Old Friend
When climate allows, we (Portlanders) are voracious backyard hanger outers. For the backyard is the province of summer.
This weekend, of a Saturday night, I wandered over to Pinski's house where our pal Seth Neefus of Red Clouds Collective fame was playing an electric guitar on a newly built deck—the smell of fresh-cut wood still everywhere. Seth and his guitar often come together as Old Friend (totally look ’em up HERE on Bandcamp). Old Friend balances a kind of whispery softness with moments of heavy reverb—it's all very much in the fashion of Jim James, I think. Just the stuff to play to a backyard full of friends sitting quietly on blankets pulling beers now and again from the 12 packs they all brought.
It was, in its way, a magical sort of night. The string of white lights twinkled. The darkness was soft and warm. The music washed out in big waves. And then ... then it started raining, and everyone ran inside.
Moms, Then And Now
So, yeah, Mom's Day was last Sunday. I skyped with Nancy Sherowski in the afternoon whilst drinking milky coffee. And while I didn't participate in the huge outpouring ("outposting"?) of vintage mom pics on Instagram that day, I do, it occurs to me, have a vintage photograph of my mom (above!).
Okay, so let's look at this shot. How untroubled she looks. Carefree, would you call it? And that van?! Wood paneling, paisley curtains, comfy sleep nest ... Polerstuff wishes they could hashtag this van! Also, if you look long and hard, you might detect a pale cloud of weed smoke hovering in the air? Or maybe not. We can't know. Anyway, her brother, my uncle, sitting to her left, died this year—giving this picture more than ever, to me anyway, that sad air of something bygone.
“The days aren’t discarded or collected, they are bees that burned with sweetness or maddened the sting: the struggle continues, the journeys go and come between honey and pain. No, the net of years doesn’t unweave: there is no net.” – Pablo Neruda, Still Another Day
Little me! Mexico! (I had a good smile.)
How To Move A Mini Ramp
Not too long ago, I saw vast expanses of aromatic sage brush, scorched mountainsides dressed in nothing but black trees, clouds of red dust, and one tiny, pale scorpion with pinchers fast and sharp. I was down in Sisters helping Sasha rescue an unused, disassembled mini ramp off some "farm land" there. A U-Haul was involved.
I was only along for the ride, but really, there's no such thing. Unbeknownst to my earlier-in-the-day self, I'd be tasked with driving that big ol' truck up and over Santiam Pass through the darkest, rainiest evening of early May. Now, I've never driven a 20-foot U-Haul weighed down with the bones of a mini ramp before, but I did okay. The gas pedal stayed on the floor. The wheels turned true. The V like 100 or whatever engine kept us at an an even 55 on all of the uphills. Round about 11 p.m., our little caravan pulled onto the wide lanes of Gladstone Street in Portland, Oregon, and an old ramp found a new home.
A band of traveling carnies.
A pair of painted shoes, and a mini ramp nestled into SE Portland.
Waldeinsamkeit
Did you know that in German, there's a word for that feeling of being all alone in the woods? "Waldeinsamkeit" they call it. Lovely, no?
The May Report
The first week of May, gone.
Drank: Cazadores tequila, in a small cool glass with a salty rim. Baptized with a squeeze of lime juice. A few sips and you're all toasty inside.
Skated: Bracewell backyard mini ramp for like 17 minutes on Friday night before swollen clouds broke into downpour and we all ran in the house where the air was humid like walking through a swimming pool.
Made: Incendiary potato salad with dressing of salt, chives, and greek yogurt. Was told it was "pretty good for not having mayo."
Planted: Bright, young tomato starts outside in the dark earth. I raised them up from little babies—how proud I am of their strong stems and leaves!
Free-lanced: Spreadsheets—hours of them, through the late afternoon—but a garden, a breeze, and happy pet hijinks to go with.
