David
June 26, 2009
“That’s a gorgeous sweatshirt,” I said admiringly.
David smiled, wide and delighted with lots of teeth. “Thank you very much,” he said, and stopped to chat, “I’m David.” A frail-looking man in his 60s, he was wearing a black pinstriped fedora with fashionable glasses, neat brown oxfords, highly polished, and worsted brown slacks with the creases carefully pressed in. And the sweatshirt made the outfit.
Jim and Bing
May 28, 2009
The cat rode Jim’s shoulder like a mahout, warily eyeing glassland as it crashed around them.
I’d thought at first that the work-worn man in the tan leather vest sported a coonskin cap; its lushly banded chestnut and sable tail dangled down his back almost to his waist. Then the cap moved, the man turned…and there was a cat on board.
They were peering through the window of Fireborne, my friend Becky’s downtown glass gallery. It was my afternoon to mind the store–a bunch of us pooled our free time this week to babysit the gallery and give Becky and her hubby a much-needed vacation–and part of the fun is watching the slice of Portland that strolls past that window.
Rose
May 25, 2009
Rose growled. I’d been aiming for a nice angled shot down the tracks and unwittingly stepped into her personal space.
We were waiting on the platform for MAX, the Portland city train. It was raining, and we were the only ones not under the crowded canopy. My hooded raincoat kept most of the water off me, but this lady perched hatless on a metal bench, out in the rain, clutching a soggy MAX pass. The notice said we had 15 minutes before the next train, and I figured it was even money whether she’d jump the tracks and flee before it arrived, or drown.
Jasmine
May 16, 2009
The girl on the platform caught my eye because she didn’t fit.
Waiting for the train with a dozen Portlanders, blinking at the bright spring sunshine, she was as sharply, carefully dressed as they were not.
Rajah ends with the cat food
May 12, 2009
The Furry Red Menace died this afternoon. Or rather, I approved his euthanasia. And of all the goofy things to think about at such a time, the thing that kept running through my mind was that Rajah hung on until we ran out of cat food.
He just wasn’t going to leave until he’d gotten every last bite out of life. Or at least out of the pantry.
Making the train late
May 9, 2009
“Frank” nodded hello at me as I sat down. “I sure hope,” he said anxiously, “that the train doesn’t get hung up today too. I’m already late.”
Usually the strangers on glassland’s MAX train smile politely or nod without saying much when I sit down; it takes a couple of verbal sallies and a stop or two before they’re comfortable chatting. But Frank dove in without hesitation, before I’d so much as set my purse down.
Fascinating, all of you
May 3, 2009
Slowly, I’m resurrecting a concept I’d somehow lost: Everything is fascinating.
Everything.
I discovered I could write in high school, when my best friend Jane struggled to finish a story for the school newspaper. I wanted to get to the mall NOW, but Jane had the car. “Oh for heavens’ sake,” I grumbled impatiently, “just say this and that and move that paragraph up to the top and change the title to this and let’s GO.”
Violet Bedford, the journalism teacher, overheard us, grabbed me and made me write a story on the spot. It was easy, and next thing I knew I was switching classes and writing a column for the school newspaper.
Thank you, Mrs. Bedford.
Singing inside a fish
May 1, 2009
Had planned to take Mom to dinner last night, thanks for delivering me from the thigh-high weeds that choke my yard and prompt dubious looks from the neighbors, but that didn’t work out.
Instead, I wound up at Catharine Newell’s gorgeous house, looking at her art, talking life and crunching crostini. I had all kinds of fun watching her compress years of artistic evolution into some very cool new directions. I love watching the translation of self into art, and I can’t wait to see this particular art translated into a gallery space.
Bee, loved
March 22, 2009
The bee guy told me they’ve solved the problem of the vanishing bees.
“It’s not pesticides or cell phone towers or any of that stuff they guessed,” he assured me, “It’s Israeli Acute Virus. The bees are literally starving to death.”
Beeguy is passionate about his bees and his honey. He and his lady bring jars and jars of the stuff to the Portland Farmers Market to taste–buckwheat, white clover, cherry, even coffee–and they’ll sell you a bottle of whatever’s in stock for $8. (I recommend the wild blackberry, which tastes like a good light honey but finishes like blackberry jam.) [Read more]
Jashawn
February 12, 2009
“It breaks my heart, the things people don’t care about,” said Jashawn. We were standing outside the storage facility where she worked, testing my new security code. (Long story here that involves my new kiln accidentally shipped out long before it has a home –and contrary to the order I placed–so it’ll now cool its heels in storage, at company expense, until I’m ready for it).