THREE MINUTES A DAY
In wintertime I am sad, so SAD. My life is complicated by SAD – Seasonal Affective Disorder – where the lack of daylight pushes me inward towards hibernation. The lack of daylight conspires with the lack of sunlight to increase depressive tendencies. So I’m at the mercy of both the rotation of the earth, and the weather.
The rotation of the earth is totally reliable and predictable; the weather is capricious and fickle. However, once the winter solstice occurs around December twenty-first, there begins a slow creeping towards spring, and hope begins to bloom in my heart.
According to the weatherman, we get three more minutes of daylight every day no matter what the weather. Not much to begin with, but it adds up. Three more minutes of daylight every day means over twenty minutes a week that becomes an hour and a half per month. So eight hours of thin dreary daylight in early January turns into a full-bodied extravaganza of DAYLIGHT for over sixteen hours daily by the summer solstice around June twenty-first.
I comfort myself with those three minutes through January and February. I also appreciate every scrap of anemic sunshine over the winter months; the sun comes out and I scream, “YES!” If I’m driving, I pump my fist, yes; otherwise I do a little sun dance. If the sun stays out long enough for me to bask, I bask blissfully.
I usually don’t really begin to feel better until near the spring equinox in mid-March when I stop counting the minutes. By April, sunshine and daylight pull me from bed earlier and earlier each day. I have more energy. Suddenly, I’m an optimist.
But in January I count the minutes like pennies in a piggybank. One of the ways I have dealt with SAD in past winters is to go to Guatemala for two or three months where sunshine and good friends who play Scrabble help to pass the time. When I must stay here I do have a lamp that simulates daylight; I increase my vitamin intake; I see my therapist more frequently. All these things help, but I never stop pining away for true spring.
Some winter days seem interminable, but, paradoxically, I never have enough time to do everything I want. On the other hand, the weeks and months and even seasons often seem to speed by. All except for winter with its three-minutes, three-minutes, three minutes of daylight rationing. Hang on! Here comes another three! Can spring be far behind?
Thursday, November 11, 2010
CHANNELING CAT
I’m not much of an animal person, but I sometimes exhibit a cat persona.
In the late afternoon or early evening, depending on the time of year, when the sun streams through my bedroom window and pools on my bed I seldom pass up the chance to curl up and float -- basking like a cat on a windowsill.
And although I could stand to lose a pound or fifty, I, as my long-suffering friends can attest, am a finicky eater. I’m allergic to garlic and fish; I hate onions and have become expert at picking onion fragments out of otherwise acceptable meals – an Asbergerish obsession. I also find the texture of some foods can be a deal-breaker. Yogurt, for example, is just plain icky; I’m creeped out by slimy things.
At a potluck if I can’t easily identify the ingredients in a dish I will ask others to sample it for me. When I can I bring my own food taster; Morris, the cat, would expect no less. Those friends who are cooks often volunteer to prepare a separate batch for me sans garlic, sans onions. I do try to be properly appreciative, but I do miss the onion-sorting-out process. Nobody seems to understand that I like to play with my food.
Like many cats, I can be civil, but it would be a mistake to call me civilized. I usually have soft paws, but have not been declawed. You cross me at your peril.
I’ve been told I have an aloof manner and an abrupt style. In any social situation there comes a point where I’m simply done. When that happens there are no niceties in my leave taking. I just turn my back and. cat-like, slip away
Like most cats I have my idiosyncrasies. I’m fond of water and I love swimming. Perhaps I more resemble an otter in that regard.
People have often suggested I get an animal, a cat perhaps, as a companion in my old age. Two reasons it never was a viable idea: One: I was responsible for raising four kids; I no longer want that kind of responsibility -- or any kind of responsibility. Two: I don’t want to share the rest of my life with a feline scene stealer. I have enough trouble getting the proper sort of attention for myself as it is.
I once saw a reader board that announced, “Dogs have masters. Cats have staff.” I’m currently interviewing for staff positions.
I’m not much of an animal person, but I sometimes exhibit a cat persona.
In the late afternoon or early evening, depending on the time of year, when the sun streams through my bedroom window and pools on my bed I seldom pass up the chance to curl up and float -- basking like a cat on a windowsill.
And although I could stand to lose a pound or fifty, I, as my long-suffering friends can attest, am a finicky eater. I’m allergic to garlic and fish; I hate onions and have become expert at picking onion fragments out of otherwise acceptable meals – an Asbergerish obsession. I also find the texture of some foods can be a deal-breaker. Yogurt, for example, is just plain icky; I’m creeped out by slimy things.
At a potluck if I can’t easily identify the ingredients in a dish I will ask others to sample it for me. When I can I bring my own food taster; Morris, the cat, would expect no less. Those friends who are cooks often volunteer to prepare a separate batch for me sans garlic, sans onions. I do try to be properly appreciative, but I do miss the onion-sorting-out process. Nobody seems to understand that I like to play with my food.
Like many cats, I can be civil, but it would be a mistake to call me civilized. I usually have soft paws, but have not been declawed. You cross me at your peril.
I’ve been told I have an aloof manner and an abrupt style. In any social situation there comes a point where I’m simply done. When that happens there are no niceties in my leave taking. I just turn my back and. cat-like, slip away
Like most cats I have my idiosyncrasies. I’m fond of water and I love swimming. Perhaps I more resemble an otter in that regard.
People have often suggested I get an animal, a cat perhaps, as a companion in my old age. Two reasons it never was a viable idea: One: I was responsible for raising four kids; I no longer want that kind of responsibility -- or any kind of responsibility. Two: I don’t want to share the rest of my life with a feline scene stealer. I have enough trouble getting the proper sort of attention for myself as it is.
I once saw a reader board that announced, “Dogs have masters. Cats have staff.” I’m currently interviewing for staff positions.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
MARKING TIME
Mark came to visit me a few days ago. Mark is the second oldest of my seven grandchildren, and the one person these days who really has time for me.
He’s someone I can comfortably be myself with. No walking on eggs. No fear that he might feel embarrassed by me -- just a sense of mutual okayness and a willingness to tell each other the truth.
Mark is twenty-three and kind. He never mentions it when I doze off for a minute or two in the middle of a Scrabble game; he accommodates himself to my slow pace as we walk; he answers my stupid computer questions without making me feel stupid.
Mark had a hard time of it growing up, but when Mark is unhappy he doesn’t whine about it. What I desperately want for Mark, of course, is the same thing any halfway decent parent or grandparent wants for their children or grandchildren. I want Mark to be happy.
And I can no more tell him how to do that than my mother could do so for me. I was near forty when I learned how to make myself happy. And, accepted that it was my job to do so.
I remember Mark as a reasonably happy toddler some twenty years ago. At that time I was living in what Mark’s mother called “the mother-in-law driveway” outside their home. Mark would come out to visit me and I’d sit him on my lap where I introduced him to the brightly colored DOS computer games that I enjoyed – Cosmo, Duke Nukem, Word Rescue.
Mark’s parents, my oldest son and daughter-in-law, were less than happy with me about turning him on to the seductive world of computer games. My own mother never did get over the idea that the comic books I feasted on every Saturday morning in Dickie Pitman’s garage would corrupt me in some sinister way. Perhaps they did.
Anyway, as it turned out, Mark makes his living these days working in computer gaming systems. And he has become my go-to guy for computer problems. I probably take advantage of him for that.
But when we’re together we talk about books and politics and the difficulty of finding the right sort of friends. Not just someone to play Scrabble or Warcraft with, but someone worthy of sharing our honest feelings with.
After Mark left I was wondering if he knew how much I appreciated him in my life.
So I wrote this piece to tell him.
Mark came to visit me a few days ago. Mark is the second oldest of my seven grandchildren, and the one person these days who really has time for me.
He’s someone I can comfortably be myself with. No walking on eggs. No fear that he might feel embarrassed by me -- just a sense of mutual okayness and a willingness to tell each other the truth.
Mark is twenty-three and kind. He never mentions it when I doze off for a minute or two in the middle of a Scrabble game; he accommodates himself to my slow pace as we walk; he answers my stupid computer questions without making me feel stupid.
Mark had a hard time of it growing up, but when Mark is unhappy he doesn’t whine about it. What I desperately want for Mark, of course, is the same thing any halfway decent parent or grandparent wants for their children or grandchildren. I want Mark to be happy.
And I can no more tell him how to do that than my mother could do so for me. I was near forty when I learned how to make myself happy. And, accepted that it was my job to do so.
I remember Mark as a reasonably happy toddler some twenty years ago. At that time I was living in what Mark’s mother called “the mother-in-law driveway” outside their home. Mark would come out to visit me and I’d sit him on my lap where I introduced him to the brightly colored DOS computer games that I enjoyed – Cosmo, Duke Nukem, Word Rescue.
Mark’s parents, my oldest son and daughter-in-law, were less than happy with me about turning him on to the seductive world of computer games. My own mother never did get over the idea that the comic books I feasted on every Saturday morning in Dickie Pitman’s garage would corrupt me in some sinister way. Perhaps they did.
Anyway, as it turned out, Mark makes his living these days working in computer gaming systems. And he has become my go-to guy for computer problems. I probably take advantage of him for that.
But when we’re together we talk about books and politics and the difficulty of finding the right sort of friends. Not just someone to play Scrabble or Warcraft with, but someone worthy of sharing our honest feelings with.
After Mark left I was wondering if he knew how much I appreciated him in my life.
So I wrote this piece to tell him.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
A HALLOWEENIE ROAST
I hate Halloween! If I had a porch light I’d keep it dark on All Hallow’s Eve. I’d outlaw candy during the whole month of October. I might even ban pumpkins.
I know it’s un-American to have a “Boo Humbug” attitude. Even Christmas has its “Bah Humbug” champions in Scrooge and the Grinch. But Halloween, which started out as a perfectly respectable pagan harvest festival, was first co-opted by The Church into All Saints Day and All Hallows Eve. Here in America Halloween has been further co-opted by Hallmark and Disney into the orgy of materialism we have today. Halloween is now big business, second only to Christmas for compulsory holiday spending.
Halloween’s “trick-or-treat” rituals teach our children to be extortionists or petty terrorists. Greed is encouraged as some parents drive their children to affluent neighborhoods to acquire better loot. We lament childhood obesity yet feel obliged to spend money we can’t afford on empty calories for our youngsters. We costume our children in store-bought images of Dracula, Frankenstein, and the devil, yet are horrified and bewildered when our teenagers identify themselves as Goths and venerate vampires.
I’m not against childhood fun and “Let’s Pretend” and dressing up. I’ll even admit to having a soft spot in my heart for a really good pirate, as well as enjoying Disneyland’s Pirates of the Caribbean ride. Years ago when my children were young I usually went along with their Halloween plans. I helped create costumes and carve pumpkins; I walked or drove around on trick-or-treat excursions. I grudgingly bought candy to hand out to strangers.
Back when I was a child myself our family didn’t do Halloween; we had a harvest fest at our church school instead. This anemic get-together was eclipsed by Santa Fe’s weeklong fiestas that have been celebrated since 1712. The best part for me was the giant marionette effigy called Zozobra, known as “Old Man Gloom”. Zozobra was burned the second week of September to conclude the celebrations, and, as he writhed in the great bonfire with spooky shrieks and moans, all the gloomy worries and troubles of the previous year were symbolically burned up in the flames.
The burning of Zozobra is a tradition both exciting and practical, unlike our North American Halloweens. After I began traveling in Latin America I discovered other autumn traditional events equally interesting and integral to their culture.
In Mexico November 1st is known as El Dia de Todos los Santos (All Saints Day) and November 2nd is El Dia de los Muertos (All Souls Day). El Dia de los Muertos is more commonly known as The Day of the Dead and it is believed that the souls of the dead return each year to visit with their living relatives to eat and drink and be merry as they did when they were alive. The whole family treks to the graveyard with favorite treats of their departed family members and they have a picnic together in loving memory.
In Guatemala The Day of the Dead is celebrated similarly, but with the addition of plenty of firecrackers. As a matter of fact any day in Guatemala is an occasion for much noise and firecrackers. Perhaps it’s a reflection of the fact that Guatemala has known civil war much of the last hundred years, and shooting off guns was common.
Most autumn celebrations are full of noise and light – firecrackers to scare away evil spirits; bonfires to warm living souls before the cold and dark of winter settles in our bones. I have no trouble with these rationales for Halloween.
Jack-o-lanterns are fun and pretty harmless; I appreciate the creativity and whimsy. The rest of Halloween I find disturbing without reason. Halloween encourages the worship of materialistic false idols.
Give me Zozobra who still suffers for our sins every September in Santa Fe, or a cheerful Day of the Dead family picnic in the candle-lit graveyard.
I’ve recently become intrigued with a weeklong Labor Day event in Black Rock, Nevada. It’s called Burning Man and each year over 40,000 people come together in the desert to create a temporary community that bans commercial transactions and encourages barter. Burning Man sounds like a merger between Woodstock and Zozobra. My kind of hedonistic and artistic expression.
I’ve just added, “attend Burning Man” to my bucket list.
I hate Halloween! If I had a porch light I’d keep it dark on All Hallow’s Eve. I’d outlaw candy during the whole month of October. I might even ban pumpkins.
I know it’s un-American to have a “Boo Humbug” attitude. Even Christmas has its “Bah Humbug” champions in Scrooge and the Grinch. But Halloween, which started out as a perfectly respectable pagan harvest festival, was first co-opted by The Church into All Saints Day and All Hallows Eve. Here in America Halloween has been further co-opted by Hallmark and Disney into the orgy of materialism we have today. Halloween is now big business, second only to Christmas for compulsory holiday spending.
Halloween’s “trick-or-treat” rituals teach our children to be extortionists or petty terrorists. Greed is encouraged as some parents drive their children to affluent neighborhoods to acquire better loot. We lament childhood obesity yet feel obliged to spend money we can’t afford on empty calories for our youngsters. We costume our children in store-bought images of Dracula, Frankenstein, and the devil, yet are horrified and bewildered when our teenagers identify themselves as Goths and venerate vampires.
I’m not against childhood fun and “Let’s Pretend” and dressing up. I’ll even admit to having a soft spot in my heart for a really good pirate, as well as enjoying Disneyland’s Pirates of the Caribbean ride. Years ago when my children were young I usually went along with their Halloween plans. I helped create costumes and carve pumpkins; I walked or drove around on trick-or-treat excursions. I grudgingly bought candy to hand out to strangers.
Back when I was a child myself our family didn’t do Halloween; we had a harvest fest at our church school instead. This anemic get-together was eclipsed by Santa Fe’s weeklong fiestas that have been celebrated since 1712. The best part for me was the giant marionette effigy called Zozobra, known as “Old Man Gloom”. Zozobra was burned the second week of September to conclude the celebrations, and, as he writhed in the great bonfire with spooky shrieks and moans, all the gloomy worries and troubles of the previous year were symbolically burned up in the flames.
The burning of Zozobra is a tradition both exciting and practical, unlike our North American Halloweens. After I began traveling in Latin America I discovered other autumn traditional events equally interesting and integral to their culture.
In Mexico November 1st is known as El Dia de Todos los Santos (All Saints Day) and November 2nd is El Dia de los Muertos (All Souls Day). El Dia de los Muertos is more commonly known as The Day of the Dead and it is believed that the souls of the dead return each year to visit with their living relatives to eat and drink and be merry as they did when they were alive. The whole family treks to the graveyard with favorite treats of their departed family members and they have a picnic together in loving memory.
In Guatemala The Day of the Dead is celebrated similarly, but with the addition of plenty of firecrackers. As a matter of fact any day in Guatemala is an occasion for much noise and firecrackers. Perhaps it’s a reflection of the fact that Guatemala has known civil war much of the last hundred years, and shooting off guns was common.
Most autumn celebrations are full of noise and light – firecrackers to scare away evil spirits; bonfires to warm living souls before the cold and dark of winter settles in our bones. I have no trouble with these rationales for Halloween.
Jack-o-lanterns are fun and pretty harmless; I appreciate the creativity and whimsy. The rest of Halloween I find disturbing without reason. Halloween encourages the worship of materialistic false idols.
Give me Zozobra who still suffers for our sins every September in Santa Fe, or a cheerful Day of the Dead family picnic in the candle-lit graveyard.
I’ve recently become intrigued with a weeklong Labor Day event in Black Rock, Nevada. It’s called Burning Man and each year over 40,000 people come together in the desert to create a temporary community that bans commercial transactions and encourages barter. Burning Man sounds like a merger between Woodstock and Zozobra. My kind of hedonistic and artistic expression.
I’ve just added, “attend Burning Man” to my bucket list.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
HIDING OUT
by Roberta Jean Bryant
Growing up in Santa Fe, New Mexico I had two favorite hideouts. Indoors I’d take a blanket and pillow and a stack of library books into the high top shelf of my bedroom closet where I’d have to shinny up the doorframe to gain access. Outdoors I’d take my books and climb up into the backyard tree house -- both happy places where my mother couldn’t find me.
Hideouts have been an integral part of my life ever since. As a teenager my mother was running Skyview Lodge (an early version of a motel for summertime tourists). It was two stories tall with the Southwestern pueblo-style architecture that featured a flat tarpaper roof. My books and I would migrate up top when there were chores to be done.
When I was eighteen I rode along with a friend and her mother to Chicago. After they left I stayed for my first solitary travel adventure. I got a trainee job and hid out in a Michigan Avenue pea-soup-green basement room where I shared a bathroom with the tailor shop down the hall.
The next year in college at Highlands University in Las Vegas (New Mexico not Nevada) I had to live in the women’s dorm with a doors-locked curfew at ten o’clock. I’d sneak out of the dorm several nights a week to hide out at Storrie Lake with my boyfriend and a shared sleeping bag.
We later married and my hiding places grew increasingly desperate in my increasingly manic-depressive life. In manic phase I’d shriek at the children and leave the house to huddle around the corner near the garbage cans until I could “get a grip.” Depression was a gray hideout all its own.
Years later when I began to earn money from my writing I made a down payment on a large station wagon to ferry the kids around in. The station wagon became my favorite hideout and my symbol of independence.
Divorce brought me a nine months reprieve from daily motherhood and a place of my own at the Blue Ridge apartments; finally, a place of my own, and no need to hide anywhere else. Then, a return to motherhood, and my car became my refuge once again; my car, and my queen-sized bed -- half for sleeping and half serving as a makeshift desk.
My next move was into a small office suite on Eastlake just north of downtown Seattle. I decided to temporarily sleep on a futon in the larger room where I held classes until I could afford a separate apartment of my own. With the doors locked and the drapes closed I had once again a place of my own. Eight and a half years later I discovered that temporary had obviously meant eight and a half years of camping out in my office.
Deciding to actively promote my second book, I closed down my office, put furniture in storage, and bought a small RV that functioned as a hideout on wheels. I became an itinerant teacher, working my way down the west coast presenting workshops in the major cities, attending American Book Association conventions, doing book signings in independent bookstores.
I figured if I couldn’t eke out a living, or got tired of all the driving and phoning, I could always return to Seattle and open up an office again. I knew how to do that. In the meantime I was living out my teenage dream of traveling for a living. My hope chest had been a cardboard carton full of travel folders. Marriage and children had sidetracked me for several decades. When I was back in the Seattle area I parked in what my oldest daughter-in-law called the “mother-in-law driveway.”
I loved my vagabond life. For twelve and a half years I loved my vagabond life. I finally had reached retirement age, was tired not so much of traveling as the upkeep and breakdowns of an aging vehicle, and put my name on a waiting list for senior housing.
My final hideout is my senior housing one-bedroom apartment; third-floor western exposure. All I see out my windows are trees and sky and occasional spectacular sunsets. People tell me the place is tiny, but having lived in a small RV for years, it still feels spacious to me. I feel like I’m living in the best of both the hideout worlds of my childhood. It’s clean and warm like my closet shelf, and hidden in the trees to give me a perfect tree house perspective.
by Roberta Jean Bryant
Growing up in Santa Fe, New Mexico I had two favorite hideouts. Indoors I’d take a blanket and pillow and a stack of library books into the high top shelf of my bedroom closet where I’d have to shinny up the doorframe to gain access. Outdoors I’d take my books and climb up into the backyard tree house -- both happy places where my mother couldn’t find me.
Hideouts have been an integral part of my life ever since. As a teenager my mother was running Skyview Lodge (an early version of a motel for summertime tourists). It was two stories tall with the Southwestern pueblo-style architecture that featured a flat tarpaper roof. My books and I would migrate up top when there were chores to be done.
When I was eighteen I rode along with a friend and her mother to Chicago. After they left I stayed for my first solitary travel adventure. I got a trainee job and hid out in a Michigan Avenue pea-soup-green basement room where I shared a bathroom with the tailor shop down the hall.
The next year in college at Highlands University in Las Vegas (New Mexico not Nevada) I had to live in the women’s dorm with a doors-locked curfew at ten o’clock. I’d sneak out of the dorm several nights a week to hide out at Storrie Lake with my boyfriend and a shared sleeping bag.
We later married and my hiding places grew increasingly desperate in my increasingly manic-depressive life. In manic phase I’d shriek at the children and leave the house to huddle around the corner near the garbage cans until I could “get a grip.” Depression was a gray hideout all its own.
Years later when I began to earn money from my writing I made a down payment on a large station wagon to ferry the kids around in. The station wagon became my favorite hideout and my symbol of independence.
Divorce brought me a nine months reprieve from daily motherhood and a place of my own at the Blue Ridge apartments; finally, a place of my own, and no need to hide anywhere else. Then, a return to motherhood, and my car became my refuge once again; my car, and my queen-sized bed -- half for sleeping and half serving as a makeshift desk.
My next move was into a small office suite on Eastlake just north of downtown Seattle. I decided to temporarily sleep on a futon in the larger room where I held classes until I could afford a separate apartment of my own. With the doors locked and the drapes closed I had once again a place of my own. Eight and a half years later I discovered that temporary had obviously meant eight and a half years of camping out in my office.
Deciding to actively promote my second book, I closed down my office, put furniture in storage, and bought a small RV that functioned as a hideout on wheels. I became an itinerant teacher, working my way down the west coast presenting workshops in the major cities, attending American Book Association conventions, doing book signings in independent bookstores.
I figured if I couldn’t eke out a living, or got tired of all the driving and phoning, I could always return to Seattle and open up an office again. I knew how to do that. In the meantime I was living out my teenage dream of traveling for a living. My hope chest had been a cardboard carton full of travel folders. Marriage and children had sidetracked me for several decades. When I was back in the Seattle area I parked in what my oldest daughter-in-law called the “mother-in-law driveway.”
I loved my vagabond life. For twelve and a half years I loved my vagabond life. I finally had reached retirement age, was tired not so much of traveling as the upkeep and breakdowns of an aging vehicle, and put my name on a waiting list for senior housing.
My final hideout is my senior housing one-bedroom apartment; third-floor western exposure. All I see out my windows are trees and sky and occasional spectacular sunsets. People tell me the place is tiny, but having lived in a small RV for years, it still feels spacious to me. I feel like I’m living in the best of both the hideout worlds of my childhood. It’s clean and warm like my closet shelf, and hidden in the trees to give me a perfect tree house perspective.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
FOOLS AND CHILDREN
They say God protects fools and children. It’s obvious to me that I’ve been operating as one or the other most of my life. After all, life is a risky business.
When I was thirteen I lobbied hard to come up to Washington state and repeat seventh grade with my younger cousin Janyce. I talked her into hitchhiking from Marysville to Everett to ballet class once a week “I’m a good judge of character,” I told her.
When I was fourteen and back home again I used to sneak out of my window at night and ride over to the movie theater on the wrong side of town. I got creeped out a few times, but never frightened enough to stop.
When I was fifteen my mother, younger brother, baby half-brother and I were living in a primitive cabin on a cliff overlooking the Pacific north of Arcata, California. My brother, thirteen-and-a-half, and I had carved out a rough trail down the sandy bluff to the tiny beach 600 feet below. We talked my mother into going down with us for a picnic one day. I assured her I could carry baby Russell. “No problem,” I said. And so I climbed down and back supporting Russell on one hip while clinging to sketchy handholds and bushes. No problem.
At the age of seventeen, having just graduated high school, I traveled to Chicago on my own, found a trainee position, and a tiny basement apartment on Michigan Avenue, promptly got fired, and found a less demanding job as a waitress at Stouffer’s Tearoom. I also, on one of my late night walks, acquired a stalker who wanted to take me to Florida with him. I went home to my mother instead.
Marriage and motherhood tied me down for a few years, and I became an armchair traveler courtesy of the public library, but I never passed up any opportunity for adventure with or without the kids. I wore out a Chevy station wagon in those years.
After a divorce, travel was high on my list of priorities. I picked up hitchhikers on a trip back from Los Angeles (a story for another day). I racketed around the greater Seattle area to singles dances at night after the kids were in bed. I answered singles ads in The Weekly for a while, after which I taught an Experimental College class titled “Playing the Personals.”
On a trip to see a friend in Salishan on the Oregon coast I stopped my car on a steep driveway and had to step outside the car for a moment to push the buzzer to get the gate raised. As the car began slowly drifting backwards I flung the door open and myself inside just in time to brake to a stop. One of the scarier moments of my life!
Other than the trip down the bluff with my baby brother and hitchhiking with cousin Janyce most of my close calls only risked my own neck. Then I agreed to lead a small group of writers on a trip to San Miguel de Allende in Mexico. As group leader I assumed responsibility for those who traveled with me, but did not understand how challenging that would be until I encouraged one young woman to ride the subway back to Chapultepec Park after a group excursion there one afternoon. I felt sure she could handle any problems, but four hours later when she still hadn’t returned I was in a torment of worry. After another hour and a half she returned happy and full of stories. “I knew you could do it,” I told her, vowing to be more cautious regarding other people in the future.
I should have understood from that experience how worried my children might be when I began traveling around the states and Canada all alone in a small RV, or took off at Christmastime to travel by local bus without reservations in Mexico and Guatemala. But I was as clueless as ever as I accumulated more adventures and close calls. I even left for seven weeks in South America without much of an itinerary and without any way for my kids to contact me. This was before the age of cell phones and e-mail, but my kids were busy with their own lives and it never occurred to me that it might be important to stay in touch.
Although these days I’d like to think I’m neither as foolish nor as childlike as I’ve been throughout most of my life, the feedback I get from family and friends suggests that I’m still more delusional than not. And when I lock my keys in the car, set off the smoke alarm regularly, or trip over the hem of my long skirt and fall down, it’s a good thing that I can trust God to continue to protect fools and children.
They say God protects fools and children. It’s obvious to me that I’ve been operating as one or the other most of my life. After all, life is a risky business.
When I was thirteen I lobbied hard to come up to Washington state and repeat seventh grade with my younger cousin Janyce. I talked her into hitchhiking from Marysville to Everett to ballet class once a week “I’m a good judge of character,” I told her.
When I was fourteen and back home again I used to sneak out of my window at night and ride over to the movie theater on the wrong side of town. I got creeped out a few times, but never frightened enough to stop.
When I was fifteen my mother, younger brother, baby half-brother and I were living in a primitive cabin on a cliff overlooking the Pacific north of Arcata, California. My brother, thirteen-and-a-half, and I had carved out a rough trail down the sandy bluff to the tiny beach 600 feet below. We talked my mother into going down with us for a picnic one day. I assured her I could carry baby Russell. “No problem,” I said. And so I climbed down and back supporting Russell on one hip while clinging to sketchy handholds and bushes. No problem.
At the age of seventeen, having just graduated high school, I traveled to Chicago on my own, found a trainee position, and a tiny basement apartment on Michigan Avenue, promptly got fired, and found a less demanding job as a waitress at Stouffer’s Tearoom. I also, on one of my late night walks, acquired a stalker who wanted to take me to Florida with him. I went home to my mother instead.
Marriage and motherhood tied me down for a few years, and I became an armchair traveler courtesy of the public library, but I never passed up any opportunity for adventure with or without the kids. I wore out a Chevy station wagon in those years.
After a divorce, travel was high on my list of priorities. I picked up hitchhikers on a trip back from Los Angeles (a story for another day). I racketed around the greater Seattle area to singles dances at night after the kids were in bed. I answered singles ads in The Weekly for a while, after which I taught an Experimental College class titled “Playing the Personals.”
On a trip to see a friend in Salishan on the Oregon coast I stopped my car on a steep driveway and had to step outside the car for a moment to push the buzzer to get the gate raised. As the car began slowly drifting backwards I flung the door open and myself inside just in time to brake to a stop. One of the scarier moments of my life!
Other than the trip down the bluff with my baby brother and hitchhiking with cousin Janyce most of my close calls only risked my own neck. Then I agreed to lead a small group of writers on a trip to San Miguel de Allende in Mexico. As group leader I assumed responsibility for those who traveled with me, but did not understand how challenging that would be until I encouraged one young woman to ride the subway back to Chapultepec Park after a group excursion there one afternoon. I felt sure she could handle any problems, but four hours later when she still hadn’t returned I was in a torment of worry. After another hour and a half she returned happy and full of stories. “I knew you could do it,” I told her, vowing to be more cautious regarding other people in the future.
I should have understood from that experience how worried my children might be when I began traveling around the states and Canada all alone in a small RV, or took off at Christmastime to travel by local bus without reservations in Mexico and Guatemala. But I was as clueless as ever as I accumulated more adventures and close calls. I even left for seven weeks in South America without much of an itinerary and without any way for my kids to contact me. This was before the age of cell phones and e-mail, but my kids were busy with their own lives and it never occurred to me that it might be important to stay in touch.
Although these days I’d like to think I’m neither as foolish nor as childlike as I’ve been throughout most of my life, the feedback I get from family and friends suggests that I’m still more delusional than not. And when I lock my keys in the car, set off the smoke alarm regularly, or trip over the hem of my long skirt and fall down, it’s a good thing that I can trust God to continue to protect fools and children.
Friday, June 18, 2010
CONFESSIONS OF A SCRABBLE SLUT
by Roberta Jean Bryant
“You’re nothing but a Scrabble slut!” my friend Delilah remarked. “You’ll play Scrabble anywhere, anytime, with anybody.” Delilah likes stirring things up, using provocative language, always hoping for a good argument.
“Pretty much,” I cheerfully agreed, to her dismay.
Scrabble for me, I confess, is an addiction, an affliction, a passion, a joy. Although I’ve always been obsessed with words, Scrabble was just a fun game that I was pretty good at for a long time. And for years I was too busy earning a living to have time for much game playing.
After I stopped traveling and working fulltime I joined the National Scrabble Club on a whim. The weekly meeting of the local chapter was in the U district at night and I hated driving at night so I seldom attended. I read the monthly newsletter, found a Sunday afternoon meeting in Lake Forest Park and started playing three or four games a week there. I noticed that some of the Sunday afternoon players used what looked like a chess clock
I discovered that any relationship between Scrabble Club games and family Scrabble was in name only. This Scrabble had less to do with words than it did with
strategy and intimidation – like a combination of chess and poker – ultimately a numbers game. It was important to keep track of the power letters – the high-face-value J, K, Q, X, Z and the four versatile S tiles, to memorize the Q words such as qat -- which did not require a U, and to be bold about swapping puny letters in lieu of taking a turn. This new-to-me Scrabble was challenging and bloody serious. I loved it. And I didn’t always win. But with delight I always learned.
I found out about a tournament in Portland over the Labor Day weekend and decided, again on a whim, to sign up. At that time I was still living in a small motorhome so the travel and accommodations were no problem; I could sleep in the hotel parking lot. Playing Scrabble with a clock might be a problem. So, I managed to play a few games with the clock before Labor Day. To my dismay it added a level of distraction to my game because every time I completed a move I had to remember to hit the clock; this stopped dinging my quota of twenty-five minutes and started ticking away at my opponent’s minutes. Each game took fifty minutes total.
I’d always been a fast player, but this clock thing could bite me if I forgot to hit it and allowed my opponent to take his turn on my minutes which I did several times. I headed to Portland with both excitement and trepidation. I feared I’d be outclassed and outmaneuvered in every game of the twenty games scheduled. My goal was to play as many games as possible with people who were capable of beating me. I figured that covered everybody, so, how could I lose? At the very least I’d have the opportunity to learn a lot about this new Scrabble.
I was astonished to win over a third of the games I played, and I did learn a lot. I knew I was seriously hooked when I bought my own clock and began accumulating gear. I now own seven sets of letters known as “tiles,” four Scrabble boards, three tournament dictionaries or word lists, two travel Scrabble sets, one clock, and several instruction books for tournament players. Some of these things I actually won at tournaments.
These days I play as often as I can manage. I play games with Maven -- a computer Scrabble setup. I play several e-mail games daily with people I met at tournaments. I used to have a friend I played two games with nightly, and when I spend up to three months in Guatemala during the winter I have a group of friends I play with every day.
In addition, I keep attending nearby tournaments resolved to continue doing so as long as I am having fun. I never considered myself to be particularly competitive until I began playing tournament Scrabble. Now I know myself to be intensely competitive. And although winning is important, winning is still not as important as having fun and learning. I am perpetually in search of a worthy opponent -- someone who is as avid about playing as I am.
What I like best about my guilty pleasure is the fact that playing requires everything from me in every moment I spend at the board – all my problem solving ability, all my stamina, all my patience. What I get for this investment of time and energy is pure joy in being in the now. For years I failed to properly appreciate the value of a joyful pastime in my life, until I experienced a deep depression with no joy to be found anywhere.
Bottom line on this wordy subject? Have board; will travel. Scrabble, anyone?
by Roberta Jean Bryant
“You’re nothing but a Scrabble slut!” my friend Delilah remarked. “You’ll play Scrabble anywhere, anytime, with anybody.” Delilah likes stirring things up, using provocative language, always hoping for a good argument.
“Pretty much,” I cheerfully agreed, to her dismay.
Scrabble for me, I confess, is an addiction, an affliction, a passion, a joy. Although I’ve always been obsessed with words, Scrabble was just a fun game that I was pretty good at for a long time. And for years I was too busy earning a living to have time for much game playing.
After I stopped traveling and working fulltime I joined the National Scrabble Club on a whim. The weekly meeting of the local chapter was in the U district at night and I hated driving at night so I seldom attended. I read the monthly newsletter, found a Sunday afternoon meeting in Lake Forest Park and started playing three or four games a week there. I noticed that some of the Sunday afternoon players used what looked like a chess clock
I discovered that any relationship between Scrabble Club games and family Scrabble was in name only. This Scrabble had less to do with words than it did with
strategy and intimidation – like a combination of chess and poker – ultimately a numbers game. It was important to keep track of the power letters – the high-face-value J, K, Q, X, Z and the four versatile S tiles, to memorize the Q words such as qat -- which did not require a U, and to be bold about swapping puny letters in lieu of taking a turn. This new-to-me Scrabble was challenging and bloody serious. I loved it. And I didn’t always win. But with delight I always learned.
I found out about a tournament in Portland over the Labor Day weekend and decided, again on a whim, to sign up. At that time I was still living in a small motorhome so the travel and accommodations were no problem; I could sleep in the hotel parking lot. Playing Scrabble with a clock might be a problem. So, I managed to play a few games with the clock before Labor Day. To my dismay it added a level of distraction to my game because every time I completed a move I had to remember to hit the clock; this stopped dinging my quota of twenty-five minutes and started ticking away at my opponent’s minutes. Each game took fifty minutes total.
I’d always been a fast player, but this clock thing could bite me if I forgot to hit it and allowed my opponent to take his turn on my minutes which I did several times. I headed to Portland with both excitement and trepidation. I feared I’d be outclassed and outmaneuvered in every game of the twenty games scheduled. My goal was to play as many games as possible with people who were capable of beating me. I figured that covered everybody, so, how could I lose? At the very least I’d have the opportunity to learn a lot about this new Scrabble.
I was astonished to win over a third of the games I played, and I did learn a lot. I knew I was seriously hooked when I bought my own clock and began accumulating gear. I now own seven sets of letters known as “tiles,” four Scrabble boards, three tournament dictionaries or word lists, two travel Scrabble sets, one clock, and several instruction books for tournament players. Some of these things I actually won at tournaments.
These days I play as often as I can manage. I play games with Maven -- a computer Scrabble setup. I play several e-mail games daily with people I met at tournaments. I used to have a friend I played two games with nightly, and when I spend up to three months in Guatemala during the winter I have a group of friends I play with every day.
In addition, I keep attending nearby tournaments resolved to continue doing so as long as I am having fun. I never considered myself to be particularly competitive until I began playing tournament Scrabble. Now I know myself to be intensely competitive. And although winning is important, winning is still not as important as having fun and learning. I am perpetually in search of a worthy opponent -- someone who is as avid about playing as I am.
What I like best about my guilty pleasure is the fact that playing requires everything from me in every moment I spend at the board – all my problem solving ability, all my stamina, all my patience. What I get for this investment of time and energy is pure joy in being in the now. For years I failed to properly appreciate the value of a joyful pastime in my life, until I experienced a deep depression with no joy to be found anywhere.
Bottom line on this wordy subject? Have board; will travel. Scrabble, anyone?
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