That moment when your body remembers a long ago art of movement despite years of disuse and is just as fluid and synchronized as when you first perfected dancing just so.
It's a saffron shaded five minutes of bliss.
Just like that, I remember how beautiful my body can be. How I can move, in a modest tribal outfit or nothing at all. I soak it in, relishing that when I am aware of this form I'm in for my lifetime, it's in admiration.
I don't have time for self-loathing.
When my left hip rolls out, my arm mimics it in a symmetrical arc, my hand structures in a perfect flourette, and I tell you this: the body is the greatest instrument you will ever own. To make beauty, to defend yourself, to type out thoughts as they beat against the side of your head to get out.
Even when it's broken, and damaged, and weakened, it is still the greatest. Appreciate it, since it's closer to you than any lover will be. After all, isn't part of what makes us so bonded to our children is that they came from our BODY, our wombs, and are therefore precious and irreplaceable.
When I'm standing under a clear sky and can hear the ocean, I can't wait for the day I'll be beyond it. As useful and lovely as it can be, my body is a barrier between me and the swirling stardust of the universe, and I do not fear the day when it's time to return to that original home.
My body is a cage that keeps me from dancing with the one I love, but my mind holds the key. Arcade Fire had it right. And also inspires me to dance.
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
Monday, June 11, 2012
God is a redwood forest.
I remember places I've never been and things I've never done.
I was walking today with some friends through the ancient growth redwood forests, where trees are growing from trees, cavernous roots exposed, bark twisting around the trunk like it was being spun as it grew.
Surrounded by ferns and loamy ground and trees so majestic I was saturated in my own insignificance, I felt deeply at peace. Monumentally calm. Returning, finally, to a home I'd never occupied, laughing with souls who've never stood there with me.
I thought, suddenly, of a guy I went on a date with another lifetime ago. We were discussing meditation and, while I knew of its benefits and uses, I didn't think it was a proactive way to change the world. He fought viciously with me about it, saying Buddhist monks must have had it wrong all these centuries, etc etc. I simply said that we could agree to disagree. Now I understand more fully what I meant, something I couldn't fully express then because I hadn't experienced it yet, but knew it was the way for me.
Being surrounded by true greatness and consequently being humbled by your own mortality, insignificance, grand purpose, is true meditation. At least by my standards. I breathed deeply. I moved intentionally. I felt a welcome wholeness that shored up my inner reserve and it said boldly to continue onward, dear one.
God is a redwood forest. It's my goddaughter asking for me in a far-off desert. It is my parents praying for my happiness before a meal. It is my best friend reading two years worth of blogs and telling me that he loves me, feels closer to me, and is thankful we belong to each other.
That's what love is, you know. At the end of the day, love means that a bit of you belongs to them and that a little part of them fills up that equal space in you. When I'm feeling lost and scattered to the winds, I remember that...my soul is a patchwork quilt of the people who have loved me in this wild, brilliant, terrifying life, and because of their bits, I'll always go bravely forward.
We're all just different views of the whole.
I re-discovered this poem I wrote a few years ago last night as I was editing my collection thus far. It's about one of the first children I was ever a nanny to. Her mom went crazy and abandoned her, then eventually came back, but only on the condition that I would never be allowed to see her again. Her dad was so sad and conflicted, but I made it easier for him, saying simply that she is her mother. It was my first loss of a child I loved, and it devastated me for a long time afterward, and made me scared of loving any of my other friends' children the same.
Still, she carries a piece of me in her love-quilt.
I was walking today with some friends through the ancient growth redwood forests, where trees are growing from trees, cavernous roots exposed, bark twisting around the trunk like it was being spun as it grew.
Surrounded by ferns and loamy ground and trees so majestic I was saturated in my own insignificance, I felt deeply at peace. Monumentally calm. Returning, finally, to a home I'd never occupied, laughing with souls who've never stood there with me.
I thought, suddenly, of a guy I went on a date with another lifetime ago. We were discussing meditation and, while I knew of its benefits and uses, I didn't think it was a proactive way to change the world. He fought viciously with me about it, saying Buddhist monks must have had it wrong all these centuries, etc etc. I simply said that we could agree to disagree. Now I understand more fully what I meant, something I couldn't fully express then because I hadn't experienced it yet, but knew it was the way for me.
Being surrounded by true greatness and consequently being humbled by your own mortality, insignificance, grand purpose, is true meditation. At least by my standards. I breathed deeply. I moved intentionally. I felt a welcome wholeness that shored up my inner reserve and it said boldly to continue onward, dear one.
God is a redwood forest. It's my goddaughter asking for me in a far-off desert. It is my parents praying for my happiness before a meal. It is my best friend reading two years worth of blogs and telling me that he loves me, feels closer to me, and is thankful we belong to each other.
That's what love is, you know. At the end of the day, love means that a bit of you belongs to them and that a little part of them fills up that equal space in you. When I'm feeling lost and scattered to the winds, I remember that...my soul is a patchwork quilt of the people who have loved me in this wild, brilliant, terrifying life, and because of their bits, I'll always go bravely forward.
We're all just different views of the whole.
I re-discovered this poem I wrote a few years ago last night as I was editing my collection thus far. It's about one of the first children I was ever a nanny to. Her mom went crazy and abandoned her, then eventually came back, but only on the condition that I would never be allowed to see her again. Her dad was so sad and conflicted, but I made it easier for him, saying simply that she is her mother. It was my first loss of a child I loved, and it devastated me for a long time afterward, and made me scared of loving any of my other friends' children the same.
Still, she carries a piece of me in her love-quilt.
My Secret Keeper
There are
kiss-off competitions
in the front room.
They ensue for hours before dreaded bedtime.
Zoe holds my face prone
her shocked expression, where's the camera?
while she kisses the corners of my mouth.
I can hear the victory chortling in her lungs
seconds before the outburst spills forth.
On the evening of her sixth birthday,
she is the epitome of childhood perfection.
I wonder if she'll remember this clandestine utopia,
years from now, as a defense to self-loathing.
Her hair is the soft curling of branches
loving each other, swirling in sisterly dance.
The indent above her lip makes me believe
in the story Bogey told:
in the front room.
They ensue for hours before dreaded bedtime.
Zoe holds my face prone
her shocked expression, where's the camera?
while she kisses the corners of my mouth.
I can hear the victory chortling in her lungs
seconds before the outburst spills forth.
On the evening of her sixth birthday,
she is the epitome of childhood perfection.
I wonder if she'll remember this clandestine utopia,
years from now, as a defense to self-loathing.
Her hair is the soft curling of branches
loving each other, swirling in sisterly dance.
The indent above her lip makes me believe
in the story Bogey told:
it is an
indentation of the angel's finger,
pressed to your lips to keep your vast knowledge secret.
pressed to your lips to keep your vast knowledge secret.
My secret
keeper; her mouth is shut,
but the hidden treasures her soul knows
flow over from her eyes.
Hidden in that star-swirling: the nature of God.
In my dreams, God is a child,
holding my protesting mouth closed while she kisses me,
laughing triumphantly.
but the hidden treasures her soul knows
flow over from her eyes.
Hidden in that star-swirling: the nature of God.
In my dreams, God is a child,
holding my protesting mouth closed while she kisses me,
laughing triumphantly.
Sunday, June 10, 2012
Hold on to what we are.
So, here's the thing: I've been really sad this weekend.
And as of this morning, my gut is in complete rebellion.
With my best friend Kathleen's words echoing in my head, "Work is gonna blow no matter where you are until you're doing a job you love. Hang in there babe," and my mother's quiet reassurances that I can deal with anything until I can't deal anymore and then come home, and Milla's proud speech at her bon voyage breakfast where I got to hug her one last time before she leaves for Africa about how she was so amazed and happy that I up and went on an adventure all by my lonesome have led me to one conclusion:
My sadness is being purged from my body via my butt. It's the only explanation. So I should be right as rain tomorrow.
Really, I tend to get over most funks quickly. The issue is that home is not a place, and never has been for me. Home is a people, MY people, and they are many and glorious and golden and 800 miles south of me. I have always felt emboldened by them to stand straighter and more loudly proclaim who I am and my opinions because I know their love.
And I left them. Because I needed to know I could still stand straight without them 10 minutes away to crumble against when things got terrible. And I think I've proved that to myself, for the most part, which is why missing Kathleen's baby shower and not being able to feel her daughter kick or hug my Evey G and nuzzle my Lottie Loo make weekends like this that follow hard weeks even harder to stand.
I also think this is due, in part, to not being creative lately. I haven't written in months, ever since I started school, and the absence of that is one more thing chipping away at my identity.
I imitate my dad at work, and the doctors think it's hilarious. They've all come to call me Erin-poo, just like my papa does. It's nice, because speaking like him makes me feel closer to him, but it makes me miss him so much too, and my mom.
So, as much as I love it here, I think if I can at least get the pre-req's for nursing done while living here, I'm going to do that and then move home to go to a BSN/MSN program. There's none up here, and I really don't want an associates. A bachelor's or above gives you infinitely more possibilities, and what am I if not a girl who keeps her options open?
I'll keep my eyes open, to who I am, what I can do, and who I love so much. And maybe I can't do it all on my own, but where's the shame in that?
"So hold on,
Hold on to what we are,
Hold on to your heart." - Of Monsters and Men, "Your Bones"
And as of this morning, my gut is in complete rebellion.
With my best friend Kathleen's words echoing in my head, "Work is gonna blow no matter where you are until you're doing a job you love. Hang in there babe," and my mother's quiet reassurances that I can deal with anything until I can't deal anymore and then come home, and Milla's proud speech at her bon voyage breakfast where I got to hug her one last time before she leaves for Africa about how she was so amazed and happy that I up and went on an adventure all by my lonesome have led me to one conclusion:
My sadness is being purged from my body via my butt. It's the only explanation. So I should be right as rain tomorrow.
Really, I tend to get over most funks quickly. The issue is that home is not a place, and never has been for me. Home is a people, MY people, and they are many and glorious and golden and 800 miles south of me. I have always felt emboldened by them to stand straighter and more loudly proclaim who I am and my opinions because I know their love.
And I left them. Because I needed to know I could still stand straight without them 10 minutes away to crumble against when things got terrible. And I think I've proved that to myself, for the most part, which is why missing Kathleen's baby shower and not being able to feel her daughter kick or hug my Evey G and nuzzle my Lottie Loo make weekends like this that follow hard weeks even harder to stand.
I also think this is due, in part, to not being creative lately. I haven't written in months, ever since I started school, and the absence of that is one more thing chipping away at my identity.
I imitate my dad at work, and the doctors think it's hilarious. They've all come to call me Erin-poo, just like my papa does. It's nice, because speaking like him makes me feel closer to him, but it makes me miss him so much too, and my mom.
So, as much as I love it here, I think if I can at least get the pre-req's for nursing done while living here, I'm going to do that and then move home to go to a BSN/MSN program. There's none up here, and I really don't want an associates. A bachelor's or above gives you infinitely more possibilities, and what am I if not a girl who keeps her options open?
I'll keep my eyes open, to who I am, what I can do, and who I love so much. And maybe I can't do it all on my own, but where's the shame in that?
"So hold on,
Hold on to what we are,
Hold on to your heart." - Of Monsters and Men, "Your Bones"
Saturday, April 28, 2012
There's a ghost in my mouth and it talks in my sleep.
It says your name.
And my heart aches for you. Physically aches. I feel like I get punched in the chest whenever I think of you, so I've tried to lessen how frequently I do it. But when I'm sleeping, I wake up to myself saying your name, and my cheeks are wet, and I feel more lonely than I ever have in my life.
And you don't call. And when you do, you tell me you're unhappy, and lonely, and that yeah, sure, you miss me too. But it's not like I miss you, and I'm trying to accept it.
I hoped that leaving would make you realize that I was an island you passed by and shouldn't have. That I was worth exploring. Right after I did, you dated a girl that you said reminded you of me, because of how alone my absence made you feel...and still, you're not steering your boat around.
What should I do when everything that should make me happy makes me stretch my hand out, knowing you should be there to hold it? And then it's there like a slap that you're not, and don't ever intend to be. What do you do when the person who knows your past and your present and your hopes and all the light and the darkness in you doesn't see the simplest and truest thing?
When I say I love you, I mean it. All the way, forever, my one and only, and everyone in the past four years has been stopgaps until you woke up.
Being busy helps me forget. Push away the thoughts that you see and don't want to, that you feel it too but are too scared, that all of this is one-sided and you miss me the way you'd miss any co-patriot of years who moved. Why else would I work two jobs, go to school full-time, and volunteer as much as I do?
"I am done with my graceless heart
So tonight I'm gonna cut it out and then restart
'Cause I like to keep my issues drawn
It's always darkest before the dawn."
And my heart aches for you. Physically aches. I feel like I get punched in the chest whenever I think of you, so I've tried to lessen how frequently I do it. But when I'm sleeping, I wake up to myself saying your name, and my cheeks are wet, and I feel more lonely than I ever have in my life.
And you don't call. And when you do, you tell me you're unhappy, and lonely, and that yeah, sure, you miss me too. But it's not like I miss you, and I'm trying to accept it.
I hoped that leaving would make you realize that I was an island you passed by and shouldn't have. That I was worth exploring. Right after I did, you dated a girl that you said reminded you of me, because of how alone my absence made you feel...and still, you're not steering your boat around.
What should I do when everything that should make me happy makes me stretch my hand out, knowing you should be there to hold it? And then it's there like a slap that you're not, and don't ever intend to be. What do you do when the person who knows your past and your present and your hopes and all the light and the darkness in you doesn't see the simplest and truest thing?
When I say I love you, I mean it. All the way, forever, my one and only, and everyone in the past four years has been stopgaps until you woke up.
Being busy helps me forget. Push away the thoughts that you see and don't want to, that you feel it too but are too scared, that all of this is one-sided and you miss me the way you'd miss any co-patriot of years who moved. Why else would I work two jobs, go to school full-time, and volunteer as much as I do?
"I am done with my graceless heart
So tonight I'm gonna cut it out and then restart
'Cause I like to keep my issues drawn
It's always darkest before the dawn."
Sunday, April 8, 2012
Wow.
This weekend was wonderful, but that same ol' realization rose up and kicked me in the gut.
My life is full, and fast, and I'm intensely driven.
In the six months I've lived here in the Crescent, I haven't met anyone. I didn't have intentions to, but I hoped there might be prospects. Alas, nay.
Even if I was one of those awesome dames that didn't meet anyone worth marrying until I was in my forties, I wouldn't have kids.
There's an 80% chance I won't bear fruit from my loins.
Even though, like I said, it's the same old realization at a different time, my sister and best friend being pregnant and my other best friend having her second daughter, I am suddenly sad.
Tearing up, actually.
This is one of those rare moments where I wish I could bond so wholly with someone, love it unconditionally, know that no one could ever have the power to separate that child from me.
As sure as it's hit, it'll pass.
My life is full, and fast, and I'm intensely driven.
In the six months I've lived here in the Crescent, I haven't met anyone. I didn't have intentions to, but I hoped there might be prospects. Alas, nay.
Even if I was one of those awesome dames that didn't meet anyone worth marrying until I was in my forties, I wouldn't have kids.
There's an 80% chance I won't bear fruit from my loins.
Even though, like I said, it's the same old realization at a different time, my sister and best friend being pregnant and my other best friend having her second daughter, I am suddenly sad.
Tearing up, actually.
This is one of those rare moments where I wish I could bond so wholly with someone, love it unconditionally, know that no one could ever have the power to separate that child from me.
As sure as it's hit, it'll pass.
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
Types of Rain.
I feel awash in rain, as I'm sure Inuits do in snow. As I was thinking this, I remembered how (allegedly) they had a hundred names for snow...which is false, by the way. They have the rough equivalent as English does for names of snow, whereas the Sami people of Europe, a tribal people of Finland, Norway, parts of Russia..you know, the fuckin' cold parts, now THEY had hundreds of words for snow.
SO. You're welcome for that useless piece of knowledge. And on to my point: I was thinking how in the six months (yowzers, six months in a few weeks since I've left home!) I've observed more weather changes, types of rain, size and intensity of hail and gusts than in all of my 26 years spent in southern California.
Currently, we've been storming on and off for almost a month. The off's have lasted about a day, with the rain lasting an average of 5-8 days without breaking. Last night, the hail was so intense that I worried it would break my windshield. When I awoke, it was still so cold outside that the hail had survived the following onslaught of rain and was still present in piles along the corner of my back porch steps.
I walked to my car in a heavy, gentle rain. I want to name this type George. It was the consistency of what we in the south called a "sprinkle" but with fat, loaded drops. Not a drencher, to be sure. Not like the insistent, odd mist-like rain that, when sighted from a window seems relatively harmless, but you step into and are immediately soaked. Usually accompanied by wind, so that if you had the foolish inclination to label yourself a townie and use an umbrella, it would be useless anyway. I would name that rain Snookie for it's vileness.
I'm sure you're bored about reading my thoughts on weather. Too bad. If you are, skedaddle. Because now I'm on to telling you about my latest adventures, which is the good part (theoretically), so if you WERE bored and already left, you resilient ones get to hear the good stuff.
I went home recently to witness the birth of my second goddaughter. Unfortunately, she's a stubborn little mermaid and didn't want to come out while I was there, but did 2 weeks later :D Charlotte Faith (my choice, I know..it's lovely) was born a healthy 7 lbs 2 oz and her sister, my Evey, is a smitten kitten with her. Life for my little Arizona family is good..or will be once Jessica gets the damage done to her by the car accident fully understood and treated.
I was home with my parents for a few days after Phoenix, and I spent as much time with them as I could. I visited with my Italians, said toodles to my Aunt and Uncle before they vamanosed it to their retirement villa in Arizona (that damn state sucks up all of my people!), and saw Matt, Melanie, Sharky, Tarah, Kathleen and my Thompson family, and a few others <3 My heart aches the most whenever I leave my Mattie though, as silly as it sounds, and I think it's probably because in all the years of our friendship we've never spent significant time away from each other. Sharky and I survived her crappy relationship, Mel and I are all about phones ANYWAY, Kathleen ditched me for Africa for years, and my Milla and I are often apart but always soul-connected. Me and Matt though...it hurts to be far from him, and I don't like it. Whenever I consider moving back, it's usually because I miss him and my *many* parents the most.
I proposed to Matt for the umpteenth time, which he refused. Someday though, that sucker is going to accept!
While I was getting Lucy's shots updated and her microchipped at the Humane Society on Saturday, a nice couple from Muscoy (I know, when do those two phrases go together?) were looking for a home for a small puppy they had found in their neighborhood. Found in a litter of 3, they'd procured homes for the other two but were unsuccessful with her. There were interested parties, but the couple was worried they wanted to fight her (she's going to be huge). I told them that if they didn't find someone else to take her by the time I left, I would, and sure enough, there she was when I walked out. I named her Ethel. She's 11 weeks old now, and was determined by my vet to be a Rottweiler mix. She's a joy, and so smart, that when I get over my frustration all I feel at having Lucy and Ethel here in Crescent City with me is happiness and joy and thankfulness. They fill up the cup that was so easily one of loneliness.
I volunteered on Sunday at the Marine Mammal Center. They save local seals that have been abandoned by the mother or moved by onlookers or attacked. Yeah, attacked. By PEOPLE. Apparently, since this area has a lot of fisherman and crabbers, they hate seals for the competition they pose and if they see pups on the beach, will often let their dogs attack them, etc. It's pretty gnarly. I helped feed and bathe two 10-day old Harbor seal pups and hope to continue the practice whenever I'm in town on Sundays. I love the volunteering spirit that's so prevalent here. Everyone seems to contribute to the whole in some way...except for the meth addicts and moochers, of course, but you never count them.
I should be meeting my CASA kid this week. He seems like a really awesome guy from what's written about him on paper, so I'm really excited to help him plan his future in any way I can. If I can be a factor that facilitates him taking steps to success, then I'll feel like I'm paying back a part of this weightless, sacred debt that I'm carrying.
You know the one. Give back what you were given. Pay it forward. Do something that leaves people with a good taste in their mouth. Be as divine as your soul allows.
Check.
SO. You're welcome for that useless piece of knowledge. And on to my point: I was thinking how in the six months (yowzers, six months in a few weeks since I've left home!) I've observed more weather changes, types of rain, size and intensity of hail and gusts than in all of my 26 years spent in southern California.
Currently, we've been storming on and off for almost a month. The off's have lasted about a day, with the rain lasting an average of 5-8 days without breaking. Last night, the hail was so intense that I worried it would break my windshield. When I awoke, it was still so cold outside that the hail had survived the following onslaught of rain and was still present in piles along the corner of my back porch steps.
I walked to my car in a heavy, gentle rain. I want to name this type George. It was the consistency of what we in the south called a "sprinkle" but with fat, loaded drops. Not a drencher, to be sure. Not like the insistent, odd mist-like rain that, when sighted from a window seems relatively harmless, but you step into and are immediately soaked. Usually accompanied by wind, so that if you had the foolish inclination to label yourself a townie and use an umbrella, it would be useless anyway. I would name that rain Snookie for it's vileness.
I'm sure you're bored about reading my thoughts on weather. Too bad. If you are, skedaddle. Because now I'm on to telling you about my latest adventures, which is the good part (theoretically), so if you WERE bored and already left, you resilient ones get to hear the good stuff.
I went home recently to witness the birth of my second goddaughter. Unfortunately, she's a stubborn little mermaid and didn't want to come out while I was there, but did 2 weeks later :D Charlotte Faith (my choice, I know..it's lovely) was born a healthy 7 lbs 2 oz and her sister, my Evey, is a smitten kitten with her. Life for my little Arizona family is good..or will be once Jessica gets the damage done to her by the car accident fully understood and treated.
I was home with my parents for a few days after Phoenix, and I spent as much time with them as I could. I visited with my Italians, said toodles to my Aunt and Uncle before they vamanosed it to their retirement villa in Arizona (that damn state sucks up all of my people!), and saw Matt, Melanie, Sharky, Tarah, Kathleen and my Thompson family, and a few others <3 My heart aches the most whenever I leave my Mattie though, as silly as it sounds, and I think it's probably because in all the years of our friendship we've never spent significant time away from each other. Sharky and I survived her crappy relationship, Mel and I are all about phones ANYWAY, Kathleen ditched me for Africa for years, and my Milla and I are often apart but always soul-connected. Me and Matt though...it hurts to be far from him, and I don't like it. Whenever I consider moving back, it's usually because I miss him and my *many* parents the most.
I proposed to Matt for the umpteenth time, which he refused. Someday though, that sucker is going to accept!
While I was getting Lucy's shots updated and her microchipped at the Humane Society on Saturday, a nice couple from Muscoy (I know, when do those two phrases go together?) were looking for a home for a small puppy they had found in their neighborhood. Found in a litter of 3, they'd procured homes for the other two but were unsuccessful with her. There were interested parties, but the couple was worried they wanted to fight her (she's going to be huge). I told them that if they didn't find someone else to take her by the time I left, I would, and sure enough, there she was when I walked out. I named her Ethel. She's 11 weeks old now, and was determined by my vet to be a Rottweiler mix. She's a joy, and so smart, that when I get over my frustration all I feel at having Lucy and Ethel here in Crescent City with me is happiness and joy and thankfulness. They fill up the cup that was so easily one of loneliness.
I volunteered on Sunday at the Marine Mammal Center. They save local seals that have been abandoned by the mother or moved by onlookers or attacked. Yeah, attacked. By PEOPLE. Apparently, since this area has a lot of fisherman and crabbers, they hate seals for the competition they pose and if they see pups on the beach, will often let their dogs attack them, etc. It's pretty gnarly. I helped feed and bathe two 10-day old Harbor seal pups and hope to continue the practice whenever I'm in town on Sundays. I love the volunteering spirit that's so prevalent here. Everyone seems to contribute to the whole in some way...except for the meth addicts and moochers, of course, but you never count them.
I should be meeting my CASA kid this week. He seems like a really awesome guy from what's written about him on paper, so I'm really excited to help him plan his future in any way I can. If I can be a factor that facilitates him taking steps to success, then I'll feel like I'm paying back a part of this weightless, sacred debt that I'm carrying.
You know the one. Give back what you were given. Pay it forward. Do something that leaves people with a good taste in their mouth. Be as divine as your soul allows.
Check.
Thursday, March 1, 2012
The odd things you learn in a small town...
1. Everyone has a gun. EVERYONE. They may not talk about them, you may never see them, but trust me: everyone has the power to kill you with a firearm in 15 seconds flat like you're a buck and it's huntin' season.
2. Walt, the RN triaging me last week, advised me to always park with my car facing east. If the horns that croon to me every night start blaring consistently and not in short blares, I need to be able to drive away from the shore (i.e. due east) because a tsunami is coming. 26 sq blocks was wiped out in 68' (I think?) and it was the biggest thing that's ever happened to this town.
3. There are often bears sighted in people's backyards. And people shoot them. And then make bear sausage. No, I am not joking.
4. I have only seen two black people in this city. In four months of living here.
5. Most women here are grandmothers by 40. It's eerie. Women in their mid-50's are great grandmother's. I've seen four generations having a casual lunch in the hospital cafeteria like it was nothing. I couldn't even conceive of having over 3 generations in one picture for most of my life, and here, 5 is standard. 6 if granny is hardy.
6. Crabbing is huge here. Almost everyone knows someone who has a boat and brings them a weekly haul of crab; they then have a "crab bake" and invite the whole family and do nothing but EAT for an entire Sunday.
7. No one uses umbrellas. The wind is so powerful, it would blow that pretty little rain shield inside-out in a minute. Hoods, hats, gloves=locals. Umbrellas=townies.
8. Feed stores are a poor man's pharmacy. I knew this from my fish amoxicillin days when my mom had a tooth abscess and needed antibiotics, but horse liniment works for sore joints and arthritis too. Huh.
9. People get married shortly after high school. Period. If they're 28 and single, they're divorced with an average of 3 children.
10. Everything in my apartment was given to me. There is an innate level of community and generosity in this tiny town than anywhere I've ever experienced.
2. Walt, the RN triaging me last week, advised me to always park with my car facing east. If the horns that croon to me every night start blaring consistently and not in short blares, I need to be able to drive away from the shore (i.e. due east) because a tsunami is coming. 26 sq blocks was wiped out in 68' (I think?) and it was the biggest thing that's ever happened to this town.
3. There are often bears sighted in people's backyards. And people shoot them. And then make bear sausage. No, I am not joking.
4. I have only seen two black people in this city. In four months of living here.
5. Most women here are grandmothers by 40. It's eerie. Women in their mid-50's are great grandmother's. I've seen four generations having a casual lunch in the hospital cafeteria like it was nothing. I couldn't even conceive of having over 3 generations in one picture for most of my life, and here, 5 is standard. 6 if granny is hardy.
6. Crabbing is huge here. Almost everyone knows someone who has a boat and brings them a weekly haul of crab; they then have a "crab bake" and invite the whole family and do nothing but EAT for an entire Sunday.
7. No one uses umbrellas. The wind is so powerful, it would blow that pretty little rain shield inside-out in a minute. Hoods, hats, gloves=locals. Umbrellas=townies.
8. Feed stores are a poor man's pharmacy. I knew this from my fish amoxicillin days when my mom had a tooth abscess and needed antibiotics, but horse liniment works for sore joints and arthritis too. Huh.
9. People get married shortly after high school. Period. If they're 28 and single, they're divorced with an average of 3 children.
10. Everything in my apartment was given to me. There is an innate level of community and generosity in this tiny town than anywhere I've ever experienced.
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