Psychic Junkie --Christy

True confessions: I’m a psychic junkie. I use psychics like other people use therapists. Seriously, why spend years yapping on about your issues when you can spend an hour with a clairvoyant who can tell you all you need to know? Most people—first and foremost my husband—find this strange, so I try to keep it on the down-low. But this time of year, as we rollover to a new digit on the calendar, I get the itch to make an appointment with a seer.

In my defense, I blame my parents. They started me early—my father booked appointments for each of us with a renowned local psychic when I was just 14. Not that my dad is some kind of hippie; at first glance you'd assume he was very conservative. He held a job with a large corporation and went to mass most Sundays, but he’s always had a healthy fascination with the dark side. He grew up going to Catholic school so naturally he was in to anything macabre. The shelves of his study were crammed with books on crime families, the supernatural and medical anomalies. I’m not exaggerating when I say that the subject of hermaphrodites came up at least once a week in our house. While other kids were reading their Golden Books, my sister and I were looking at grainy pictures of elephantiasis.

So the psychic thing was not such a stretch. In fact, it was probably inevitable.

We arrived at the psychic’s home, a normal-looking house in a newer subdivision, in our Oldsmobile sedan. Only when the door opened did things start to get weird. We were greeted by a man in a wheelchair who introduced himself as the psychic’s brother. He was ferrying three small white dogs with yellowed beards on his lap, and although he was dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt, he was also wearing rouge and a woman’s wig. This was not a long, luxurious Cher-style wig but rather a short, curly gray and white wig that a woman in her 80s might wear—what my grandmother would call a “wash and set.” At first, I thought the hair was his own until I caught a glimpse of the flesh-colored mesh cap that anchored the wig hair.

He welcomed us in and asked us to sit on the couch where we would wait for our individual appointments. The smell of dog pee permeated the house and I followed Mom’s cue of sitting while having the least amount of contact with the couch. I wondered if my parents were having second thoughts about toting their young daughters to a psychic who lived in such slipshod conditions and may or may not have some unseemly relationship with the rolling dog ferry who calls himself “the brother.”

As the youngest, I was allowed to go first. On my way in, Dad slipped me a dollar and instructed me to walk up to the ice cream shop when I was finished; they would all join me one by one. As I prepared to enter, I tried to recount all of the ice cream flavors I could remember so he could not read my mind and hear the voices in my head that said Run! The guy’s a fraud! A slob! Quite possibly a pervert!

I walked into his office and was greeted with the wet, toothless grin of an elderly man sitting behind a small white desk that was so short his belly could rest on the edge of it. He wore a tight plaid shirt, kind of cowboy style with pearl snaps and curly stitching on the pockets, and he twiddled his thumbs. I had never seen someone actually twiddle their thumbs before—I’d only seen it used as physical punctuation after a joke about being bored. His hands were large and rough so the twiddling made a sound like nylon-clad thighs rubbing together. I said hello while chanting Butter Pecan, Heavenly Hash, Strawberry Cheesecake over and over in my mind until he said, “Why did you stop playing the violin?”

His question stunned me. Two things ran through my head: Oh my God, he can read my mind, I had better not think bad thoughts, and Oh my God, he can read my mind, maybe now someone can understand me. All of a sudden the need to be understood, the yearning for someone to really know who I was eclipsed the fear of having someone read my mind. “Can’t you see how awful I was?" I responded.

I had played the violin for three years but my playing was remarkably unremarkable. I used my mother’s childhood violin so I thought my playing was extra important to her. One day I mustered up the courage to tell my parents that I was going to stop playing the violin and would be taking an extra science class instead of orchestra. They just shrugged and complemented me on my practicality. It became clear to me that my playing was as painful to my family as it was to me.

“Is it important that I play? Are messages coming from my music?” I asked, thinking that angels might be speaking through my strained rendition of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, one of the few songs I could play by heart.

“No, I can see that wasn’t the creative outlet for you. But you must remember that what you produce is not as important as the creative effort behind it. Remember that. Now I see beautiful writing. Lots and lots of beautiful writing.”

This delighted me. My new passion in art class had been calligraphy, and I was prolific. Nearly every day I pumped out a new poster-sized calligraphic rendering of Pink Floyd’s lyrics and I was extremely proud of the gold-leafed illuminated letters I had done on Zeppelin’s Stairway to Heaven.

“Wow! Will I become a famous calligrapher?” I asked eagerly. He laughed so hard I was able to see that he did indeed have a few teeth back in the grotto of his mouth and he said no, that’s not really what I mean sweetheart, you’re quite a literal girl aren’t you?

With much lisping and smacking, he mumbled on for nearly an hour about my future, which was surprisingly uninteresting to me—at fourteen hearing about your future seems as irrelevant as listening to someone’s dream. I simply could not reconcile what he was saying with my own life. In fact, as soon as he told me I would not be a famous calligrapher he lost me.

Afterward, I met my sister and parents at the ice cream parlor and listened to them excitedly tell each other their predictions, which was even more boring than hearing my own. I was much more interested in the Rocky Road milkshake I was drinking than anyone’s future. So I tuned out and started to calligraphy the words to Comfortably Numb on my napkin, itching to get home to see if my dusty violin had a secret message for me.

Only later, after the dog hair had been long washed from my clothes and the stale smell of the house had faded from memory, I realized I was hooked. Still am. But let's keep it on the down-low, okay?

Tradition--Marcia

My childhood Christmas was full of traditions. First was picking the tree. This was a long and arduous process that one year, when my mother was still trying to maintain our standards on a post-divorce, Reagan de-regulation budget, took us to five lots, one as far away as Huntington Beach. The tree had to be just so-- Fluffy, no gaps, over six feet and under $18. We would cry if we didn’t get to see the live reindeer and then we'd go to IHOP for dinner.

Why we were always looking for trees at night is a puzzle to me. Were we waiting for Dad? Mr. Bah-humbug himself! Probably.

The only thing Californian about my Christmas was a trip to Roger’s Gardens to see the lights and luminaries, and the boat parade. The boat parade is a two week spectacle of floating lights and drunken Santas shouting ho-ho-ho to people sitting on docks and the suburban island beaches. From our two story house you could see the lighted masts go by at night.

I love the way my mother decorates for Christmas. Mantles, banisters, buffets are loaded with greenery and garland, berries, pinecones, and beautiful ribbon. Then there has to be sheen--a glint of silver vase, or old gold ornament, a bronze candlestick donning sprigs of pine and a plaid bow. We were never flocked tree or all blue ornament people.

My Christmas memories are mostly Dickensian. My mother read us stories Christmas Eve about a child lucky to get an orange in the toe of her stocking Christmas Day. My father towered around trying to read us A Christmas Carol, embodying Ebenezer Scrooge with spittle flying as he got into character.

I would fall to sleep to the sound of my mother's sewing machine as she worked long into the night finishing up doll clothes, dresses, or a puppet theater.

We were allowed to wake up as soon as the Street lights went off. Then we would pile onto our exhausted parents beds and delve into our stocking plunder.

While my mother was still practicing her husband’s Catholicism, there was dressing for church and then undressing after. There was breakfast of "sticky buns", a half grapefruit with a cherry, Christmas eggs, and frizzled ham. We could not open our gifts until church and breakfast were finished. It was excruciating, but it was worth the wait. I always got something I really wanted: Roller Derby Skate Queen roller skates, an Easy Bake Oven, a Chrissy Doll with her trashy hair that pulled out of a hole in the center of her head. You could give her a bob or make her hair fall straight to her waist. I know my mother did not want me to have that floozy doll in her butterfly-wing burnt-orange lace mini dress, but she got it for me anyway.

Then we ran around. We were let loose on the neighborhood. Nobody went to Colorado or Hawaii or Back East. We would meet somewhere in the middle of the street and compare loot and then go play. Not inside. Outside. Our mothers were busy making six course dinners; our fathers were nursing hangovers and busy lying on the couch. There was no ESPN. There was no Internet. Dads fluffed through the newspaper until they dozed off just in time to complain about all the mess and tell us to wash our hands before dinner.

Dinner was extreme. Old fashioned. Prime Rib, horseradish, Yorkshire Pudding, brussel sprouts, creamed onions, parsnips, cubed potatoes (from my father's side), salad with oranges and slivered almonds, and string beans. There was a sleigh on the table that my mother had filled, sometime in 1957, with tiny boxes wrapped like gifts. She still has them. In the early years I remember pies, mincemeat, pecan, and apple. But later it was always Buche de Noel, or Berries in the Snow for dessert. My sister replicated this meal exactly here in Oregon last Christmas. She even had a little apron around her waist, sweat on her brow, and the "Get Out of my Way Dear, Can't You See I'm Busy!" look down pat. I was proud of my sister for not deprecating her own cooking. My mother is always the first to critique her own food. Too salty, too dry none of us ever noticed. It was all delicious.

I tried to carry on some of these traditions for my own family. But I married a bit of a bah humbugger myself. My husband prefers the illusion that we have no traditions. But my children love them.

On nights when Dad is catering or bowling, I let the boys put on their jammies, grab their blankies, and we got to see the Christmas lights at Greystone Manor or Harry and David. Sometimes we bring Cocoa. We make cookies. Yesterday there were five children here decorating gingerbread men and rolling out sugar cookies. Tonight they will get to open the books we will read before bed. Each of them gets a Christmas Classic every year. We always read the Night Before Christmas.

When the kids wake up in the morning there will be a pile of presents wrapped under the tree. Santa will have hung candy canes and chocolate ornaments (on the years he can find them), eaten the cookies and left them a new snow globe.

The table will be decorated for brunch and the house will be clean. Really.

I’ve already received the best Christmas gift of all . . . For years I have done the tree myself. And it has always made me sad. This year, after coming home from my eldest child’s matinee performance at the Craterian, he and his brother and a neighbor child we were watching decided it was high time our tree got decorated. They were absolutely right.

So, while I made dinner they did the whole thing. First they put on their jammies, then they put up the lights, the garland, and all the ornaments. They poured over the ornaments asking questions about those from my childhood and questions about the ones from their own. My freshly minted ten year old got the honors of putting on the star. They sang songs throughout and once it was done they got out their “guys” and invented a game called “prison cell”.

My tree is a bedraggled mess. Garland hangs off to the side like a bad toupee, lights spread mostly along the front, and the usual kid-clusters of ornaments all hang in one spot. But the kids played “Prison Cell” in the tree for five days. Sometimes Rey Mysterio and Captain American even spent the night in their “cell” in the tree.

I have not ‘fixed” the tree. I haven’t redone the lights, moved any ornaments, or restrung the garland. The magic is brief. I want it to last. So for this shining moment luchadors and superheroes will be part of my Christmas Décor. The holly and the Ivy, the bronze, blown glass, and the gold will have to wait.

Merry Mysterio Christmas

Decking the Halls? -- Jennie

Happy Holidays!

Good for you for taking a second or two from the shopping, wrapping, baking, and card signing to sit down at the computer.

Does anyone read blogs at this time of year?

Instead of writing, I'm going to finish making apricot popcorn with my daughter. Then the whole family is headed to Auburn's epic Taco Tree. After that, we're hitting up Hilda's bakery for some pre-holiday sugar. On the way back, we'll check out Christmas lights.

How about you? What do your festivities include? Anything to rival apricot popcorn?

Robots Abound

In terms of technology, writing could be considered the original tech tool; writing was the first way to store information even after the author was long gone. Cool, right? Apparently not. This fact gets me no credibility here at the House o’ Robots.

There are a lot of robots around here but not one does anything useful; there’s no laundry robot, no window-washing robot, no cleaning the icky white bolt covers at the base of the toilet robot. Instead, we have the robot that walks like a spider and shoots things, the robot that does a creepy dance, and the robot with tank-like wheels and a wireless video cam that the kids drive into my office to spy on me. I could go on. And I’m not just saying that.

So the newest addition to our Robot family was quite a surprise - it actually does something sort of useful. Okay, maybe useful is a stretch, but at least it’s amusing. Behold the Raedeke Rhythmic Automaton. If this short video does not make you chuckle then check your wires because you, my friend, are a robot.

For details on the how and why, see the 8 Bit Ghost Blog. Nice work, Scott. Maybe the next one could make Almond Roca or something?

Here's To The Next Chapter --Kerry

My sister in laws death taught me something. It taught me that when your heart speaks, never leave those words unsaid.

“Don’t ever hold back those words,” still echoes in my head.
So I’m not.

Just when I was getting comfortable and almost comfortably taking you all for granted, that you would be around most Wednesdays in my daily routine, sitting at Starbucks or SOU with your insights waiting to share, just when this had become part of my routine normal, now it is fast becoming my past.

Each of you hold vast gifts that bring so much to the world of writing and to the the world I general.

Christy, with your clarity of thought, fearlessness and determination, you’ve shown me the spirit of a true writer. And perhaps you’ve shown me that always be kind to your neighbors because you never know when you’re going to have them in your life again.

Julie with your uncanny sardonic observations of the inane have entertained me and made me laugh sometimes my first laugh of the day. I always want to hear more, whether it's about Lemongrass Village or chest hair.

Jenny, my psychic sister, you pluck stories out of the universe with an enviable ease and then actually write them down and care about them. Your talent and kindness is immense.

Marcia, last but very much not least, you are a wonderful unique gifted writer of emotion and characters I could only dream about describing in such vivid detail that make me both laugh and cry. You are a beautiful writer and I will always be waiting to hear more, from you and all of you.
From rabbits to chocolate to love to men to child rearing to 1970’s chest hair, let’s keep pushing the envelope with our words, wit and wisdom.

Here’s to the life of a writer. Keep letting it rip.

Postnote: I left today after I posted this blog. I made a run for it between storms. Come visit.

One Sad Story -- Jennie

I'm figuring out my students' grades when I come across "Ben," a young man with an abominable attendance record. Like many first-time college kids, Ben came in strong in the fall, eager to learn, with a twinkle in his eye and a shiny new textbook under his arm.

Because mine is a writing class, it quickly became apparent that Ben, like many community college students, is a recovering addict, who, in addition to working three jobs, raising a child in a one-bedroom apartment, and revising his essays before his power gets shut off, is staving off cravings for methamphetamine.

It's a tough fight.

I've seen addicts who've been clean for nearly two years relapse into meth use without warning and without cause. It seems that the urge for the drug suddenly supersedes its substitutions: education, caffeine, nicotine.

In November, Ben began missing a few classes. He had excuses, of course, but soon the absences neared the limit for passing the course. Wiping his nose on his sleeve, Ben promised he'd come to every remaining class. After showing up for three consecutive meetings, Ben disappeared for two weeks.

Returning at the end of class in December with wild, unblinking eyes, Ben begged me to make an exception; he had been laid off, his child was taken into foster care, and he had made some bad decisions. I see Ben's situation a lot this time of year; money is tight, work is hard to come by, family drama unfolds, and there are impossible holiday expectations. In being fair to all of my students, however, I never make an exception for any of them.

I hate meth. It lies to my students, promising them freedom from their troubled lives, promising them happiness. It replaces pain with a short, cheap high that my students mistake for joy.

There is so much meth here. It is easy to get, easy to make, easy to ruin an entire life with one single use. I read in Beautiful Boy, journalist David Sheff's journey through his son's addiction, that the meth epidemic could be contained by reigning in nine pharmaceutical plants. But this won't happen until the government admits meth's epic destruction. Until they know Ben.

Ben has failed my class before the term is even over. When I don't give in to his pleading for one more chance, he storms out of the room. Alone at my desk, I hope deeply that Ben finds freedom from his disease. In his haste, he has left behind his text. The cover is torn off, and the pages are curling, wrinkled and wet.

The Last of the Champagne--Marcia

I am sitting here at the computer, a glass of delicious brut champagne at my elbow. The "girls" left a few hours ago. I'm going to let the dishes wait.

It's been so busy there's barely been time to breathe. But, it's all been for the good . . . birthdays, rehearsals, concerts, PTO, groundbreaking for our new school, caroling with the choir and so on ad infinitum. Tis the season.

I haven't had time to write a lovely blog about staying at Christy's mother's cabin in Klamath Falls. What a luxury. Thank you Carol. You have no idea the sheer decadence of falling asleep while reading, wading around in jammies while thinking up plot lines, and writing uninterrupted for twelve hours! I am not as discombobulated and disorganized as I thought I was. Turns out, I'm just a busy mom with a couple of jobs.

We have just swept away the crumbs from Kerrie's going away party. A passle of writer's children ran around the yard, jumped on the trampoline, gobbled down wafer cookies, lemonade, and whatever chocolate they could find.

We sat around the living room with Christy's array of salads, Jennie's coffee cake squares, my chipotle fondue and all kinds of treats. Everybody is on there way to somewhere else, but we stop for a moment to acknowledge each other this Christmas season and to wish our fellow writer good luck and a powerful muse as she makes her way north.

Kerrie, although sad now, seems to be growing more gorgeous by the day as she gets closer to "home". We know she'll flourish.

I have just started sending my youngest child to a little art program downtown, and my favorite girl-child accompanies him. Today, Maia's mother offers to drop them off. When Leigh arrives to get James, she can see that I'm frazzled, a thick layer of dust coats the living room, and the family room is in no kind of shape for company. She comes back.

We pass the afternoon "getting ready". For women, this can be fun. We gossip and analyse each other, laughing and sharing. I invited her to stay with us knowing she would enjoy the reading, the women, and a glass of champagne. And she did.

When she left she said "That was amazing." She left inspired. I can have no greater compliment. I'm so glad she stayed.

To make the evening even better, my eldest and my husband came home after a basketball awards dinner with a surprise for me. I was told to close my eyes. A pillow was put to my face . . . the way things have been going lately, I fully expected to be choked.

My husband walked in with a shovel. Yes, a shovel. The principal of Roosevelt handed it to my husband tonight. It is one of the eight that was used at the groundbreaking for the new school yesterday. It is for me. This is one of the greatest honors I have ever received, a lot of people wanted those shovels . . . true. I hadn't even thought about it.

There is one for me and one for Molly--a mother friend who has moved to greener pastures in Corvalis but, and Ms. Mitchell acknowledged this, without the two of us there would be no new school. And so, my golden shovel--one of the eight used yesterday. Finally, I can lay all of that work and sorrow and struggle to rest. Now there is only triumph and the promise of the future.

Now that I've done my digging, I can sit back and watch my garden grow. At least for a little while.

Treading Water Against the Inevitable Tide -- Kerry

It’s generally the utility company people who get to see me emote upon a recent move either to or away from a city. When we moved here, against my will, the movers moved me in. At the end of the day, I had gotten to know all of them on a first name basis and had been to the store twice to get them snacks. As they were leaving, I wept as I watched the truck pull away. They looked at me quizzically. I stood as the truck disappeared around the corner then went inside my house of boxes, sat on the floor, and cried for another hour, alone, like a lost puppy.

As I leave, the phone company gets to be privy to the murmurings of my heart (or now that I have lived in Ashland for two and one half years, my heart chakra). They disconnected my home phone a week early and as I was talking to them about reinstating it, for only a week, once again I burst into tears at the change in my life that I was making.

I know that this is not rational.

Leaving and changing has always profoundly affected me, I always wanted to do neither. I hold onto relics from my own childhood- old books, a musty pooh bear, even friends from kindergarten. As a six-year-old, I flung my body with a vengeance over the hood of my mother's 1968 brown Oldsmobile station wagon at the car dealer, where my parents were trading it in to buy a Mercedes. I did not want the Mercedes. I wanted my beloved station wagon with the moon roof and the back jump seat which made me incredibly car sick. I hate to change things that I love, even if there's a Mercedes in the future.

Maybe it’s the Midwestern grandparents, but even today my heart still liked the predictability of seeing the same faces every Wednesday and disliked the idea that that situation, like the rest of my time in Ashland, was slowly disappearing into my history of sentiment.

There’s only one time in your life when circumstances are exactly as they are: the present moment. In the future, this situation will never exist the same way it does now, the five of us meeting at SOU, the places we are all in our lives, it’s all going to change as we float down that river of life.

I'm going to go cry in the other room and traumatize yet more service people as the furnace man fixes our broken furnace, even if it's not rational.

The Greatest Love -- Jennie

The first time I saw my husband, he was freckled and angular, with awkward elbows and twiggy legs, definitely not the hottest eight year-old on the swim team. There was something about him, though, so I asked him to join my friends and me in a water-balloon fight. He declined, coming up with some excuse about basketball practice.

Ten years later, on the pool deck, Dave asked me out. Most of his freckles had disappeared, his jaw had become even more strong and square, and his elbows seemed a lot less pointy. When he picked me up at my parents' house, his hair was plastered to the side of his forehead, and he smelled like Irish Spring soap. Clean.

That date--some crime-comedy, then French fries at Denny's--was maybe the worst I had ever been on. But when Dave drove back home really slowly, and kissed my cheek, that's when I fell for him. He was quiet, but sincere, and he had great hands.

We married young. It was a magical evening in September at a B&B in the mountains. People came and ate and danced, but they didn't think we were going to make it: I was in college, Dave was killing himself in construction during a recession, and we lived off dehydrated potatoes.

It was enough for us, though. After we both got through school, we moved to Oregon.

Last spring, we had a romantic little dinner at Cucina Biazzi. We had been only once, eleven years before. If our server had told us then that the next time we returned, we would have traveled the continent with our three kids, would have lost both of our moms to cancer, and would be a firefighter and college instructor, we never would have believed it.

Ours is a life built on nothing but love. It shouldn't have worked, really. Dave and I are different political parties, different spiritualities, and have different interests.

But the fundamentals are there: Dave provides stability, and I provide what he calls "the entertainment."

After slinging drywall mud all over town, putting out fires, and resuscitating stroke victims, Dave comes home to rescue me from the kids, from the cooking, from myself.

And when, like last night at his annual firefighting Christmas dinner, when he looks so good, with his sparkly eyes and his smooth head and the pink shirt he's not afraid to wear, when he stays by my side as I flutter around the room, when he whispers to me at the table, I fall in love all over again.

His station brothers ask me to spill the secrets they're sure he has. They tell me how much they respect him. He is the kind of man that men want to be, and the kind of man that women want to be with.

At this point, I can almost totally forgive Dave for leaving me standing in my green and gold bathing suit in the park thirty years ago, my arms filled with water balloons.

He holds my hand, and I'm the luckiest girl in the world.

Books and More Books! --Christy

This season why not forgo the glass chess set for your phlegmatic, pipe-smoking uncle and return the super-fuzzy slipper socks you picked up for your impossible-to-buy-for mother in law and head to the bookstore?

God knows the Fed is not going to bail out the publishing industry, so there’s a movement afoot to save the world by buying books as gifts this holiday season. Editorial Ass has an incredibly useful post up today listing books for a number of different types of people you may have in your life. Check it out, there is something for everyone!

TeamMike - Joy and Sadness All Mixed Together

When a writer says words are indescribable it is a humble admission.

This was the only sentence I could get out for awhile, but as only writers know, there's always more words eventually...

First the bad news:
My brother was diagnosed with a brain tumor last week. His father had one fifty-eight years ago in the same location.

Now the good news:
Yesterday he received news from a brain surgeon that instead of a massive operation, they can shrink the tumor with radiation. I never thought I'd be so excited about radiation vs surgery, but there's a first time for everything. So there is some joy here, as well.

Along with yesterday's good news, I also have finally committed to producing a second edition of my book which received some press in an Oregon wine country newspaper recently.

No time to waste anymore. Time to go forward, pen in hand.