Fog

 

Carolyn J. Rose

Awakened in the middle of the night, I didn’t need to open my eyes to know what the streetlamp would reveal. The fog horn on the Columbia River clued me in.

The sound took me back to my early childhood and a visit to relatives somewhere on Long Island. The deep and mournful fog horn was like nothing I’d ever heard. 

Not like the Woodstock fire siren that screamed every day at noon. Not like the beeps and honks of cars and trucks and tractors. Not like the throb of a police siren.

It was dark when I heard that fog horn years ago, so I didn’t see the fog. To my disappointment, it had lifted by morning. But I felt it must have been something spectacular to require a horn, something more than I saw in the Catskills. 

Fog there skulked through the trees, rising and falling and sifting to the ground again as if it had been scattered by a feather duster.

I can’t recall seeing fog when I lived in Arizona. And the fog I recall in Arkansas had a uniform quality, more like gray smoky air. Fog was rare in Albuquerque, but once appeared at the base of the Sandia Mountains in a thick band like a giant snake slithering along the foothills. “Smoke,” excited callers told emergency dispatchers. “Something is on fire.”

When we moved to Eugene, I experienced fog with a vengeance. In the Pacific Northwest, fog only occasionally comes in on those poetic little cat feet. Usually it rolls over us like a tsunami. In Eugene a tide of fog filled the valley, and stayed. And stayed.

It slid up the hills like an avalanche in reverse. It was dense and cottony and cold. It frosted limbs and lawns and reduced visibility to a few yards. 

Driving home from work along a road without striping was disorienting, surreal. Signs and side roads were invisible. Until they weren’t. Headlights appeared as blurry blobs floating in milk. Sounds were distorted. Distances uncertain. I’d roll my windows down and creep along, listening for the crunch of gravel indicating I was on the shoulder, monitoring any tilt from the horizontal that meant I’d steered too far toward a ditch.

The first few evenings I viewed the drive as an adventure. Then as an endurance test. Then, after two weeks or more, as a form of physical and psychological torture.

I still dream about that experience and wake up in a cold sweat. Especially on nights when the fog horn moans.

You Gotta Be-Leave

 

Carolyn J. Rose

Ever walk by a tree in autumn and wonder what leaves say to each other as they cast off from their home twigs?

Needless to say, I have. I’ve actually stood in a shower of yellow and crimson leaves with my head cocked, listening.

I heard only a faint flutter, a slight wisk of sound. Probably the breeze.

Undaunted, I lingered, imagining what I might hear if I was a lot more in tune with nature and—to be honest—if I possessed an inner voice that shut up once in a while.

Here, for your reading pleasure, are utterances from the treetops as I imagined them.

“Hey, watch me do my helicopter impression as I fall.”

“Not bad. But how about this swan dive?”

“Swan? That looked more like an overweight penguin. Now, get a load of these moves. Branch to branch to branch and a final twirl. Ta da. Olympic quality, right?”

“Just like Simone Biles. If she was wearing a straitjacket and had concrete blocks on her feet.”

“And you can do better?”

“You bet. I’ll make you so green with envy you’ll think your chlorophyll is back. I’m waiting for just the right updraft so I can sail into the sky.”

“Sail until gravity grabs you, you mean.”

​“Gravity, schmavity. I’m aerodynamic, baby. I be-leave in myself. Get it? I’m gonna ride the wind.”

“Ride it for a fall.”

“Maybe, but I’ll see the world first.”

“If you see the next block you’ll be lucky. And you might land in the street instead of on the grass or in a garden.”

“So what?”

“So, the street sweeper’s coming tomorrow. You’ll be sucked up and ground to bits with dirt and trash from the gutter.”

“Huh. Well, I’m not afraid of a little dirt and gutter trash. But, uh, maybe I’ll just hang on for a bit and enjoy the sunshine.”

“Not behind me you won’t. I’m not a windbreak.”

“Hey, don’t push. I’m losing my grip. I’m fall—”

“And there he goes.”

“Oooh. Smack into the trunk. That’s gotta hurt.”

“And a faceplant on the lawn. So much for the power of be-leaf.”

“Yeah, it’s sad. But you know, now that the blowhard is gone, I’m feeling the power of re-leaf.”

The Trail Ride From Hell

 

Carolyn J. Rose

First, let me say that I love all animals. But have a healthy fear of many: wolves, lions, tigers, rogue elephants, snakes loaded with venom, and sharks, to name a few. Back in 1979, I added a horse named Thundercloud to that list.

My experience with horses had been limited to a couple of rides on elderly equines with the speed of sloths. But the organizers of a trail ride in the Arkansas Ozarks assured me that was fine. They had a gentle steed for me.

If only I’d considered that statement with the same skepticism I reserve for claims made by used car dealers. But I didn’t. And thus I found myself confronting Thundercloud.

He was huge. Really huge. Really really hugely huge.

“They say he’s as gentle as a kitten,” his owner, a good old boy of about 50, told me.

Thundercloud snorted the way I do when I hear a politician make a promise. Then he tried to nip my shoulder.

I yelped and jumped back. “Who are they?”

“Uh, um. Well, see, I just bought him. But they told me he’s a teddy bear.”

Of course they did. If you were trying to sell a horse, would you say he’s a killer? Would you express any negative doubts at all about his temperament? Before I could verbalize that question, Thundercloud’s owner tossed me into the saddle and we were off.

​The first half of the ride was fine, slow and easy except for a few anxious moments when we crossed a stream on slippery rocks, thus avoiding a concrete ford with gaps where a hoof could get stuck and cause a horse to stumble.

On the way back, when a boy on a pony passed us at a gallop, Thundercloud took it as a challenge and bolted. I tried to rein him in, but the bridle might as well have been a bit of holiday ribbon. When I pulled, he ran faster. We passed the kid on the pony. Hooves pounded behind us and other riders shouted advice.

Thundercloud ran even faster.

I spotted the stream ahead. The stream with the dangerous ford. I saw myself drowning beneath a thrashing horse with a broken leg.

I threw myself from the saddle. The dirt road came to meet me at an alarming rate. I blanked out.

When I came around Thundercloud was standing over me and a dozen riders were bearing down on us. Forget drowning. Now I’d be trampled to death.

But Thundercloud didn’t move as the riders pulled up, dismounted, and gabbled questions about my condition. Before I could complete a mental inventory, Thundercloud’s owner, who apparently thought worrying about a broken neck was for sissies, jerked me to my feet.

As I gasped in pain, another man stuck a wad of chewing tobacco in my mouth. I gagged. I retched. I threw up my lunch, my breakfast, and several meals I’d eaten the month before. If my tonsils hadn’t been removed when I was five, I would have hurled them as well.

Finally exhibiting good sense, I refused to remount Thundercloud and finished the ride on a calm and gentle mare with a sedate walk. My own walking speed, until my bruised ribs healed, would have made snails snicker.

I never got on a horse again.

​

 

Sing it loud, Sing it proud!

 

A confession

My name is Mike and I am a baritone.

Lest you think you’ve wandered into a 12-step meeting for recovering shower singers, let me explain.

Baritones are the Mookie Wilson of the music world. (New York Mets fans will get this.) None of the glamour or recognition of the swooping aria sopranos like Maria Callas. No wall-vibrating bass a la James Earl Jones. (“Luke, I am your father!!!”) No sky-scraping tenor ring-outs like Luciano Pavarotti. (End the note, Lucky, you’ll hurt yourself!)

Just a pleasant, mid lower range, sing-the well-marked-harmony parts-baritone. Even altos exude more glamour.

I have always sung. Loudly. In my car to the radio or mp3 player. On the stage in community theater musicals. In inappropriate settings like the soup aisle of the supermarket. And, (sigh) yes, in the shower. Soap on a rope can be easily adapted into a fantasy microphone. And you should see me dance a dripping Nae Nae.

My earliest memories are as an eight-year-old warbler. I think I caught the bug after winning a $25 savings bond at the Bandon, Oregon Cranberry Festival talent show with my unforgettable rendition of “I’m a little teapot, short and stout.” 

Of course, my roly-poly build provided an vivid visual aid that really sold the lyrics. Later in my career (as a nine- and ten-year old), I sang folk music with my teenaged sister and her friend. In those days I was a soprano, of course. I had to retire when the two of them cruelly insinuated I was “screeching.” That prolonged high E above high F is a bear to maintain.  

 

These days I croon with the Clark College community choir. Not to be confused with the Clark College concert choir which involves people who can actually carry a tune. A mix of students, older people and homeless folks who wandered in off the street, we’re working on holiday tunes with lovely harmonies and uplifting lyrics. My personal favorites are Bach Cantata 61 (far superior to Bach Cantatas 59 and 60), Music in The Night (which we perform with our eyes squeezed tightly shut) and the song that was number one on the Vatican radio station for 17 straight weeks, Verbum Caro Factum Est. Which loosely translated means “God will get you for that.”

 All kidding aside, I’m really enjoying reaching for those magic chords with my other choir members. When we hit the perfect harmony, little bitty fun bumps break out all over my body. It’s a transcendent moment. I have no idea what that means but it’s my word-of-the-day challenge so I had to work it in.

 We had a perfect choir moment at our last rehearsal. One older gentleman stood up and asked us for a favor. “My grandson is turning nine today. If I get him on the phone,” he said, waving his cell around, “could we all sing happy birthday to him?” Who’s going to turn down a request like that? You risk inclusion in the hard-hearted hall of fame if  you do. He punched in the numbers and got his daughter to put grandkid on the line.

 “Jason.” (Disclosure: not his real name. You never know when there’s a lawyer lurking.) “I’m here with some friends and they want to wish you a happy birthday.” After setting the phone down he gave us the high sign and we launched a slightly quavery version of that well-loved American classic. I’m pretty sure several of us struggled to remember the lyrics. When we finished, proud grandfather picked up the phone.

 “So, what did you think?” he asked Jason. (Still not his real name.) “Wasn’t that special?” He listened for a moment, nodded his head, and then ended the call. Very honestly, he looked a little glum.

 “So what did Jason (Still . . . oh, never mind) think?” One of the sopranos asked the grumpy gramps.

 “He said I interrupted his game of prancing pteradacyls on his cell phone.”

 “Nonsense!” exclaimed one of the altos. “It was a moment he’ll remember forever.”

 “Yeah,” mumbled the official choir curmudgeon. “If the therapy proves to be unsuccessful.” Everyone cast stink eyes at me.  

 All in all, my experience with the choir has been rewarding. Under the direction of Doctor Funk (I’m not making this up. His name is Jacob Funk), we’re preparing for two performances in early December. He’s knowledgeable, inspirational and highly supportive. He even reassured me that my reach for the higher notes in the baritone range were not bordering on falsetto. Even though I sometimes feel like I’m on the verge of launching into the intro to The Lion Sleeps Tonight.

 With any luck we’ll negotiate the Verbum, the Bach (to pronounce correctly pretend you’re a cat trying to expel an especially pernicious furball) and the other wonderful music we’ve been practicing. I’m hoping for a full house, perfect harmony, and no life-threatening injuries.

 

 

Designer Water? Really?

Carolyn J. Rose

When I gaze at the hundreds of plastic bottles of water in convenience store coolers, I can almost hear my grandparents exclaiming with a mix of disbelief, dismay, and even disgust.
These were people who came through the Great Depression with tight budgets and tightened belts. They repaired and recycled, made their clothing last or made it into quilts or rag rugs. They planted gardens and preserved food, kept cows and raised chickens for Sunday dinners. They drank water from mountain springs and carried it with them in jugs and canteens.

I doubt they could have imagined that one day people would shell out for water shipped from Iceland or remote islands, from mountaintops or beneath volcanoes, from mineral springs or glacial streams.

If I could go back in time and tell them about the trends to come, I bet they’d laugh and ask who the heck would be crazy enough to pay hard-earned money for those things. They might mention—as they often did—that I shouldn’t let my imagination run away with me. They might even ask whether people in the future would pay for jeans riddled with holes or shoes that cost more than a thousand dollars. And if I told them that would happen, they’d again exclaim with disbelief, dismay, and even disgust.

On the other hand, if I could go back and explain about phones without cords, electric cars, solar power, portable computers, or letters you could write and send with a tap of a button, I think they’d see the value.
But would they “get” designer water?
Nope.

 

Turning up the Heat

 

Carolyn J. Rose

Many chilly mornings, as I tap the thermostat up several degrees while making my way toward the source of that stimulating liquid known as coffee, I hear the sound of a hatchet chopping kindling. 

I know that’s my imagination dredging up an auditory memory from 70 years ago. But there are days when the sound causes my feet to shuffle right or left to avoid the square metal grid once centered in the hallway of the house I grew up in.

If the sound of chopping was accompanied by a string of curses, I’d know the fire had nearly died out overnight and there was no danger my bare feet would be scorched by a wave of heat rising from the cellar.

 Wider awake, I would jump the grid when the furnace was roaring. But I remember very few childhood mornings, aside from Christmas and the first day of summer vacation, when sleep wasn’t like a snug hand-be-down snowsuit: difficult to shrug off.

During my teen years that old furnace was replaced by an oil-burning model and the grid was replaced by baseboard vents. The magic of central heating was controlled by a round thermostat that could be twisted right and left. And twist it we did, setting it too low for anyone not dressed for the Yukon, or too high for those fearing a whopping heating oil bill.

I never saw a thermostat in any of my college dorms. With all the drama that came with crowding so many young people into well-designed but tight spaces, I suspect someone in charge wisely decided to eliminate this potential source of conflict.

When I joined VISTA and was sent to Arkansas, I became familiar with free-standing natural gas heaters and their dangers. 

Yes, with a twist of a handle and the scrape of a match, they quickly put out significant amounts of heat. But they weren’t ventilated and they lacked safety mechanisms to automatically stop the flow of gas. Occasionally we heard news alerts about the possibility of gas pressure dropping low enough for the flame to gutter and go out. The thought of gas filling the house while we slept made for a tough choice between stressing or shivering.

A move to Albuquerque reunited me with floor furnaces. The grids were hard on bare feet, but leaning over them to dry my hair gave me rosy cheeks and that windblown look. Then came Eugene and electric wall heaters with fans that rattled in their frames and sent heat drifting up the walls to the ceiling where it hovered for hours while my nose grew numb and my toes frosted over.

Now we have central heat again. It clicks on in seconds and warms the house in minutes. It’s quiet and clean and efficient. But there are days I wish I could go back in time. I wish I could hear that hatchet and listen to my father turning up the heat on the language.

 

Halloween Rant

 

Carolyn J. Rose

 

Be afraid. Be very afraid. It’s that frightening time of year again.

Yes, it’s the season when political signs flourish and the time when pumpkin spice turns up in all manner of food and drink.

And if that’s not scary enough, this is when enthusiastic celebrations of October 31^st sometimes go over the top.

Yards fill with with scarecrows, skeletons, witches, werewolves, bats, ghouls, goblins, giant spiders, and wads of white webbing. It’s the time when inflated creepy clowns and dinosaurs prowl lawns.

 

And then there are sound effect: howls and moans, grunts and groans, shrieks and screams. Banshees could take lessons.

Things have definitely changed since I was a kid. Back then, decorating was about cutting out a few construction paper ghosts or bats or spiders to stick on the windows. It was about carving a few gap-toothed pumpkins you grew yourself or bought from a local farm or store. That was followed by a search of the junk drawer for candle stubs to light the grinning orange globes on Halloween.

Total cost for the entire display back in the day: Not much.

Total expected to be spent on displays in the U.S. this year? More than 3 Billion bucks!

And consider this. Plastic makes up a huge percentage of those lawn displays. (How much? I'll let you do the research.) 

And while you’re doing that, find the answers to these questions: Can that plastic be recycled? Can it go to the compost heap like those pumpkins did? Or do those yard displays eventually wind up in a landfill?

 I’m not one of those curmudgeons opposed to change in general. But I have concerns about change that’s “good” for the economy isn’t so good for the environment.