Spokane Inhabitants

The shimmer of a far off sun ready to peek its head into the new day threatened to mess with Jay's mental state. He had been wandering back streets for an undetermined amount of time. He couldn't even remember when he’d started off last night and now his mind felt fidgety and a slight bit liquid. It had taken on this cherry jello form that rocked back and forth between his ears, yes he could actually hear it as it slid to and fro.

Even though the summer was completely gone, and the late autumn air reminded his gloveless fingers of that, he traipsed around the city with only the protection of a hoody worn thin from many washings. His fingertips were threatening to lose their circulation so he jammed them into the front kangaroo pocket on the navy blue sweatshirt. He thought it was odd that the rest of him was so warm, perhaps from the long ambling walk he’d been on while the rest of society slept. He’d make sure that he kept his fingers safe from the notorious morning frost that the inland North West was so generous with in late October.

Earlier the night before he’d felt fine and slid out the front door as his wife and four month old baby slept in drowsy-dream land. He just couldn’t sleep was all. That was what he was telling himself as he pulled the hoody over his head and leaned down to tie his black, recently unused work boots. He told himself that he just needed to shake a little pent up energy, then he’d come home, slide between the covers already warm from his girls and float into nothingness. After a little walk he could sleep and wake up right as rain.

Now, the sun was shooting golden daggers into his eyes, not full blown daylight but frighteningly close to. He didn’t feel right, he knew it. Jay was trying to think rationally though the night as he walked past one house after another, each one sending him a minute message that only Jay could hear. The hot anger, the white madness, the ultimately alive rush of excitement was welling up in him; he knew it was out of his hands now.

He already knew when earlier, in the small hours of the morning, he’d started to hear the Halloween displays telling him what to do. Six blocks from his apartment the slow breeze pushed its way through the decaying corn husks a scarecrow now used as arms. It caught Jay’s eye and when he looked he could see the smile grow from the pumpkins mouth. Subliminally, it said hi. That’s all. Jay knew what would be coming next; more conversations growing more in-depth as he trudged past more and more yards with macabre inhabitants left out in the cold.

He was a little shocked at how many people in the Spokane Valley really went all out in decorating their homes. The thought of carving a pumpkin had passed between him and his wife, but they decided against the mess of a rotting pumpkin that would need to be thrown away if it didn’t get smashed on their porch on Halloween. House after house held expertly carved pumpkins, swaying ghosts and grey eyed ghouls suspended from porches, many had tombstones with names of favorite fictional characters’ on them: Freddy Kruger, Jason, Michael Myers. It was the displays that had scarecrows incorporated in them that really spoke to him. The husk of an imaginary man; now just some dried hay and rotting clothes, so incredibly susceptible to incineration, somehow Jay understood.

Jay moved his right hand into his Levi’s pocket and found his lighter. Ordinarily, he’d take one of these walks and it would end with him standing in an alley next to some unknown garage, confused and yet focused. He’d be unsure how he got there; he just knew what he was there for. Tonight had resulted in an orange and now pink morning sky, a distant dog monotonously barking in someone’s yard down the street, as if he was the lone alarm calling out for no one to understand his barks.

The lighter slid from his pocket now poised above Jays head, with a flick of the turning wheel he’d lit it and held it close to the straw farmers had that sat atop the scarecrows burlap sack head. It quickly went up, engulfed in flames with small black pieces of charred shirt releasing themselves to the wind.

N N N

Jay sauntered into the kitchen; his hair still wet from the shower and kissed his daughter sitting in a baby bouncer chair on the kitchen table. His wife smiled over her shoulder as she tended two thick cut pieces of ham sizzling in the cast iron skillet.

“When did you get in, Hon, I didn’t even hear you,” she said.

“I walked in just as Jimmy Kimmel came on, so not all that late,” Jay said.

The small television cut from the national news into its local news spiel for five minutes on the hour every hour. Nadine Woodward had a grave anchor-woman expression as she read the day’s top stories.

“A series of unexplained arsons continue as the toll of scarecrows burned tops forty-eight today. Though, the police have no solid leads they do ask that anyone with information please come forward and call crime checkers. The suspect is believed to be a teen (way off, went through Jays mind) and he may also have been responsible for the mysterious garage arsons that have plagued Spokane for over six years (bingo). We now go to Othello Richard who is live at a Spokane Valley home where the arson struck just last night, Othello,” Nadine said.

“Thank-you, Nadine. As you can see the house behind me had two scarecrows last night but the inhabitants woke to see them on fire around 6 a.m. apparently their dog had been barking and the family looked out to see what was going on, that’s when they saw the frightening scene. It’s just too bad we don’t speak dog, Nadine,” said Othello with a ridiculously serious look on his face.

“Thanks Othello, now we turn to Tom Sherry with the weather. Tom, what’s it lookin like out there?” her body angled to send a silly smile Tom’s way, he sends the same goofy grin back.

Jay’s wife turns around with the skillet in her hand and slides the ham onto his plate, joining the two over-easy eggs. They both sit to eat breakfast together, shooting each other Tom Sherry and Nadine Woodward smiles over steaming mugs of homemade cappuccino.

“What is on the agenda for today, Honey?” she asks.

“How about I take my two best girls on a little neighborhood cruise? It’s sunny and crisp and we can look at the cool Halloween decorations people put up in their yards?” Jay was smiling with enthusiasm and held one tiny baby foot in his hand, looking at his daughter as if she’d give the okay.

“You are such a holiday man, I love it,” she said and cleared their plates. “Spokane is a wonderful place to live.”

Escape

Oddly, as I walked through the light tinkling rain, I was overwhelmed by one of those brain nagging tunes that repeat itself to near madness. I have never been an adamant fan of the Beatles work, I just grew up with parents who listened to them and so by default I know all the words to all their songs. “Dear Prudence” kept rolling over and over without even the courtesy of including any more words than those two. The tune flickered in from some unknown place in my psyche and dug its heels in for the remaining five blocks to my front door.

Only damp from the precipitation, I slithered out of my parka before it had time to soak into my sweater beneath. My canvas jogging shoes didn’t fare as well and they, along with my soggy socks, were left to dry by the entry to my cozy home. I had burned incense and sprayed copious amounts of concentrated pineapple orchid spray around the living room before I lit out on my daily walk; it’s one of those self-serving pleasures that go a very long way in enhancing my day. Barely scanning the living room and adjacent kitchen area everything seemed in a relaxing order- then I noticed the pale yellow piece of stationery on the kitchen table.

The front door was securely locked behind me as it always is, so the probability of someone coming in and leaving a note was out of the question. None the less, there it was, and as I approached it I could see that it had some type of odd scrawling on the front of the first page and that whomever had left it had needed part of the reverse to get their message across. It was a letter penned in a hand writing I was not familiar with. For the most part, a letter lying on your kitchen table is usually recognizable after only a quick glance, but not this one.

It started out with an odd introduction and got weirder from there. As I read what appeared to be shaping up to be some strange form of a dear-john letter, I found it almost impossible to finish the note seeing that I was being distracted by a repetitive thud, thud, thud against my garage door. It may possibly be a neighborhood kid messing around near the door. The noise sounded steady and persistent, yet in no hurry, whatever it was. I continued to read as the letter held my attention much stronger than the low pounding on the rolled down metal flap.

The letter read:

To the Family That Has Held Me Hostage,

After living a somewhat dull little life in the living room of an elderly woman, I have given up at trying to transition to the “next chapter in my life”. I was a child of the 60’s and most of do not live on to see too many decades. I was in impeccable shape until recently-- your family has changed me forever.

Once, my curves were smooth and velvety; now I’m literally worn bald in places! The amount of abuse I’ve withstood at your children’s hands is nothing short of a miracle. If I am jumped upon anymore I’m afraid I will just give out. I’ve been pushed and pulled all over the place, and right when I think you will leave me alone, you move me again.

I have been scalded by your hot coffee for the last time, Madame, and for the record I’m allergic to dogs!

Sincerely,

The “Oh, That’s a Cool Crazy Green Couch”

p.s. I have always detested leopard print and thought that it was a very tacky thing to pair me with.

Then my head jerked back in the direction of the garage door—thud…thud…thud...

Scrambled Eggs

Margret Mallory sat beaming down at her plate of sunshine. That’s what she’d called the heaps of canary yellow scrambled eggs mother would serve her weekend mornings for as far back as she could recall. Her mother had this magical secret recipe she’d tell Margret was filled with at least twenty-four ingredients from all corners of the Earth. They each had an exotic name and now that Margret was in her late teens she realized that these names might actually be made-up. It didn’t matter where the recipe came from, and certainly it didn’t matter if it were part of an elaborate tale her mother had concocted many years ago for her little girl. Knowing that only made them taste better to her.

She propped her elbows onto the gingham table cloth and let a foolish grin cover the lower half of her delicate face. She was a slight girl with one of those heads that held up features just a bit too large for the face they resided upon. Eyes that bulged surrounded by lashes like feathers batted the stardust from in front of her face. Her cheek bones swelled out like enormous bee stings still rosy from the flying insect’s assault. Protruding below her cheeks in a perfectly tied bow, were her lips wrapping up an over sized set of cloud-white teeth all standing at attention in two neat rows.

The fork in her hand caught the Saturday morning light briefly as the fog started its coastal routine of burning off before noon. Margret dipped her fork into the eggs, not stabbing because that might deflate their puff; instead she chose to gently lift them up from under where they practically hovered above the plate. The misty steam preceded the eggs and climbed into Margret’s nose almost heavy from the spices that created the heavenly aroma.

“Tell me the main spice- just the main one, the one that tastes like the kitchen smells?” Margret asked.

“If I tell you that then you won’t need me to make them for you anymore." Margret’s mom held back a sly grin at the silliness of the power she possessed over a mundane breakfast food. She heard her daughter give up a little laugh of defeat, then the sound of the fork lightly scrape her teeth. She kept her back to Margret cupping her coffee in its “Worlds Best Mom” mug and went over the days mental check list she always made as the fog turned to mist then laid down as dew on the Redwoods.

First off that's not my kid!

Why is it that the little one can't get along with the big one; the middle one is arguing with the grown-up one and the female parent is pissed at them all! Sound familiar? Unfortunately it's all too familiar at our house. The best laid plans just blowing up in tears and screams- sorry Nigel.

While he is the level headed parent, that only means I get the extreme pleasure of being the total ass. I get to be the tyrant on a rant; as it were. It's all exhausting and usually ends with someone saying they are sorry to me. The end is fine, I suppose, but can't we just avoid the whole rigga-more-o?

To sum up these frequent interactions: it's like doing downward facing dog, keeping your mind clear and beautiful, slowly you open you eyes and there's the toddler smiling up at you from inside the curve of your body in it's positions. The most Zen places make the most wonderful spots for insane amounts of, well, insanity. Namastae.

THE POOR BEE REALLY WANTED THIS GINGER-TINI

HOW SWEET IT IS

Careful girls, one day you may wake up and find that life has rushed past your youthful face, leaving deep ruts where there once was taut skin. The bouncing boobies have been replaced with push-up bras lifting up whats left of the old milkers. Why didn't anyone warn us about the 35-45 box that has to be checked from now on? I also do not recall any solid advice about the toll one night of cocktails can take on a person. Why with all the "self-discovery"?

Be extremely cautious when it comes to living life. I honestly mean living, not just running around in your messy mini-van with the fast food wrappers curling around your feet like fall leaves. Be cautious because it too, will zip by faster than you can say, "Oh my God, look at Dallas taking his first steps!" (Please note the photo of 16 year-old Dallas).There comes the time when you are surprised at how many of your friends are dying; not how many of your girlfriends are having babies. To every season...

Take the extra time to go out of your way and be nice. You don't have to get all weird here and fake, you know you have it in you- let it out! Nothing is more beautiful than a woman at any age just oozing with genuine kindness. Lets face it, in times where T.G.I.Fridays is going tits-up we could all use some grassroots, free compassionate gestures. It keeps you young and feels good all the way around.

As a whole, we all could use a bit more of the deep-breath action. God forbid, something horrible should happen to any of us tomorrow, (insert your own worst fear here); we simply must live for today. Keep it simple. Straigthen up and fly right. Remember what it was like to live in the simpler days of our own childhood. We may not look like one on the outside, but we sure keep her in there, with all the other stuff inside that no one can take away. Smile to yourself and remember something fun about being a kid. Now recreate it. Dress-up anyone? And if you have little one's, I don't care how big your ass is, get it down on the floor and get to making some kick-

butt make believe, already!

I'm not 11 anymore-still love an ice cream cone!

We aren't getting any younger, but wow, we are getting smarter! I remember someone telling me that looks fade quickly and that an exceptional personality would far outweigh passing beauty. That's pleasing to me to know that there's always room for improvement for all of us to expand the ever-growing internal charm.

Bellies that scream for a tummy-tuck be damned! Greying roots can be ignored under a bandanna, and split-ends; please. Laughing with my friends, even if we don't get together nearly often as we should, far outweighs anything that damn bathroom scale keeps lying about!

I believe I just bought us all a round of deep breaths in this photo!

*Labor Day is just a friendly reminder of what is right around the corner.

The Last Hurrah

This week-end holds more pressure than a Swedish masseur. I mean, the fact is that if you aren't doing something wonderful for Labor day weekend, forget it, you're so lame. What no camping plans? Did you say you were just going to kind of hang around the house? Good Lord man, what is going through your mind?

Seems to me the whole idea behind "Labor Day" is that we all get a day off, or one prays we all get a three-day weekend. Along with the extra time off comes the obligatory "plans". I'm unsure where this started, I will guess in the '50's sometime when the American family was encouraged to hit the national campgrounds, hook up the round, silver travel trailer, gas up the boat of a car you were driving and make good use of the fact that you had a shortened work week. Well, thanks a lot grandpa and grandma, now we are stuck with this tradition and I think it's gotten out of hand.

Way too much effort goes into planning, purchasing, packing, setting up, tearing down, and finally unpacking again once you get home. Oh, did I mention this all takes place the DAY before school starts? That's what I want to do; be thoroughly exhausted before getting up to get the kids off on their first day of school, still wreaking of campfire smoke. Why bother?

It's a hassle, it's expensive and tiring, but what the heck; it is what it is. It's an American institution at this point in our history and I, too will be hitting the highway to find the perfect camp site. I just happen to be lucky enough to have a wonderful friend, who has a wonderful family who has property on the river. I will have to find my relaxation where I can amid the ciaos of Paul Bunyan Days, a camp site with 50 friends and family members, and a mini van stuffed to the gills with gear and kids galore. What's not to love?

Not Letting Go Without a Fight

I am not one of those people who are all fuzzy-sweater on the inside to greet the changing of the season. I am a summer person, always have been, always will. I'm sure it comes from growing up in North Idaho where the summer is a mere blip on the radar of weather. When it comes; it's here immediately. You often hear Idahoans talking about the fact that there is no acclimatizing for our poor winterized souls, we go straight from 37 degrees to 80. It is truly a bit of a shock, but who gives a rip? Nothing says summer like 65 and sunny with most of the town's population roaming around half naked. Big deal if it's really just late spring weather. So elated are we to shed the multi-layers that I want to go on strike against cruel mother nature, how dare she make me cover up my Coppertone tan!

The long days and nights are shrinking and as they do they are rusting the leaves. I have a keen eye for that-I noticed a couple of leaves on someones yard about a month ago and ran straight for the beach. Today was 95 degrees and I lounged around in the blazing golden heaven for hours upon hours. Yet, I feel cheated. Is there a way for me to cram extra hours filled with sunny memories into my suitcase overflowing with fleeces, Sorrel's, mittens, hats, scarves, wool socks, jeans loose enough to allow long underwear to fit under, earmuffs and puffy coats?

I guess the best way to snuggle down with these warm sparkly thoughts is to wrap them close to my body, maybe under a layer of cocoa butter, then hold them close and cover them up with the endless layers of winter protection. Then when the snow is up to my waist and school is closed for the day, I can stick my nose inside my collar and close my eyes to breath in the sweetness of my sacred summer.

I am now going to officially blame my mother for all this. Growing up we would spend every waking hour at Rocky Point. We were usually the first ones there with our cooler of snacks fully stocked, then after swimming in the lake all day, we'd be one of the last families to leave. I remember my skin would have a new weight to it as if heavier from all the water I'd absorbed over all the hours. She'd tell us to get out of the water, that we were water logged and it was time to go home. I'm not sure I've been water logged like that in my adult age, but my kids certainly have.

*The symptoms of being water logged is an unrational reaction to the fact that it's time to leave, the uncontrollable urge to show your mom "just one more thing", hair resembling seaweed, and the failure to identify that the sun is hanging just barely above the trees.

My mom would lounge on the pebbly sand and chat with friends, take a long swim out to the logs, and usually take a nap. Every year she had a golden toasted tan. I loved that we were never in a hurry to get home like so many of the other families that would flit in and out throughout the day. We had nothing but time and when you're a kid time means nothing.

Now I'm the mom on the beach into late September. It's usually early October because the kids and I love to brag into the winter about how we got in in April and then the last swim was in October. We always remember the dates too, just in case someone doesn't believe us. At least I'm not alone in my battle against the slipping away of summer. For now I will not think about it too hard, mostly because I have to get to bed. We are, of course, meeting my mom at the lake early.

*Photo is from the 70's@ Plummer Point