Labels at the Farmer's Market. Who Knew?

Just returned from the farmers’ market.  The morning was really beautiful; cool and slightly overcast as I walked down to the city hall.  I had somehow managed to get there on the early side, when the ‘serious’ foodies are striking the farmers’ booths with amazing skill and precision.  This was a good thing—scratch that, this was a great thing.  I lose patience with people who shop for sport or leisure in crowded places.  I just want my dried persimmons and fresh chard and then I want to move on. 

I had the good fortune to run into a friend I haven’t seen in over a year.  Since we each were just finishing up our shopping for the morning, we decided to have breakfast and catch up a bit.  I bought a spinach and cheese tamale, and she bought some hummus and lentil bread.  We each bought juices from the Roots booth.  It was quite the impressive little impromptu banquet. 

We spent half an hour chatting about what each of us has been up to in the past year.  We’ve both started businesses, we both found long lost relatives, we’ve both lost family members close to us.  We’ve both traveled, and breathed and cried and loved and lived.  We are human.  It’s what we do. 

My friend took off, and as I sat, still nibbling on some of the lentil bread, another acquaintance approached me.  After our initial hellos and how-do-you-dos, he says to me, “So, I saw you were sitting with your gay friend…”

“Why is it important that she is gay in the context of this conversation?”  I asked. 

“Well, no, it’s not, it’s just…” he faded off.

I was surprised that he went ahead and sat down next to me.  I figured that one unfiltered missive out of my mouth was going to be enough to chase him off. 

Next, I offered him some lentil bread. 

“What kind of crazy communist food is this?” 

“It’s Indian food.  India is a Socialist Secular Democratic Republic.  And for the record, it’s delicious food. Try it.”

He didn’t last long after that, making his good-byes and traveling on with his day.  I noticed by the time I walked home, he and I are no longer Facebook friends. 

It occurred to me on the way home that the only pertinent label that could have been applied to breakfast was ‘vegetarian’.  We never even got to that part of the conversation.

What I don’t understand is the weird fixation with labels.  Indian food may be different to many who live in the culturally insular place that is northern California, but let’s talk numbers here.  One of every six people on the planet is from India.  Next to Chinese, Indian cuisine is the most commonly identified cuisine on Earth.  That we in ‘Merica are labeling it as an uncommon or marginalized food choice is myopic.  We can argue as to whether or not we are still the greatest nation circling the sun, but we cannot argue that we are the most populous or prolific. 

And what does political persuasion have to do with lentil bread anyway?  It made me chuckle as I was leaving the farmers' market to realize that part of why I go to the farmers' market in the first place is to be in an environment where I don't have to read labels.  Real, fresh food.  

Labels on people drive me even more insane.  My gay friend?  No, pretty much, she is my friend.  My caring friend.  She is a friend who encouraged me to learn yoga as a means of pain management when I was going through cancer treatment.  To be honest, had I not started reaping the benefits of her shared knowledge, I would have stopped treatment before the last, most caustic round of chemo.  Using yoga to manage pain gave me the extra strength and energy to rock ‘em, sock ‘em through another hellish medical protocol-- one which was designed to poison me just to the point of killing the cancer, but not actually killing me. I likely would not be here had she not encouraged me and loved me and supported me through a challenging time in my life’s journey, because after the second round, I had preliminarily made the decision for myself that the pain and suffering were impeding my quality of life.

Her sexual orientation is not the primary identifier when I think of her.  Period.  But, since we are on the subject, she and her wife have been together for over twenty-eight years.  They have raised two children, one of whom is in medical school to become a doctor, and the other who just graduated summa cum laude and is on her way next month to Africa to do relief work. 

Why is it we only apply these labels when we are looking to marginalize or segregate?  In the information above, should we be considering this Awesome Gay Parenting?  Or Marvelous Gay Monogamy? 

I prefer to think of it as people getting it right.  Enough of the rest of us know all too well what it’s like to be divorced and to have children who are a challenge to raise.

And again, I come back to my general take in life:

It is not my job to judge.  

Or render social stature upon others.  

It is my job to love people.  

Downtown Redding-- Here's What It Is...

I wonder, what would happen if the motels downtown stopped renting to "homeless" people?

I am getting tired of walking past the ones on Market Street between Sacramento and the 'Y' at Pine/Market/Cypress and being bombarded by 'residents' who ask for money, booze, drugs, etc.

I'm not suggesting that each tenant in these places is drug-dependent.  I can only speak from my observation, training, and experience, which indicates to me that most of the people I encountered today as I walked home from the bank and market, are suffering from a degree of paranoia and mental impairment consistent with prolonged use of methamphetamine.

Drugs are illegal.  Why are people not being arrested?  Why are building owners not being held to greater responsibility for these kind of "blight" issues on their property?

Today, I gave away the entire bag of groceries I had just purchased at the (Un)Safeway to a mother with four children under the age of six.  I'm not even sure why I did it, other than once I handed a four year-old a banana, watched as his five year-old sister helped him open it, and then immediately share with the two even younger siblings, I couldn't think of a single thing in that bag that I couldn't live without, even if it meant I didn't eat for a week.  I remain conflicted.  Jesus would feed the children.  Jesus would heal the addicted and tell them to sin no more.  But part of me somehow feels like I'm enabling, perpetuating bad behavior.

I was then hounded by two large women who did not like that I had taken a photograph of the general area of the motel where they were congregating in the parking lot.  I asked them if I could do anything to help them.  They began cussing at me, and trying to intimidate me.  I disengaged verbally with them, and continued walking home.  They followed me to the next intersection at Market and Sacramento streets.  I turned around on them with my taser in hand, and in my "Scary Susanne" voice, let them know they needed to back off.  I really prefer to be my normal, goofy ball of fluff, but I'm glad for my ninja skills when I need them.

A couple blocks later, I was approached by a man on a bicycle, asking me questions about the encounter I'd had with the ladies at the motel.  I told him, yes, I took photos.  I live in town, I care about the safety of the community, and places like that motel are a real problem-- case in point, I was accosted and harassed for stopping approximately 20 seconds on the sidewalk to take a picture.

He stated that the ladies who followed after me felt like I was stereotyping them, and judging them, because of where they 'live'.  I told him that I felt like I was being judged because I have a fancy phone, a great hairdo, and clean clothes.  Because honestly, of all the people who have walked by that place today, I doubt there's anyone who wants more than I do to find a solution to "help."

Neither of those women could have known that I lived in conditions as a kid, as much, or more abject as they do.  They couldn't have known that I just gave away my week's worth of groceries to one of their neighbors.

I told the guy on the bike, that there is a problem in town, and I am interested in seeing that it gets fixed.  I don't know what the entirety of the solution is, but I do know that I feel like part of the dilemma for now, is that we are not even properly defining, or maybe labeling, the problem.

Would having a 'real' home fix the problems for these people?  I kind of doubt it.

Would getting better mental health and drug treatment services in place, with penalties for non-compliance, fix the problems for these people?  Maybe.  But maybe not.

Would entering into relationship with these people and showing them love and mentorship help?  Maybe.  But that's a dangerous prospect.

I guess I'm posting this today because I feel like we need to keep pushing around this boulder of a problem in town, looking at it from every angle we can, until the solutions-- real, sustainable, long-term solutions-- come to us as a community.

Happy Birthday

Me and Crazy Aunt Mari, 1971

I went looking for a picture of me and Crazy Aunt Mari to post today, and realized there just aren't that many.  This one is from April or May of 1971.  The smell of the housecoat in the picture is one of my earliest memories.  Short on maternity wear, she wore it a lot as her pregnancy with my cousin, Michael, progressed.

That year, my mom was having some pretty heavy duty issues (sort of like every year, actually), so I spent most of my time with Crazy Aunt Mari, and/or my grandparents.  Sitting in her lap was a place of comfort, and safety.  I loved feeling Michael kick, and smelling her long hair.  I can remember the degree of anger and jealousy after Michael was born, when he was always in "MY" lap, my unofficial throne. That really sort of set the tone for me being bossy and annoyed with him for about the next twenty or so years.

Michael was the love of her life.  When she got pregnant at 20 years old, the doctors straight up told her to go have an abortion, because with her severe scoliosis, she and her baby would likely die.  I often believe that her next truest love in life was proving people wrong.  Now that I actually like my cousin in our adulthood, I occasionally ponder and celebrate the degree of stubbornness that allowed the world to be blessed with a brilliant writer and beautiful artist and singer-- giftings of which have also found their way genetically into the sweet soul that is my cousin's son, Avery.

First Day of Kindergarten for Me, 1974

As I was sorting through photographs this morning, I realized that part of the reason why there aren't too many pictures of her and me together during my younger years is that she was always behind the camera, and busying herself with whatever was making moments special for those of us in front of the lens.  Trips to theme parks, the ocean, random road trips, all were chronicled with care.  The most amazing Halloween costumes, well-thought Christmas gifts, and the grooviest little outfits a kid could wear; I don't think until today, I really appreciated how much she put into normalizing what was a very unstable time in my early life.

Halloween 1974

Were she not in heaven, today she would have turned 65 years old.

Today, I've got Janis Joplin, Elton John, CCR and Bob Dylan grooving on my beat box in her honor.  For what I lack in pictures, I forever have ensconced in memories of the songs that remind me of her...

Happy birthday, Aunt Mari.

Love in the Land of the Oakland A's

Yesterday’s adventures to the Bay Area were just what the doctor ordered for a woman who lately hasn't physically been feeling at the top of her game.  Despite the few extra stops along the way to manage some physical issues, the weather was perfect, the game—despite an A’s loss—was fun, and the scenery along northern California’s farm corridor was beautiful. 

I am still scratching my head over the fact that I wound up with The Devil I Do Know as my travel companion.  We spent 13 hours together yesterday.  I don’t think we spent that much time together in all of last year combined. 

When I ended our marriage sixteen months ago, it was a decision based purely on logic.  He had become physically dangerous, and I was not safe.  I could not afford the luxury of looking at the situation in any other conceivable light.  To do so could have continued to leave me in a dangerous spot. 

Over time, it has been my prayerful, loving, and human objective to find peace between us; to find a place where he and I could platonically connect and find healing in the tragic circumstances that tore us apart. 

In the past year, on those times when we needed to have contact—closing out personal and business issues, exchanging belongings, dealing with lingering legal issues from the nightmare that broke both our hearts—I would insist that we meet in public.  Given the degree to which he had physically harmed me, it seemed more than prudent.

To say the least, things were not easy between us in the early days of that break-up.  There were tears, shouting, anger, and frustration for both of us.  Over time in the past year, as tensions cooled, we've reached a place of a common peace.  We are friendly, and we are friend-ish.  Though, I still have a hard time trusting him. 

But what I do know, as I have healed over the past year-and-a-half, I have felt the mantle of my existence resonate and propel me with regard to him—just love him.  My job isn't to judge, it isn't to decide what’s fair, it isn't to change him, or tell him how to fix himself, or how to live his life.  My crusade in this regard has nothing to do with any reparations he might owe me, emotionally or otherwise.  My job is simply to love him. 

Now, don’t get me wrong—I have no notions of sharing a life with this man.  I have no dreams of being loved by him the way he so beautifully once did.  I have zero expectation that the piece of my heart he has held since I was fifteen years old will ever be what it was.  Those things are gone, and the vessel that I am, broken and reconstructed, likely would no longer hold the love we shared in the same way anymore.

But loving people has consequences.  Done so properly, with appropriate boundaries, loving people changes them.  And what I’ve discovered in the past year or so, is that choosing to love a person, no matter the circumstance—it has changed me, too. 

So yesterday morning, when I was still scrambling around to find someone to go to Oakland with me, it was almost comical how none of the conversations I was having with people were able to yield a travel companion.  One girlfriend wanted desperately to go, but there was no way to truncate her parent’s departure that morning.  Another buddy wanted to go, but he had no way to make it from Weaverville to Redding in time for us to make it to the game.  My neighbor was hot on the idea of going, but he couldn't commit because he had to leave at 10:00 last night to head out of town on business, and yesterday’s agenda was sleep, sleep, sleep. 

And then Devil I Do Know texted me, and said, “I've never been to a MLB game.  Wanna take me? :-P” 

I frankly was surprised.  I didn't realize we were even still connected on Facebook anymore.

I was hesitant, but ultimately decided that I was willing to take the risk.  I let a girlfriend know what was going to go down, and I brought my ninja weapons with me on the trip. 

I’m a pretty big sucker for anyone who says, “I’ve never done ______ before.”

In addition to loads of small talk, laughter, lunch, $11.25 ballpark beer, some good baseball, and some great fan experiences, I learned a few things:

The Devil I Do Know is also a man on his own healing journey.  It turns out, in all the things that tore us apart, he lost a wife he loved very much.  He lost a future that he held dear.  He has had to make peace with all of the same, and some similar, losses as I have. 

I don’t think until yesterday, I had ever considered that he had suffered those things too.  Most shocking to me, was his admission that part of what had helped him come to this place of healing for himself, was that I chose to love him through it, even outside of our marriage. 

When the mother of his children was causing him a new layer of grief over the kids, I went to bat for him.  Letters were written, therapists were contacted, and things that might otherwise have been stuck, got moved along.  No matter the problems between him and me, the problems he was encountering with regard to his children were wrong, unfair, unjust, and ridiculous. 

When he found out he had diabetes on his birthday, I took him to supper, just so he could talk.  He told me yesterday that he was really scared about the diagnosis, but that having me break it all down for him in my usual humorous way helped him move along. 

None of this is to toot my own horn.  There are loads of people out there who are better ‘lovers’ than I am—more thoughtful, more consistent, more caring, more concerned, more whatever it is that people who need love may need in life. 

What I am learning, is that loving in the best way we know how, in each situation, and for each person we encounter, is all we need to do.  And that is enough.  

Welcome Back to The Blog!

It has been a few years since I've posted in here.  As things move along with my writing career, I will be using this blog site more as a place for readers to check in, and for those who wish to discover me and my writing style as an author.

There are a lot of exciting things on the horizon, and I am excited to be able to share some of them with you here!

Thanks for stopping by and perusing Just Passing Through...

With the Right Person...

And today, this is the mantle of my existence. I had my entire schedule upended today by a sweet angel who sent me a visitor from the Land of Writers. The entire day has been one intense, inspired, and memorable experience after another.

At first, I was a nervous wreck, just thinking about meeting a stranger, and one who could help me advance one of my life's goals, at that. Then I realized, she's here to see me. ME. In all my inglorious humanity.

A couple weeks ago, I was faced with an awkward situation, where I was "excused" from a book club that I'd been attending. I was disappointed, as I felt I'd found a great group of women- smart, funny, authentic. They felt I wasnt a good "fit". In that situation, I just shook it off. I'm not everyone's cup of tea. But long ago, I accepted for myself that so long as I can say my intentions are pure, and that I'm walking in love, I am pretty much fine with rejection based on personality.

As I was flying about in a dither this morning, temporarily purchasing the misguided need to impress, I thought about the book club situation, and rebooted.

I took off the fancy pants and put on the jeans I like the best this week; the ones with holes, and skinny legs, that make me feel one big hairdo away from being a Bon Jovi groupie. Add to that a tight T-shirt with a slogan on it that is highly inappropriate, for those who are smart enough to get it--a ninja suit if there ever was one.

I figured, if this woman wants to see where I grew up, we're gonna get pretty damned dirty getting there. That she smiled and winked at the shirt, made me think we were off to a good start.

I decided, with zero shame, that we should take my pimpmobile Up The Hill, instead of her Cadillac. No amount of package-upgrade-automatic-whatever would really be a net benefit down four miles of dirt road, the last half-mile of which now has manzanita growing in the tire tracks.

I told her to bring a change of clothes. We might be meeting some of the most legit people I know, but they don't smell good. Just a fact, I told her, supported by my duffel bag with my own change as well.

As we left my suite, I grabbed a wet paper towel. She asked. I explained to her that I had delivered decadent cupcakes to a really cool lady earlier in the morning, and that I had dumped one out on the seat, and while I ate it promptly to send it along to cupcake heaven instead of allowing it an earthly and deformed existence, I hadn't cleaned up the frosting that landed on the seat, during my near-Olympic use of The Five Second rule.

She shared a similar story with me, and we both erupted in a fit of giggles as I continued on in my tale of how Katie, the cupcake recipient, was both my frosting-filled soulmate, and my daughter's namesake.

I took her to the elementary school I attended. She was immediately drawn to a 30-plus year-old mosaic. I told her about the art bus that had come to our school for a week in about 1980, and how my class had worked on portions of the piece, and how my desire to work on it the following day had led to a series of events which resulted in me not being at home the night my mom in a drunken rage, nearly shot my dad.

I told my companion, "You asked for 'authentic', but if at some point this gets to be too much, you let me know, and I'll buy you a soda and take you back to Redding."

She nodded, and with a twinkle in her eye, said, "I see your near miss and raise you a dead brother."

A small part of me would like to say that we left it at that, but the rest of the day was interspersed with details of both our pasts that made it clear we each had experienced life with people who expertly put the FUN in dysfunctional.

We sat on the memorial bench in front of the school and I shared with her an hour's-worth of my best school memories-- the teachers who inspired me to learn, the friends who were a world-facing escape from a lot of weird living at home, the beautiful things about attending a small school along a ridgetop that I really didn't appreciate until much, much later in life.

As I took her further into Shingletown, we talked about writers we have enjoyed at various stages of life-- ‪#‎JudyBlume‬, Jodi Piccoult, Maya Angelou, Stephen King, ‪#‎AnneLamott‬... It is a blessing to talk about words with someone who loves words in the same way I do...

I took her to meet the old guy whom I long ago nicknamed Mr. Romano Cheese. He is responsible for that delightful piece of life advice I occasionally dispense, "There's a lil asshole in all of us, Sweetheart. The key is to find other people who know how to properly channel that inner asshole we all possess."

I took her to the site of the burned-out Big Wheels. "Yeah, some small towns complain about the local bar and grill being sort of half-baked. Ours has been twice-baked. We excel."

At my growing-up home, I showed her places where Bonnie and I used to play, and told her accounts of climbing trees and jumping off rooves and hiding treasures and learning survival skills.

"You jumped off THAT roof? In this life? And you're here to tell about it? What. The. Fuck?"

We scoped out peeps at The Store. There are actually two small markets in town now, but to my way of thinking, the one which bears the town's moniker and is attached to the post office, will always be THE Store.

I couldn't give her background fast enough between hellos and nice-to-see-yous to inform her of how I knew these people.

Both of us finally over-stimulated by the amount of traffic and people and stories, she jumped out of the car, ducked into the store, and came out bearing a paper bag well-wrapped around two bottles.

"Take me to That One Place," she said.

We hadn't talked of Any One Place during our travels. Using my best telepathy, I took her to a boat dock on a lake owned by the local power company. I had wanted to take her to a different boat dock on a different lake, but her shoes weren't really up to the fence scaling and general trespassing that likely would have been involved in getting there.

We each drank a Bartels & James while hotspotting off of her Super Urban Satellite phone. We shared a rash of giggles as we compared the similarities of our small town teenaged experiences.

I shared with her enthusiastically the news I received in an email about an order of shirts with my massage business logo on them. She was effusive with praise for me, "That's a really great marketing opportunity..."

I stopped her mid-sentence and confessed, "Yeah, it's all that, but mostly it's a legit way to deal with the very adult problem I have dressing myself every day. Now all I have to do is worry about pants. And maybe socks."

On our drive back into town, she spouted out process and contract negotiations, and other business stuff.

"If I am able to get this rolling for you, trust me that I get your challenges. You're going to write your ass off, and apparently, I'm going to be teaching you how to improve your wardro--scratch that, I'm going to be selecting some pieces for you to wear..."

With the right person, there is no such thing as inappropriate behavior.