I've had this craving for a while and I can't shake it. That's probably because I don't know what I'm craving.
I'm hungry, even when I'm full. I'm thirsty, even after drinking lots of water. It's as if my body -- my brain -- is missing something it absolutely must have. I just don't know what it is.
It's driving me crazy. It's making me restless.
I don't know how to handle this restlessness in my budget conscious state. Back in the debt-building time, it was this sort of restless rumbling that used to send me off on some sort of impulsive buying binge or would prompt me to hop in the car and head out on some road trip.
Now, I don't know what to do. I look in the fridge. I open the cabinets. I stare longingly at the computer screen waiting for inspiration on what I should be doing.
The insomnia is coming back. I need a change. I need a focus. I need a destination. What, the hell am I looking for?
But there are no answers.
I want something. Something else. I just don't know what it is or where to look for it.
Showing posts with label road trip. Show all posts
Showing posts with label road trip. Show all posts
Tuesday, September 07, 2010
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Looking for the good in goodbye
I got a call tonight from my mom. She and my dad are back home, with my uncle in tow. They got back from Nebraska today, where they took my grandmother. They got her checked out by a doctor who confirmed that my grandma is suffering from dementia. The doctor said it's not Alzheimer's disease. They also got her admitted to a nursing facility.
But before she moved into her new home, an amazing thing happened while they were all staying at my aunt's house. Mom said my grandmother, who has been virtually confined to a wheelchair for weeks now, was up and walking around with the aid of her walker. She even negotiated two small stairs with the help of my uncles and her walkers.
But that seeming rejuvenation aside, taking my grandmother back to the community that has been her home for so much of her live was obviously a difficult chore for all of them. It was a somber task, including a visit to a funeral home to make decisions and final arrangements for the inevitable end to this sad saga. I got some of the details by phone today. They left sometime yesterday, and between the three of them they drove straight through and arrived home today.
Mom was tired from the dramatic ordeal and the long drive. But she also returned confident that she and her siblings did the right thing for their mother, as difficult as it was. She is pleased that she is getting appropriate medical care.
If relief is audible, it was that I heard in her voice.
I am sad that I probably won't be seeing my grandmother again in this life, and our goodbye was not the sort I would have scripted for her, me or my family. But I am relieved that she finally got a doctor to pay attention to more than the your physical pains, pulse, blood pressure and bones. There is a stoic reassurance in the diagnosis and an offer of care and therapy. The medical professional think they can actually help her get better physically and emotionally before the unstoppable eventual decline.
No, this was not a good situation. This was not good for any of the people involved. But it seems better. Sometimes better just has to be enough.
But before she moved into her new home, an amazing thing happened while they were all staying at my aunt's house. Mom said my grandmother, who has been virtually confined to a wheelchair for weeks now, was up and walking around with the aid of her walker. She even negotiated two small stairs with the help of my uncles and her walkers.
But that seeming rejuvenation aside, taking my grandmother back to the community that has been her home for so much of her live was obviously a difficult chore for all of them. It was a somber task, including a visit to a funeral home to make decisions and final arrangements for the inevitable end to this sad saga. I got some of the details by phone today. They left sometime yesterday, and between the three of them they drove straight through and arrived home today.
Mom was tired from the dramatic ordeal and the long drive. But she also returned confident that she and her siblings did the right thing for their mother, as difficult as it was. She is pleased that she is getting appropriate medical care.
If relief is audible, it was that I heard in her voice.
I am sad that I probably won't be seeing my grandmother again in this life, and our goodbye was not the sort I would have scripted for her, me or my family. But I am relieved that she finally got a doctor to pay attention to more than the your physical pains, pulse, blood pressure and bones. There is a stoic reassurance in the diagnosis and an offer of care and therapy. The medical professional think they can actually help her get better physically and emotionally before the unstoppable eventual decline.
No, this was not a good situation. This was not good for any of the people involved. But it seems better. Sometimes better just has to be enough.
Monday, November 12, 2007
Put some twang in my thang and crank it up!
Since I spent nearly 8 hours on the road this weekend, driving between my current home here in Salem to my childhood home in Bum-Fuck-Egypt Eastern Oregon, I had a lot of time to kill, so used it to listen to some podcast episodes that have been piling up in my iPod.
I listen to songs on shuffle a lot, so I was in the mood for something different. And different I got. I while back, before a trip I took in the spring to Southern California, I discovered a podcast called the Outlaw Punk Cowboys Show.
The Outlaw Punk Cowboy show is rock with twang, it's country with a kick. It's stuff from up-and-coming or alternative artists, ones you don't hear on mainstream Top 40 Country radio.
I can't say I always like all the music the host, Bubba, includes on the show, but I like being exposed to new music. It sort of reminds me of when I lived in Southern California and used to get to hear live country/rock acts at some of the clubs in the Mojave Desert and Palm Springs area. One of my favorite country bands was a group called American Made. That band probably has too much of a straight-forward traditional country sound to ever make the Outlaw Punk playlist, but I enjoyed their musicianship and that they would play a fair amount of their own original music in their shows, in addition to keeping the dance floor packed with covers of hit country tunes.
As I mentioned in an earlier post, I haven't listened to much country radio because if you listen for more than a few hours, you hear the same songs over and over. There just aren't enough new country songs released throughout the year to always keep the sound fresh. That's what makes the music on the Outlaw Punk show so fun, because it's fresh, at least to me. It's not the same old songs I've heard a million times. And it's music that tends to the raw, powerful and blunt. Artists playing for their art, not just to be popular. If you are up for a little kick-ass music, and aren't afraid to hear a little twang once in a while, you might want to check it out. Bubba rambles a little too much and thinks he's a little funnier than he really is, but he has some eclectic and interesting taste in the music he chooses to share. But in between his ramblings is some fun music.
I added a list of podcasts I like to the ol' Fishwrapper. Some are music. At least one is video. And some are just fun, or funny, especially for anyone with a slightly warped sense of humor. Check 'em out if you like, and share any interesting podcast you find out there that I can check out.
I listen to songs on shuffle a lot, so I was in the mood for something different. And different I got. I while back, before a trip I took in the spring to Southern California, I discovered a podcast called the Outlaw Punk Cowboys Show.
The Outlaw Punk Cowboy show is rock with twang, it's country with a kick. It's stuff from up-and-coming or alternative artists, ones you don't hear on mainstream Top 40 Country radio.
I can't say I always like all the music the host, Bubba, includes on the show, but I like being exposed to new music. It sort of reminds me of when I lived in Southern California and used to get to hear live country/rock acts at some of the clubs in the Mojave Desert and Palm Springs area. One of my favorite country bands was a group called American Made. That band probably has too much of a straight-forward traditional country sound to ever make the Outlaw Punk playlist, but I enjoyed their musicianship and that they would play a fair amount of their own original music in their shows, in addition to keeping the dance floor packed with covers of hit country tunes.
As I mentioned in an earlier post, I haven't listened to much country radio because if you listen for more than a few hours, you hear the same songs over and over. There just aren't enough new country songs released throughout the year to always keep the sound fresh. That's what makes the music on the Outlaw Punk show so fun, because it's fresh, at least to me. It's not the same old songs I've heard a million times. And it's music that tends to the raw, powerful and blunt. Artists playing for their art, not just to be popular. If you are up for a little kick-ass music, and aren't afraid to hear a little twang once in a while, you might want to check it out. Bubba rambles a little too much and thinks he's a little funnier than he really is, but he has some eclectic and interesting taste in the music he chooses to share. But in between his ramblings is some fun music.
I added a list of podcasts I like to the ol' Fishwrapper. Some are music. At least one is video. And some are just fun, or funny, especially for anyone with a slightly warped sense of humor. Check 'em out if you like, and share any interesting podcast you find out there that I can check out.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Life is decidedly not fair
My mom often used to say it during those times I was complaining about the seeming inequities of life as perceived by my then childish mind and screaming that she wasn't being fair. "Life is not fair," she would say. I didn't understand what that meant then. I thought I learned what that meant in the years since. But I had no idea what that really meant until today.
A person should not have to outlive their mental faculties and physical capabilities. Children should not have to commit a parent to a nursing home against their will.
My parents and my uncle, who flew in from out of state, set out this morning to take my grandmother back to her former home state of Nebraska, to try to get her in to see her former doctors and to be closer to other family members and amid familiar surroundings for the final sad chapter of her life. They had to grudgingly admit that they are no longer able to care for their mother.
Hour to hour, minute to minute, she doesn't know who the people are that are around her, not even her own children. She sometimes masks the unfamiliarity by refusing to use people's names. She can be chatty and friendly, but the conversations are non-specific. She shows the cracks in the mental armor when asked specific questions or in other subtle ways.
Last night she was confused and scared, thinking that "her people" had dropped her off and hadn't come to take her home, even though we, her family, were gathered around her. She did not know who we were and it wasn't completely clear that she knew who she was.
This morning, she was lucid, and even chipper for a while. But when talk came of preparing to leave for their long journey, she got very upset and said she didn't want to go. She wanted to stay with her family. She knew she had been living there for years and said "This is my home."
She calmed down after a while and seemed downright chipper even. But when the time came for them to leave, she grew very agitated and upset.
"I don't want to go to Nebraska... This is my home... I want to stay with my family."
In turns my father and uncle tried to explain to her why they were doing what they were doing. They tried using reason to explain the unreasonable behavior she had been exhibiting. But she was beyond reason.
"You are killing me. You are killing me. Oh, no. Please, God no. ... God won't allow this to happen. He won't let you get away with this."
Amid the tears -- hers, theirs and our -- my dad and uncle pleaded with her to get into the wheelchair. She cried all the way to the car and once we got her into the car. I sat with her, my arm around her, while the final preparations were made, the last few items were placed in the car. It seemed such an empty gesture, but all I really could come up with to try to let her know that amid her pain and anguish that she was loved. I held things together until it was time for the final goodbyes.
As I got out of the van so my mom could slide in, I hugged my mother goodbye and held her as she sobbed. I told her it was going to be OK, though I had no conviction it would ever be OK again for any of us.
A person should not have to outlive their mental faculties and physical capabilities. Children should not have to commit a parent to a nursing home against their will.
My parents and my uncle, who flew in from out of state, set out this morning to take my grandmother back to her former home state of Nebraska, to try to get her in to see her former doctors and to be closer to other family members and amid familiar surroundings for the final sad chapter of her life. They had to grudgingly admit that they are no longer able to care for their mother.
Hour to hour, minute to minute, she doesn't know who the people are that are around her, not even her own children. She sometimes masks the unfamiliarity by refusing to use people's names. She can be chatty and friendly, but the conversations are non-specific. She shows the cracks in the mental armor when asked specific questions or in other subtle ways.
Last night she was confused and scared, thinking that "her people" had dropped her off and hadn't come to take her home, even though we, her family, were gathered around her. She did not know who we were and it wasn't completely clear that she knew who she was.
This morning, she was lucid, and even chipper for a while. But when talk came of preparing to leave for their long journey, she got very upset and said she didn't want to go. She wanted to stay with her family. She knew she had been living there for years and said "This is my home."
She calmed down after a while and seemed downright chipper even. But when the time came for them to leave, she grew very agitated and upset.
"I don't want to go to Nebraska... This is my home... I want to stay with my family."
In turns my father and uncle tried to explain to her why they were doing what they were doing. They tried using reason to explain the unreasonable behavior she had been exhibiting. But she was beyond reason.
"You are killing me. You are killing me. Oh, no. Please, God no. ... God won't allow this to happen. He won't let you get away with this."
Amid the tears -- hers, theirs and our -- my dad and uncle pleaded with her to get into the wheelchair. She cried all the way to the car and once we got her into the car. I sat with her, my arm around her, while the final preparations were made, the last few items were placed in the car. It seemed such an empty gesture, but all I really could come up with to try to let her know that amid her pain and anguish that she was loved. I held things together until it was time for the final goodbyes.
As I got out of the van so my mom could slide in, I hugged my mother goodbye and held her as she sobbed. I told her it was going to be OK, though I had no conviction it would ever be OK again for any of us.
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
Grandma, I'm comin' home
It's only about a four-hour drive, but I have a feeling the next time I make it it's going to seem a whole lot longer.
This weekend I will probably be driving to my parent's house to say goodbye to my grandmother, a woman so important to my early life and who now I don't know nearly as well as I should. Worse yet, she usually doesn't know me at all when I do see her. At 93, her memory and her body are failing her. On one of my last visits my mom asked my grandmother if she had said hello to me and grandma said, "Oh, no one introduced us."
When I spend time with my grandmother, I will talk with her about whatever she wants to talk about. Her memories now aren't her own. The stories she tells are vivid and filled with drama, but they are no more based in fact than an elaborate work of fiction. The repetition of her tales gives the illusion they must be true, but the wiring of her brain has shorted out, connecting disparate facts in a mad jumble. She doesn't know where she is and often doesn't know who the people are she lives with, specifically her daughter -- my mother.
It's been very difficult on my mom to see her mother deteriorating and to be a stranger to her own mom.
In addition to the memory problems, there is pain that makes for sleepless nights for everyone in the house, particularly mom and grandma. The doctor recommended that my mom and her siblings consider putting their mother in a nursing home to provide a level of care they can no longer provide in the home. Grandma was in a nursing home several years ago but hated it, so my uncle moved her from Nebraska to his home in Nevada. She didn't like it there either. So my parents took her in. She isn't happy there either.
Her world has gotten very small. My old bedroom is now hers. With the aid of a walker, she would make the short trip from her bed to a glider rocker in the living room where she would spend her waking hours and take her meals. Then back to her room. Her view of the outside world is limited to a large picture window in the living room and a television stationed across a wide expanse of carpet. Since my last visit just two months ago, the walker is no longer enough to manage even that short trip and she needs the help of a wheelchair to make it.
But in spite of her limited mobility she's getting ready to make an extended trip. My parents are planning to take my grandmother back to Nebraska, perhaps as early as next week. So, I am going to make a little road trip myself of about 250 miles to see her while she is still close by.
I know that it's likely to be the last time I see her in this life. She may not know me, but I want to see her and spend a little time with her. I want to look for a few signs of the vital, robust larger-than-life figure I knew in my youth peaking out of the tiny, frail frame my grandmother now inhabits.
As a small child, a visit to grandma and grandpa's house was a Sunday ritual broken when my parents moved my brothers and me to Oregon shortly before my 8th birthday. Our family was divided, living on opposite ends of the Oregon Trail. Return trips to the Cornhusker State have been very few and far between. My last three visits to Nebraska were for funerals -- my mother's father, then her sister and most recently for one of my father's brothers.
I'm not looking forward to my next trip back there. I can't say I'm really looking forward to the trip to my parents' home either. But I would rather see my grandmother now, with what life she has left, than have our next meeting involve an even longer trip and her in a fancy box.
A couple of summer's ago I took my daughter to her first, and probably only, meeting with her great-grandmother. Much of my time with my daughter is spent with her mother's side of the family. But I wanted her to see a little more of my family. I wanted her to have an opportunity for some sort of memory with my grandmother and a bit more exposure to the other part of her heritage. I wish she would have got to know my grandparents, my grandmother and my late grandfather. But maybe that's because I wish I got to know them more and spend more time with them and with my father's parents, who both died when I was young.
So, my attempt to blog every day this month may come to a screeching halt this weekend. I may be on the road and not have an opportunity to post to the Fishwrap. I've enjoyed trying to get back into the writing groove again. But this weekend I will have something more pressing and important to do that will take priority.
Hang in there grandma, I'm coming home. I'll get there just as quick as I can. We'll both be home real soon.
This weekend I will probably be driving to my parent's house to say goodbye to my grandmother, a woman so important to my early life and who now I don't know nearly as well as I should. Worse yet, she usually doesn't know me at all when I do see her. At 93, her memory and her body are failing her. On one of my last visits my mom asked my grandmother if she had said hello to me and grandma said, "Oh, no one introduced us."
When I spend time with my grandmother, I will talk with her about whatever she wants to talk about. Her memories now aren't her own. The stories she tells are vivid and filled with drama, but they are no more based in fact than an elaborate work of fiction. The repetition of her tales gives the illusion they must be true, but the wiring of her brain has shorted out, connecting disparate facts in a mad jumble. She doesn't know where she is and often doesn't know who the people are she lives with, specifically her daughter -- my mother.
It's been very difficult on my mom to see her mother deteriorating and to be a stranger to her own mom.
In addition to the memory problems, there is pain that makes for sleepless nights for everyone in the house, particularly mom and grandma. The doctor recommended that my mom and her siblings consider putting their mother in a nursing home to provide a level of care they can no longer provide in the home. Grandma was in a nursing home several years ago but hated it, so my uncle moved her from Nebraska to his home in Nevada. She didn't like it there either. So my parents took her in. She isn't happy there either.
Her world has gotten very small. My old bedroom is now hers. With the aid of a walker, she would make the short trip from her bed to a glider rocker in the living room where she would spend her waking hours and take her meals. Then back to her room. Her view of the outside world is limited to a large picture window in the living room and a television stationed across a wide expanse of carpet. Since my last visit just two months ago, the walker is no longer enough to manage even that short trip and she needs the help of a wheelchair to make it.
But in spite of her limited mobility she's getting ready to make an extended trip. My parents are planning to take my grandmother back to Nebraska, perhaps as early as next week. So, I am going to make a little road trip myself of about 250 miles to see her while she is still close by.
I know that it's likely to be the last time I see her in this life. She may not know me, but I want to see her and spend a little time with her. I want to look for a few signs of the vital, robust larger-than-life figure I knew in my youth peaking out of the tiny, frail frame my grandmother now inhabits.
As a small child, a visit to grandma and grandpa's house was a Sunday ritual broken when my parents moved my brothers and me to Oregon shortly before my 8th birthday. Our family was divided, living on opposite ends of the Oregon Trail. Return trips to the Cornhusker State have been very few and far between. My last three visits to Nebraska were for funerals -- my mother's father, then her sister and most recently for one of my father's brothers.
I'm not looking forward to my next trip back there. I can't say I'm really looking forward to the trip to my parents' home either. But I would rather see my grandmother now, with what life she has left, than have our next meeting involve an even longer trip and her in a fancy box.
A couple of summer's ago I took my daughter to her first, and probably only, meeting with her great-grandmother. Much of my time with my daughter is spent with her mother's side of the family. But I wanted her to see a little more of my family. I wanted her to have an opportunity for some sort of memory with my grandmother and a bit more exposure to the other part of her heritage. I wish she would have got to know my grandparents, my grandmother and my late grandfather. But maybe that's because I wish I got to know them more and spend more time with them and with my father's parents, who both died when I was young.
So, my attempt to blog every day this month may come to a screeching halt this weekend. I may be on the road and not have an opportunity to post to the Fishwrap. I've enjoyed trying to get back into the writing groove again. But this weekend I will have something more pressing and important to do that will take priority.
Hang in there grandma, I'm coming home. I'll get there just as quick as I can. We'll both be home real soon.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Chill of an early fall
I looked at the date on my watch today and realized that September is almost over and it is now officially fall. This month has gone so fast. I was not ready for autumn's arrival, but the signs that it was coming have been apparent for a while now. Shorter, cooler days. Some trees are already changing color. There has been some rain.
Fall can be a beautiful season in Oregon, but here in the western part of the state it also means that the gray, rainy winter season is not far behind. And the gray days seem to go on forever once they set in.
It's been an interesting month. I have probably driven 2,000 miles so far this month in parts of Oregon and Washington. On one hand, it has been nice to see some places and people I have not seen in a long time and people and places I don't see often enough. But it's made me realize that I really haven't made the place I've lived the last couple of years my home. My ties to the Northwest are based too much on long ago or people too far away.
I feel like a wondering vine, with my roots in one place, but my tendrils stretch far away from that nourishing soil that sustains me. I need some roots where I am. I need some connection here.
I have always been the type of person that is slow to make friends, and am cautious about who I commit to as a friend, but when I do those friendships are deep, meaningful and important. I want more of those type of relationship here.
But I miss friends who are miles away. I miss them especially now, on the nights when there is a chill in the air and I crave warm arms wrapped around me, making me feel safe and warm and at home in my own skin.
Fall can be a beautiful season in Oregon, but here in the western part of the state it also means that the gray, rainy winter season is not far behind. And the gray days seem to go on forever once they set in.
It's been an interesting month. I have probably driven 2,000 miles so far this month in parts of Oregon and Washington. On one hand, it has been nice to see some places and people I have not seen in a long time and people and places I don't see often enough. But it's made me realize that I really haven't made the place I've lived the last couple of years my home. My ties to the Northwest are based too much on long ago or people too far away.
I feel like a wondering vine, with my roots in one place, but my tendrils stretch far away from that nourishing soil that sustains me. I need some roots where I am. I need some connection here.
I have always been the type of person that is slow to make friends, and am cautious about who I commit to as a friend, but when I do those friendships are deep, meaningful and important. I want more of those type of relationship here.
But I miss friends who are miles away. I miss them especially now, on the nights when there is a chill in the air and I crave warm arms wrapped around me, making me feel safe and warm and at home in my own skin.
Sunday, April 02, 2006
Can I sleep while you drive?
I should be sleeping right now.
It's been a busy weekend and I'm exhausted. I should be in bed. I haven't had a decent night's sleep in so long, I'm losing track. The reason I haven't been sleeping is, well, I'm not sure, other than I've had a lot of stuff on my mind. And the reason I'm not sleeping now is that I still have a lot of stuff on my mind, and a load of clothes in the drier.
I don't know where to begin, so I'll begin with how the day has ended. A short while ago I sat on the couch, watching the end of "Grey's Anatomy" with tears streaming down my face. I'm tempted to say I'm not sure why I was crying, but that's a lie. There were a couple of story lines on the show dealing with parenthood and they got to me. In one a mother, dying of cancer, struggles with what to tell or not tell her daughter about her illness and about life. Those little things that parents so want to tell their children. Those nuggets of wisdom that sound so profound in the head but seem to sound so flat when spoken out loud.
That story line got to me because, well, my daughter turned 15 today and I have spent her lifetime trying to figure out what to say to her about so many things, to impart love and wisdom, and fall so flat when we are side by side or face to face.
The other story line is about a man who is the father of Dr. Grey, the title character on the show. The man so wants to reach out to his daughter, but doesn't know how. He left the family when she was young and doesn't know how to rekindle a long dormant relationship.
Fortunately, my daughter and I don't have a dormant relationship. It is certainly much less than I want it to be and is perhaps more than she wants as a teenage girl wanting to fit in and be cool with her friends.
I spend part of Saturday evening with my daughter and her family at a birthday party for her. I relish any time with her, like a dog begging for scraps. I find myself watching her, staring at her, trying to absorb the essence of who and what she is as a young woman. When I left there was a sense of emptiness. It's a feeling I've come to know well over the years, but never get used to. The visits are shorter now in duration but more frequent than they used to be. So that emptiness, the goodbye vacuum, is a much more frequent part of my life. And yet, not frequent enough. And I feel guilty for feeling sad after visits with her. I should be happy that I'm part of her life, right? That her family includes me in activities. That when I say I love her she responds in kind, the words not even stumbling in her throat or tripping over her teeth. Those are all good things, right?
It's been a weekend of nostalgia, remembrance and regret, lots of driving and little snatches of time with family and old friends.
Today, I woke up early, after getting home late after my daughter's birthday party, losing an hour's sleep to the time change, and drove nearly 4 hours to attend another gathering for a friend who is about ready to ship off to a war zone. Along the way, I called to wish another friend a happy birthday and learned from the ticker on CNN that a storm was bearing down on my lady friend Brat's hometown, again.
No matter where I was this weekend, I felt out of place. Like I was watching it all as if it was a performance on stage, somehow separate from it all and numb. Not because I felt nothing but because I felt too much and the nerve endings and synapses could no longer process the sensations.
And then, after talking to Brat online after her latest adventure and sitting quietly on the couch, listening to the drier tumble I watch a fictionalized account of other people's lives and the emotion overflowed, spilling out the corners of my eyes, streaming over my cheeks and pouring onto my shirt, like the waterfalls I passed today while driving through the Columbia River Gorge. Some picture postcard that would make.
It was a good day. A good weekend. It was too much and not enough. So many epiphanies on the road, listening to classic rock and seeing one of the most beautiful corners of the world. Seeing and talking to so many people I love and care about and worry about and miss in such a short span of time.
I shouldn't go so long without talking to family, friends and people who are important to me. I shouldn't go so many days without decent sleep. I shouldn't go so many days without writing here. I shouldn't drive 500 miles in a day. I shouldn't listen to so much old music on a trip home.
I really should be sleeping right now.
Parenthood
Insomnia
Family
Friends
Road trip
It's been a busy weekend and I'm exhausted. I should be in bed. I haven't had a decent night's sleep in so long, I'm losing track. The reason I haven't been sleeping is, well, I'm not sure, other than I've had a lot of stuff on my mind. And the reason I'm not sleeping now is that I still have a lot of stuff on my mind, and a load of clothes in the drier.
I don't know where to begin, so I'll begin with how the day has ended. A short while ago I sat on the couch, watching the end of "Grey's Anatomy" with tears streaming down my face. I'm tempted to say I'm not sure why I was crying, but that's a lie. There were a couple of story lines on the show dealing with parenthood and they got to me. In one a mother, dying of cancer, struggles with what to tell or not tell her daughter about her illness and about life. Those little things that parents so want to tell their children. Those nuggets of wisdom that sound so profound in the head but seem to sound so flat when spoken out loud.
That story line got to me because, well, my daughter turned 15 today and I have spent her lifetime trying to figure out what to say to her about so many things, to impart love and wisdom, and fall so flat when we are side by side or face to face.
The other story line is about a man who is the father of Dr. Grey, the title character on the show. The man so wants to reach out to his daughter, but doesn't know how. He left the family when she was young and doesn't know how to rekindle a long dormant relationship.
Fortunately, my daughter and I don't have a dormant relationship. It is certainly much less than I want it to be and is perhaps more than she wants as a teenage girl wanting to fit in and be cool with her friends.
I spend part of Saturday evening with my daughter and her family at a birthday party for her. I relish any time with her, like a dog begging for scraps. I find myself watching her, staring at her, trying to absorb the essence of who and what she is as a young woman. When I left there was a sense of emptiness. It's a feeling I've come to know well over the years, but never get used to. The visits are shorter now in duration but more frequent than they used to be. So that emptiness, the goodbye vacuum, is a much more frequent part of my life. And yet, not frequent enough. And I feel guilty for feeling sad after visits with her. I should be happy that I'm part of her life, right? That her family includes me in activities. That when I say I love her she responds in kind, the words not even stumbling in her throat or tripping over her teeth. Those are all good things, right?
It's been a weekend of nostalgia, remembrance and regret, lots of driving and little snatches of time with family and old friends.
Today, I woke up early, after getting home late after my daughter's birthday party, losing an hour's sleep to the time change, and drove nearly 4 hours to attend another gathering for a friend who is about ready to ship off to a war zone. Along the way, I called to wish another friend a happy birthday and learned from the ticker on CNN that a storm was bearing down on my lady friend Brat's hometown, again.
No matter where I was this weekend, I felt out of place. Like I was watching it all as if it was a performance on stage, somehow separate from it all and numb. Not because I felt nothing but because I felt too much and the nerve endings and synapses could no longer process the sensations.
And then, after talking to Brat online after her latest adventure and sitting quietly on the couch, listening to the drier tumble I watch a fictionalized account of other people's lives and the emotion overflowed, spilling out the corners of my eyes, streaming over my cheeks and pouring onto my shirt, like the waterfalls I passed today while driving through the Columbia River Gorge. Some picture postcard that would make.
It was a good day. A good weekend. It was too much and not enough. So many epiphanies on the road, listening to classic rock and seeing one of the most beautiful corners of the world. Seeing and talking to so many people I love and care about and worry about and miss in such a short span of time.
I shouldn't go so long without talking to family, friends and people who are important to me. I shouldn't go so many days without decent sleep. I shouldn't go so many days without writing here. I shouldn't drive 500 miles in a day. I shouldn't listen to so much old music on a trip home.
I really should be sleeping right now.
Parenthood
Insomnia
Family
Friends
Road trip
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
Jewel in the crown
Oregon is full of special places. One of those places where man's and God's compelling architecture complement one another is on the old Columbia River Gorge highway outside of Portland.For most of my adult life, I have been too much in a rush to take the road less traveled through the gorge. There are some stunning views from Interstate 84 through this area, between Portland and The Dalles. But the scenic route forces you to slow down, due to the narrow two-lane road, and offers several waypoints and stops at state parks and spectacular waterfalls. If you travel from east to west on this road after you get past Multnomah Falls, one of the most photographed landmarks in Oregon, you come upon another treasure -- Vista House at Crown Point.
Vista House is not camera shy either. You probably have seen images of this place before, even if you haven't seen it for yourself and didn't know what it was. It has been a popular spot for photo and film shoots over the years.
Vista House was build about 90 years ago, with the two-lane road was new, and the only overland route through the gorge. They don't make roadway rest stops like this any more, and this one has been closed for renovation for some time. I made the trek on this route about a year and a half ago, and Vista House was still being renovated. So, I had never actually been inside it, unless we went inside during one stop there as a child, and if so I don't remember and certainly would not have appreciated the marble splendor of this place. But Vista House reopened just a few short weeks ago, on June 24, 2005.
You can find out more about the landmark here and see past and contemporary photos as well. You can also learn more about Vista House from this Statesman Journal article for as long as the page remains publicly accessible. But if you aren't much for old buildings, what about this view?
Columbia River Gorge
Vista House
Crown Point
Thursday, July 14, 2005
Off to Redneckville
I'm heading out to visit my family in my ol' cowpie stompin' grounds of Eastern Oregon.
Time to grab the shit kickers (cowboy boots for your urbanites), a cap and a can of Copenhagen and hit the road. Yea, I'm as big of a backward ass country fuck as the next hick, and sometimes proud of it (but I rarely admit that to my city slicker friends).
I may try to post from the depths of dial-up Internet hell.
And who says country folks aren't sophisticated?
Blogging
Eastern Oregon
Technology
Time to grab the shit kickers (cowboy boots for your urbanites), a cap and a can of Copenhagen and hit the road. Yea, I'm as big of a backward ass country fuck as the next hick, and sometimes proud of it (but I rarely admit that to my city slicker friends).
I may try to post from the depths of dial-up Internet hell.
And who says country folks aren't sophisticated?
Blogging
Eastern Oregon
Technology
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