Keep In a Cool Dry Place

Two weekends ago, I spent another few days on the coast, comprising the Guitar Shorty concert, encountering the tour bus the night before the show, time in the ocean, a new tattoo, Tsunami Nacho food, new friends, old friends, and some of the best sleep I ever get—nestled in the Redwoods, and within the smell of the ocean. 

It’s the smells that really provoke me in this life.  My eyesight, like most middle-aged humans, is waning, but smells seem to cloak me in old memories, new moments, and reminders of things that should be eternally embraced. 

My drive home along the lakes which hug Highway 20 was unremarkable on many counts.  The weather was scorching as usual for August, the traffic was doggedly slow in all the wrong places, and my patience was a little worn as I sought to break free onto I-5 and race home for a client who would be waiting for my arrival.  I felt annoyed as I pulled into a convenience store parking lot, stopping primarily because of nature’s call.

After relieving that immediate need, I gazed furtively around the store, deciding to find something cold to drink, as the beverages in my ice chest were beginning to warm in the water that had transformed from ice the day before.  I was even more compelled to purchase a cold drink when I realized that I was going to be afforded the luxury of walking into a cooler to select an item.  The mere thought of being embraced by 38-degree cool air was enough to propel me to the other side of the store and into the refrigerated haven. 

The chilled air hit me like enthusiastic embrace of a long-lost friend.  As I took in my first deep breath of the cool air, the reunion hit a horrifying snag.  The cold, musty smell took my breath away.  I knew that smell from my childhood, when my parents operated a small restaurant resort.  Something living was decaying inside that walk-in.  My in-the-moment, logical brain told me, ‘probably lettuce or a soft cheese,’ based on the fact that the store made deli sandwiches.  But that logical order of thought was completely usurped by the invasion of a dark, coarse, damp, wet memory—one I had no idea I’d been housing for over thirty years.

What overtook my road-weary, slightly hung-over, completely over-indulged-from-the-weekend body at that moment was a point in time from late 1982.  Decaying produce, the cold-yet-swampy smell of an ancient ‘beer cooler’, the dim lights of same, all swirled in my brain, along with the smell of a cigarette-stained, beer-infused, bearded, dirty man. 

Somewhere back in that place in time, this man would regularly take me into that cooler, with permission from at least one adult who should have been keeping me safe.  Inside that cooler, I smelled, felt, and tasted things no child should ever have to recollect.  I am thankful for a brain which barred the memory from me for three more decades.  I am angry for a lack of recollection which has probably subconsciously driven more than one of the many poor choices I have made in my lifetime.

As I stood in the cooler somewhere in Lake County, I was overwrought with the flood of memories rushing through me.  On the verge of totally losing my cool, I stood in a corner, pretending intently to be deciding between cranberry juice and sparkling water.  I pretended to make trivial choices while tears flowed wholesale, in cascades, down the side of my 46 year-old face.

Wiping tears and mascara on the bottom of my tank top, I finally made the decision to just leave the store, making no purchase at all.  I got back into my car, pulled out a luke-warm bottle of water from the ice chest, and started the car. 

The drive from there to Redding was a bit of a blur, but this I do know—it was a swift one.  And a teary one.  And one that had me singing to every rock song I could find on the radio—at top volume—anything to avoid getting hit by The Feels on any more intense of a level than what was already battering me. 

Most of last week was also a blur, in terms of this situation.  I didn’t sleep well.  Nightmares were in high supply.  Sleeplessness was prescient, as was anxiety, and a mess of additional memories returning for some really fucked up homecoming. 

By Tuesday, the sleepwalking, and the attendant sleep-shenanigans had manifested.  My beloved “Hugger” pillow had been ripped open as part of a dream where I was trying to claw my way out of the beer cooler. 

I finally took some control over the situation.  I met with my counselor, who has had to walk me through other similar childhood traumas.  I was super honest with him:  I don’t want to be raw through this.  No Feels.  To that end, I have nursed a $120 bottle of Gold Reserve Jameson whiskey this week.  I have had an outing with one of *those* friends.  I have gained twelve pounds in eight days in an attempt to board up the hurt, anger, disappointment, shock, and sadness.

Despite those efforts, still I’ve been overcome with the return of this situation.  By Thursday, I had replaced The Hugger—with an even better version.  And I made a phone call, one which put me in contact with the violator in this situation. 

When he returned my call, I was on the other end of the line with a gravelly-voiced, aged, ailing man who did not have any recollection of me.  The comedian in me couldn’t help but giggle.  I mean, really, I didn’t remember him until a week ago.  The little girl in me was wholly pissed off.  What happened in that beer cooler should never have occurred.  That he was claiming no recollection was an affront I didn’t quite know how to accept, or process, or understand how to redeem. 

Though he was initially reluctant, he agreed to meet me.  Sunday morning, I drove to the small town where I grew up, down a familiar dirt road, and to a place that held other more pleasant memories for me.  It was some real irony for me that he now lived in a place that I associated with good times. 

We talked.  I confronted.  He shrank.  He denied.  He wilted—sort of like lettuce sitting too long in a beer cooler.  Finally, after assuring him that I only want to make sense of something so senseless, and that I want this shit to be back in his lap where it belongs, he confessed.  His apology was weak, or at least I think it was.  There may have been a sincerity there that I overlooked, because I have honestly had it up to *here* with people from my childhood blaming their drugs and their booze for a whole lot of abuse, neglect, and general lunacy.  

Regardless of those degrees of humanity in something so messy, I feel like I have offloaded the burden.  The process in doing so may not have been as perfect, or as exacting as anyone would want, but I am at peace with that much of it.

This is the second time I have confronted someone like this.  This is the first time I am still angry after the confrontation, but for now, I am okay with that, too.  I think it will dissipate.  The anger I shared with him yesterday made an impression.  To the extent he remembers, I am sure he will not forget.  And with that, I am carrying a lighter load.

Summer Drives

As I traveled between Sacramento and Mendocino via the I-80 corridor yesterday, I experienced something akin to déjà vu as I recalled making the same drive along I-80 several times in the summer of 1987.  It was a curious thing to think about the similarities and the differences between then and now…

The destination—in 1987, I was taking trips right into San Francisco, meeting up with friends I’d ironically made working at the Big Wheels in Shingletown.  George and his buddies were regular visitors to the area.  At eighteen years old, I was all agog at being in The Big City.  While I had lived in my very early years in the Los Angeles area, my parents transplanted us to Shingletown when I was eight, so my growing up years were rural—very, very, rural.  Weekends in San Francisco were filled with evenings quietly tiptoeing through the KPIX studios where my buddies worked, and then checking out interesting angles and lines to the city’s night life.  I fell in love that summer with the architecture and design of the beautiful city. 

This summer, almost 30 years later, I have been frequenting the Mendocino area, loving the interesting and eclectic blend of offbeat culture, beautiful forests, and the Pacific coastline.  There is something so soothing to me about walking beaches, and communing among the redwoods.  And the people I meet here are awesome. 

The music—that summer in ’87, I was constantly on the lookout for Huey Lewis and the News, the first couple of visits missing him by days in one direction or the other because of the band’s tour schedule.  My persistence finally paid off, having met him at a media event and winding up with opportunities to see him perform, and even attend Forty-Niner games at the sideline as he sang the national anthem at the start of the games. 

This year, with a verve that seems to come from the same youthful resonance all those years ago, I have been chasing after musicians all summer, enjoying the music, and meeting people who have that beautiful hunger and passion for the talents they’ve been given.  In 1987, the pursuits were completely successful only because of luck and happenstance.  As a woman in my forties, I am equipped with a radar, and intuition, and a perseverance of a woman on a mission.  I want.  I seek.  I find.  Tour buses, meals, after-hour jams, and new friendships have all fallen out of the musical tree in my pursuits this year. 

The wheels—in ’87, I was cruising around my universe in a 1975 Mercury Monarch.  I had bought it from Chuck and Carol Ann Dinning, as Carol Ann had upgraded to a new ride.  It had four doors, of which only two fully worked from both the inside and the outside.  Ditto on the windows.  But wow, that car could go fast.  Typical of a teenager, I was not fully satisfied with the ride, and longed to have a car that was smaller—cuter—and more fuel efficient.  In retrospect, I really had it all with that car.  The back seat was so huge I could—and did—sleep in it on some of my longer adventures.  I recall longing to get into a car with a car payment back then, as I felt that would be some sort of rite of passage, some big deal that made me more adult. 

This year, I’m driving a smaller, “sportier” car that probably would have filled the bill for the longings of eighteen year-old me.  As a middle-aged woman, I try not to curse on my longer road trips as I sit crunched up in my little Mitsubishi Mirage, a veritable ergonomically-incorrect torture machine that leaves me in need of body work after every adventure.  And there is no way I’m going to sleep in the back seat of this thing! 

This car also brings with it the unique opportunity to be ‘profiled’ almost every time I drive it in an urban area, as with its large rims and slim tires, it apparently takes on the look of gangster trouble.  While not the ideal ride, I love this car, as it has helped me travel thousands of miles over the past fifteen months I’ve owned it—seeing, living, loving, learning, and moving on in life.  I paid $1500 for it, and could not be happier that I don’t have a car payment or the need for an upgrade. 

As I drove through Fairfield yesterday, listening to Hall & Oates on CD, I thought about how many times I’d listened to that same band in the Monarch, on cassette tape.  Back then, I would sing along, but look side to side, furtively, so as not to be caught by other drivers.  Now, I roll down the windows in the slowed traffic, crank up the tuneage, and dance it out.  Sometimes, along with whomever is driving along side along the highway. 

It fascinates me, the things in life that change, and the things that don’t.  

Give Until You Get It

Sometimes, I get a bit overwhelmed in life by the things I can't seem to control.  It was part of the downfall for me in my last marriage.  Since then, I've worked hard to separate those things I can do nothing about from those things over which I do have dominion.  And I've been pretty successful at separating that kind of wheat from its chaff.

Today, for the most part, I felt less successful at it.

I had a client whom I was unable to immediately bring pain relief.

I received an email back from a City Council member indicating that we are going to just sit by and wait for damage to be done to the old RPD building and grounds instead of attempting anything proactively to better keep transients out of that area.  (I can just about hear the echoes of the chain link fence already as they begin to scale their way in.)

My daughter is still radio silent in my direction.

Despite being conservative in my use, my electric bill was ridiculous this month.

Finally, this afternoon, I ran screaming from the building, to get a little sunshine, and to get some errands accomplished.  So fast was my escape, I did not even change clothes, leaving still draped in exercise pants and a winery T-Shirt.

As I was stuck in traffic, I mulled over all these things which were making me cranky.  I began ticking off the list of things I could do...

While I was waiting in line at the courthouse, I tapped out an email to my pain-ridden client and gave him some more exercises that may help his situation.  I've given them to him before, but I decided that the reminder might spur him, and let him know that I care.

I sent my daughter an email simply telling her I love her and I miss her.  That she will not respond is not my issue, letting her know I love her is.

When I got to REU, where I had to show up in person in order to resolve a long-standing confusion over which suite in this building is mine, I also paid a utility bill that is twice what I paid this month last year.  Some of that is because business is booming, and some of it is just plain I-don't-know.  But I decided to pick my chin up off the floor about it, and be grateful that I am more than able to make the payment.  Then I watched a woman in another transaction counting out coin change-- a lot of it-- to pay part of her utility bill.  I decided it was more than I could bear to watch, and I paid her bill, too. In addition to the joy of giving, it put some things in perspective for me electrically speaking.  My bill may be bigger than it was last year, but it is nowhere near as huge as what this woman had to pay.  I need to do a better job of remembering how blessed I am to be where I am at, even in its occasional imperfection.

When I went to the market, I grabbed the few things I needed, and was hoping to slide right out and on to other things.  My line was slowed up by another woman who was paying for her groceries with coupons, vouchers, and change.  I'd been saving my tip money this week to buy a kayak.  I can't tell you how much I don't care that my kayaking plans are on hold, because six kids are going to eat AND have fuel in the family car during this last week of the month.  Every time I go to the market lately, I come out with an enormously heavy heart over the cost of food, especially when I put it in perspective of so many families I know who have kids to feed.  Lately, every time I go to the market, I take extra money with me in the hopes that I can help someone else out, too.

And it's not that I share these things to get a pat on the back, or be called a nice person.  There are so many more things I do in secret, and at infinitely greater sacrifice, that I will never tell.  I give, because it's the right thing to do.  I'm telling you all about it, because I feel genuinely compelled that someone(s) out there need to hear this message.  I am learning more as time goes on that my gift to write is not just about composing and arranging words to my joy and satisfaction, it is because sometimes people benefit from what I choose to share.

Anyway, I finally got home, and as I was entering the building lobby, I realized with both equal measures of joy, and concrete reality, that I am pretty much broke for the week.  And I wouldn't have it any other way.

But what I know about this life and the laws of reciprocity, deeds in this universe don't often go unrequited.  In my mailbox, I found gifts from Dutch Bros.  One of my Dutch Babies ordered me a new tank top and new lids for my flasks.

I got a little teary at the generosity and thoughtfulness.  With my own kids off doing their own thing, my nest feels horribly empty sometimes, and the abundance of love that a bunch of baristas show me completely blesses and overwhelms me sometimes.  

While I was getting changed into the newest addition to my ninja wardrobe, there was a knock at the door.  Already, my head was a-twirl with the fear that I'd forgotten a client, or something else equally dreadful.  What I was met with instead was the mother of the girl I helped down on the street yesterday.  She brought me flowers.  We hugged.  We laughed.  We cried.  And I was grateful.  Grateful that I was here to help her daughter yesterday.  Grateful that I had a chance to tell this woman that it's going to be okay, that she WILL make it through this thing called motherhood.  

Ultimately, what I think I gleaned from my adventures today is that no one really gets through life purely on their own steam.  Whether it's helping others in crisis, blessing their financial needs, or even just touching lonely hearts, we don't make it through this life on our own.  We are all in this together.  And isn't that a great thing?

Help Fight Cancer the Easy Way

This is Robin Renault and her family.  The degree of her awesomeness is pretty up there.  She is married to a SWAT team officer with the RPD.  She is the mother to two charming young men.  She owns two businesses.  And she is the face of cancer.

She has never herself housed the disease, but she has fought no less a fight.  Her sister, Heather, has a husband who has survived cancer, a daughter who has survived cancer, and a daughter whose cancer battle took her home to Glory.  She lost her mother to the sheer dismay and disconsolation of these cancer encounters in the family.

I've known Robin since she was just out of diapers-- since she was a little rock star dancing to Michael Jackson videos.  Her whole life she has had a resolve to her that I admire.  When she puts her mind to something, it gets done, and usually with a degree of excellence to which we all could aspire.

This year, Robin is the Relay for Life coordinator in our region, and she just pulled off that very successful annual event here in Redding last month.  Now, she is on her way to Washington, DC to go talk to lawmakers about the importance of continued cancer research funding.

In my 20's, most of my work career was devoted to making this same kind of outreach to the federal and state governments in an attempt to change forest policy in the Pacific Northwest.  What I learned during those years was that the best way to impact Congress was to put a face to your issue, and be able to articulate in person the impact that legislation will have on communities and on families.  It is the nature of the congressional beast that our legislators simply don't listen to much of anything except what is right in front of them.

We are all fortunate to have someone like Robin willing to be front-and-center for an issue as pervasive as cancer.  It touches almost all of us.  If you are a person who hasn't actually had it, you've probably watched a loved one battle and/or lose the fight to it.

As part of Robin's trip to the Nation's Capital, she has been asked to raise funds via luminaria bags.
Donate Here

 You know the drill.  Drop a couple stops to Starbucks this week, and send that $10-spot to the cause.  It's a ridiculously small price to pay.  You make the donation, she leaves her children and her two businesses for a week to go lobby for policies that help us all in the fight against cancer.

JUST DO IT.  And when you do, let me know, and I will match your donation, up to a total of $100.

I am... In this Moment

As part of my personal growth in life these days, I am learning the art of approaching life intentionally, deliberately.  The changes I want to make will only come when I am actualized in that change.  There is no more "I will..." only "I (do)..."

It's not that "I 'will' write down what I eat before I eat it," it is, "I write down what I eat before I eat it."  No future tense.  In this moment, this is one of the things I do.  It changes the accountability.  If I write down what I eat before I even put it in my mouth, I am confronted with the reality of my decision before the moment even occurs, the view what that will look like as part of my personal history, and with the consequence of how my action correlates (or does not correlate) with my goals and direction in life.

Eating pie for breakfast is not consistent with me walking the Pacific Crest Trail.  It is not consistent with my desire to wear a halter top.  It is not consistent with my desire to play volleyball.

I'm happy to say that this morning at the farmer's market, the moment I sat at the bench and texted myself, "11:14 a.m. a slice of pie", I was repulsed by the notion.  I was painfully aware of the backward step that would be in terms of growing into the person I choose to be (not the person I 'will' be, nor the person I 'want' to be, but the person I AM, right here, right now.)

I am coming to realize that so much of my life I have lived for what I sought in the future tense, or attempting to salvage things-- or find comfort from-- the past.  Yet, neither of these acts are ones of 'living'.  For in the past, we can only embrace reflection, and in the future, we can only embrace hope.  It is only in this moment right now, that we truly live.

Today, I lived without pie for breakfast.  And I am glad for that choice.

We Should All Be Sparked By Baby Ember

For those of you who are not local, or who are and may not have heard, a six month-old baby, Ember Graham, was reported as missing on July 2, 2015 from her father’s home in the Happy Valley area in Shasta County.  Yesterday, July 7^th, the search for the infant was suspended, based on information gathered from the Shasta County Sheriff’s Department, which leads authorities to believe that this is not a case of child abduction as first reported by Ember’s father, Matthew Graham. 

I am choosing to write about this, because there has been so much hullaballoo and finger-pointing in the news and on social media—did the dad kill the baby?  What did the mom know?  Divisions have been borne, with camps entrenched in support of mom, in support of dad, berating the Sheriff’s Office operations on this case, etc. 

Let me throw a few broad notions out here first.  The Sheriff’s Office is doing their job, with the training and resources available.  Not all information being gathered in the case has been disclosed to the public, as that is standard operating procedure in an investigation.  This is not a sign of incompetence.  It protects the integrity of that investigation, as well as the safety of officers, persons of interest, and others in the process.  If you have a problem with the Sheriff and how he’s running things, he is an elected official, and in a smallish county the size of ours, you have a pretty big voice in whether he keeps his job or not.  Save that discussion for the ballot box if you have a problem with how he’s doing his job. Let’s get back to the fact that there is a missing baby, a grieving family without closure, and a community trying to make sense of an avoidable tragedy.

Second, though we want answers, and we want them now, we all need to respect the process.  Investigating humans and their shenanigans takes time.  It’s a messy prospect at best, and rarely does it look like the neatly packaged cases solved on TV crime shows. 

What I want to do in this post is shed some light for a moment on some of the more quiet, yet disturbing, aspects of this case; and for all of us to think about what each of us can do to help prevent tragedies like this one in the future.  I don’t know about you, but the fact that there is a missing (and likely dead) infant and a grieving family in our community, saddens me. 

We live in a world that is at times imperfect, and in some parts, evil.  As a society and a culture, we will always fall short in attempting to correct or change “bad” behaviors in others.  That does not, however, mean that we do not have an obligation to lovingly be our brother’s keeper, show some concern, and appropriately, but demonstrably, seek accountability from one another.

In this press release, the Sheriff’s Office reveals several things about the case that I find alarming, both in their physical presence, and in what it says about the rest of us, collectively. 

The Sheriff’s Office states that in questioning Matthew Graham, it was learned that he was living in a 25’ camp trailer, with no running water or working bathroom.  Sewage from the main residence on the property was in such disrepair that it flowed into a cesspool.  Where was anyone in the extended family or community questioning the safety of a small infant in this situation?

The news has reported consistently about the baby’s high risk for seizures, and her inability to sleep much through the night.  These are symptoms highly consistent with pre-natal exposure to methamphetamine.  If this is the case, where were people supporting her through pregnancy, and where were the authorities in ensuring the baby’s safety post-birth?

I have to wonder, how many people noticed something ‘not quite right’ in this family’s situation, and chose to ignore, or to gossip and judge, instead of finding ways to lovingly support or intervene?

I put all this out there just to remind ourselves collectively that as a community, and as a culture, we are only as strong as our weakest members.  It is in our best interest as a society, and as individuals, to convey that love and concern.  It’s not always easy, and it’s not always convenient.  It will require that we get out of our hermetically-sealed suburban bubbles and interface with others.  It may mean we are late to soccer practice, or it might mean learning to communicate with people we find “odd” or that we perceive as having nothing in common with us.  Do it anyway.  Do it, because you don’t want it to be your son sitting in a jail cell prospectively facing murder charges.  Do it, because you don’t want to go to a funeral with a neighbor who just lost a grandchild.  Do it, because it’s the right thing to do.  

It's Not Homelessness When It's Your Choice

I met a man named Ray a week or so ago, out in front of the Dutch Brothers on Eureka Way.  It was early, and I’ll be honest—I was really in no mood for his unsolicited conversation.  Pre-caffeinated Susanne is most often a sketchy prospect. 

As Ray began to talk, I couldn’t help but become, if not curious, somewhat alarmed.  According to Ray, he’s in his seventies.  He's wicked smart.  He's got a great vocabulary, and he knows a lot about U.S. History.  

He also had a 40-year drug habit.  Initially, he shared with me that he’d quit, but at various other parts of the conversation, he would mention the occasional relapse—primarily with cocaine.  This habit had caused him two heart attacks.  Healthwise, he indicated that he’s doing much better, literally back on his feet, after taking a nasty fall about a year ago, and being chair- and crutch-bound. 

He lives on the streets.  In fact, the most personally unsettling part of the conversation was that HE recognized ME.  At one point, he said, “Yeah, that’s a nice building you live in,” pointing to the place where I live and work, less than a block away. 

I asked him how he knew me, and he proceeded to explain to me that he often sleeps across the street from my suite, in the Old City Hall lawn.  I had never noticed him, but he was very aware of some of my details—which windows belonged to me, the sounds of laughter a couple nights before (pretty, like tinkling glass, he said), and the smell of my cinnamon candles in the early spring, when it was still cool enough to leave the windows open in the earlier evening. 

He explained to me, almost as a badge of honor, that he gets picked up by the police, “once or twice a week.”  I politely asked him why the police were targeting him, and his response was, “Oh, you know, the usual bullshit: trespassing, loitering, sometimes drinking.”

Another of the shocking details to me was that he has a payee for the monies he receives from his retirement and his disability.  There is someone out there who is “helping” him with his money—a more than modest sum of it—and he STILL does not have a roof over his head.  How can this be?

The more we talked, the more I realized that he PREFERS his rooflessness.  He reminded me of someone out of a Roger Miller song, sort of hoboing about in life, content in his marginalized existence, wearing some aspects of it proudly. 

His resourcefulness was a curious thing.  Aside from the small cup of coffee he purchased, the driving factor for him sitting at the Dutch Bros that morning was the free electricity.  At the menu board in the drive-thru lane, there is an empty electrical socket, which not only does he use, but he also “stores” his cords there from time to time, claiming that his belongings often get stolen from the other places he “stashes” them. 

I asked him several times, several different ways, why it was that he didn’t rent a house or an apartment.  At one point, he launched into an account of how he owns homes in SoCal, and lets other family members live there.  Once, he actually said he just prefers to do without the “hassle” of having a place to live. 

I hugged him as I left, and made him pinky swear we wouldn’t talk about the smell of my candles any more.  I can’t explain why I feel such a sense of exposure by that, but I do.

As I walked home, I again mulled over so much of what’s going on downtown.  Sleeping in public spaces, drunk in public spaces, trespassing, littering, assaults, burglaries.  As Ray demonstrates, it’s just not as simple as putting people in houses.  Many won’t stay.  Some, because of mental illness and drug addiction will destroy the structures.  It’s not safe for these transients, or for the rest of us, to be exposed to the unchecked behaviors. 

I keep getting stuck on this idea that we need to clarify who is out on the streets.  Some people are suffering misfortunes-- job loss, marital separations, etc.-- which create situations where families or individuals are homeless.  But then there's the Rays of the city.  He's not hanging his hat anywhere because he doesn't WANT to.  What do we do about this?  At what point are we going to say that his 'freedoms' are causing problems, and his choices are causing harm?  And at what point are we going to find a collective solution about it all?