Oso

Twelve years ago, many of us crammed into a van, drove for awhile, fell asleep on each other, and woke up to green grass, tall trees, and blue sky.  I don't remember the pop-up tents, any meal we shared, or how long we stayed.  The things I do remember are the conversations, the laughter, the sparks from the fire, and the river.  Nestled behind a row of steady evergreens, the river seemed to appear out of nowhere.  The rocks smooth and the current just fast enough to loose a flip flop if not careful.  I remember the rocks and I remember the water.  I remember wanting to sleep on the riverbank the first night, to wake up and only see the earth.  The camp ground was small, accommodating enough for only our group.  The couple who owned the land lived there too, renting out the property for camping adventures.  A bit of hospitality even in the wilderness. 

We joked that we were in the middle of nowhere, though most of the group lived in far more remote locations.  Oso, to teenagers who never heard of the name, became "oh-so-faraway".  I forgot this little play on words, even forgot the town's name in the first 24 hours of hearing about the disaster.  Then, it all surged back to me--the tan shoulders, the smiling faces, the constant warmed sunshine, and the riverbank.  The memory far away perhaps, but the town is a day trip close.  We purge so much from our consciousness, even the good stuff. 


I ache for Oso, for those who are lost, for those who have lost.  I ache for my state, my home, for those who are in the trenches digging, for those who want to do more but can't.  Houses gone, farms gone, families gone, life gone. 

The humanity is beautiful.  Lines of volunteers.  Local grocery stores and thrift shops giving.  Large corporations donating and their employees promising to match. Churches opening their doors and not filling a room because neighbors are packing their houses tonight.  It is devastatingly beautiful.  We are once again, in tragedy, reminded to give more, love more, do more for our community and those around us.  

I cannot be in Oso tonight, I may only be able to contribute monetarily and be of no other use.  But, I can sit here and send my heart to them and wake up tomorrow willing to make my community better.  Everyday should be spent building up my neighbors and showing them that I want to help.  We should be in solidarity as a state, as a nation, and show Oso that we are here.  For each green and blue flag that waves in every town after victory, so should there be even more signs of support in tragedy.   

Someday, I know the grass will glimmer in the sun and the water will run crystal clear. I am certain that joy will return to the towns and communities will rebuild.  For this I know, someday I will again dip my feet in the current and this time offer a prayer.   I don't blame them for living under a mountain.  I would have slept on the riverbank every night. 

We Saw, We Ate: an Instagram Post

Like promised, here is a recap of my weekend in Seattle.  A friend and I just needed to get away.  Desperately.  We were tired of the "this side of the water" bullshit and were in need of some culture.  Don't get me wrong, I love living where I live.  But, I really love living where I live because it is a short ferry ride to the city. 

This post is sub-titled, I love Loulay.

Loulay was her idea, and I tried to pay her back with Tom Douglas the next day. 

Gorgeous, happening, generous--we dined on clams and sunchoke cakes and I decided right then and there that the only way to drink water with your dinner is after it has been poured from a glass bottle.

And then it happened, we met the chef in the hat.  He kissed our cheeks and I wondered why a bingo card of Seattle chefs has never been invented.  I'd have two squares already. 

They do the greatest thing at Loulay--leave a little notebook behind with the check so you and your guests can leave a little love behind.

The rest of the weekend, I will show in photos.  They speak for themselves. 

 

Ok, except this one.  Cauliflower soup from Seatown.  AMAZING. 

 

We went back to Loulay Saturday night.  Sat at the bar with the cutest bartenders with swirly mustaches.  How very Seattle. 

When I got home, I recited everything we ate and drank that weekend.  A success.  I swiped a few coasters from the bar--reminders on the coffee table that culture is something you take with you. 

It Rains

Welcome to March, the shittiest, grayest of months.  The days promising to become longer, filled with daylight, yet the clouds cover the blue.  March is a horrible month to move to Washington.  March is too cold to plant anything decent, but not cold enough to layer properly.  It's long and it's a bothersome. 

But, it is the start of Spring.  Blue skies do eventually appear and I do a little dance every time a flower pokes it's head through the damp soil.  March sucks, but it has a purpose.  It's here to make you want to open the windows and let the Spring air in, but its cold air forces you to remember how great that will feel.  Everything should be appreciated in its own time.  Yesterday I put up Easter decorations, despite my husband's concerned look.  It is very much too early.  I should slow down and enjoy shamrocks before they become passé.  No doubt I will get tired of Easter egg window clings in a few weeks, or not even notice them at all.  Just like the pat-pat-pat on the roof top--it will soon be few and far between. 

Next week I will have surgery on a knee who has aged far faster than the rest of my body.  A simple dislocation on Valentine's Day 1999, when my brother and I goofed around and produced the loudest, horrendous grinding pop known to man, has been quite painful the last few weeks.  You are 28? the ortho doc asks.  I pretend I can't read black and white pictures on the screen.  Where did the last 15 years go? I wonder.  Maybe I shouldn't have played tennis or became a nurse.  Did I treat my body like I should have or did it become something I acknowledged then forgot about?  The surgery should be simple, like the original injury.  I look forward to the downtime and binging on television shows and sleep. 

However, I know I need to be present in the next 15.  Take the next couple of months to rehab, as shitty and miserable as it will be, and to be patient with each step.  March is the worst month in Washington, but transition isn't always a bad thing. 




On a side note, how cute are these two deer, munching on the flowers which I have reserved a dance with?   

 

They don't even notice the rain.  You could even argue the fluffy one is enjoying it.