Monthly Archives: November 2016

Nov10

After the Election

Posted on by
Standard

I don’t want to write about Donald Trump, the U.S. presidency, or politics in general. However, I feel I would be remiss if I pretended this all didn’t happen.

Part of the problem is knowing my readers already know what I have to say. Do I really need to preach to the choir today?

Part of the problem is knowing other writers have already said it as well or better than I can. What more can I add?

This is what I believe: Trump won because a large segment of the male population could not stomach the idea of a woman in the White House. According to http://www.cbsnews.com/news/cbs-news-exit-polls-how-donald-trump-won-the-us-presidency/,

The gender gap was substantial. Trump beat Clinton by 53 percent to 41 percent among men while Clinton won among women by 54 percent to 42 percent.

Clinton won among black women by a 93 percent to 4 percent margin. Among black men she won by 80 percent to 13 percent.

Let me go ahead and spell that last one out. Some black men voted for Donald Trump rather than vote for Hillary Clinton. I can’t even imagine the cognitive dissonance a black man would have to live with in order to think he would be better off with Donald Trump in the White House.

This is what we know: Trump was elected overwhelmingly by white folks. According to the aforementioned website,

Trump beat Clinton among white women 53 percent to 43 percent.

Clinton lost to Trump among [white, male voters] by 63 percent to 31 percent.

This is also what we know: Trump was elected by the under-educated. Again, from the same website,

Trump did best among white voters without a college degree, beating Clinton by the enormous margin of 72 percent to 23 percent. Trump also won among white, non-college women 62 to 34 percent…

Nobody reading this needs me to explain these things. We already knew all of this. We only hoped we were wrong.

What does the election of Trump mean for me? I don’t even know.

I  texted a friend the morning after the election and said, I should probably write about the election, but I don’t feel I have any new insight.

My friend said I could write about how I was going to respond, what I was going to do differently, to focus on what would change in my real life.

Honestly, I have no idea what I am going to do differently. I suppose if Trump privatizes public land (and I have no idea if he has the ability or intention to do so), I’ll have to figure out a new way to make money. Perhaps I need to think about keeping my big mouth shut, as the results of this election reinforces that this country is not a safe place for outspoken women. It’s not as if my big mouth has ever changed anything, as if being outspoken has ever done anything more than make me feel a little bit better.

Another friend said as an old revolutionary, I should be happy about this. That friend sees this as the beginning of the end, I suppose. When I pointed out that people were going to suffer under the new administration, my friend countered by reminding me people are already suffering. True enough, but the suffering is going to be worse now.

Don’t go thinking I saw Hillary Clinton as a savior, or Barack Obama either for that matter. The system is flawed. The system is oh so flawed. I just thought maybe, maybe things wouldn’t be quite so bad under Clinton. I thought maybe, maybe the suffering wouldn’t be so great under Clinton.

Do I think the election of Donald Trump is going to make people rise up and change things for the better? Nah. For the people who are doing ok financially, there are movies to watch and vacations to take and knick-knacks to buy. The people who are struggling are going continue to concentrate on just barely keep their heads above water, buying groceries and getting a collage education that will qualify them to work a slightly better shit job. The comfortable aren’t going to give up their comforts, and the poor barely have the time and energy to fight.

Yet, some things have changed in my lifetime. I never thought I’d see the legalization of same-sex marriage. I never thought I’d see legalization of marijuana anywhere, much less in Nevada. I never thought Denver would do away with Columbus Day in favor of Indigenous Peoples’ Day. So maybe I ought to not give up hope.

Since I don’t know what to say, what to do, what to think even, I will leave you with the words of a dear, old friend:

I send love to everyone who feels less safe and welcome in this country today. I honor you and your struggle, and I pray my actions reflect these words. Know that I stand with you, especially my Muslim brothers and sisters, my immigrant brothers and sisters, my LGBT brothers and sisters, my African-American brothers and sisters, my Native brothers and sisters. My white, Christian brothers and sisters, I’ll stand with you too. If you stand for love and compassion and justice, I’ll stand with you.

 

Nov9

(Guest Post) Three Poems by Laura-Marie

Posted on by
Standard

Today I am once again happy to offer poems written by my friend Laura-Marie.

no

Will vinegar kill the fern
I’m trying to kill this winter?

Awake but still in bed.
Sitting on the ottoman.

Welcome the stranger,
welcome the stranger’s phone call.

Our beliefs about our hair.
She thinks music is noise,
and she doesn’t want to hear it.

some did wrong

Some did wrong,

a hushed crime,

secret and cruel.

 

A single man

spoke the unspeakable.

Others joined in—

 

the infiltrating agents

had their evidence.

It was over.

Dream dystopia again.

 

Naked people gathered

around the piano

sang, waiting for

death the inevitable.

 

baby dream

All of the babies are girls.

I bent down to kiss one.

She slipped her tongue into my mouth.

It turned into a thorned vine

and forced itself through my body.

Thorned vines like sleeping beauty

but inside.

Laura-Marie is a zinester and peace activist living in Las Vegas, Nevada.  She likes cold brew tea, writing letters, and visiting friends.

Nov8

Avocados

Posted on by
Standard

Do you like avocados? she asked me.

Yes, I replied with enthusiasm.

She led me out the door and to the backyard of the house she and her roommate rented. As I walked onto the porch, I saw avocados growing on a tree!

15025265_203574900088239_6959195572667594342_o

Sure, I knew avocados grow on trees, but I’d never seen it. Seeing is believing, and wow, this was amazing!

According to Wikipedia,

The avocado (Persea americana) is a tree that is native to South Central Mexico,[2] classified as a member of the flowering plant family Lauraceae.[3]Avocado (also alligator pear) also refers to the tree’s fruit, which is botanically a large berry containing a single seed.[4]

The tree in the backyard was huge. It was taller than the house and had many branches reaching toward the sky. As I looked up, up, up through the branches and shiny green leaves, I saw a multitude of fruit. Is this all one tree? I asked in awe. She assured me it was.

I want to hug the tree! I exclaimed.

I climbed down the steps of the porch so I could meet the tree and embrace it.

I love you! I love you! I told the tree.

14976391_203576523421410_8368825005659442228_o

This photo I took of the bountiful avocado tree does not adequately show its great height or multiple branches. The tree is huge and the fruit plentiful.

She moved into the house last year. The avocados were ripe in May. They fell from the tree and she only had to collect them from the yard. She ate all she could, gave away so many to friends and neighbors and coworkers, let the squirrels have their fill, and still there were avocados.

14976364_203574906754905_6139199153212357205_o

She’s worried about the avocados this year. It’s November now, and they’re still hanging from the tree. While the fruit is plentiful, she doesn’t know if they will ever be ripe enough for eating. She fears all the beautiful fruit will shrivel on the tree and go to waste.

She’s not sure what the problem is. Maybe the summer wasn’t warm enough or maybe the California drought is taking its toll. In any case, it’s going to be a shame if most of the avocados on the tree turn out to be inedible.

She did eat a couple of avocados from the backyard last week. One was good, but not great. The other was quite stringy.

According to the California Avocado Board (via the Food52 website),

Strings or stringy fruit or the thickening of the vascular bundles (fibers that run longitudinally through the fruit) are generally the result of fruit from younger trees or improper storage conditions. Often times the fibers or strings will disappear or become less noticeable as the fruit (and tree) matures.

While I was hugging the tree and exclaiming over the abundance of fruit, she chose half a dozen avocados for me. When we went inside, she put them in a paper bag, told me keeping them in the bag together would help them ripen.

The aforementioned Wikipedia article says,

Like the banana, the avocado is a climacteric fruit, which matures on the tree, but ripens off the tree…Once picked, avocados ripen in one to two weeks (depending on the cultivar) at room temperature (faster if stored with other fruits such as apples or bananas, because of the influence of ethylene gas).

The avocados she gave me are currently still too firm to try to eat, but I am hopeful they will ripen and turn out to be delicious.

I’m grateful to be the recipient of such a precious treat.

14940003_203574903421572_215084091533630576_o

I was recently alerted to a great article about 14 health benefits of avocados. The article includes lots of information about all the good reasons to eat avocados, as well as four recipes.

I took the photos in this post.

 

Nov7

Sunday in the City

Posted on by
Standard

When I left SuperMegaBabylon, I thought I wouldn’t see the city again for at least a year. Then my dad died, and I had to leave my van somewhere, had to fly from some airport to the town where his memorial service was being held. After less than two weeks, I was back in the city.

I parked my van in front of a friend’s house, on a residential street. That’s where I had the cab driver drop me off upon my return from the homeland. I barely thought about brushing my teeth before I crawled into bed and passed out for a good eight hours.

On Sunday morning, I tidied the van a little, then headed out to visit another friend and get some lunch.

I remembered where my bus stop was and headed that way. As is often the case, the bus stop was on a busy street. I approached the bench at the stop, expecting to sit until my chariot arrived. As I got closer, I saw something on the far side of the bench’s sitting surface.

What is that? I wondered.

My next thought was Are you fucking kidding me?

Someone had shat upon the bus stop bench.

There was both a pile of feces on the sitting surface, as well as remains of a more liquid consistency running down the legs of the bench and on the sidewalk. GAG! Who does such a thing?

I understand when you gotta go, you gotta go. I also understand the lack of public restrooms in many urban settings. I’d even understand if someone had used the bench as a bit of cover and relieved him or herself behind it. But shitting on the bench? It was just unkind to everyone who had to catch a bus on that corner.

I didn’t get any closer to the bench. I’d just stand until the bus arrived, thank you very much. I did shoot multiple furtive glances in the direction of the bench. Had I really seen feces on a bus stop bench? Was it really there? Each glance in that direction told me yes and yes, both by sight and smell.

During one of my furtive glances, I noticed a message in white spray paint left on the street. What did it say? I walked a little closer. The message read “#Fuck Trump.” The political commentator had also drawn a hand flipping the bird to whomever chanced to look. Here was an example of taking it to the streets in the most literal sense.

trump

I wondered if the feces on the bus stop bench and the anti-Trump message were related in any way other than proximity. Maybe someone had jumped from a bus, scrawled the message on the pavement, and had been so overcome by the thought of Donald Trump that s/he had to take a dump. However, if this had been the case, I think s/he would have used the opportunity to further comment upon Trump by shitting on or near his name. I’ll never know for sure, but I think these incidents were unrelated.

I took the photo in this post.
Nov4

Fan Letter

Posted on by
Standard

I’m a big fan of writing fan letters. Although I don’t do it nearly enough, I think it’s important to let people know when I appreciate their work.

Recently, I wrote a fan letter to the two women who do one of my favorite podcasts, Stuff You Missed in History Class. Since Holly (Frey) and Tracy (V. Wilson) enjoy knowing what activities people engage in while listening to the show, along with my letter, I sent some of the handicrafts I made while listing to them. What follows is the letter I sent:

Dear Holly and Tracy,

During camping season (mid-May to mid-October), I am a camp host in a remote mountain area of California. The area where I work offers no electricity, no cell phone coverage, no landline, and no internet access. When I’m not assisting visitors or scrubbing pit toilets or writing about my experiences for my blog, I make winter hats from yarn and jewelry from hemp. While my fingers are busy, I like listening to podcasts, including Stuff You Missed in History Class. I especially enjoy episodes dealing with feisty women and LGBTQ rights.

At one point this past summer, in order to save money, I decided to stay on the mountain for two weeks instead of going to civilization during my days off. I had plenty of food, so sitting tight was no problem. I had several episodes of Stuff You Missed in History Class on my phone and many more stored on my laptop. After I listened to all of the episode on my phone, I pulled out my laptop and used the last of its battery trying to transfer episodes. For some reason I don’t understand, my laptop wouldn’t recognize my phone, so I was unable to add any episodes. Oh well! I simply listened to the dozen or so episodes on my phone until I went back to civilization and my laptop and phone decided to communicate with one another.

Listening to an episode multiple times allowed me to learn new information with each exposure to the material. And it was grand to hear human voices when I had no campers in the campground and was feeling lonely.

img_7009

These are the hats I sent to Holly and Tracy.

To thank you for keeping me company, I decided to send you things I made while listening to you. I made the hats while on a yarn bender. I made the necklaces especially for you ladies.

When I decided to make necklaces, I knew I wanted to use pendants with Laurel Thatcher Ulrich’s quote “Well-behaved women seldom make history.” While her actual quote uses the word “seldom,” I could only find pendants with “seldom” replaced by “rarely.”  I haven’t read Ulrich’s book named after her quote , so I don’t know if she is she addresses how and when and why the quote was changed. I wonder how this quote came to be attributed to Marilyn Monroe and Eleanor Roosevelt. Finally, I wonder how Ulrich feels about seeing her quote (from her 1976 academic paper in the journal “American Quarterly”) plastered on pendants, bumper stickers, coffee mugs, and t-shirts.

In any case, Tracy and Holly, I appreciate all you two do to bring history to the people. I’ve certainly learned a lot from listening to you.

All the best,

Blaize Sun

img_7006

I took the photos in this post.

Nov3

Deaths of 2016

Posted on by
Standard

Glenn Frey was the first, or at least the first I knew about. I heard about his January 18 death while I was at the Rubber Tramp Rendezvous. We listened to several songs by The Eagles one night around the campfire, a fitting memorial.

Reading a list of celebrity deaths, I see that before we lost Glenn Frey, we lost David Bowie and Allen Rickman, Pat Harrington, Jr., and a dozen other people I’d never heard of.

February took Vanity and Harper Lee.

In March it was Ken Howard, Gary Shandling, and Patty Duke.

Merle Haggard died on April 6, then on the 21st, we lost Prince. The death of Prince blindsided me. Who saw it coming? Not me. Prince’s death hit me hard.

People–famous and ordinary–kept dying throughout May, but the next famous death to get to me was Muhammad Ali in June. I learned about it late. I’d been on the mountain and missed the media blitz.

Gene Wilder slipped away in August.

Some people had died and I didn’t even know until I started looking at lists on the internet. Lois Duncan, one of my favorite writers when I was in middle school, died in June. The event hadn’t made the headlines. Pete Fountain passed in August. Buckwheat Zydeco died in September, but I didn’t get the news until October.

Early in October, while doing my job as a camp host, I found a dead man in a campground. It’s believed he committed suicide. On October 24, Pete Burns from the band Dead or Alive died from cardiac arrest, and on Halloween, I lost my dad. He was 70 years old.

My dad fell on the job in March. He was making a delivery and slipped on plastic on the floor. The plastic had apparently been there all day, but no one had bothered to sweep it up. My dad hurt his back. He was in so much pain, he took doctor-prescribed pain pills even though he hated the way they made his brain feel. His doctor suggested back surgery, and my dad agreed, but worker’s comp fought them for months. Finally the surgery was approved and scheduled for October 24.

Dad came through the back surgery ok. The doctor was pleased with how well he had done. But my dad was having problems with elimination and ended up back in the hospital.

I got word he had “c diff.” What in the hell is that? I wondered.

According to an article on Web MD,

…when something upsets the balance of [the] organisms in your gut, otherwise harmless bacteria can grow out of control and make you sick. One of the worst offenders is a bacterium called Clostridium difficile(C. difficile, or C. diff). As the bacteria overgrow they release toxins that attack the lining of the intestines, causing a condition called Clostridium difficilecolitis.

…it is most likely to affect patients in hospitals or long-term care facilities. Most have conditions that require long-term treatment with antibiotics, which kill off other intestinal bacteria that keep C. diff in check.

From what I understand, my dad was basically unable to make decisions at that point. His wife gave permission for surgery, and his colon was removed. Would Dad want to live without a colon? I wondered, but I know his wife understood his wishes better than I did.

Even with the removal of his colon, it was too late. His blood pressure kept dropping, and he didn’t make it.

I know we’ve all got to die. My dad knew it too. He was very clear on the concept throughout my life. But I’m infuriated his death was caused by an on-the-job-injury. I’m infuriated he died because no one could be bothered to sweep the floor. I’m infuriated that he spent his last months in the worst pain of his life because the worker’s comp bureaucracy is on the side of businesses and not on the side of workers.

My dad and I had a complicated relationship. Throughout my childhood and young adulthood, my dad was a racist and misogynist. He’d mellowed out some in the last decade, but he knew how to press my buttons and enjoyed doing so. I coped by removing myself from the situation as much as possible. I hadn’t seen him in almost six years, but we did talk on the phone a couple of days before he died. I didn’t know it would be our last conversation.

My dad taught me to ride a bike. He worked a series of jobs he must have hated to provide for his family. We always had food on the table; as a child, I never knew what it was to be hungry. My dad was a self-taught plumber, mechanic, and carpenter. He told me once he’d never been able to hire anyone, so he’d had to learn to build and repair.

Over twenty years ago, my dad became a fundamentalist Christian. My sincere hope is that he’s gone up to Heaven to meet the God he believed in so strongly .

 

Syracuse.com has a long list of 2016 celebrity deaths. There’s also a list of 2016 celebrity deaths in music.

 

Nov2

Answers

Posted on by
Standard

I recently offered my readers a chance to ask me questions. Today’s post consists of the questions submitted, as well as my answers.

Let’s start off with an easy one, shall we?

Dave asked, Pot pie or pizza pie?

While I would not turn down pot pie freely given, my choice will always be pizza. I would choose pizza over most anything else, except maybe ice cream.

Here’s another easy one, from Mary. Do you work for the state or federal government?

Neither. Of course, I am not working at the moment, but when I am working, it’s not for any governmental agency.

Now onto a question with a longer answer. This is a fun one.

Muriel2pups asked, Blaize, What would you do if you won a million dollars?

Funny you should ask, as I do have a plan, although buying lottery tickets is not part of the plan. Not sure how I expect to win if I don’t play…

Over the summer I noticed sometimes my coworker and I would talk about the possibility of some event or reaction and then the thing we talked about happened. I decided we needed to turn this ability to manifest into a million dollars. My coworker and I agreed to share any money sent our way by the Universe. So, if I won a million dollars, half of it automatically belongs to my coworker.

I have a handful of friends and worthy causes to whom I would dole out somewhere between  $200 to $5,000 each.

I would have my van repaired and overhauled in every way necessary.

I would visit Montana and Alaska.

Would I still have money left after that? I have no idea. I don’t have a clear concept of how much half a million dollars is. I guess I would probably do some socially responsible investing with whatever was left and try to live off that money while writing or making art.

Cindy had several questions. Let’s take them (and their answers) one at a time.

 I am pretty interested in the life out on the Mesa outside of the bridge in Taos. Have you ever lived out there? What did you think of it and what was your experience if you did.

No, Cindy, I never lived out on the Mesa. I have a couple of friends who do, one I visited a few times and one I house and dog sat for several times.

Like many neighborhoods, the Mesa is a mixed bag. There are people out there living in huge, seemingly expensive, “nice” houses. There are people out there living in shacks, old school buses, and homes they built themselves, piece-by-piece, over time. There are people out there living in structures somewhere between a mansion and a shanty. Some people on the Mesa use solar power, and other people have no electricity at all. Many people on the Mesa have no running water and have to haul their water home.

Two women I knew have been murdered on the Mesa in less than three years. For me, these killings put a dark cloud over the area’s visually stunning landscape.

Do you keep your money in a bank at all?

 Yes, Cindy, I do have a bank account. There was a time before I had a bank account when I kept my cash on me. Of course, I worried about getting robbed. During that time, I did not keep my money hidden in the van, in fear of the van getting stolen or towed.

Now I worry about a breakdown of the financial system which would leave me without access to my money. I suppose if the financial system breaks down, that paper’s not going to do me much good anyway.

Just a fun question. What is your favorite meal? Like if you could have anything to eat for dinner tonight what would it be? ..and your favorite dessert?

 If I’m cooking for myself, my favorite meal is some variation of brown rice, tofu, and veggies. I particularly enjoy blanched broccoli.

If the Lady of the House is cooking dinner, I’ll take gumbo!

If any food in the whole world could magically appear in front of me, I would go for boudin.

As for dessert, I don’t know if I’ve ever met one I didn’t like. Any sort of concoction with brownies or cookies or cake and ice cream would make me happy.

Camilla said, I was wondering why you never post a photo of yourself anywhere on your blog.

My privacy and security are very important to me. I don’t necessarily want strangers to know what I look like, so I don’t post photos of myself. The same goes for my van. While I don’t think I would be mobbed by adoring fans, I feel safer without my face plastered all over the internet.

Besides, what I look like has no bearing on my writing, my photography, and my art. I would rather you judge me on how I behave and what I can create rather than on how I look.

Louise asked, Do you think this is something that you’ll be doing for as long as you can or do you think that you may choose a more stationary life? Maybe I’m asking when/how/if you would choose a more permanent (or semi-permanent) place to lay roots for a while.

In “Truckin,'”Robert Hunter best explains my life as a van dweller:

You’re sick of hangin’ around and you’d like to travel
Get tired of travelin’ and you want to settle down

 When I’m stuck in one place, I want to hit the road. When I’m on the road, I think about the benefits of settling somewhere.

Don’t forget, I was mostly settled before I started my life on the road. I know what it’s all about.

But yes, I do think about settling down in some shitty little apartment, working some shitty little job, stuck in some city. I wouldn’t want to live in a city where I didn’t already have friends and a support network. Unfortunately, I can’t afford to live in most of the places where my good friends live. I’m not willing to work 8 hours a day, five days a week, 50 weeks a year at some job that’s not doing much good for the world so I can take a two week vacation to visit people I love.

Also, I wonder if I could even get a real job these days. I’m a middle age woman who’s been mostly out of the  job force for seven years. Who’s going to hire me? It’s not like I have any specialized, marketable skills.

I do worry about getting older, about getting sick, about being injured. (I am very careful getting in and out of the shower these days.) However, I’m not willing to sacrifice my now for future unknowns. Maybe I will be able to work as a camp host until the day I die.

Sue asked a long and complicated question. I will try to condense it.

I’m sure you’ve thought about what you went through a LOT. And while you did think about them, did you isolate things he said and did, and then re-identify them from casual remarks into recognizable warning signs? In other words, have you learned to think about what people say and how they act so it will help you in future relationships?

One reason I don’t write much about my ex is because there are many aspects of both his and my life (and our life together) that would immediately reveal our identities to folks who knew us fairly well. I’m not interested in my ex finding me and contacting me, so I don’t share parts of our past that would lead him to me.

That said, during my relationship with him, I was mostly cognizant of what was going on. I don’t have to look back and say, Oh, that was a warning sign. I look back and remember how I knew at the time how some word or action was fucked-up shit.

So have I learned to think about what people say and how they act? I don’t know. What I can do now is identify fucked up men from a mile away and run in the other direction. (I could probably spot fucked up women too, but I don’t get as many opportunities.)

Brent asked, Blaize, I would like to know what you don’t have in your life that you would like to have.

While I have many close and wonderful friends, I spend most of my year far away from them. I’m lonely a lot. When I do visit, my friends have work, kids, relationships, a million obligations they can’t drop just to spend some deep quality time with me. I get it, but it’s difficult for me to feel fulfilled by friendship in passing. I wish I could spend more time with the people I love.

Laura-Marie asked me the following sweet question: how did u get so wonderful? i really mean that. what factors came together to form beautiful u?

Aw, shucks.

But I don’t feel wonderful! I’m grumpy and short-tempered and pushy and annoying. Anything good you see if because I am working against my natural tendencies to talk too much and make stupid jokes. I’m working against feeling irritated and wanting to have everything my way.

I used to do nice things for people because I wanted people to like me. Now when I do nice things for people, it’s usually because it’s the right thing to do. I try to treat people as I would like to be treated. I try to act like the kind of friend I want to have.

 

Nov1

(Guest Post) “Yer Little Poet Friends” or How I Came to be Your Guest Columnist Today

Posted on by
Standard

Blaize and I don’t go way back, but we go back far enough. I had a bookstore in Portland, Oregon, back before the days of Portlandia, and one of the many services I tried to provide through my store was books to prisoners.

Why would anyone want to provide books to people who have broken the law, you might ask. Let those coddled scofflaws luxuriate in their three hots and a cot, their free health care, their free whatever it is you think incarcerated folks have abundant access to.

Of course, if you think that way, you probably don’t read Blaize’s blog to begin with. In fact, I can’t imagine it, but then, there are a LOT of things going on in the universe right now that I never figured would happen, so there you are. And here I am. And here is our story…

Being a book person, I knew that prison libraries are generally not the luxuriously full of ancient tomes libraries that you see in the movies. We should all remember that life is in no way like the movies, but when it goes flashing by that fast, you just tend to accept what you’re seeing and not think about it too much. How did I know this about prison libraries? Being a book person, you listen to others, you listen a lot. Booksellers are usually frustrated authors first and foremost, after that, they descend into a broad spectrum of what my former book boss used to call “…people with unfortunate personalities.” Yes, she wrote, poetry for the most part. I got the job at her store because I was a poet in need of a job, and her bookstore was enjoying a small boost in sales (ah, the very late 1980s!) and was in need of an extra hand. Luckily enough for me, my hands were a good fit.

It was at this first bookstore that I learned about sending books to prisoners. Family members would come in, usually a mother or girlfriend, always mortally embarrassed, to inquire if we could do such a thing, and if so, what would it cost. While the owner of the bookstore had always provided this service, she was more than happy to hand it off the time-consuming jumping thru hoops required to send a book into the prison system. I learned very quickly that each state has its own set of picayune rules in regards to what can be sent, who it can be sent to, and who can send it.

For example: At the time, Texas did not allow hardcover books to be sent, no how, no way. They figured prisoners might cut the cover into a weapon. How they were supposed to cut a hardcover book (trade or textbook, those covers are thick!) without already having a weapon, well, who can say, but never underestimate the ingenuity of anyone who can make a knife from a toothbrush. Only mass market paperbacks were allowed, and even those could not be over 200 pages or so (all those George R.R. Martin fans were S.O.L., until we started cutting the books into sections to mail).

But that’s Texas and we’re talking Oregon here.

My main takeaways from this time in Texas however, were that  prison libraries sucked, people need to read, and that nobody should ever be ashamed for wanting to provide reading material to anyone, anywhere..

So at my store I tried to charge the bare minimum to folks who were trying to get something to read to someone in jail. Just what the book cost and what it cost to send it to the library. No “handling” fee. Word got around that I was not fleecing the friends of and/or the incarcerated. A donation box for prisoners was set up; a group would have used my store to meet and distribute books, but they already had a setup at another famous bookstore, perhaps you’ve heard of them.

But what about Blaize? Blaize was active in her own community, and thus our paths crossed. We corresponded. I found a funny, artistic, intuitive and kind person. Lord only knows what she thought of me.

One holiday season, Blaize was passing through town. I offered to meet her at the airport and give her a ride to the bus station. My sister was in town also, so we both went to meet Blaize. Since there were a few hours in between flights and busses, we went to one of the more notable dives in town and had Chinese. The three of us sat around the table, chugging gallons of green tea, guessing the provenance of our eggrolls,  and it felt like we’d known each other forever. After I dropped Blaize at the bus station, I wondered if I’d ever see her again.

Well of course you know the answer to that.

hobo-catOver the years, we’ve managed to keep in touch. Even had a road adventure or two. Blaize is the Queen of Thrift: if there’s a store out there, not only does she know about it, but has Googled it and has directions and hours for the place. The purple rain coat that we found in Seaside, Oregon, got away from me (sadly), but the Hobo symbol that we found in another place up the road still hangs on my wall–a smiling cat in a box with four hearts, one in each corner. The design is a message to other hobos that inside this house is “a good hearted woman”, something that suits Blaize to a T.

As for the title of this piece, it comes from an Anarchist friend of mine, who was one of the inadvertent catalysts for our meeting. A couple of lifetimes ago, he was complaining because I wanted to go to my weekly writers group instead of party with him. He meant it to manipulate me, but instead I embraced it and use it to describe my best friends, my writing friends, the ones who have the time to listen and observe and comment or perhaps just be quiet and listen. The kind of friend you want to hang on to forever. Someone like Blaize.

So a huge THANK YOU, BLAIZE, for being there and writing of your travels and trials. I can’t wait to see your book. Maybe I should start another bookstore, so I could sell it.