Tag Archives: visit

by

Visit

It is time to visit. It has been long enough and it is time.

He is in a dungeon. I have to go down flight after flight of stairs. It gets colder and damper and there is mold growing on the walls and puddles. Light comes with me.

I can hear him one flight above finding him. He’s having a tantrum and hitting something.

I find the door in the dungeon. It is thick and moldy damp wood with bars in the window and a huge lock. It is also open. My friend is screaming at the ceiling and hitting the ceiling and walls with a yard long heavy pipe. It clangs and I feel a tremor when he hits metal. There is no window, we are too far underground.

I lean on the doorway. “If you go deeper in to the earth, it will be warm and dry.”

He turns with the pipe held like a bat. He is huge and muscular and dressed in rags and very threatening. The room is mostly dark. He sheds a faint light. He glares at me and then lowers the pipe. He shrinks to his child self, like me. About age three.

“You are awfully cute at three.” I say.

He drops the pipe and lets me come hug him. The cell smells truly awful. There is a drain in the floor that appears to be working, sort of. There is a visible liquid level below the drain.

He is still while I hug him and then relaxes. “Ok,” he says. Silence for a minute. “I didn’t really think you’d come back.”

“Friends forever, right? That’s what you said.”

“Yeah, but,” he hesitates. “You were mad.”

My turn to shrug. “Yes. I got over it.”

“Took you long enough.”

My eyebrows go up. “You could have made the first move.” Now he shrugs.

“How about a picnic?” I say. “This is icky. Let’s get out of here.”

He looks at the ceiling. The stone is scratched and chipped. “Yeah. No progress here. Might as well.”

We leave the cell and go up. “Damn stairs.” I say.

“Your lungs are good.” he says.

“Most people’s lungs are pretty good at three.” I say.

“You are pretty cute at three too.”

“Thanks.” I get tired of the stairs and transport us to a meadow in my garden. It is summer and full of wildflowers. It is on a sloped hill with an enormous willow tree. “This is from when I was 7, really.” I say.

“Nice.” he says.

I have a picnic basket and get food out. We don’t really need to eat but it’s fun anyhow. We can taste food, a bit. His keeps turning black on his plate.

“Cut that out.”

A shrug again. “I like bugs now.”

“Did you at three?”

“Naw, but I ate them if I was hungry. Ants are not good. Grasshoppers are better.”

“Are you making any progress at all?”

He leans back on the hill, about as relaxed as he gets. Still hyper alert to everything around us. “No, and I don’t think I will. He’s 69 now. Getting older.”

“Well, he’s expecting to die of a stroke at 80.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty much too late. There is too much to process. And wine and pot do not help.”

“Using more?”

“Yeah.”

“Let’s talk about something more fun. Politics or taxes or something.”

He laughs.

We talk about cabbages and kings. Why the sea is boiling hot and whether pigs have wings. The sun moves like the real sun.

He is starting to fidget.

“Time?” I say.

“Yeah. You know, it’s not fair that they need us even if they won’t listen.”

“Seems like it.”

He glances at me and away. “Yours listens.”

“You’ve seen the results of that.”

He looks down. “Is she happy?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes sad, sometimes lonely, sometimes impatient. You know, all of it.”

He nods. We start packing up and we trek back to the dungeon and the endless stairs. We have gone down two flights when the landscape shifts. A forest, dark and huge trees and overcast. Damp and cool. He is morphing. “Oh!” he says, “Asleep again! And it’s 4 pm. Must be tv. And wine.” There is a small clearing in sight with a shack. It looks run down, no vehicles. My friend has morphed and split. He is a huge bear with red eyes. And an older man who smells of alcohol and reaches into his shirt for a handgun.

“Really?” I say to the man with the gun.

“They are his memories,” growls the bear. “I have to go.”

“Well, the bear isn’t. Goodbye and good luck.” I say, patting a furry leg. “I will come back.” But he is not paying attention any more, he is focused on the shack.

I go home and he goes to try again. Wake up, my friend, wake up.

_________________________________________

For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: confusion.

by

Flocked?

My daughter got here from Denver on Wednesday early. I picked her up in Seattle, we met a friend of hers for lunch, and returned to Port Townsend. I am so happy to have her visiting!

On Thursday we walked from East Beach on Marrowstone Island south to Nodule Beach, where it looks like rock eggs are birthing from the sandstone. What does one call a group of those rocks? A flock? There is flocked fabric, after all, why not rocks?

And what about the sea anemones? What is a group of them called? They really like certain rocks!

It was a beautiful day and a super low tide and we tried not to walk on the exposed eel grass or the sea anemones. The rocks and sand were fine!

And we met a hermit crab too.

For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: flock.

by

teen toys today

Um, you say, these don’t really look like toys.

I had friends visit last week. These are the thirteen year old’s toys: he enjoys fixing cell phones and computers and asked if we had any old game platforms. I talked to my son and the thirteen year old is taking the ones he wants. And what was he working on in the picture? Replacing the broken glass in my cell phone.

Now many of you are jealous and would like this teen to visit you. My cell phone has a lot of parts and many tiny screws. There was only one left over and the phone is working fine and the glass is unbroken! Wow! Toys of mine that were used in explorations and repairs included my vacuum and I provided the super glue.

I thanked him with a comic book subscription, since we share an enjoyment and appreciation of comic books.

One of the most useful toys I had growing up was a china doll. Useful you say? Yes. We sewed doll quilts and doll clothes and made our own furniture and hoped for the tiny books in the Cracker Jack boxes. How is this so helpful? Surgeons asked where I had learned my stitching techniques. It was quite delightful to reply, “Doll clothes.” It really did help. I made one old fashioned dress with miles of ruffle, all hemmed by hand. In the 1970s I was embroidering my jeans and adding studs and we dyed t-shirts with melted paraffin and crayons. My sister and I nearly burned down the kitchen once, but we did learn which techniques to use to stop wax fires.

I am not sure who made this dress for the doll. My grandmother Katy Burling sewed doll clothes for us and helped us make patterns and nine patch doll quilts. My other grandmother Evelyn Ottaway could knit the tiniest doll clothes on knitting needles: I still have some of those as well. A tiny stole knit out of a furry yarn and lined with brown satin. My mother was an artist and loved crafts as well but NOT sewing. Pottery yes, sewing no.

My daughter promptly illustrated her lack of the packrat gene by putting half the furniture and stuff away and having a spare and elegant doll house. She learned to sew but does not like it much to date.

What childhood toys and ideas contributed to your adult skills?

For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: toy.

by

beach walk

My daughter is home and we went on a beach walk yesterday! The stupid oxygen keeps me from going fast. She went for a bike ride afterwards. Hooray!

Yesterday evening she brought up social distancing and how careful she should be. She has about 5 friends who are home that she is going to walk with. I am still wearing a mask over my oxygen tubing most places. She will unmask if they are vaccinated and they don’t have a cold or anything else. Even a cold would make me worse at this point. It makes me grumpy to be vulnerable, but I appreciate the discussion.