Sunday, February 27, 2005
A day of Hell...and dance lessons.
Everything seems measured in Morphine now.
At times Billie is incoherent. Trying to communicate, through the Morphine that so eases the pain and offers energy, but the drug also jumbles the words and thoughts. Grandma is aware that she's saying "nutty" things and this increases her frustration.
Saturday was a day of rollercoasters. Billie seemed horrible during the morning, then she rallied in late afternoon when several women from the Adult Apartment house she lives in stopped by to visit.
My sister brought my grandmother's great granddaughter Kelcie to visit, and at one point Kelcie stole the show when she climbed up on a chair and told Billie that she loved her, in that shrill high pitched voice that only a two and a half year old girl can share. I tried to keep Kelcie occupied, which involved a lot of creative energy, a digital camera, and being "pretend happy".
Keeping a two and a half year old occupied for several hours in hospital, stretched all my creativity. Yet the distraction, and the focus on someone so innocent and unreserved, provided an escape from the sadness. Still, children know-They might not understand, but they know. Kelcie seemed exceptionally well behaved, was full of hugs and generous unsolicited "I love you's". The pictures shot by my mother and my sister certainly capture this.
In the evening, things went downhill. Unexpectedly after we'd just finished feeding grandma things deteriorated in a scene I never want to experience again. You pray for God's mercy and his angels and then you see something like this and it makes you wonder just where in the hell is He? Has God gone HMO as well? Mercy is no longer covered in the plan?
Eventually things in that room did calm, but whatever relief the dose of morphine provided earlier was gone. Returning to Billie's side on the disheveled bed, I listened as she continued to tell me things important to her, struggling to set the record straight or at least put them into some order. Her final words to me, as I got up to leave were, "Timbo timbo watcha gonna do-e o..."
This was first my grandfather's song, then my grandmother's, yet it is also one that my folks have mimicked.
Leaning down to kiss her forehead, she held my hand. "Tim, I've always loved you. You know that?"
I choked out an affirmative.
"But, You still can't dance. You look like your having seizures."
I listened as she struggled to describe me, as a kid with my walkman, dancing on their back patio, and that those gyrations had produced serious concern among both Billie and Orin. "We thought you'd grow out of that. But you never did. Promise me you will?"
"Grandma, you know I can't do that! I got to dance my own way."
"Well I guess you have to do what you have to do." She smiled, gazing up at me. Her eyes were that deep, big sky blue, now only slightly hazed from the drugs and medical issues she faced. Ever since I was a kid Orin and Billie teased me about my dancing, and they'd imitate me, flying around their kitchen or following one another around the patio, as if it was pow wow season, arms flailing. One time I'd looked at my grandmother and said, "I don't look like that."
My grandfather pausing, mid pose, had looked at me and said, "Oh yes you do Timbo. You really do."
I suppose at a time like this, more than at any other, we all have to dance like Kurt Vonnegant's infamous speech. Whether in grief, sadness, or in the joy's of our memories, it's important to "dance like no one is watching".
Because those steps are sometimes all we have leading back toward where we came from.
At times Billie is incoherent. Trying to communicate, through the Morphine that so eases the pain and offers energy, but the drug also jumbles the words and thoughts. Grandma is aware that she's saying "nutty" things and this increases her frustration.
Saturday was a day of rollercoasters. Billie seemed horrible during the morning, then she rallied in late afternoon when several women from the Adult Apartment house she lives in stopped by to visit.
My sister brought my grandmother's great granddaughter Kelcie to visit, and at one point Kelcie stole the show when she climbed up on a chair and told Billie that she loved her, in that shrill high pitched voice that only a two and a half year old girl can share. I tried to keep Kelcie occupied, which involved a lot of creative energy, a digital camera, and being "pretend happy".
Keeping a two and a half year old occupied for several hours in hospital, stretched all my creativity. Yet the distraction, and the focus on someone so innocent and unreserved, provided an escape from the sadness. Still, children know-They might not understand, but they know. Kelcie seemed exceptionally well behaved, was full of hugs and generous unsolicited "I love you's". The pictures shot by my mother and my sister certainly capture this.
In the evening, things went downhill. Unexpectedly after we'd just finished feeding grandma things deteriorated in a scene I never want to experience again. You pray for God's mercy and his angels and then you see something like this and it makes you wonder just where in the hell is He? Has God gone HMO as well? Mercy is no longer covered in the plan?
Eventually things in that room did calm, but whatever relief the dose of morphine provided earlier was gone. Returning to Billie's side on the disheveled bed, I listened as she continued to tell me things important to her, struggling to set the record straight or at least put them into some order. Her final words to me, as I got up to leave were, "Timbo timbo watcha gonna do-e o..."
This was first my grandfather's song, then my grandmother's, yet it is also one that my folks have mimicked.
Leaning down to kiss her forehead, she held my hand. "Tim, I've always loved you. You know that?"
I choked out an affirmative.
"But, You still can't dance. You look like your having seizures."
I listened as she struggled to describe me, as a kid with my walkman, dancing on their back patio, and that those gyrations had produced serious concern among both Billie and Orin. "We thought you'd grow out of that. But you never did. Promise me you will?"
"Grandma, you know I can't do that! I got to dance my own way."
"Well I guess you have to do what you have to do." She smiled, gazing up at me. Her eyes were that deep, big sky blue, now only slightly hazed from the drugs and medical issues she faced. Ever since I was a kid Orin and Billie teased me about my dancing, and they'd imitate me, flying around their kitchen or following one another around the patio, as if it was pow wow season, arms flailing. One time I'd looked at my grandmother and said, "I don't look like that."
My grandfather pausing, mid pose, had looked at me and said, "Oh yes you do Timbo. You really do."
I suppose at a time like this, more than at any other, we all have to dance like Kurt Vonnegant's infamous speech. Whether in grief, sadness, or in the joy's of our memories, it's important to "dance like no one is watching".
Because those steps are sometimes all we have leading back toward where we came from.
Saturday, February 26, 2005
Notes from 2/25/05....
Four generations of women, Billie Lopeman, Kellie Knapp, Kelcie Jordan Knapp, Cheryln Anderson
Finding Light in the darkness...
Most of yesterday was spent in hospital.
My grandmother has been moved out of I C U into Critical Care. She has a roommate now, a woman with dementia who talks to unresponsive, imaginary voices on the phone, to herself and yet also seems uniquely involved in everything we discuss over yonder, behind Curtain Number 1. At times, the interaction is comical. At other times, especially when "Ms Talks to the Voices" manages to get out of bed and travel over to see us for a little "one on one" time, its disconcerting.
Yesterday, was a different version of the day before. The uncertainty hangs heavy over all of us and no one has really slept. The nurses say things like "fragile" and "numerous challenges" when they describe Billie. Its all coded and versed. Read between the lines and find the outlines of what is and isn't happening. No one can be specific because they just don't know. God knows, but he isn't telling.
I think Grandma looks better, and her breathing isn't as frantic but then two units of blood, a Zanex "pick me up" sloshed down with liquid drip morphine chaser, and well, anyone would feel a bit of additional levity and mirror "up with people." At one point in our series of visits, the nurses arrive to rearrange Billie, and after reaching down to untangle an arm, Grandma looks up and with that still present twinkle warns, "Now don't either of you get fresh with me, I'm not that kind of gal."
Stopping dead in their tracks, the nurses pause, looking at each other, unsure if they'd just heard correctly. Did that just come from an 88 year-old woman's mouth?
Yes, it did. She's still here. She's still with us. Always one to lead the assault on edge humor. She's proud of herself, she can still take people's breath away with her targeted, direct hits.
During the afternoon, after we'd talked about everything a hospital room can inspire, I brought in a nearly finished story, printed up in large type so I could read it aloud to Billie. The piece is called the "Serenity of Uncertainty". Only the conclusion of the story remains unfinished, but I don't know how much time Grandma and me have left, so I bring it along to read to her just in case.
Indeed, it's the only work my greatest fan has not yet heard and it's important to Grandma that she hears the final chapter. Especially since the last book in my "road trilogy" series refers to "our" story- "Tremendously Wonderful", featuring a beloved shared journey between her and I. The collected work will stand as the centerpiece for the Ebook and a nod toward Billie Lopeman. "tremendously Wonderful" recalls a trip back to an old forgotten Montana homestead, and a legacy that even now seems larger than the big screen. It represents "before and after". Before the end of idealism, naive lives, and the shattered innocence created by 9/11.
The chapter also represent "after". Who I am today has far more to do with my grandparents than either of them realize. I will always owe them for this gift and now it seems important to me that they know it. If my Grandfather Orin Lopeman isn't aware of it now, I hope my grandmother will convey this on her next journey.
Sitting down on her hospital bed, I get close to her and begin reading. Behind me my family listens quietly, but my focus is on Billie. I narrate the words loudly and with emphasis so she can hear, and occasionally as I look away from the large bold type, making eye contact with her. Grandma's blue eyes, clouded with morphine register something deep and understood. Eventually she closes her eyes, and an easy cadence and rhythm settles over the room. Even the crazy lady next door quiets, as if under the spell of something calming and reassuring.
After a couple minutes I stop reading. "Still with me?"
Billie opens her eyes, smiles, and manages "Yes Timbo I am here. I just want to hear everything."
I continue.
The "Uncertainty of Serenity" is a narrative about horses, one of my grandmother's great loves over the course of her life. The story holds her interest, and even now as she rests beneath my gaze, I know that part of her back pain is the result of an old horseback riding injury. Yet she wouldn't trade those horsie memories for anything. Billie is still 100% cowgirl, a real live Ms Annie Get Your Gun if there ever was one, and a damn good shot thanks to my grandfather's insistence she be able to protect herself.
As I read, the characters develop and the horses I describe become vivid and real. Their images gallop through the room. At one point Billie stops me and asks us to explain which horse this was that I've described because she can't remember that one. My mother steps up, as I pause in the story, explaining when the colt was born, the details of the Stallion's life on our farm, and the nature of his wild character.
Resuming my reading, I became deeply involved in the description of another horse, the words well worn and easy.
"...His complete attention was fixated on me, and very hesitantly he came closer. Breathing softly on my face, he began to muzzle my hair, in a gentle, light motion. I stood perfectly still, looking into the stallion's eye. I realized I was looking into a well of earnest companionship that seemed bottomless. His eye remained on me, dark and wise, relaxed and welcoming..."
At some point in the description a nurse entered the room and stood behind me. Listening intently, she'd missed the reference to the stallion. Troubled the nurse struggled to make sense of such a bizarre moment. It appeared to her as if I'd described an intimate encounter between two men. Even more disturbing, it seemed as if I was eagerly reading gay porn to an 88 year old woman on her death bed. With the complete approval and encouragement of my family, who earnestly listened in, hanging on each word.
The nurse, overwhelmed, recomposed, and rushed over to tend my grandmother's roommate. My family observing the humor of the moment giggled at the woman's confusion and I turned back, looking at them trying to understand what was so funny. Catching a glimpse in the mirror of the crazy woman, standing partially disrobbed next to the curtain, I figure it has something to do with Ms. Talks to the Voices. Unwilling to pause, I keep reading.
The owner of the horse I describe in the story speaks.
"..."Tim, I think you have made a friend for life. I've never seen Jassad so quickly respond to anyone like this before. He doesn't see a lot of men anyway, but this is unique. Even I'm a bit surprised. He's completely focused on you.""
I agreed, shifting my weight. Standing motionless, Jassad seemed to find great comfort in resting his head on my shoulder or gently between my shoulder blades. Occasionally I would feel him muzzling the back of my neck or brushing his muzzle against the hairs on the back of my head..."
Once again, the nurse appeared behind us, stopped and reflexively listened. More troubled expressions appeared as she tried to make sense of this odd scene. What was happening here? Which party in this double-date hospital room was crazier? The woman talking to herself and doing a strip tease or the family on the other side of Curtain Number One, enjoying what appeared to be some sort of open-mic afternoon of gay porn?
Unaware of the nurses presence, I continued reading until I reached the ending point in my progression of the story. As my grandmother opened her eyes, my mother conveyed the humorous scene we'd just missed detailing the expressions of the poor, confused nurse. Here we were in the midst of heart attacks, pneumonia, urinary infections and congestive heart failure and yet humor, the lubricant of life remained still present.
Another nurse appeared and began taking readings of my grandmother. Leaving the room, my sister and I sat out in the hallway and we talked about horses, and our sadness as we watched Billie's decline. I looked at my kid sister and realizing how close we've become, I told her I loved her. As a mother, she continually amazes me with the juggling act of raising a daughter, working, and being one of the more reliable and present family members.
"Well I guess we should get back in there." She rose, sighing.
I stood up, following her back into the hospital room. Reclaiming our respective places, my grandmother initiated a difficult conversation. "What do you want, Tim?"
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"My stuff, is there anything you want when I am gone?"
I hesitated, completely unprepared for the question. I thought for a minute. A list of things flashed through my mind, and then I remembered the pictures from our trip toward a place called Tremendously Wonderful.
That's what I wanted. Both figuratively and literally. I wanted to return to that place, to continue reading her my story, and to always remain surrounded by those vibrant Montana images.
If only she could give me that wish. If only...
My grandmother has been moved out of I C U into Critical Care. She has a roommate now, a woman with dementia who talks to unresponsive, imaginary voices on the phone, to herself and yet also seems uniquely involved in everything we discuss over yonder, behind Curtain Number 1. At times, the interaction is comical. At other times, especially when "Ms Talks to the Voices" manages to get out of bed and travel over to see us for a little "one on one" time, its disconcerting.
Yesterday, was a different version of the day before. The uncertainty hangs heavy over all of us and no one has really slept. The nurses say things like "fragile" and "numerous challenges" when they describe Billie. Its all coded and versed. Read between the lines and find the outlines of what is and isn't happening. No one can be specific because they just don't know. God knows, but he isn't telling.
I think Grandma looks better, and her breathing isn't as frantic but then two units of blood, a Zanex "pick me up" sloshed down with liquid drip morphine chaser, and well, anyone would feel a bit of additional levity and mirror "up with people." At one point in our series of visits, the nurses arrive to rearrange Billie, and after reaching down to untangle an arm, Grandma looks up and with that still present twinkle warns, "Now don't either of you get fresh with me, I'm not that kind of gal."
Stopping dead in their tracks, the nurses pause, looking at each other, unsure if they'd just heard correctly. Did that just come from an 88 year-old woman's mouth?
Yes, it did. She's still here. She's still with us. Always one to lead the assault on edge humor. She's proud of herself, she can still take people's breath away with her targeted, direct hits.
During the afternoon, after we'd talked about everything a hospital room can inspire, I brought in a nearly finished story, printed up in large type so I could read it aloud to Billie. The piece is called the "Serenity of Uncertainty". Only the conclusion of the story remains unfinished, but I don't know how much time Grandma and me have left, so I bring it along to read to her just in case.
Indeed, it's the only work my greatest fan has not yet heard and it's important to Grandma that she hears the final chapter. Especially since the last book in my "road trilogy" series refers to "our" story- "Tremendously Wonderful", featuring a beloved shared journey between her and I. The collected work will stand as the centerpiece for the Ebook and a nod toward Billie Lopeman. "tremendously Wonderful" recalls a trip back to an old forgotten Montana homestead, and a legacy that even now seems larger than the big screen. It represents "before and after". Before the end of idealism, naive lives, and the shattered innocence created by 9/11.
The chapter also represent "after". Who I am today has far more to do with my grandparents than either of them realize. I will always owe them for this gift and now it seems important to me that they know it. If my Grandfather Orin Lopeman isn't aware of it now, I hope my grandmother will convey this on her next journey.
Sitting down on her hospital bed, I get close to her and begin reading. Behind me my family listens quietly, but my focus is on Billie. I narrate the words loudly and with emphasis so she can hear, and occasionally as I look away from the large bold type, making eye contact with her. Grandma's blue eyes, clouded with morphine register something deep and understood. Eventually she closes her eyes, and an easy cadence and rhythm settles over the room. Even the crazy lady next door quiets, as if under the spell of something calming and reassuring.
After a couple minutes I stop reading. "Still with me?"
Billie opens her eyes, smiles, and manages "Yes Timbo I am here. I just want to hear everything."
I continue.
The "Uncertainty of Serenity" is a narrative about horses, one of my grandmother's great loves over the course of her life. The story holds her interest, and even now as she rests beneath my gaze, I know that part of her back pain is the result of an old horseback riding injury. Yet she wouldn't trade those horsie memories for anything. Billie is still 100% cowgirl, a real live Ms Annie Get Your Gun if there ever was one, and a damn good shot thanks to my grandfather's insistence she be able to protect herself.
As I read, the characters develop and the horses I describe become vivid and real. Their images gallop through the room. At one point Billie stops me and asks us to explain which horse this was that I've described because she can't remember that one. My mother steps up, as I pause in the story, explaining when the colt was born, the details of the Stallion's life on our farm, and the nature of his wild character.
Resuming my reading, I became deeply involved in the description of another horse, the words well worn and easy.
"...His complete attention was fixated on me, and very hesitantly he came closer. Breathing softly on my face, he began to muzzle my hair, in a gentle, light motion. I stood perfectly still, looking into the stallion's eye. I realized I was looking into a well of earnest companionship that seemed bottomless. His eye remained on me, dark and wise, relaxed and welcoming..."
At some point in the description a nurse entered the room and stood behind me. Listening intently, she'd missed the reference to the stallion. Troubled the nurse struggled to make sense of such a bizarre moment. It appeared to her as if I'd described an intimate encounter between two men. Even more disturbing, it seemed as if I was eagerly reading gay porn to an 88 year old woman on her death bed. With the complete approval and encouragement of my family, who earnestly listened in, hanging on each word.
The nurse, overwhelmed, recomposed, and rushed over to tend my grandmother's roommate. My family observing the humor of the moment giggled at the woman's confusion and I turned back, looking at them trying to understand what was so funny. Catching a glimpse in the mirror of the crazy woman, standing partially disrobbed next to the curtain, I figure it has something to do with Ms. Talks to the Voices. Unwilling to pause, I keep reading.
The owner of the horse I describe in the story speaks.
"..."Tim, I think you have made a friend for life. I've never seen Jassad so quickly respond to anyone like this before. He doesn't see a lot of men anyway, but this is unique. Even I'm a bit surprised. He's completely focused on you.""
I agreed, shifting my weight. Standing motionless, Jassad seemed to find great comfort in resting his head on my shoulder or gently between my shoulder blades. Occasionally I would feel him muzzling the back of my neck or brushing his muzzle against the hairs on the back of my head..."
Once again, the nurse appeared behind us, stopped and reflexively listened. More troubled expressions appeared as she tried to make sense of this odd scene. What was happening here? Which party in this double-date hospital room was crazier? The woman talking to herself and doing a strip tease or the family on the other side of Curtain Number One, enjoying what appeared to be some sort of open-mic afternoon of gay porn?
Unaware of the nurses presence, I continued reading until I reached the ending point in my progression of the story. As my grandmother opened her eyes, my mother conveyed the humorous scene we'd just missed detailing the expressions of the poor, confused nurse. Here we were in the midst of heart attacks, pneumonia, urinary infections and congestive heart failure and yet humor, the lubricant of life remained still present.
Another nurse appeared and began taking readings of my grandmother. Leaving the room, my sister and I sat out in the hallway and we talked about horses, and our sadness as we watched Billie's decline. I looked at my kid sister and realizing how close we've become, I told her I loved her. As a mother, she continually amazes me with the juggling act of raising a daughter, working, and being one of the more reliable and present family members.
"Well I guess we should get back in there." She rose, sighing.
I stood up, following her back into the hospital room. Reclaiming our respective places, my grandmother initiated a difficult conversation. "What do you want, Tim?"
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"My stuff, is there anything you want when I am gone?"
I hesitated, completely unprepared for the question. I thought for a minute. A list of things flashed through my mind, and then I remembered the pictures from our trip toward a place called Tremendously Wonderful.
That's what I wanted. Both figuratively and literally. I wanted to return to that place, to continue reading her my story, and to always remain surrounded by those vibrant Montana images.
If only she could give me that wish. If only...
Friday, February 25, 2005
Trying to see ahead...
I left Newport, toward uncertainty, my friend Paul driving.
Rolling sw on Highway 2, looking up, I saw two bald eagles flying behind us. In giant wingstrokes, they soared overhead as if in pursuit, and I wondered if those were the same Eagles that had appeared weeks before during my conversation with Hank. They'd circled over the ranch and Hank had proclaimed it a sign. Short on translation, I'd accepted his proclamation, feeling a glimmer of hope, but then I put my faith in these things all the time. Whether or not such faith is truly justified.
Now, as the Eagles disappeared behind me on the horizon, I kept thinking about all the things one thinks about when facing an unknown reckoning. Wondering what I'd left unsettled, what remained undone or forgotten. I thought about writer Hunter S Thompson and his recent suicide and that Thompson seemed to be reinforcing the whole early morbidity rate trend among the left brained, "write like you mean it" set. I thought about the nature of life expectancy and how Tsunami's and Terminal Illnesses breed the will to survive, while creativity seems too often to result in self destruction. I certainly didn't understand any of it.
As we left the Selkirks and found ourselves on the Bull Pined flats just north of Spokane, I embraced not embracing my pensive status and I thought that there wasn't much I could do about anything so I might as well ride it all out. Wherever it leads. I wasn't looking for a gun or place a phone call to anyone as I blew my cerebral state to smithereens. I was just looking for somewhere to focus.
Thankfully Paul kept me from descending into too much introspection as he spoke about the future, about his own direction and the choices facing him as he gazed into a foggy crystal ball.
Both of us describe uncertain futures. I listened as Paul conveyed all the pros and cons of his balancing scale. Myself, I was leaving for Seattle, a flight bringing me closer to a possible final goodbye with my beloved Grandmother, Billie Lopeman. As we approached the airport, my grandmother struggled for each breath 300 miles to the west in Seattle. Paul and I had struggled for a way to talk during the 75 miles to the airport, "while not talking about it". But saying goodbye at the curb, it all ended. Fighting tears he held me in a long embrace and we both remained there, not wanting any more future to arrive until we were ready for it. Not caring about the stares from the skycabs, or other motorists wondering why these two men were embracing so long and with so much intensity.
Paul has agreed to be a pall bearer, as have many of the men my grandmother has befriended and teased over the years. All of them unique and determined, all of them untraditional in their approach to journeying through sexual orientation, and masculinity, and all of them touched by this woman. His tears were genuine. We both recognized the news from Seattle seemed dark and increasingly filled with funeral and burial arrangements. We couldn't talk about it, we had to feel our way through this one.
As I was checking in at the counter, Paul called me quickly, already long into his own departure. "Timbo, run quick. See the moon. See the moonrise. Its amazing. " His breathless voice affirming that even in the darkness, one finds light, even if the tone and hue isn't exactly what you were banking on. Beauty is everywhere. Even in the dark.
The flight was late, and as we flew over Eastern Washington, lit by the moon, I saw many places I'd spent time with Billie. Banks Lake, Grand Coulee Dam, the lights of Omak and Tonasket to the north. I moved across the aisle and looked down toward other memories.
Directly over U S 2, I also remembered my last trip on the highway two month previous with my former boyfriend Ed. It was Christmas Eve and we were on our way to Seattle, he driving us into a sunset that seemed to last forever. Places like Dry Falls and Waterville and Leavenworth lit up the night underneath me, and I realized how different the perspective seemed just two months later. Then the future seemed bright, now it was equally bright, but the lighting was entirely different. Although Both voyages west were lit by inspirational light, one did not resemble the other.
Go west young man. Go west.
Because whenever you travel west, the horizon is ever changing. Like our lives.
~ ~ ~
Arriving in Seattle, I met my mother at the baggage claim. She wore her chemo wig, and I hugged her, reassured she had not grown weaker or thinner since I'd seen her at Christmas. As we waited for the bags, she caught me up on all the recent moments she'd spent in the hospital, anxiously at her mother's side.
My grandmother had had another heart attack and as mom sat next to her during the longest morning, she'd endured her mother's struggle to catch each breath. The panic of not being able to breath, and the short labored panting reinforcing in my mother how close to the end things were. As she described the events of that morning to me, I wondered about such a scene. My mother barely into remission, barely out of chemo, sitting with her mother as her mother struggled for each breath. Talk about facing your own mortality, I could not imagine the scene between mother and daughter, both winded from so much living.
"Tim, I need you to be ready for this. You aren't going to recognize her. A lot has changed in the last two months. Your grandmother has lost a lot of weight. She isn't the same." My mom spoke slowly, as if just saying the words brought a whole new reality to the forefront. That we would be having this discussion in baggage claim, where people are hopefully reunited with their belongings seemed surreal.
My father met us at the curb and drove us toward the hospital. Overhead the moon remained brilliant and illuminating, and the Seattle traffic seemed shocking in comparison to the pace of life in Eastern Washington. A twelve lane freeway and a frantic pulse propelled us forward. My father filled in the blanks as he and my mother continued to prepare me for what I would find when I saw Billie Lopeman in Intensive Care Unit.
I thought I was prepared. I really did. But nothing can ever prepare you for such a scene.
We entered the hospital through the emergency room, and it being a full moon, the place was packed. People watched us as we made our way up to the nurses station, signed in with security and then awaited approval to enter the inner sanctuary of the hospital. Finally, we were ushered toward the door, and the security officer nodded at us as we passed beyond his protection. I C U is not for the faint the heart and the security guard offered one of those weak smiles that people offer when they don't know what to say to a stranger, but they need to say something.
Anything.
The corridors and elevators and steps and hospital artwork-its all a blur now. I couldn't find my way back to that moment if I wanted to. What does remain clear is that first reception of the nurses at St Francis. Welcoming us the minute we came into I C U, I immediately sensed true warmth, caring, and something to balance the whir of machines and beepings and monitorings. In their faces I saw genuine smiles, and compassion. They weren't just coming to work, but they believed in the mission at hand. They were angels of compassion, care, and nuturing.
Entering the hospital room, I immediately became overwhelmed and teared up. Barely a hundred pounds, Billie looked up at me with that glassy morphine gaze that I've become familiar with in other situations of similar outcomes. She smiled, "Timbo" she managed through labored breathing. I took her side and sat on a chair next to her, and surveyed all I didn't want to see. Tubes and machines were everywhere. Her body seemed frail and not much more than a skeleton, and her breathing was still shallow. I tried to speak about the moon lit flight and about the snow and about the weather, but I could not find my voice and each word was shakier than the last.
My parents resumed the speaking when I could not.
I tried to change the subject and start off on several different courses, but my eyes kept interference and I always lost my voice and ended up in tears. Recomposing, I talked about Montana and my friends Frank and Kevin's kidnapping me there. We revisited places she loved and finally her breathing grew more relaxed and I found my way. I talked about writing. I talked about anything. Only a few times in the coming hour would my parents have to take over.
Eventually it came time for us to leave, and as we said goodbye, we did not know if she would still be there come morning. The doctors have no guarantees. They say things like keeping her comfortable and that she is frail. They talk about pain management and about her ailments. All of which became very real to me as I bent down to kiss her goodnight.
Her hands so covered in tubes, her chest covered in sensors, the only place open to gently kiss her goodbye, was her forehead. I bent over and gently told her I loved her and kissed her, whispering, "I wish you sweet dreams, grandma."
My father said a prayer of healing and I prayed too. I prayed that God might show mercy and that soon, while Billie dreamt of her beloved Montana, that He would arrive on Billie's old horse Babe. That He would offer her a leg up and that they would take a final ride together revisiting all the places she loved. Riding gently across the Sweetgrass Hills, westward toward the green alfalfa fields west of Cutbank, and then onward toward the promise of East Glacier. Across the flathead valley, toward Bull River and the Cabinet Mountains. Across the still waters of Lake Pend Oreille, up toward the ranch and down toward Spokane. Maybe she'd ride in one more parade, God and her. Maybe she'd see Grandpa. Maybe she'd see the future and know that all was well. Maybe.
I prayed silently that God would take her home, before what little that remained of her was gone.
Because Going west young man, in all its changing scenery is about change. Even for a woman named Billie Lopeman. And I knew that my grandmother, more than anyone else I know, would embrace such a ride.
Rolling sw on Highway 2, looking up, I saw two bald eagles flying behind us. In giant wingstrokes, they soared overhead as if in pursuit, and I wondered if those were the same Eagles that had appeared weeks before during my conversation with Hank. They'd circled over the ranch and Hank had proclaimed it a sign. Short on translation, I'd accepted his proclamation, feeling a glimmer of hope, but then I put my faith in these things all the time. Whether or not such faith is truly justified.
Now, as the Eagles disappeared behind me on the horizon, I kept thinking about all the things one thinks about when facing an unknown reckoning. Wondering what I'd left unsettled, what remained undone or forgotten. I thought about writer Hunter S Thompson and his recent suicide and that Thompson seemed to be reinforcing the whole early morbidity rate trend among the left brained, "write like you mean it" set. I thought about the nature of life expectancy and how Tsunami's and Terminal Illnesses breed the will to survive, while creativity seems too often to result in self destruction. I certainly didn't understand any of it.
As we left the Selkirks and found ourselves on the Bull Pined flats just north of Spokane, I embraced not embracing my pensive status and I thought that there wasn't much I could do about anything so I might as well ride it all out. Wherever it leads. I wasn't looking for a gun or place a phone call to anyone as I blew my cerebral state to smithereens. I was just looking for somewhere to focus.
Thankfully Paul kept me from descending into too much introspection as he spoke about the future, about his own direction and the choices facing him as he gazed into a foggy crystal ball.
Both of us describe uncertain futures. I listened as Paul conveyed all the pros and cons of his balancing scale. Myself, I was leaving for Seattle, a flight bringing me closer to a possible final goodbye with my beloved Grandmother, Billie Lopeman. As we approached the airport, my grandmother struggled for each breath 300 miles to the west in Seattle. Paul and I had struggled for a way to talk during the 75 miles to the airport, "while not talking about it". But saying goodbye at the curb, it all ended. Fighting tears he held me in a long embrace and we both remained there, not wanting any more future to arrive until we were ready for it. Not caring about the stares from the skycabs, or other motorists wondering why these two men were embracing so long and with so much intensity.
Paul has agreed to be a pall bearer, as have many of the men my grandmother has befriended and teased over the years. All of them unique and determined, all of them untraditional in their approach to journeying through sexual orientation, and masculinity, and all of them touched by this woman. His tears were genuine. We both recognized the news from Seattle seemed dark and increasingly filled with funeral and burial arrangements. We couldn't talk about it, we had to feel our way through this one.
As I was checking in at the counter, Paul called me quickly, already long into his own departure. "Timbo, run quick. See the moon. See the moonrise. Its amazing. " His breathless voice affirming that even in the darkness, one finds light, even if the tone and hue isn't exactly what you were banking on. Beauty is everywhere. Even in the dark.
The flight was late, and as we flew over Eastern Washington, lit by the moon, I saw many places I'd spent time with Billie. Banks Lake, Grand Coulee Dam, the lights of Omak and Tonasket to the north. I moved across the aisle and looked down toward other memories.
Directly over U S 2, I also remembered my last trip on the highway two month previous with my former boyfriend Ed. It was Christmas Eve and we were on our way to Seattle, he driving us into a sunset that seemed to last forever. Places like Dry Falls and Waterville and Leavenworth lit up the night underneath me, and I realized how different the perspective seemed just two months later. Then the future seemed bright, now it was equally bright, but the lighting was entirely different. Although Both voyages west were lit by inspirational light, one did not resemble the other.
Go west young man. Go west.
Because whenever you travel west, the horizon is ever changing. Like our lives.
~ ~ ~
Arriving in Seattle, I met my mother at the baggage claim. She wore her chemo wig, and I hugged her, reassured she had not grown weaker or thinner since I'd seen her at Christmas. As we waited for the bags, she caught me up on all the recent moments she'd spent in the hospital, anxiously at her mother's side.
My grandmother had had another heart attack and as mom sat next to her during the longest morning, she'd endured her mother's struggle to catch each breath. The panic of not being able to breath, and the short labored panting reinforcing in my mother how close to the end things were. As she described the events of that morning to me, I wondered about such a scene. My mother barely into remission, barely out of chemo, sitting with her mother as her mother struggled for each breath. Talk about facing your own mortality, I could not imagine the scene between mother and daughter, both winded from so much living.
"Tim, I need you to be ready for this. You aren't going to recognize her. A lot has changed in the last two months. Your grandmother has lost a lot of weight. She isn't the same." My mom spoke slowly, as if just saying the words brought a whole new reality to the forefront. That we would be having this discussion in baggage claim, where people are hopefully reunited with their belongings seemed surreal.
My father met us at the curb and drove us toward the hospital. Overhead the moon remained brilliant and illuminating, and the Seattle traffic seemed shocking in comparison to the pace of life in Eastern Washington. A twelve lane freeway and a frantic pulse propelled us forward. My father filled in the blanks as he and my mother continued to prepare me for what I would find when I saw Billie Lopeman in Intensive Care Unit.
I thought I was prepared. I really did. But nothing can ever prepare you for such a scene.
We entered the hospital through the emergency room, and it being a full moon, the place was packed. People watched us as we made our way up to the nurses station, signed in with security and then awaited approval to enter the inner sanctuary of the hospital. Finally, we were ushered toward the door, and the security officer nodded at us as we passed beyond his protection. I C U is not for the faint the heart and the security guard offered one of those weak smiles that people offer when they don't know what to say to a stranger, but they need to say something.
Anything.
The corridors and elevators and steps and hospital artwork-its all a blur now. I couldn't find my way back to that moment if I wanted to. What does remain clear is that first reception of the nurses at St Francis. Welcoming us the minute we came into I C U, I immediately sensed true warmth, caring, and something to balance the whir of machines and beepings and monitorings. In their faces I saw genuine smiles, and compassion. They weren't just coming to work, but they believed in the mission at hand. They were angels of compassion, care, and nuturing.
Entering the hospital room, I immediately became overwhelmed and teared up. Barely a hundred pounds, Billie looked up at me with that glassy morphine gaze that I've become familiar with in other situations of similar outcomes. She smiled, "Timbo" she managed through labored breathing. I took her side and sat on a chair next to her, and surveyed all I didn't want to see. Tubes and machines were everywhere. Her body seemed frail and not much more than a skeleton, and her breathing was still shallow. I tried to speak about the moon lit flight and about the snow and about the weather, but I could not find my voice and each word was shakier than the last.
My parents resumed the speaking when I could not.
I tried to change the subject and start off on several different courses, but my eyes kept interference and I always lost my voice and ended up in tears. Recomposing, I talked about Montana and my friends Frank and Kevin's kidnapping me there. We revisited places she loved and finally her breathing grew more relaxed and I found my way. I talked about writing. I talked about anything. Only a few times in the coming hour would my parents have to take over.
Eventually it came time for us to leave, and as we said goodbye, we did not know if she would still be there come morning. The doctors have no guarantees. They say things like keeping her comfortable and that she is frail. They talk about pain management and about her ailments. All of which became very real to me as I bent down to kiss her goodnight.
Her hands so covered in tubes, her chest covered in sensors, the only place open to gently kiss her goodbye, was her forehead. I bent over and gently told her I loved her and kissed her, whispering, "I wish you sweet dreams, grandma."
My father said a prayer of healing and I prayed too. I prayed that God might show mercy and that soon, while Billie dreamt of her beloved Montana, that He would arrive on Billie's old horse Babe. That He would offer her a leg up and that they would take a final ride together revisiting all the places she loved. Riding gently across the Sweetgrass Hills, westward toward the green alfalfa fields west of Cutbank, and then onward toward the promise of East Glacier. Across the flathead valley, toward Bull River and the Cabinet Mountains. Across the still waters of Lake Pend Oreille, up toward the ranch and down toward Spokane. Maybe she'd ride in one more parade, God and her. Maybe she'd see Grandpa. Maybe she'd see the future and know that all was well. Maybe.
I prayed silently that God would take her home, before what little that remained of her was gone.
Because Going west young man, in all its changing scenery is about change. Even for a woman named Billie Lopeman. And I knew that my grandmother, more than anyone else I know, would embrace such a ride.
Wednesday, February 23, 2005
Not to change the subject but...
I wasn't expecting anything...
So this is what he wrote to me...
In the midst of a simple online conversation.
He a former top college team roper.
Now just a work a day sort of guy, with his own take on perfect...
I'd never read anything
Quite so illustrative
And yet because it came via online, and this is the world of
Identity fraud and impersonation...
You just have to wonder...
Could someone like this be real
Not a script writer...
Not a poser
Not an illusion
Not anything but himself...
Whoever that may be.
~ ~ ~
"...I wanna woo yuh
and romance yuh
till yur heart
skips a beat
and yur outta breathe
standing there
in the summer moonlight
with the toads croakin
telling me that...
and my horse Patch's breath
is condensing out
of his flared nostrils
as we both look down
at you
on yur back
and elbows
in plowed
stubble wheat field..."
~ ~ ~
I guess just knowing anyone could write something like that affims faith
that true colors, originality, and heartbeat still counts for something.
Somewhere.
So this is what he wrote to me...
In the midst of a simple online conversation.
He a former top college team roper.
Now just a work a day sort of guy, with his own take on perfect...
I'd never read anything
Quite so illustrative
And yet because it came via online, and this is the world of
Identity fraud and impersonation...
You just have to wonder...
Could someone like this be real
Not a script writer...
Not a poser
Not an illusion
Not anything but himself...
Whoever that may be.
~ ~ ~
"...I wanna woo yuh
and romance yuh
till yur heart
skips a beat
and yur outta breathe
standing there
in the summer moonlight
with the toads croakin
telling me that...
and my horse Patch's breath
is condensing out
of his flared nostrils
as we both look down
at you
on yur back
and elbows
in plowed
stubble wheat field..."
~ ~ ~
I guess just knowing anyone could write something like that affims faith
that true colors, originality, and heartbeat still counts for something.
Somewhere.
In the Presence of little giants...
I am neither a progressive, nor a conservative. I have never voted along party lines but along candidate lines.
Either crowd represents much to be disgusted by. The unlimited abuses on the left and on the right seem to stretch toward the horizon.
Right now the moral high ground seems to be championed by the left. Next week, it could be by the right.
Having said that, the current debate over the Jeff Gannon story seems illustrative of the lack of discourse, or rather intelligent discourse, that we engage in-in all things political. Winning at whatever cost is what matters and it doesn't matter what values or beliefs are trashed along the way.
In the end, is all this really worth it?
This is not about the right, or the left. This is about much more than that...
For instance, if Talon.com was so proud of Gannon's reporting, why did they scrub their website of his work? If it could hold up to scrutiny before the scandal broke, shouldn't it weather the storm post disclosures and photo's marching all over the web?
I'm also not sure that when a "reporter" makes suggestions about John Kerry's Sexual Orientation, or makes allegations about a certain, recently defeated S. Dakota Senator, that these should go unchallenged. Most reporters struggle for years, building their credentials to get the kind of reporting beats the White House Press Corps enjoys. The rapid appearance of this reporter, the way his defenders have minimized his offenses, and their refusal to also ask these tough questions is what is troubling. While this reporter obtained access, other reporters with years of experience suddenly lost their white house credentials. These are question worthy of discussion.
That there are currently reporters facing contempt of court jail time for far less than what Gannon has done, is also relevant. And while I don't really think his personal life as an Escort would matter in most circumstances, his very public discourse removes his right to privacy. His professional conduct and personal conduct and its relevance on national affairs is not minimal.
This isn't about the Left, or the Right, but the ethical issues we are all tied to. How we advance our beliefs while still honoring a basic human morality that we all claim to live by. That alone is why this story has the legs it has. Muscular as they may be.
Either crowd represents much to be disgusted by. The unlimited abuses on the left and on the right seem to stretch toward the horizon.
Right now the moral high ground seems to be championed by the left. Next week, it could be by the right.
Having said that, the current debate over the Jeff Gannon story seems illustrative of the lack of discourse, or rather intelligent discourse, that we engage in-in all things political. Winning at whatever cost is what matters and it doesn't matter what values or beliefs are trashed along the way.
In the end, is all this really worth it?
This is not about the right, or the left. This is about much more than that...
For instance, if Talon.com was so proud of Gannon's reporting, why did they scrub their website of his work? If it could hold up to scrutiny before the scandal broke, shouldn't it weather the storm post disclosures and photo's marching all over the web?
I'm also not sure that when a "reporter" makes suggestions about John Kerry's Sexual Orientation, or makes allegations about a certain, recently defeated S. Dakota Senator, that these should go unchallenged. Most reporters struggle for years, building their credentials to get the kind of reporting beats the White House Press Corps enjoys. The rapid appearance of this reporter, the way his defenders have minimized his offenses, and their refusal to also ask these tough questions is what is troubling. While this reporter obtained access, other reporters with years of experience suddenly lost their white house credentials. These are question worthy of discussion.
That there are currently reporters facing contempt of court jail time for far less than what Gannon has done, is also relevant. And while I don't really think his personal life as an Escort would matter in most circumstances, his very public discourse removes his right to privacy. His professional conduct and personal conduct and its relevance on national affairs is not minimal.
This isn't about the Left, or the Right, but the ethical issues we are all tied to. How we advance our beliefs while still honoring a basic human morality that we all claim to live by. That alone is why this story has the legs it has. Muscular as they may be.
Tuesday, February 22, 2005
The rest of the story...
This should explain some of the references made in yesterdays link by Comedian Robin Williams...
The Bush Administration has certainly gone far beyond anything Clinton ever dreamed of. None of this is accidental, as numerous blogs, and now the mainstream media have reported. People just don't get access to the Presidential Press Corps through osmosis.
Now as the administration is suddenly looking for a subject change even more terrifying than the threat of Avian Flu, wouldn't it be amazing if suddenly the nation found itself at level Red, as a distraction for the scandal surrounding the "former" Marine Escort who once advertised in the Pink Pages?
For the whole complete story, courtesy of the brave folks who broke it, read on: Oh yeah and a warning... this link provides access to numerous X rated pictures of Mr Jeff Gannon.
http://americablog.blogspot.com/2005/02/man-called-jeff.html
The Bush Administration has certainly gone far beyond anything Clinton ever dreamed of. None of this is accidental, as numerous blogs, and now the mainstream media have reported. People just don't get access to the Presidential Press Corps through osmosis.
Now as the administration is suddenly looking for a subject change even more terrifying than the threat of Avian Flu, wouldn't it be amazing if suddenly the nation found itself at level Red, as a distraction for the scandal surrounding the "former" Marine Escort who once advertised in the Pink Pages?
For the whole complete story, courtesy of the brave folks who broke it, read on: Oh yeah and a warning... this link provides access to numerous X rated pictures of Mr Jeff Gannon.
http://americablog.blogspot.com/2005/02/man-called-jeff.html
Monday, February 21, 2005
An embarrassing indictment...
The swinging bridge at Kootenai Falls. Unsteady, treacherous, and damn, it's a long way down. Watch your step. Hold on. The bridge can only support so much weight, or she collapses.
Seems like a good analogy to the political and social dialogue we find ourselves in. I mean what's left to believe anymore? A collective code of conduct? Who defines it?
Or do we fall back on an individual code of conduct? And what happens to such a code when no one's looking. Conscience isn't best displayed in a crowded house. Conscience seems true only in the honesty of one's mirrored reflection. That takes bravery.
I have my thoughts on collective codes and individual codes. They always find their strongest litmus test at their weakest point. Usually in a most untidy and messy intersection involving truth. The problem with selective memory, secrecy, and multiple realities, is that the truth always comes out. It's one force in the universe that always seems to have our reckoning written all over it.
Corruption, confusion, and the erosion of everything we say we believe in seems a given. No matter what vantage we claim, everything seems to be in transit. The least common denominator defines us. The progressives are in retreat, and the conservatives take liberal liberties.
If this isn't the best example of leadership without leaders, I don't know what is...
Our sorry state of the state. Raw and naked...
http://homepage.mac.com/njenson/movies/billmaher021805gannon.html
Seems like a good analogy to the political and social dialogue we find ourselves in. I mean what's left to believe anymore? A collective code of conduct? Who defines it?
Or do we fall back on an individual code of conduct? And what happens to such a code when no one's looking. Conscience isn't best displayed in a crowded house. Conscience seems true only in the honesty of one's mirrored reflection. That takes bravery.
I have my thoughts on collective codes and individual codes. They always find their strongest litmus test at their weakest point. Usually in a most untidy and messy intersection involving truth. The problem with selective memory, secrecy, and multiple realities, is that the truth always comes out. It's one force in the universe that always seems to have our reckoning written all over it.
Corruption, confusion, and the erosion of everything we say we believe in seems a given. No matter what vantage we claim, everything seems to be in transit. The least common denominator defines us. The progressives are in retreat, and the conservatives take liberal liberties.
If this isn't the best example of leadership without leaders, I don't know what is...
Our sorry state of the state. Raw and naked...
http://homepage.mac.com/njenson/movies/billmaher021805gannon.html
Sunday, February 20, 2005
On any Lent Sunday...
No day is ever ordinary if you are paying attention.
No moment is ever deserving of dismissal.
Especially, if you are listening to the heartbeat of the world.
No moment is ever deserving of dismissal.
Especially, if you are listening to the heartbeat of the world.
Saturday, February 19, 2005
Taken home...
Louise Martin is no longer with us.
Today her funeral will be held at the Kalispel Tribe of Indians Community Hall.
I didn't know Louise well but what I knew of her stands imprinted on my heart.
I first met Louise at pow wow several years ago. During our initial introduction, she made an instant, memorable impression. A respected and beloved tribal elder, the expressions of delight on her face that day, as the fancy dancers danced and the stick games grew in intensity, remains burned in my mind. Unrestrained joy and happiness are the only words I can think of to describe that expression. It's also still difficult to fully convey that initial sense, an instinctive and powerful one I felt, that I was in the presence of a woman whose ready smile and open friendliness was a mere snapshot of the giant wealth of humanity before me. A portrait all wrapped up in the smallest, most delightful package.
Throughout the tribe, and in the local community, Louise was known for her infectious welcoming, her generosity, and yes, even her love of patronizing one of the tribe's gems, the Northern Quest Casino. The casino, located down in Airway Heights, Washington, is a favorite hang out among tribal members, the elders, and residents of Pend Oreille County. Both first nation members and locals socialize, enjoy delicious food, and take advantage of a full service entertainment facility offering many different options for those so inclined to enjoy Kalispel hospitality. Although nearly 70 miles off the rez, Northern Quest stands proudly as the tribe's well run and successful winning ticket.
Casino revenues have lifted the Kalispel's from impoverished times toward prosperity. Mindful of history though, the tribe is always giving back to the greater local community, remembering that poverty is never limited in its poison. If anyone in the community suffers, all suffer. As a result, since opening the Casino, the Kalispel's have kept local non tribal school districts afloat, given donations to area non rez projects, and the Kalispel's are widely regarded throughout Pend Oreille County as among the best neighbors anyone could want. This is a unique story in Indian Country and its one that doesn't get told that often. I think that is why today is somewhat sad for me, because I will miss Louise and knowing that I won't see her again, is a loss that makes everything seem just a bit different. Louise truly represented the tribe's endless heart.
I've witnessed many occasions where I have seen the tribe's heart on display. At the community 4th of July Celebrations, at pow wow, and in other examples of generosity, the tribe is striving to lead through their open arms. The same was true of Louise, who on another occasion, gifted us with a memory I won't ever forget. After my initial pow wow introduction to her, we ran into Louise several months later.
One cold snowy winter night, my friend Lane and I were at the Northern Quest Casino, trying our hand at Lady Luck. Lane wasn't doing so well. He'd been out 21'd at Blackjack, out flushed at poker, and so far, Texas Tea, Battleship, and the Yhatze slot machines weren't doing him much better.
After loosing several hundred credits in one spin, on yet another machine, Lane looked at me disgustedly and said "Tim, I've had it with this machine. Let's find another one."
We began touring the casino, walking down aisles of gaming machines, listening to a wide variety of winning jackpots, spinning dances with chance, and other symphonies dedicated to all things trying your luck. That's when we spied Louise, playing her hand at "Little Green Men". "Little Green Men" is a slot machine designed around UFO invasions and alien abductions, and the game offers several bonus rounds a player can achieve, with various choices that are wickedly amusing for players to win. Louise was doing ok on her machine, but as we sat down next to her, we became the center of her attention. Her wide, welcoming grin was ours to claim, and we basked in her affection. She was genuinely glad to see us and she and Lane struck up an easy, animated conversation.
As Lane began playing his "Little Green Men" machine, with each of his spins, Louise encouraged him. Still the luck thing just wasn't happening. Much to Louise's amusement, Lane tried kissing the machine. Lane prayed over the machine. He begged. Even I did a little dance in the aisle to try to summon Lady Luck. But after progressive spin after progressive spin, it seemed obvious that lady luck was preoccupied with other gamblers elsewhere in the Casino. Yet Louise never gave up on us. With each spin, she led our cheering section.
Finally, as funds dwindled, Lane looked at Louise and begged, "Louise would you please bless our machine. Please?"
A huge, glowing smile was her response. The small elderly woman slowly leaned over Lane's machine, and gently and deliberately her fingers traced a pattern over the screen. She whispered words that neither of us understood, and then when she'd finished, she leaned back, somewhat shyly and grinned. Nodding at Lane, she signaled that indeed our machine was now blessed by none other than one of the tribe's elders.
Lane turned and looking at me, he smiled. "Alrightly then! Come on big money. Please. Give some lovin to Lane J..." He rubbed his hands together as if preparing to devour a delicious feast.
With an exaggerated flurry of his wrists, he hit max bet. Everything was on the line. Louise leaned toward us. I hunched down closer to the screen. Our hearts raced with anticipation and excitement. Lane hit the spin button and then held his hands up to his mouth.
We waited as the screen danced and various symbols appeared. No one was breathing. This was it. Lane was gonna hit the jackpot, the big time, and he would dance and scream and carry on in the aisle. I could visualize the whole scene. Happy days are here again.
In one fell swoop Lady Luck raced by and claimed everything.
Stunned, we sat there, the three of us, staring, near lifeless. Nothing remained. All of Lane's credits were gone. Louise shook her head as if this just couldn't be. Lane remained frozen, his unbelieving gaze refusing to acknowledge that with just one spin, he had done so much damage to his finances.
Louise turned back to her machine and hit spin.
Nothing.
Recovering, Lane stood up and looking down at Louise, smiled. He bent over and gave her a hug. She shrugged, smiling, all the joy returning and dancing in her eyes. "Next time Lane. Next time we'll have better luck. Next time." She reassured him.
We nodded.
We left Louise, and slowly walked down the aisle toward the casino exit. I turned one last time and saw her there, she still playing "Little Green Men" under the flashing lights of the Casino. As we made our way out into the cold winter night and the spitting flurries in the parking lot, I did not know there wouldn't be a next time. Even now it seems a bit hard to accept. Because in my mind I will always associate the Northern Quest Casino and Pow Wow with Louise Martin. Although Lane and me have returned, sometimes winning with a big "Wahoo", other times losing with an "aw shit!", we never shared another tribal blessing with Louise. Regardless of our fortunes, I will always see Louise in my mind when I think of such things, a small joyous woman whose face danced with life, whose eyes twinkled like the brightest stars and who with so much generosity, blessed us in ways that at the time we could not fully comprehend. Indeed her memory blesses us still.
We will miss you Louise.
To read another story about Lane, click here:
http://www.highmountainranch.com/TalesFromtheRoad/changinglanes.html
Today her funeral will be held at the Kalispel Tribe of Indians Community Hall.
I didn't know Louise well but what I knew of her stands imprinted on my heart.
I first met Louise at pow wow several years ago. During our initial introduction, she made an instant, memorable impression. A respected and beloved tribal elder, the expressions of delight on her face that day, as the fancy dancers danced and the stick games grew in intensity, remains burned in my mind. Unrestrained joy and happiness are the only words I can think of to describe that expression. It's also still difficult to fully convey that initial sense, an instinctive and powerful one I felt, that I was in the presence of a woman whose ready smile and open friendliness was a mere snapshot of the giant wealth of humanity before me. A portrait all wrapped up in the smallest, most delightful package.
Throughout the tribe, and in the local community, Louise was known for her infectious welcoming, her generosity, and yes, even her love of patronizing one of the tribe's gems, the Northern Quest Casino. The casino, located down in Airway Heights, Washington, is a favorite hang out among tribal members, the elders, and residents of Pend Oreille County. Both first nation members and locals socialize, enjoy delicious food, and take advantage of a full service entertainment facility offering many different options for those so inclined to enjoy Kalispel hospitality. Although nearly 70 miles off the rez, Northern Quest stands proudly as the tribe's well run and successful winning ticket.
Casino revenues have lifted the Kalispel's from impoverished times toward prosperity. Mindful of history though, the tribe is always giving back to the greater local community, remembering that poverty is never limited in its poison. If anyone in the community suffers, all suffer. As a result, since opening the Casino, the Kalispel's have kept local non tribal school districts afloat, given donations to area non rez projects, and the Kalispel's are widely regarded throughout Pend Oreille County as among the best neighbors anyone could want. This is a unique story in Indian Country and its one that doesn't get told that often. I think that is why today is somewhat sad for me, because I will miss Louise and knowing that I won't see her again, is a loss that makes everything seem just a bit different. Louise truly represented the tribe's endless heart.
I've witnessed many occasions where I have seen the tribe's heart on display. At the community 4th of July Celebrations, at pow wow, and in other examples of generosity, the tribe is striving to lead through their open arms. The same was true of Louise, who on another occasion, gifted us with a memory I won't ever forget. After my initial pow wow introduction to her, we ran into Louise several months later.
One cold snowy winter night, my friend Lane and I were at the Northern Quest Casino, trying our hand at Lady Luck. Lane wasn't doing so well. He'd been out 21'd at Blackjack, out flushed at poker, and so far, Texas Tea, Battleship, and the Yhatze slot machines weren't doing him much better.
After loosing several hundred credits in one spin, on yet another machine, Lane looked at me disgustedly and said "Tim, I've had it with this machine. Let's find another one."
We began touring the casino, walking down aisles of gaming machines, listening to a wide variety of winning jackpots, spinning dances with chance, and other symphonies dedicated to all things trying your luck. That's when we spied Louise, playing her hand at "Little Green Men". "Little Green Men" is a slot machine designed around UFO invasions and alien abductions, and the game offers several bonus rounds a player can achieve, with various choices that are wickedly amusing for players to win. Louise was doing ok on her machine, but as we sat down next to her, we became the center of her attention. Her wide, welcoming grin was ours to claim, and we basked in her affection. She was genuinely glad to see us and she and Lane struck up an easy, animated conversation.
As Lane began playing his "Little Green Men" machine, with each of his spins, Louise encouraged him. Still the luck thing just wasn't happening. Much to Louise's amusement, Lane tried kissing the machine. Lane prayed over the machine. He begged. Even I did a little dance in the aisle to try to summon Lady Luck. But after progressive spin after progressive spin, it seemed obvious that lady luck was preoccupied with other gamblers elsewhere in the Casino. Yet Louise never gave up on us. With each spin, she led our cheering section.
Finally, as funds dwindled, Lane looked at Louise and begged, "Louise would you please bless our machine. Please?"
A huge, glowing smile was her response. The small elderly woman slowly leaned over Lane's machine, and gently and deliberately her fingers traced a pattern over the screen. She whispered words that neither of us understood, and then when she'd finished, she leaned back, somewhat shyly and grinned. Nodding at Lane, she signaled that indeed our machine was now blessed by none other than one of the tribe's elders.
Lane turned and looking at me, he smiled. "Alrightly then! Come on big money. Please. Give some lovin to Lane J..." He rubbed his hands together as if preparing to devour a delicious feast.
With an exaggerated flurry of his wrists, he hit max bet. Everything was on the line. Louise leaned toward us. I hunched down closer to the screen. Our hearts raced with anticipation and excitement. Lane hit the spin button and then held his hands up to his mouth.
We waited as the screen danced and various symbols appeared. No one was breathing. This was it. Lane was gonna hit the jackpot, the big time, and he would dance and scream and carry on in the aisle. I could visualize the whole scene. Happy days are here again.
In one fell swoop Lady Luck raced by and claimed everything.
Stunned, we sat there, the three of us, staring, near lifeless. Nothing remained. All of Lane's credits were gone. Louise shook her head as if this just couldn't be. Lane remained frozen, his unbelieving gaze refusing to acknowledge that with just one spin, he had done so much damage to his finances.
Louise turned back to her machine and hit spin.
Nothing.
Recovering, Lane stood up and looking down at Louise, smiled. He bent over and gave her a hug. She shrugged, smiling, all the joy returning and dancing in her eyes. "Next time Lane. Next time we'll have better luck. Next time." She reassured him.
We nodded.
We left Louise, and slowly walked down the aisle toward the casino exit. I turned one last time and saw her there, she still playing "Little Green Men" under the flashing lights of the Casino. As we made our way out into the cold winter night and the spitting flurries in the parking lot, I did not know there wouldn't be a next time. Even now it seems a bit hard to accept. Because in my mind I will always associate the Northern Quest Casino and Pow Wow with Louise Martin. Although Lane and me have returned, sometimes winning with a big "Wahoo", other times losing with an "aw shit!", we never shared another tribal blessing with Louise. Regardless of our fortunes, I will always see Louise in my mind when I think of such things, a small joyous woman whose face danced with life, whose eyes twinkled like the brightest stars and who with so much generosity, blessed us in ways that at the time we could not fully comprehend. Indeed her memory blesses us still.
We will miss you Louise.
To read another story about Lane, click here:
http://www.highmountainranch.com/TalesFromtheRoad/changinglanes.html
Thursday, February 17, 2005
My ticket to ride...
Looking forward, courtesy of the BN/Santa Fe line...Near Troy, Montana
I have spent a lot of time considering "tomorrow" recently. I have also spent a great amount of time looking back. That hasn't left a lot of room for considering now.
Now is probably the most important moment I have. Now is all I can be assured of. And sadly, now is fleeting. Disappearing before my very eyes into the blurred unchangeable yesterday.
It's too damn late to do much about yesterday. I know this logically, but I sometimes remain stuck there trying to understand it all. Yet the answers, riddles and unexplained realities I hope to find revealed in such history remain allusive.
Tomorrow remains always disappearing around the bend, blinding me like the setting sun with what I can not see. I can't make out too many details. Images blur, they focus, but in the end what I think I know, is often distorted and subject to change.
I think I see a path, like those parallel rails, but I'm really not sure where it leads. No matter how hard I try, I can't see around the next moment, and as I ride the rails, ever forward, so much uncertainty seems paralyzing and overwhelming. I didn't see this moment coming. I don't see the next. I only know what I've seen, and like all things in life, love, and war, even that is subject to revision.
So, the focus today is on now.
My eyes, as undependable as they've become take it all in. The sun. The frost catching air, sparkling as it descends to earth. The blue sky reflecting in the bluer waters of the Pend Oreille. The moment crisp air touches my face when I step outside. The sound of the geese on the water. The hint of a breeze through the bull pines.
Now, this moment, is all I truly have. But certainly it's worth every second.
I have spent a lot of time considering "tomorrow" recently. I have also spent a great amount of time looking back. That hasn't left a lot of room for considering now.
Now is probably the most important moment I have. Now is all I can be assured of. And sadly, now is fleeting. Disappearing before my very eyes into the blurred unchangeable yesterday.
It's too damn late to do much about yesterday. I know this logically, but I sometimes remain stuck there trying to understand it all. Yet the answers, riddles and unexplained realities I hope to find revealed in such history remain allusive.
Tomorrow remains always disappearing around the bend, blinding me like the setting sun with what I can not see. I can't make out too many details. Images blur, they focus, but in the end what I think I know, is often distorted and subject to change.
I think I see a path, like those parallel rails, but I'm really not sure where it leads. No matter how hard I try, I can't see around the next moment, and as I ride the rails, ever forward, so much uncertainty seems paralyzing and overwhelming. I didn't see this moment coming. I don't see the next. I only know what I've seen, and like all things in life, love, and war, even that is subject to revision.
So, the focus today is on now.
My eyes, as undependable as they've become take it all in. The sun. The frost catching air, sparkling as it descends to earth. The blue sky reflecting in the bluer waters of the Pend Oreille. The moment crisp air touches my face when I step outside. The sound of the geese on the water. The hint of a breeze through the bull pines.
Now, this moment, is all I truly have. But certainly it's worth every second.
Wednesday, February 16, 2005
The Ice Man Cometh
Yeah, you're looking at my worst fears. That this ice flow foretells where my heart is headed.
Representing that whole haunted, too many empty, 2 am eternal "last call" moments of recognition-I still pray this vision does not have my name written all over it. A flash frozen monument to my moment of reckoning. An image defining that so much expended energy chasing love resulted in this.
Nothing.
Or maybe "nothing" accompanied by the "empty something" of echoing memories, fading snapshots and unanswered AWOL expressions that bounce back at you and the other bar flies from the 140 Beats per minute funeral march of unmet expectations. A cadence reflecting all the other similarly disenchanted "last callers" with their own shipwrecked dreams.
"Let this be a lesson to you..." I can hear my conservative parents validating their beliefs- that a gay man's history, the sum total of all their heartsongs will repeatedly be marked by the same lonely, hollow end result.
I know, I know. Save it.
Now in the real-world, the world of the mud drenched, lift kitted, 4x4 masculine litmus test-that allusive state-of-being where the dudes yell and never scream, and don't you dare talk about feelings- fears- insecurity, I am not sure how to reconcile all these "heart" things.- Admitting your heart is busted up is no way to get respect in the he-man world of mission accomplished, shock and awe, and chin up and get back on that damn horse and ride like you mean it, Cowboy.
Remember, real men, bro's, and a man's guy-guys are not supposed to write about heart. Ever. Its just too uncomfortable. People figit. They change the subject, order you a drink or start talking about the set of hooters on their sister's best friend. Nope in that sacred locker roomed world, safe topics are all about conquest, great catches, and trophy mounts. It's about doing everything one can do to prove how insensitive they are to insensitivity. It's about a never ending demonstration of how much control a man has over the uncontrollable.
If by chance things get messy, Real Men move on, never looking back, sucking up their sucky lives-it's all about proving how tough the tough guys are. Self examination is for sissy's.
Duh.
I'm pretty much over it though. The exhaustion of trying to prove how rigid and unfeeling I can be. Denying the obvious runs counternature to the self examination table.
Double Duh.
I know for certain even real men feel empty on occasion. That's why they drink, shoot, piss in public, and do things their mothers told them they shouldn't. That's how they process, find closure, and heal. Maybe the "stuff your feelings" gang is onto something. Stalking, chasing, blasting, and gutting a five point buck is therapy. Hauling it into camp on the quad, and wondering if the taxidermist can hide the gaping hole where the buck's left eye used to be, has to be an effective distraction, if not true closure.
I'm a shitty hunter though. If I shoot something, its accidental, and probably not in season. It's probably best I embrace my fate.
Write like you mean it.
The New York Times had an article a few months ago which reported the cheery news that the life expectancy of writers is less than that of the average population. Now my dear literary fans, how amazingly cool is that. Writers die earlier than the hunter gatherer types the essay matter-of-fact stated. Poets fared the worst.
The article went on to say that the self examined, "the dare to write about it tribe", are also pretty creative at offing themselves. Either prematurely, or in the case of a harsh critical literary review, not damn soon enough. I once got in heap big trouble after penning an essay in high school about suicide in which I'd argued that the "do themselves in gang" were actually kinda brave- I mean they were ready to say to the world, "I am so over this that I am willing to risk everything I know for all the unknown, the whatever that lies on the other side of my last breath".
It was hardly original thinking but that didn't stop the alarms from sounding. Yep all that "creative" writing landed me in a counselors office. Reassuring the worried well educators that no, I was not thinking of killing myself, that this was about philosophy and taking on the taboo, my defenses did little to reassure them. So much for thinking outside the box. Or the noose as the case might be.
As a result of this and other experiences, I learned early that sharing uncensored feelings is a sure ticket to an emergency hall pass, a mental evaluation, and the drama of all sorts of people "who care" looking at you out of the corner of their eye.
Anyway, we are not really talking about suicide. We're discussing the courage of sharing the true state of your heart. Don't give up on me. I swear this is going somewhere.
Last weekend I was up near Metaline, Washington, standing on the edge of the Pend Oreille River. I shot this picture that Sunday, just before the snow squalls came out of nowhere and we later got stuck in a Spring White Out on the other side of Sullivan Ridge. But it's this tree that still holds my thoughts on pause-Not the white out, the frozen expanse of Lake Sullivan, nor the near ghost town like status of Metaline Falls.
Nope its all about the ice tree.
The tree captivated me. Even though the wind was cold, I remained motionless as I stared up at this mass of crystals, blue and aqua and white. Carrying an unwanted blanket, oppressing the old weathered cottonwood tree, she refused to bend, and rose, covered in layer after layer of ice. The sentinel tree stood naked at the top, never overwhelmed with the burden of her winter load.
Even more thought provoking, I knew the state of the tree was most likely not by choice. No sir, this had definitely "been done to her" by someone else. She just happened to be stuck bearing the weight of the actions of her perpetrators.
Worried that someday, if I wasn't careful, my heart would look like that, I stared at the symbolic vision of all things Rode Hard, Put Away Wet. Bitterly cold. Cynical and Jaded. Frozen, jagged, and easily sharp enough to cut deeply anyone who tried to break through all that cold as ice layering-the tree's exterior would keep her impenetrable to anyone trying to get at her core. The tree's heart was unreachable. In her survival, what had been a beautiful towering Cottonwood, now reflecting my own choice and my heart's potential. I saw myself in that moment and it scared the shit out of me. I suddenly had an understanding of the places a heart can travel and where it can become stuck through no fault of it's own.
After leaving Metaline and continuing our snowy journey, I remained preoccupied. Returning to the ranch, as the clouds broke through, and the sun began to warm my face, I finally understood what I'd seen.
Spring is coming. The season of chill, the low light northern days, and the far off heat of the sun is all subject to change. The ice covering that tree, will shed, if light is allowed to shine on her. This dark winter will become a memory, and new life will emerge. Survival isn't always synonymous with an embrace of the permanently deep frozen.
This observation holds true whether the subject is an iced over tree, or a still trembling heart, struggling to emerge from shock.
Representing that whole haunted, too many empty, 2 am eternal "last call" moments of recognition-I still pray this vision does not have my name written all over it. A flash frozen monument to my moment of reckoning. An image defining that so much expended energy chasing love resulted in this.
Nothing.
Or maybe "nothing" accompanied by the "empty something" of echoing memories, fading snapshots and unanswered AWOL expressions that bounce back at you and the other bar flies from the 140 Beats per minute funeral march of unmet expectations. A cadence reflecting all the other similarly disenchanted "last callers" with their own shipwrecked dreams.
"Let this be a lesson to you..." I can hear my conservative parents validating their beliefs- that a gay man's history, the sum total of all their heartsongs will repeatedly be marked by the same lonely, hollow end result.
I know, I know. Save it.
Now in the real-world, the world of the mud drenched, lift kitted, 4x4 masculine litmus test-that allusive state-of-being where the dudes yell and never scream, and don't you dare talk about feelings- fears- insecurity, I am not sure how to reconcile all these "heart" things.- Admitting your heart is busted up is no way to get respect in the he-man world of mission accomplished, shock and awe, and chin up and get back on that damn horse and ride like you mean it, Cowboy.
Remember, real men, bro's, and a man's guy-guys are not supposed to write about heart. Ever. Its just too uncomfortable. People figit. They change the subject, order you a drink or start talking about the set of hooters on their sister's best friend. Nope in that sacred locker roomed world, safe topics are all about conquest, great catches, and trophy mounts. It's about doing everything one can do to prove how insensitive they are to insensitivity. It's about a never ending demonstration of how much control a man has over the uncontrollable.
If by chance things get messy, Real Men move on, never looking back, sucking up their sucky lives-it's all about proving how tough the tough guys are. Self examination is for sissy's.
Duh.
I'm pretty much over it though. The exhaustion of trying to prove how rigid and unfeeling I can be. Denying the obvious runs counternature to the self examination table.
Double Duh.
I know for certain even real men feel empty on occasion. That's why they drink, shoot, piss in public, and do things their mothers told them they shouldn't. That's how they process, find closure, and heal. Maybe the "stuff your feelings" gang is onto something. Stalking, chasing, blasting, and gutting a five point buck is therapy. Hauling it into camp on the quad, and wondering if the taxidermist can hide the gaping hole where the buck's left eye used to be, has to be an effective distraction, if not true closure.
I'm a shitty hunter though. If I shoot something, its accidental, and probably not in season. It's probably best I embrace my fate.
Write like you mean it.
The New York Times had an article a few months ago which reported the cheery news that the life expectancy of writers is less than that of the average population. Now my dear literary fans, how amazingly cool is that. Writers die earlier than the hunter gatherer types the essay matter-of-fact stated. Poets fared the worst.
The article went on to say that the self examined, "the dare to write about it tribe", are also pretty creative at offing themselves. Either prematurely, or in the case of a harsh critical literary review, not damn soon enough. I once got in heap big trouble after penning an essay in high school about suicide in which I'd argued that the "do themselves in gang" were actually kinda brave- I mean they were ready to say to the world, "I am so over this that I am willing to risk everything I know for all the unknown, the whatever that lies on the other side of my last breath".
It was hardly original thinking but that didn't stop the alarms from sounding. Yep all that "creative" writing landed me in a counselors office. Reassuring the worried well educators that no, I was not thinking of killing myself, that this was about philosophy and taking on the taboo, my defenses did little to reassure them. So much for thinking outside the box. Or the noose as the case might be.
As a result of this and other experiences, I learned early that sharing uncensored feelings is a sure ticket to an emergency hall pass, a mental evaluation, and the drama of all sorts of people "who care" looking at you out of the corner of their eye.
Anyway, we are not really talking about suicide. We're discussing the courage of sharing the true state of your heart. Don't give up on me. I swear this is going somewhere.
Last weekend I was up near Metaline, Washington, standing on the edge of the Pend Oreille River. I shot this picture that Sunday, just before the snow squalls came out of nowhere and we later got stuck in a Spring White Out on the other side of Sullivan Ridge. But it's this tree that still holds my thoughts on pause-Not the white out, the frozen expanse of Lake Sullivan, nor the near ghost town like status of Metaline Falls.
Nope its all about the ice tree.
The tree captivated me. Even though the wind was cold, I remained motionless as I stared up at this mass of crystals, blue and aqua and white. Carrying an unwanted blanket, oppressing the old weathered cottonwood tree, she refused to bend, and rose, covered in layer after layer of ice. The sentinel tree stood naked at the top, never overwhelmed with the burden of her winter load.
Even more thought provoking, I knew the state of the tree was most likely not by choice. No sir, this had definitely "been done to her" by someone else. She just happened to be stuck bearing the weight of the actions of her perpetrators.
Worried that someday, if I wasn't careful, my heart would look like that, I stared at the symbolic vision of all things Rode Hard, Put Away Wet. Bitterly cold. Cynical and Jaded. Frozen, jagged, and easily sharp enough to cut deeply anyone who tried to break through all that cold as ice layering-the tree's exterior would keep her impenetrable to anyone trying to get at her core. The tree's heart was unreachable. In her survival, what had been a beautiful towering Cottonwood, now reflecting my own choice and my heart's potential. I saw myself in that moment and it scared the shit out of me. I suddenly had an understanding of the places a heart can travel and where it can become stuck through no fault of it's own.
After leaving Metaline and continuing our snowy journey, I remained preoccupied. Returning to the ranch, as the clouds broke through, and the sun began to warm my face, I finally understood what I'd seen.
Spring is coming. The season of chill, the low light northern days, and the far off heat of the sun is all subject to change. The ice covering that tree, will shed, if light is allowed to shine on her. This dark winter will become a memory, and new life will emerge. Survival isn't always synonymous with an embrace of the permanently deep frozen.
This observation holds true whether the subject is an iced over tree, or a still trembling heart, struggling to emerge from shock.
Tuesday, February 15, 2005
Satiation
Pick up the pamphlets at the Spokane International Airport. Read the descriptions of Spokane as "Near Nature. Near Perfect." No lie. They aren't bullshitting you.
Off the beaten path, still mostly undiscovered, the area prouldy serves as the Welcoming Committee to some of the most spectacular and thankfully untrampled scenic jaunts left in North America. While some coastal trend setters dismiss the place as a glorified cowtown, still stuck in the Big Timber, Big Railroad and Mining mentality, others have taken a chance, taken that exit, and never left.
Let the just passing through hold on to their old school mentality. For anyone whose bravely jumped off I 90, and taken a chance on "Spoklahoma, or Spokcompton, or Spokalu"-whatever the dismissive knick name, they find treasure and affordability-and something sorely missing from Seattle, Portland, San Francisco and L A. They find a straight forward, unhyped quality of life that is not measured in three hour commutes, $2400 rents, and crime stats that boggle the mind.
And those are our worst selling points.
For bonus round action we sit convenient to Glacier, Yellowstone, Hell's Canyon, The Wallowa's, The Bitteroots, The Selkirks and the Selkirk Loop. Other areas of interest include Priest Lake, The Pend Oreille Country, The Cabinet's and the Clark Fork Country. Add seven ski resorts within an couple hours drive, over a hundred lakes and some of the most unspoiled backcountry on the continent-and the choices for recreation becomes overwhelming.
Living an ez skip and a jump northeast of the big town of Spokane is like living in yet another world. Forget about traffic, there isn't any. Keep one arm always free, cus you need it to wave at the driver of the rare oncoming traffic. It's not cute or quaint, the wave to those lone passing motorists is just common courtesy and it's a statement of the way things are. The way we'd like them to stay.
See someone you know, you'd like to know, or need to know and there's always a pull off waiting for those hour long, engine idling, catch em up's. They know you by name at the Post Office and at the grocery store and those connections aren't the stifling prison's that most associate with small town living. If anything, they celebrate the reality that connections still exist among neighbors and that accountability has its place in any social construct.
Big words for a former trucker, I know, but I think about this stuff as I am trying to make my way through the world.
Last weekend friends came over from the coast. I wrote about our dinner at "the Squeeze" yesterday. Today I hope some of the pictures tell the story of why I live where I do, and how even in the sadness of the last month-this is the last best place. Need healing? Need a reason to stop and take stock? Need to face your demons? These waters know your reflection and they won't share more than your ready to face. Those big sky dawnings will descend upon your heart and nurture you and lift you up. Those hundred mile views get you out of your head, sharing a perspective that life is too damn short to become bitter and jaded. Or to settle.
I keep telling myself I won't settle. Like a string on my finger, when I wake up in the morning and see sunrise playing leap frog on the Selkirk Crest, I am reminded to embrace the lonliness and longing, because its the only way to appreciate those shared human connections for all that they are worth.
All I can do is acknowledge whatever reality I face and chase those earl;y morning moments to the next heartbeat, the next experience, and hopefully a moment that lasts longer than the last heartfall. Catch and release isn't just for fishing. It's also for healing.
My friends Frank and Kevin seem to get it. Kevin comes from Walla Walla Palouse ranching DNA and Frank, well he's from the rough and tumble mining, big timber world of Wilkerson, Washington. Its a two street town hidden in the shadow of Mt Rainer that's well, still havey on the rough and tumble. I was lucky enough to stand breathless beside them as we looked over the Montana Cabinets. That such a view is only an hour from my front door keeps them coming back. Whether Frank is toting a kyak or pulling his 5th wheel trailer, that bond, that love off all things high country has cemented our friendship. Kevin on the other hand has this quiet steadfastness and this deep well of wisdom, that isn't as much about what is said, as more about what is conveyed through gesture, a look, and a simple assessment of the obvious.
The hum of tires on a road trip, the breath of fresh air at each stop and the act of gazing into the deep knowing waters of Lake Pend Oreille-it is the inspiration for this week and whatever comes next. I can still feel the crisp cool magic of Lake Pend Oreille's "big water", as it captivated us, gifting each shared vantage with a stronger connection. There's something truly inspiring about nature's magic and its power over the heart. And I wouldn't trade all the heartache associated of losing someone to the bright city lights for the moment I knew this weekend.
Not in a New York City Heartbeat.
Off the beaten path, still mostly undiscovered, the area prouldy serves as the Welcoming Committee to some of the most spectacular and thankfully untrampled scenic jaunts left in North America. While some coastal trend setters dismiss the place as a glorified cowtown, still stuck in the Big Timber, Big Railroad and Mining mentality, others have taken a chance, taken that exit, and never left.
Let the just passing through hold on to their old school mentality. For anyone whose bravely jumped off I 90, and taken a chance on "Spoklahoma, or Spokcompton, or Spokalu"-whatever the dismissive knick name, they find treasure and affordability-and something sorely missing from Seattle, Portland, San Francisco and L A. They find a straight forward, unhyped quality of life that is not measured in three hour commutes, $2400 rents, and crime stats that boggle the mind.
And those are our worst selling points.
For bonus round action we sit convenient to Glacier, Yellowstone, Hell's Canyon, The Wallowa's, The Bitteroots, The Selkirks and the Selkirk Loop. Other areas of interest include Priest Lake, The Pend Oreille Country, The Cabinet's and the Clark Fork Country. Add seven ski resorts within an couple hours drive, over a hundred lakes and some of the most unspoiled backcountry on the continent-and the choices for recreation becomes overwhelming.
Living an ez skip and a jump northeast of the big town of Spokane is like living in yet another world. Forget about traffic, there isn't any. Keep one arm always free, cus you need it to wave at the driver of the rare oncoming traffic. It's not cute or quaint, the wave to those lone passing motorists is just common courtesy and it's a statement of the way things are. The way we'd like them to stay.
See someone you know, you'd like to know, or need to know and there's always a pull off waiting for those hour long, engine idling, catch em up's. They know you by name at the Post Office and at the grocery store and those connections aren't the stifling prison's that most associate with small town living. If anything, they celebrate the reality that connections still exist among neighbors and that accountability has its place in any social construct.
Big words for a former trucker, I know, but I think about this stuff as I am trying to make my way through the world.
Last weekend friends came over from the coast. I wrote about our dinner at "the Squeeze" yesterday. Today I hope some of the pictures tell the story of why I live where I do, and how even in the sadness of the last month-this is the last best place. Need healing? Need a reason to stop and take stock? Need to face your demons? These waters know your reflection and they won't share more than your ready to face. Those big sky dawnings will descend upon your heart and nurture you and lift you up. Those hundred mile views get you out of your head, sharing a perspective that life is too damn short to become bitter and jaded. Or to settle.
I keep telling myself I won't settle. Like a string on my finger, when I wake up in the morning and see sunrise playing leap frog on the Selkirk Crest, I am reminded to embrace the lonliness and longing, because its the only way to appreciate those shared human connections for all that they are worth.
All I can do is acknowledge whatever reality I face and chase those earl;y morning moments to the next heartbeat, the next experience, and hopefully a moment that lasts longer than the last heartfall. Catch and release isn't just for fishing. It's also for healing.
My friends Frank and Kevin seem to get it. Kevin comes from Walla Walla Palouse ranching DNA and Frank, well he's from the rough and tumble mining, big timber world of Wilkerson, Washington. Its a two street town hidden in the shadow of Mt Rainer that's well, still havey on the rough and tumble. I was lucky enough to stand breathless beside them as we looked over the Montana Cabinets. That such a view is only an hour from my front door keeps them coming back. Whether Frank is toting a kyak or pulling his 5th wheel trailer, that bond, that love off all things high country has cemented our friendship. Kevin on the other hand has this quiet steadfastness and this deep well of wisdom, that isn't as much about what is said, as more about what is conveyed through gesture, a look, and a simple assessment of the obvious.
The hum of tires on a road trip, the breath of fresh air at each stop and the act of gazing into the deep knowing waters of Lake Pend Oreille-it is the inspiration for this week and whatever comes next. I can still feel the crisp cool magic of Lake Pend Oreille's "big water", as it captivated us, gifting each shared vantage with a stronger connection. There's something truly inspiring about nature's magic and its power over the heart. And I wouldn't trade all the heartache associated of losing someone to the bright city lights for the moment I knew this weekend.
Not in a New York City Heartbeat.
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