The Fortieth: The Joy of Sharing

 I can remember riding in the car with my mom, many years ago. I know I was a child, but no clue as to my age. We were driving past a relative's house, which reminded her of a story--more of an adult story than something shared with a child. Not inappropriate, just a story about a woman (can't remember which relation) whose husband was always accusing her of trying to get rid of him. 

So one day, the fed-up wife slips a note into his sandwich. The note read something like: "if I wanted to kill you, you'd already be dead"  I don't know whose delight was greater, mine at hearing such a story from Mom or Mom's delight in chewing on that tasty tale once again. 

Isn't that why we love to share those jokes and stories? It's like being able to revisit a lovely dinner, recalling each flavor and aroma, as we tell the tale of our sating.

Love, K

The Thirty-Ninth: Becoming an Aunt

 I was only eight years old, when my oldest (by 13 yrs) sibling had her first child. A baby! 

I don't remember much, but I do remember having something to share for Show & Tell at school--it was hard to compete with Disneyland, so I was glad to have something to elevate my rank. 

And, it's very possible, I glowed with the knowledge that I was now an AUNT! At EIGHT! Which probably happens less often now and I consider that progress (said The Consequence of the Rhythm Method). 

Love, K

To Find More Gratitude Essays or Let Them Find Me?

Several nights back, as I read my one Ross Gay essay before opening my novel, I began to wonder--
"what will I read when this is done?". I remembered seeing that Ross had written another, similar book, but maybe (I worried) . . . they're too similar. Or maybe this is one of those crossroads, where the decision must be made to rely on past good book picking fortune or to sit back and see what comes next. 

Sitting back seems the best strategy, because (speaking from past experience) so many of those books turn out to be a second chance after a first failed attempt to bring their joy to their readers. Though, to be honest, I doubt Ross would publish a "less than" book, but that's just my opinion.

Or maybe it's time for a new phase {shrugs}. Whatever comes next, I'll do my best to be present and focused, because there's always more to learn. Always. And I'm not talking about the weird, convoluted, conspiracy theories so many people are happy to let wash through and over them. That's not you, is it? Whew! 

Love,

K

The Thirty-Eighth: Snail Mail Joy

 

When it comes to snail mail, it's not just the writing, 

receiving and reading that bring joy--

there's also the discovering beauty nearby, 

tracking down its source 

and pulling out the wallet. 

Thanks, "What Penny Made"!

The Thirty-Seventh: The Day After

Part of a series inspired by Ross Gay

that starts here: 

https://jarlakansen.blogspot.com/2020/05/first-of-possible-series.html 

Earlier this week, our area had one of those hours long, thunder and lightning storms: a seemingly never ending stream of "cells", levels of sound from loud grumbling, to a crazy roar of hail pelting the roof, a spectacle that can take your breath away. Then, finally--sleep in the last few hours left beneath the sheets.

When it was at long last done with us and rolling north up the freeway, a sweet group of memories popped into my head. When I worked with the wee folk, they'd enter the room in the morning, wide eyed with their memories of the previous night's big storm and the story sharing would begin. Probably much the same in all the small cafes and coffee shops--only younger eyes and shorter stories.

The Thirty-Sixth: Heart Beeps

Part of a series inspired by Ross Gay

that starts here: 

https://jarlakansen.blogspot.com/2020/05/first-of-possible-series.html

When bud K and I, were doing science lessons with the wee folk, we would make needed adjustments from year to year. Some adjustments were due to our time frame changing or a change in the number of small groups or to fix something that wasn't working great. One year, after doing our February lesson on the heart, we realized the wee folk weren't saying "heart beats", they were consistently saying "heart beeps".

We tried writing the two words on the board, to pronounce and compare the different consonant sounds, which helped, but then they'd revert back to "beep" without missing a beat (sorry, couldn't resist). Also, can I admit how difficult it is to correct "beeping" with a straight face? (But, no, stop that K! Save your sillies for recess!)

The following summer, I let my brain ruminate on the problem--inspiration arrived in the form of a small Bluetooth speaker. I'd purchased one for myself, to use while enjoying the backyard deck and was amused at the feel of the bass, when the speaker was in my hand. And that's when the spark landed. I searched online for a downloadable mp3 file of a human heart beat. 

It took some time, because we all know how much crap there is to wade through when doing a search for something specific. But eventually, I found a site with sounds for medical training--wahoo! There were a few bumps and potholes with keeping a good smart phone connection inside the building, but the hand-sized speaker emitting heartbeat vibrations was a huge hit. Their eyes lit up and the focused excitement level was on point . . . but . . . they continued saying "beep".

The Thirty-Fifth: Gifted Fence Tomatoes

Part of a series inspired by Ross Gay

that starts here: 

https://jarlakansen.blogspot.com/2020/05/first-of-possible-series.html

Last Thursday, lucky for us, N had something he wanted to take a drive to check out. We hopped into the car and he drove us across the bridge to the west side of town. And then up the main road, through the residential area of apartment buildings and houses (some older, sagging houses, reminding motorists, that these haphazardly divided lots were once acres of farmland), and then the orchards, barns, rolling fields--some still growing and some harvested and a few tilled under, with the hint of the river, mostly hidden, on our right.

The Willamette has a greenway and water trail. We pass it often, as that particular drive beckons to us, but had never taken the time to stop. And that's what we came for this time--to finally stop and check out two of the access points. We didn't walk the trails far in the lose, dry, fine dust, that puffed up around each step. We walked just far enough to see what the access area offered and to watch a young couple cooling off their big dog in the water. And then home again, home again, jiggity jig. [As I type this, I'm surprised we didn't head to Dayton to pick up a fruit or pot pie. Doh!]

The pups were happy to see their tenders returned home before dinner time--so little trust after all these dog years! I opened the sliding glass door, to step outside to do some watering of the shaded plants in back, when I heard a man's voice say, "hello?". My brain decided it was our hard of hearing neighbor on his phone, but no--it was another neighbor, Ron. He said, he had too many tomatoes and couldn't visit friends to share during "our current situation". Would we like some? Amazingly, I didn't grab that tomato filled container right out of his hands, but I did make two batches of galette dough and we enjoyed bruschetta for dinner that night. And now I'll try not to wait on the deck, peering at the fence, waiting for more fence tomatoes.

Nearly forgot to brag--today we were given porch eggs, from the sweet fam across the street.

The Thirty-Fourth: Amusing Glimpses

Part of a series inspired by Ross Gay

that starts here: 

https://jarlakansen.blogspot.com/2020/05/first-of-possible-series.html

How often do we take a moment and see ourselves, our actions, and the consequences? Once a day? Or all the freaking time?
No?
Seriously?
How does that not happen?
I mean, seriously.
So much possible amusement--just sitting there waiting to be gleaned from the vine.

The reason I ponder, is because our current pandemic situation has given (me) more opportunities for navel gazing, and such navel gazing rarely fails to embarass or shame . . . me. It's a daily struggle, say the tee shirts and memes. I was recently invited to go for a walk with a long legged bud. So what happened the night before? The mental planning, setting the (now rare) alarm and then . . . unable to sleep.

Those moments illuminate how many relaxation strategies I keep in my pocket . . . er . . . or under my pillow: breathing methods, backwards counting, kegeling (seriously), singing to self, tensing and relaxing muscles throughout the body. But on these "alarm nights", the methods become more like amusements that spark memories that spark smiles or a busy brain. And that's when I start to look forward to the following night--when my body will be unable to resist slumber. Thankfully.

Sweet dreams

The Thirty-Third: To Dare or Damn

Part of a series inspired by Ross Gay

that starts here: 

https://jarlakansen.blogspot.com/2020/05/first-of-possible-series.html

It's a small and silly thing to remember, but there it is:

school dances and Mickey Wasson's amazing dance moves--
inspired (no doubt) by Elton John & Bernie's, Crocodile Rock.

And, of course, my brain connects a memory of Elaine's dance moves from an episode of Seinfeld--a celebration of joy, that many of us feel compelled to criticize and guffaw over.

I've often wondered . . . do the "guffawers" ever put themselves out there? Show their moves, their 'stuff', their (superior) intellect? Or are they locked forever into being only observers who mock?

If so, I'm glad none of them have asked me to join their club.

The Thirty-Second: Henry

Part of a series inspired by Ross Gay

that starts here: 

https://jarlakansen.blogspot.com/2020/05/first-of-possible-series.html

My very first boss was named Henry, though most folks called him Hank. He was Will Ferrell-esqe, before there was a Will Ferrell. He ruled over a staff of (mainly) mangy, high schoolers--training us up in the ways of Sizzler, making us laugh and comforting us when necessary. He was one in a million and I went so far as to look him up for that job in Portland, when my bud T and I decided to move.

He wasn't made for the type of business Sizzler ran. Henry believed in creating and maintaining a regular customer base. Which is what you need in a smaller town like Longview. So many unhappy customers, became friends of Henry and then regulars. Some people thought he was a schmoozer, but no, Henry was genuine.

Which makes this senior wonder, how many of the rest of his old crew still think of him all these decades later? Do they remember when he would pump the daily mist of insecticide into the dining area, while mimicking the wicked witch from The Wizard of Oz, "I'll get you my pretty! And your little dog, too!"? Or when he'd bend over to stir the vat of ribs, simmering in sauce and evilly ponder: "Ever wonder what happened to that busboy? Bwa hahaha!"

Looking back, that year at Sizzler feels like a coming of age film. Especially, the after hours party, where one of the crew disappeared (temporarily) on the railroad tracks and Siz decided to let our buddy Hank go after parents expressed concern. But I'm glad I thought to write down this favorite boss remembrance. I'd forgotten how he was there to hold my hand after my car and I were hit at an intersection. The other driver left the scene, which made it even more traumatic for a teen. And Henry was there when my cat Raisin died. I hope he got to share in the good news, too. Thanks, for that year, Henry!

The Thirty-First: A Furtive Thief

Part of a series inspired by Ross Gay

that starts here: 

https://jarlakansen.blogspot.com/2020/05/first-of-possible-series.html

There were years, when our family of four, would head to Idaho's Cascade Reservoir, to join up with members of my family. This was during our tenting phase. I nearly typed 'days', but then realized those tents lasted for several years--no, I won't go back and count just for y'all.

The camping location, had everything to do with my parents and their love of Idaho and perch and my maternal family. I may have gotten the order of their reasons wrong, but you get the idea. A familiar location may call out to us for years: "come back!, your friends and family are here!, we need you!".

One of those years, during the full reign of the offspring and cousins', "Bodily Function Club", we noticed some strange happenings in the mornings. Perhaps it had to do with that particular campsite. It wasn't our usual.

We kept a Rubbermaid tub outside the tent flap. It's where we stored the family footwear and also provided a place to sit while putting on or removing shoes. Tho the kids didn't always make that extra effort to place their shoes inside the tub at night and I didn't always do it for them.

And then, one morning, one of the 'child alarms' went off, as they were crawling out of their sleeping bags and getting ready for the day.
"WHO TOOK MY OTHER SHOE?!"
The adults working on breakfast, probably made distracted suggestions on where to look and to have the others check to see if they had matching pairs on their feet. But no. That shoe was gone . . . until later in the day, when someone (another camper, maybe?) found it yards away from our site.

After that, more attention was paid to the proper storage of shoes at night. And thanks to G'ma's open ears and relationships with other RVers, the mystery was solved soon after. There was a mischievous fox, who liked shoes and pancakes. Huh, maybe the shoes were held hostage until the pancakes were handed over? Too fanciful? Never! What a shame we never got a photo.

The Thirtieth: House Hunting

Part of a series inspired by Ross Gay

that starts here: 

https://jarlakansen.blogspot.com/2020/05/first-of-possible-series.html

It wasn't easy saying goodbye to Roseburg. It was the first time I had experienced the warm embrace of a new place. Later, I came to believe it was due to a chunk of the local population, that moved more often than average, creating a rhythm of folks moving in and folks moving out. Whatever the reason, it was a lovely place to raise kids, for so many reasons--most of which had to do with enjoying the outdoors and the people.

But the State was closing the office that N worked at for sixish years and we were offered a choice of places to choose from. After a weekend visit, we decided La Grande wasn't for us, which left Salem. The big plus, was that we'd be a few hours closer to family.

The downside was, N had to start work before we had moved our household. He tried camping in the back of his truck canopy at Silver Creek Falls Campground, but the distance to town, the chill of late October nights and partiers, put a damper on that. Thankfully, we had friends whose mother lived in Salem with a spare room.

During our search for a home, we stayed at a local hotel. Looking back, it seemed we searched for an entire week, but most likely just a long weekend or two. Nothing was feeling right--the yards were small, the prices were high, we were all exhausted and feeling the weight of needing to make a decision of some kind soon. Our realtor, Merri Friday, may not have been experienced, but she didn't give up easily. She also offered our offspring an afternoon at her house with her kids--something I'm sure they appreciated.

And then . . . the next day, Merri pulled some more freshly printed pages of homes for sale out of the printer. It was our last day to look. Once we drove up this street, I felt the draw of the neighborhood--trees! A park! Trees! It was the same, when we stepped foot inside the house. It felt like home and once my eyes met N's, I knew he felt the same. The owner, Mark, began to give N a tour of what he considered to be the highlights. Merri told us that the price may be higher than what we could afford, but she insisted we make an offer.

After our offer was accepted, there were a few bumps and stumbles before we were handed the keys, but the house was ours. All ours. And it still is. Love you always, you old abode!

The Twenty-Ninth: Dancing in the Kitchen

Part of a series inspired by Ross Gay

that starts here: 

https://jarlakansen.blogspot.com/2020/05/first-of-possible-series.html

When N and I, were first seeing each other, there were a couple of songs that were often playing--either on the radio or in our heads. One of the songs, If I'd Known You Better", by Hall & Oates, was always welcome on the radio and eventually our turntable.

Lately, I've been trying to seek more variety for my kitchen dance parties--I've been stuck in a glorious Blood, Sweat and Tears and The Guess Who rut for years. But wait K . . . there's so much more you've been ignoring all these years later. It's time to branch out and rediscover!

And so, yesterday, there I was, dancing my little heart out to that old song, with all the shiny memories and my wet face. What a delightful moment--accented by that big ol' smile on N's face. And now I'm thinking . . . what's up for tonight?
. . . Rita Coolidge's most popular album

The Twenty-Eighth: The Possibilities of a Day

My late apologies, this ended up more like a rerun, but that seems right for these extraordinary times, when everything seems mostly the same each day. {K shrugs}

This afternoon, a social media bud, posted about what small things they're missing. And then my wheels start to spin a bit. My first thought was a concern such pondering might depress someone staying close to home during this pandemic, but once I began to muse, I realized it's an exercise into cherishing and inspecting those small, unexpected pleasures.

What comes to mind first? The sweet wee exchanges at the check-out counters--whether it's another customer or the clerk or both, they can lift the mood, open a face and maybe even bring a chuckle.

Perhaps I'm alone on the next possible bringer of joy, but doubtful. Now that I've begun to mull this one over, I'm wondering when it happened last. When you have a list of places you need to go, pet shop, post office, grocery store, book store, etc, and you plan the route that pleases.

So many of the looked forward to, appreciated, hoped for, involve people and places. Marked as, "something to look forward to", whenever enough people start taking this seriously and start wearing a mask.

I can wait.
I may not be thrilled,
but there's nothing to stop me from planning for afterwards.

The Twenty-Seventh: Freedom

Part of a series inspired by Ross Gay

that starts here: 

https://jarlakansen.blogspot.com/2020/05/first-of-possible-series.html

There's a story that Mom would share about the two of us waiting in the doctor's waiting room. I was quite small, perhaps a toddler, and I was in pain, sitting on her lap, loudly wailing and sobbing, sobbing and wailing, my red wet eyes and my snotty nose. And then-- I stopped. And a smile erupted to transform that moment for all the witnesses. I can imagine my Mother's relief and then (perhaps) horror at the sight of what flowed out of my ear. Ah yes, the good old ear infection and the eventual freedom from pain.

When I was eleven or twelve, I was allowed to ride a Greyhound bus one hundred and six miles, all on my own--me and my little flowered suitcase. I'm unclear as to how it happened, but I do remember wanting to spend more time with my cousin Clarissa. Perhaps my cousin and I planned the entire trip--we didn't write those long long letters to one another about nothing. Or Mom had a brainstorm, but I usually had to push for any freedoms. It's still a surprise to me now, that I was allowed to go on that big adventure.

Huh, as I'm composing the next sentence in my head, I realize that it was peer pressure that nudged me to my first real job. Huh. My pal T, suddenly had more spending money of her own and was saving for her dream car. How? Where? When? Can I? Soon there were three of us buds working at Sizzler together. And soon I had a reason and money to get my own car. She was a lovely yellow, two door, Ford Pinto. The first thing I can remember doing after taking possession? I hopped in and started driving and then found myself at the beach. What an amazing feeling that was. Yeah, that was great.

The Twenty-Sixth: Cha Cha Cha Changes

Part of a series inspired by Ross Gay

that starts here: 

https://jarlakansen.blogspot.com/2020/05/first-of-possible-series.html

When I met N, it was during one of the "big eyewear moments"--as in size of lenses and frames. I enjoyed how his glasses accented his face, the bottom edge resting on his cheeks, rising up a tad, when he'd smile. Silly, I know, but I only knew a handful people who wore glasses back then. When they did, it was because of dire need. "I never saw birds or power lines, until I got my glasses", my childhood pal T informed me. And then, once we were wed, N began to notice my squinting. That's when I joined the spec club and began to appreciate clear vision.

I think that's one of the first "changes" I can remember. No, not the changes that we know are coming. I'm talking about our growing, maturing, learning and the eventual slippery slide towards death. The things we believe define us, the things we show or tell the people around us. Until we have an eye test . . . a realization, an epiphany, or we open our eyes wide enough to question those old tenets cluttering our brains.

One of the silliest changes? When we lived in Tillamook for 3 years, I began to associate the big black flies, the constant summer smell of manure slurry on the pastures, with the coast. Once we left, I didn't want to return. I can remember enjoying the surprise on people's faces, when I'd spout all of the reasons I rejected the beach. And now? Now it's one of my happy places, because we all know the benefits of a stroll on the beach or the lure of a sun sinking into the surf.

And there are others that amuse: my rejection of all red clothing for myself for years. Now I want all the red in my closet and drawers. Either I've changed my mind or those dyes are more pleasing? Who knows why. It's probably called being human isn't it? To evolve or soften or have a different opinion, show growth, reexamine old ideas. Yes, let's call it that--human.

The Twenty-Fifth: Public Radio Nerd Alert

Part of a series inspired by Ross Gay

that starts here: 

https://jarlakansen.blogspot.com/2020/05/first-of-possible-series.html

One of my favorite times of the morning, is when N and I loll and twine in bed for an hourish, listening to public radio. We snooze in and out of full listening mode, but when we listen to a story--it's with few distractions: those familiar soothing voices sharing news, music, nature, history, science and, yes, those less than soothing stories. We hadn't always immersed ourselves in their worlds, at least not in our first decade together.

There was a moment of introduction by my older brother in the late eighties--whether it was Prairie Home Companion or Car Talk or The New Yorker Radio Hour. Once we discovered there was entertainment to be had on the radio for road trips, we began to seek it out more often. And then, one day, it was only off once we turned on the television in the evenings.

That's when our offspring began to campaign during the pledge drives. I can still hear the scathing, snarky, tones--
"you know they're talking to you, right?"
"have you called yet?"
"it's called stealing."
"here, I wrote down the number for you."
"even Grandma M is a member!"
We resisted, we joked, and then finally joined the club. Or, perhaps I ought to phrase that differently--we caved? surrendered? cried uncle? And it felt good, to be honest.

And now, public radio has become intertwined with family memories: many long drives home, with various teens in the backseat, and we realize the quiet isn't due to sleeping-- no, they're engaged in a story. The sleepovers, where the offspring would show their friends how we spent our Saturday evenings--watching Keeping Up Appearances or The Vicar of Dibley or To the Manor Born. Apparently, that's when they thought we'd gone a step too far. {K shrugs and smiles and hopes the memories continue to bring them a smile.}

The Twenty-Fourth: Daily Delight

Part of a series inspired by Ross Gay

that starts here: 

https://jarlakansen.blogspot.com/2020/05/first-of-possible-series.html

Well, then--where shall I begin? {At the beginning, K. Duh} 

The first possible delight of the day, is waking and discovering how many hours since I last checked the clock (something "working me", made an effort not to do). "An entire four hours!", I might remark to myself, while also inserting a mental high five.

And when Hope eats her food at the appointed time? It can feel like an unexpected gift of an hour, where I don't have to keep one eye on that dish, because Izzy does not need double meals.

Most days (particularly now, at this historical moment), I try to complete three crossword puzzles. How I love to come across a clue that my brain knows the answer to, yet I rarely know how. A delightful gobsmack?

SNAIL MAIL--both the receiving and the sending--and the joy is extended to crafting the replies; Having all of the ingredients for a recipe you chose at the last minute; Kitchen dance parties; Receiving a text from a bud; The pull of a good book; Writing; Taking a shower; Checking the plants in our yard; An earworm attached to a happy memory; Crawling into bed; Looking into N's eyes; Listening/visiting with our adult moppets; A job well done.

How about you? Where do you find your daily delights?

The Twenty-Third: Rocks, Agates, Stones, Pebbles, BamBam

Part of a series inspired by Ross Gay

that starts here: 

https://jarlakansen.blogspot.com/2020/05/first-of-possible-series.html

Everyone enjoys rocks . . . right? Doesn't everyone have a small or large collection, or a favorite stone or six they keep close? What? They don't? Holy Sedimentary Rocks! How is this possible?

My first rock memory, was in Mrs. Minerva Kane's first grade classroom. We littles would bring in interesting bits of road gravel to share and she'd take it, admire its attributes, tell the owner what type of rock it was and then add it to the growing collection on the expansive window sill. She's the reason I used my first book sale quarter on a small book of gemstones.

Oh and did I mention that my folks were rockhounds? I don't recall any rock collecting trips during my time at home, but there was plenty of evidence to be found around our property. When my Pops decided to find a way to enjoy and display their prize finds, he created a base for a yard light. I don't know how involved I was in the process, but I do remember helping select and decide stone placement, when it was time to set them into the surface of the wet concrete.

Whenever we'd pass a rock shop during a road trip, I knew there was a chance the parents would stop. And the treat of touching, admiring those smooth, glossy surfaces, enjoying the patterns, crystals, colors and shapes, never got old: Montana Moss, Obsidian, Jasper, Tiger Eye, thunder eggs.

Many years later, when I was doing the science lessons with the wee folk, bud K and I eventually created a year end review. During our last sessions, we'd pass out remembering stones (agates) in velveteen pouches and each student would have the opportunity to share which science demo they enjoyed most. One year, all of us agreed that the breezy day we took our parachutes outside and one was caught in a tall tree and another sailed higher and higher, was a high point. Yes, that was some day. I can still picture your excited faces. Thanks for the joy.

The Twenty-Second: Reading Aloud

Part of a series inspired by Ross Gay

that starts here: 

https://jarlakansen.blogspot.com/2020/05/first-of-possible-series.html

{Oh no! She's writing about reading again?Yes!}

Reading aloud can be quite enjoyable, but only WITH an audience. Otherwise . . . people may come to believe you're losing your marbles and you may shrug and wonder the same. {nothing new here} Besides, art needs feedback, in my opinion. I probably read to our two littles for far too long, but we all three enjoyed it. We digested Lucy Maude Montgomery, Madeleine L'Engle, Lee Nesbit and others who have since escaped my grey cells. I can even recall a summer trip, when I read my current novel, at the time, to N as he drove us across the state. All because I sensed, after a chapter, my constant laughter wasn't a kind gift to the driver--especially with a book that produced guffaws rather than chuckles.

During the first several years of working with the wee folk, it was rare for me to be given opportunities to read to them, but when we began doing small group weekly science lessons, I eventually found ways to wrap a book into our 20-30 minutes. I ended up with a nice collection of both fiction and nonfiction books that complemented our teaching targets. Then, during a lean time, our school district decided to cut librarians. We still had instructional assistants running the libraries, but running a class while checking out books, is a big job for one person.

Eventually I began reading the books during our library class--which led to me buying my own personal collection of books. And what a collection of books! So many characters! So many rhymes! And doing the voices and building the tension and milking the fun and oh how I miss it now. {K sighs and smiles} So, to sum up--it was an honor and a delight to read to all of you, whether for fun or knowledge, and I'll treasure the memories, as I travel through the following life chapters. Cheers!