Here, Now

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Sky over the neighborhood after days of rain

Rabbit man in neighbor's yard

Boy and dog 

Pink eggs at top and bottom from Athena, the bully; double-yolker in the middle from Lilac the barred rock, tiny green egg from Artemis


The weather has turned toward autumn,  mornings chilly and damp, fog shouldering over Mt. Tabor. The rains have begun, or are almost begun in earnest: leaves just starting to turn, moss and lichens greening, apples and pears softening in yards on our walk, a few lazy yellow jackets on the sodden fruit.

We have been to the orchards, have baked apple pie and apple cake and apple cobbler. J. asked for a change, so yesterday I made chocolate chip cookies, long-rise bread, manicotti. We have bags of apples in the kitchen nook. J. and I have also been to Sauvie Island, which he declared he had never been to, though when we drove over the bridge and past the farms we both realized we'd gone last year in search of pumpkins but of course, had gone too late. Last weekend we drove to the beaches along the Columbia where the water sparkles gold. J. and I waded to our shins in the cold water, watched dogs and families--not many, just a few, socially distanced by tens of yards--swim and laugh. The air was still warmish, clear. His school made the call to be remote until at least January 28th, but it seems unlikely we will be back in person this year, likely his sophomore year will be spent in his upstairs office, behind a screen. But, he is taking art and is drawing every day again, and he and D. are both reading The Handmaid's Tale for individual reading.

I spend my days trouble-shooting for faculty, attending endless zoom meetings where everyone at this point has given up and turned our cameras off, baking, tossing handfuls of oatmeal or birdseed to the chickens, watching them climb up the DMZ hill behind the house, eat bugs and plants (the entire garden, the grass seed, etc), sweeping dirt back into the garden beds, chicken shit into the garden beds. Flocks of small birds flit from tree to tree, eating the red berries of the mystery tree next door, the blown out flowers of the invasive autumn clematis. 

Yesterday, a small miracle: Artemis, one of my feral easter-eggers, whose rear has been plucked clean of feathers by her bully of a sister, who stopped laying in January, laid a tiny perfect green egg in the coop. When I saw it I whooped and cried. Every time I open the creaky, janky back screen door, all four of them come running (have you ever seen a chicken run? It is frankly ridiculous) in hope of treats. Mr. Bill, the dog, staggers in between them, happy to have a treat too, often afraid to come to the door because of the dinosaurs. Sometimes, I catch them all sunning--Bill laid out like he's dead, the chickens in various boudoir poses in the dirt.

R. and I are staggering through the house most days, bone-tired because we wake up every night to a regular thump-thump. Is it from J.'s room, directly above us? No. The cats? No. Maybe? Every night the thumping begins and one of us gets up, the other desperately trying to shove our fingers in our ears. It isn't raccoons or something in the walls. Neither boy hears it. If it is the resident ghost, then I hope they will give me their list of demands soon. 

The roof is leaking and we have the third company coming over to give an estimate tomorrow. The house is 112 years old, creaky, ghost-ful. If you have ever imagined what an entire new roof and skylights cost, imagine all your money and then imagine some more. Then burn it and rob a bank.

There is much that is unbloggable for a while. Right now, the best thing writing can do is to help me see what is here in front of me, to help me see that there is beauty even still. Wet pavement, smell of woodsmoke, clear air after rain, chickens, my boy and me walking the dog every afternoon through the neighborhood, the weird rabbit man. Stay here, now. We only get this one chance.

 There are three weeks until the election. Roe v Wade is likely to be overturned. The pandemic continues. It is difficult sometimes to see a way out. But we must. We didn't come this far for nothing.




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