Defensible Space

Defensible Space

It is strange or is it predictable that common place things have taken on a different meaning.  Freshly plowed fields that use to hold the promise of new life in the spring now bring up the thought – defensible space.   The plowed fields of the brown upturned earth surround stands of oak, maples, and alders among the fields and the farmhouses, sheds, and barns are equally protected by the dirt of the fields.  Defensible land.

Our minds are shaped by our environment and with so many fires burning grasslands, hillsides, timber, businesses and homes all we can do now is pray. I pray, I tense up when I hear sirens wailing in morning, the day and the night in the town that we live in.  I have always prayed for the emergency workers, police, and firemen who serve us when we go about our daily lives. It is the least that I can do.

We are surrounded by forest on all sides but one –the Pacific Ocean. I pray that we don’t get the 9.0 earthquake that they are predicting for the Oregon coast as we stand on the beach looking East watching the fire burn. It might be our only haven from a fire storm.

When traveling to Portland, Oregon to pick up our son, large information signs on the way on I-5 displayed “Extreme Fire Danger Use Caution” in yellow letters.  Worrisome, yes. The fire haze of smoke rings the valley and blocks the intensity of the sun burning down.  There will be no sighting of the dormant sleeping volcano, Mt. Hood which sticks up out in all her glory on a clear day.

Now that is a good idea for a disaster story.

The smoke haze filled the valley. It was another hot day with nothing to alleviate the fears and worries of more fires in the foothills, grasslands and forests surrounding Portland, Oregon that nestled beneath the dormant volcano of Mt Hood.  The local news had reported that in addition to the continued development of more smoke hovering in the valley, a heat warning was in effect for the rest of the week.   At the tail end of the broadcast was a footnote of a series of small earthquakes centered in Mt Hood.  They had been so deep that no one had noticed.

Cars, trucks, vans filled I-5, I-84 and I-205 with a lone motorcyclist weaving in and out of the ever slowing traffic but it was still moving. A married couple was heading to the airport to pick up their son who had flown in from New York City to escape the August heat. A man cursed in his car as he spilled his Starbucks, a mocha latte into his lap.  He was already late for work, thankfully, his pants were dark.

Jenica’s dogs stated barking wildly, two German Shepard dogs and then they suddenly stopped, standing still, listening.  Squirrels, she thought and continued to place her cell phone in her purse, noting that she had forgotten to charge it again. No worries, she would plug it in when she got to the gift shop where she worked at the base of Mt. Hood.  She was too involved to notice the slight rumbling under her feet as she ran to her car.

It was going to be a good season for the grapes, Martin thought as he gazed out onto his fields of growing grapes. He couldn’t see Mt Hood today through all of the smoke haze from the forest and range fires further west of Portland otherwise he might have wondered whether the plume of white was smoke or steam.  Whatever, it was, it was growing. A slight tremor shook the mountain. It had appeared overnight, causing snow around it to melt and run down the one slope of the mountain. It remained invisible becoming one with the smoke haze. 

Mary heard the clicking of the seismograph as the needle moved across the page, generally she ignored it and would wait for it to finish measuring the small barely registering tremors around Mt. Hood.  But today, she was bored for once and walked over to see the readings, 1.7, 1.3, 2.0, 2.3, 2.7, the depth ranged more than 3 miles down. The mountain was busy this morning.

The couple who picked their son from the airport was on I-205 heading home, the mom texted and called friends and grandma letting them know that they were heading home. Yes, they would be having lunch in Corvallis, picking up corn, peaches and tomatoes at the Saturday Farmers Market.  Getting bread from Great Harvest bakery.  It was warming up in the valley but they had air-conditioning in the car.

It was just before 11 am, Jenica turned onto I -5 heading towards work.  She thought about her phone and wished that she had charged it the night before.

The motorcyclist was still weaving in and out of traffic on I-5, he glanced to where Mt. Hood should be. Damn, these fires. The beauty of the mountain was one of the reasons that he had moved to the Northwest.  His bike jumped a little as he maneuvered around several cars until he was forced to stop along aside a double load semi-truck on one of the interstate bridges.  He saluted the driver, thankful for the shade that the big truck provided. The driver raised his hand in a half-salute in acknowledge of his jacket which displayed Airborne.

The bridge shook slightly, he glanced off the bridge seeing a large truck with a heavy load of boulders rumble by underneath.  The bridge shook again after its passing. He shrugged and hope that today wasn’t the day that the old bridge decided to collapse.  There had been a lot of coverage in the news lately about the inter-structure of the nation’s bridges. Still the biker wished that traffic would move and get him off of the bridge.

I am sure that you can run away with this little study in fiction.  Go for it.

It never surprises me anymore about the different directions that my little mind can wander off to but what is annoying is my lack of time to run down each little path that presents itself.   What do other minds do when traveling on the road?  I am always glad not to be driving, I prefer to gaze at the countryside, drinking in everything.  Sometimes, I have great philosophical discussions with myself, often asking my devoted husband to help solve deep involved theories that somehow managed to take root briefly in my head as we travel 65 miles an hour to wherever we are going. 

Right now, I am praying for rain, a gentle one that will last for more than a few minutes. I am praying for no wind, I am praying for the comfort of those who have lost much.  It is still all that I can do hiding in my own little defensible space in my mind where I can for the moment believe that I am safe.

Waking up to Santa

Waking up to Santa

            You know how you can get struck by a moment. You walk around a corner and there you are being walloped by an unexpected awareness of something that was lurking before you but you were blissfully unaware of its beauty, change or of the memories that suddenly jump to the surface of your mind.

                I had that moment a week ago when my husband and I were getting ready to go to the valley to have the Honda’s oil changed.  The light was just right, the angle and tilt of his head as he stood in the kitchen fixing his cereal caused me to exclaim in my mind, it is Santa.

                First, an explanation.  My sweet husband is growing out his beard for a play that he will be performing in this coming fall.  It has been a long time since he has had a beard.  Usually, it is quite red as all the men in his family have red beards even though their hair on the top of their heads is more of a sandy blonde or light brown.  Well, it has been a long time and now the red has faded away and is being replaced by white or grey. He is still quite handsome as far as I am concerned and as for him looking more like Santa, just perhaps there will be more presents under my Christmas tree this year.  It is something to think about even though it is only August.

                It does remind me that we are both fading away in some respects.  Certainly, I have developed an awareness of my growing limitations while hauling out my bathwater to the roses, shrubs and little tree. I ache more, I go more slowly carrying the water through the yard alongside of our house to the waiting plants.  I don’t worry about a misstep on the grass but it hovers in the back of my mind along with all of the other worries either real or imagined.  At any rate, I move slowly, making sure each step is a firm placement on the earth.

                I am reminded by what an old woman told me in a moment of lucidity from the depths of her dementia and I quote somewhat hazily.  She said that she did not know what was worse, losing your mind or your body.  As for her mind, in her moments of not asking the same question over and over again, she was aware and was deeply bothered by it until she wandered away, lost without thoughts about who she was, who I was and where she was. 

                As both my husband and I continue to age, we can only hope that we keep what we got, make it to the next day remembering that we have had a great life, a great love and as for waking up to Santa, I still can’t wait until Christmas.

Staring Again

Starting Again

When I talked to my husband about how I was worrying about not working on my blog, he told me not to push it but to wait until I had something that I want to talk about.  It seems that I have a thousand and one things to talk about but my mind is scattered here and there without a haven to land in.  Even now, I am struggling with this new computer, finding that when I wanted to work that I could not find Word to start my document, that my husband is still sleeping and since the move of stuff during the re-carpeting of the house, the arrival of the new couch and bookcases that I can not find paper to write on.  Thankfully, I remember that my blog has a writing program so here I am early in the morning when I could be sleeping in working on the blog.  Well, it is something.

I wore myself out yesterday.  I was hauling out the bathwater to water the new grass that the neighbors planted between us.  It seems that all of the West coast is in a drought as well as the rest of our state.  It hurts me to place my body in the pure, crystal water to scrub off the imagined filth of my body.  I hate to watch the still nearly clear water drain down in its whirlpool fashion when I know that the lawns, the trees, and forests around us are parched with the lack of moisture.

My hauling out the bathwater is an involved process since the putting in of new carpet.  No shoes on the carpet so as I pad in just my socks to the bathroom, dip my small saucepan into the water, fill up the blue mixing bowl, walk to the door, put on my shoes and out the door I go. I wonder is it all worth it. The roses seem to think so.  Sighing, 

I return time and time again to fill up my mixing bowel, put on my shoes and head out the door.

My project has gotten easier since my husband found a watering can in the garage.  I place it on the brown grass so that if I spill a drop or two of the precious moisture it will fall onto the brown damping it into a deeper shade of brown.

I found myself feeling greatly troubled when my husband drained my tub one morning as I was preparing to get ready for work. I went to the kitchen to grab my blue mixing bowl and went to find out that my water was gone. I stood in shock, wondering if I had time to strangled my husband before getting to work.

I am sure that the roses would have been fine but I told my husband as his punishment, he would have to water the new grass with the hose.  With the hose, I was horrified. Pure, fresh water and my water bill climbing before my eyes.  After all, one of the reasons for hauling out the bathwater was to save on my water bill.  

Yesterday,  when my man came into the kitchen where I had been cooking vegetables for the week, he declared that he needed lots of room to work in and his eyes went to the big kettle that I had boiled the corn in.  It was full of water.  "I need that," he declared.  The water was still too hot to place on the plants outside so I told him to pour it into the bathwater.  He had just had an a late afternoon bath after working in the yard pruning some bushes. Once again, I didn't want to waste the water by sending it down the drain. Dutifully, he carried the water to the tub to mix and cool with the rest of the water before returning to the kitchen to begin making seafood fettuccine. After he had dumped the water from the corn into the tub, I told him that I wished that we had used the same water to cook the pasta. He remarked that would have been a good idea. I heard the pasta water going down the drain later, thinking that we should have poured it into another kettle to cool until it could go on the potatoes but oh, well.

It is hard to remember that I should get a bowl out to catch the water when I am just rinsing my hands or the fruit and vegetables. Sometimes afterwards, I remember and cringe at the waste.  I mention to my husband that our son who will be coming home for a visit will have to get use to the new rules about water usage in our house.  I asked his father what he thought that our son would think when he found out that he would be hauling out his bath water.  Maybe, less baths?  

Someone asked me why I didn't put a hose out of my bathroom window.  I told them that it would defeat the purpose.  It is an exercise for both my body and mind.   But after yesterday, I am thinking that it is mostly exercise for my body.  I asked my husband to drain the rest of the water in the tub so I would not be tempted to do just one more trip, to water just one more plant or tree.

Still it is my contribution to the world who doesn't even know it except for the small fairies, and other spirits of the trees who I imagined are smiling at me.  Perhaps, the little wisp of a breeze on my hand is actually a gentle kiss of those we cannot see saying thanks.