The Meeting of the Waters

Sunday Merlin and I rode out to Kelley Point Park, about six miles from our house, to see the place where the Willamette River flows into the Columbia. It is not as dramatic as the meeting of the waters of the Amazon and the Rio Negro in Brazil, where it looks like cream being slowly poured into black coffee. In fact, the marker says Lewis and Clark failed to notice the Willamette as they went down the Columbia and again as they came back up it, even though they'd been told there was another great river right in the neighborhood.

That point is also the spot where the city of Portland ends. Even though we now live in the big City, we live at the extreme end of it, and it is a place where extreme beauty and extreme ugliness can be seen with just a quick turn of the head. Or without turning even. To get to Kelley Point, you ride a bike path with Smith and Bybee lakes on your left, a beautiful wildlife area, and the rather sci-fi-ish Marine Drive industrial landscape on your right. Over your left handlebar, woods, waterfowl and fish, over your right, large square buildings, all deserted for the weekend (or WERE they?), and railroad tracks. It's eerie.

Our own home is barely south of Columbia Boulevard. So we are surrounded by an old Portland neighborhood (not a fancy one, but kind of a cozy one), yet one block away to the north is an area that will never be residential and is covered with railroad tracks, a water treatment plant, heavy manufacturing. That area is also home to the Columbia slough, a great place to walk and see wildlife, provided you don't mind your wildlife against a backdrop of aging warehouses or the Portland International Raceway. (It's also home to the lost city of Vanport, which washed away 63 years ago last weekend, about which we've been reading and Googling obsessively lately, more about which another time.)

Oddly, I don't mind too much. It's surprisingly quiet here despite all that so close. And train whistles sing me back to sleep when I wake in the night. I live where humans live, and we are unfortunately a messy species. And really, you can't spit in this place and not hit some sort of a park (I have no idea how we pay for that!), so I take the blessing with the curse and try not to add too much to the latter.

The Old Homestead Goes on the Market

Today we signed all that paperwork you sign when you are about to put up a Realtor's sign in front of your house. Yes, funny to think it, but that big green house in Dallas is still ours, even though we no longer sleep there or cook there. It is now all various shades of beige, neutralized for the next couple who walks in, so they can picture making it their own, and maybe give us lots of money for it. I did leave the crayon-red room crayon-red, because it was too beautiful that way to paint over so soon, and because red is really hard to cover with beige.

Our real estate agent Yolanda was impressed. She saw it at its worst last fall and helped us set a tentative price; before she came over Friday, she tried to prepare us for a possible down-pricing as the market keeps slipping, I guess, but when she saw it she decided to keep the starting price where we first decided it would be. It definitely confirmed our conviction, formed long ago, that it would be a much more attractive house with us out of it.

It still makes me sad. I loved that house, and especially the things I thought I would do with it 10 years ago, but never did. Now I am in a much smaller house with all kinds of Ikea ideas about what I want to do with it; we'll see. But I hope that now that I live here full-time, I'll dive right into what I want to do most, even before I paint over the depressing Spanish Moss green walls: Fill it with people once every week or two (it won't take many to fill it) and feed them with the non-foodie food I know how to make, and thus, and in many other ways, fulfill the law of Christ.

The Bus

I ride the #4 bus now. I haven't ridden a city bus in the US for over 25 years, and now I have a bus. It's the 4. It picks me up two blocks from home, and after 45 minutes it lets me off 10 blocks from work. Or vice versa. That doesn't sound like a good ad for public transportation, and I still get driven to work by the love of my life most days, but I like the 4. It makes me feel like I live in a more diverse city than I do live in.

Today, about a mile into the ride, a whole class of 7-year-olds from Boise-Eliot school got on at one stop, with what looked like 2 adults. This made me smile. They were noisy and well behaved. Except for one of their supervisors who kept yelling at them to stop talking: "ZERO TALKING." "How much talking did I say? ZERO." She did eventually almost succeed in silencing them. I liked the chatter better.

My husband goes to Dallas every Friday to cut the grass, work on the house we are about to put on the market, and play volleyball late into the evening with his friends. He drops me off at work and I go home on the 4. I do what everyone else does, find a seat, pull out my faux-pod (a cheap Sansa MP3 player my kids found me on one of those websites where you have 24 hours to decide) or my book, and leave the driving to a very nice man or woman who is, I hope, paid well to put up with us all. I watch people of every color, age, and capability get on and off. I watch Portland go by. I pull the string. I walk the two blocks home. I feel kind of like I live here.

In case you know someone else who...

Can't open her mouth, I have a few observations and suggestions that I wish someone had given me a couple of weeks ago:

Safeway Signature soups (the kind that come in a refrigerator case and cost about $4 for 24 ounces) blend better than anything else that tastes good. Coconut Thai Chicken Bisque is incredible. My mother justly termed it a "beautiful soup".

If you've ever thought you only like food and drink really cold, or really hot, this situation will change your mind. When you can't sip and everything has to go past your teeth, tepid has its virtues. Oddly, Ensure is better fairly hot.

Ask for that wax they give people with braces. Buy Anbesol and Biotene. And those little plastic toothpicks with green rubber tips. And Benefiber. (It really does dissolve completely in liquid, and you may be sorry if you don't use it, because juices, it turns out, don't contain much fiber. Especially that stupid "Green Machine" which has the look of virtue and the fiber content of pudding.)

It's surprisingly easy to turn away from real food and just not think about it when you have no real choice. And I love, love, love real food. I will run back to its arms as soon as they let me. But now, I just turn a cold eye and keep moving.

I have not found anything that helps me talk better. I know someone has tips, I just don't.

You will be tempted to think and talk about this condition all the time because you are inevitably obsessed because it affects almost all you do. It would be wise for everyone's sake to resist the temptation as much as possible. I have failed. As you can see.

I Fracture My Jaw

What has finally driven me back to the blog is this: My jaw is wired shut and two things I most enjoy doing most (yes, deliberate use of two "mosts")--talking and eating--have suddenly lost about 3/4 of their attraction for me.

I earn my living by thinking and talking, and I think in part by talking. Since I tripped on a piece of Portland sidewalk 10 days ago, landing squarely on my chin and breaking my mandible, talking is tiring, a little painful, and seriously embarrassing. I have been grateful for all the people who have said to me, "I've tried talking through my teeth to see what that's like for you, and it's awful!" The effort to empathize warms my heart, but I know they know trying it out is nothing like having it imposed on you. I sound slushy and sticky. Apologizing to the few patients I've seen or talked to on the phone is how I start my visits. And the muscles of my face constantly tighten and try to force my teeth, already as close as they can get, closer.

This happened at a time I wouldn't have chosen, at the juncture of two jobs. While I'm thankful for COBRA (health care portability law), and a new employer who is willing to give me a light schedule and several more days off than I'm sure she wishes I had to take, some of my anxiety is that I am now dealing with people who don't know me, who don't know that I never take sick time, and who don't know how much I really want to dive in and learn the new job. (Also, at my old clinic, my patients would have patted my hand and said, "There, there, we don't mind that you sound like you're talking through mashed potatoes, we're just glad you're okay". Probably in Spanish. My new ones probably won't. And actually if they did, it'd be weird.)

But you don't get offered choice in this kind of thing, only in how you respond. So I am off on a hopefully brief adventure of character building and ego adjusting and perspective acquiring, trying with very mixed success to use my shamefully frequent self-pity as a trigger to pray for, oh, say, quake victims in Japan, women with rectovaginal fistulas in rural Africa, girls being sold on the street in Portland, and people with real, intractable pain who will come into my office and for whom 2-6 weeks of eating slurry will not make things all right again.

Put up with me if you can, call me if you want to, and remember to give thanks that you can, any time you want to, lick your lips.

Observations while packing to move. And downsize.

Books that have been on your shelf unread for years (many never read), will suddenly look exceedingly interesting when you are faced with giving them away.

A job that at the outset looks like no big deal will after a few days reveal itself to be a very big deal.

Most of what we have is junk. We are fortunate enough to recognize that; it will save us from thinking that we would have made a mint off of it if only we'd had the time and foresight to have a garage sale. Our gift to ourselves is not to have a garage sale.

Our gift to our children is to move to half the space now and only keep what can fit there. This is written from the perspective of a child-in-law who had to help clear off a 60-year-old farm a few years back. (Their gift to us will be to come take their stuff away now).

It is surprising how nostalgic I can get about an oversize one-car garage on my husband's account.

Suddenly I'm obsessed with flat screens and other things that take up less space. Unfortunately until we sell our big roomy old house for less than we paid for our slightly less old compact model, budget is tighter. (But this computer monitor is about 3 feet deep. It's gotta go soon.)

Word of advice. Before you buy, you might want to check and see if your new house has cell phone reception. Farewell to the T-Mobile plan that has served our family well for 5+ years.

This is an adventure. People are shockingly impressed that we are doing it at all. It's good to go on an adventure.

Not Better Than Average

Have you read/heard of the research that says most people think they are better than average drivers? I'm not one of them. I think that I am a worse than average driver by nature, and try to compensate by being a very vigilant driver, taking caffeine for the morning commute, driving a very small car to minimize the damage I might do in a moment of inattention, trying not to pay attention to anything around me that might be more interesting than what is ahead of me, never talking (never mind texting, which is inconceivable) on the cell while driving, or drinking before driving.



I also don't find myself to be a woman of better than average character. My motives for much of what I do are base self-preservatory motives. When I pray not to do harm in my work, I'm praying not just for my patients' safety, but also for my ability to go on doing my job and being able to live with myself. Doing one's duty is the duty of all, and many if not most do theirs; I try to do mine. That makes me, at best, a person of average character. But my obstacles are not as high as those of most people in this world, so maybe average is an overestimate.


Of the things I love to do--read, write poems, sing, care for (and entertain) those I love, and those entrusted to my care--most people who love to do those things do them better than I do. And among those who love God, God knows I am not his most passionate and dedicated soul, loving with all my heart, soul, mind and strength. But, because of his grace, I haven't given up. I still hope for those occasions when I forget myself and where I fall in the continuum of the rest of sin-touched humanity, and do the right thing for the right reason, and love for the sake of the beloved, and rise above not all the others, but myself, by pure grace. It stands to reason that if that ever happens, I won't notice.


And just so you don't find this morbidly depressing or think I'm obnoxiously self-effacing--like that could ever happen--there are a few things I do well: Whereas I'm not normally a good judge of character, tending to trust those who are up to no good, I was, when it mattered 37 years ago, a profoundly good judge of husband material. And I'm a great speller and punctuater. Or is it punctuator?)