Inventory

I’ve had landscaping jobs where we kept track of the stuff we used, to bill the client later. Soil, fertilizers, plants. Now I work in the same place every day and there is no one to bill, so I keep track of what’s still there, while noting what’s gone.

Lately, in my life, I’ve been doing a little of both.

You can probably guess where I went for my birthday. It’s been the same story for the last 22 years. And birthdays are a time for inventory. What’s been lost, and what remains?

Wealth.

In the past six years, there have been major losses. My Mom. My Grammy. A relationship that lasted ten years and a house full of stuff, gone. A beach property I cherished for twelve years, trailers, trees, and more stuff, gone. The best job I ever had, that raised me and taught me invaluable life lessons, closed down, gone. My friend Regnor, the most playfully disciplined artist I’ve ever met, gone. Holes blown in the world. Now all that’s left are memories and pictures. I can conjure these apparitions up until they haunt me, but they are not available for comment. Which is too bad, as I have some questions for everyone.

What terrible, hateful, stressful times, right now. The old problem of being an artist and feeling things. The horror of that nightclub, young and out dancing on a hot summer night. I try various breathing techniques. Smell the flowers, blow out the candles. I try not to click on stories about majestic gorillas and jaguars getting senselessly shot, never mind the unending stream of people. I break out in tiny, painless maroon constellations of bruises, my spots, sympathy for the big cats. I hold a smaller one close and try to breathe.

But the beach rewards, surely as it robs. I was able to spend my birthday at Washaway in the beautiful cabin of some friends.

There, I did everything I wanted. I went for walks in the enchanted forest, recharging the Wood Nymph batteries, or, if you will, “Forest Bathing” or Shinrin-Yoku. This is a Japanese movement from the ’80s that is said to “engage the senses, maximizing health benefits and being present. Mindfulness is open to all.”

‘I walked on the beach  in beautiful sunshine and enjoyed the territorial views of the Fort.

Is it wrong to rejoice? Inventory-wise, this is the best of times. I still have my magnificent Hugo, my love Todd, my sweet Dad. The dead would want us to savor things, right? To be Washaway about things? That’s what I think when I drink green tea from the rim of a perfect ceramic mug Regnor made for me on a beautiful morning. Or maybe they don’t want anything, but I like to think they’re kicking around, wishing I wouldn’t preoccupy myself with things I can’t change.

Erosion control techniques (Les)

Spruce and Whipple streets

Tamerack Tweaker House

So there I was, taking inventory on a birthday stroll, and I came upon what appeared to be some massive buzzards, which didn’t seem like a good omen, but then upon closer inspection, they looked like first-year eagles, which is lucky. Birds of prey, like art, are so subjective.The only certain thing is uncertainty. What will happen to my Seattle? As my friend Evan put it, “we lost the war.” Like Washaway, it is not if, but when. And the only thing to do is to try to create beauty in uncertain times.

 http://www.youtube.com

Like an old car, there is maintenance that must be done. So it came to pass that I found myself at the dentist getting my first crown, that I might rule as your Queen. I switched to a fabulous new woman dentist in Burien who has TVs on the ceiling. Here are the things I learned while on nitrous at the dentist, watching Cartoon Network:

“Just because you’re scared doesn’t mean you’re not brave.”

“All new Ninjas, including the feared Gardener Pirate Ninja!” (with watering can)

“It’s magical destiny practice.”

“You don’t need any special powers to be my friend.”

“No time to play with dolphins, I’ve got a race to win!”

“That’s not corn, Chicken! That’s gold.”

Frog Songs

Where do the old trailers go to die? Not the ocean, not this time. A miracle has happened.

I got to have one more nice last visit with the Vagabond. It was somewhat trashed, of course, but still retained the character of its old self. And, like the Giving Tree, some more of my stuff had miraculously returned to it.

One year, my friend Will went to the Army surplus in Fort Lewis and bought brown, scratchy but truly warm expedition weight polypropylene long underwear for me and all   our female friends who were working outside or in cold warehouses that winter. Reunited with the old Poly Pro!

There was also an orange floor mat depicting a cowboy on a bucking bronco that my friend Sue got me years ago.

And, most amazing was the return of the fabled Chicago Sweater. Many years ago, before I was born, probably, my Dad went to Chicago on a business trip. It was cold. So he bought this blue wool turtleneck sweater. Somehow, the Chicago Sweater became mine, then got relegated as beachwear. It is riddled with moth holes the size of quarters. Hugo thinks it is the cat’s pajamas.

I could not believe my good fortune in being able to retrieve such priceless artifacts! After everything is gone, all relics have sentimental value.

Next visit I was not so lucky. My old friend was getting completely destroyed. Lights smashed, siding peeled off.

They even took the Vagabond signage. I should have snagged it myself. What was I thinking? I guess I never wanted to destroy it.

So that was all rather disheartening, the inevitable, pointless destructiveness of people.

I was ready for it to go in the ocean.

Also, it must be noted that I am pretty sick of the drive here by now, after fourteen years. The night driving. The “smart” phone’s Weather setting that does not differentiate between “Rain” and “Coastal Flooding.” The demure signage of  Grayland: “Water Over Roadway”, which should read “Prepare To Hydroplane.” The inevitable Tacoma traffic.

Why do I keep coming here? I stayed away for a long while, only focusing on the drive, the arduous means, not the end. But one night I drove down, and after the record-breaking rainfall, all the drainage ditches were full of high, brown water.

From these swamps, in the darkness, rose the reverb and grooves of some truly magnificent music: the songs of frogs in Spring. That is the sound of hopefulness, of  promise. I had forgotten something critical.

Currently I’m trying to practice what I call Zen Tai Chi. Embracing my powerlessness. I can’t control what happens, only my reactions. This is the supreme lesson of Washaway!

Spring also marks the third sad anniversary of donating my bone marrow to my Mom. I know, the point is that I tried. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” as she would say.

And all that Serenity business of accepting the things you cannot change. Isn’t that an Irish proverb? I should have paid better attention. It actually means “Lower your expectations.”

I have recently been told, by separate people, that I have “bad energy”, and that I’m a self-absorbed ass. Oh, yes, you’re right, I’m sorry!  Talk is cheap. Zen Tai Chi!

The only way to counteract such foolishness is to practice extreme gratitude. There is no better location than Washaway for this practice, in my view.

I have excellent pals, a wonderful man and kitty, beautiful gardens at home and at work. My health. I still have my Dad. I still get to come to Washaway!

And so, it came to pass that while out on a stroll with Marcy I noticed that the Vagabond had disappeared. An Easter miracle! Neighbors, I learned, asked Pacific County that the whole assortment of derelict trailers go away. Infinite blessings.

In the course of a few hours, I sped through all the phases of grief. Denial, sorrow, mourning, acceptance, relief, joy. It was a mini Jazz funeral, all in my head.

The old ocean keeps eating this place, but slowly, at the moment. It would sure be nice if my friend Kenny got another year.There is a nice fort on the beach right now, which contains a plastic Fisher-Price house from the ’70s. I had one just like this!

It seemed all very Washaway, its rooms filling with sand.

You know what else I’m thankful for, dear readers? You, who have let me bend your ear, all these years. You have offered me sage advice in my times of need that has really, truly helped me. The perspective of strangers has felt like family, when family has felt like strangers. You comforted me when I lost my place, and you comfort me still.

Someone recently asked me if blogging pays. Well, no, not money, but yes, it absolutely does. Your feedback is currency. It’s worth keeping this thing going, just to spend time with you. I’m a selfish ass, after all.

P.S. I’ve updated my Washaway website to reflect my own story of doom. Check it out! http://www.washawaybeach.com

The Bad Seed

“Good morning, Princess,” the Storm Trooper says. He calls all women Princess, yet it never gets old. His sidekick, Darth Vader, is a glorified hand truck.

“Morning, Stormy,” I say, and fist-bump his glove.

It’s unfortunate that one of my arts is dread. I am a master of a useless craft. As a well-intentioned but truly crazy lady I once worked for used to say, “Ooooh, that’s up in my Wheelhouse!” Dread is up in my Wheelhouse.

 

“Family is the most awesome thing ever!” Facebook is always telling me. “Share if you agree!” But the truth is closer to what my coworker Man once told me on a bad day.

“Be courageous, Erika. Only God knows.”

Indeed, I find current circumstances so bewildering that I’ve been asking myself, “What Would Grimm’s Fairy Tales Do?”

I like to imagine I’m at a banquet where karma is about to be served.

There once lived (LIVES!) a King who was both handsome and very wise. His passion was writing books about history, so the people of the future could know what transpired before them. The King was beloved by all, for he had a gentle, gracious manner, and was that rare combination of great talent and no pretense. If he had any weakness, it was that he was sensitive and felt things, and thus was dismayed by the shortcomings of the world.

The Queen took excellent care of the King. So that he might enjoy a life of the mind, she tackled more practical pursuits like running the household, while also working as a lobbyist to help families in need. But the Queen fell ill and died. She was thirteen years younger than he, and this was not what he thought would happen. In fact, he is still pretty pissed about it.

Though the King’s joy was diminished by her passing, he made every effort to adjust to the new reality, cooking for himself and all the rest. But the King is getting up in years, or “long in the tooth,” as he likes to say.

The King and Queen had two children. The eldest, a daughter, grew up near a beautiful forest and was always reading Grimm’s Fairy Tales, each experience fostering an appreciation of the other.

When she grew up, she moved to where some of the most enchanted and ancient trees can be found. Unfortunately, it is on the opposite side of the country from the King.

The youngest, a son, was an obstinate type. He had an arrogant and selfish manner, imagining that the world owed him something, while never creating anything more substantial than an excuse. He had trouble holding jobs and was always broke.

The daughter had an idea! What if the son moved into the family’s nearby 3-bedroom rental house, where he could get on his feet while being close at hand to keep an eye on the well-being of the aging King!

And it came to pass. But within a few months, it became evident that there was a Broken Agreement. The son’s one assignment was to check on the King daily, to provide aid and conversation and help in case of emergency. You know, drive 10 minutes to check on the nice guy paying all your bills. But the son could not be bothered, as he had no conscience.

Then, quite by accident, one day, the King went to the bank which contains the money of the dead Queen. To the King’s great surprise, he learned that the son had made up an ATM card in the King’s name, so that he might conveniently steal her money through the Machine.

The King, ever genteel, wrote his son a letter, criticizing this turn of events. But since the son  will not abide any criticism, now or ever, he simply stopped taking the King’s calls.

In Grimm’s Fairy Tales, loyalty and integrity are a big deal. Actions have direct consequences. Those ducks you won’t let a hunter shoot? They’ll show up to retrieve the ring of the Princess when she  tosses it in the lake for you to find.

That ant colony you won’t let the horses stomp? They’ll gather every last pearl of the necklace the Princess scattered throughout the forest for you, arranging them into a tidy pile while you sleep.

And the hive of honeybees, for whom you chased off a bear because you “will not suffer them to be harmed?”

When you have to determine which of the three identical Princesses has had honey for dessert, the Queen will come and land on her sleeping mouth. (“The Queen Bee”).

All those years I fed the crows at the beach. Saving Baggies of all my crappy uneaten Seattle Center French fries for them, plus the occasional chicken neck. It is about time they threw down a cloak of invisibility for me, the quintessential spying tool.

 Or what about the always-beautifully dressed older woman who sits on the ground in Seattle Center, constantly rocking back and forth?

“Help me out,” she says. I give her my last three dollars, hoping to change my luck. She carefully tucks it into an elegant pocketbook.

“Go to the Machine,” she says. “It’s my birthday. I want a hot chocolate.”

The Machine is a nearby ATM which dispenses twenties. I wasn’t having it. It’s been her “birthday” since before Christmas.

But now I see my short-sightedness. If I had only followed instructions, she might’ve given me more instructions.

“Hark ye. I will make you a present because of your good heart. Go on your way and you will come to a tree on which nine birds are sitting. They will have a cloak in their claws, over which they are fighting. Take aim with your gun and shoot into the middle of them. They will drop the cloak and one of the birds will fall down dead. Take the cloak with you. It is a wishing cloak. When you throw it round your shoulders, you only have to wish yourself at a place to be there at once. Take the heart out of the dead bird and swallow it whole. Then you will find a gold coin under your pillow every single morning when you wake.” (“The Salad”).

As the real artists will tell you, sometimes you have to go through some nasty process to get to a lasting reward.

But what is the fate of those without a good heart, who would neglect AND take advantage of the old King, who provides everything? Steal money from the dead Queen? Hmm, let’s see here.

In all likelihood, you’ll have to “forfeit your life.” That’s pretty standard operating procedure. But there are worse outcomes.

“Now hear your sentence. You shall be turned into a black poodle with a gold chain round your neck, and you shall be made to eat live coals, so that flames of fire will come out of your mouth.” (“The Pink”).

“The old King put a riddle to the waiting-woman. ‘What does a person deserve who deceives his master?’

“The false bride answered, ‘No better than this: he must be put stark naked in a barrel stuck with nails, and dragged along by two white horses from street to street till he is dead.’

“‘That is your own doom!’ said the King. ‘And the judgment shall be carried out.'” (“The Goose Girl”).

I go to the beach, yet I cannot escape my mind. I am exhausted by the dread of worrying. What, and when, will something happen? I cannot bear the thought of anything happening to the King, or the sheer jackassery of neglecting him.

Yet here at Washaway, there is an unrelenting message of impermanence. Probably I should be taking trips to L.A., instead.

Alas, dear Rock Hound, there thou hangest!

“Alas, Queen’s daughter, there thou gangest. If thy mother knew thy fate, her heart would break with grief so great.” (“The Goose Girl”).

Rock Hound, you wrote me some years back. You said you’d never return to Washaway, and so I should find and avail myself of your pile of special rocks. But I went to the wrong trailer.

Last summer, local legend Les Strange tripped and fell onto the overgrown, tarped pile of geodes. He gave me two 5-gallon buckets’ worth. Some are in my garden, but my favorites are in my kitchen.  No houseplant can live in my cave, so I heaped the best rocks on the scorched earth of a dead plant.

The very best rock is on top of the pile. While it it is not colorful, it is bejeweled with tiny fossils, the exoskeletons of ancient sea creatures.

No one can tell me there is no magic.

Milestones

I’ve spent the last few weeks in a state of heart-pounding retroactive dread. It’s not especially practical, as there’s nothing left to lose. This is supposed to be freedom, right?

It was this time last year that my place washed away. Now the erosion does not impact me. But the wind howls, and the rain flies sideways, and it all still seems fresh. I remember being at work last year, spending the day pruning some  shrubs I hate, Pittosporums, while the wind roared and I knew for certain that my next-door neighbor Craig’s house was falling into the ocean. I still hate the Pittosporums for that day.

The dread, the waiting for the shoe to drop, knowing but not knowing when, was paralyzing. So I was worried about my friend Ken. He was recently on the news for their traditional “Storms Equal Doom at Washaway Beach!” story.

“Just riding out the storm, waiting for the erosion to take the house,” Ken told the reporter. “Mother Nature’s gonna take it. Just have to live with it. Hey, but look at the view!”

So I went to see Ken and I was pleased to see that he was actually Next To Next, with the abandoned trailer of the rock hound, who left a pile of geodes behind, still ahead of him, doom-wise.

Ken’s immediate problems were coming from wind damage: roof leaks and such. We went for a photo safari walk in the enchanted forest, and he spoke of hoping to go to the southwest somewhere, Arizona or Utah maybe, where it would be not raining and great for pictures.

Ken Watanabe

Strange as it sounds, going to Washaway helped soothe my dread. For one thing, things were about the same. Bruno’s place was still waterfront. Belly-Acres By The Sea was still its same sad crumble of elaborate masonry.

Bruno’s, November 2015

Belly-Acres

My poor Vagabond, I suspect, must be taking a turn for the worse, with the tarp blown sideways, and the hole in the roof where the stovepipe was open to the elements. I will not let myself look closely.

I walked on my old street, Blue Pacific Drive, at dusk with Marcy and Bob and two big dogs. The old neighborhood I find quite creepy, what with all the tweakers and ghosts, the zombie apocalypse. So I was glad to have a posse, though we didn’t see anyone.

I am determined to still find comfort here at Washaway, even though I should know better now.

P.S. to local types, check out my story and photographs about my adventures falling into the ocean last year in the winter issue of Washington Coast magazine.

 

Dreamtime

The tweakers have been fighting over my sneakers.

As well they might. They are a sweet old pair of vintage Adidas that I used to wear to cut the grass. When my property fell into the ocean, there was no more lawn to mow, hence I would no longer need my mowing shoes, was my thinking. See what the mind does in a time of grief?

You will recall my solemn oath never to return to the Vagabond, but I’ve been twice since. On this particular day, the rusted-shut door was pried wide open, so I decided to pop in.

I had barely begun to trespass when a young woman named Shawna totally busted me, asking what I was doing.

She is staying in the trailer next to the Vagabond, formerly owned by Stanley and Resha and then occupied by Tweaker Leah. Now that Shawna’s here, neighborhood watch is back. “This is mine, or used to be, until I fell into the ocean,” I explained.

Shawna said that the Vagabond’s broken window had incited a lot of curiosity. She broke out the broken glass and cleaned it all up, because she didn’t want any passing-by dogs cutting up their feet. The window’s absence left my remaining belongings clearly visible.

“There has been a lot of interest in the shoes,” she told me.

There were several different tweakers who were jockeying for my Adidas.“I feel spirits, though I haven’t felt yours,” Shawna told me. Just the same, she had rounded up my remaining stuff and bagged it. She handed me the bag. There were a couple old bedsheets, my orange project towel, chunky with concrete, my rusty Fred Meyer chaise lounge chair, circa 1997, and, of course, the sneakers. “Blessings upon you!” I shouted and hugged her, shocking myself with this surge of unscheduled woo-woo.

But she had other concerns. Staying in Stanley and Resha’s trailer, she had come across some “Hindu stuff.” (I am guessing more likely Buddhist). She did not know how to dispose of it, not wanting to piss off any Hindu gods. I told her Stanley and Resha were talking about moving to New Mexico, Land of Enchantment, where there would be plenty of spirits already, and using her best judgment would probably be fine.

Shawna said she was hoping to stay for awhile, in that trailer on the edge, despite having no power or water. She is keeping warm with a nice cat named Spooky that likes to walk on the beach and layers of clothing, trying to get by with less in uncertain times.

Things in Seattle are uncertain too. I’ve lived here for 23 years and things have always changed, but this particular change seems to be happening really fast: cranes everywhere building high-rises; horror stories of “skyrocketing” rents, cool old buildings and legendary restaurants and affordable housing disappearing in a pile of rubble.

 I rent a tiny house where I’ve built a big garden. With my beach property gone, this sanctuary is especially dear to me. But my place recently sold, and it is a large property in an urban location. The future is uncertain. All I could do is make the very best garden ever this year. Every day, I nurture it, savor it. I am paying extra attention now.

In a recent Gawker article entitled “How Amazon Swallowed Seattle,” the author blames the incoming legions of “brogrammers” and their lavish incomes on driving out the funky, the artists, the Wild-West character of the city.

“It was too nice here,” he mourns. “It couldn’t last.”

And it is very nice. In the beating heart of Seattle, I am lucky to have a great gardening job at Chihuly Garden and Glass, where magnificent plants and monumental glass sculptures coexist.

We have the best in-ground irrigation systems for the plants, but it has never been this hot and dry for this long here, and it’s been scary to try to keep everything watered. As I imagine they used to say in the Dust Bowl, “Drought Sucks.” The sturdy old war horses of the Northwest landscape, Rhododendrons and Hydrangeas, brown and burn. Elsewhere, the state is on fire. This, and the lack of A/C that was never needed before, has lent this summer a feeling of suffocating ominousness. I’m pretty sick of doom. It seems everywhere is Washaway now.

And then, in the midst of all this, are wonders more fragile than glass. There was a hummingbird nest in a highly exposed location at work. It was such a moving thing to witness at close range: to fear for the vulnerability of them, to feel the urge to protect them and worry about them, to not be able to help them, and see them still make it just fine and fly away.

Seeing that last bird getting ready to leave the nest, stretching and flexing and practice-flapping, is something I hope I never forget. The bravery and hopefulness of it. There is no choice but to jump.

The native people of Australia, the Aborigines, believe in Dreamtime. This is a place where ancestral beings, who resembled animals and plants, created the world, then turned themselves back into rocks and trees to sleep. The natural world has to be respected, for you never know who you might be waking up. This “Time out of time” or “Everywhen” is an active place, where the past and present coexist.

The food in my Dreamtime will be unparallelled, with all the Italian women. My Grammy will be serving chicken and polenta; my great-aunt Alvera will have spent all day making her signature Gnocchi; my Mom will have single-handedly come up with a Thanksgiving  dinner, a pot roast, and a Buche de Noel all at the same time. In case you think I’ll be kicking back, eating and slacking, note that I’ll be grilling salmon in my fire pit, smoked with leaves from my Alder trees, with some sweet white summer corn. For dessert, I’ll grill some peak-season peaches with chocolate, also on my fire, because my fire pit will still be accessible, not in the  Pacific.

You would think some piece of its substantial masonry would still exist on the beach somewhere. But what remains of my legacy are flip-flops. They are definitely mine. They have drill holes in them. Marcy and Bob have been attaching them outside the Airstream.

Much of my Dreamtime will look just like here, now.

When I go about wishing, and I do, pretty often, really, I don’t wish for more or different stuff. I just want things to stay like this. If, as they say, the Dreamtime is what’s real, and the rest is a dream, then this won’t be too good to last. It’ll last.

Passages

I’ve gone to the beach on my birthday every year since 1994. Falling into the ocean is no reason to go breaking traditions. Although everything is changed, some things remain the same.

There are the lumpy, shapely islands forming that I call the Turtles, the hallmark of summer.

And my property’s still not totally gone. I mean, I have, what, six or seven trees left?

But Blue Pacific Drive is certainly a shadow of its former self.

Now the neighbors on the other side of the street are waterfront, getting looted and trashed. This is the case with the property across from mine, where every blue moon they’d show up with an RV so immense that my friend Steve once shouted, “Riverdance is here!”

I have referred to them as Riverdance ever since. Poor Riverdance.

At the end of the street, or what’s left of it, my neighbor Bruno’s place, so secluded in the woods it became popular with squatters, then tweakers, is now exposed.

They were rarely there. I couldn’t figure out why, a big 2-story house and all. Upon closer inspection, it was incredibly rugged, with a breakneck ladder to the second floor and no discernible toilet. Now it is a stew of curious binders and letters in German, with million-dollar views.

While there’s a part of me that’s still curious, there’s definitely the memory of recently being the one whose stuff was on display for the world to loot. And it’s heartbreaking to see, over and over, the demise of  places that were cute, that were loved. It’s personal.

Like the Myles’s trailer.

 

Or this place.

Or this place, which makes me think of some Wild West movie set. Cowboys and villains should be  entering and exiting through the pink door to the saloon that I imagine was there.

Or my own sweet Vagabond, now moved up the street and rusted shut. At first glance it looked fine. Anyone can see there’s nothing to take in there. It’s empty, a sacred burial ground.

But no, someone smashed the window, for no good reason but the sound of it, I suppose.

Honestly, it was more than I could bear. I sat in my car and cried. Sometimes nice memories aren’t enough. Marcy asked me why I continue to visit my old place. I have no good answer. It never gets any better. It’s time to stop, for real.

For my birthday, I set out to create new, better memories of a different beach.

I’ve told you already about the path through the enchanted forest, but it never stops being remarkable.

And then there are my excellent companions, the White Sock Wearers.

Birthday dinner.

As always, the big lesson of Washaway is to savor precious, fleeting moments in  uncertain times.

My friend Susie asked if I’m “fracking” this story now, strip-mining it after all the essential nutrients are gone. Maybe. But if stories happen to those who tell them, I guess I’ll just keep talking.

 

Nomads

“I did my time in that rodeo. Been so long, and I’ve got nothing to show. Don’t you know, I’m plain loco. Fool that I am, I’d do it all over again.”

-Little Feat, “Mercenary Territory”.

My friend Tony from Virginia is always good about reminding me about Little Feat, especially “Waiting For Columbus”, one of our high school soundtracks. People out West do not know their Little Feat. One could Bogart their joints and they’d never even notice.

Pictures are nice, but I can conjure up my place myself, surely as a phantom limb.

The Siesta, April 2014. Les sold it for $100 to someone in Westport.

Well, as I told the TV people, we’re guests, always were. Did you get to watch it? The link was sent late in the game, then removed quickly, which I thought was unsportsmanlike, what with all my efforts. As an artist friend pointed out, one hand washes the other. At any rate, enjoy some bad bootleg sound:

Now there is almost nothing. You could try to pitch a tent on the Third Estate, except someone dumped a broken windshield there. The twin trees of my driveway, always the first thing I’d see upon arriving, are now the last recognizable thing remaining I see here.

Well, that and the Vagabond, moved up the street. There wasn’t much left to steal in there, but someone cut the lock and took the crappy curtains I got from the Clothing-By-The-Pound Goodwill, estimated value, 30 cents. Now it is rusted shut, lockless. A stone has been rolled in front of the tomb. Please, please leave me alone now. Except for the ocean, who never listens to me.

At least the terrible dreams have mostly stopped. Tsunamis, the ocean swallowing everything. And I’m forced to evacuate and Hugo is still in the Vagabond and I’m in some shelter in a high school and they won’t let me go get him. Or, I’m just endlessly trying to move broken, rusted trailers that won’t move, away from the ocean, away from here, somewhere else. It has been so exhausting, let me tell you.

I asked my former neighbor Resha how she was faring. She said her husband, Stanley, was having terrible PTSD dreams too.

“It may be that these dreams are things to be looked at, loved, and let go,” Resha noted. “Hero’s work, really.”

You might think that there would be some substantial remains, what with all the masonry and concrete, the outhouse’s stained glass of wine bottles, the brick and concrete fire pit.

I just don’t understand. The Palace of Lost Soles, along with the outhouse, the Palace of Crossed Swords, were the first to fall in, that week of December 8. Yet what endures, under the strange laws of flotsam, are flip flops. They are definitely mine. They have nail holes in them. I picked up a choice striped one, salvaging my own stuff, for what, I don’t know.

I got a comment on my blog from a woman that everyone tells me was fabulous, named Karen Ferry. “With tears in my eyes after reading your newest post I just want to wish you well. You and Resha have documented the Washaway losses so amazingly, the sad, the happy, the angry, the pictures we (not Washawayers) would not have known otherwise, for that I am ever grateful to you both. I am sorry for your loss but am glad to know that you have wonderful friends who care and a safe return. If you need anything I’m not much help physically, but we always have extra “stuff” (and plenty of plants to replace the one stolen.) It’s going to be a lovely sunrise this morning and hope it, and our best wishes, will help, a little, with your loss.”

I’m ashamed to say that I never replied. I guess I was “busy”. Then, later, I read in the South Beach Bulletin that she recently died of cancer. A stranger, dying of cancer, asked if she could help me, and I couldn’t manage to say thank you before it was too late. I am not proud of myself.

She wrote her own obituary, very sassy. May this smart, funny and generous stranger rest in peace. Now it’s me with tears in my eyes.

She had a good point, of course, about my having wonderful friends who care. It is fantastic and restorative to stay in my Airstream at Marcy and Bob’s. Here, in a mere 24 feet, is the last of my stuff and all I need, palacial as the Taj Mahal.

And then, there are amazing strangers. On January 13, I received one of the best emails ever.

“I have enjoyed reading every one of your stories and love your photos of Washaway Beach. My family and I bought a cabin there about 6 years ago. We only visit about 8 or 10 times a year. I just hate for it to sit all alone when people could be enjoying it. If you might be interested in keeping the old girl company on some of her lonely weeks, let me know. This isn’t a sales pitch. From reading your blog I know how much you love Washaway, and we would love for you to observe and report from a little bit safer vantage point.”

As my friend Karl likes to say (full volume): “WELL, THAT IS A VERY GOOD OFFER!”

This not only lifted flagging sprits, but validated the very essence of my being. Strangers, reading my work, felt like they could tell what kind of person I am, and trusted me.

It was with great excitement that Hugo and I went to check it out. We were not disappointed. In fact, we kept wandering among the three bedrooms in amazement, like Goldilocks. It features luxuries previously not experienced at the beach, like running water (!!!!!!) and deluxe features unavailable at my home in Seattle, like laundry. In short, we are now living large.

We had only been there a few hours when the sunshine turned into a dramatic hailstorm. Its percussive music on their metal roof reminded me of many a storm in the Vagabond, and the feeling of privacy, safety and openness on the land, looking at big, beautiful trees, watching the weather, is something, I realize, I mourn and miss terribly. Please listen:

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wce-y89VZjo

One of my boyfriend’s names for me is Wood Nymph. I grew up in Virginia in a time before XBox and kept myself amused with heady doses of Grimm’s Fairy Tales and time spent in the forest, imagining fairies and trolls and witches. Still do.

In the back yard of this cabin is the origin of the aforementioned magical path, marked with the red Hansel-and-Gretel arrows, that I used to be able to enter from Ray’s yard, when Ray’s was still there. Up here there are elaborate bridges built over the black lagoons and handrails built from mossy logs. This is the natural habitat of the Wood Nymph, the sylvan path.

So I should stop feeling sorry for myself. You should hear the songs of these frogs in the swamps in the springtime, and smell these trees that I still get to smell. I get to have new experiences, the new hope of spring promises. It’s only when the path heads by where Ray’s was, and where the tweakers have now occupied the home of my rarely-seen neighbor Bruno, that the smell changes to the burnt-plastic of crystal meth, and I remember how everything went down.

Where Ray’s was.

But I tried to smudge it away with the first fire of spring.

In other good news, I got to stay in the beautiful cottage of a friend in Westport with my favorite pals. I have never spent much time in Westport. Napping ensued.

Westport has nice, clean beaches with beautiful houses and condos that are not going to fall into the ocean. There are dunes, like Washaway used to have up until 2010.

The beaches have pristine sand dollars and tumbled pebbles and no broken houses or piles of garbage or mean unattended dogs or tweakers. I realized that my carrying pepper spray in Westport was downright silly. If I wrote a blog about Westport, you would be bored. So I guess I can only semi-retire from doom.

I should know by now that grief is sneaky, and to provide access for its uncomfortable, terrible feelings. Is losing a place the same as anything else that you’ve loved? I say yes. A tricky stew has ensued of anger, fear and sorrow. I don’t know how you prepare for loss, and here I always knew it would happen. I always knew to savor it.

Fool that I am, I’d do it all over again. Upward and onward, as my Mom used to say.