The people in the neighborhood

With the return of better weather in the Spring, I started seeing more neighbors as I walked Richard around my neighborhood. Wet, wintery weather and Civid had kept a lot of people home, but now people are out and about, maskless in the open air.

But there have been changes. A white-haired man who walked daily with his wife now walks alone.A neighbor’s husband and two small dogs hav been replaced by a different man and a large dog. Their next door neighbors suddenly have a six month old baby. I want to ask about these changes, but good manners keep me from doing so. I send positive thoughts instead and wonder other changes have happened in the homes I pass.

A neighbor two blocks over is a school counselor. Over the course of my 15 years in the neighborhood, I saw the birth of her third son, her return to school, her first job as a school counselor. On my walks, she and I would compare how each of our schools and school districts were dealing with the pandemic.

I ran into her again yesterday. I had just passed her house when she came out, glasses on, armed with pen and paper.

“I’m finally reporting that car,” she said as she walked towards a white car parked in front of the house of the woman with the new man and dog. “It’s been there over a year.”

“I thought I was the only one who reported cars,” I laughed. “I am glad to know I am in good company.”

I had only noticed this car a few months ago, but I understood her frustration

“Be sure to let them know the front driver’s side tire is flat,” I told her. “They like those details.”

“The tags have expired, too,” she added.

We chatted a bit about the number of cars with expired tags we see on a regular basis before rolling into talk about the imminent return to school. We are both ready to get back to in person teaching, both comfortable teaching fully masked. We’ll be sure that we and our students are responsible about following COVID protocols, just like we make sure people are responsible about following neighborhood parking protocols.

Interesting

The man was sitting on the low brick wall that curved into the park from the entrance. I saw him from a distance, my homeless person senses tingling. There are a number of tents and car-homes on permanent deployment near the park and the residents spend a lot of time in the park. For the most part, they are friendly, as this gentleman was.

Wearing a hat and face mask, my hearing is sometimes impaired. I clearly heard him say, “Do you have five,” but the ending was cut off. I assumed his last word was dollars, and I smiled with my eyes as Richard and I began to walk past silently.

“Just five minutes,” he continued. “I am doing sketches and you are interesting to me.” Well, flattery gets you many places, so I stopped.

“Well, I haven’t felt interesting for a while,” I laughed from a safe distance away.

“That’s a basset hound, right?” he continued. “We had a basset growing up.His name was McGee. We gave him that name thinking we were getting an Irish Setter, but we got hom. He was a good dog.”

“This is Richard,” I said as I watched him sketch, looking from Richard and I back to his sketchbook, his hand moving all the while. I gave him a little bit of Richard’s story and he shared some stories about McGee. He wasn’t wearing a mask, and, from the way he spoke, I got a sense that he’d had a hard life, or had some developmental issues. He wore no mask and I still had no clue as to whether he was an occupant of the encampment around the park. He was just a friendly guy.

“I’m done,” he announced suddenly, holding his notebook up for me to see. There were several sketches of Richard, from different angles. We wished each other a good day and Richard trotted forward – he’s a fast walker – as I heard the man ask someone else if they had five minutes. I heard the ending clearly that time.

#Vote2020

The morning was chillier than I expected. As I took the first steps on my journey I considered turning around to get a hat and mitts. It was sunny, despite the nip in the air, so I decided to keep walking.

As I neared the end of the street, I saw my neighbor walking her dog. I pulled my ballot from my pocket and waved it at her.

“On my way to drop this off!” I called from across the street.

Bear, her dog, jumped for joy. I crossed the street to share in his delight at the day. When Lucy was with me, we always said hello from a distance. My heart ached with missing her, but it was refreshing to finally get to greet him. His owner and I chatted for a bit before I recommenced my journey.

For as long as I can remember, I have dropped my ballot off at the public library. Although libraries are only open for pickups, they are still collecting ballots.

But dropping in the book return wasn’t going to have the same feel as sliding my envelope into the ballot box that used to sit in the library. It seemed to lack the gravitas that came with having a special place for ballots, so I looked into my options.

I knew there was an official drop box a the Macdonalds across the street from the library, but that too seemed to lack the gravity that this election holds.

Continuing my research, I discovered that the Multnomah County Elections Office was a mere 1.4 miles from my house, one-tenth of a mile closer than the library. My plan began to form.

Autumn is my favorite season, and a cool, sunny morning is an invitation to celebrate, so, ballot in hand, I set off before school, to walk to drop my ballot off at the Multnomah County Elections Office. The crisp air helped keep my pace brisk and before I knew it, I had arrived. Apparently, I wasn’t the only person who wanted to get their ballot n as soon as possible. A masked woman arrived with her ballot as I turned. A camera crew stood in front of the building, recording a different woman in a red mask, as she dropped her ballot. Cars pulled up and people leaned out to drop their ballots in the curbside box. I felt inspired. I felt hope, too.

On the walk home I was buoyed as much by those feelings as by the beauty of the day.

What should not be forgotten

The sticky handrail
touched by the hands of
1500 middle schoolers

The rhythmic chime
of keys on a lanyard
as a colleague approaches

Second breakfast
with its mug of tea, a banana,
and a colleague with
her bowl of fruit and yogurt

The musty smell
of the locker room
as 120 sixth graders
leave for the day

The flow of students
up and down the staircase
at the beginning and end
of the day

The beep and buzz
of the lock
as you swipe your ID card
before the sun comes up

They joy in your heart
as you stand, before school,
in front of the building,
greeting families,
and one of your current,
or former students,
arrives

 

On my street

When I first moved to the home where I now live, I noticed a patch of asphalt that had writing carved into it. It was a little hard to read, but it was a memorial  to someone who had been killed.

Yesterday, as I was walking home from Whole Foods, I looked up and noticed that the signcaps on top of the street signs had Amharic writing. I stopped. How had I never noticed this before? Were these signs new?

I was a little surprised to find that the signcap at the top of my street was the same. How is it that I never looked at the sign? I have a vague memory of noticing that signcaps had been installed a few years ago, but I had never bothered to read what they said.  Most of the signcaps in this part of Portland, just say the name of the neighborhood, so I never looked. I just assumed.

Once home,  I did a little research. I learned that the signs were put up on November 13, 2018 to commemorate the 1988 murder of Mulugeta Seraw, an Ethiopian immigrant, by white supremacists. That was a Tuesday, so I would have been at school and missed the ceremony that occurred.  And I put two and two together and realized that the section of asphalt I’d never been able to read must have been about Mulugeta Seraw’s murder. After doing my research, I went back out to read the asphalt.

It had been paved over.

So here I am, putting together a lot of things we’ve all been thinking about these last few days.

What are other things I have seen but never looked at?

What other things are being paved over?

How can I do better?

 

Behind the mask

Everybody in Whole Foods, the nearest grocery store to my house, wore a mask. Most wore gloves. That day, I was only wearing one glove because, when I got there, I discovered I must have dropped one between my front door and the store.

I had my list and wandered purposefully, paying attention to the yellow markers on the floor that helped shoppers understand the concept of six feet. It was a short list, mostly fresh items, and before long, I was in the checkout line. Here, too, there were yellow lines. Display shelves had been moved to help funnel people the most socially distant direction.

As I waited in line I watched the two clerks. One was still checking someone’s groceries, the other finished up and then cleaned. She sprayed they belt as it ran, wiped down the card reader, sprayed and wiped the counter, before wiping down the counter. Then, she made eye contact with me.

I walked over, smiling. That’s when it hit me, she couldn’t see my smile. And yet, I knew she was smiling because I noticed the crinkle around her eyes. We are going to have to start learning to read new social cues,  I thought as I unloaded my groceries.

I contemplated this as I walked home. There weren’t many people on the sidewalks, but I veered into the street as I neared people. I didn’t look for social cues about who should step out of the way. I have always had a big personal space bubble. My idea of six feet is really more like thirty.

As I mounted the stairs to home, I found the missing glove. I threw it into the washing machine along with its mate and the face mask.

 

I’ve become that person

Staying at home, the days have begun to blur together. Case in point: I almost missed that today was Slice of Life Tuesday.

As a result, any variation in my day is celebrated. Like a UPS delivery. Way back, I had an issue with a UPS delivery and signed up for some sort of alert. This means that, the day before a delivery, I get an email alerting me to the fact that a package will be delivered the next day. But on delivery day, the real excitement happens. I get an email with a “Follow My Delivery” option. You know I click on that and spend the next few hours following the truck as it meanders through my part of town.

It surprises me that sometimes, it comes very close to my house – only a block or two away – without delivering my package. I know UPS has a massive logistics division that has logically determined exactly when my package should be delivered on the most efficient route. I don’t mind the wait. Following my package is a fun diversion.

Home is where the heart is

One of the upsides of being stuck at home is that I am reading more than usual. I hope this is true for you too. Maybe I this will be getting me back to writing more about some pf the books I am reading.

Over the weekend, I read A Home for Goddesses and Dogs by Leslie Connor, and loved it.

Publisher’s Summary: This novel sings about loss and love and finding joy in new friendships and a loving family, along with the world’s best bad dog. An uplifting middle grade novel about recovery featuring strong female characters, an adorable dog, and the girl who comes to love him.

It’s a life-altering New Year for thirteen-year-old Lydia when she uproots to a Connecticut farm to live with her aunt following her mother’s death.

Aunt Brat and her jovial wife, Eileen, and their ancient live-in landlord, Elloroy, are welcoming—and a little quirky. Lydia’s struggle for a sense of belonging in her new family is highlighted when the women adopt a big yellow dog just days after the girl’s arrival.

Wasn’t one rescue enough?

Lydia is not a dog person—and this one is trouble! He is mistrustful and slinky. He pees in the house, escapes into the woods, and barks at things unseen. His new owners begin to guess about his unknown past.

Meanwhile, Lydia doesn’t want to be difficult—and she does not mean to keep secrets—but there are things she’s not telling…

Like why the box of “paper stuff” she keeps under her bed is so important…

And why that hole in the wall behind a poster in her room is getting bigger…

And why something she took from the big yellow dog just might be the key to unraveling his mysterious past—but at what cost?

People grieve in different ways. At first, I wondered why Lydia didn’t grieve more. And then the paper box full of the goddesses she and her mom made emerged. Lydia dealt with her grief in a unique way

I read an article last week that talked about the feelings people are feeling these days. It suggested that what many of us are feeling is actually grief. Reading A Home for Goddesses and Dogs, isolated at home, made me want to make a paper goddess for these crazy times.

 

Time on my hands

Despite the my grey hair and the many missives I receive from the AARP, I am not yet a senior citizen. This is important because it means I need to be aware of shopping times, i.e. the shopping times reserved for seniors and other vulnerable people. I know that my nearest shop, the tiny Whole Foods three blocks away, has reserved 8 – 9 a.m. for these folks.

Yesterday morning, feeling antsy, I decided to go to Whole Foods. I played the “let’s pretend I’m not going out without you” game with Lucy, but she had it figured out by the time we hit the sidewalk. The trembles started. Hardening my heart, we took a little walk and then returned to the house where I left her.

I had packed my backpack before the walk, so I could drop Lucy off, grab the bag and be out the door before she could really panic. It contained two reusable shopping bags, yellow Playtex gloves, and my wallet. I intentionally left my phone behind so it wouldn’t get germed. I also just wanted to enjoy my walk without distractions.

I knew I was a little early, but hadn’t realized quite how early I was going to be. As I walked through the parking lot, I saw a gloveless senior citizen raking groceries from her cart and putting them in her front seat, just like I do. Another person exited. He didn’t look like a senior, but he was a little further away. Maybe it was already nine.

I approached the doors, where the security guard stood. This was a new addition to the store the last time I was there. That time they mostly cleaned shopping carts, but I suspect they managed the lines at busier times.

“Am I early?” I asked as I approached, but maintained an appropriate social distance.

“Yeah, you got about 20 more minutes,” she told me, smiling, clearly not thinking of me the way the AARP does.

“No problem. I’ll just take a walk,” I replied as I veered off the other direction into the neighborhood.

Although this neighbor hood is near min and I often walk the major streets, there are many streets I don’t think I have ever been down. I peeked at porches and gardens as I walked past, trying to figure how far I needed to go before turning around and taking a different winding way home. I crossed the street when I saw people coming towards me and got to look at some different houses and yards.

It had rained really hard overnight and there were a few puddles to navigate around. I walked around a park, rather than through it, to a point where I thought I could turn around. Not having a watch or my phone made the actual time a guess. I decided that, as I walked back to Whole Foods, I would try to see if I could see the time through someone’s window. It was harder than I thought it would be. I saw mixers and plants, coffee makers and dog treats, but I could not see a clock. Not on a wall, not on a stove.

As I was about to round the last corner, I passed a house where I could see a large screen TV through the window. CNN was on, and I knew they usually showed the time in one corner or another. I slowed my pace, allowing my eyes to roam from corner to corner, trying no to look too much like a stalker. And the, there it was, in the upper right hand corner 12:07 ET. That meant it was 9:07 in Portland.

I picked up my pace, greeted the the same security guard when I reached Whole Foods, then entered the store ready to get the things I needed.

 

 

Keeping Portland Weird

It was a sunny Thursday and, once more, Lucy was just standing on the sidewalk. There was a time that she ran, but nowadays, she simply likes to stand around, sniff, and watch the world.

This particular Thursday, we emerged from social distancing so she could have a potty break and I could get away from the sofa. The sun was warm and I didn’t mind just standing there with her. At this time of the year the sun feels wonderful, and given the circumstances, healing.

As Lucy and I soaked up the sun, I noticed a sound in the distance. Could that be bagpipes?  I asked myself. It couldn’t be Portland’s Unipiper, could it? I wondered as I turned my eyes in the direction of the music. Sure enough a yellow clad figure was at the end of my block. I knew Lucy couldn’t run fast enough for us to see him and I was content to enjoy from a distance.

But then he turned up my street.

Fortunately, a unicycle is not built for speed and I had enough time to dash into my house and grab my phone. On the way, I passed a neighbor.

“The Unipiper is coming!” I called happily.

“Is that a bad thing? You are running away!” he laughed to me as he descended to see the local celebrity.

“Just grabbing my camera,” I called back, just before dashing into the house. I was back in no time and managed to snap one good photo as The Unipiper pedaled past, playing Scotland the Brave.