Extending Thanksgiving

If Thanksgiving lasted a week instead of 24 hours, this would be its final and most celebratory day — the last verse of the hymn, when voices sing louder and the organist pulls out all the stops. It would be the  gratitude you feel after sickness, relief tinged with wonder that the body can be again as it once was. 

The last day of a week of gratitude would be a crescendo of thanks, cymbals crashing, timpani rolling, a fanfare of trumpets. 

And because this week of thanksgiving would be ending on the birthdays of two people dear to me — a daughter and a brother — there would be a special surge of gratitude for the presence of these two people in my life.

Come to think of it, a week of thankfulness might prove so invigorating that next I'd need a month of it. 

 

Jackson

When I'm falling asleep now, I imagine I'm on Jackson, one of my favorite streets in Port Townsend.

I make my way down the hill from my house at the foot of Artillery Hill in Fort Worden, stroll along the brow, listen to the surf surging below.

From there it's up one hill and then another. But at the top of that second hill, huffing and puffing, I see all of Admiralty Inlet spread out before me.

I snap photos. And in fact, I snapped plenty of them. But they never did it justice, never captured the openness and the light.

No matter — it's in my mind now, and in my bones and sinews, too.

Warming Up

Cold weather moved in yesterday. It wasn't frigid by winter standards, but by the gentler measures of late fall, it was significant. 

The wind and cold reminded me how hard it can be to drag myself out of a warm house into a brisk breeze.  But it also reminded me that the body is a furnace stoked by motion. The colder I am, the faster I walk.  

Yesterday I was almost running. 

(One place where I wasn't cold yesterday: a sunny bank full of warmth and glare.)

Weathering

I noticed it on my recent forays in Washington state but I notice it here, too:  the beauty abundant this time of year. Though it is the season of diminishment, it's also a season of plentitude, a harvest of fluttering last leaves, a bounty of bare branches.

Leave beauty up to nature, I think, conveniently skipping tornadoes, wildfires and other natural disasters. Nature knows what to take and what to leave behind. It is seldom gaudy or superfluous, always the right amount of color or cover. 

There is a subtle reassurance this time of year. It speaks of weathering, of seeking splendor in the frail and fallen, of finding enough in what is left behind.

The Day After

The day after the feast: Leftovers fill the fridge. Two turkeys vie for space and baggies of extras are jammed into every other nook and cranny. The coolers still house sodas and beer, and bottles of unopened wine line up like soldiers in a drill.

There's a load of laundry churning away — placemats and tea towels mainly, having forgone cloth napkins for paper this year — but the china and silver are washed and stored for the next big occasion.

Outside, the wind is blowing, the pumpkins are still intact. But inside, all is calm. The dust is no longer flying. Twenty-nine people have come and gone ... and we survived. 

Ripeness

Before the flurry of preparation begins, I search for a poem to serve as grace before the meal. Or if not, to sum up gratitude for my eyes only. This one does: 

Ripeness

Jane Hirshfield

Ripeness is
what falls away with ease.

Not only the heavy apple,

the pear,

but also the dried brown strands

of autumn iris from their core.

To let your body
love this world
that gave itself to your care
in all of its ripeness,
with ease,
and will take itself from you
in equal ripeness and ease,
is also harvest.

And however sharply
you are tested --
this sorrow, that great love --
it too will leave on that clean knife.

Time and Memories

I'm reminded this morning that it's been 60 years to the day since President Kennedy was shot. The act that defined our country for many years, until the other tragedies came along. 

Now there are young adults who were born after 9/11, who have no direct or televised experience of the smoldering ruins or the silent skies. 

Time marches on; memories do not. They stay locked in place — in amber, perhaps, or something far less valuable. They define us, as a generation and as a people. 

How do we honor them and move on? Only by understanding them, I guess, by realizing the many ways they hold us in their thrall. 

Palimpsest

Rain dislodges leaves and sends them dripping and dropping into the backyard, which is already covered with them. Nothing like the old days, when we would wade through them ankle deep, but still a presence, a reminder of the season. 

When I look at the leaves from my upstairs window, I see a palimpsest, a manuscript that tells two stories, the lines on top and the faint scratches beneath: a new story and an older one. I see the yard as it is now, but I also see the yard of yore, little girls jumping into piles of brown and gold. 

Those little girls are grown. Now their children come to jump in the leaves, to bounce on the trampoline, to run and dance and play. But when I look at the yard I don't just see the newest little people, I see the ones that are no more, the young women who are once again the children I knew them to be.

Give a Little Whistle

At home it announces itself with a steady crescendo of gurgles and hisses and a click when the water has boiled. Almost foolproof.

At Fort Worden, I heated water the old-fashioned way. I filled the pot, flipped the top down and waited for the whistle. Ingenious ... but not foolproof. For instance, you could (and I did) forget to close the contraption. I quickly learned — no top, no whistle.

You could also (theoretically) leave the kettle on until the water vaporized and the pot was singed. But for that you would have to ignore the whistle, which is mighty difficult to do. 

I'm glad to be back with my electric teakettle. But the whistling version is fun, too ... maybe the original smart appliance? 

Beacon

Fall is farther along here at home than it was out west. Only the Japanese maple is still brilliant with color. I've written about it before. 

Today, it seems a souvenir, a memento from the trip. For so many years my writing has been what I do around the edges of things, something I slipped into the day wherever it might fit. 

The last three weeks have given me an idea of what it's like when writing comes first. It becomes a glowing thing, a beacon, the last tree gleaming. 

Eastward

The question is, would you know it if you didn't know it, know that here in Seattle you're near the western edge of this wide continent?

I always think I can tell — something in the quality of the light or the casualness of the architecture or the philosophies of the people. 

But it's probably just what I overlay on the place, based on visits and attitudes (dreams) about the West Coast I've had since I was as a kid. 

This afternoon I fly home, take the eastward journey, which is often faster. It's the prevailing westerlies that make it so, but today I think it will be the magnet of home pulling me back where I belong.

Rainier

Because I'm a visitor here, the mountains still surprise me. They appear mirage-like on the horizon, a gift after a hard climb or a long walk. 

So it was yesterday with Mount Rainier, shimmering peacefully above Lake Washington in Seward Park. I turned my head ... and there it was. 

It wasn't the clearest day or the bluest sky. But the mountain showed itself anyway. 

Fresh

On a last walk before leaving, I find a new path to the brow.

Places are like that. Just when you think you know them, they open up and offer more. 

Yesterday I strolled out to Battery Stoddard, one of several battlements at Fort Worden. Only this time, I was on top of it rather than below. Seeing it — and the coastline — from a fresh angle. Kind of sums up the residency, too.

I write this post from a little room in Seattle, continuing the work I began two weeks ago. I left Fort Worden with two overriding thoughts: keep it going and keep it fresh. And that's what I intend to do.

Worth It

By the time I finished writing yesterday it was mid-afternoon and the rain was settling in. What else to do but take the walk anyway. It was my last full day in this marvelous place. 

So I ventured out into the drizzle, plugging into a chipper playlist and heading up the hill, the way I've started most every walk since I've been here.

It was the perfect northwest experience: trees were dripping, waves were pounding, gulls were soaring — and some brave soul was wind surfing.

I returned home a bit damp but no worse for the wear. I knew the walk would be worth it — and it was. 

Fort Word (en)

In the beginning was the Word, and the word was a Fort,

a peninsula, open to the sea.

Pilgrims seeking vistas and space

scale battlements, walk gunnery lines,

marvel at the madrona, her red skins shining.

We climb steps for inlet and strait, 

whitecaps, a lighthouse on the point. 

Wandering trails.

Reading verses in the vault.

Looking west to spy a mountain range

we didn’t know was there. 

In a place designed for war

we find peace. 

(A salute to all veterans, especially my father  — and all those who served at Fort Worden.)

Stan's Side

For the last few days I've been getting to know an old friend, Standard — Stan for short.

I haven't seen him since March, but here he is again, and up to his usual tricks: early mornings, early evenings, a sense that darkness is winning. In a way, it's not his fault. He arrives on the scene just as the light is fading, and departs when it's coming into its own. He's left holding the bag.

Some people want to banish him forever. Others think we should get rid of his flashy cousin. Until we do one or the other, Stan will be the sober fellow who says "you really should go home now, it's getting dark" or "early to bed and early to rise." 

If you happen to catch him in the morning, though ... it's a different story. Trust me, I know.  

(Two sunrise photos in a row? Stan made me do it.)

Location, Inspiration

For a walker in the suburbs, I have trouble with pacing. Not with the steps themselves — those come naturally — but with how many to take in 17 waking hours.

The days of high walking, of great movement, those liberate and restore. But so do the days of sitting and writing, jumping up only when the sun starts sliding to the west and I realize that if I don't leave now I won't get to town and back before the sun sets. 

Every time I walk in this place, this faraway and beautiful place, I'm struck by the connection between location and inspiration. I write, I waffle, I sink into despair. Then I lace up my hiking boots, step outside — and the vast views pull me into a deeper truth. And that, I realize, is what I seek. 

Companionship Lite

Yesterday I met the artists who are in residence here this week. It's a bigger crowd than last week, and a more eclectic one. 

Tucked away in various cabins and studios around the park are a sculptor, a painter, a concertina player, mother and son visual artists, two musicians who usually collaborate electronically and are thrilled to be working together in person, and an author of children's books. 

It was a congenial group, and we parted with the promise of a studio visit or concert to come. 

Companionship after solitude is welcome, especially when it's with others who are jealously guarding their private time ... what you might call "companionship lite."

(The residence lounge where we met.)

Yellowed Pages

Where does inspiration lie? I've asked myself that question often since I've been here. Does it wait for us in the pages of books, the work of others? 

Does it greet us on the springy, needle-covered paths that wind through the woods near here, the woods that are tempting me even now?

Maybe it lurks in vistas I glimpse from those woods, the shining waters of inlet and strait?

Right now it's coming from notes scribbled long ago, from yellowed pages and handwriting much like my own. 

(Yellow leaves, yellowed pages.)

On Film

I heard about it even before I arrived. The van driver who brought me to this place gave me a mim-tour of the area on the way: the marina, the ferry and the main drag downtown. 

Most of all, he pointed out the movie locations for "An Officer and a Gentleman." Turns out that almost all of the 1982 film was shot in Port Townsend: the parade ground, the lighthouse, the military barracks, the motel, the beach.

Since I arrived here last week I've been trying to watch the movie. Last night I succeeded. And yes, there were most of the scenes I've been seeing on my walks around the area, all lit up on the screen. I'll experience these places differently today.

The Houses

There are 400 acres of park trails to explore outside my door. I'm hiking some of them every day. But as much as I enjoy the forest paths, I'm more drawn to Port Townsend's residential streets and the houses that line them.

There are bungalows and A-frames and high-and-mighty Victorians. There are saltboxes, many-gabled wonders, and wood-shingled beauties turned on their sides, windows placed for maximum sea views.  

The houses have vegetable gardens, apple trees, the last roses of summer. A place I spied yesterday is tucked behind a thick hedge. I imagine walking through that green archway up to the door beyond.                                                    

A Trip to Town

Yesterday, I went for groceries. If this sounds like some sort of Old West expedition, coming down the mountain for coffee and sugar and flour, that wouldn't be too far off the mark. Because it was an adventure, the adventure of public transport in a place I barely know. 

I walked into town, but thought it would be better not to walk back, given the heaviness of my load. No problem. I'd studied the bus route, thought I knew what I was doing. 

The first sign of difficulty was the road closure in front of the grocery store. I thought I'd accounted for it when I found a temporary stop, but actually I hadn't. The bus that finally arrived wasn't going my way. Instead, I had a lovely tour of Port Townsend from a bus driver who reminded me of Paul Giamatti. 

"You missed the #2," he said. "Best go back to the Transit Center and get the #3. I can take you there." He did that, then I waited ... and waited. As Paul was pulling out for another loop and there was still no sign of the #3 bus, he opened his window and shouted, "He'll be here soon; he's just fixing his bus." 

Uh oh. Fixing his bus? This didn't sound good. But in fact the #3 did arrive minutes later, and a colorful cast of character hopped on, all with various forms of bag and baggage: shopping bags, sleeping bags, backpacks. Eventually, I was dropped off at the stop Paul suggested, walked another half mile or so, and was glad to see the barracks of the fort park where I'm staying finally swing into view.

I'm thinking now about those few hours in town, knowing no one, carless, dependent on strangers. I think about the kindness of the driver, and of my fellow riders. They remind me how much some people carry — and how little I do.

(The mossy roof of home.)

Admiralty Inlet

I enjoy taking photographs, and I take a lot of them, but I've never visited a place that a photo truly captures. A still image can't communicate the broad sweep of an ocean vista, the tang in the desert air, the way a place speaks to you — or doesn't. 

Many places speak to me. I'm fickle in that way. Last month I was enraptured by Savannah and Charleston. This month it's the Pacific Northwest. But in my defense... I do love all these places. Especially when I'm walking through them. 

I strolled through Port Townsend the other day and took in its Victorian/hippie vibe, bought a small packet of tuna salad from one of its overpriced grocery stores, savored the views from Jackson Street overlooking Admiralty Inlet. 

Returning to my little house, I passed homeowners putting their gardens to bed before the rain moved in, the omnipresent grazing deer, and the view you see above. 

I plan to take this walk again soon.

Haunted Chicken Coop

It wasn't exactly a haunted walk I took yesterday through uptown Port Townsend. But it was filled with little ghosts and goblins and houses decked out in their Halloween best. 

My favorite was this haunted chicken coop, the hens pecking away nonchalantly behind faux tombstones. They don't need to make fun of death because, well, they have no idea they'll experience it one day. 

We humans, of course, are another matter.