hot puppy

It’s wickedly hot here. For May, and for the Pacific Northwest.

Although it was snowing just a month ago, the mercury hit 87-degrees (F) yesterday, and has passed 97 today. I’ve finally broken down and turned on the AC — mostly for my poor husky puppy, who has been clinging to me, panting and whimpering most of the afternoon.

I had central air put into the house shortly after I moved in. Most homes here in Portland don’t have air-conditioning — for the most part, it’s unnecessary — though it does feel like it’s getting a bit warmer here a bit sooner each summer. As an eco-conscious gal, I dislike even having AC — much less using it — but it’s becoming more and more of a necessity, even though I use it sparingly. Turning it on before it’s even June really doesn’t make me feel good.

My last full year in Richmond, Virginia, it first hit the 90-degree mark in April. Our last over-90-degree day that year was in October, so we effectively had six months of summer. Both the heat and humidity were getting harder and harder for me to take, and each summer I spent increasingly long hours and days lying around on the bed — even with the AC running — because I simply couldn’t function. When I get hot, I run fevers and get sick to my stomach — thanks to some problems with heat exhaustion when I was a teenager.

One summer in Richmond — I think it was 1995 — we had an atrocious heat wave that lasted about three days. I was living in an old house without AC and not much in the way of window ventilation, either. I remember spending the entire weekend lying on the floor, with my cat and Alaskan husky stretched out nearby. Occasionally, I’d get up to change out the water bowls and ice cube trays I’d set in front of the box fans. I was exhausted and dehydrated, but I was still better off than being outside.

A move to the cooler weather of the Pacific Northwest greatly appealed to me, with its mild, dark days and frequent rainfall. Even the winters are easier here — though it first snowed in November, and then again last month…. Five months of winter?

Yesterday’s high temperatures took me by surprise, and not in a good way. But I had fair warning that we’d be even hotter today. I got as much work done before 10:30 a.m. as I could, then ran errands before my brain officially melted — but I was already sweating by 8 a.m., and we cracked 80 degrees soon after 9. I bought every popsicle mold Bed Bath & Beyond had in stock, and — as I type — I have orange juice, cran-grape, limeade and Dr. Pepper popsicles setting in the freezer.

The cats were first curled up in dark corners of the house, but in the afternoon have taken to stretching out across the floor. I’ve been unable to think all that straight and so was just lounging on the couch, having a rather unpleasant pseudo-dream about being alone in a mini-sub that was being attacked by a shark. Maybe something I could turn into a screenplay for the Sci-Fi Channel.

It’s getting later in the afternoon, but the heat is holding. I thought I could just hang out on the couch and try my best not to move until after sunset. But my dog was increasingly in distress. This poor Siberian-wolf has a thick fur coat she can’t take off. It’s nearly 90-degrees inside the house right now, and it could take a while for the cooling system to really have an impact, but at least it’s getting better for her.

That’s the hot and steamy report for this afternoon.

little patients

This past Tuesday, I was at Legacy Emanuel Hospital for a media event put on by the Children’s Cancer Association, Nike, and the Portland Trailblazers. The unveiling of the Music Rx media cart was held in the Infant and Toddler’s playroom, and in addition to the planners, designers, basketball players and reporters, there were cancer patients present.

And they were all children.

One of the Nike designers, who is a friend of mine, said he had no doubt that these children were chosen for the morning’s presentation because they looked pretty good at this point in their treatment and were able to be cheerful and smile for the press. My friend had been in and out of the hospital for several months working on this project, and he admitted that the process had been tough.

“Even though you’re there to work on the project, you’re surrounded by these sick children,” my friend said. He watched healthy-looking children deteriorate rapidly from one week to the next. “These kids look okay today, but if you saw them again in a week, you wouldn’t recognize them. The treatment takes such an incredible toll.”

Some of the kids looked perfectly healthy. Then there was Faith, all of perhaps five or six years old and the spitting image of her father. She enjoyed playing with the toys and giving and receiving hugs. She had a huge smile on her face during the entire event. But her skin was a sickly grayish-tan color, and she weighed only a fraction of what she should — and she had a feeding tube taped to the side of her face and running up through one nostril.

I couldn’t tear my eyes away from her. She was so obviously happy, and yet so obviously unwell. I had to physically turn away from her so I couldn’t watch her. I concentrated instead on what the fabricator was telling me about the materials design process, and fought back the tears I could feel welling up.

These children didn’t ask to be sick. It’s hard enough coming into a world that is increasingly complicated and frightening, particularly when you’re little and are totally dependent on the big people around you to take care of you, but to get smacked with a life-threatening illness right out of the gate is just plain cruel. Of course, the parents didn’t sign up for this, either. Who adopts or conceives a child with the fervent hope, “Oh, wouldn’t it be wonderful if my child develops cancer!”?

I couldn’t take it anymore. I’d talked to everyone I needed to talk to and just couldn’t do anymore glad-handing. I stepped out into the hallway, out of the crush of people — cancer-riddled children, healthy adults, and freakishly tall basketball players alike — and checked my voice mail. I sent out a few superfluous text messages. I sat down on the couch and busied myself with taking notes.

That’s when a young mother rolled over my way with her son. He was all of perhaps 18 or 24 months old — it’s difficult to tell a child’s age when s/he is sick — and he was riding in a big red wagon, complete with pillows, comfy blankets, an IV stand and other monitoring equipment. The scant hair on his head was scraggly and growing in patches. No doubt the rest had fallen out. He had scabs on his arms and chest from where tubes had formerly been inserted, and surgical tape holding down the current lines and tubes. He was fussing, crying, uncomfortable and in pain.

His mother sat down in the chair beside me and called her husband on her cell phone while one of the hospital volunteers brought her a piece of cake from the event still going on in the playroom.

Her son was in too much discomfort to even listen to his father’s voice on the phone. The young woman placed the piece of cake inside the wagon with her son and stood up to continue rolling him down the hall. Then this little boy did something that nearly made me burst into tears.

He reached for the plastic fork, carved a big chunk out of the piece of cake, and held it up to offer to his mother.

In the midst of his own dis-ease, this little child’s simple act of generosity and love toward his mother just floored me. Like Faith’s unwavering smile, the spirit of these children remains steady and undaunted.

the jewish thing

“Why do you want to convert to Judaism?”

I get this question a lot, sometimes several times from the same people. I was asked this again last evening — while at the rock gym with a new climbing buddy (that in itself is likely a separate blog entry) — and I realized that I’ve probably not adequately answered such a query on this blog.

So here goes.

I was a student at a Montessori School from the ages of 2 to 9. While there, I was exposed to many different perspectives, cultures and religions. We celebrated anything and everything. It was fantastic. I learned the commonality of faith, rather than the separateness of traditions. Of course, I also had no idea that Christmas and Hanukkah were two different holidays, that a menorah and a Christmas tree don’t naturally go together.

It was when I transferred to St. Catherine’s Episcopal School for Girls as a fourth grader that I learned I wasn’t Jewish. It was rather disappointing.

Around that same time, I turned ten. As was the family tradition, my father’s father presented me with a leather-bound edition of the King James Bible — “Words of Christ in Red” — with my name embossed on the cover in gold. I still have that Bible. As a child, I used to read the Book of Genesis over and over again, and the story of Abraham was a particular favorite. I loved the idea of being called out into the wilderness, away from the safe haven of the city and previous belief, out into the unknown. Indeed much of my life has mirrored that very pathworking. But I’d get to the part about Joseph heading off into Egypt, and I’d lose interest and go back to the beginning again.

At that same age, I was asked to speak one morning in our Lower School chapel service — something each student had the opportunity to do at one time or another. I prepared a short talk on the Golden Rule — “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you” — and emphasized that as the core of moral behavior and a common tie among all people. Not bad for a ten-year-old! At the time, I had no idea that was THE foundation — or the “on one foot” description — of Judaism.

There were other experiences I had along the way, such as going to a Friday evening, student-led Shabbat service when I was at Duke. I felt immediately welcomed by the other students, and it was so soothing and peaceful that I thought this was a great way to round out the week. I started studying Judaism on my own, but had no idea that conversion was possible.

The seeds for my conversion had been sown long before I actively began this process a year ago. But that still doesn’t answer the question of, “Why?”

I’m in a place in my life where I’m looking to put down roots, at long last. I am attracted to the strong community that Judaism offers, as well as the deep grounding in age-old tradition. But I’m probably most excited about the eternal questioning that Judaism not only encourages but practically requires — it’s not about accepting anything on blind faith, but instead is about really turning something over and over in your own mind, to find your own wisdom and to make the question itself a part of your personal experience and understanding.

This emphasis on study and experience appeals to my own questing self, the drive that has led me to pursue religious studies in a variety of academic and spiritual venues. A focus on action and social justice also obviously appeals to me. A deep tradition in mysticism speaks to the more esoteric side of me that yearns for illumination and communion. Add that to the fact that difference of opinion within Judaism is viewed more as an opportunity for learning and deeper development — rather than as a divisive threat to order and stability — and the attraction is pretty clear.

As I’ve stated earlier, my personal beliefs — which tend more to the Universal than the religious — are very much the same and are continuing along the same trajectory of growth and discovery. It’s simply that this is the first time in my life that I’m actively choosing a community and an affiliation. There have been rough patches — dealing with the misunderstandings and sometimes outright prejudice of family and friends — and times when I’ve wondered just what the hell I’m doing. I’ve worried about anti-semitism and don’t yet know my own position on zionism.

But I’m a year into this process now, and I’m still excited about it. So that’s my not-so-brief attempt at an answer this morning.

badges

I was at a press event this morning. All of the official greeters had badges. The public relations people had badges. The designers and fabricators — of the new product being rolled out — had badges. Even the celebrity guests had badges.

You know who didn’t have badges? The members of the press.

Standing around at this event, watching the demonstration and then talking with folks afterwards, I kept thinking of that episode of “The Brady Bunch” where Peter decides to become a reporter, starts calling himself “Scoop” Brady, and sits behind his typewriter with a card reading “PRESS” stuck in the brim of his hat.

Sure, I wasn’t the only member of the press who wasn’t armed with visible credentials. Like I said, you could easily look around the room and identify who was with the media, because we were the only ones there without badges. But I started wondering about making up my own photo ID to be laminated and suspended on the end of a lanyard.

It could say whatever I wanted it to, within reason. I doubt I’d make up something that said, “Jennifer Willis, Pulitzer Prize Winner” or some similar fantasy. But a simple, “Jennifer Willis, Freelance Journalist” — along with a list of my professional memberships and featuring a recent photo — might at least help me feel more official, and might even open some doors for me. (Figurative doors, of course. Even if I put a fake magnetic stripe on the back of my self-created ID badge, I doubt it would get me through even the simplest security system.)

On a more serious note, I remember hearing from my fellow interfaith ministers who were on the scene in the immediate aftermath of the September 11 attacks on New York City. Those who had ID cards identifying them as ministers — even when they had created these cards themselves — were allowed unfettered access to Ground Zero in order to minister to the rescue workers and to the wounded and dying.

If another such tragedy or other momentous event were to arise…. It might not be a bad idea to look into freelance press credentials — to find out if any of the professional organizations I belong to offer such a thing, and/or to consider creating my own.

(And I got all the way to the bottom of this entry without once quoting, “We don’t need no stinking badges!”)

del.icio.us

I’d heard of del.icio.us before, but I’d not looked into it. It wasn’t until another writer recommended the service for keeping track of websites used in research that I decided to give it a whirl.

I’m a research website junkie. For real.

My 2.16 GHz MacBook frequently starts complaining about the huge number of websites I’ll have open at any given time. When I do decide to give it a rest and shut down Firefox, I’ve learned not to be surprised by dialog boxes asking if I really want to close the 83 tabs I have open.

It’s nuts.

I do a lot of research, whether I’m working on an assigned story, digging up facts and figures for a lead or pursuing topics of more personal interest (like a recent search for a decent shrimp and grits recipe that didn’t use cream). Add that to keeping an eye on what’s going on in the world and checking in on professional online forums, and I’ve soon got dozens of websites on my desktop at once.

To reduce the processor load, I had been copying and pasting URLs into blank e-mail windows from time to time, then putting a date and occasionally even an umbrella topic (assuming all the links were related to one another) in the subject field. That helped me save the URLs I wanted to visit later without junking up my bookmarks folder — which, frankly, I never use anyway — but then I ended up with dozens of this URL lists in my Apple Mail Drafts folder.

So I’ve been giving del.icio.us a try this morning, and so far, I like it. If there’s a URL I want to save, I can tag it however I’d like — for instance, assigning "seo," "writing," "blog" and "tips" to a blog entry by Michelle Rafter on "What Freelance Writers Should Know About SEO" — et voila! The URL and my tags are saved to my online del.icio.us account for easy access. No more hogging up my processor memory with vast armies of Firefox tabs. No more (relatively) inefficient URL lists in e-mail drafts.

Excellent! This should be a big help moving forward, in minimizing the number of tabs I have open at any given time and in organizing and keeping track of sites I’d like to revisit for specific purposes.

Of course, now I’m realizing I should go back through my lists of links in those draft messages…. Ugh. Some of them date back nearly four years!

I also finally installed Google Analytics this morning. We’ll see if that ends up proving useful.

mother's day and little baby ducks

This Mother’s Day, I find myself thinking of my son and how different my life would be today had he lived.

He would be 19 this coming August, would be in either his last year of high school or first year of college, and would be getting ready to vote in his first presidential election. I smile when I think of that last opportunity, remembering how excited I was when I was a new voter, casting my absentee ballot for Democrat presidential candidate Michael Dukakis.

It was probably a blessing to everyone that I lost him — in the downstairs bathroom at my parents’ house, in the wee hours of the morning, while I was home on break. I was in an unstable and abusive relationship, and adding a child to the mix would have been a disaster. It was several years before I acknowledged the miscarriage, and now the memory makes me feel both wistful and sad.

Several months ago, I blogged about my childlessness. What I’d not admitted was my fear of trying to have a child — knowing how difficult it would very likely be and the high risk of miscarriage. Losing a pregnancy when I was just a kid myself is one thing; I’m not sure how I’d handle losing a child I wanted and had tried so hard to conceive. It’s not something I’m willing to face without a steady and loving partner, and at 38, I find that time is running short.

This, I believe, is the first Mother’s Day I’ve thought about my own lost motherhood. Before today, I don’t think I’d ever thought about whether a future Mother’s Day might actually belong to me. I don’t think being a “puppy and kitten mama” counts.

The day does, however, belong to my mother, my stepmother, my sister, my friends and many, many others. This will sound silly and sentimental, but I hope the sun is shining down on them all today.

There are some new mothers in my neighborhood, and this morning I’ve seen them out playing with their offspring. I was outside walking a bit ago and happily spied clusters of little ducklings out on the water with their parents, scooting around like tiny, feathered bumper boats. While I stood watching them, a neighbor came running down to the water with his camera, and we discussed different vantage points that would yield the best photos while causing the least intrusion to the duck family outing.

Cruising back to my place, I remembered a song I’d heard on the radio when I was a child:

“I Love,” by Tom Hall

I love little baby ducks, old pick-up trucks, slow-moving trains, and rain
I love little country streams, sleep without dreams, Sunday school in May, and hay
And I love you too

I love leaves in the wind, pictures of my friends, birds in the world, and squirrels
I love coffee in a cup, little fuzzy pups, bourbon in a glass, and grass
And I love you too

I love honest open smiles, kisses from a child, tomatoes on the vine, and onions
I love winners when they cry, losers when they try, music when it's good, and life
And i love you too

Not a bad song for any day of the week, but especially lovely this Mother’s Day. I hope you’re having a good one.

opening day at the farmers market (and the honey puppy)

Today was opening day at the Beaverton Farmers Market. Saturday mornings spent wandering through fresh produce, cut flowers, organic dog treats, nursery trees and locally made treats — all while listening to live music from local performers — is one of my favorite summer activities.

It was a gorgeous day for it, too. These cool, gray, overcast days really appeal to me, and it’s precisely this kind of weather that played a major role in my decision to relocate to Oregon.

This morning, the place was hopping! It wasn’t quite as packed as it gets in July and August when the rows of vendors are choked with people, but things were definitely headed in that direction. There seemed to be more vendors than last year, and I was surprised by the array of goods available this early in the season.

One vendor I’d not seen before was The Happy Barker, whose banner carries the slogan, “Dog is great, dog is good.” I’ll look forward to trying some of their vegan dog treats in the coming weeks — assuming my dog behaves herself in the meantime.

I picked up some herb plants -- 2 oregano plants, catnip, mint and sweet basil ($3/each) -- and bought organic leeks for $2.25/bunch and fresh-cut asparagus for $2.99/pound. I also bought local wildflower honey, to help stave off seasonal allergies.

I stopped by Safeway on the way home to pick up some bath soap and such — and checked out the produce prices. At the grocery store, leeks are about $3/bunch, and asparagus is $3.99/pound, so the farmers market was a real deal: Fresh, local and less expensive.

Of course, after bringing my purchases inside — save for the herb plants — I put away everything but the honey. I ran upstairs to check e-mail and change my shoes, then came back down to find the honey was MIA. I checked the canvas tote I’d carried at the market, the bags from the grocery store, the refrigerator, every place I could think of to locate the missing honey bear.

Then I got a terrible feeling…. I looked over at my husky — the Banshee dog — sitting next to the couch, obviously very pleased with herself. I slowly approached, and soon found the honey, buried in the couch beneath the throw pillows, the cap having been ripped off, honey seeping slowly into the furniture and (new) pillows.

Most of the honey was still in the container, thank goodness, and I think the couch cover can be saved. Who knew huskies like honey?

Later, the Banshee insisted on “helping” me plant to herb starts. Her assistance consisted mostly of dashing around the courtyard trying to steal my gardening tools, barking at me from inside the house and tearing around inside the garage wreaking havoc that I don’t want to examine just yet.