A Slash Burn Christmas (Part 2)

Fiction, NSP Meditations

Matt spent the night behind McDonald’s, sleeping on cardboard with cardboard for a blanket. He slept poorly, with disturbing visions of totalitarian sugar plums dancing in his head. In the morning, he scraped some fast food off the parking lot that even the gulls didn’t want. It wasn’t enough, and Matt found a blind spot near the drive-thru where he could panhandle without management seeing him.

He stood there for a couple of house without getting as much as eye contact. He needed a more aggressive approach, but he was so exhausted that he could barely form words.

A Ford 150 pickup, two-tone, red and white beauty from the 1970s, appeared in the drive-thru lane. A few moments later, Matt saw a large elderly bewhiskered man with flowing white hair take his order and a coffee from an employee. The man put the truck in gear and moved forward.

He stopped in front of Matt. He motioned for him to come over to the driver-side window. The man rolled it down and Matt did as directed.

Matt expected some change, perhaps a breakfast sandwich.

“You want a job?” the man said. He looked Matt straight in the eyes.

There was no hesitation. “Yes.”

“You just get out of jail?”

“Yes.”

“You got a meth problem?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know how to work?”

Matt hesitated. “I used to.”

A gigantic SUV appeared behind the Ford.

“Get in,” said the man.

Matt got in.

The man handed him the bag.

“Eat this. You can have the coffee, too. I hate their coffee.”

“Thank you.”

Matt realized he hadn’t said “thank you” aloud in years.

“My name’s Chris,” the man said. He reached out and shook Matt’s left hand with his right.

“I’m Matt.”

The man had a kind grip. The cab of the truck was warm and soothingly analog.

“Nice to meet you Matt and Merry Christmas. You like Christmas music?”

“Sure,” said Matt. “The old stuff.”

“Pick one out.”

Matt saw a shoe box of cassettes on the passenger side floor. He perused it and picked out Willie Nelson’s Christmas album. He handed it to Chris.

“Good choice. I haven’t heard that one this season.”

Matt took a sip of coffee and then opened the bag and began eating. Chris sang along with Willie. He steered the truck down Main Street.

“Finish your meal and then I’ll tell you about the job,” said Chris.

A Slash Burn Christmas (Part 1)

Fiction, NSP Meditations , , , , , , , , , ,

At precisely one minute past the stroke of midnight, Matt Hancock, a direct descendant of John Hancock, the bold first signator of the Declaration of Independence, was matrixed out of the Clatsop County Jail. Matrixed meant Matt was granted early release because of overcrowding and thus he would not serve the full 30 days of his sentence for violating his probation after testing positive for methamphetamine. It was Matt’s 47th time of incarceration in the jail over a period of seven years, every one of them for a drug and alcohol-related offense or probation violation.

This is what passes for criminal justice and drug treatment in Clatsop County.

Matt walked out into the darkness and into a phalanx of rain that was taking no prisoners because December rain on the Oregon Coast has no rules of engagement. He had no coat, no belt, no money, no phone, no job, no food, no friends, no family, no place to live, no place to crash. He was, however, still addicted to methamphetamine and now homeless walking the streets of Astoria the day before Christmas.

This is what passes for rational reentry into society after incarceration in Clatsop County.

Matt wandered the downtown blocks and admired the holiday decorations. The nativity scene at the Methodist church especially moved him and he thought about sacking out under the straw, but figured he might get caught, but perhaps getting caught wasn’t so bad because he might return to jail and they would matrix out another addict.

Change interested Matt. Cleaning up interested him. Once there had been promise, as there had been for so many Americans with his disease. He could repair anything that didn’t involve using a computer, and had once held down a couple of decent-paying jobs. He liked to fish for surf perch.

There’s been a good girlfriend, too, and a mutt and a cool truck. He was approaching 40 years of age, but maybe he was 39 or 42. Was his mother alive?

Then came the flood of methamphetamine…there was that party….

Hold it right there! We will not delve into Matt’s back story. It doesn’t possibly matter to a holiday tale. What matters now is what people will do to help Matt so he can help himself.

Those people are out there.

Caretaker of a Sacred Tree

NSP Meditations

I can’t stop thinking about a man I encountered recently. I try to imagine his life, his circumstances, but my powers of imagination fail me. He will have to remain a mystery. That irks the journalist in me. It delights the inner poet.

Two great new friends and I were walking a path into a grove of trees in a secret watershed to see a sacred Oregon hardwood, a record-setter that might have began growing about the time Columbus launched his mission of genocide.

The grove emitted a potent scent so powerful it felt as if we were drugged. Perhaps we were. This sort of scent is a drug to some, but unfortunately, not enough.

We walked and talked of our lives before the Internet, the halcyon days. I heard something up the trail. It was the distinct sound of someone raking. What? How in the world could that sound emanate from this grove? We stopped and listened and screwed up our faces in disbelief.

Of course we kept moving toward the sound of raking! How could we not? Where the sound of raking exists near a sacred tree, you follow it.

A big black dog bounded over some downed trees and startled me. He stood in the middle of the trail, almost as if he was guarding it. I said “hello.” He was goofy, bumbling, friendly enough, and then turned around and disappeared the way he’d appeared.

In the distance I heard a man call for the dog.

We kept going and in short order, I encountered an older man raking the trail ahead of me, a few feet away from the sacred tree. He wore a red jacket and had good raking technique but worked somewhat with a limp.

“Just getting the trail ready for the holidays,” he said to me as he moved off the trail to let me pass.

I thanked him for his labor. My friends passed him and did the same. He moved on down the trail and the dog followed him. I got the idea he wanted us to experience the tree without him, the dog, and the raking around. I wished he’d stayed. I bet he knew more about the tree than anyone.

We marveled at the tree and one of my friends took a cutting from it. Desecration? Certainly not. He wanted the heir to that tree on his land. In 500 years, someone, certainly not an American as we now define American, would discover the heir up some remote draw and marvel, perhaps go to her knees in wonder and reverence. That tree might even touch off a spiritual and ecological revival.

I wanted to know the man’s story. Was he the official caretaker of the tree? Was he self-appointed? What were his hours? What about the dog?

After our visit to the tree, we came back down the trail and the man was refilling brochures inside a wooden rack. We thanked him again and went to my car, where we stood outside and watched him load up the dog, stash the rake, get inside his 25-year-old import sedan, and drive away.

We drove away, too, and for the first few miles, talked about nothing except the man. We all agreed it would have been better if he had wielded an ancient metal rake instead of the plastic one he used. Would have made it more poetic.

But this wasn’t a poem.

Death by Driftwood

NSP Meditations, Oregon Beaches , , , ,

I stood atop a dune and watched record waves come ashore at bizarre angles. There was no beach, only green, gray, black and white water. Driftwood the size of telephone poles, electric cars, school buses, and sideboards was being thrown up in the air. When the wood tumbled together it made the most unusual crunching and crackling sound.

I looked down the dune trail, the one I intended on taking and saw a gigantic wave send a shotgun spread of driftwood across the trail, approximately a hundred yards away, precisely where I would have been walking in several minutes.

That was enough. It wasn’t yet my time to die at the beach and certainly not death by driftwood. I descended the dune and headed for the car. Something to the right caught my eye. I saw a woman in the dunes carrying a small bucket. She came into closer into view and I put her at 70.

She headed for the beach and I changed course to intercept. We met.

I learned she was a tourist from Idaho and staying at nearby motel with her husband. I told her that in my two decades of living on the Oregon Coast I had never seen a more dangerous stretch of beach. I advised her to avoid it and the dune trail. She could be impaled or crushed by flying driftwood. She seemed surprised by my warning but thanked me and continued westward to the ocean. I watched her. She stopped at the end of the trail, paused, turned around, and began walking, presumably, back to her motel.

There is a good chance I saved her life.

Holiday Craft Fair (Part 4) A Christmas Tale

Fiction, NSP Meditations , ,

Shana entered the macrame forest. It felt more like a kingdom. She vaguely recalled watching a documentary about the golden age of macrame, the 1970s, and it felt as far away as the reign of Charlemagne.

She found herself staring up at a green macrame Christmas tree that flowed down from the ceiling. It was decorated with hundreds of macrame ornaments. A macrame nativity scene caught Shana’s eye. It was life size and the Three Wise Men looked like owls.

The variety of items made from macrame staggered Shana as she meandered through the forest: apparel (including lingerie!), totes, purses, plant hangers, mobiles, necklaces, bracelets, hammocks, dog leashes, table runners, baby baskets, belts, earrings, lamp shades and the wall hangings of all shapes, sizes and designs. There were even animal designs: owl, whale, raccoon and beaver, yes beaver! Shana walked up to the beaver, touched it, pulled out the piece of beaverwood from her pocked and pretended to gnaw it like a beaver.

Was she losing her mind? Or finding something else?

Shana saw a dozen things she wanted to buy, but held off. She was going to commit suicide, right?

The exploring continued until Shana saw a white, orange and red macrame canopy that suggested a vendor or the kingdom’s creator might be lurking inside.

Shana approached and saw a woman sitting at table, knotting three cords, each a different shade of blue. Sleeping under the table were two black mutts wearing white macrame collars. The woman was dressed in a purple and black macrame poncho and was probably 60 years old. She had striking red hair and was fit as a fiddle.

“Hello, can I help you find something?” said the woman.

She kept knotting as she talked.

“I came to Gold Beach to kill myself,” said Shana. “I drove up from the Bay Area.”

“Well, pick out anything you like, for free. My present to you and then we’ll talk. My name is Nancy and the dogs are Perry and Della.”

“Okay. I’m Shana.”

Shana returned with the beaver.

“I love this thing,” she said. “And I don’t know why.”

Shana instantly realized it was the only tactile thing she had ever loved and that she hadn’t said the word “love” aloud since she was a child.

“You’ve got to name her,” said Nancy.

“Dolly,” said Shana, not knowing where the name came from. “Your stuff is incredible. I want to learn how to do this.”

“Sure,” said Nancy. “Come around the table and we’ll get started. It’s pretty slow at the moment.”

“Can I start with the beaver?” said Shana.

“Of course. It’s Oregon’s state animal, you know?”

Shana didn’t know, but now she did, and in the coming years she would come to know everything there was about Oregon because she would never leave the state and she and Nancy would become business partners and best friends, and Shana would build a tiny home overlooking a beaver dam.

Holiday Craft Fair (Part 3) A Christmas Tale

Fiction, NSP Meditations , , ,

Shana walked into the lobby of the event center and stopped. She looked around and beheld a barbershop quartet singing carols, children dressed as elves serving cups of cider from trays, a huge tree that scraped the vaulted timbered ceiling, lights and more lights, and a toy train that was chugging through a mountainous Christmas village and sending up tiny wisps of smoke.

And there indeed was a goat, costumed as a reindeer. And there was a nativity scene, dozens upon dozens of them, all hand carved from wood, stone or cheese. It was some kind of contest.

Shana hadn’t moved an inch. Was it all too much for her? No, she mushed ahead into the main hall. She saw decorated tables and booths and wandered the aisles. She examined and handled and sampled the merchandise.

There were: jams, jerkies, jellies, mobiles, soups, balms, tinctures, perfumes, necklaces, scarves, shawls, doilies, cards, journals, candles, toys, water colors, illustrations, collages, frames, Bigfoot poop (peanut brittle, with or without corn), pillows, rugs, bird houses, bird feeders, dog and cat clothing, glass jellyfish, candy, bird feeders, puppets, head bands, hats, magic wands, feathered this and feathered this, and leg warmers, yes leg warmers!

And all the gifts from the sea! Hundreds of driftwood items, including a gun rack and toilet plunger. Agates galore and painted sand dollars. Lacquered skulls of seals and gulls. Limpets and tiny sculptures made from evil ocean-going plastic.

Shana lingered at one booth much longer than others. At first glance, it appeared a vendor, a man wearing corduroy head to toe, was selling mere sticks and small logs that seemed to be whittled, and badly whittled at that, on both ends. They weren’t even lacquered. Absurd! But upon closer inspection, Shana saw photos and illustrations of beavers and read an artist statement from beavers, and realized that the vendor was marketing the wood as sculptures created by beavers! They had gnawed and chewed branches and trees in the wild, a strange man had collected them, and here they were presented as art! Shana picked one up, it was roughly the size of a corn-on-the-cob, and she brought it to her mouth and pretended she was a beaver eating it for supper. She even made a goofy bucktoothed face.

The man looked at Shana and smiled. “I get that all the time,” he said.

Shana smiled back and shelled out five bucks for the piece. She stuffed it in the back pocket of her jeans, right next to her phone.

More wandering and wandering and handling and sampling. The roadkill elk jerky was incredible. The keyhole limpet necklace otherworldly.

In due course, a trance engulfed Shana and she seemed lost in a vortex of crafting. Only when a Santa atop a sled pulled by four huskies that jingled and jangled through the center, did she snap out of it. She hadn’t said a word to a single crafter outside of a thank you to the beaverwood vendor. She didn’t know what to say to them.

It was time to go, but Shana couldn’t find a way out. Every turn took her deeper into crafting and unique human passions and skills that she never knew existed. She saw a narrow hallway that seemed like an exit and picked up her pace to get on with what she came to Gold Beach to do.

Lighted beads blocked her path. What the hell? Shana pushed through the beads and stopped. She stood on the threshold of entering a forest, a forest of macrame. There was macrame items displayed everywhere. So many hung from hooks it was like a meat locker.

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