Why do I keep trying to understand the list of many things that I do not. I carry around a fifty-one year old scroll of weathered paper inked with a variety of unknowns. Some once understood – now not. Many new, others ever-changing. The list grows…
If “Life is what happens when you are making other plans” – why plan
Why do traits that attract – become reasons to leave
How is walking in rain therapy to some – yet loathed by many
How does a special animal change a person’s life – what do you do when they go
Why does pain remain when the damage is long gone
How do butterflies know to show up when you need them
If writing can be an antidote for Depression – can it help with Understanding
Destiny, Obligation, Calling (words that are larger than life) – can you really see them coming
Herman Hesse wrote, “I have been and still am a seeker, but I have ceased to question stars and books; I have begun to listen to the teaching my blood whispers to me.”
Was there an event that opened his eyes to this realization or is it the wisdom of a tired traveler? When is it okay to let go of questions and simply embrace?
The surprises never end. Perhaps it’d be healthier to lean back: let the bad be curses and the good magic.
As always I learned while enjoying my day at the “Write to Understand” writing workshop on December 10th 2016.
Matt Love lives and teaches in Astoria, Oregon.
“Well isn’t everything more fun with a crazy bitch!?” flies out of the mouth of Mark the merchant marine, as a drunk couple finally stopped quarreling and left in a cab.
“Why yes it is!” laughed Erica the bartender.
Earlier I had taken a nap to put a break between a long day and a social experiment. More than the rest, I wanted to look through the lens of not really feeling like going out, but doing it anyway. Walking in the rain, across the street to the Workers Tavern, washed my face and cleared my head.
The creaking door and wet stained wooden floor greeted me. I eyed and claimed a stool at the bar. Moments later a guy (who could be Neil Diamond’s son) sat down next to me and said, “You a fisherman?”
“Oh, I’m a merchant marine. Anything exciting going on in here?”
As a quarreling couple brought their issues back inside from an herbal smoke break, she plopped down on the vacant stool between me and Mark.
“Really…Really! You’re really going to do this – Now?!” barked the guy. “The cab is here.”
Silently she stared forward while I ignore them. He moved closer toward me while pounding her with various forms of “Really!” As suddenly she pushed back from the bar and marched outside, followed by her guy.
In the following silence I sat and watched drops slide off my beer and run into carvings on the bar. As the words ‘Toys for Tots’ filled I noticed a sign behind the bar, “Those caught carving on the bar will be fined $100 – funds to be donated to Toys for Tots.”
Three guys rushed in like waves and landed on empty stools on the other side of the bar. The older one seemed to lead, whether by blood or air he acted like their father. After about an hour of noisy conversation with other locals the muscular one who’d been staring at me walked over and put a heavy hand on my shoulder.
“We’ve gotta stop all of this shit…” and something about “..Paris” was all that I could understand.
Father figure grabbed him and the other guy by the shirt and ushered them toward the backdoor. He growled at them, “If we can get out of here without a fight – I can go snuggle with my wife.”
Through the evening I made eye contact with a couple of senior locals, a smiling logger and a silent disheveled Santa. Their eyes reflected a weathered ‘Seen it all before’ look, quietly they sat and sipped.
Four hours, four beers and a shot of Crown later – I’d lived in another dive bar story.
I enjoyed the experience of another writing workshop “Dive Bars and Dark Stories” on Friday the 13th November 2015.
Matt Love lives and teaches in Astoria, Oregon.
Having spent most of my almost half-century of living in the Pacific Northwest has given me the experience of watching people crowd into an area.
Observing as humans wade through the economic tides and refine the process of developing land, starting with the easiest and taking steps into the more difficult and less desired parcels.
A sort of reckoning takes place. No change goes unpunished. Our natural environment has evolved over time into one that had its way of dealing with rainfall. As human needs replace what was, weather dictates what will be. The more hilly earth becomes smooth and paved, the more concentrated needs become for dealing with excess water when the rains fall.
An evolving complex formula has come about for building water retention sites. These man-made ponds are camouflaged scars to the earth. Displaying some examples of human bargaining with a blend of indigenous “natural plant-life” (cattails, grasses and trees) for wildlife and often some kind of appeal offering to the local payer of taxes (landscaping, trails and/or a park) to gain the right to develop, creating monuments to appease the gods of rain. These places of reckoning are hotly debated for long periods of time, constructed relatively quickly, celebrated briefly and then quietly slide into being largely ignored. Not Sarrah, she always spotted these places of reckoning and insisted that we investigate.
Two of these places evolved nearby in Sarrah’s lifetime.
The first one is located at the low point of a community college campus hidden behind a tennis court; it has a labyrinth of paved trails through trees and a bridge over the fluctuating pond. I recall reading that some college classes were involved in the layout designing and choosing plantings, some studies probably continue.
Another was constructed so that a three-field baseball park could be flat and dry. This park is behind our re-located local Post Office. The land was probably swampy pasture with some scrub trees and blackberry bushes before our International Airport grew making it too noisy for human habitation. This water management creation has a fenced-in small pond, a rocky “dry river bed” and a much larger water retention pond below (we saw it seasonally dry out and fill to the top). At times a choir of frogs fills the air with hypnotic notes. The trails here are simple paths worn in the grass by shortcutting kids and dogs with people.
When Sarrah discovered this place it became part of going to get my mail, the best part.
If it were up to Sarrah we would explore both of these typically quiet places on the same day, when freedom from commitments allowed, we did.
Years ago I drove by a little pond nestled between an outside bend of the Green River and a busy four-lane road. This little pond surrounded by trees somehow maintains peacefulness despite having another two-lane road beside it cross the other and a small bridge over the river. I drove on these roads to and from work two or three times a day for a few years. Then my job changed and I only drove by two or three times per week, for a few more years. I never stopped at this little pond with a totem pole, fishing docks for kids, couple of picnic tables, some benches and a gravel trail around it.
One day, driving by with a very young Sarrah she looked out the window at it (as I had more than two or three thousand times) and then at me, she began to get excited, we stopped.
Sarrah delighted in what I thought was harassing the ducks and geese that always seemed to be there, sending them swimming from one side to the other, two or three times each visit. Perhaps she was simply intrigued by their freedom.