ER

I like emergency rooms. At face value I probably shouldn't. We think of them as traumatic, scary, violent environments. They take watch over the criminals and the victims, the sick, the hurt and the poor. Ugliness. But when you get pass the common areas you enter into a place where you are cared for by people who have given over their lives to help those who are experiencing their worse. And this is where you enter a weird kind of peace you can't find anywhere else.
I received the classic "cliche" phone call no parent wants to hear. "This is Officer Ward do you know where your daughter is?." I wanted him to stop. I heard more, things like.... unconscious, side of a road, ambulance, hospital. I left my late night job and drove to St. Vincents. (All hospitals should be named after saints.) I had to wait before I could see her. I waited while they cared for her. The gravel was washed from her face and the vomit from her hair. I was not treated by the doctors and nurses like the parent who could not control her child and when I walked into her ER room I did not see the teenage girl who made some very poor choices. I saw my little girl asleep under stark white sheets and wrapped in a white heated blanket. Her head on a pillow and her long blond hair smoothed and out of the way.
The room was spotless and silent and I received unconditional respect from the staff. They let me sit for awhile. Questions were later answered and details taken care of. The admittance person brought up my daughters last visit to this very same ER. We brought her in at 1:00am, a four year old little girl with a raging fever that brought on seizures and dehydration. I was nine months pregnant with her sister. I laid my head on her gurney and slept while the IV fluids worked their magic and stabilized this child and we brought her home.
Now it is 1:00am twelve years later. Again I lay my head on her gurney and sleep a little while the IV fluids work their magic. The doctor checks in, the nurses come and go. They care for her unconditionally and clean up more vomit and give her more fluids. They bring me a pillow and warm blankets and assure me that this will pass and we will all be alright. They remind me that we have all done this, she is not the first teen to drink too much and there is no shortage of them in the ER.
I doze. The room is silent except for some white noise from hospital monitors. And there is a peace in the room.

Bonneville...Send me on my way.

Suitcase packed, IPOD carefully loaded, a few bucks in my pocket and J is driving me to the train station. (have i mentioned that I love trains) I fight back tears. Check in at the train station, more tears. Good-byes are hard on a girl when she is saying them to the one she loves. I am on my my to the Bonneville Salt Flats. The Holy Ground of Speed. It is motorcycle speed week and I am catching up to my friend Tara in southern Oregon and traveling with her family.
I board the train and desperately try to find a seat facing forward. Sitting backwards is not good for me when motion is involved. The only seat left is part of a foursome of seats that I will be sharing with an elderly couple. I sit and we argue about which way is forward and which way is north, south, east and west. They sit facing me and assume they are going forward. Apparently I won and they were in the wrong car and Mister Conductor made them move. They were replaced with a mother and son couple. She was a bartender and he a student in his twenties. They had the look that life had never been easy but excepted it and were none the less happy.
The son, a very cool young man was messing with the group next to us. A group of young teens and a mom coming back from a gamer convention in Seattle. Yep, Geeks. They so wanted to be excepted by this hipster stanger on the train and enjoyed any kind of shit he was feeding them. It was very fun to watch. I stared out the window and laughed and talked and drank a smuggled beer my seat mates shared with me and before I wanted it to end it did and I was getting off the train in Eugene.
I was met by Tara and we hugged and laughed and stuffed my suitcase into her little yellow Mini Cooper. After a mad dash through the grocery store (we needed some road snacks) we drove on to Roseburg. I slept fast, only about 45 minutes. We had to meet her family at 2:00am. That was departure time. Wide awake with the excitement of a road trip in front of us we arrived at her parents house. We threw our suitcases in the back of a big ass mother f*cking bright red king cab pick-up truck towing a trailered Turbo Hayabusa that driven correctly could reach speeds close to 200 mph. It was dark and cold and once situated in the back seat of the truck surrounded by pillows and blankets I immediately fell asleep. I woke up just long enough to watch the sun come up over the Eastern Southern Oregon mountains. Brian drove in silence and everyone else was asleep. I was careful not wake anyone and selfishly enjoyed the sunrise to myself while I listened to Jesse DeNatale on my IPOD. I drifted back to sleep happy knowing this day was ahead of me.
We drove I-5 through Grants Pass and cut over to Medford and Klamath Falls. Somewhere in there we stopped at a Black Bear Diner and started my day with a bowl of oatmeal. Heading east we left Klamath Falls towards Lake City. Klamath Falls is an "end of the world as we know it" kind of town. Everything to the east from here is desolate and odd. Leaving Lake City (the Labor Day Rodeo was going on) there are miles and miles of two lane highways. The land is hilly and brown and empty. We see an occasional group of buildings and homes, not big enough to call a town, maybe a gas station, wild burros, antelope, wild horses and blue sky. Lots of blue sky. We drive through hours of this with pleasant conversation, good music and occasional cat naps. In the truck is Tara and myself, her dad and mom- Brian and Debbie and Tara's cousin Ron. An occasional stop to stretch, outside the truck it is windy, empty and warm.
We get to I-80 in Nevada still experiencing the same. There are some larger towns and even though they have more people and buildings and businesses they still seem empty. I am not sure why they are here. Maybe it was a spring of fresh water or a creek crossing or perhaps a wagon broke down and they decided to make a town. The people we encounter seem empty and wind blown. I am not sure why they stay, maybe they are trapped or perhaps they don't understand that they can leave and there are other options. We on the other hand are not trapped, awake and alive and just trying to get to Wendover Nevada/Bonneville Salt Flats.
Along I-80 ahead of us we see a bunch of lit up police cars with a truck pulled over. Getting closer we see the cops have their guns pulled on two men with their arms in the air. Brian said that guy is going to run!!! "No way" we say...but he did. He ran. Shots were fired and that man darted right into traffic. He ran into a van that was driving slightly behind us, jumped back up and kept running. All traffic came to a stop and we were the last vehicle to get past for I am sure several hours because now they have a crime scene on their hands. We watched for as long as we could see and made up stories about what we thought really happened. Made it to Wendover Nevada around 7:00pm that night.

Joe Strummer

I have a dog. He is really a puppy but has become the size of a dog. This is difficult for both of us. He is in a dogs body but does not know what is expected of a dog, and only understands how to be a puppy. As a result he can't figure out why he is not always making me happy. This can get a little frustrating for both of us.
He was named after the late great Joe Strummer of the Clash and the Mescaleros. I think it is important to give a dog a name they have to live up to. Dogs need inspiration. I also appreciate and respect the positive side of a bit of rebellion and I am sure this Joe Strummer will live up to that. The original Joe Strummer played a 1966 Fender Telecaster that originally came in a three color sunburst with a white pickguard. After joining the Clash the guitars body and pickguard was refinished in black auto primer, by 1979 the word NOISE was stenciled on the upper part of the body. I am sure if my Joe Strummer had thumbs he would also play this same style Telecaster.
Strummer is a happy dog, Oh so happy, devoted to his family and full of kisses. His feelings are easily hurt when he doesn't get it right but Strummer bounces back quickly, he is curious but fearful of things he does not understand. He is growing, tall and skinny, loosing baby teeth and has an amazing irresistible coat. Long and lean I am sure some day he will have the moves of a graceful ninja but right now he is very clumsy, tripping, slipping and falling and getting tangled in things.
We have a morning routine Strummer and I. He goes from room to room and wakes the house. People have places to be. We get everyone out the door and take and extended walk around the block to make sure all is right in the neighborhood. Strummer pulls, I correct...Strummer pulls I correct...Strummer pulls I correct. This goes on. We run a little. Eventually he gets tired of pulling and decides he wants to carry his own leash. This is fun except it is taking its tole on our leashes. He likes to walk with things in his mouth. Joe strummer will pick up a leaf and carry it. One morning he picked up an apple half way through our walk and carried it home.
To save the leashes I started walking with his rope toy in my pocket. I decided it would be good to bring something for him to carry. On our morning walk Strummer started playing and leaping and looking for a good spot on the lead to grab hold. When he thought my hand was the place I decided to break out his toy. He carried it for awhile and dropped it. I looked down to pick up the rope and woke up a little when I realized it was covered in blood. I reached down to pick it up and was even more surprised when I saw that my hand was covered in blood. Not just a few smudges but full on covered in blood slasher movie style. I checked the dog. The dog was fine. I assumed he lost a tooth (they can bleed a lot from that) or bit his tongue and when he had his mouth around my hand it came off on me.
It would not have been a big deal only that I was left with the dilemma of what to do with a bloody hand. Dog blood none the less. I did not want to wipe it on my clothes. I had no choice but to continue on and hope I did not cross paths with anyone. I am sure it would have at the very least raised a few eyebrows.
I love him dearly but dogs are gross.

Union Station and Train Girl

In Old Town Portland sits Portland's train station, Union Station. Union Station was built in 1896. It was considered to be the finest rail station west of St. Louis and the hub of the northwest railways. It is built of sandstone and brick in the Italian Renaissance style With a 150 foot clock tower that stands over the three story building. Later a neon "Go By Train" sign was added which has since become a Portland icon. Inside the walls are of marble and art deco light fixtures hang from the three+ story high ornate ceiling. Sun light shines in from the 2nd and third story windows putting on an amazing dance of light on the marble. One hundred years later in 1996 the train station took on renovation that brought it back to its wonder years. The original wooden seats, fixtures and light up signage were kept in place. Stepping into Union Station is like stepping into a gauzy World War II movie scene.
Passengers waiting for their train to board sit and stand by their worn leather luggage, poised in their travel clothes and various military uniforms. A young man and woman stand on the platform in the mist. She in a charcoal gray pencil skirt, pink cardigan sweater and high heeled pumps and he his bell bottomed sailor uniform. They are having one last embrace before he boards the train and heads off to war. They tear apart from each other as they hear "all aboard, last call...", the train pulls out and she chases it for a few minutes crying I love you. The train leaves her behind and she is left to her sobs and tears and the uncertainty of their future and the future of our country and world.
However, the reality of people talking on cell phones and using laptops keep me spending too much time in the day dream I have stepped into. Too bad the train station couldn't be a reality free zone and leave me to over romanticising this form of travel.
This is where my 48 hour train adventure started. I convinced my children plus one that this would be a great way to travel and get to Grand Junction Colorado where I would have a tearful reunion with my own soldier. There is a bench against the brick wall outside the entrance under the Union Station, Portland Oregon sign. I am sure everyone starting a vacation at this train station gets their picture taken under this sign. We did of course as well. Sitting in the middle of the bench all by himself was a little boy. He appeared to be around seven years of age and out of a modern day Oliver Twist story. I don't believe he spoke much English and we could not ask him to move so we sat around him and included him in our group photo. From then on we referred to him as "Train Boy". Train Boy did have a dad, we saw them together later on our train and he provided entertainment as we had Train Boy sightings and made up Train Boy stories.
Inside the station we met "Mr. Conductor" and checked in and then waited. You do a lot of the waiting part when traveling by train. Hours and hours of waiting. they never leave on time and then once you are moving you will wait more and sometimes wait in the middle of nowhere. It turns out that Amtrak leases the lines from freight companies and the freight trains have the right of way. Frequently you will stop, sometimes for a few minutes and sometimes for hours while a freight train works its way around you.
Waiting in the station to be called "all aboard" we discovered "Train Girl". Train Girl looked like she just stepped out of the before mentioned movie. She was sitting with perfect posture, long legs crossed in a chair reading a book. Dressed in a black pencil skirt, soft yellow sweater, a red scarf tied around her neck and a pair of vintage white pumps helped to show off her long legs. Train Girl's makeup was flawless, a soft matte finish and bright red lipstick. Her hair was pulled back into kind of a partial French twist. Sitting at her feet was a vintage round leather suitcase and a big floppy hat rested on top of it. In her lap was a bright red clutch purse. She was amazing. We all wanted to be her.
After boarding our train, the Coast Starlight, (doesn't that sound romantic?) we situated ourselves. Figured out who was sitting with who, organized our luggage and other things. We had enough food for five people traveling for two days, cooler, blankets, pillows, games and music. Amtrak does not provide much if you are traveling coach class. We tested our seats to see how far they would recline and how comfortable the foot rests were. We got used to the steady hard swaying of the train and the noises it made. Then it was time to explore and spy on Train Girl. We pretended to take pictures of each other so we could get her in the back ground. We followed her into the lounge car and the movie car and made up stories about who she was and where she was going. She was always looked wonderful. We are not completely crazy stalkers had fun on our own. Reading, games, napping,day dreaming and wandering through the cars. We watched "Because of Winn Dixie" in the movie car. Who wouldn't love to see Dave Matthews singing barefoot to the animals. We slept.
The next morning we caught up with Train Girl again. She was still completely put together. Wearing a new outfit of the same quality, no wrinkles, hair done and makeup applied. She looked fresh and well rested. Somehow she was able to pull this off effortlessly. Later we saw her sitting in an observation car having an intense conversation with an exotic looking gentleman. I am sure it was some deep philosophic conversation or they were solving the world's problems. We parted ways half way to our destination in San Francisco. She stayed on the train headed south for Los Angeles, or Mexico, or maybe even Argentina. We never talked to her. I supposed we didn't want to risk a chance of ruining our idea of who we wanted her to be. We got off the train and waited for another heading east, one that would get us to Colorado. The California Zephyr.

In the night

There is a time of night not many get to experience. It is my favorite. It is reserved for people with twisted clocks like mine. It doesn't last very long. There are just a few fleeting minutes when you catch the night at just this time. It happens after the bars and restaurants have closed and the patrons and the crazies of these places have made it into cabs and other places and off the streets. It is not yet the middle of the night. That comes later when it is more eerily quiet and cold and lonely. This time of the night does not have a name yet but could really use one. The "wee hours" is too silly, "middle of the night" sounds lonely and sad, the "midnight hours" might work but it really doesn't seem capture it. It needs a name. Maybe I will have a contest and offer a free twix bar to whoever wins.
Not many get to experience this time of the night. It is quiet. Cabs shoot by. The hustle is off the streets and the buildings have time to take a deep breath and acknowledge each other. They acknowledge me and I get a little building spiritual head nod as I walk past. You can feel the city letting out a sigh...kicking back on it's couch and putting it's feet up on it's coffee table. If it could the city would take the top off a beer and maybe light a cigarette. For some reason it is usually drizzling at this time of night and if it is not it should be. That just adds to the flavor.

Those of us out at this time of night share similar stories. We've moved the last straggling customers out of the building. Garbage has been taken to the street, floors mopped, areas restocked and ready for tomorrow. Tips counted and shared, stories and complaints from the night unburdened.
I step out into the night of Portland. Walk past the ghost bike. Lights reflect and twinkle from the water on the street. I stand up tall and take a big breath of night air. My head held high and I feel the drizzle on my face. I am wide awake and not in a hurry. I have a chance to have my friend Portland to myself. I walk past a covered door way and see two bartenders from where I work sharing hits off a pipe. We communicate with a head nod and a smile. A man walks past me still wearing his chef pants. His white coat hanging below his winter coat. A head nod. I round the corner and two individuals are loading garbage bags into a dumpster. In the window of a local spot a few of the employees are gathered around the closed bar sharing an end of the evening drink. I get into my car and drive home.

I like teenagers

I had the privilege of being in a local high school the other day. This happened to be at a time when classes were changing. A big high school. The kind with 2000 kids plus. I had a great observation point at a major intersection. I was reminded that just like snowflakes, no two teens are alike. Several factors affect snowflake and teenager formation. Temperature, air currents, humidity, dirt and dust particles all influence shape and size and affect crystal weight and durability. It is also true for teens. Dirt and dust particles make the snowflake heavier, and can cause cracks and breaks in the crystal and make it easier to melt. This also affects their durability. Snowflake formation is a dynamic process. A snowflake may encounter many different environmental conditions, sometimes melting it, sometimes causing growth, always changing its structure. A broken, melted teenager is a sad thing.
I like the diversity at this school. All the ethnicities and socioeconomic groups are adequately represented. There are so many cliques that it makes it hard to be a loner and everybody is so different that nobody seems to care if you are a little weird because it seem everybody is. It has the traditional cliques and more...the preps, skaters, goths, jocks, emos, freaks and the band geeks. But it goes deeper than this. Amongst these groups/cliques there are 1000s of individual snowflakes. The lowly freshmen boys for example. The lowest common denominator at a high school. Poor freshmen boys, they don't know how to dress, they are short, skinny, awkward in every way and picked on by everyone. Even each other. Yet even among this faction they are all different. We don't know what went on in their house this morning before they walked out the door. What music did they listen to? What movies, video games and culture influence who they are. Do they have their own warm room with a down comforter or do they step around their mom passed out drunk on the kitchen floor from the night before, while they gather some breakfast. Are they responsible for their siblings because one or both parents are missing or do they have an extended network of support consisting of parents, aunts and uncles and grandparents. These environmental conditions can cause growth, durability or melt making each one a different, intricate individual.
Everyone should take a few moments to observe teenagers. You would learn that we, our planet, are going to be OK. This generation will overcome, rise above and I strongly believe, kick some ass. You may see them playing hard but you probably don't realize how hard they work. How serious they take their station in life and the burdens they bare. They are proud, confident generation and figuring out that they are being handed a lot of shit and understand they will be the ones that have to fix it. I think they are up for this challenge. Even the broken, melted ones.