Wednesday, January 28, 2004

Almost Famous

When I was about sixteen years old, a friend of my mother's came to the house to visit. She brought another acquaintance named Vicky with her, and the usual conversations ensued as they drank their afternoon coffee. I remember rounding the corner of the hallway to find Vicky looking at the collection of family photographs hanging on the wall. You know the kind of family picture sprawl that dates from babyhood, showing every embarassing school photo ever taken - with space left for the ones yet to come. I stepped up next to her to see who she was examining so closely.

Vicky was staring up at a large black and white portrait of a handsome mustached man sitting at what looked like a ship captain's desk. There were maps spread out before him, and an oil lamp hanging from unseen rafters above. He held a pipe in one hand, and gazed into the camera with a steady confidence. Vicky's mouth was hanging slightly open, and her brows were knitted together as she studied the portrait. After a moment's silence, she slowly tore her gaze away and looked at me. "Why... do you have a picture of Captain Puget hanging in your hallway?"

I laughed as I looked up at the man, shrugging as a sixteen year old does. "Because....he's my grandfather."

Her eyes flashed open wide. "Captain Puget....is your GRANDFATHER?? You... have no idea... I loved him when I was a kid! I watched every show he ever had! I watched Exploration Northwest... he's really your grandfather? Really??"

I couldn't help but laugh. I never really encountered someone who was so stricken by the fact that I might be related to this man. I peeked up at him and shoved my hands in my pockets. "Well...yeah. We've got the same last name too, y'know."

Vicky silently mouthed that name as her smile spread across her face. "Of course!!! I always knew your name sounded familiar, but... I just never thought. Wow.... can you tell me about him?? What's he like?? Oh I had the biggest crush on him when I was young...."

And that's how it went. That was the first time in my life that I realized a large secret about my grandfather. He had a certain fame. I stood there in the hallway listening to Vicky's tales of growing up with Captain Puget, and then the excitement of watching Exploration Northwest...and all of the adventures that my grandfather would take his weekly viewers of the Pacific Northwest on. She spoke of the shows with bright eyed wonder, looking at me as if I was going to jump in and nod my head, agreeing with her on each enthused point. What she saw instead was a very blank eyed look, and perhaps a whistful smile...but there was no agreement. I only listened until her words tapered into another slow question. "You do know what I'm talking about...don't you? His television shows?"

"I've never seen them, Vicky..." I replied in flat truth. I had heard of the shows, sure. Exploration Northwest had even been in production and shown on TV as I was growing up and old enough to appreciate them. There were days that I was probably glued to the Muppet Show, or Mash... when just two channels over my own Grandpa was taking his viewers on yet another wild outdoor adventure. He won 26 Emmy awards for the program, over the duration of the 21 years he wrote and produced it. And I had never seen a single episode.

Vicky looked absolutely crestfallen when I told her this. It was as if I stole all the glory of her meeting his actual flesh and blood. In fact, I had never really given it a thought.... because I didn't know any better. I knew the man. I didn't know his accomplishments.... and I could thank my Father for that.

I was his grandaughter, but my grandfather had divorced my grandmother years before I was born. He remarried....and the new family that came from that union overshadowed anything he had in the past, including his children... my Aunt and Father. Because of that, there was little spoken about the man in the household. In fact, the first memory I have of him is an autographed picture in my scrapbook. I asked my Mom who it was. She pointed to it and said "That's Grandpa Don". I stared at it and asked her why he had signed his picture with his name, instead of just saying "Grandpa". "Because," she said quietly, "he likes to sign pictures that way."

We would go to his lovely log cabin sometimes... my mother and I, along with my two cousins. We would race out to the pasture and pet his blind horse Chinook. Grandpa would scoop us up in a hug, and then off we would go with his daughter and two sons, technically my Aunt and Uncles- though they felt more like cousins - and the adults would sit around the fire and talk about things I didn't have the patience for.

He was an amazing storyteller. He had a voice that simply drew you in to whatever he was saying. He was a polished writer as well, penning the story of Washington State in a beautiful book accompanied by photographs that a friend of his took. I remember this being on our coffee table for years, inscribed to my mother. I never appreciated where my heritage came from... this love of writing. The wish to tell a good tale. I never really took the time to think of where the talent might have stemmed from... and all along it was this man who was divided from my life because of the turmoils of the adults who surrounded me.

The last time I saw my grandfather was at my wedding. His hair had gone from slick black-brown, to shock white. He wore a white suit, and walked with a cane...but still stood tall. My memory of actually talking to him that day is a blur. A hug, a shared laugh... and off I went into my life without a second look back. He died less than a year later.

As I walked up to the burial site, I felt a wash of emotions well up from within. How could I have let a whole life slip away without ever really scratching the surface? I stood quietly, listening as Chief Seattle's great, great grandson performed a Duwamish Indian Burial Ceremony. I watched as he stood before the children of my Grandfather... speaking ancient words of assurance, and realized that nobody at that funeral aside from them knew that I was also flesh and blood of the man they were honoring. That I too had his spirit in my veins, coursing through me, appearing in so many facets of my life. Storytelling, music, art. A passion for adventure.... a lust for travel. Why had I been robbed of being able to share these things with him? Why had my father let his own bitterness barricade me away from this great man? I looked around me, to look in my father's eyes as if to seek the answer... but he wasn't there. He did not attend the funeral.

Now, years later, I am only coming to understand the great treasure that was lost to me. How I wish I could sit and talk to Grandpa now...to listen to his stories. To hear his grand adventures, and to show him that his love for writing lives on in me. I wish I could have told him how proud I am to have such a man's blood in my blood. I wonder if he ever had an inkling of what his grandaughter was capable of.


Friday, January 23, 2004

I've had dreams lately....

...odd, peculiar dreams. Noteable, to the point where I made certain to write them down in order to share. They've been GLORIOUSLY detailed. Vivid...sprawling dreams. So many that in actuality there are too many to tell. But one night in particular was incredible. Although I am departing from my normal journal entries....I will share one more dream.

It began with mist. I could sense it all around me, a thick harbor mist tainted with salt and deep ocean. It was brushing my face, and I opened my eyes when I felt the ground beneath me moving in a slow rolling motion. I glanced down, and realized I was not standing, but in fact sprawled wide leg upon something. Almost as if riding a horse, but my legs were spread far too wide for a horse. Within the dream, my vision panned back...and I realized I was straddling a mammoth elephant. Not just a 'big' elephant, we're talking the size of a ship. HUGE. Moving slowly, although I knew it wasn't really moving slowly, it was just it's size making it seem so. I heard waves then, mixed in with the heavy draughts of breath from the elephant. I looked to my right, and without being startled...I discovered that the elephant and myself were actually standing smack dab in the middle of a huge shipping lane, with ocean vessels moving past us, out in the fog. There we were, in the midst of all these cargo ships.... and it wasn't startling at all. In fact, it made so much sense. My elephant was big enough that his legs were plunged far into the sea to the sandy floor, and he was going to carry me across the water along with all these ocean liners. I spotted then that behind the huge blankets of his ears, were two stairways running down along the back of his jaw; my escape route. I didn't take it however, and knew I was safe with my elephant.



My dream shifted then, and I was suddenly standing on a boardwalk by the seaside. It was very dark out, almost impossible to see...until I noticed that there was daylight off some hundreds of yards out in the water, in a strange arc. I was in a cave! A cave, with a small township within it, and I was standing by the water's edge looking towards the mouth of the cave. There was a wooden dock that went out into the water, but unlike most that jut into the sea upon pilings high enough that the tide does not sweep one off one's feet....this one was resting right on the water, like a dock on a lake might. My husband was with me, and wanted to take a picture of me. I was a bit reluctant...as he wanted me to walk out onto the dock, and I had noticed some high waves coming in through the mouth of the cave, into the dark water (it seemed as dark as night, in that cave) - but I went anyway. I walked across the damp dock boards, turned...and peered back at the shoreline where he had the camera ready. It was then I heard a rushing sound, and sure enough...just after the picture snapped a huge wave came up out of the inky deep and swept me off the dock. I plunged into the water that was neither warm nor cold...and fully expected to go swirling to the bottom. But, the wave lifted me up much like a surfer...and I found myself riding the crest of it all the way back to shore where I was unceremoniously spit out onto the sand. I wasn't scared, just a bit put off that my clothes were wet...and after plucking the remnants of seaweed off my jeans, I started walking towards the lights of the little town nestled against the back of the massive cave.

The dream did not end there... but the depth of detail was captured most in those first two 'episodes'. And now that I've shared... we can continue on with our normally scheduled programming. . .


Wednesday, January 21, 2004

"We trade our dreams for what we call wisdom. I wonder..... if it is a good trade."
- Charles Dickens, 'David Copperfield'



As the days rush by in their hectic pace, I find myself longing to be back in London.

Perhaps a soul who has lived their whole life in that far city would find my fondness quaint. They might even correct me in my skewed view of that place, telling me that it is not so lovely... not so enchanting. Their fingers would wag at the crowds packing the Underground during rush hour, or stab at the morning paper to show me the politics of the day. They would try and wave the banner of the day to day grind before me, to dissuade my eyes from seeing the beauty and charm. Sad, really... that they would so eagerly try to steal away such a jewel. Hostile, even... in their zeal to prove that the world holds no magic. If I were to turn my ears to their words, they would gladly fill my thoughts with belching black smoke and mechanical living. Work, eat, sleep. Perhaps a moment in between to spew a bitter comment or two, then back into the routine. Is that such a fair trade...for the fanciful dreams I hold dear?

So I cast off those thoughts, those words... and return to the city as I saw it. I close my eyes and smell the rain washing the cobbles clean just past Trafalgar Square. I was standing beneath the paws of a giant lion statue at dusk, when in the distance I saw the face of Big Ben flash to life. It was the moment I realized a lifelong dream had come true. I was in LONDON. I was standing in the heart of it, with days of adventure before me. That tiny pinpoint on the National Geographic map that I had plotted out when I was 10 years old.... was now beneath my feet. That very place on the postcard I received from a penpal in my teens.... was surrounding me. I could hear the fountains behind me. How long had I stared at those fountains, with the people sitting on the edge? The postcard was dogeared from staring at it, imagining what might be down those narrow lanes. Now I knew... I could see Big Ben from Trafalgar Square. I was amazed!!! It was a gift. I drank in the moment. I lit the square up with a flash from my camera... and then all went back to normal. The November winds blew through the bare limbed trees.

I was on the edge of living out so many daydreams. Where to next?? The Teahouse over on Neal Street perhaps? Yes... the tea shop, where I would buy loose leaf tea in small white bags. They would be stashed away and doled out carefully, each cup taking me back to that place so fragrant with spice. I smiled at the thought that the tea itself was going to be making a journey...wrapped in plain brown paper and sent back to the States to await my arrival. I loved the idea of a tiny bit of London beating me home.

With my goods paid for, I wandered out to stand on the sidewalk and watch the traffic light up the lane. I didn't know that I was about to follow the path down to the woman selling flowers on the corner. I didn't know I was about to buy a bouquet of roses to dry them, so that I might have their petals even after my return home. All I knew was that I was just outside of a perfect little shoppe, with windows stashed full of teapots and hand painted cups... listening to the voices of the others still inside talking about Darjeeling and Earl Grey.

And that is exactly where I want to be right now. On the verge of not knowing. Being a breath away from taking the first steps onward to the rest of my adventure....and being ready to draw it all in to my senses. I want to be standing right there in front of the The Teahouse, smelling spice and rain.


When I cracked open my fortune cookie today, this is what the fortune said: "You create your own stage. The audience is waiting."

Hmmm...so appropriate for making a blog, is it not?
Do you ever have dreams that are so real, and yet...so surreal... that they stay with you long after you've woken up? I cannot stop thinking about this one. I wasn't going to update my writing until tonight, but I had to capture this dream before it slipped into the grey area and was lost forever.

I was a gypsy. I had bright colored skirts, and was amongst other gypsy friends. We were at a marketplace, and there had been a skirmish moments before my arrival. I asked one of my friends (a young man with willowy thin features, dark brown eyes and enviable lips) if everyone was alright, and he said that they were, but that we were going to move our festivities elsewhere.

I followed him down the street, but was sidetracked by a vendor selling wares beneath an outdoor tent cover. His table was strewn with ornate pens and pen boxes, as well as kaleidescopes with beautiful stained glass prisms. There was one particular pen that caught my eye, having a dark black base with silver arabesques curled all over it. I looked closer, and realized the swirls spelled out "Sullivan" on the side of the pen. I was very excited about this, and I told the vendor I really wanted the pen, but had no money. He said that I could borrow it, and pay him back later, but to tell no one. I really wanted one of the kaleidescopes too, but didn't ask him for one. He didn't give me a pen box, so I put the pen in a small purple velvet satchel that I was carrying, though it made me nervous ...I really didn't want to break or lose the pen.

My friends were gone by the time I was done, but it didn't bother me, and I found myself walking into a small room off a side street, filled with pillows. I felt comfortable there and laid down, somehow sensing that this room belonged to me. There was a faint fluttering sound, and when I looked up at the ceiling, there was a giant moth circling the light fixture. It definitely wasn't a butterfly, but its wings were opalescent, very shimmering... almost white at first glance, then with shiny rainbow effects when the light would hit just right. I was glad to have it there, because I knew it would not live long if it were outside. For some reason, I knew it's name was Ultraviolet. This is where the dream ends.....

I am not certain who "Sullivan" is...or why the name upon the pen is so important, but I would love to know....

Thursday, January 15, 2004

I claimed the shores of Cannon Beach Oregon for myself when I was sixteen years old. It was still a secret then, a tiny jewel only just uncovered by knowing eyes. The waters dazzled that summer... washing along the shore and over my feet, casting a king's ransom in diamonds across my toes. I walked for miles along the smooth sand, gulping lungfulls of air tinted of woodsmoke and salt. I had never been to the ocean before.... and was naive to the strength of it's call.

Someone should have drawn me aside before I crested the dunes for the first time. Someone should have rushed a warning to my ear, quiet and discreet, that I would lose my heart were I to lay eyes upon that endless blue sea. Even a touch to my arm would have sufficed... to give me some sort of pause before I walked onto the windswept sand and laid my soul bare. But as it was, there was no caution. There were no defenses built to conceal me from that powerful beauty.

I stopped upon the grassy dune, engulfed all at once by the wind coming up from the waves. I never knew it was so far to the horizon. It was impossibly far to the end of the Earth, and yet I could lift my hand up and dance my fingers along it's edge. Seagulls pivoted in the wind before me. I stared straight ahead, and let my periphery gather the entire stretch of crashing waves. I wanted to swallow it all, to somehow collect it straight into my soul. Little did I know that I was the one being consumed and stolen away....as assuredly as an innocent aboard a black sailed ship.

I wanted to feel the Pacific's chill on my bare feet. The ocean lured me closer. Each wave rolling out into the next one coming in, like the tumble of a dancer's hands coaxing me closer... teasing me with a froth of seafoam. There were a million whispers in the crash of those waves, guiding me to the wet sand...promising me the treasures of decades, with just a glimpse of white cloud above the distant shoreline. They confessed there had been others before me at the water's edge. Others like me, held in a trance of mist and sunlight.... blue waves and hidden depths. There was no apology in the wind as it confirmed this with a caress to my cheek. There was only gentle guidance as it turned my attention... my very eyes... to the massive rock spires jutting up from the ocean floor. They stood sentry between the beach and deep waters, casting silhouettes across the tidepools. They were the witnesses to my seducing, these monoliths. So many secrets trapped deep in their core.

And there it began... this bittersweet ache within my heart. The wild beauty of the ocean always there, ready to lap at my ankles, or to sheild itself away behind a thick veil of storm. An unpredictable lover, holding the elements at bay one moment, then letting them sting in a howling gail the next. And I, ever small.... returning to those shores year after year. Too long gone from the water, and the ache grows deeper. The need to appease the ocean...and my soul. To reunite the senses with woodsmoke and salt air. Sand, and endless blue.

The monoliths remain, to collect their secrets and watch for my return.....
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A vision of that place...

Wednesday, January 14, 2004

There I was, a gangly legged twelve year old who had all sorts of notions on what real beauty was. Sprawled on the vinyl folding chairs out on the lawn, I would stretch my pale legs out like white sprouts on a potato, slathering them with Coppertone. I wanted so badly to be tan. California-Coppertone-Beach Bunny Brown. The kind of tan where you could slip a watch off your wrist and see it's outline in contrast. All the popular girls at school could do that. I would see them at lunch, comparing 'white lines'. My whole body was a white line, thanks to the endless parade of very pale ancestors who looked on from old pictures with somber, chalky expressions. In class photographs, nobody had to ask where I was placed. They would just follow the glow of my face, reflecting the photographer's flash.

I was a persistant little cuss. Spreading a blanket out by the shores of Lake Chelan, I would immediately started basting myself like a turkey, while my best friend would casually lay in the sun without even worrying. She could grow effortlessly tan in less than an afternoon. I watched as she eventually flipped open her bottle of tanning oil and spread on a thin layer. Jealousy gnawed at me as it made her skin shine, deepening the tan she already had. No matter how much coconut oil I lathered on, it never shined like that. It just seemed to make me look...transparent. Fish belly. Beluga whale ruddy.

Ruddy! The word that echoed in my head like a donkey bray in a canyon. That pinkish-red hue would forever be 'my tan'. Of course, it was actually the signal that I had best get my wimpy skin indoors soon, or I was going to fry like cajun shrimp in that scorching summer sun. But sometimes I would fool myself into thinking I actually had a bit of color. I would rush up to my friend and stick my leg next to hers in comparison. And there it was - the obvious, flapping right in my face; golden brown, next to pig butt pink. I swear, it would have been good enough for me to simply have all my freckles connect. Individually...they had the tan I was longing for!!! But they taunted me, all sprinkled around, refusing to pony up to the cause.

And so one day the flowing river of Coppertone came to a stop. I put it on the shelf beneath the bathroom sink next to the Prell shampoo and the Aquanet. I let my freckles exist in peace, and started spreading my blanket in the shade while I read the stories of Anne Shirley on Prince Edward Island. Another daydreamer who fancied what it would be like to have exotic beauty.... and I related to every word.

Eventually it became a part of who I was, this pale self all dotted with freckles. "Comfortable in your own skin..." was a phrase realized, and I soon discovered that there were people out there who actually thought creamy complexions were lovely. I was never going to be Beach Bunny Brown... and that suited me just fine. I wasn't pale! I was alabastar, or so my grandmother would say. She was an alabastar girl too, and proud of it.

These days I still use Coppertone, but only because I like the smell.

Sunday, January 11, 2004

Part Two, The Ingenue in New York - 1990


The morning light flickered in my eyes as our shuttle crossed the Brooklyn Bridge, allowing me only a staggered view of the skyline. I leaned against the window of the bus and stared at the towers of the World Trade Center. They drew the horizon up above the rising sun itself, as if holding the warmth of the day aloft for all the other buildings below.

We were swallowed into the swarm of the city, and I shifted to the aisle of the bus so I could look straight ahead of us. I was used to canyons and coulees... a way of life when living in Washington State - but this canyon was as alien and beautiful as anything I had ever witnessed in nature. The skyscrapers won the battle between their height and my craned neck. Try as I might, I couldn't see the top of them as our bus slinked through the traffic to the hotel. I suddenly had the feeling of being lost in a labyrinth. Alice, falling right down into the rabbit hole.

Five days blended into one singular rush of color. Giggling with my friends in the back seat of my first taxi ride... my first trip to the subway, all three of us afraid to unlink our arms... my first coffee with cream sipped while sitting at a sidewalk cafe. The pretzel vendor who dropped to his knees as we walked by, begging me to come back and marry him. The tiny heart necklace I bought at Macy's, set with ten tinier rhinestones. My amazement that caviar was an option to put on your hamburger while feasting at Serendipity III. Standing in the glitter of Times Square. Feeling the wind rush through me as I stood atop the Empire State Building. Realizing I was actually looking at the Statue of Liberty with my very own eyes.

But within that rush of color, was a swath of light that cut right through and slowed every heartbeat down into a long held breath. Today it is a pure playback of memory that retains every detail, which has come to be one of the most meloncholy rememberances of the trip.

It was during the proverbial "three hour tour" of Manhattan Island. I was sitting up front on one of the smooth wooden benches, watching the city as we quietly drifted by. I had my camera ready... snapping pictures of the varying skyline - wanting to preserve it all to show everyone when I returned home. It was early in the day... we wanted to make sure we left plenty of time for other things, and so the sun was hovering above the tops of some of the skyscrapers. And then I saw the Twin Towers. They were so tall, I realized the sun was going to be just cresting at the top as we passed through their shadows. I lifted my camera, peering through the tiny view finder. I waited a moment as the boat chugged onward, and then I saw it. The sun poised perfectly between the towers, at an apex that joined them together by the rays that were shining down. I snapped the picture...then slowly dropped the camera down. For that brief moment in time, I was caught in the stream of light that was funneled between the towers, and flowing out across the water. It was dazzling... and gone in the next breath.

We finished the boat tour, and disappeared back into the city to live out the rest of our whirlwind trip. Once we were back in Seattle, I stepped off the plane so changed. A love of travel forever rooted in my heart, but a deep appreciation of the home I had tucked in the middle of the apple orchard. A balance was struck between the two... a bargain that no matter where my adventures took me, this valley would give me a comfortable shelter to return to. I settled back into life, developed the pictures I had taken... and eventually forgot the picture I had taken that day, in the shadows of the World Trade Center. It would be eleven years before I would realize just how extraordinary that image really was.... as I knelt by my old wooden trunk in the bedroom, tears streaming down my cheeks, the picture taken carefully from it's sleeve and held so tenderly. It was as if that small kindness could transfer across the miles, and into the chaos of that one infamous day.

The lyrics to Elton John's song "Empty Garden" fit so well. Originally a tribute to John Lennon...I think of it now in the light of 9/11....

Empty Garden


What happened here...
As the New York sunset disappeared
I found an empty garden among the flagstones there
Who lived here?
He must have been a gardener that cared a lot
Who weeded out the tears and grew a good crop
And now it all looks strange
It's funny how one insect can damage so much grain

And what's it for
This little empty garden by the brownstone door
And in the cracks along the sidewalk nothing grows no more
Who lived here
He must have been a gardener that cared a lot
Who weeded out the tears and grew a good crop
And we are so amazed we're crippled and we're dazed
A gardener like that one no one can replace...

And I've been knocking but no one answers
And I've been knocking most all the day
Oh and I've been calling... oh hey hey johnny
Can't you come out to play

And through their tears
Some say he farmed his best in younger years
But he'd have said that roots grow stronger if only he could hear
Who lived there
He must have been a gardener that cared a lot
Who weeded out the tears and grew a good crop
Now we pray for rain, and with every drop that falls
We hear, we hear your name

Johnny can't you come out to play in your empty garden...


Wednesday, January 07, 2004

Part Two of The Ingenue in New York coming soon...


Waiting for the flight.... listening to music while I daydream, circa 1990

Monday, January 05, 2004

Part One - The Ingenue in New York


In 1990, I was a year out of highschool...and as wide eyed and green as any small town girl could be. For years I had dreamed of traveling. Of escaping the tiny orchard town that I grew up in, and heading out on an adventure of my own making. I still had all of the National Geographic maps that I had carefully pinned up on my bedroom wall, marking the different places across the world that I knew I would visit someday.

My opportunity came one day when two good friends of mine, Cori and Tammy, proposed an amazing trek. They told me that they were planning on flying to New York for a five day tour, and they asked if I would like to go along with them. New York City!! A world away. A universe away! Mars seemed closer to me than New York City! A full on swarm of butterflies took flight in my stomach when I told them yes. YES! Count... me.... IN!

It wasn't long before I was collecting money to go on my first real trip as an 'adult'. I worked hard all summer, saving the money I earned as an apple sorter in a tin roof packing shed. I remember looking in the eyes of all the haggard women who worked there alongside me, their faces reflecting the tired lives spent beneath the burning neon lights of the sorting table. I swore my time there was only temporary. I wasn't going to spend the rest of my life hunched over an endless rush of apples...picking out the rotten from the good. I wasn't going to be sitting on that splintered wooden bench outside on a smoke break, rubbing my arthritic fingers and wondering what life could have been like. I was only a visitor there in that open air shed.... and this trip was my ticket out.

I dressed up for the flight. Perhaps I really am an old soul, as my grandmother used to say. I just couldn't see heading out on such a life changing trip dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt. I wore a simple black skirt, with a black and red paisley blouse. I wore my chestnut hair in a smooth french braid. There was an ornate silver and black pin at my throat. I would later rue that damned pin... because it set the metal detectors off at the airport. After I had sheepishly emptied out my purse and showed the attendants that I had no pockets...they glanced at my broach and waved me through.

I settled in my designated seat by the window, and stared out the window as Cori and Tammy chatted happily between themselves. I had the distinct impression that to them... this was simply a trip. A place to go, where there would be shopping and sights to see. For me... it was the beginning of a dream come true. I *knew* that the moment was a memory in the making. I wasn't going to let it slip by without really being IN it.

It was well into the night in Seattle by the time our plane taxied down the runway. We were taking the redeye, and the pilot told us we would be seeing the sunrise on the East Coast when we landed again. I was going to chase the night across the sky...and I felt light headed with the thought. When the engines went full throttle and we lifted off... all my senses reeled as if I were spinning on a playground tire swing. The lights of the city were fading away below, and although that ascent was smooth and perfect, I could feel panic well up in my throat that there was nothing between me and thousands of feet to the ground below. My hands gripped eachother with white knuckled anxiety. I had forced myself not to think of my fear of flying the months leading up to the trip... and now there was no turning back. Fears and all, my whole future as a traveler was beginning right then and there, on takeoff.

The tiny lights soon disappeared beneath dark clouds, and I marveled at what the moon looked like, hovering above it all. Cori and Tammy soon dozed off and left me to my thoughts. Left me to my purse full of more money than I ever had at one time. My suitcase stuffed with clothes and shoes, and the addresses of everyone I knew. I wanted to make sure I sent them a postcard... a real, true blue postcard from New York City. Heck, I even wanted to send one to myself, just so I could hold it in my hand when I got home and smile... knowing that I had really done it.

And true to the pilot's promise, the sun was rising as we started our descent over New York. I elbowed Cori and Tammy awake, and they leaned over to catch a glimpse out the window. We gaped at the miles upon miles of houses spread out beneath us... an unbelievable tapestry of lives being lived. I could fit my whole hometown in a few blocks of what I was seeing beneath me. 'And they don't even know I exist....' I remember thinking to myself. None of those people knew they were being looked at from high up above, by a 19 year old girl fresh out of her apple orchard existance. It made me feel suddenly so very small. Coming out of a community where I knew everyone... and they knew me, my sisters...my brother... my parents. I was truly anonymous. I was going to step foot off that plane and simply... be... me. A mysterious green eyed girl with a sparkle in her eyes.

The dreamer in me was thrilled.

The little girl in me was frightened.

The traveler in me was cool, calm and collected... and ready to face whatever came her way.

And so the plane descended down into LaGuardia, as I smoothed back my French braid and readied myself for landing.
I closed my eyes, and counted my heartbeats until I felt the lurch of the plane and heard the squeel of tires on the tarmac.

New York... meet Aimee. Aimee... meet New York City.


~*~To Be Continued~*~

Sunday, January 04, 2004

When friends ask me where I was raised, I am always met with a mix of reactions. When I tell them that I was born in this sleepy little valley, and lived my whole childhood in the same house... within walking distance of my grandparents, they look at me as if I were a throwback from some bygone era. I see a flicker of jealousy in their eyes at times... these ones who were bounced from house to house with parents who never settled down.

Perhaps that is why my memories are so strong from those years. I was allowed to dig my roots in, to come to know a place as if it were another member of the family. The house lived and breathed every trial and tribulation that my family had. The orchard that surrounded us with bare limbs in winter, blossoms in spring and fruit in the fall....was like a barrier that held out the world. I had a freedom beneath those branches that few kids now will ever know.

1977, I was six years old and full of impish curiosity. Any given summer day would find me running between the rows of apple trees, my German Shepherd named Chinook by my side. We would race up the slope to a place I called the "Little Hill" - because it was the first of three hills near our house in the country. From there my home looked like a dollhouse, with the above-ground pool dotting the front yard. I would sit in the tall wild grass and listen to the bugs hum in the evergreens behind me. Even then I had a sense of awareness to me. I breathed in the scent of newly budding apples... the way the orchard sprinklers sounded as they sprayed the deep green leaves. I would lay back and watch the bald eagles fly in effortless spirals overhead. I would dig my toes into the fresh dirt of the gopher holes.

We would stay there for hours... Chinook and I. She would curl up behind me, giving me her soft furred side as a pillow to rest on. My mother never worried about me. She could see me from the kitchen and living room windows, if I stayed on the front side of the Little Hill... and I'm certain I looked like a butterfly from that distance, flitting and darting around. The backside of the hill was a mystery to me though. My mother warned me not to stray too far... and I tried my best to obey. But it was such a lure... to stare past the line of orchard grass where the evergreens stood tall. Sage brush and wildflowers grew thick, but there were trails. Trails that were easy for my little feet to follow.

Every now and then I would dare a run down one of these paths, pantlegs brushing past the bluebells and sunflowers. I had heard my father speak of coyote dens on the Little Hill, and my mind was full of ideas on what I might find if I were to slip inside one of these burrows. My wild imagination meshed fairy tales easily into the real world... and I believed I might find treasures hidden there by a coyote who was dazzled by sparkling jewels. Perhaps he would let me in, and show me where he scraped the dirt to hide his small fortune. Maybe I would keep it a secret, and the coyote would keep me in wealth like a princess for all my days.

With these thoughts vivid in my mind, I would come to the end of the trail. The hill broke away to a sharp dropoff, leading far below to the other side of the valley. I would sit on the red rocks and look across at the river cutting a blue stripe down the middle. If there were coyotes, I knew why they had chosen the Little Hill to live. It was the most beautiful place I had ever seen....

....but I never risked staying long. Only brief moments when I would hover in that world where I wasn't supposed to be. I knew enough to stay back from the dropoff. No doubt that was the only reason my mother didn't wish me to go there... but in my mind, there were other magical reasons why. Perhaps there was a cave to another world nearby... perhaps she was afraid I might be wisked away. In my innocence, it sounded wildly adventurous. I courted all of my fairy tale fantasies there... beneath the sway of evergreens.

Chinook and I would break into a run through the tall grass once more, crashing back into the land that was approved for me. Apple trees shaded the sun and we ran in the cool shade, dodging orchard sprinklers all the way home. Perhaps mom knew of my excursions beyond the boundaries.... but she never said anything. She would simply smile as I would bound up the steps in the front door, holding a bouquet of bluebells, sunflowers, and wild asparagus as a gift from my little excursions.

In these small allowances, she fueled my passion for adventure... not in the ways of extreme sports and costly treks around the world, but journies of the heart and mind. Adventure of the spirit, and appreciation of the quiet places tucked up in the mountains, away from the rest of the world. Secret places, where evergreens whisper of Coyote Princes and their wealth of diamonds, ready to share with those who believe.


A detour from my daily stories. If you've just stumbled across my blog, you may want to scroll down a bit...and find something with more meat to it. *grins*

I have this little obsession with layouts. As you can see, I've redone mine... -again-. I spent hours yesterday sorting this one out, and there may still be a few minor adjustments, but for the most part.... I am pleased. Let me know what you think of the results!

This layout actually suits my tastes perfectly. I have a thing for old postcards and letters, and it is from my collection that I chose these to scan and make into a template. I think the reason I adore old handwritten things (including diaries, which I have a couple that I have collected) is that I can so easily imagine the lives that they were from. I suppose it is the voyeur in me that marvels at reading something never really intended for my eyes.

This leads me to one of my absolute favorite book series: 'The Extraordinary Correspondance of Griffin and Sabine', by Nick Bantock.


Incredible books, not only for the story, but for the artwork that went into creating them. The story is told through letters, which you can actually pull out of an envelope and read. There is no typical 'text' in these books. You must follow the story through the maze of letters and postcards printed directly on the pages. I have first editions of all these books. CNN ran a piece on the author, Nick Bantock... for Valentine's Day last year:
CNN Interview with Nick Bantock

Now I peruse his website and drool for the art that he has on sale. If I had money to spare, I would immediately make a purchase of something that he has created. In fact I'm gazing at this gallery and wishing I had an afternoon's worth of Superstar pocket change...because I would buy every single one of these to place in a huge black matte frame for my living room. It would sit directly above the old book case, where the heavy ironwood elephants from India stand...and the collection of original Charles Dickens stories reside.
If I had a million dollars...

So if you haven't heard of these stories.... check them out. The books are pieces of art in and of themselves, and besides....doesn't everyone need a bit of mystery and adventure in their lives, even if vicariously?

"You cannot dismiss a muse at whim..." - Nick Bantock, 'Griffin and Sabine'

Saturday, January 03, 2004

Barbie Goes Ballistic


I was wandering through the toy aisle of a store recently, and caught myself grinning from ear to ear as I spotted the Full Size Barbie Head for sale. You know the one, with stylable hair and a face just waiting for makeup. I had the original Barbie Makeup Head... and it met an end even Stephen King would be proud of.

It was 1980, and I was home one night with my brother while the parents spent an evening away from us little hoodlums. He was nine years older than me, which meant I was usually the focus of his tormenting tricks. Oh, we had our good moments. Quietly laying on the living room floor playing a monstrous game of Risk... sitting at the dinner table squeezing that night's menu between our teeth to see who would gross out first. This would soon collapse though, as one of us would inevitably get triggered into a wild frenzy of sibling rage, and we'd end up in a dogpile on the floor, screeching and wrestling until one of us got tired. Usually me.

This night was different though. Brother decided he was going to do something against the parent's wishes while they were gone...and watch The Exorcist. This was back in the day when BETA machines were as big as lawnmowers... and it was a big deal to take up an evening watching a movie. I was NOT happy...because this meant he was going to hog the only TV with something I wasn't about to watch. I had enough trauma in my life simply from looking at all his KISS album covers!! And most importantly, I knew Mom and Dad would kick his butt if they knew he was going to watch that. So of course...this gave me fuel to climb the stairs to my room and plot the worst kind of revenge their is. Smited Sister Revenge.

I knew my brother was, in all reality, a big chicken. I knew the movie would give him the willies so bad he would have a hard time getting to sleep. So, I made it my mission to make CERTAIN he wouldn't get any sleep that night. I sat down on my bedroom floor, gathered my Barbie Makeup Head, along with all the hand-me-down makeup my mom had given me...and I set to work. That Barbie never had such a makeover. Mary Kay Hell. Huge fiendish red lips, wicked dark blue eyes.... hair ratted beyond recovery. I took my time. I wanted to make sure Barbie looked nothing like her sweet, pink bubblegum self. I wanted her so ghoulish and horrifying that even a glance would send my brother's bladder into ...well... bladdiac arrest. When I was done I held the head aloft. Jack Nicholson could do the moment justice: Herrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrreeee's Barbie!

Finally, I heard him climbing the stairs. The movie was over, and his namby pamby self was going to slink past my room and hide away in his. Which, actually was the scariest room in the whole house. The closet had a door inside of it that lead directly to the attic... ( and attics, as we all know, breed demon hordes of fanged hounds that come out at night and eat whatever appendages are hanging off the side of the bed.)

I prepared my costume. My mom had given me a long flowing cape which was usually my Sheena, Queen of the Animals outfit, but tonight it was going to play a different role. I stood in front of my mirror and placed Barbie's big ole' head on top of mine, balancing it there by the oval makeup tray wrapped around her neck. Then, I carefully wrapped the cape around the makeup tray, completely hiding myself within it. I peeked out and saw that it gave the illusion of a freakish head perched on tiny little shoulders, standing about five feet tall. Perfect!! I got my Holly Hobby flashlight from my toy chest, and flicked it on. Shining it up as best I could to Barbie's face, I had to hold back a snicker of pure wickedness. I was about to pull off the best prank ever of my childhood.

I slowly peeked out my door to make sure his was shut. Sure enough, it was... only the faint light of his neon Rainier Beer sign shining through the bottom crack of the door. I tiptoed so quietly out into the hall, and poised myself. Cape drawn, flashlight held just so, I could feel my heartbeat thudding in my throat. This was so exciting it was almost scaring me. Was it possible that I, the pipsqueak kid sister, was about to pull a fast one on her big brother? I was about to find out....

I drew in a long breath, gathered up my courage, and then bolted down the hallway full speed, kicking his door in with one swift shove. When it pounded open, I let out a banshee scream worthy of Friday the 13th...... and my brother launched up off his bed like he'd been shot in the ass. In a split second of throaty screams( his AND mine )....he shot across the room and decked my Barbie head so hard that it flew into the corner and smacked the wall. We fell silent then, him holding me by the scruff of my cape, me with a gaping mouth wide open as I stared over at Barbie. Her face was completely concave, leering at us both with those chlorine blue eyes. I slowly looked up at Brother, and he looked down at me, and I couldn't help the victorious grin that peeled across my face.

He was white as a ghost as he gave me a shake. "Don't EVER DO THAT AGAIN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! You scared the CRAP OUT OF ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Heheheheh. I wouldn't have to. I triumphed for all 9 year old girls everywhere. And down to this day he still has to admit it. Watch your back, Brother-mine...or Barbie's gonna go Exorcist on you!!!


Thursday, January 01, 2004

It is strange that the end of one year and the beginning of the next will spur on so many emotions... so many thoughts. Perhaps it is simply that humans must measure everything with a start and finish that we feel the need to reflect on what was, before we can consider what will be.

That being said, the things I chose to remember are tiny little pinpoints in what has become my life. They didn't even occur in the past year... past decade for that matter. What my mind brought to the surface today were the long winter days spent as a freckle faced girl, raised in the middle of a vast apple orchard.

It wasn't unusual for the snow to build up several feet deep, so it made my treks through the front yard more like sojourns through a vast tundra. How many snowmen came to life by my hand? How many snowwomen for that matter, with buxom blobs of snow patted to their chests to make the distinction. I had to smile as I watched the storm today, blanketing everything in sparkling white. These were the days that were cherished.

One memory in particular was of the habit I had of wanting to play in the snow at night, especially when the big snowflakes were falling down out of the sky. I would push my way through to the furthest corner of the yard, where the houselights would barely break through the dark. It was there that I would spread my arms wide open and fall back - just like the game of "Trust" I used to play with my friends, only this time...it was only the cushion of snow that would catch my fall.

I loved the feel of it packing in around me. Of course, Mom always made certain I was bundled up enough to survive an Alaskan blizzard, so there was no cold. So I would lay there, staring up into the darkness....watching snowflakes come down from high above. The lights from the kitchen were just enough to illuminate the snowfall as it came down over the yard, making it almost impossible to look away. Hypnotic... if I laid there long enough, I lost awareness of everything else around me, and could trick my senses into actually feeling as if I were in a blissful freefall through space. The snowflakes were stars drifting past, and I was somewhere loose in the universe - in my own quiet world.

No thoughts of wars and earthquakes....death and destruction. It was an innocent selfishness, this winter daydream. My world was a small bubble, then. Trust was a rich commodity... as was the wish to travel the world, as freely as I laid in the snow traveling the universe. To learn and appreciate every facet of it.

Sometimes it pays to revisit that place, before looking ahead to what the year might bring. To close my eyes and imagine the snow falling all around, and to know that the cocoa will be waiting for me when I finally climb the stairs and disappear into the house, leaving the snowmen outside to face whatever ills the night might hold.