Painted Birds vs Real Birds

I wasn't going to post anything else until I finished the edit. And I'm so close. So close. But over the weekend a traumatic event sent me into a tail spin. Right there, in my driveway, near the garage door, a bird rested on its side on the wet pavement. I made a stealthy approach, easing up along the side of the car and peering down. It didn't move.

It looked dead. I danced around the garage, flapping my arms and trying to control the "Eeeeaak". A glance up the driveway showed only a few brown leaves fluttering at the edges. I hoped to see a stray salesman or wildlife ranger. Pursing my lips, I tip toed over to the snow shovel leaning against a shelf. I hate having to remove dead creatures, and wondered if I could just leave it there until it returned to dust. Judging the distance from the tires of my car and the line of travel I'd have to take, I'd have to remove it unless I wanted a new bookmark.

So I approached the little gray bird, its wings covered with raindrops, and cooed to it. I slipped the blade of the shovel under and bird rolled forward off the shovel. His other wing was gone. No where to be seen. What must the little bird have suffered to have lost its wing and landed in front of my garage?

I tried again to scoop him up. He rolled off. By now tears slid down my cheeks, accompanied by a set of horrified shivers. We played out the scene; shovel, roll, shovel, roll until we reached the grass at the edge. With him finally balanced on the blade, I carried him over to the hillside and flung him into the bracken. I tell myself it is better than being put in a plastic garbage can. On the hillside he can provide a home for a host of tiny creatures and eventually become one with the soil.

I said good-bye to him, carried the shovel back and drove away in silence.

The picture was painted by my sister, Dale, and given to me for Christmas. It does not look like the wingless bird on the hillside, but it is in commemoration of him that I post the painting.

Serious about Editing

I'm on my final edit (Who am I kidding? Is there such a thing as a final edit? Perhaps I should say, I'm going to finish this edit and then submit the manuscript to my friend, Lilith, who will use an entire box of red pens and send me packing for another edit.) This is why I'm not posting much right now.

Above is a painting done by my sister, Nina, and given to me for Christmas. She has asked me to take a picture of it without flash. However, as I go to work in the dark and come home in the dark, it will be a while before I can do that. The flash makes a difference. It washed out some of the color. It is not as vibrant. And I am miserable at cropping. I think I will have to let her take the picture for her own website. She is not only an artist, but a photographer, too.

With the Wind at His Back

Aloft

At Starbucks a few days ago something happened that made me sigh and sent my heart rate up one notch on the metronome. A man in brown slacks, a tan dress shirt, and a short, black overcoat, walked by and turned into hallway. A woman--just out of my range of vision—waited outside the women’s restroom, and I heard the man breath out an “Oh.” He tried handle to the men’s room. It turned and the door popped open a few inches. He pushed it wide and then swept his other arm from the direction of the waiting woman to the empty men’s room and smiled in an unsolicited gesture of gallantry. She must have turned down the generous offer for he mumbled out, “Are you sure?” She, again, must have declined, for he dipped his head, sent her a smile and with an “Okay,” slipped into the room and closed the door.

I find this type of gallantry appealing, especially from a man. This may be another one of my flaws, but if a woman had done that I would have thought she was particularly sweet, but it would not have made my heartbeat quicken. When the man came out, I hid behind my computer and watched him leave, my lips tilting up in a wistful smile.

Dave Hayden at Timothy Lake

I had the good fortune to meet a chivalrous gentleman not too long ago. His name is Dave Hayden. For those of you who live around the Portland metro area, you know of the Hayden Island Yacht Club. On a warm summer day, you can sit on the dock at the Island Café and watch the yachts glide by on their way to adventure. I asked Hayden if he hailed from the family upon which Hayden Island was named. A flicker of a smile flitted over his lips before he shook his head, but in my mind I’ve no doubt he’d one of them, as he carries the same classy magnetism and easy elegance of a man raised in the best social circumstances.

A few years ago, Hayden read an article about a couple who had spent two weeks aboard a tall ship, learning to haul in sheets and unfurl sails in the bawdy ocean breezes. It reached into his subconscious and bore into his brain like malware. Brains have no antivirus scanners. It slithered and wound its way until he found himself applying to board the Lady Washington for a two-week training course to become a “volunteer”.

He remembers his elation as he boarded, but he also remembers how foolish he felt. He knew nothing about sailing. He “was the worst landlubber” one could imagine. To make matters worse, he came aboard with another man who built models of tall ships and knew every sail, every halyard, and every brace. “But,” he said, “the captain and crew of the Lady Washington were great.” They really wanted to teach him and he really wanted to learn. It was a marriage of desire and opportunity.

Within a week he and the other landsman were ready to climb to the top of the mast—a sort of rite of passage for a sailor. But, the fates were against him. Not the capriciousness of weather, but of visitors. They had a full complement of passengers and Hayden was asked to stay ashore in order for the ship to remain within safety limits. He sighed. It was only a three hour passage, after all, and he had a whole week left to accomplish his feat.

They set off from the harbor and hoisted the mains’l, to the delight of the passengers, and disappeared over the horizon. Now, in modern times, one tends to forget that sailing on a tall ship is dangerous. One false move, one misplaced foot, one muscle spasm can have the same disastrous result as it might have had two hundred years ago. And on this day, it did.

His fellow landsmen fell from the rigging.

“I knew something was wrong when I saw the Lady returning early, her sails furled, but without the gaskets stowing them neatly in place,” he said. He looked past me at the wall while memories ignited within. His eyes returned to me. “And then I heard the sirens.”

As the diesel engine ripped through the water toward port, the thwap-thwap-thwap of a helicopter grew nearer. Paramedics and fire trucks screamed to a stop at the water’s edge. The ship glided up to the dock and crew swung from ropes across the expanse of water to the wooden platform. Ropes were thrown. Passengers stood silently. Gurneys and backboards and respirators waited. Crew wrapped lines from amidships around the cleat, belayed the stern, secured the bow.

“The ambulance took him to the helicopter and he was ‘life-flighted’ to OHSU. It was a harrowing time for the captain and crew. We were all transported to Astoria where we had to submit to drug testing.”

I nodded. A lot of business requires such testing, but I wondered if this were a maritime requirement.

“And we had to wait for the results before we were cleared to get underway a day or two later.” He looked at me quizzically. “You know, I’m glad I wasn’t there. Really, I am. He was my shipmate and we had gotten to be good friends. But, in some ways it separated me from the rest of the crew. I became an outcast, even worse than a lubber trying to fit in with able seamen.”

I knew what he meant. Experiencing trauma unites people. My first full-time job at Toys R Us saw twelve-hour-days and no days off in an effort to get the new store open in time for the Christmas rush. The employees were mostly young, hardworking people and friendly with each other. When I finally had a day off, a couple weeks after opening, a couple of blood thirsty gunmen held up the store, shot the security guard and made off with a bag of money from each of the ten cash registers. The criminals were caught, the guard recovered, but I always felt excluded from the inner circle after that.

It wasn’t as if the crew meant to make Hayden feel outside the camaraderie of shipmates, but not being there at the catastrophic event makes one sit outside the window and look in as the others close rank.

“It was really awful for them. It was traumatic,” he explained. They were short-handed and routine chores took more thought than usual. They needed help and he valiantly offered to stay an extra week. The Lady Washington agreed with a sigh of creaking wood. As is the case with shipboard trauma, life had to go on and the crew rallied. During that extra week, things got back to normal. The sailor who fell recovered. Hayden returned to his land job and the Lady Washington eventually sailed over the horizon to new ports.

Hayden hasn’t returned to the Lady Washington, although he could. But the life; the sailing, the sea, did its work during those weeks. It captured him and has not let go. He built a small sailboat and has sailed on his own. He is currently building a Navigator. He sent me a link, but I cannot download the picture. It is currently just the framework of the hull.

He has a great deal of pride and admiration for the captain and crew of the Lady Washington and it doesn’t surprise me. Accidents do happen, but once it did, the captain and crew did everything right to save the life of their crewman. That wouldn’t have been possible two hundred years ago. If not for their professionalism, their quick-thinking and their ability to do all that is necessary to bring the ship back in, the results may have been different.

Then Hayden did one more gallant thing, which sent my heart rocketing. He handed me his copy of the “Lady Washington Crew Training Manual.”

“Here, you may have this,” he said, and smiled. “For your research.”

I’m a pushover for gallant gentleman. I “friended” Hayden on facebook and “followed” both his wife and him on twitter. What is more, they’ve followed back. I feel so privileged. And a few days ago I asked him to send me a picture of himself for this blog, which he kindly did, with an embarrassed disclaimer. How sweet is that? I look forward to seeing both Hayden and his wife sometime soon, perhaps at the launching of the still unnamed Navigator he building (hint hint). I’ll bring the champagne.

Fair winds, Dave Hayden, and may you always have following seas.

The Snows of Vancouver

This morning the frigid air left light gray frost on the darker gray field grasses under the nearly black Douglas Firs. The road looked wet in the headlights, and once in a while a lamp would expose a tan house in the predawn light. As I raced along the empty country roads, the sky lightened until the indigo gave way to bluish gray. By the time I reached the beginning of the industrial area, pink glowed behind Mt. Hood.

The sun wouldn't peek out from behind the mountain until I was settled into the closet, but I imagined a crisp, beautiful, sunny day. My lunch time was spent in an empty, windowless office while I worked on editing. About three in the afternoon, I heard the gasping breaths of co-workers. Snow. I ran out to the office area and squinted out the window at the dark rain. If you stared long enough you could see a snowflake occasionally float down among the drops.

Panic.

Two flakes stuck to the ground.

Mass panic.

The radio interrupted regular programming to begin 24 hour news coverage of the blizzard. By four o'clock drifts as high as a half inch had accumulated.

It looked like fun to me. I didn't want to miss driving in it.

"Gosh, look at the size of the flakes. They are the size of a quarter. They are huge," I casually mentioned over the dire predictions of an inch to three inches expected. "Look at the top of my car, it is completely covered." I made a bunch of tsk tsk noises and shook my head.

"Go home," my boss said. "You'll never get up your dirt road hill if you wait any longer."

"Yes," I made my voice shake to announce my concern. "I must go now, while I can make it." I shut off my computer, zipped up my black windbreaker and nearly ran out to the car. If I'd had my red shoes on, they would have acted as snow shoes.

(The white splotches are actually snow flakes including the one on the right rear quarter panel)

I jumped in and remembered I would have to chip away the frozen glacier on the windshield. I started to climb out, but decided to turn on the wipers instead. Hopefully no one would notice how easily it brushed off until I was out of the parking lot on my way home.

I love the Northwest. By the time I got home, the snow had turned back into rain.

The Influence of Ray Orrock

Writers are often asked who inspired them to write. Many respond with modern names such as Harper Lee or J.D. Salinger. Sometimes more historic authors are mentioned; Jane Austin, Charlotte Bronte, Charles Dickens. I’d like to say one of these historic legends is responsible for my desire to write, but it would not be the truth. My answer to the question would be Hayward, California’s Daily Review newspaper columnist, Ray Orrock. Ray Orrock died last year, but he will live on in the memories of thousands of Bay Area readers. Mr. Orrock once said, "Reading is quite possibly the most fun you can have with your clothes on." How could that not inspire me?

A couple times a year he would do a column, in which he wrote fictitious "letters from readers" to himself, asking questions for which he just happened to have the answer. He would always include a comment in his pretend letters about his column. It was outrageous. It was ridiculous. It was inspired. As a tribute to him, I will devote this blog to emulating his question/answer columns. This is for you, Ray Orrock.

Dear Melanie Sherman

I really love your blog. It makes me laugh. Please keep on writing.

When I was a kid and something broke, my father used to “gerry-rig” it back together using duct tape or wire or rubber bands. Do you know where that term came from?

Your devoted reader,

Antonio Gomez Gutierrez

Dear Mr. Gutierrez

Thank you so much for your compliment. As it happens, I can tell you the term “gerry-rig” is actually from the nautical term “jury rig”. When a mast was carried away in a storm, or blown away in battle, the crew would jury rig a temporary mast or yards using whatever means possible until they could get into a harbor or port where more permanent repairs could be made.

Yours,

Melanie Sherman

Dear Melanie Sherman,

I’ve been reading your blog for several months and I can really identify with all the problems you encounter. It makes me feel good to know there are others out there as inept as me.

Who was it that said, “I have not yet begun to fight?” Was it Thomas Paine, Benedict Arnold or Nathan Hale?”

Sincerely,

Wahab Bhagyamma

Dear Mr. Bhagyamma

I’m happy I am able to make you feel right at home with your incompetence.

It grieves me to say this, but none of those gentlemen were responsible for this famous historical quotation. It was Captain John Paul Jones who, in 1779, uttered that retort when Captain Richard Pearson of the 50 gun HMS Serapis (it was actually a 44 gun ship but it carried an extra six 6-pounders at the time of the battle) asked if Jones was giving up. It seems the battle wasn’t going well for Captain Jones. His equipment was old, his ship, the USS Bonhomme Richard, was an old, converted merchant vessel, and the cannons were blowing up in the crew’s faces. One crewman cried out, asking for mercy from the mighty British ship. Unfortunately Captain Pearson heard the cry before John Paul Jones could silence the man. Pearson asked if Captain Jones was asking for quarter. Infuriated one of his crew would cry out in such a manner, Jones called out he had no intention of striking his colors. “I have not yet begun to fight,” he insisted. True to his word, he eventually captured the Serapis, affecting the first United States victory over a British ship of war during the American Revolution.

Thanks for your question,

Melanie Sherman

Dear Melody Shoreman

I haven’t ever read your blog. I think it is a waste of time reading blogs. But, I wondered if you knew anything about making jelly.

Thelma Pipsnorkle

Dear Ms. Pipsnorkle

No I do not.

Sincerely,

Melanie Sherman

Dear Melanie Sherman

I love your blog so much. It is so witty and filled with interesting information. I have it on my blog roll and can’t wait to check to see if there is a new entry each day.

Why was a British Royal Navy seamen called a “Limey?”

Curious,

Francesca di Giovanni

Dear Ms. di Giovanni,

Thank you very much for your interest in my blog. I appreciate it. The British discovered that giving seaman lime juice would prevent scurvy, a disease that could wipe out a good deal of the crew. It was a brilliant plan, saving the lives of countless sailors.

Thank you again for your question.

Melanie Sherman.

Yes, I can see now how fun writing the question/answer column must have been for Ray. I certainly enjoyed writing this one. Thanks for all the laughs you gave me, Mr. Orrock. I’m hoisting one for you.

First Blogger Christmas

Sometimes bad things happen to good people. Well, semi-good people. Well, me.

Normally we all gather at Nina's and Laurent's house (my sister and brother-in-law) on Christmas Eve and spend the night. Nina and Laurent are fabulous cooks and we have a leisurely dinner, listen to Christmas music, play games and bask in the multi-colored glow of the Christmas tree. Even Hobiecat and Schooner are invited. We wake in the morning, have crepes and bacon and espresso and then open gifts. We curl our fingers around hot coffee mugs and tuck our feet under us and enjoy all that being a family involves. And one-by-one we depart in the early afternoon and slink back to our own beds for a long winter's nap.

That didn't happen this year. Some say it is because Laurent was sick and now that my parents are here we do not want to risk making them ill. My own personal suspicion is that no one wants me to twitter about them. Earlier this month at my mother’s birthday, I overheard someone mention they should all keep their mouths shut because everything they say could end up on my blog.

Honestly. Like I would do that.

So I spent last night alone. I opened a box that arrived from my friend, Kathy, in California. It contained several different kinds of English muffins. What a gold mine. I put most of them into the freezer and ripped open one package. I had an English muffin with a piece of cheese on it. I prepared this all by myself and didn’t even set the kitchen on fire. This morning I scraped some strawberry jam out of the bottom of a jar onto another toasted muffin. This would have been an okay Christmas morning breakfast except I didn’t have any coffee.

I planned to leave early enough to swing by Starbucks, but I ran late and had to stop at McDonalds. The coffee wasn’t bad and kept me warm on the hour’s drive down to Oregon. I picked up my mother and drove her to church. On Christmas, as you can imagine, it is crowded with people in bright red sweaters and dangling ornament earrings and warm smiles. We joined in the singing and then something awful happened.

It wasn’t my fault. It was the shoes.

I bought a pair of red Doc Martin shoes last month. They are gigantic and each weighs about 70 pounds. I can barely walk in them (but they are cute!) and they take up much more space than any of my other shoes. I had one foot in front of the other and just as the song ended and silence descended, I moved my forward foot back beside the other. Only I misjudged the amount of space I’d need for the enormous shoe and the heel of the moving shoe scraped down the ribbed heel of the other shoe. It created a shocking Fifffffft sound, like passing gas, right into the momentary silence.

Oh dear Lord.

People shifted away and the woman next to me took out a hanky and covered her nose, pretending she had to wipe it. Usually under such circumstances the only way out of the embarrassment is to recreate the noise so that everyone sees you do it. But how could I possibly recreate it? The pastor had already begun reading from the bible. I had to stand there and let people think, well, you know what they thought.

That was the longest Christmas service I’ve ever attended.

After church, my daughter drove in from Portland and Nina left her poor, sick husband and we met at the retirement center. Nina popped open a bottle of champagne before lunch. My dad started playing the harmonica and we tried to sing along. After a second glass of champagne, we noticed he’d begin one song, but end playing a different one. Hard to sing along with that. When it was time to go to lunch, my father put on a hat he’s had for years and tramped down to the half-filled dining hall and began playing Jingle Bells. All of the employees stopped and stared. Finally they began clapping along and singing.

That is my daughter and my father. Okay, so the long hair sticking out is actually attached to the hat.

We went back to my parent’s apartment and opened gifts. The only thing that prevented it from being a perfect Christmas was the absence of Laurent.

Well, that and the red shoes incident.

Dark Twinkling Peace

Have you ever had a day where everything goes right; when you feel as though your stars are aligned with the correct gas pumps or your karma is dancing with your aura and sending rays of sunshine to warm your heart?

Today I dressed in holiday finery and scampered to work in a jolly mood. My co-workers gathered at the coffee pots and eyed me askance. “Why the heck are you all dressed up?” one of them grumbled as she filled her cup with the fragrant brew.

I smiled. “I’m leaving early.”

“Why?”

“I’m going to my mother’s Christmas concert.”

She laughed. “You mean your child’s concert?”

“No, I mean my mother’s. She joined the senior chorus and their concert is this afternoon.”

She shook her head and rolled her eyes. “You really never do anything the way normal people do, do you?”

I’m pretty sure it was admiration in her voice. All last week people were coming in late, leaving early, or taking long lunches to attend their children’s concerts. Hey, I attended my daughter’s belly dance program on Halloween, so now it was time to attend my mother’s program at Christmas.

And it was lovely. My father sat on one side and the woman who drove the bus from the retirement center sat on the other. Directly in front of me several white haired people sat on chairs or wheelchairs. Occasional whiffs of Eucalyptus or menthol blended with the scent of brewing decaf coffee. The chorus filed in and sang cheery Christmas songs and sentimental ballads. There were solos and duets and quartets. One man began to sing “Oh Holy Night.” The crowd fell silent. He was so good even the squeaky feedback from hearing aids died down.

After the concert I took my parents out for coffee and we chatted until it was time to take them back to the retirement center. When they realized it would be rush hour in Portland, they invited me to have dinner with them. I accepted. It is an hour’s drive in the best of circumstances. It can be a two hour drive if the traffic is bad. So, while we waited for the dinner bell, my father dug out his harmonica and gave me a private holiday concert of his own. How lucky to have two gifted parents.

By the time I left, my car had frost on the roof. I cranked up the heater and pushed the pedal to the floor, roaring home in just an hour and twenty minutes. As the tires crackled along the gravel road, lights twinkled in an inky black sky, with only a sliver of a moon to light the land. I pulled into my garage and heaved open the door, testing the air. Warm. About 34 degrees. I picked my way up to the top of the driveway, listening for any growling and baying wildlife and tipped my head back.

What is it about looking up at the vast night sky with the glittering of thousands of stars that fills one with wonder and joy? I searched the sky for the big dipper and for Orion. I’ve been in love with Orion since college. They weren’t there. At some point I wished someone knowledgeable stood next to me so I could ask if that was the Milky Way or if that group over there formed the heart of Taurus.

What would it have been like to be a shepherd and see a star shining in the east beyond them far?

I stood in the dark until my teeth began to chatter. “Thanks,” I whispered, “for this day of happy peace and wondrous beauty.”

Merry Christmas to you and may you find peace and beauty wherever you are in the world. May you find yourself with more good days than bad.

Thank you for reading. Thank you for commenting. Bless you all.