trash in the lush hills surrounding. You can leave Greenville, but you can never leave home.

Clothes Do Line Dances a Lovely Sunday Morn'

When I was but a child, I will always remember that smell. Always. It was the smell of wet, detergent soaked clothes ready to be hung out to dry on the clothes line that stretched across my Grandparents' front lawn. My Grandpa in his bibs, green button-down shirt, years before nudity took hold. His white hair would blow in the breeze as he hung several baskets of washed clothes on the line. Sometimes I would help, but usually I would roll around on the grass with the cats. Those were perfect days, at least in my recollection, but I was young and did not really know or care about the underbelly of life that we all inherently possess. So why can't we go back to those days of careless nostalgia? The past is but a point on Hawkin's linear model of time that really does not exist.

With this in mind, I set out three plastic tubs on a slab of concrete in my driveway. One was filled with clothes, hot shower water, and all-natural, biodegradable laundry detergent. One was filled with cold hose water and the other was empty. For about an hour and a half I kneaded and wrung my clothes from one bucket to the next. Then I strung a newly purchased clothes line between some trees by the greenhouse and hung my clothes with some newly purchased clothes pins. The experience wasn't quite the same as it used to be, but lovely just as well. As I was pinning up my clothes, George, my neighbor in the adjacent log cabin walked over to ask me "what the heck" I was doing. I told him the obvious and he suggested that I put my clothes right back in my tub, put it on his porch, and he would throw them in his "beautiful" dryer and have them back to me in 30 minutes. I thanked him, but said I would like to give this a try. He persisted, saying that he's done laundry for his wife many times and he's seen underwear - "lots of underwear." I just laughed, restated my desires, and he finally returned to his cabin. George is one of many very nice and slightly dirty old men that I have met in Packwood.

It is Mother's Day and I am now sipping coffee at the Butter Butte Cafe waiting to tutor a girl in History. The sun is shining bright this day and the birds are phenomenal singers. It's a fine day to hang your clothes on the line and that long line of perfect memories as well.

The Gnomes that Can't Escape Me

These days I do not sleep well. I toss and turn, because every time I close my eyes, I see her lying on the hospital bed unconscious. I see that dry tongue and shallow breath. These days, I cannot sleep and so I toss and turn and then eventually give in to the intense clump in my throat and start crying. Somewhere in the middle of the night, at a time that I cannot begin to tell you, I fall asleep. I haven't been going to my exercise class for middle-aged women lately. I shut off my alarm before it goes off and lie awake thinking about how I should be getting out of bed. I should be heading off to old school gym to shimmy and shake with other people, but I cannot seem to get out of bed. I continue to tell myself that I just want to be alone today, so I will go for a run. I stick to my promise and head out on the old tree lined, lonely road. Today I did not run for very long. After about 22 minutes and 32 seconds, I turned my trot to a walk and heading down a trail. I never run on trails, because I heard such a motion attracts cougars. I hiked down the trail for a bit before I spotted a fallen tree extending into the river. I walked out onto it and sat down upon the tree. The river rushed around me, shaking the log. I laid down looking up through the newly born alder leaves that accent the perfectly blue sky. I am alone here on my log in the river. I look at the rapids before me, the rushing water over boulders. I imagine falling into those rapids and letting them take me away to whatever destination they wish. In my periphery, I see gnomes and a couple of fairy scuttle by in the brambles. They giggle and so do I. I tell them that they do not have to hide from me. I will not tel their secrets. The giants are smoking tobacco in the hills. I do not see them, but I see their smoke billowing at the peaks. I see a fox scurry in front of me. The gnomes are going on vacation. It becomes clear to me that I need one too.

Creating a New Life

When I was in college, my Sophomore year, my friend Diane wanted to check out the New Life Church. Always keen on researching religion, I agreed to accompany her. This was a mistake that I could not make it for long. As soon as the music turned on, the audiences' hands reached up, and everyone started singing for Jesus, I knew that I could not stay. I told Diane that I had to go and we both left. I never went back to the New Life Church, but Diane did...many times. Diane found her place in the church, but for me my searching was far from over. It's still not finished, but I think I'm getting closer.

I was sitting at a table at the Packwood Quilt Show, sewing a little quilt gear bag with some extra scraps, when my assistant supervisor walked by. "Looks like you've created a whole new life for yourself here." I laughed a little, but he remained serious saying, "No, you really have." It made me think a bit. I guess I've been so consumed by the death of my Grandma and wanting so desperately to hate it all, that I never stopped to realize that maybe I like here. Maybe this is close to my stopping point. I love walking and running and biking up and down the mysterious and ominously beautiful forest roads. I love quilting and dancing and hanging out with the local middle aged women. I love waking up early and going to sleep early. The roads are few, the materialism far away, and perhaps my troubles are too. This world is certainly not devoid of its problems, but I don't really mind my life here. I have my coffee shop. I have my greenhouse. I have my life.

A Slug and Mountain Music

I saw a giant slug, today - my first giant slug siting in my seven months of Pacific Northwest living. I remember the moment clear as day, driving down highway 2 in Michigan's beautiful upper peninsula with my dad by my side, I stopped for gas at an old fashioned station. As I was paying for my pollutant, the attendant asked me where I was heading. I suppose the upper peninsula is much like my current residency, most folks are just passing through on route to some other, more populated destination. I was passing through, yes, but I doubt my destination was any more populated than whatever U.P. town I had stumbled across. The gas station attendant asked me where I was going and I told him Washington. Without missing a beat, he said, "beware of the slugs." I laughed a little, thinking it was a clever joke, but his face remained straight and he stared at me deadpan. He repeated, "No, seriously - Beware of the giant slugs." Today, I finally witnessed his warning and it was awesome. There she was, slithering down the side of the road, about the size of a medium breed dog turd. She was a tan-brown color, too, but more translucent than excrement. I was grateful to have spotted her.

The other day, I was walking down the side of the road and I spotted a caddis fly larva in her cocoon walking down the side of the road. I had to stop and really enjoy this spectacle, because I knew how truly rare it was. Caddis fly larva live in bodies of water, traditionally rivers, and here one was just strolling down my road next to me. I suppose it is wet enough here.

So this is how I am trying to live my life right now, in acute observation. I don't want to walk passed a slug or a caddis fly larva, because I am too caught up in my job or my self-loathing or whatever else is truly pointless. This weekend is the Packwood Mountain Festival, so all of the old Packwoodians have come out of their grandfather's cabins to tell their stories. One older man, who I would later hear play beautiful mountain music, was telling a group of second grade school children why they should appreciate Mt. Rainer. He said you could travel to Switzerland if you wanted, but we have the same beauty right in our backyards. I think he is right, but that is not just true for Packwood. Perhaps the great snow capped peak illuminates the beauty and makes it quite obvious, but there is beauty everywhere, even in Greenville, MI. My Grandma saw it everyday. Why can't we all? All we have to do is stop for a second, put aside our Hollywood misconceptions, and look...just look.