The seasons changed. Summer, 2014, died, as summer’s often do, on Karin Temples birthday. That day, I watched a leaf tumble on the street, as I rode past it. Newt, nearby, is happy in his pavement trot. He often runs on softer surfaces, even on our cities wooden docks and trestles; he’ll sprint with pride, but rarely will he run on pavement or cement. That leaf tumbled in the breeze, end over end- red, brownish red, red, brownish red. The red pleasantly contrasted with the darker asphalt. These flashes of color, the leaf’s whimsical movements, reminded me of the scene in American Beauty, of the plastic bag dancing in the currents of air. I remember talking to Royal Nebeker about the movie, perhaps even that scene, so many many seasons ago, when he and Karin, and John Hauser were my instructors. I can’t remember what he said, about the movie. I remember the comments were favorable, and for me, the movie was its own bright contrast to the aching void that periodically engulfed me. The initial word of Royal’s mortal illness came through Susie McCleary, which has made me far more sensitive to reminders of that time. I’ve such fond memories of his classes; and I’ve almost a whole tribe of friends and friendly acquaintances that originated there. Obviously, he helped weave some magic to bridge the river of time. I was riding out to Howard Kleins to do a little work, we’re both hoping the rays of sun will linger long enough to get some painting done on his house. Howard too, has been moved by Royal’s illness. Royals kitchen was one of the first jobs he got when he came to this area, as a cabinet maker. He appreciated the leap of faith Royal and Sarah took in him. That ride I also stopped and picked a few remaining blackberries. I wondered if they were sweeter for being late on the vine, and whether the red ones would manage to ripen before the bush died. Ive been here for so long, but have paid attention to so little. The first hint of the seasons change came, at least, weeks ago. A hot summer day ended with a chilly evening autumn breeze. The wind came across the mouth across the mouth and then up the Columbia River; meeting me on the trolley trestle near the great curves and ark of the Megler Bridge. It carried the scent autumn. The cool moisture laden air kissed my face. It was such a beautiful, yet melancholy, feeling, a moment of sweeping majestic sadness. Mournful beauty, something that slips through the minds hand quicker, the hard it is grasped. I knew John Hauser was ill too, though I didn’t know how gravely. I’d stopped by his house, one evening, after helping Karin, when she stilled live at 731 Alameda. John’s house was only a block away. I was nervous about stopping by; the sense of failure still haunting me, but so much, that I wanted to avoid old mentors any more. Years had passed, but I’d missed John’s perspectives. I knocked, but such timing. He told me he had prostate cancer, but would give me a call. The call never came, and I didn’t wish to intrude. Over the last year, Monica Hartney circled back into the orbit of my life. She’s one of the friends I know from Clatsop Community College, from Royal’s art classes. We met for coffee at 3 Cups, the coffee shop under the bridge, to amongst other things begin getting caught up with each other’s lives. I felt something of the same nervousness with her as I did with John. I don’t have to explain my life to people who know me in the present, but to past friends, it’s uncomfortable, since I’ve achieve nothing of the norms of life’s expectations. I started by telling her about my episode of total loss and confusion, that happened, now several years back. I told her of my absolute loss of perspective, how senseless everything was to me; that the only small hope, I could see, was to give my life over completely to the one thing which, had on occasion, truly astounded me- to my intuition. I decided to follow my gut, as a young woman who came to Astoria by train, advised me on a foggy day, to do. It just took me more than a decade to surrender to the idea; to quit trying to be rational. Monica told me that the only thing in her life, which she couldn’t make any sense out of was the death of her horse. It had gotten out of its pen, and she went to get it, only for her to have to watch it get struck and killed by a vehicle. Her story reminded me of an incident that preceded my utter confusion, loss and doubt, which I shared with her. My brother Derrick let a friend of his daughter’s and her mother live with him for a few weeks. The woman had been evicted, because of something her ex did. When she found a place, she couldn’t take her dogs with her, so the dogs remained in the small chain link area adjacent to my brother’s house. Seeing these two dogs in perpetually in their small muddy area grieved me, and so, I took to coming by and taking the neglected fellows for a walk, when I had a chance. A routine developed, in which, I opened the gate and the dogs would run around the yard for a moment. It gave them a moment to let their most exuberant energies diminish, and then I’d leash them and take them for a walk. But one day, when I opened the gate, they ran straight down my brother’s driveway, and out into the street. A line of woodsy growth ran along the edge of my brother’s driveway, obscuring the view of the driveway to traffic. So the dogs had no chance of being seen by an oncoming car, before they were right in front of them. They were both run over. The larger one was struck hard, and died that night at the vet’s office. The car simply passed over the smaller one; it was completely uninjured. What a wracking pain. It was a horrible thing to witness. It was even more a horrible thing to be responsible for; I’d taken it upon myself to walking the dogs, no one had asked me to, and I’d gotten no one’s permission. Once again, I didn’t understand how I could make such a mess of things; have my choice turn out so wrong. Why why why why why. What was I suppose to do? WHAT? And there was nothing I could turn to, nothing I believed in…nothing. I told Monica, I saw the smaller dog, walking in Seaside, with its owner. So in the present, it was completely happy. It was the larger dog she couldn’t have in her knew place; so with its death she brought the smaller one to live with her. Monica had her own way of interpreting what happened to me. She told me (roughly), that in some spiritual way, I was trying to free the dogs from their unpleasant situation, and that the spirits of the dogs had honored that intent in their own fashion. This is perhaps poorly paraphrasing her words, but regardless, I wasn’t particularly moved by them. Yes, there is the hope that somehow, in some way we can’t perceive, as yet, all of the pains of this mortal dimension are transformed into the majestic and beautiful, into something pleasing even to the most deeply caring soul. Yes, there is the hope, but hope doesn’t make it so. I’ve swirled about in different currents in my relationship with Sharon Collyer. It seemed to me at one point this Summer, that she would leave this area, and that would be the last I’d ever hear from her. What seemed would be our last encounter, before she left, was unpleasant. Then, as I slept under a tree, near City Lumber, I was awoken, by a text message on my phone. Oh, modern homelessness. Sharon was upset. She’d run over a dog. She wanted to talk with me, and so I met her at the bench near the Maritime Museum. Mouse was happy to see us both, and Newt was happy to see them, however, Newt stunk a bit. She told me about the dog. A couple of pet sitters had left the house, not realizing the dog was outside, and it curled up into a ball and laid in the middle of the road. She killed it. We spoke about a few other things, hugged, and when she left town, we at least felt as friends again. I read about Royals’ death in the newspaper. Karin told me about John Hauser’s death, so close to Royal’: two of my professors; two of Karin’s collogues. She told me about the memorial service for Royal, and I wanted to go. All I needed was a ride and some respectable clothes, on short notice, but I trusted those would find me, even if I only had a day to find them, with no money. The service for Royal was beautiful and touching, and even at moments, funny. I sat in the far back, I was there, I needed to be there, not just for myself, but for a whole group of friends who couldn’t be, but I felt much the same way being there as I did knocking on John’s door. I didn’t want to intrude. I just wanted to somehow honor a man, who made my life more beautiful. There in the back too, were Michael and Petra, who I knew, who Karin introduced to me decades ago; and whom I worked for, for a spell. Florence Sage was in the back to; the counselor at the college when I went there; a friend. That young man, a name I can’t remember, half of Blind Pilot, I think, sat in the same row with me, his baby in his arms. How I love the sight of a doting father, of the cradled future – always the greatest generation; the reason death makes sense to me sometimes, so the young can come into the fullness of their being and importance. There were so many endearing stories at Royal’s service. I’d never heard Israel sing, and I admit, it was most pleasing, even if it was the only moment I wept. But a couple of stories stood out to me. Some of the brother’s told about watching their dog get ran over, but being completely uninjured. It was small enough that the car passed over it. Also Royal’s brothers spoke about having to push-start Royal’s Triumph. The car had no fender, just too little knobs, so it couldn’t be directly push-started with another car. The first solution to this problem was for one brother to sit on the back of the triumph and hold his arms and legs out against the front of the car giving the push. Another time, the brother sat on the front end of the car giving the push and put his legs against the Triumph. The cars came apart abruptly and the brother fell down between them. Everyone thought he’d gotten run over, but he was okay…uninjured. Later they solved the problem with a tire and a rope, which was carried in the car, instead of a youth’s body. There was a particular reason these stories stuck out in my mind. The service was held at the Mormon Church, and though I’d never been there, I knew exactly where it was. Only, it had changed a bit since I was in the area last, and I ended up driving right past it. I realized my mistake, and turned around. The reason I had failed to notice it was the parking lot had been extended since last time I’d seen it. So the familial trees and brush that use to precede its entrance were gone. I turned on Spruce, which now parallels the church’s expanded parking lot. I noticed that trees were gone on the far northwest corner too. There was no brush or trees anymore to block the view of what once was my brother’s driveway. Now the house adjacent to the Mormon Church belongs to someone else. I parked on Spruce. I thought briefly about the dogs I’d seen run over there. It made me hesitant to take Newt with me, to leave him un-tethered outside. What if I was wrong again? It was too hot though, to leave him in the car. So I trusted there would be some shady place outside the church for him to lay and wait. It was striking to listen to people talk about a dog being run over, a hundred feet from where similar grueling moment happened, in my life. It was almost surreal to hear about a young person being almost run over, when the car I had driven to Seaside, belong to Naomi, who was run over in her youth. My younger friend told me about that, earlier in the summer. She’d been riding in the back of a pickup and got bounced out and then ran over by the group of friends following. I told Naomi about a similar incident involving a black dog. I was riding my bike out years ago to, Olney, where I lived then and Naomi has lived her whole life, except now her college years. Two pickup trucks, passed me at a high rate of speed; driven by frolicking teenagers. When the leading truck hit the end of the metal grid of the bridge crossing Wallooskee River, it bounce so hard, the black dog in the bed was ejected out, and run over by the pickup of teenage friends following. I don’t believe the dog fared so well, but Naomi is a dance major. I know I write about these incidents from the oldest of prejudice, “I.” I know that John death and Royal’s death, grieves some very deeply. I don’t know that there is any rhyme or reason to it, in the here and now and even in what may yet be. But from where I stand now, on times river, there does seem a more beautiful mystery at play; there is at least the hope; there is the young father in a back row, holding the future. A changing of the seasons and all its falling beauty. There is hope, some tiny prick of light, or many tiny pricks of light, against a vast blackness.
Posted on: Thu, 25 Sep 2014 23:30:57 +0000
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