More Nostalgia, Tree Man division

My friend J wrote to chastise me for not writing about Tree Man in my previous post.  I told her that it was up to her to document that particular trip down memory lane, because she had the most interactions with him.  Also, he wasn't a problem patron, he was a volunteer.  And most of the volunteers I worked with were absolutely lovely people.  He was the anomaly.

He was in his late 30's I believe.  He wore jeans and flannel shirts and had long unkempt mousy-brown hair, parted in the middle, hanging down in a fuzzy, straggly mass.  He had a pitted, pale face, and looked a little like he'd lived in his parent's basement since his teens.

Actually, it turns out it was his brother's basement.  And he was volunteering because he had no work history.  According to J, his income from the previous 10 years was through sales of marijuana.  You gain a lot of interesting experience, of course, but I can see the difficulty of explaining the work gap, not to mention codifying the skills on the resume or job application

Entrepreneurial Sales, Agricultural.    Self-employed.  1979-1989

• Business skills 
• Able to organize and schedule shipments
• Able to keep financial records, set up payment plans, make change
• People skills 
• Able to inspire trust and confidence through maintaining confidentiality and providing a quality product.  
• Able to grow a business.  
• Reason for leaving:  competition and government regulations.  Desire for a more stable job.

Anyway, he was volunteering for the library to gain some skills and job references that would look credible on a resume.  His job was checking in the huge book drop, which was also one of J's jobs, so he spent a fair amount of time chatting her up. To be fair, she's very good at chatting with just about anyone, so he may have just succumbed to her conversational charms.

He worked for a few months and then stopped showing up.  I asked the Volunteer Coordinator about him, as I didn't have a phone number.  I'll always treasure her answer.  After saying that he was a bit sketchy, was living with his brother and had no job history or obvious skills, she said, "He's the type we can use, so I referred him to you."  Really?

We never did get him back, nor did we want to, but shortly thereafter J ran into him on the Johnson Creek bike trail.  It's a heavily wooded trail, a swath of creek land that cuts through the SE Portland residential area and later links up with other trails.  It is fairly heavily used, but because of the trees it feels lonely and isolated. She said he was just sort of hanging out, and told her that he'd been kicked out of his house.  She asked where he was living and he said, "Found a tree."  Totally creeped out, she hopped back on her bike and pedaled away.

So, he was an interesting character.  But he wasn't a problem, per se. And, as I said earlier, most of the volunteers were lovely people.  Many were students, looking for the community service credit.  For several years we had a mother/daughter team:  the mom was a teacher, the daughter a high school student.  Both were intelligent and creative, and writing a reference for the daughter was one of the biggest pleasures I've had.  (She was awesome, so the reference was just a little bit of icing.)

My dear friend B was a volunteer before she was hired by the system and then moved on to become an electrician.  Another woman was from Sierra Leone:  she was an elegant and beautiful black woman with a luscious and exotic French accent.  Later I ran into her and she loaned me her Pema Chodron CDs.  I believe she is living in Canada now.

While not all volunteers were as exceptional as they were,  most are pretty interesting people.  The reasons for volunteering are as varied as the people themselves, and only a small percentage have obvious mental issues, far fewer than the percentage of problem patrons.  At one point I was supervising close to 40 volunteers, and it was one of the easy and rewarding parts of my job.

I think I'd have to say the most rewarding volunteer experience was with the highly functioning autistic kid from the nearby high school.  He was doing a work study sort of program (I worked with a lot of interns, too), and he spent most of the school year shelving and shelf-reading for school credit instead of pay.  He was very quiet, tall and good looking.  He looked at you intently with round shining eyes out of an expressionless face, and he was detail-oriented and an excellent worker.  After graduation, he got a job at the convention center, which was a pretty cool gig for any young man.  Lots of great shows and games take place there.  He came in to the library to show me his badge and thank me for the reference and the work experience, and I almost cried.  He was so proud.

I don't think he'll end up living in a tree.

Easter morning

So many of my friends are heathens like me, that it is a surprise to log into FB and discover other friends  commenting on Christian joys and sunrise services.  I used to be in sync with that.  I remember in previous years going to church and singing Easter hymns in four-part harmony, looking at the lilies by the altar, enjoying the pastels and veiled hats and really cute little girls in little white shoes and stockings with lacy tops.  I used to decorate Easter eggs and take pix of them among the garden flowers.  I created origami baskets and filled them with Whopper Robin's Eggs for the family.  I harvested spring herbs for special omelets, and I made breakfast breads with cinnamon and raisins.  I was into it.

But today I am celebrating a quieter, less domestic, less-communal sort of re-birth.  I want to bring myself back to life, and that needs to happen alone.

It's a rocky path, though.  I woke at 5 and listened to the birds singing in anticipation of the dawn.  I put on a robe and went outside:  the air was cool, springlike, almost balmy.  I felt almost too warm in my fuzzy yellow robe.  The scent of some flower drifted past on a fresh early morning breeze, a light caress.  Daphne?  Lilac?  Something spicy, something sweet, something uplifting.  I breathed it in, sensing the serenity of the morning, but my eyes were still gritty and wanted to close, so I went back to bed and had an AWFUL dream about shopping for antiques, paying $75 for a broken box, and somehow upsetting two of my sisters.  I woke up and decided to start this day differently.  D is at the beach with his men's group, I have the shedroom to myself.  I will turn things around, do some Qi Gong, some Tai Chi Chuh, make some coffee, snuggle with my dog.

And it works.  The neighborhood is quiet, and my shedroom is like a little cabin in the woods.  My urban cabin:  I love it so much.  The light streams through the skylights, and I look east over my garden while I practise and putter about the little kitchen area.  The cat leaps to the window ledge and watches me.  She doesn't seem to want in, she is companionable but not snuggly today.

I realize that what I really want is to go back to where I was 20 years ago, living in a one-room converted milk barn.  Back then, I walked across the driveway to the big house to take my shower, and it was perfect:  I figured out what the weather was and planned my clothing while I washed away the sleep.  My house felt connected to the earth and sky, and I felt connected, too.  I read A LOT and listened to music.  I went for long walks with the landlord's dog, and spent a lot of time with friends.  I put a darkroom in the landlord's laundry room.   I had everything I needed.  I was serene, content.

My shedroom feels very similar:  I start every day with a stroll through my garden.  I walk around the house to shower, do laundry, use the bathroom, watch TV, use the kitchen.   I don't need those last three, at least not often.  My kitchenette is sufficient for the basics, TV is a time and brain drain, and once the composting toilet is installed, I am set for most daily living.  The big problem is that I cannot really go back to this simpler life and still live with D.  The shedroom is too small for two, and he can't live without the amenities.  It's really a space built with my needs in mind.  He likes it, but only on limited terms.

It's been a tough spring, a tough year, a tough time all around, and not just for me.   In general, I know how lucky I have been, how supported.  I still have my home, my family, my friends, my pets, my sanity, my health, my work.  Basically.  There have been stresses on all of these, and I find myself bone-tired by 9 pm, every day.  I don't answer phone calls, I don't go to choir or music night, I hurt people's feelings, I hide from them and the consequences of my actions.  I lose track of my keys, my phone charger, and my checkbook.  (I'm still looking for my keys.)  There is no rhythm to my days, and I haven't meditated or practised Tai Chi Chuh or violin or viola da gamba since.....I can't recall when.

The home is evolving, and it's an ongoing process:  working with the new tenants, trying to keep the airbnb going, still painting the house and fixing up the yard.  There's some remodeling left to do, and some reorganizing and de-cluttering (who knew we had so many pictures?  books?  vitamins?  bottles of cortisone cream?  ditto of lotion and shampoo?)  Every day has a big project attached to it, sometimes two.   Order is slowly being wrought out of the chaos, but it feels like it's taking too long.  I yearn for a stable environment.  I miss my friends.  I miss myself.

But, I do seem to have the remnants of hope to build upon.  I have proof, in fact.  Recently I sent this message to a friend who was checking up on me:

Thanks! The sale is over and garnered almost enough income to cover vet emergencies and paint and floor refinishing! We had spent a week trying to toss things, and then left the sale to the professional and skipped town to recover. The sale was 3/24-25.

We went up to Port Angeles to visit Dave's wonderful cousins, and Carbon's laryngeal paralysis kicked in....after one hour on the way home it was so bad we stopped at the nearest clinic. 3 hours later, after several shots, and oxygen treatment, we were on our way, only to stop yet again to spend the night at a Motel 6. Total cost, for all of this, $400.

It's really scary to hear your sweet old dog panting for breath for 5 hours straight. No more road trips for her.

Then we got home and found Simone had an abscess. It was so bad they put in a drain. She's a tuxedo cat, and it looks like a grotesque bow tie. It stays in for 72 hours, which means an RCA victor collar and being sequestered inside. When I put the collar on her, she backed into a corner, eyes round with fright, and refused to eat or drink. We left her in the living room over night, and in the morning she greeted me sans collar and made a bolt for the outdoors. But, we've managed to keep her fairly well contained, and she's leaving the drain alone, so such is life. She really is quite sweet, and doesn't fight me too much over all this unnatural treatment.

Cost for that, $170. It would have been closer to $700, but I got a wellness plan last year when she had what has become her annual spring abscess.

Amongst all of this, I decided that, while the rooms were empty, we really should refinish the floors and paint the walls before the new housemates move in. That's tomorrow. Needless to say, we are not meeting that deadline. Cost for floors, $500. Cost for paint, $350. Will be working with the housemates to finish up.

We made $1375 on the sale. You do the math!

I spent today reorganizing the entire kitchen and clearing away the grime of 20 years, prepping for a shared kitchen. The floor guys came today, so it was the only room we could access. Fortunately, the shed room remodel is basically done, and we can sleep and rest out there. We put Carbon and Simone out there to keep them away from the chaos.

During all of it, I've been bickering with D. It makes me so sad that we don't always pull together.  This work could be fun, or at least a way to build closeness.  Instead we argue about what to do and how to do it.  The moments of consensus emphasize the disconnects, and I can't seem to focus on the positives.

On the plus side, the various changes to my homestead are wonderful, and once the final arrangements are made, it'll be a huge relief. I've needed to declutter for a long time. I really like my little shed. It's like a cabin, with a peaked roof, roses peeping in the windows, rain on the skylights, a little kitchenette, and a shuttered closet. The only thing it lacks is a bathroom. We're adding an outhouse next week, and regular bathroom stuff will be in the main house. Reminds me of my days in the milk barn on Taylor's Ferry Road. 

Still, I'm doing okay. Still interviewing for library gigs, still renting the studio for airbnb, still working on call, still wishing for a new career. Looks like innkeeper or landlord is the most likely. At any rate, I'll try not to let you all down. I hope you are right about my ability to ride this out. It's pretty exhausting right now.

Okay, so, the remnants of hope are a little tattered.

Not done with nostalgia

Today was the UU 5th/6th grade roller skating party.  I've had to miss the last few ones, because of other commitments, but today was free, free, free.  So, vaguely remembering past parties, I changed out of my sweater so I wouldn't overheat.  I put money and ID into a pocket so I didn't have to mess with a purse, and drove off to Mt. Scott Community Center.

I've been there for swimming and water aerobics, but I had no idea where the rink was.  Turns out, you go around back through the parking lot on the east side of the building, down a switchback ramp, and under the basketball court.  It's a small rink, with waist-high walls surrounding it, and an aisle surrounding the walls.  There are openings at intervals in the walls, only two of which are in operation. Short, narrow benches are in the aisles on the east and south sides, bathrooms and a big room on the north side, and a small lobby area with an empty pop vending machine at the east door.  The floor is a shiny blonde wood, like a basketball court.  Being in the basement, there are support posts at intervals down one side of the rink:  they are colored navy blue and padded all around.  The kids swirl past them and swing on them and huddle around them.  Sometimes Cathy has to break up some sort of hugger-muggery, but generally the vibe is good-spirited.

I start out in the big room.  It has a large window looking out onto the rink.  They've set a table under the window, and parents have loaded it with chips, cookies, candies, fruit snacks, and water.  I drop off my chocolate-covered ginger and make a note:  there are Girl Scout cookies!  Thin Mints to be precise.  I plan to reward myself with them if I can stay on my feet for a few rounds.

It takes forever to get the skates on.  They are short beige boots, tight around the ankle, laced up the front, with orange wheels and the big orange toe stopper that I've never been able to use properly.  I'm a skate-into-the-wall kind of stopper.

I remember when I was in 5th grade, we had regular skating parties at the Rainbow Roller Rink.  Each grade school was assigned a specific night in the month, and grades 3-6 went.  One year at least 3 classmates had birthday parties there.  It was one of the main social events, growing up. The others were basketball games and movies. Of course, high school was a different  thing:  we had cruising, the IV (Italian Village Pizza), private parties, going to the mall.  But in grade school, the Rainbow Roller Rink was it.

The Rainbow rink was at least 3 times the size of Mt. Scott rink.  It was an entire building:  the end at the front had benches and rest rooms and a long counter where you got your skates and concessions.  The rink had outer and inner circles, with a hand rail along the outer wall.  That wall could be opened up and propped up on poles on warm nights, and you'd look out onto the fields:  the rink was located at the edge of town.  The floor a dull scuffed oak, grey-beige in color.

The skates were white for the girls and black for the boys, and they laced up like Doc Marten boots, with hooks instead of eyes.

The music was two decades old.  I remember swinging down the rink to the sound of Tommy Roe's "Dizzy."  It was perfect skating music.  I remember sitting out the couples moonlight skate, when the lights were turned low and the disco ball came into play.  Then back out again for the girls-only skate.  And off for the boys-only skate.  And out in the center for the hokey pokey and limbo (I was eliminated almost instantly.)  It was all choreographed, even to the owner, dressed all in black, skating around the rink with the kids to slow down the pace and keep an eye on us.  I was always impressed with the people who could skate fast, low to the ground, swinging one leg over the other around the turns, and with the folks who could skate backward.  I could get a little speed on, but nothing fancy.

I was an innocent.  I enjoyed the skating, but I was outside the whole social scene.  It was the grade-school kid's version of the high school dance.  There were assignations and dates and breakups, but not for me.  I knew that there were heart-burnings and private stories, and some of the older boys would go outside for clandestine activities.  I watched it and overheard conversations in the rest room, and then went back out for more skating.

Today is different, of course.  Part of it is the attendance:  it's a 2-1 ratio of kids and adults.   The boys seem younger than the girls, and the social stratifications seem non-existent.  There are some tyros, hugging the wall or skating hand--in-hand with parents.   Others go off in their usual groups, boys and girls in separate cliques, but friendly together.   No one does anything fancy.  I talk a bit, but I want to get out on the floor.

I don't remember how to skate.  I am afraid of falling.  (The kids are not:  they fall with abandon.)  I hold onto the round gray metal railing at the top of the wall, but it's too short to be a comfortable prop.  I pull myself around the rink.  My shins are burning, my feet ache, my little toe is rubbing against the boot.  I don't remember this.  I have to sit down, so I perch on the railing at the corner, back wheels propped on the baseboard.  The burning subsides, and I lower myself back to the floor.  The Beatles are playing, and eventually the muscle memory surfaces through the aches and I start swaying back and forth in time to the music.  I'm skating!

An hour later, though, I'm done.  I'm sweaty and stinky, we've done the hokey pokey, and it's time to leave.  I take off the skates, and my feet take on that floating feeling I remember from 5th grade:  once the heavy skates are off, your feet feel lighter than air.  Then you go out into the frosty air, heavy coat over sweaty body, walking home under the winter stars, crunching through the snow.

Today it was pouring rain, but somehow it felt the same, minus the innocence.  And the stamina.