A couple days ago I got stung on the insole of my left foot.  It wasn’t a problem until this morning at 3:30 when I woke up to go to the bathroom.  I was just drifting off to sleep, as I do easily, when the bottom of my foot started itching. 

It was a hard enough itch to get at that soon I was wide awake.  I did my usual sit-ups and leg lifts that I always do in bed and decided I would just get up early, thinking shoes would feel good.  After some coffee I feel wide awake.  I actually like getting up this early, getting a jump on the day.

I have been beating myself up for the annual procrastination I practice every year at this time.  Right before the rain comes I quit watering.  Then I quit mowing.  This year I’ve paid the neighbor kid because it was just so hot I didn’t want to do it so it’s even easier to distance myself from all the outdoor chores. 

The back deck and front porch need sweeping.  The roof and gutters need cleaning and much debris in my little forest needs to be removed.  I need to get that chain saw out but I am afraid to use it or get on the roof when I am here alone.  What I will probably end up doing is hiring somebody but who?  I miss the Mexican father and son who used to do all that.

This is an opportunity to step up.  But I can’t even get my nerve up to have a fire in my woods because the neighbor got me so freaked out about setting all our woods on fire. 

I am so scared about termites, now that I see what they did to my mother’s house.  The tree I had cut down is still piled up on the porch and deck, waiting for me to decide how and where to store it.  When the snow destroyed the carport I lost the perfect place for my woodpile.

Knowing I had all this work piling up, knowing the rain was coming, I would lay out in the sun, soaking up the last of its rays.  I even had a week off from work as the school takes a vacation and for some reason I spent that time inside cleaning when I prefer working outside. 

It’s the procrastination/perfectionism that I might as well put on the calendar for the end of September.  Maybe I should give myself a birthday present next year:  yard service.

Oct 1 is First Thursday in The Pearl, a section of town where most of the galleries are located.  I’ve probably been twice and it’s been going on most of my adult life.  Nothing about it appeals to me but I don’t mind going with someone who enjoys that sort of thing because then they can explain art to me.  Mostly, I don’t get it.

Music, literature, food, film, design, be it clothing or furniture; I could go on.  All these things I have an opinion on that I can back up.  I know what I like and why.  But walking by most gallery windows leaves me nonplussed.  Rarely does anything appeal to me and even when it does I don’t feel confident about my choice.  The one exception was something I bought on a cruise.  It was a good enough deal I didn’t question it.  I bid on it and it was mine.  I loved the colors and the tongue-in-cheek seductivity and even though the frame was garish I was happy to have it.

My new friend the painter is coming up from the beach to take me to First Thursday and dinner.  I’d almost rather eat here in order to avoid the issue of who pays.  We’ve gone out for a meal four times now and I have always paid for myself.  The first and last time he tried to.  It seems to be tied to his level of interest; that is, the two middle times he was happy not to pay was when his ex-wife was acting like she wanted him back. 

Once again she is living with her boyfriend and this time he says he’s done.  We’ll see.  I’m still not sure how I feel about him so I’d just as soon continue to pay my own way.  But I don’t want to deter him by sending the message that I’m not interested.  Because I am. 

Sunday is my mother’s memorial, something I wasn’t in favor of but will attend.  I have not participated in its production, which they may hold against me.  My brother’s girlfriend encouraged me in my stand.  She was Lois’s favorite, of us girls.

I invited my childhood best friend, the realtor, who grew up across the street and knows firsthand what my mother was like.  My mother couldn’t stand my friend because she was fun, she had imagination, she was devious, and she was daring.  She, too, had a horrible mother, so we made the most of our time away from the house.

Her mother, who drove into a tree at high noon on the 4th of July, is buried at the mortuary where our little production is to be held.  She is bringing along her husband I’ve never met.  They married during the years we weren’t speaking, after the fiasco over her not selling my house.  You may remember me saying I actually know all about him.  My youngest was best friends with his youngest, at one time.  I know ALL his dirt. 

But she is happy.  My mother is dead.  My siblings will feel holy.  All is well.

There was a message on my machine yesterday (Mon) from a guy I swing dance with.  He’s probably the best dancer in Portland and the surrounding areas, in terms of his ability to lead and move left to right (ambidextrous with his moves).  But he, on many occasions, has consumed something that makes him obnoxious, and for this reason I shy away from him. 

He also has a band.  Whether it was the unappealing band name or the hard-to-get-to venue or just bad timing, I have managed to miss the many, previous invitations to come hear him play.  Until tonight. 

It was on my way home from the hospital.  It was at a farmer’s market and I love going to those so I thought I would be a good person and drop by.  I could hear his voice the minute I got out of the car.  He sounded good.  And whoever was playing slide guitar was fantastic. 

I found the stage and after a while he saw me and said, “Hello, Prudence” into the mic.  I got a table outside, close to the band, and ordered some food.  Song after song was well-chosen and well-orchestrated, even without two of their band members.  His singing style was constrained yet strong, not sharp nor flat but he knew how to use the edges. 

A young woman from another band dropped by to sing a couple songs and while she was singing he came over to my table.  Formally, this guy has struck me as kind of a dweeb.  I always avoid sitting with him because conversation is uncomfortable, either because of his weird personality or his aggressive behavior when he is under the influence. 

Tonight he was in his element and he was proud.  I told him how impressed I was, twice, while I shook his hand.  I see him differently now.

Robi…took me to dinner for my birthday, which is tomorrow (Tues).  I picked her up from my mother’s house where she had been cleaning and sorting.  I stood at the door saying I’d rather not come in when she said she would just be a few minutes; that she wanted to use the bathroom.

I wanted to wait in the car because my throat still is raw and I am coughing up stuff, just from having worked there two hours.  Robi… gets in the front seat and I can smell the alcohol.  I thought you weren’t supposed to be able to smell vodka.  Nothing like a reformed drinker — I am hearing myself sound like one.

We get to the restaurant up the street where we’d gone the other night and she orders her usual:  double vodka.  She likes it neat but the waitress, who probably remembered her, urged:  “you mean on the rocks.”  Robi.. thought for a second and said, “okay, yeah.”

Actually, it went pretty well.  I only got nervous at the end when her voice started going all falsetto and threatened to break into the kind of laugh you can’t stop.  Apparently our younger sister urged her to get help.  Personally, I don’t think she’s in that bad a place. 

What I like about her is that she sees the humor in all situations.  She was making fun of the scissor collection, in particular the three pairs of children’s scissors she found in the bottom drawer by my mother’s bed.  Robi… suspects some sort of fetish. 

I had to tell her, “With the exception of the living room, I, too, have scissors in every room.”  Just not 13 pairs.

Back from the beach and the blues.  Felt a little blue last night.  But I had an insight.  Maybe the longing I always feel when I drive away each year is a recurring theme. 

My mother couldn’t love me.  My husband couldn’t love me.  I mean they did in their own way but they kept it a secret from me.  I think I must gravitate to men or situations that perpetuate the longing to be loved. 

So that’s alarming. 

Another thing occurred to me.  I have spent the last three weekends overlooking bodies of water.  First the moon, now with the water.  I’m much more connected to this earth than I ever realized.

I feel like such a jerk.  I got an email from my brother’s girlfriend saying she had been the one who took the album home; that my brother knew nothing about it.  It seems odd that she didn’t mention that when I was over there, all in his face about it.  And it seems odd that she didn’t give it to me when she gave me the other pictures or at least remember to mention it.  

My middle daughter graduates from art school tomorrow.  FINALLY.  She almost graduated from The Academy of Art in San Francisco but moved back to Portland her senior year.  Lots of the classes weren’t transferable plus she changed her major.  AGAIN.  Anyway, tomorrow is the big day. 

Which is piss-poor timing because it is the first day of the blues festival I always go to at the beach and I’m going to miss one of my favorite bands  For those of you who pay attention you know what else I’m going to miss.  I know, I sound like a bad mom.  I’m not.  Believe me, I have been there for this kid every step of the way.

Emily, at the last minute I couldn’t bring myself to eat the eggs any way but over-easy, not wanting to miss the pure essence of yolk and egg white bathed in bacon grease.  I felt kind of sick for a couple hours due to the grease but once or twice a year aint gonna kill me.  I had three pieces.

Every once in a while I am struck by the progress I’ve made.  I make a mental check off my life’s to-do list.  Sometimes it feels monumental, like when the floor finally got done.  Today’s leap forward might not seem huge but for five years I have been looking for a local source for inexpensive, organic eggs, and tonight I scored my first dozen.

I found these people at the Farmer’s Market one day last month and discovered they lived five minutes from my house.  I got her card and then forgot all about it until I was in Safeway today buying eggs for the first time since I’d met them.  I’ve been gone a lot plus I don’t eat eggs that much.

I can hardly wait for morning.  I think I’ll make a frittata.

I just got an email from the IRS saying something about a suspicion that I underreported my income.  This is highly unlikely as I’ve used the same accountant for the last eight years.  The email provided a link to a website with my first name and a number.  It’s probably bunk but I got scared.

I made the mistake of clicking on it.  Not the link just the email.  Is that enough to allow the virus in?  I mean I hope that’s what it was; being the lesser of two evils. 

Speaking of evil, all is not going well on the home front.  My mother’s home is in shambles.  The beams are rotting and there are many, running the whole length from the carport to the end of the living room.  It’s so bad the sawdust is falling on the carpet.  It’s probably not even safe to be in the house.  The whole roof will have to be replaced.

Only one of the bedroom windows opens, the rest were not designed to.  It was one of the first modern houses built in that area in the late ’50s.  The electrical is in dangerous condition, as well. 

My brother, I suspect, advised my mother to hold off on repairs.  He wanted to get the house for next to nothing and fix it up himself.  He can do the windows himself but I’m sure the beams and roof are daunting.  The electrical, too, he’d have to hire out. 

Somehow they had a cleaning party I was not invited to.  I am out of the loop, as punishment for leaving town it sounds like.  Also they planned a memorial service while I was gone, something we had agreed not to do.  I wrote an email to them saying I would rather spend money on the house and hire professional cleaners.  Or at least pay those of us who like to clean so I wouldn’t feel so guilty.  They know I hate to clean.  For some reason my youngest sister feels “obliged” because of her “inheritance.”  She is all hung up about that duo which I can’t figure out.

But what really got me yesterday was that Robi…called and said if I wanted to come over and clean that she was there.  When she added that my wedding album was in my brother’s closet (my mother put all the pictures there) I said I was on my way.  I’d left all the photo albums with the kids.  But when I got there the album was gone.  I had her call my brother and she never got a clear answer.  This is sounding stupid. 

The bottom line is that he kept it at his house for some reason, his girlfriend having brought over the rest of the pictures which were in the same closet.  He also had been holding onto a picture of us as newlyweds that I wanted.  He said he wanted to keep it so he could make a copy.  At the time I thought it seemed silly to make a fuss and then I forgot about it.  But I was pretty worked up by the time my sister and I had gone to dinner after the cleaning.  So I drove over there and demanded to know where my pictures were. 

I’m trying to remember the calm of the water, the peace of the moon.  But I am feeling a petty anger; who is he to be the boss of my pictures?  Like I say, this is sounding stupid. 

Homer

I got back from my trip last night, late.  Two days in Homer, Alaska and two days in Seattle.  I’d never been to Alaska and was mesmerized by its beauty.  Homer was no place I’d even heard of but my sort of sister-in-law (they’re not married), chose the place for my Saturn return based on its proximity to the equator and the way the planets lined up there on Sept 5th. 

As it happened, there was a full moon.  Which I guess was good timing as the ”North Node” has everything to do with the location of the moon.  What she hadn’t realized when she chose Homer was how key the North Node was to my chart.  I hardly know what she is talking about but I gather it couldn’t have been more auspicious for my next 28 years.

I’m driving through wilderness, past my first moose, some 4 1/2 hours, two of them dark.  The moon shows me the way.  I drive clear out to the end of Homer Spit and park in front of an art gallery, taking the stairs around back, up to a long deck.  Directly below me water laps up on shore.  I find a note taped to the door of the apartment at the far end, addressed to me.  My half of the deck enjoys the only second story view as far south as I can see and I can’t see anybody from the north, so I have the place to myself. 

I set my bags down and take in the night air.  Gazing out over the bay, it looks like a picture framed in rock.  Gargantuan, prehistoric looking bolders rise up out of this quiet water, the whole scene lit up by Mr Moon.  He’s smiling down on me and I feel like it’s just the two of us here in this private paradise.  I let myself in through the sliding glass door and find the key on the kitchen table.  It is quaint and clean but nothing special.  What’s special is outside. 

I leave the window open so the first thing I hear Saturday morning is the rhythm of the tide.  It reminds me to pay attention to my own rhythm, my breath.  I get dressed and venture back down the stairs, surprised to find myself in the midst of a bustling little tourist town.  Cute, colorful shops line a boardwalk that stretches the whole length of the spit.  Everyone is on foot in fishing boots, just off or getting on a boat.  The coffee shop was across the street and the line long so I heard all their news.

That’s where I learned about Halibut Cove.  I made the voyage over that afternoon.  It’s only accessible by boat; no cars allowed.  They have a five-star restaurant along with two galleries and a hike that takes you through the village of artists, up through the meadow, past the horses to the top of the ridge where you have a 360 degree view of million-dollar cabins already vacated for the summer.

I made friends with a woman and her mother and after the hike we ate dinner together.  Later, as the boat was pulling out to go back, the moon crept out from behind these two massive rocks.  I am standing in the back, along with two lovebirds who have an impressive looking camera.  She squeals when she spots the moon rising and the rest of the boat takes notice.  Seriously, I’ve never seen a moon look like that, like it was solid gold.  All the way back we are transfixed.

I walk the two blocks back to my deck and watch the moon some more, saying my thanks and sending my love, so appreciative for the sunny day and the beautiful bay.  What I was to do in Homer was focus on being grounded and calm, with the intention of manifesting the kind of peace and happiness I want to live in the next 28 years.  I sat with that peace ’til the stars came out. 

What I found out the next day was that my mother passed while I was sitting on the deck, the very night of my Saturn return.