Libraries

Magazine Room at the Whitman College Library

On occasion, the room was deserted.  Even as a child I was acutely aware of rooms devoid of adults and chattering kids.  Those were the times when I could pull a book from the shelves, any book, sit on the floor and wander off into fairytale worlds.  Eventually, my mom would return from shopping and retrieve my sister and me from the tall wooden stacks in the pink stucco public library.  I would always carry home a small pile of books to read in the solitude of my home.

Whitman College students have not returned yet, so last week when I found myself only a block away, I made a small detour in my route. I crossed campus from the parking lot and entered the front door of the library, taking an immediate left into the light-filled magazine room.  When I worked nearby at the childcare center, I would catch myself making the promise that upon retirement, I would visit the library often.  I think about it, but haven’t yet gone as frequently as I would like to go.

 

One Section of the Magazine Rack at the Whitman Library

I appreciate paper clips, rocks, a cat’s purr, clean underwear and libraries.  Even busy libraries suit me.  I find it pleasing that in an era when it seemed that books might become passé new libraries are being built.  Stunning ones. 

Entrance to Montreal's Reserve Book Room

Art Exhibit in Montreal's Library

View from Seattle's Main Branch Library

Hallway in Seattle's Main Library 

In November, I was in Vancouver, Washington visiting a friend and had the opportunity to go to a new library.  On a Friday evening, every floor was humming with people.  The children’s area was packed- a great combination of play area with visually appealing displays of books.  It wasn’t the quiet room of my childhood library, but I think that I would have found books anyway.  The words up the lobby wall were inspiring enough.  I can imagine a small child looking up at those huge incomprehensible letters in code and wishing to be able to decipher them.   

 

Walla of Words- Looking Up to the Ceiling

The Whitman Library remained quiet my entire stay.  I left without a stack of books.  But in my head, my brain was still busy shelving new ideas, old words and gratitude for libraries. 

Brass Outlets

I admire outlets, but not the highway shopping center outlets.  I admire round brass floor outlets.  When I first began noticing them, they were in lecture halls near podiums and then on occasion I would spot one in an architectural magazine – a detail in some gorgeously appointed room with vaulted ceilings and leather furniture.  I had begun coveting those shiny floor outlets just like most women had eyes for handbags or high heels.

When I realized that a floor outlet in the middle of my cabin floor would make it possible for me to position a lamp and have a plug for my computer, I requested such from the electrician.  I pictured an outlet cover of dull brown plastic to match the floor color.  I didn’t even consider a brass jewel box outlet.

The electricians arrived early one morning and began adding a number of new plugs.  The two guys, A.J. and Matt from S & S Electric, would pass by each other as they worked under the house, up in the attic or back and forth to their truck.   When I noticed that Matt had stopped in the living room and set a pile of tools near the blue masking tape marks on the floor, I stopped to watch a moment.  He reached for a plain square cardboard box, opened the lid and withdrew - a brass colored outlet.  Oh, my!  When I expressed surprise, he held it for me to see, as if he were a jeweler showing me a ring.  He said that he loved putting them in.  They were just so beautiful.

     

I stayed to watch as he drilled a hole.  The first layer revealed the green linoleum which had apparently for years graced these cabin floors.  As an amateur houser, I loved uncovering house history.  Linoleum was first developed to cover battleship decks but quickly became popular for use in land-bound structures.  I was a little sorry that the cabin's linoleum flooring had been covered, but I wasn't willing to pull-up the newer floor to find out if all of the linoleum looked as good as the sample circle.

I have been promising myself that this cabin would be where I write and read, not work.  In my other home of twenty years, I had ripped up carpets and linoleum glued to plywood.   Underneath were the original wooden floors -  unfortunately, painted with lead green paint!  Cautiously removing that paint took most of a summer.  Therefore, you see, I am leery of starting on another rip-apart project.   

After the electricians were done and packed and gone, I moved furniture to the cabin, bringing along an antique lamp with a yellow cord that I thought would be a nice counterpoint to the brass outlet.  I turned the tiny locking screw on the outlet cover, opened its lid and plugged in the lamp.  And, then, as I had been promising myself, I curled up to read.   

Begin Again

There is a child’s song in which there is a line “Begin again.”  For me, this first day of a new stretch of days is a nudge to begin again - posting, noting, blogging.   (“Blogging” is such an unfortunate choice for one of our new words.  It reminds me of “bloated” and “slogging”.  The creator of that word ought to begin again. I would have chosen something like “ruming” as in ruminating or “quilling” as in writing.)

I first began to blog with the intention of posting while I traveled - nothing grandiose - just photos, a sorting of thoughts and an exercise of beginning again after Gary’s passing.  What brought me to a halt this past fall in blogging was the serendipitous sighting of the cabin that I can now unlock, enter and call my own.  Preparations for my eventual moving into the cabin, which will become my primary residence, have kept me boomeranging back and forth up the canyon toting crowbars, paint cans and screwdrivers. I let in a multitude of plumbers and of electricians (more outlets for computers and cellphones).  My fingers were unavailable for tapping out posts, but inside I was noting that joy was rising and that posts were accumulating in my brain’s out file.

First as incoherent letters jumbled by grief and then by word, by image, by note the three letters of joy spelled itself into a multitude of configurations. Slow rising joy.  

In the mornings, on those occasions when I must set my alarm, I write “Up” for the event in my cellphone calendar.  “Get Up!”  “Go!”  Life, right now, is worth the command of “Up!”   

  

"Go", I say to myself.  Keep writing.  Life is good.

Slow joy is rising.

A View of Slow Rising Joy

On this New Year’s Day I wish for you, "Up, begin again. Have a joyful year!"

Marriage-Hard and Beautiful

Rocks and roses.  Marriage is like the footing surface that the bride and groom stand upon while they say their vows.  Hard and beautiful.   

As my stepson, Cody, and his wife-to-be, Emily, stepped across the petals that had been scattered by a band of children onto the pebbled path, I thought that this marriage would have fewer stones and more petals than so many other couplings that I have known.    

Marriage ceremonies are grounded with vows and lofted with symbolism.  Moments before Cody’s wedding began, the tents were removed from over the chairs thereby banishing the shadows that they cast upon the guests.  The storm momentarily pushed clouds aside and sunlight graced the scene.  A good sign.

The other wedding party celebrating on the island that weekend had their tents, tables, and place settings blown into the bay in the previous windswept night.  I pictured their teacups bobbing, the sodden napkins sinking and the canvas tents speeding away leaving the niggling suggestion of an ominous beginning in the minds of all in that wedding party.  Our guests smilingly settled into the chairs overlooking the lavender field.    

The tent above the dinner setting remained cautiously tethered.  Good marriages have some element of intention, of planning and of forethought.  Emily planned Cody concurred.  Cody planned and Emily concurred.  They surely disagreed but had to have comprised.  Guests couldn’t tell of any disagreement. 

The gleam of silver on old platters bespoke of tradition and of the longing for something that would last and be treasured.  Emily had planned her wedding shower to include gifts of the serving platters.  Good planning.  Cody made sure the dining tent was secured the night before.  Good planning... as rained poured during the dinner.

But any marriage couple, who are expecting perfect execution of plans, and then responds with anger when things go awry will find trouble foreshadowed.

As Emily’s friends began unpacking the silverware, it became obvious that there were only a few spoons.  If Cody and Emily’s friends and families are any indication of how they themselves will handle future challenges, they are in luck.  Brendan stirred his coffee with a knife, laughing.  (So little is worthy of anger.)  If the lack of spoons was an omen, it was a good one.      

As was the dinner.  Pulled pork from the restaurant where Cody and Emily had their third date.  If the two of them remember to keep dating, returning to what they loved and adding to that repertoire, they will keep amazement in their relationship. 

Cody's beloved sister.

Click, click, click went cameras capturing love, advice and jokes tossed to the newly married couple.  Cody's sister and Emily's sister both spoke with eyes a-glinting at their newly-wedded siblings. 

Emily's delighted sister.

Even children had words of advice.

The advice was given with a smile.

"Everything dies!"

Not every wedding lets children take the microphone.  Blessed was this wedding with words from the attending kids.  “Congratulations!” spoken shyly and a surprising “Everything dies!”  Marriages are hard and beautiful.  Even a child could predict the eventual end.  Until that end, may Cody and Emily be blessed with enough hard times to keep them growing spiritually and enough beauty to keep them as joyful as they were on their ferry ride to the wedding.

 Good luck, you two.  Keep music in your hearts, a rock in your pocket and flowers on the table.

"I like your guitar.  Oh, I mean your ukelele," said a child as he passed the wedding's cellist.    

And laugh.  Do laugh often.

A Writer's AWOL

AWOL means "absent from one's post, without intent to desert."  Those of you who might have been wondering why I have been AWOL, deserve an explanation.  Maybe you were thinking that I was intending to cap my pen, unplug the computer and take a cat nap.. never to write a tale again.  It has been some weeks.  Uncharacteristic.  But, I am back.  Mark me present and returned to post.  

Twenty years ago I was given a guest tour of a cabin in the woods up a nearby canyon.  With its multiplicity of windows- through which the sound of a river and the smell of pines drifted- it became my cabin standard.  Now, soon, it will be mine.  I left one morning, almost the very next day after noticing that the cabin was on the market and ventured up to see it.  My realtor and I had to stop at the checkpoint and explain to the sheriff why we wanted to go into the canyon.. which happened to be under a stage one fire evacuation.  When I said that I was looking to buy a cabin, the sheriff burst out laughing and waved us on.

I have wanted or rather needed a place that can become a writer's retreat.  I never have enough time to write in my lovely old home in town.  The cabin will be perfect.  So back to being AWOL, I have been busy dreaming, financing, sprucing and sorting.  The cats have been keeping me company while I paint or trim hedges.  The house is looking better.  Ready for market.

Look at that back wall paint job!

This beautiful home with its stream and sunflowers will one day no longer be mine except in memories.  I have been savoring its views.  Only a few days ago I decided to slow down and put it on the market later, formally in the spring (although it may become someone else's sooner).  I must continue to finish odd and end tasks on the house, but I'm not going to be so neglectful of writing, not AWOL again.  Besides, my dear friends who know of the unexpected demands on my time have been leaving me gifts to sustain me.  

More on that cabin soon..
                

Summer Jobs

I’m late.  Most years by mid-June a list of the summer projects has been posted under a magnet on the refrigerator, the shop cleaned and the sawhorses set-up.  Last summer I missed the ritual when I spent the summer mostly painting over smoking damage from a renter.  So three weeks ago, late for me, I finally began on this summer’s list. I found myself delighted to be among old tools and pleasing tasks. 

Clamps are among my favorite implements.  I seem to use them often.  I have large ones for repairing chairs and smaller ones, like this one in the photo that I was using to hold together a re-glued leg. Flipping the little stool over I had realized from the dark green paint on the bottom that it had military origins.  Walla Walla hosted a large air base during WWII.  I’m imagining that this stool could have been a mechanic’s one since its two-inch thick maple seat has saw nicks and deep oil stains. I’m curious how this little stool with its gorgeous thick maple seat came into being.  Who during the war designed it and designated its use?  How many were made?  Where are they all now?  The stool was obviously made with some pride.  I’m glad it still has a life now as a table next to the smaller of my claw foot tubs.  It is nice for holding a book, an iced drink or a candle.  One day it may be a shop stool again.  That would be fine. 

The leg that I was repairing had been previously screwed together and I was just reinforcing the break with some glue before retightening the screws. I sanded the seat for almost an hour having to go fairly deep to eradicate the oil.  I left the slightest trace as a historical marker.    

Back and forth to the refinishing cabinet for supplies was pleasing; it was familiar work with precisely the tools to do the work.  Scrappers, masks, stripper, steel wool, wrap to cover the stripping fluid while it worked, dental tools and those clamps. 

My jobs this summer have included stripping, repainting and varnishing the stool and also a bathtub seat.  I finished stripping white lead paint off of old shelving for the kitchen cabinets and sanded, stained and varnished them.  I took off the old paint from a couple of doorknobs to put into the freshly painted antique doors upstairs.

The work was transformative and reflective.   The kind of work that opens doors.      

Joy Ride

From where I live I can see the cumulus clouds building up over the Blues.  My view is a narrow one from the house, not like this sweeping one, but the clouds lean down my street and sometimes, when the urge is too strong, I have to head out for a ride.  I’ve been cloistered at home with the light from my computer screen glowing late into the evenings or smothering projects in the shop with paint stripper for a few weeks now.  I haven’t written on the blog or even added to my memoir.  Not a word.

So I called to Pup and we headed off.  I promised her a walk somewhere, but she loves the ride getting there.  Here she was in this photo listening to the slither of a snake or the rustling of a field mouse.  The trip last night up the North Fork of the Walla Walla River gave her smells of goats and cows and a deer.  She stood between the seats watching or hanging her head out as the good smells came.  

It’s harvest time in the valley.  The dust was back lite by sun rays as the tractors came in from the fields to park for the night.  Wheat trucks loaded rushed by me.

The hawk on the gate looked for the final meal of the night in the short stubble and a coyote ran along a ridgeline. 

This was no ordinary ride.  It was a joy ride.  How one celebrates when one’s world flips around is something one doesn’t always plan.  Earlier in the day I yelled “Whoop!” as I submitted an application for a writer’s residency.  The shouted “whoop” rose above me and dissipated through the walls out into the valley.  I guess that when I went for the ride later I was just following the syllables, pulled along in the wake of their projection in a southern course.  I used to be a retired elder and now, flip, I am a writer.  Or so, I now suppose.        

I stopped a moment at an old pioneer cemetery.  Here I know are the graves of whole families who seemed to die all at once.  I’ll take joy where I can find it.  I’m sure that I’ll carry it with me when it will be my time to go.  When I think of dying I think of how much I shall miss this gloriously beautiful world, so I try to catch its images and maybe in the next world I’ll reconstruct its essence.  

The North Fork is a dead end, but no matter.  The light on the barbed wire, the old cottonwood trees and the folds of the hills proffered slices of views.  Pleasing ones.  Later while I waited for the pup to poop in the dark at a park near home, I figured out how to use another aspect of a photo application.  Another joy.  Applying for that writer’s residency may be a dead end, but the road there has given me insights into my capacities and dreams out on the horizon.