Find Your Own Way Home

Should a person really be this excited about a trip to a place that is neither exciting nor exotic?  Well, to be honest, maybe Wisconsin is both; I’ve never been there. I just know my mom USED to live there. Until her father passed away in 1941, she lived in Eau Claire. She worked at a candy plant and the pressure cooker plant. I know this because there are old black and white photos of her with the “pressure cooker gang” or the "Webster's Crew 1939" from the candy factory. There are countless pictures of her with her friends and old beau in their brand new winter coats hanging out in a park along a river. Well, next month I plan to see that river and, hopefully, that little park. 

While she is on maternity leave, Monica (along with little Alton) will accompany me on this adventure to Wisconsin to visit the graves of my grandparents and many of my aunts and uncles. We’ll visit the University of Wisconsin at Green Bay where there is a research library of Wisconsin history in hopes of tracking down my elusive uncle Charlie. I hope to meet family but, to be honest, I’m not sure they feel the same. I have searched with Ancestry.com and the world-wide interwebs, the names of my cousins and their children then have tried to make connections through Facebook but they don’t respond.  My paranoid self wonders, could it mean they have looked at my profile and don’t see anything they like. Perhaps they don’t often go on Facebook so just haven’t seen my messages. Perhaps they will eventually respond and we will knock back shots of Patron and have a high ol’ time. I hope so.

Aloisia and Karl Goettlicher

My German (actually Austrian) side seems to be a mite....standoffish which was the impression I got from my mom and, in later years, my aunt who I contacted for info.  Seems no one ever talked about the past.  They didn’t discuss the journey they made from the old country when my grandfather and his oldest son, Charlie, boarded the SS Cassell in Bremen on August 4 of 1910 and barely two weeks later, made their American landfall in Baltimore.  My grandmother didn't talk about the subsequent trip she made in October, with six children, including a 9-month-old Raley sailing on the Freidrich der Gross (Fredrick the Great), coming through Ellis Island.  Such an amazing journey but they didn’t talk about it.  They apparently didn’t share the stories of their portage that would make them come alive in my mind.

So I have the headstones of Karl and Aloisia; just their names carved in granite.  Aloisia, the inspiration for my middle name - Louise.  I wrinkled my nose at the name as a child but have grown to love my connection with a grandmother I never met, who died when my mother was only nine.  It was also passed on to her second daughter, Louise.  When in Eau Claire, we will visit my Uncle Joseph who is buried with his wife near Grandma and Grandpa as well as my Aunt Raley, Aurelia, and her husband.  I have tracked the locations of my aunts Louise and Augusta (Gusty) and Anna but am still searching for Mary.  And Charlie.  But if they are all I have, I want to visit.  I want to walk among those fields of granite and stroll past the river where my mom hung with her besties.  

Mark and I have traveled the southern part of the country on our honeymoon drive to South Carolina.  We've visited the east coast and the north as far as Montana.  Until now, the midwest has escaped my company.  We will actually stay in Green Bay...two people people who care less about baseball, you’ll never find...*kidding*.  We’ll probably spend a bit of time tracking down a lighthouse or two along Lake Michigan. But mostly this trip will be about family and about following the trail of crumbs that lead us to our ancesters.  The connections that make me laugh when I see my mom and her sisters when I look in the mirror.  It's nice to know I have that connection.  If my relatives are concerned about this stranger from California, I suspect they will see the family resemblance.

In These Troubled Times It's Hard Enough

Yeah yeah yeah....Chick Fil-A.  Much ado about chicken.  In case you haven’t heard, it’s not about the chicken.  It’s also not about sex.

After a sadly heated exchange last week, and other friends and relatives who posted...”whoot whoot we support Chick Fil-A” posts, I wanted so badly to say something...WRITE something SO profound that they (or perhaps YOU) would consider another view.  Just for a moment.

I finally decided to challenge those who feel strongly (generally backed with Biblical rationale) that homosexuality is WRONG (bold, uppercase, exclamation highlighted by a curse from the Almighty)!  Yes, I challenge you, DARE YOU to talk to a gay.  Yep, find yourself one of those gays and talk to them.  To him.  To her.  You know you know one.  A friend (well, maybe not a good friend since they know how you feel about them), a coworker.  A relative.  Pull them aside and ask them when they decided to be gay.  Ask them about their “lifestyle” choice.  Why do they choose to be gay?  Or, if you want a more productive conversation, perhaps ask them when they knew they were gay.  When they knew they were different.  Ask them what “coming out” meant to them.  How hard was it?  Ask them about the first time they fell in love.

I hope that, for some of you, putting a face and a story on your stand against same-sex marriage may help you to see these people as they are....as people not issues. Not a lifestyle choice. Real people just like you and me who love and want to BE loved. Some of them are jerks.  Just like the rest of us.  They, like us, are human.

Many, dare I say most. of you are absolutely unable to have that conversation.  If that is the case, for whatever reason, please try and read this blog.  I will warn you that it was written by a gay man striving to help his friends, people who call him their friends yet don’t think he should have the same rights as others, to understand his feelings on the issues.  To understand why pumping your fists at the long lines at  Chick Fil-A on the first of August was crushing.  He does not discuss sex.

 If you get through THAT, read the follow up linked at the end of the first blog and see that people DID understand.  They reconsidered, against all odds, their previous stance.  There is even a man of the cloth who opened his mind and his heart.

Please.  Please. PLEASE try and read it.  No one will know.  Your best friend won’t know.  Your husband.  Your wife. Your drinking buddies at the bar.  Your priest won’t know you read it.  You don’t need to comment to my blog.  In fact, I don’t WANT you to comment, unless something you read has profoundly changed the way you think on this issue.  Comment to tell me that something in your conversation or in reading what Wayne (who I don’t know) wrote has changed your HEART and made you think how “smiling to wound is its own punishment".  Any thing else will be deleted because, frankly, there’s just no point.

Welcome to the Planet

 The night little Alton arrived was life-changing for all of us.  What a night! 

Friday felt like the day - the day Monica would go into labor and this “Peanut”  would enter the outer world. Maybe because it would have been my mom’s birthday and a bit of me was hoping he might be born in her honor.  In the weeks leading up to this day, there had been nervous anticipation.  Peanut was found to be breech; sitting upright at a time when upside-down was optimum.  Breech babies eliminate home birth as an option so a Peanut-turning was performed, a procedure referred to as “external version”.  Not pleasant for Monica but a successful rearrangement of this child meant a home birth was once-again in sight. When Monica called just before eight in the evening on Friday to say her water had broke, I eagerly and anxiously headed that way.  My first grandchild was coming and I would be there to welcome him or her into existence.  

Beautiful Violet, Monica's friend and doula,  had already accompanied a neighborhood stroll earlier in the day and when I arrived, it was clear the birthing was moving along nicely.  Contractions that had actually begun gently in the morning were becoming more earnest and uncomfortable. The first of the two midwives arrived and did an exam to see how things were progressing and, although Monica was feeling the need to push,  the exam told the midwife it was not yet time for that.   As another contraction began, Violet told Monica she should “blow” this one off and I laughed.  For the men out there, you’ll have to take my word that someone TELLING you NOT to push during childbirth does nothing and it just angers the bear. .  Monica laughed, too, because she had heard my story of a once-upon-a-time labor when a nurse named Shelly told me to “blow it off” and I responded with “YOU blow it off, Shell....”.  

When the need to push began, I had called Monica’s sisters who also intended to attend the birth.  They gathered up Papa and the three of them sat dutifully in the living-/waiting- room muffling the sounds of labor with the umteenth viewing of Lion King, reciting dialogue and joking to calm their nerves.  Mark did not like hearing his daughter yell through labor pains and really didn’t plan to “see” the birth up close but he did want to be nearby.  As mom, the moans were also difficult to hear and not be able to help.  This child whom I had nurtured through the pains of youth was now an adult - an adult with an adult partner who was doing an admirable job of calming and soothing.  My experience was useless in this situation as the “hee hee hoos” of my long-past birthing experiences have been replaced with “huh huh huh” and I hesitated to offer suggestions that would confuse at an already stressful time.  I could press on the small of her back to help her through the “back labor” I recognized and presumed I was helping since my had was not swatted away.  I could rest my hand gently on a foot, being careful not to agitate already over-stimulated nerve endings.  I could fetch cool washclothes and respond to the midwives.  I could not take away my child’s pain.  Not this time.

Several hours passed.  It was well past my bedtime in the range of “Jay Leno is over why is the TV still on”....  As it approached two in the morning, the midwives once again examined and discussed and eventually made the decision that this party should move to the hospital to be safe.  This birthing was going to Mad River; we were in Myrtletown.  Mark decided he was best qualified to “drive the ambulance” and commandeered Gloria’s (my old) xB since the doors opened wide and it sat lower making the loading of a birthing mother easier, a selling point that Scion should consider in their marketing.  He launched from the front lawn with a midwife, Daddy Gabe and Monica, yelling with contractions every few minutes.  

Five cars left that neighborhood at 2:15 in the morning,.  After hanging back to check the door, I found myself alone and jumped into my car after everyone else had driven off.  I felt sure I would hit Myrtle just about the time they all passed by but, when I reached the stop sign, I looked both directions and saw NO headlights, no tail lights.  Wha....?  I turned right, feeling sure I would see the caravan as I progressed but there were NO cars on the road that I could see.  I was pretty sure I knew where we were headed so I would catch up to them on the highway....As I entered northbound 101 at V Street....no cars in sight.  Still.  

I really hoped I knew where I was going.  Surely I would find them once I entered the “corridor” where the speed limit was 50.  I glanced at my clock and saw 2:23 and thought sure I would be pulled over by cops on “bars are closed” patrol but no CHP were visible nor were there tail lights to be seen for miles ahead.

Eventually, I pulled into the Mad River Hospital parking lot, following directions I had only barely listened to weeks earlier when I had asked Monica where the birthing center was.  I spotted Hope’s car as she pulled in next to “the ambulance” which, as it turned out, had exceeded the posted limit a bit, in 5 mile-an-hour increments as each contraction came and who had given himself a point after which he had already decided he would NOT stop for flashing lights.  He had decided  that, once he hit the hospital off ramp, he would put on emergency flashers and let a cop follow him into the hospital.  He WOULD.  NOT. STOP.  Luckily, he didn’t have to resort to that plan and made it with no law enforcement assistance, positive or negative.   

The room had been prepared and Monica was hoisted and labor continued.  Harder than it should have been.  A doctor was brought in to consult.  Nurses and midwives fussed.  Intravenous lines were run.  Heart rates were monitored.  Medical personnel spoke in hushed tones.  Nothing was tragically wrong but they wanted to be sure all was well with my grandchild.  Just in case.

The early pushing was exhausting Monica.  She was growing too tired to fight the urge.  Options were laid out, the only one of which she wanted to consider - push this baby out without unnatural means.  When asked if she wanted anything, she warmly responded,  muffled through the oxygen mask, “Yes, get this baby OUT”.  In the final hour, the doctor was encouraging the baby’s exit and Hope, who remained in the birthing room, texted her dad with “this is the scariest thing I’ve ever seen...”.  I told her she could join Dad and Glo in the waiting room but she likened it to the proverbial train wreck from which you cannot avert your eyes.  She would stay.  

We encouraged.  We “huh huh huh”ed in rhythm and in concert with everyone else in the room when Monica was attempting NOT to do what her body wanted to do. We marveled. The baby’s head began to emerge.  "Look"....”Is that really the head?”.  “Oh my God”.  We cried. We marveled some more.  Finally, long past dawn, on the seventh day of the the seventh month but well past the 7:07 of the morning Humboldt Moment, the doctor moved aside and called Gabe into position to catch his child.  Gabe came around and giggled as he accepted his son into the world and placed him on Monica’s chest.  A boy.  “Are you sure?”.  Nurse?  Somebody?  “Yes. It’s a boy”.  Holy cow.  “I have a son!”.  A boy!  We have a boy!  I have a grandson.  Go get Papa - WE have a grandson.  Hope and Gloria have a nephew.   Alton Chord Gabriel Paredes.  Named in honor of Alton Ellis, a pioneer of "rocksteady" music, a Jamaican R&B, of which his parents are particularly fond.  Alton is gorgeous!

Now, nearly a week later, things are settling.  At least at our house.  At baby Alton's house, things will not settle for many years.  

Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For

 

I am accumulating a longer list of hidden headstones at Myrtle Grove.  Stones, photos of which have been requested by far-away family members in search of family.  It's very frustrating to know that each time I claim a request through Find a Grave, there is little likelihood that I will actually find the stone.  SO MANY that should be there just aren't.  Or, they have sunk out of sight. In my continuing quest to uncover hidden graves at Myrtle Grove, along with the ever-lengthening list, I have added tools to my work bag. Recently, I added a probe in the form of a very long screwdriver. 

 

 

The idea of this probe was to poke around in the vast empty areas hoping that there may actually be stones there.  When I found Alice's stone, most was visible but it just needed some trimming of sod to expose the rest.  Today, I headed out looking for Harriet Edeline.  The stone of her husband, Edward, had already been located and I thought I might be able to poke around for Harriet's marker nearby.  I spotted the name and started pushing the rod into the soil.  Turns out the stone I initially spotted was not Edeline but Emeline but, nonetheless, as I poked around... "clunk".  Ohmygoditworked.....

As I poked to find the perimeter of the stone, I used my drywall saw to start cutting away at the sod, finally pushing my fingers through to the unmistakeable cold of granite.  I found the stone of John O. Mowry, a 1st Lieutenant in the 55th Massachusetts Infantry, who died in 1884 at 60 years, 7 months and 17 days. 

Welcome back, Lieutenant Mowry.  I'm certain your wife, Emeline will enjoy having you seen next to her.  And, by the way, thank you for your service.

Sadly, the stone of Harriet Edeline still evades me.  Logic (and documents) would have her near her husband but she will require more searching and poking another day. For now, I'll tend to the enormous blister I developed from repeatedly pushing that screwdriver into the ground.

Loves Me Like A Rock

My garden is a kitchy collection of mismatched pots and plants, placed willy-nilly based on inspiration and only occasional logic and never on the rules of gardening.  Not surprising if you know me at all.  There is no fancy statuary but, instead, there are old aggregate pier blocks and bowling balls.  I built a couple trellises from driftwood this year.  This old hand-truck was left behind from the rug-cleaning business that used to operate from our house decades ago.  I've moved it around the garden and finally decided it needed some transformed.  While confident I could do it, Mark was home and prefers to wield the power tools so he created, based on my brainstorm, another support for the tomatoes I hope will thrive there.

Artichokes and zucchini share space in my front garden with hollyhocks and hydrangeas.  Herbs are scattered up the driveway among the roses and glads. Fancy brass plant markers would clearly be out of their element. Years ago, I saw an picture in a magazine of painted rocks created to mark plants and I've been painting rocks ever since to identify the residents of my garden.  

The first step, and often the hardest, is to find the rocks, especially the larger ones.  The smaller ones I've found on the beach.  The larger ones are JUST like the ones you might see along a river...say...similar to the area near the Mad River pump station.  I'm not sure those particular stones would be okay to take since I'm sure they're hauled in but probably a landscape supply place would sell you a nice stone or two to paint.  I will tell you that rocks I once collected at Centerville Beach in Ferndale, eventually broke into pieces proving themselves to be sandstone.  Sadly, they already had my artwork when they disintegrated.  Don't use those. 

Once you've found your canvases, wash well and set in the sun to dry a bit while you ponder their shapes for inspiration.  Will you mark specific plants?  Does it look like a whale? Will you make a memorial to a beloved goldfish interred among the marigolds? What colors will you use? 

 I use simple acrylic paints.  If you don't have a stash, any craft store has them for less than a buck for a 2-ounce bottle. Grab a few colors.  Grab a few more. Except for a small enough brush for lettering (or use rubber stamp letters if you have them) and details, you can do with sponges for most of the base coating. You'll need a can of polyurethane spray; gloss is more impressive than matte but ... it's your garden and your choice.

 This is them in progress. Get fancy or not.  Add glitter or not.  Add dots and swirls and borders -  It's hard to see but the "cukes" rock looked like denim so I added yellow "stitches" around the edges. I even did some Mod-Podge with clock faces I've torn from magazines for just such a project.

 When you're done, let them dry then take them outside to spray with the polyurethane.  I like to do this outside on a sunny day and lay on a BUNCH of thin coats throughout the day.  Let them dry real well until they are no longer tacky...(OK, sticky...mine are ALWAYS tacky!) before placing them in the garden.  They make great gifts for gardening friends, too. 

Oh Redwood Tree Please Let Us Under

I started to use "Tippecanoe and Tyler Too" for this blog but, this paddle on the Eel River really cries out to be recognized by Van Morrison.  My second time joining the "Interpretive Paddle" offered by State Parks and led by two Park rangers.  I truly enjoyed the rag-tag fleet and its total lack of pretentiousness.  Once again, my cohorts piloted a variety of vessels from short river kayaks to inflatable canoes and everything in between.  Skill levels were also varied, from the experienced guys who would get distracted by the eddies and play to those of us simply trying to AVOID the obstacles.  Lacking experience, there were several exciting episodes, one on the very first river bend past the start.  It was a "Tippy Canoe and kayaks, too" with three vessels sucked into the snags and flipped over.  I had benefit of a river guy in front of me and I rode the current carefully, following his example to "dirt track" around the turn.  We hung for a while waiting for bodies and belongings to be collected and placed back in their boats before we continued on.  One of the first things I learned about paddling is "dress for immersion", clearly not a lesson learned by all.  To their credit, they were back on board and we continued - I'm not sure that I wouldn't have gone back to the start and called it a day after that.

This would be Robert, one of our Park Ranger guides (not very tall apparently but the dude walks on water!) guiding some onto the river bar where we made a stop at Canoe Creek, the location of the 2003 

wildfire that ripped through the old growth forest.  The trees and meadow are coming back nicely and it was wonderful to be standing in a spot that is seldom seen. 

On these forays, I have to remind myself to look up once in awhile.  If I don't, I miss things like this osprey nest perched on top of a tree.

For a day that started out pretty chilly when we were standing in the parking lot at 8:30, it reached into the mid- to high-70's by the time we pulled out around three. I call the day a success, my first with the boat on my new car.  I managed to tie it down properly and it stayed put both directions.  Twas both an exhilarating and exhausting day.  I learned more about reading the current and recognizing that where the river wants me to go is not always where I should be going.  As always, it was great to be back on the water.

Home is Wherever I'm With You

Dear Santa Cruz,

I have said, and will say again, that I miss you. Last year was the milestone when, I realized, I have been gone as long as I lived within your silly walls.

Yesterday morning, however, I saw a girl with VERY purple hair jogging along the roadside. This in and of itself is not unusual in Eureka although it wasn't particularly pretty purple hair which is unusual. She was running behind a young man who I believe was wearing a fox tail attached to his pants....at least I think it was just a pretend tail attached to his pants.

This morning, a man sat in the driveway of a boarded-up Jack-in-the-Box, flying a sign trolling for contributions to whatever his daily needs have become. This man wore a hat with ram horns attached....at least I think it was a hat with pretend ram horns.

So, Santa Cruz, thank you for sending your minions to make me feel at home. While I still miss running into school mates in the Alpha Beta or seeing the names of people I grew up with in my morning Sentinel, I miss it less every day and every day feels more like home in Humboldt.

Love,
Debbie