I used to think context was physical. That meaning was rooted in longterm commitment to a specific place. I don't know that this is false now. (I don't know much I've discovered, to tell you the truth.) But, I've discovered a new joy in exploration. Not knowing the backroads down here, not knowing the reputations of the different towns, not knowing the best (and worst) places to grab a burger, this is all becoming exciting rather than daunting. Moving away from my home initially made me hyper-sensitive to my outsider status in a place where most of the people I know now grew up. Now, I was the foreigner, the one gives you that blank look when you have to get more and more general when telling me how to find a great hike you're recommending or what town you grew up in. I hated that transition, from knowing all the nooks and crannies of Puget Sound to not even knowing if a town is on the east or west side of the state. I dunno what fog is finally lifting but I'm starting to chomp at the bit to get out and wallow in my ignorance. I want to buy a black and white map of the state of Oregon and starting filling it in, with color, as I figure out what's where. I'd always imagined living somewhere open when I was a kid. I fantasized about yawning landscapes and pine forests. That was an impossibility in the tucked in, cloud covered, soggy Puget Sound basin, that place I never thought I'd leave. Now that those ties are cut, at least for the time being, I wonder what sort of weird prairie Oregon is hiding. The Willamette Valley has already claimed a portion of my heart. Corvallis started digging in before I ever considered Oregon. Now it feels like my home away from home. It's even starting to get some depth and hold a little bit of sadness rather than two-dimensional good times. Like any good place, history isn't going to be all roses. But, getting back to the point at hand, I think I may have set aside the urge to feel at home somewhere. I'm not sure yet, it's been such an obsession for so long, but I don't feel that same intensity to feel belonging right now. I just feel excitement for discovery. Maybe this is the whole point. Maybe in releasing that need to control your comfort, you open yourself to a vulnerability that's necessary to truly be welcomed home. I suppose there is only one way to find out.

In the backyard the piled leaves lay soggy and stubborn as the wind kicked the last remaining maple leaves from the branches. Sky, the color of doubt, thickened and drew near, unapologetically eavesdropping. The woodstove grunted as I dropped in the still-wet hunk of fir. It looked like a dog had spent the summer gnawing the edges. I was just grateful this piece didn't drip with fat black carpenter ants. Earlier, the intrusion of my rusted old maul into a round of cherry explosded ants across the concrete patio. I danced across their flash mob, thoroughly crushing months of practice and choreography. As the woodstove groaned and creaked, James Taylor pleaded, "Go on and do as you please, You ain't gonna see me gettin' down on my knees." Most of the rain outside missed it's landzin zone, the overflowing koi pond (minus the koi), and pelted into the plastic awning over the patio or thudded on the grass, already an inch deep in water. Then it paused, taking a breath like a falled toddler, and the blitz continued. Stepping outside, hands in pockets, I walked the ten minutes to the mailbox. The wind held me as if it were thinking of someone else, but still eased in through the gaps in my layers to touch and chill my skin. The skyt was wooled and heavy to the east, thinning as it extended, reaching west to the horizon and the ocean. A sliver of blue lay across the western sky like the last slive of pie in the pan, or the answer you wanted to a question you didn't want to ask. I looked across the field of Christmas trees surrounding the house, wondering when they'd be harvested. I assumed they'd be cut one day while I was away at work and I'd return to find they'd finally taken what was never really mine.

Sometimes things open up in ways you don't expect or anticipate. Sort of like playing sports. You may have had one play in mind but you can't control what the other team is going to do. You could take the ball and run (my prerogative usually) or you can look up, see what the defense is offering you even if it seems they're taking something away. It might make the most sense for you to keep the ball, muscle your way upfield, drive as far as you can. Or it might make sense to pass. I've never been good at passing. I get blinders on and only see what's right in front of me. I tend to go deaf and mostly get bloodthirsty and just want to hit contact and drive through it - the dumbest, simplest, sometimes most rewarding way to achieve progress.

I'm not real sure where to go from here. A lot has changed, some in ways I orchestrated and anticipated and some in ways I hadn't considered... those damn blinders again. But, lessons are learned every day, every play, every decision we make has repercussions. When you feel like you aren't getting any momentum on the field the key is to always go back to your most basic gameplan. Move the ball. Those meters turn into tries eventually if you're willing to give a little to get a lot.

Maybe winning isn't what I imagined it to be. Or maybe winning is beside the point in this game.

I'm The Newcomer Now

Almost a decade ago, I read a book that anchored the building resentment and restlessness I’d felt since my family’s exodus from the 5 acres that I’d called home from age 3 to 17. Ana Maria Spagna’s collection of essays, Now Go Home: Wilderness, Belonging and the Crosscut Saw, gave me a purchase point from which to begin making amends with my anger at displacement. I felt justified in blaming Calfornians for my problem. The heightened housing market down South allowed Californians to buy houses in Washington the same way we used to buy clothes in British Columbia. Their dollar beat ours and in return we had to beat it as they moved into our houses, basements gurgling with bloated property taxes and sales prices. It seemed fair to blame the newcomers, even though some of my best friends, and later a longterm relationship, all originated from California. (It wasn’t them, it was the other Californians, the greedy ones). Scapegoating felt appropriate. It was easier to blame Californians for the sale of our family farm rather than confront the reality that my parents had been divorced for five years and it was time for my mom to move on, and in with someone else. Just because I felt at home on that 12 by 6 mile piece of rock in the middle of the Puget Sound didn’t mean my mom did. She was lonely, overworked, and eager for a connection with someone other than her two teenage kids. But, why bother acknowledging the complicated reality when there were BMWs and Land Rovers parked on either side of my Chevy pickup in the senior parking lot at the island’s one high school? It was easier to hate Them.

Neat tangent. What I really wanted to write about was what the hell has happened in ten years. I read Ana Maria’s book, a few times, and eventually wrote my college thesis on home and the housing market and if the two were compatible. I concluded that the out of control real estate market was in the business of selling the idea of Home: comfort, community, familiarity, friendship, family, safety… You could buy some or all depending on how many zeros you tacked onto that sales price. But the idea of a house as a financial investment and a commodity increased traffic and turnover of an already restless population. As Americans, and especially West Coasters, we have shallow roots. It’s easy to move to the next best place if it holds more promise than an underwhelming reality of here, this place. But moving and selling for more than you bought a place for, and sniffing out a community and deciding it’s not what you’d been looking for, I think, started pulling even harder at an unraveling thread of community in these fragile small places. I concluded my thesis that maybe I was wrong in asserting that everyone stop moving like the whistle had been blown in a game of freeze tag. Maybe it was unrealistic to assume that everyone could afford, or find happiness in staying put. So, I proposed that the next best thing would be to really get after whatever community you are currently a part of. Really live it up and help enrich it while you’re a part of it. Rather than sitting on the dock, jump on in because only being at the lake for a day is no reason not to stay on shore. Just be sure you pick up your cans when you leave and maybe leave a fiver in the parks donation box. And, for goodness sake, wave to the people at the campsite nextdoor, maybe even invite them over for a hobo sandwich and a beer. I figured if we could do something positive for this place we’re in today, it would be penance towards those little tears that are the result of us pulling up stakes and moving to the next place. Even if permanence is too much to ask of an impatient culture, maybe thoughtfulness wasn’t.

And that was five years ago now. It was easy to preach about community involvement. I’d been a resident of Seattle for much of the time since my mom had sold the farm. I’d spent a small stint volunteering as a firefighter on the peninsula, some time at a college in Oakland, California and a brutal six months in the cultural wasteland of Redmond, Washington. Besides that I’d made Seattle my home, unintentionally. I went to school there, I coached a college rugby team there, I played on my own city rugby team, I worked at the same family-owned store for years, I biked most of my routes in the city rather than driving, I left only to see my mom on an island to the north and my dad on a peninsula to the west. Seattle had become home and all of my unintentional ties had me firmly rooted to that landscape. I was still resentful of being in a city, fancying myself a country gal by birth, but I told myself it was temporary and I’d get out of the city soon enough. I just didn’t forsee how or where that would happen.

Getting the job offer in Portland, Oregon was a no-brainer. It was a crappy economy and getting worse. Job applications over the past two and a half years had turned up exactly zero offers of employment and word on the street was 4,500 applications had been allotted for maybe a hundred openings and to turn down those odds would have surely assured me a lifetime of holding up a cardboard sign as payback for being an idiot. So, I moved. I left the people I now considered family at work, I left the street signs I didn’t even need to look at, I left the muddy drunk college girls and the friends I’d known since we were those girls. I left the possibility of having dinner on a whim with my parents. The one thing I did not leave was the low-ceiling grey that apparently blankets the throat of the Columbia in as tight of an embrace as it holds the Puget Sound. The grey stayed, even though more than one person told me the weather was better down here. I suppose the Eskimos have over a hundred words for snow. Slight variations on wooly grey cloudcover is our expertise. It was rain, the same persistent death by a thousand drops that rolls in daily from the Pacific Ocean along this entire Northwestern coastline. It’s the only place in the world that could have had the motivation to turn the entire world to the drug of choice for the Northwest: caffeine, a vitamin D replacement for us who have moss growing out of our ears.

And I am still sidetracked. I’ve been in Portland (or the greater Portland area I should say) for 13 months now. Today it’s grey. But I’m sitting in a house hunkered a couple hundred feet from the lip of a canyon that opens up to the foothills of Mount Hood. Being the final stop for clouds that need to lighten their load to make the ascent to Eastern Oregon, it’s a bit wetter and darker here than a little further southwest in the wine country of the Willamette Valley. But, I take some solace in the pointy snowy shape of Mount Hood more than I would with a few more degrees of sun and a few less inches of rain. It’s no Mount Rainier that’s for sure. My mom always called Rainier “Grandpa’s Ice Cream Cone”. I don’t really know why but if Rainier is an ice cream cone, than Hood is an Otter Pop. Pointy and snaky, but a snow-topped mountain nonetheless. And Mount Adams is sometimes visible to the north and that’s even better, a true blue Washington mountain. I do miss the ranges though. Here, a snow peak will just stick up out of the foothills like a hitchiker’s thumb, like the other mountains left it in the dust on the family road trip. But, further north, (further home) the mountains are like teeth in a saw, too numerous to count even though they all have names.

And still not getting to the point. Okay, I think my point is that Ms. Spagna wrote another book. I just started reading it. I think I’m really going to like it. I’m living in a house on five acres that I bought a couple months ago. As happy as I am to have a little foothold outside the metro area down here I still think about home every day. The semi-permanence of a mortgage payment is good for me, it keeps me from giving up on newness, difference, unfamiliarity, and going back to what I know and trust further north. But, I do hole up here. I’ve seen very little of my neighbors even though I know all two of them are kind and good-hearted people, people I’d like to know better. I haven’t gone to church yet even though I’ve told myself that if ever there was a time to check out that dirty little habit now was that time. I haven’t turned out for the local rugby team, not good enough shape is my excuse there. And I haven’t really stepped foot in the community with any more effort than a Hi How Are You at the checkout counter of the local grocer. Here I am, the person I wrote my thesis on and following my own advice is a lot harder than when I was 21 years old and dolling it out like it’s what I was paid to do. In my gut, I want Washington to be where I raise a family, where I continue cultivating friends, where I grow old. But, in the interim, I need to open up a small piece of my heart to Oregon. It’s where I am, where I own a home, and, most importantly, who cuts my paycheck. It’s where my girlfriend feels at home and where her mom’s family’s from and her mom lives now. It feels strange to welcome a stranger into my home but I guess I’m the stranger, not this place. It’s always been here. I’m the newcomer now.

No Goals

A good traveler has no fixed plans, and is not intent on arriving.
~ Lao Tzu (whoever that is)

So, if you know me at all this will be a radical departure from my normal mode of operation. But, I'm going to try to give up goals and plans. I think it's fair to say that I'm a driven individual. I tend to get an idea of what I want and I run with it, run until my feet are bloody and lungs are ragged. It's not as noble as it sounds - it's more like that dog that keeps dropping the tennis ball at your feet, drooling and staring and breathing as fast a hummingbird until you throw the ball just to get a few seconds of peace before it smacks down again at your feet, warm wet and sticky. But, just like the ball always comes back, I'm 28 years old and have the job of my dreams, 5 acres, two dogs and even an old red pickup. It's just as I'd imagined it'd play out. Except for the part about being 300 miles from where I grew up and stockpiled all my life's history. That was a curveball. So, now I'm left with this question, what's the point of goals if us control freaks can't even affect the exact outcome we want because we can't anticipate all of the variables? Maybe planning and goal-setting are as big of time wasters as the Internet and TV. I know for me they sure do suck a lot time. It's actually a bit of a stress-coping mechanism for me. Planning is the alternative to cracking open a beer. In either scenario after enough listing or beer drinking I've ceased to care about my problems, either because I've deluded myself into thinking they're solved or I've inebriated myself to the point of not caring that they exist. The idea of letting go of these vices (I'm gonna get on that limb and give them that designation) is that, like any bad habit, it makes you feel good on some level even if it's destroying your mind or body on another. The idea of following that yellow brick road, even if I don't know where it's going, is much safer than venturing into that freaky apple orchard with the witch. But maybe the witch just got a bad rap and how'd you ever know she's actually a great person unless you made the time for an afternoon chat over some autumn apples?

I'm thinking that this could be a disastrous path and I might still be drooling and starting but this time at the TV at 2pm with a bib of brownie crumbs on my chest. But, at the ol' homestead there's always a project to do, a dog to be walked, a meal to be cooked or a book to be read. I think I can keep busy without it being step in the march toward a greater plan.

The reason I don't want these plans is because I truly don't know what I want anymore. I have the job. I have the relationship. I have the house. I just didn't quite see it all unfolding this way and am left holding my to-do lists like they're a 2007 interest-only mortgage. I'm tempted to plan my way right back to the Puget Sound and put this whole debacle in my rearview. But, then I run the risk of fleeing something I don't understand and making that classic mistake of blaming the environment when I'm the true problem. Which is not to say I don't wish I was home right this very second. I do, almost every minute of every day. I miss the smells, the breeze, the mountains, the water, my family and friends. So much. But, I'm here now and even if there's no greater reason for it - it's the reality and I might as well do my best to immerse myself in this time, this place and see what it has to contribute to me and what I have to contribute to it. I certainly hope, at this time, that my path eventually plops me back where I believe I belong: close to family and in familiar territory. But, in the meantime, I stress and fret over the mundane and day-t0-day in such a manner that I'm going to be grey by December and mute and wild-eyed by next October.

Yesterday I had a bit of a break down. I don't need to go into details because they're embarrassing, even for an invite-only blog, but I hit a bottom I didn't know was so shallow. The tipping point was probably Saturday's work. There were messy calls and sad calls and when the social dust settled and I'd finished spending time with friends for the bulk of my two days off, I slipped into such concentrated sadness I didn't even know how to be in my body while feeling the way I felt. It was a feeling I'd felt once before as a teenager and hoped never to feel again. The weight of the last day on work had just been sitting on me like a gargoyle and as soon as I was alone long enough for it to sense helplessness it just pounced. And it made me realize that attempting to be good at what I do in a vacuum is not going to work out. That's all I know right now. I know that socially, physically, spiritually, mentally, emotionally, I need foundations to settle into on days like Sunday or yesterday. I need some push-back so I don't just sink into the muck.

Again, I don't know where I'll end up but I'm going to turn the reins over to a better horseman than me. I'm going to try my best to live each day. I'm going to work when I'm at work and play, learn and rest on my days off. But, I don't know any more detail than that. I put a lot of stock in gut feelings so I'll be following my gut rather than my heart when the time for decision comes. It's larger and easier to see anyhow so I'm less likely to get lost in pursuit.

Who Says You Can't Go Home?

Of everything I miss about home, the smell of salt air is the deepest. It's a clean, wild smell. It smells like tomorrow and yesterday. It's sweet, subdued, wet, crisp. It's the smell of persistence, a nature that remembers a time before us and a compromise to allow us to settle in the islands and shorelines for the time being. It's the smell of truce. I caught my first whiff in months when Jackie and I were driving through SeaTac. My throat ached and my chest opened with longing for the mudflats, the mountain ranges, the ferries, the seagulls, the pockets of lakes, and the twisting web of rivers, streams, creaks and brooks that lace the Puget Sound basin. I wanted familiarity and history once more. I wanted to know how to pronounce the local towns rather then being the person calling "Couch" street couch like you sit on rather than couch like rhymes with pooch. I wanted to be able to smile at an out-of-towner tackle behemoths like Sequim, Dosewallips, Deschutes and Sauk. I wanted the rest of the state to be filled in like a topographical map, rather than a taut white canvas. I suppose some people find excitement in filling in a blank map, discovering new places, expanding their geography. I find a deep comfort in further detailing a local map, knowing where Frog Rock is and that the rock painted like a lady bug is new ten years ago, knowing what corner stores sell the best 5cent candy, if it's worth taking the long way today because the clouds are lifting. The challenge of a blank map is better left to adventurers like my sister. She's always been braver than me, eager for new lands, new languages, new experiences. I've always been detail-oriented, sometimes obsessive over minutia. I don't have grand ambitions and would happily settle in the rainy Puget Sound for my entire life, deepening friendships, visiting with family in the mossy forests around the Hood Canal, watching Charlie stand front feet on the bow of a small speed boat bumping along the Strait of Juan de Fuca, standing on the pitch of a trail for the hundreth time feeling like it's the first as I watch cloud roll beneath me and see the waterways of my home slowly bleed toward the sea.

I did buy a house. I don't think I've even mentioned it in this blog yet. It's an '85 mobile home on 5 acres on the top of a forested canyon that opens up the the foothills of Mount Hood. You can see Mount Hood and Mount Adams from the backyard. Cricket song thickens the air and grasshoppers chatter away from any footfall. The ground is hard red clay, hesitant to absorb any rainfall but, remembering it's thirst, unforgiving to quench. There are pines rather than cedars but the Doug Firs seem to enjoy both the Willamette Valley and the Puget Sound equally. Massive limbed maples perch on the hillside, rather than the hard red Madronas back home. With the exception of the insects, it's a quiet place, and even the hum of the crickets and bees is the simple static of the countryside. I feel lucky to have such a humble and beautiful place to come home to. It took me two months to even get my address marked on the gravel easement. There was something appealing about not even having a road marker to let anyone know where I was. Tucked against timber and public lands, it's a small place to set aside everything else, to just be. And that's what I've been up to all summer - just being at home. It is home, in it's own sense. It's not familiar and, even though I hold the title to the land, I feel like a guest. But, it's a place I slowly adapt to my understanding of what home is and it adapts me to it's blue skies and autumn windstorms. I have something to learn there. It comes in installments. This summer I learned that home is still as elusive as ever and a monthly mortgage does not entitle one to a home, even though one may be paying off a house. But, when I force myself to be quiet and to stay open-minded to what this place has to say, I feel drawn in a little tighter. If I ever leave I like to think I'd be ready to give this place a hug rather than a handshake. We're getting to know each other slowly, but a lot of good things come from patience and respect. If I can remember just those two things, I'll appreciate this little piece of Oregon even if while missing what I still consider home.

The last couple days have been different. Tuesday I went to the doctor. I went in for a check-up, the kind you feel like you should bring roses and breathmints to. I was not prepared for the 50s style physical though where I learned I have scoliosis, SI joint disfunction, post-nasal drip, amongst other attractive maledictions. I was getting ready to ask the doc to just get on with it because every time she laid her hands on me another affliction surfaced. I was waiting for someone to roll a walker in for me to leave the joint. Or, worse, show me down the hall to the extended-stay suites. So, that was a neat way to feel old and a fancy way to learn I have bad posture, tight IT bands and a disagreement with the breeding season of Oregon's flora. I left in a flurry of productivity that was instantly funneled towards trying to figure out how to get to Best Buy. I could see it... I just couldn't find the road to get me there. I burned 30 minutes and probably a gallon of diesel weaving around industry, swamp and airport hotels. Only to find out Best Buy charges $30 for a plastic film to protect one's iPad and left empty-handed on principle.

Wednesday, at work, I finally felt like I hit my stride, or something at least less awkward than the gimping, sniveling creep I'd been the previous six shifts. I talked. I drove a bit. I joked. Finally I felt like I was regaining some sense of humanity/confidence after the previous 9 months of training and wintery isolation with Suzy and Charlie. Not that I don't talk to them, they just don't think my jokes are funny so I sort of lost my touch. That was nice and helped me close out my first month of probation feeling a little less toadlike than it began.

And then we're at Thursday, today. It started with a drive home to let the poor dogs out, only to lock them up again and jet down to Clackamas to sign on the house. The title lady scribbled a number on a piece of paper and shoved it across the table to me. It took a minute for it to register that that magical number was something I was supposed to be wiring to them immediately after I signed my name (middle initial included) four thousand times in about fifteen minutes. Because the house closed a week early I was short half of that amount as it was not in electronic lightningspeed wire form, but rather, old-timey, touchable, forgable check form. I tried to keep my cool, and learn how to input an L between my first and last name, and left in a frenzy of fear, damp with the kind of sweat you only get if you haven't showered and sweated profusely without physical effort. The Housing Center sure did have my checks and sure could not wire the funds instead. So, there was much pocket-turning and couch cushion spelunking for me to come up the funds on my own, but I finally returned to the title company to hand over my checks and tell my unsympathetic new friend that I'd sure like to see that chunk of change again once they cleared. Then I went home to wait. At 3:15 Jamie texted to say she had keys for me. I'd crept around my house being mildly productive but mostly nervous. Some cleaning had taken place and much pacing. After the third drive of the day down to exit 14 I had two pieces of cheap metal in hand that had cost me more than I care to think about, now or ever. And, somewhere thirty miles to the southeast, was a doorknob enjoying the quiet of the afternoon on a cloudy hillside.

I came home and packed two rooms in the evening, played chase with the dogs, drank some homebrew over the fence with Shelley and Larry. In the last days of living here on 157th I've talked to Shelley more and more and realize how much I'll miss being able to get to know them. But I hope to maintain that connection. They have been the kindest and most supportive strangers I've ever met and I would love to know them better as friends.

One last thought, I called around with some local phone companies to find out how much it would be to set up service. They were unsure who's jurisdiction I was in and one company took it upon themselves to drive to the house to get a physical spot on it. The gentleman on the phone called me three times to verify the address and to let me know he didn't think it was there service area but he'd find out whose it was. He called me back once just to let me know which company I should contact to start service. Then I had a follow-up call from their (small) office an hour later to check and see if I knew that company had changed names and did I need their number. Going through so much effort to help out a competing company? I didn't understand but I sure did appreciate it and let them know.

It's a little sad to pack, as it always is. But, this time I'm going off to get to know a place. Real well.

Need to get to know a place real well.

Mowed the grass for the first time this year without having to pop wheelies and stall out on huge grass buildup in the mower. Pretty neat, took me about 30 minutes as opposed to over an hour. I am trying to keep this yard looking nice since it sounds like the landlords may be posting this old nag up for rent any time now. It will be bitter sweet leaving this house. I feel strangled by Charlie's puppies (hairballs), moldy window casings, piss ants marching through the bathtub and along my bedroom walls, and now the unbeatable smell of a cat litter box. I don't really help things by wearing my shoes inside and leaving beer cans scattered about. It really does give the little place an ambiance that a downtown hipster probably has to pay an interior decorator for. Maybe that could be my next gig... helping trustfund babies look like poor white trash. Maybe I shouldn't throw out those beer cans quite yet. (or join the minions of Rose Park at the local can deposit, it's not enough to see them at work, got to socialize on the off-days too). Anyway, the lawn is now mowed. Step number 1 in getting the heck out of this place so I can go destroy a house I own.

crazy heart

I had a thought today. A couple actually. I guess that happens when you walk up a hill with two dogs and a whole lot of trees. I suppose it's maybe because it's summer now, or because the god awful training is finally in the rearview. Or maybe it's the looming possibility of getting out of the city for good. But, I thought today that I'd really like to take in the next year, the next ten, or however many I'm given. For someone who can't stop worrying about the future I really did learn something from the present today. It was warm, quiet, easy to get along with. I have a bad habit of getting caught up in preparing like a piece of yarn in a loom. I don't know how long it will last but I had this thought when I was watching a movie, Crazy Heart. Dad and son were out lake fishing at sundown and I thought that looked pretty good, and I'd like to get a boat and sit on the lake. Then, I remembered that I had a good day as is, without a boat, and that, when that time came, it'd be the right time to have a boat. It was a novel concept to me. I tend to get a thought in my head and can't settle until that thought's been played out. That habit is going to have me being 50 before I know it. I'll probably get a lot done in the meantime but I don't think I'll know I've done it. I think I've gotten enough done in the past year to be able to take the rest some time off. I just need to finish what I've started and I think the rest of it will be on hold. Feels pretty awesome to feel that way.

Old man Charlie was a champ today. He badonkadonked his way up that mountain like a good ol' boy. He had a moment where he went down after some chipmunk or something or other and had to climb his way back up a steep slope. That took the wind out of his sails for the rest of the hike down, but luckily down it was. He slept outside until just about half an hour ago. He really likes sleeping out in the driveway or yard. I think he'll like being able to have that option at the new place. A whole 5 acres to piss on and sleep outside, paradise for an old hairy man.

Speaking of which, I am so excited to move to the new place. I can't believe how quickly it's arriving. Stuff just keeps falling into place. Someone was out yesterday and today installing those damn tie-downs so we can get the financing. The engineer has a check in the mail and an appointment for Thursday. The IDA decided not to kick me to the curb afterall and I can get a check next week from the sound of things. Crazy how it's all working out (you bet I just knocked on wood, little fairies stay back).

My dogs are out like I shot them both dead in the living room. Buster is somewhere in the wilds of the Gresham/Portland border. Lily has shit just outside the litter box twice this evening. I think she came in from outside to do so. And both times it was liquid. Pretty awesome, having indoor cats. I'm not living like this at the new house, no way jose. No dirt slippers or hairballs everywhere you turn, or ants, or bowel movements. I'm not enjoying it.

I did enjoy today though.

water to water

I grew up on an island. It rained a lot. When the grey settles around an island you suspend like ashes in smoke, grey water, grey sky, grey rain, no mainland. Like wool socks, you might smell musty but there was always comfort in the thickness of the clouds drizzle. I was never one for swimming or boating. But, the boundaries imposed by island-life give me heart palpitations at the thought of living land locked.

Uncle Frank died last Saturday. His service was yesterday. My dad had been out there, mowing the grass, painting a flooded basement, riding back from the hospital in the ambulance with his brother. He helped with the funeral and flight arrangements. My cousins and my sister and I look like we're siblings, Zimmerman genes not ones to go recessive without a fight. But, watching them keep a stiff upper lip at the service made me realize what a strong silence is present in all of them. It hurt to see them so solemn, not in pride but shouldering a sadness so great silence seemed the only way to heft the burden. The air was thick with moisture, the sweet decaying smell of duff and crowded highways. Ashes were poured. I felt guilty and ashamed for the tightness in my throat, watching my cousins bear this loss with such grace and love for their dad and each other. Air like breath already breathed, damp and alive.

Back home in Seattle the sun came out, smacking down weather.com yet again. The sky opened blue and eager, breezy and soft. Out in Discovery Park the yellow of the scotch broom was sharp, almost mean, against the crisp water of the Sound. I miss this place. I feel porous, nostalgic with the salty snap of the air. The train weaves along the Sound like a water snake, passing ferries, fishermen, bridges, eagles, acres of trees along the shore, until it darts into the weeds along the lowland, twisting away from the water through, and past, Olympia.

A Little Less North On This Country Mile

I started this blog because I wanted to write about my experience finding my home. Since starting it a couple years ago my contributions to it have been hit and miss. I sort of gave up the ghost on it once I moved to Portland. I was no longer home. It was a city that had been the butt of many of my jokes. I entered a fast-paced, high-stress phase of my life. This past winter, fall and spring has been trying, to say the least. I moved to a small house on the edge of town with just my two dogs. I started a new job, convinced I'd be let go before I got my feet. The days shrunk, the rain moved in, the holidays blazed by with just one wreath on the door and an unopened box of Christmas cards. Mid-May and just now the green is settling in and the rains are hard and mean, relieved by bouts of mean sunshine. And, I still am working hard, always tested and pushing through longs days one hour, one drill at a time. I faded away from friendships that meant everything to me. I settled into a routine of reading, highlighting, drinking longnecks and tallboys as I studied, walks in the rain to throw the ball to wet, wagging piles of fur. Connections with friends and family are always via technology that didn't exist twenty years ago. My thoughts seem like they have become more pets that I need to exercise and feed and that occasionally crap on the floor of my house. I wish there were thought-walkers. I'd pay them $20/hr to take my worries and guilt out on a nice long walk so it would have a little less bounce in its step when it got home. I've hit rock bottom more than once, blubbering to myself as I go to sleep or sit at my kitchen table. I've been mean and distant, tense and unapproachable. I've blamed and thrown more than one low blow, sometimes at myself (those damn frisky thoughts).

Tonight I saw Charlie licking the dry bottom of his water dish. I got up from my studies and grabbed his bowl of water. As I picked it up I saw him watching me, wagging his tail like there was just a slight breeze in the room. I scratched him behind his ears and he closed his eyes. After filling up the water dish I picked up his brush and sat on the steps. He plodded out behind me and sat next to me, starring straight ahead. I brushed his old-man fur. It is gnarled and dusty from nine months of hard indoor living. He is my dog and he has cared for me more than I have cared for him. He lay down hard when I moved to his other side, sprawled on the small concrete stoop so far that his shoulders and head were only supported by the low bush bordering the step. All this time I have wondered, what about me. What have I done moving so far from everything I know. Why is my life so hard and lonely. And this whole time I have two creatures always within twenty feet of me, patiently waiting for a walk or a ball tossed or a trip to the river. I saw a bumpersticker today that said "You are loved." My mind snorted and I started to think what sort of retard would put that sort of fluff on their vehicle. Then I thought that somewhere south of me, somewhere north of me, there are people who think of me and get a warm feeling in their heart, the same way I feel when I think of them. There are people who I may not talk to every day, or maybe I do, and those people include me in their world. This simple piece of joy had me floating as I pulled into my driveway to an empty house. Being able to carry a little bit of love with you always makes the short days long and the rain a little more lovely. I felt like I'd come home.

creeping towards home-ownership

The farmhouse in Amity looks like a no-go. There is a county road that bisects the property, making it near impossible to get financing. I looked under the couch cushions but came up a little short on the $219,000 asking price. However, I checked out a few homes yesterday. Most of them were places I wouldn't take money to live in, let alone hemorrhage half my paycheck to afford. I drove east and found out where the witch from Hansel and Gretel lives. She's selling her house but the road to it looks like it could be a rough-go in the winter. It probably didn't occur to her since she can fly out on her broom any time of the year. But, it would be a problem to live that deep and need to get to work. I hustled out of there before she saw me so I wouldn't end up on the lunch menu. Of 7 houses I drove by, 5 of them were super sick, overgrown trailers in nasty neighborhoods. A little dispiriting. Two were gorgeous though. Views, nice neighborhoods, acreage, outbuildings. They were both about $15,000 above my price range but times are tough and prices go down. One of them looks like the house I grew up in, a brown 70s split level. It has a view of farms and Mt Hood, acres of Christmas trees, barns, and nextdoor to someone who raises Brahma bulls. Neat. Hopefully I am going to check it out soon. Also, I am still crossing my fingers on getting that IDA money. If I could scrape $3,000 together, the State of Oregon will give me $9,000 for help with the downpayment and closing costs. Neat neat deal. And, my truck set me back another chunk in my debt, seems like it always does that when I am close to paying off my credit card debt. She does keep me honest in that regard. But she runs like a dream now so I can't complain. Got the pincher move going with finances, trying to stockpile savings in case I get the IDA approval and pay off debt so that doesn't stress me out. I am really excited to get a home. I think it will be the death knoll for my social life, but it's not hoppin' right now anyway and I'd rather spend my day gardening or riding my horse or chopping wood than watching 24 in Gresham in my sweat pants.

I can see why people put leading, vague, mellow-dramatic posts on facebook. I am in one of those moods where I am sighing heavily to myself alone in my house and wanting to write things like "excited for this week to be over" or "sure do miss home at times like these", that sort of poor-me shit. But, instead I procrastinated on homework I should have done, listened to the rain attack the shit out of this poor old shed of a house, took a bath in a bathtub full of dog hair and drank a Hamms tallboy. It's been a day of terse conversations, lots of driving, and more than a little bit of thought on my re-take at work tomorrow. I haven't studied much for it because I feel like I understand what I need to do, I just felt like that the first time too. So we'll see. And Lent started today. I was never confirmed as a Catholic and haven't stepped foot in mass since I was a kiddo and have no desire to return to the Church, but something about the consistency of religion has me wanting to kick a dirty habit in celebration of Christ. And I have plenty of dirty habits to chose from. I chose the hardest and today was a real test of whether or not I actually feel like sticking to this agenda. So far so God.

I think I am going to go to bed. A) blogging in general is stupid B) computers, in general, are stupid C) talking about yourself is narcissistic and I've done a lot of it today already and D) I need to get up in 7 hours. Goodnight Internet.

Almost fooled that spring had sprung

Today was the first day in a long time where I felt sort of like my old self. It was sunny, which helped. It was the first of my two days off, which really helped. I did not get fired yet, which always helps. So, it started off on the right foot. I chilled out this morning, read a book, talked to Al, ate 3 breakfasts. Then I ran a few errands with the dogs and went to 1000 Acres. I ran into two gals who work for the fire department out there. It was very random but neat to talk to folks outside of work and outside of my class. Then I met up with another gal with the department who helped me initially with my interview. We chatted about how things are going. I headed home, grabbed a couple things for my truck, and am now here making chicken soup (sorry Al) and getting ready to watch a movie. I have not cracked the books yet, which makes me nervous in a backburner sort of way. I feel guilty when I actually enjoy a day not as work as if it's a day off. It seems like I am supposed to do anything but study when I'm not at work. But, then I swing into a mental space where I feel like if not being a psycho on my days off gets me through alright during work then what's the harm? It's a daily battle amongst myself. Today the lazy side won out and I am very happy for that. I loved feeling like a human. I was more relaxed then I have been in weeks. I don't have a lot more to say. It was just a good feeling today and I am grateful for that.

Turning a Corner

Well, it's been a rough patch. I was/am pretty stressed about work. I think I will always feel like I am hanging by a thread until I am not on probation any longer. I don't think it would be good to feel comfortable because then maybe I'm missing something. But, being in a constant state of worry is a bit taxing on the mind and body. I do feel a little better than I did the last time I wrote in here. I had some good conversations with mom and dad and came to some new realizations. I always function better when I am excited by something. Of course I am excited about this job. I mean, it's all I have wanted for the past 8 years. But, now that I'm working towards this it's tough to get excited for probation to be over because that seems so tentative on the next forty five shifts going relatively well. That is something in my control but we never know what the day will bring and having nine good shifts behind me does not mean that the next four months will be cake by any means. So, I can't let myself start day dreaming about June, at least not yet.

I am day dreaming about a couple big purchases though. I realized that I will be loads happier if I feel like I can get home to see the family or get down and see Jackie without tooling down the freeway at 55mph, worrying about all the wear on my truck. So, starting to look for a more fuel efficient car. The truck is not going anywhere. I just want to be able to park her for a little bit and tend to some preventative maintenance before running her into the ground. And I would be so excited to go 70 on the freeway, in a fifth gear. So there is that. There is also the prospect of maybe purchasing a house down here. That's been dream number one since I was a kiddo. Living in a house on the border of Portland and Gresham has some ups (like being 10 minutes to work). But, I am not a city person. I want chickens. I want the dogs to have more turf than a sheet-covered couch. They have been their time in these past few months and deserve to run. Charlie would mark every corner of the property every day and love every minute. I want to walk down abandoned railroad tracks to unwind. I want stars at night (those rare nights without cloud cover). I want a shop to park my truck in. I want a woodstove and a stack of firewood. I want bonfires and horse pastures. I know I'm getting a little greedy here but it's not a bad time to buy if you get the right lender. The realization that owning is not much more costly than renting is some big motivation to take the plunge. I'm not in a rush but, like mom says, half the fun is in the hunt.

Man, it's been a rough couple of days. Seriously. This whole living alone this is not working well for me. I don't like the isolation. I look forward to my two days off and then I just mope around my house in pajamas. I'm not even sure if I brushed my teeth today. I will say yes, just because this is public. I counted and I have 145 days until training is over and 35 of those are days I work. It sounds like a really sweet ratio right? Well, when the other 110 days are spent studying your brains out, or feeling guilty for not studying your brains out, it's not as relaxing as it sounds. I am going to do my best to be more of a person. I need to get out more. Although, there is a large part of me that is dying for the country. I want to be able to walk out my front door and hit up some railroad tracks with the dogs. I want to be able to throw them outside and not care about them being in the street, especially right now because my house suddenly smells like rotten eggs. I think it would be worth getting up an hour earlier (4am!) to drive 45 minutes or an hour to work instead of the 10 minute commute I have from here. I could say a bit more on this topic but I'm worried I might OD on self-pity if I keep writing. There's been quite a bit these couple of days.

let me count the ways

I have spent the last five months feeling lonely in as many ways as Eskimos describe snow. There is voyeur loneliness where I feel social just being in the checkout line of a grocery store. There is dirty house slippers loneliness where I feel embarrassed to pull up the shades of the house in case someone catches a glimpse of me from the street. There’s cry in your beer loneliness (where I am at tonight). There is confident loneliness like earlier when I was running the dogs in 57 degree grey at the park. There is good radio loneliness when I am driving back home from somewhere I’d rather be. There is holiday decorations loneliness where I pretend to be a part of Thanksgiving, Christmas, fall or winter. There is talk to the dogs loneliness, generally enjoyed best while sweeping, and also close kin to thousandth time you’ve cleaned the house and no one sees it but you loneliness. There is Qwest loneliness, not dissimilar from voyeur loneliness, where I talk to Qwest customer service about my, and their, personal lives much longer than we discuss phone service. There is pace the house loneliness that seems to occur every evening before work. There is online loneliness where I look for other places to be or ways to get other places than here. There is movie loneliness that is never distracting enough. It’s a pity party on 157th tonight. Anyone is invited.

2011 thus far

Man, I talked to Jackie a long time today about what I feel like right now at this juncture in training. Like I told her, it’s tough because everything feels hard now. I love what I am doing. I like learning how tools work. I like learning strategy on putting out fires. I like learning how to use different pieces of equipment. I loved learning forcible entry techniques. I like the discipline and intensity of training. But, I don’t feel like it leaves any room for anything else in my life. I feel like I am in the worst shape I have been in in the last two years, weaker and less cardiovascularly fit than I have been since before I started Crossfit. I feel like I eat pretty crappy because it’s tough to set aside a chunk of time to cook good food and I fall into the trap of sugar and salt as a comfort for stress. I don’t talk to my sister EVER and I miss the hell out of her. I barely talk to my folks and I miss them so much. I haven’t gone this long with so little contact with my family in my whole life. I hate not being a part of the day to day with my friends back home. I have to ask about what jokes mean because I wasn’t there for their inception so I don’t get it. I miss shooting the breeze over a beer in the backyard, or in the kitchen or at the dining room table on these cold winter days. I saw such a pretty side of Oregon yesterday and it made me realize I could be here in thirty years and it could feel like home. But, lacking all those important people makes the beauty of this place ring hollow. If I could have my way I’d drag every last one of them here and have them along this crazy journey. But, like I said, there’s not room for fire and the rest of my life right now. It’s a sad mixed blessing to have this lonesome house and undiscovered city to my self right now. I really do need to focus on this job and proving to every single firefighter I encounter that I am worthy firefighter and I can do this job. On the seventeenth I will be halfway through the intense training part. It won’t be downhill but it will be an exciting landmark. I will celebrate my doing something good in this community because it will also be Martin Luther King Day and that’s a good day to give back. I have to remember that this job is all about doing for others, it really is. But it feels all about me right now. Like I tried to climb a hill that is too steep and doesn’t have a lot of hand or footholds and I’m clinging to the hillside, able to see the top but wondering how the eff I get there but not wanting to slide back down to the bottom.

Enough of that. Two other thoughts. One, working the 31st was good. The two best things about the day were working on forcible entry. I am not the largest person. And I feel like I have gotten weaker with this stupid carpal tunnel, too much December food, and not enough initiative to keep up my fitness from TAC. Having said that, working on forcible entry was awesome because it is important to be strong but it’s also important to know how to use the tools and seeing the difference between no technique and good technique is really awesome. I look forward to doing even more of that. Also, we got to go to a fire. It was already out when we got there. It was probably a pity dispatch to get the new guys some experience. But, it was great to see what an apartment fire looks like when it’s out and see what sort of damage occurs. We did overhaul, which was hard work, shoveling soggy insulation and burned clothes. It was so awesome just being there though and working up a sweat. I look forward to the fire we one day get where we’re first in and on fire attack. Still not a full night of sleep. Spent the 1am hour wandering down a hotel hallway to the godawful screech of a fire alarm that would not shut up. That’s a brutal intermission to sleep. It was weird to walk into the lobby and see all the half awake guests in their pajamas and be part of the crew there to solve the problem. (or watch other people solve it and try to learn from what they were doing so one day I can help shut off a damn fire alarm so hotel people can get back to sleep).

Last thing. It’s the new year. Yes it is. I looked at my cell phone before going to bed on Friday and thought Happy New Year to myself. But, having said that, I am trying to get back into shape so I can get after those ladders and power tools when I get to move to the truck in a few months. I worked out today and really felt like a fat ass. Simple hill sprints and a 20 minute Crossfit workout kicked my butt. I was doing box jumps like I just learned how and being very liberal with my breaks. But, I didn’t stop early, even though I was really looking for a good reason to stop halfway through. I also just pulled all the crappy food out of my kitchen cupboards and hid it in the pantry. Hoping that I can get back on that horse as well. Me and the rest of this country. At least until February, which should be nation relapse into bad habits month.