As you may have noticed, I have not been here as much as I’d like to be, for all kinds of good reasons, and sometimes when you don’t write for a bit, you are shy about sharing random thoughts. You know, the kind of thoughts you have that just before you tap them out for the whole world to read you hear the ghost of your mother saying, ” And why would anyone be interested that you saw some weeds out the church window during a funeral and mistook them for a sign from God?”
(I don’t think I mistook them for a sign. I’m pretty sure that they really were, as all things bright and beautiful are.)
I had this weird and wonderful moment during the memorial service for Myrna’s daughter and Allen’s sister, Carla, who no one knew very well or at all, really, except for her family, because she lived her entire 63 years in California, and suffered from seizure disorders (and died following one), but made the most of a difficult life by writing poetry, playing the drums and guitar, modeling and acting. She had small parts ( a biker chick, a police woman, an upscale suburban mom, Snow White) in a few TV shows and movies and was in a cigarette ad with Pierce Brosnan. I learned all this while writing her obituary. I am trying to not write obituaries anymore, but Myrna is so nice, and Allen has worked with Chip at our lumberyard for decades, so of course I said yes.
So there we were in the Presbyterian church Friday afternoon because we love Myrna and Allen, getting to know their daughter and sister who was already in heaven. And we liked what we learned about her so much that the pastor who’d never met her, choked up. Carla wanted us to appreciate life, to be positive and happy and made a point of writing her thoughts down to share with us. She chose Beatles tunes for her memorial (Nancy played them on the piano perfectly, as always)– and wildflowers– there were big vases of fireweed, yarrow, daisies and clover (and more) thanks to Linda who does such a nice job arranging flowers, always.
Allen wore a long embroidered Indian shirt and read a poem his sister wrote about something the Buddha said on being present for the gift of each day– and that’s when I looked out the narrow side window, not the big front one with the postcard view of the inlet, rather the unremarkable wild lot between the church and the senior center, and I saw three solid bands of color framed like a modern painting. Light green grass, thick bright pink fireweed and darker green spruce and hemlock trees, and I thought, “she’s here, in those flowers, right now,” and I was grateful.
I know, that’s not the funny part. It’s coming.
I planned to tell you all that on Saturday, but couldn’t get to my desk, and then Sunday after church I promised myself I would write it down because it is a holy kind of thought, and so once Papa Bob had his grilled cheese and hot cocoa and was back on the couch napping in the too warm living room. (He likes his fire), I ran to my desk, opened the window wide and wrote this note:
Then, I heard some sounds downstairs. Gaggy sounds. I hollered to ask Papa Bob if everything was okay. He grunted yes.
Something told me that he was not paying as much attention to the dogs as he should have been. (I trust hunches.)
It was bad.
There was puke everywhere.
— Salmon bones, pink bits of fish, sand, seaweed, fish skin, grass, more bones, green slime. Bile.
(I’m so glad we rolled up the rug for these three dog weeks of summer.)
It’s that time of year when salmon are cleaned on the beach, and I try to be vigilant, but I guess I was looking up at the flowers and the mountains and thinking lofty thoughts, and not down at the muddy tideline, and one of the dogs, or two, or maybe all three, had rooted around in guts and bones and ate a bunch. (At least they didn’t roll in it.)
Jeff looked the most innocent. Which makes me think he was guilty. (My daughter’s dog has a pen for safe keeping when we leave the house and at night because he can’t strain the leg he had surgery on in June.)
Which is a much too long way of saying that because the dogs puked right after I made the July resolution to prioritize my writing life again, I was able to tell you the story about the holy fireweed without over thinking it and deleting it. I guess dog vomit is good for something.
