A lot has happened. A couple of weeks after my last post, Andrew dropped off a painting for me. It is more beautiful than I ever imagined and now hangs on my wall. Sadly, Andrew emailed me the other day saying that his scooter was stolen from in front of his house.

Specialand, by Andrew Johnson

We got a new kitten and named him Hugo.

Hugo and Levi. Pretty much inseparable

We had an election, the outcome of which had me in a state of giddy excitement and relief for days.

Then Louise and I spent a week in Baja. A shiny, sparkly, sun-soaked, whale-spotting, margarita-drinking, ocean-dipping, star-gazing week. We had miles of beach pretty much to ourselves every day.

Playa San Pedrito, Baja California Sur

We saw whales spouting and breaching and watched a group of manta rays leaping from the water for an hour. While reason (and wikipedia) suggested this behavior was intended to evade a predator, probably a shark, it appeared to be the manifestation of pure unfettered joy.

A hummingbird had made a nest on one of the fronds of a small palm tree next to the entrance to our room. Every day we had multiple sightings of her and her eggs, which looked exactly like couple of white tic-tacs and one of which hatched on the last day of our stay.

Mama rose-sipper (chupparosa in Mexican Spanish)

Then there were the accommodations themselves, at Rancho Pescadero. We went last year and made reservations to return before coming home. We did the same again this time. I have to try to explain what is so special about this place.

Imagine your grown child is lucky enough to own a small tasteful resort on an empty stretch of beach in Baja. Now imagine you go for a week’s visit. Your child (the owner) is away at the time. The staff want to make a good impression, but in a low-key way. They want word to get back to their boss that you were treated like royalty but never that they were sucking up to boss’s mom. You feel pretty special until you notice that everyone else is getting the royal treatment too. That’s when you know your child has built something amazing and you are so proud you could spit.

THAT IS WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE A GUEST THERE. They discover a new winery and want you to have a taste of the best bottle. A fresh fish is brought to the kitchen and they want you to see it, wondering if you would like it cooked for your dinner. Didn’t bring sunscreen? Help yourself; there’s plenty by the pool, along with towels, magazines, fans and bags so you can carry all of this a hundred yards to the beach. Off for a visit to a beach down the way? They will load your car up with everything you need. Trouble with your rental car? They’ll take care of it. Want to surf? Fish? Have dinner by a fire pit on the ocean? Done. They have thought of everything.

View from our room

It’s hard to pry yourself away from that kind of pampering but, after a week, the time had come to say goodbye. I was among a small group of people waiting in the reception area to check out when I noticed a young couple standing shyly off to the side. They caught the attention of Carlos, the employee, and inquired about the room rate.

“Rooms start at 200 a night,” he told them.

“Dollars?” the young man asked, shaking his head. He and the young woman conferred briefly, then asked if they could just go to the beach. “This access is for guests only, but there is another entrance down the way,” explained Carlos. As they walked slowly away I imagined how I would feel in their shoes. And I was caught off guard by a flood of memories from my own travels almost 40 years ago.

After my first year of college, barely 18 and still reeling from my father’s sudden death, I set off by myself to South America. I wasn’t sure what I would do there or how long I would stay but I knew I needed to get away. I wanted to run as far and fast as I could from the life I knew. My playful, generous and loving father was gone forever and had left me to fend for myself. My mother, scared and needy, was already remarried to a round jolly man so unlike my dad that it made my head spin.

I had some connections scattered across the continent, including one good friend. The others were laughably tenuous: a sort of friend of a friend, the cousin of an acquaintance, a friend of my Spanish professor’s sister – basically strangers whose names and addresses scrawled on scraps of paper I carried with me everywhere.

I also carried with me my entire fortune of $500 in traveller’s checks. This had to cover all my expenses while I was gone as well as my eventual plane ticket home.

At one point, I stayed with a family in Lima, Peru, for a few weeks (somehow related to a favorite high school teacher with whom I had remained in contact). Cecilia, an architecture student, was about my age. I got to know some of her classmates and one of them gave me the name of his uncle who lived in Arequipa, where I was headed next. He didn’t know his uncle’s phone number but said I would be able to find him when I got there.

I arrived at the dusty bus station and found a phone book. The man’s name and number was listed and he answered the phone, telling me to come right over when I explained why I was calling. It was a short walk from the station and the whole family was waiting for me outside the tiny house when I arrived. The mother welcomed me warmly, giving me one hug after another. She looked me up and down, smiling and holding me at arm’s length as if I were her long lost daughter.

“Tell me again?” she said in Spanish. “De parte de quien?” Who sent you?

It turns out they had no relatives in Lima and had never heard of the boy I knew; it was the wrong family. No matter. They fed me dinner and apologized profusely that they had no room for me to stay. A few blocks away was a place where I could rent a room for a dollar a night. I stayed a few days and had all my meals with the family.

Before I left town I did find the uncle. He picked me up in his car and showed me where he lived: a huge modern house on a hilltop. He wouldn’t let me go inside but took me to his country club so I could take a shower.

The $500 lasted me six months. I felt strong and brave as well as small and vulnerable and alone. Sometimes I forgot that I would never have a father again, and that my mother had a strange new life I didn’t recognize or feel a part of. Some weeks I wandered the streets of unfamiliar towns, staring through the glass of restaurant windows as people ate and drank. Their safe and comfortable world felt as distant to me as the college dorm room I had left thousands of miles behind.

To say that I relied on the kindness of strangers would be a vast understatement. People showed me the sights, fed me, took an interest in me, welcomed me into their homes, gave me warm clothes when it got cold, cheered me up, tided me over when my traveller’s checks were stolen, gave me helpful advice and suggested I stop smoking. And that’s just for starters.

Peru, 1976

Rancho Pescadero is a mile down a very rough dirt road and I figured the young couple must have a vehicle as I watched the pair of them trudge off toward the parking area. I deliberated with myself briefly, then knew what I had to do and took off after them.

Sure enough, they had a car with a “Thrifty” sticker on it . They were just getting in as I got close enough to call out, “Excuse me!” The guy turned around. “We’re just going to the beach,” he explained, as if I were coming to chase them off the property.

“I heard you asking about the rate,” I said. “Yes, we can’t afford it,” he admitted. “I know,” I said. “I’d like to pay for one night for you. It’s a wonderful place!”

They were wary. Confused. “But why?” the woman asked. “I’m not comfortable with this,” the man declared. I was laughing but I could feel tears starting to spring up. “Think of it as a gift,” I said. “Everyone should have a night in paradise!”

They were dumbfounded, struck speechless. Then the man said they could pay half. “Let me do this for you,” I pleaded. “I’ll meet you at the reception area. I hope you do it.”

I wasn’t sure if they would take off in a panic as I made my way back to where Louise was waiting with our luggage. “I did something kind of crazy,” I confessed, telling her the story. She was fine with it –happy, in fact – as I knew she would be.

Then there they came, walking toward me. The man had his wallet out and was holding a credit card. “We’re going to pay for it,” he announced. “No, you’re not!” I countered.

They looked happy and healthy and clearly had their wits about them. They had a rental car and a credit card. They probably had little in common with me as the dirty, hungry traveling girl of all those years ago. I was struck by how solidly I now inhabit the safe and secure world I once found so out of reach.

I stepped up to the counter and handed over my credit card. I said I was paying for their room and we all hugged. They told me they are visiting from France and had been traveling for a month. “We just don’t know what to say,” said Lucie. “We don’t understand why you are doing this,” said Ben.

“When you’re older you’ll be able to do things like this too,” I said. “I hope so!” said Ben earnestly. “We will never forget this. Did someone do something like this for you?”

I was trying my best not to cry. “Many times,” I managed to say. “So many times.”

Today is the holiday of Rosh Hashanah – the start of the Jewish New Year – and a time of deepening reflection. It’s a time to ponder the sweetness of life, acknowledge our own imperfection and mortality, and to be immersed in memories. It was a perfect day to make a gift in honor of my mother.

I headed off walking down Broadway thinking I’d do a little window shopping, get a cup of coffee, and maybe encounter my next recipient. I hadn’t gotten too far when a man in a shirt and tie (and semi-snazzy hat) came out of a doorway and almost walked right into me. “Is there a Goodwill around here?” he asked. I took note of his frail frame stooped over a walker and am sure the concern crept into my voice. “There is, down this way. But it’s quite a few blocks.”

He appeared undeterred and fell into step beside me, pushing his walker along. I must admit, he was surprisingly spry. He commented that my glasses made me look intelligent. “I bet your IQ is at least 117,” he surmised. “Oh, I bet you say that to all the girls,” I joshed. Inside, I was wondering if I had found my guy (or, rather if he had found me). “That was sure easy,” I thought to myself.

“How are you today?” I asked him. “I’m great!” he said with a wide grin. “Quadrilateral!” Somehow, this made sense.

“I’d like to tell you a little about myself,” my new friend continued. He said he was a writer, lives in a nice apartment and gets VA benefits as a result of serving 22 days in the military decades ago. He asked my name and, when I said it was Jill, he said, “I’m a Jack!” He spun around to show me his hatband.

Jack and Jill. I get it.

Then it started to get strange. He told me he is a prophet and knows more than anyone I have ever met. “Anyone?” I wondered. “Yes, anyone,” he insisted. He said that all men are soon to become slaves and have their “asses kicked” by women. He started quoting the bible at length. We must have been quite the pair. As we passed people sitting outside cafes and restaurants, they looked at me and smiled. A few winked.

Finally we could see Goodwill a few blocks ahead and I pointed it out to him, bidding him goodbye and starting to cross to the other side of the street. He was a little hard to shake. He followed me across and started asking personal questions. I didn’t want to be rude and was relieved when eventually he rolled along.

Off to Goodwill

I must admit, it set me back a bit. It’s not the first time I launched headlong into a conversation and had to pull myself out by the hair. It’s never fun, though, and it makes me wary. By now I was sitting outside Peet’s with my coffee. I looked at everybody a little suspiciously, and felt annoyed by those responsible for the cigarette smoke wafting by. A dreary self-doubt threatening my mood, I  got up and started walking east toward home.

I passed one of my favorite shops and decided to pop in to take a look. Sometimes I am lucky to find something really cute and in my size. It was such a day and I found something adorable. You will see me wearing it soon. I also picked out a pair of earrings for Louise. A lady can never have too many.

The cashier was ringing up my purchases when a tall man in a motorcycle helmet appeared. He asked the woman behind the counter if she would like to buy any CDs, unzipping a backpack and showing his wares. “Sorry, I don’t have any money,” she professed (her hand on the cash drawer). The guy was all smiles beneath his outsized helmet.

“Is it your own music?” I asked. “I have some of that, too,” he said, pulling out some CDs and laying them on the counter. I was intrigued by his upbeat attitude and somehow wanted to atone for the store employee’s cool reception. “Once I finish up here I’d like to know more,” I said.

The label on the CD said his name was Andrew Johnson, aka Irealization. I followed him outside into the sun.

He told me he writes music, does vocals and plays drums. He’s a painter too. I bought two of his original CDs.

Then I said I had a gift I wanted to pass on to him. I told him my mom had died two years ago and I was honoring her this way. “I hope you’ll accept this,” I said, handing him the hundred. “Oh, wow, I’ve never taken anything like this!” he said. “I would like to give you some more CDs,” he urged, opening the backpack again. “No, really,” I said. “No strings attached!”

We stood there in the beautiful day, talking like old friends. “That must be a hard way to make a living,” I observed. He admitted it could be tough at times but that he was getting by. “The hardest part is expenses with my van – about $300 every month in gas, just driving around town!” We agreed that there must be better ways to provide energy – ways that would cost less and be healthier for everyone. He looked up toward the sky and the tall buildings down the street. “If we fill the place with as much solar panels as we can and use the sun as our main source of energy – the sun won’t get smaller and it won’t shine less! The wind is the same; we can fill many areas with wind mill and it won’t use up the wind and prevent the wind from blowing. Oil and coal are limited resources that can be used up and the less we have while a lot of people are dependent upon it the more expensive it will be.” I said I agreed with him.

He said I could take his picture and put it on the blog. He took off his helmet.

Andrew aka Irealization

His scooter was parked at the curb and I admired it. Andrew said he had ridden it to Eugene and back on just $6 in gas. It only goes about 30 mph and the trip had taken him five hours each way, but it was worth it.

The gas-sipper!!

Shortly after I arrived home I got an email from Andrew. He attached a soundtrack entitled “Today Is a Day For Everyone” – a song about peace, renewal and how we are all connected. He also sent a photo of one of his paintings. He said he would like to give me this painting. Wow! I can’t wait.

Dear Andrew. Thank you. May your tank always be full.

Yesterday I was in the vicinity of Voodoo Donuts and the flood of need nearly drowned me. On every corner there were people lying on the ground. The sidewalks were filled with rag-tag wanderers, and people were panhandling from anywhere they could perch. One relatively clear-eyed guy asked me for a dollar for the bus. “Can you help me out with a dollar? I want to see my girlfriend before she leaves for work.” I took out my wallet and he said, “I think it’s two dollars for the bus.” “Do you already have one dollar?” I asked. “No,” he admitted. I had a single and some change that I handed over. The hundred was burning a hole in my pocket.

Backpacks and sleeping bags were everywhere

At one corner, there was a young couple camped out on the sidewalk. The woman looked at me blearily and said, “Ma’am? Do you have anything you can give me? Anything?”

I didn’t find a home for my hundred. Too much need, too many people. I was overwhelmed.

Today, as I was setting out to meet a friend for breakfast, I tucked the bill into my pocket again. I forgot about it as we chatted away while we ate and then walked together a few blocks to where she had a meeting. She wasn’t wearing the best shoes for walking, and the blocks were long. As has happened before, she was a little late.

As I headed back to my car, I approached a bus stop and noticed a young woman waiting alone. Something about her caught my eye and I remembered my pocket full of happy just waiting to be set free. I stopped, then said hello and asked how she was doing. She said something about the weather and how it was such a nice day it was almost a pleasure to have to wait for the bus. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a man crossing the street purposefully. In a few steps he was with us, pacing back and forth.

I asked the woman if I could talk to her for a minute, gesturing for her to follow me a few steps away from the man and another guy who had just arrived. She smiled and came willingly. “What’s up?” she asked.

I told her that I was giving away a gift and that I wanted her to have it. “Well, what is it?” she asked pleasantly. I pulled the hundred out of my pocket and handed it to her. “It’s a hundred dollars,” I said.

“Oh! Wow! I… can I…?” She reached out shyly and gave me a big hug. She said her name was Ren. I told her the gift was in honor of my mom and she had a lot of questions. Was my mom still alive? Had I done this before? How often? Why?

Ren

She soaked it all in, shaking her head. “This is so cool,” she said. “It really makes me want to do the whole ‘pay it forward’ thing. It’s really amazing!”

She said maybe she would treat some friends to lunch. She’s heard of things like this but never experienced it firsthand. I could see her mind working; trying to figure out how to honor the gift and my intention. She was lovely.

I could see the bus approaching and knew I wouldn’t get all my questions answered. She was heading downtown to work. “I love the key,” I said and she let me snap a quick photo as the bus pulled up. Then she was gone.

Keep your eye out for her. She’s the lovely one. With a giant key around her neck.

Ren’s key

Just a couple of blocks away on a one-way street, a woman in the car next to me started to merge into my lane at a pretty good clip. I leaned on the horn and yanked the wheel over to the right as she flew by, so close I thought for sure she had scraped the side of my car. I honked the horn a few extra times for good measure just to show her how pissed I was. It didn’t help; I just got madder than ever.

Then I nearly crossed paths with a man coming off the ramp of the Morrison Bridge who had turned the wrong way down 2nd Avenue. I honked at him, waving my arms in a futile attempt to communicate his error. I watched him slowly travel the entire miraculously empty block in the wrong direction, then finally turn the corner.

Sheesh. I found myself slipping into a funk. “Now, stop that,” I said to myself. “You have no business going there. No business at all.” I had to admit, though, there was a certain amount of bad vibiness in the air. I decided to do something about it.

I found an empty parking place and pulled over. I checked my pocket to make sure the hundred was still there. The sun had come out and it was becoming a beautiful day. Over in the park people where cycling, running, playing frisbee; what a Portland scene.

Some young people were sitting on the grass, deep in conversation. One guy with a backpack had an orange kitten on his shoulder. So cute, I thought. The kitten was just sitting there. It could have run off but chose to stay with this lovely fellow. The guy shifted his weight and I saw that the kitten was on a leash. Then the guy reached back, grabbed the kitten by the scruff of the neck and put its nose right up to his face. There was something so mean – almost savage – about the guy’s demeanor. I felt slightly ill and watched for a moment, wondering whether to go over there and say something to him. Maybe steal the kitten and take it home.

The moment passed and I decided to clear out of there. It occurred to me that maybe I was the one heading one way the wrong way. Everything just felt “off”.

It was around one o’clock and lots of people were scurrying about. I walked by the food carts. People seemed to be mostly in pairs, or else talking on the phone or texting. Finally a woman appeared, walking straight toward me. She was alone. I stepped out to catch up with her as she walked past. “Excuse me, are you in a hurry right now?” I asked her. “I’m on lunch,” she explained. “Well, do you have just a minute?” I asked. “Maybe a quick one,” she answered. And she stopped walking.

I told the woman that I was giving away a gift and wondered if she might be willing to accept it. “Well, could I see it first?” she wondered. That made me smile. “Here you go!” I said, pulling the bill from my pocket.

“Oh.” She stared. “Is that real?” I chuckled and promised that it was. “Oh, my,” she said. “I don’t know…”

“You can use it, right?” I asked. “Well, of course I can!” she exclaimed. She reached out and shook my hand. “My name is Alice.” Then she looked me in the eye and said shyly, “Can I give you a hug?”

She gave me a big hug and I asked her if she knew what she might do with the money. “Some bills gonna get paid!” she said with a laugh. Then, “My daughter’s birthday is coming up. You understand what I’m saying?” She reached out and hugged me again.

Alice

“Thank you so much,” she said, shaking her head. “I’ve heard about things like this happening, but I never…”

She was still smiling and shaking her head as we said goodbye. I watched her wait for the light, then cross the street.

That’s not the problem. The need is everywhere. It’s overwhelming, in fact. But I feel timid. Cowed. Disheartened.

“Maybe I’m done,” I’ve wondered to myself. Maybe I’m all gived out.

Wherever I go, I feel the presence of the people I’ve connected with. I was downtown today and had my eyes out for Lincoln. I walked by the spot where I listened to Timothy play his fiddle, and where I stood waiting for the eleventh person to pass by.

There was a sprinkling of suited men, and women in heels balancing plastic cups of iced coffee and swinging shopping bags. Everyone else seemed down and out: ragged, tired, empty.

So many signs asking for help.

I crossed Director Park (where I met Berta) and started to hear music – lovely acoustic guitar music. When had we started piping music in to the MAX stops? So Portland! I thought.

Then I caught sight of a small man sitting on a folding chair as a line of a song drifted over: “Does anyone know where the love of God goes when the waves turn the minutes to hours?”

It was the Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald by Gordon Lightfoot. I wandered closer, drawn in by the man’s guitar playing, his sonorous voice and the classic old song.

When he was done playing, the man stood up and stretched. “Hey, that was real nice,” I said. “Not too loud?” he asked. “I saw a couple of women walk away cause they were trying to make a phone call. Does it seem too loud?”

I said I didn’t think so and that I really liked his playing. He told me his name was Bob. “Bob the Busker. That’s what they call me!” It wasn’t hard to get him to open up. He said he’d always loved music as a hobby but now it was his livelihood. “I injured my back in ’89 and haven’t been able to do any of my trades since then.”

He listed a dozen things he used to do, among them construction, logging, and parks maintenance. “It caught up with me. I ruptured three discs picking up a piece of newspaper.”

Bob the Busker

Bob said he has a lot of friends who play on the street, and that he’s done some gigs with Timothy. He told me about the back pain and how he tries to cope with it. He’s got a real nice 12 string guitar that’s too heavy for him to carry on days like today, when his sciatica is acting up.

I had a hundred in my pocket (it’s been there for weeks) and I rubbed my fingers over it while we talked. His open case held a few singles and a five.

“So, hey,” I said finally. “I have something I want to give you. I hope it helps you out a little.” I put the hundred in his hand.

“Oh, wow,” he said quietly. “I never had anything bigger than a twenty.” He pulled out his wallet and tucked the bill inside as he told me a rather long story about a Norwegian woman who had given him twenty dollars once because she recognized him as a fellow Norwegian. “My eyes, I guess,” he shrugged.

“Play me a song,” I urged. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you! I’ll never forget you. You know John Prine?” Then he sat down and sang this song.

So if you’re walking down the street sometime
And spot some hollow ancient eyes,
Please don’t just pass ‘em by and stare
As if you didn’t care. Say, “Hello in there.

Hello.”

A few months ago I started thinking about making a change in my job. I’ve been a physician with the same large health system for 18 years. I’ve enjoyed my colleagues, practiced good medicine and, especially, loved my patients. I’ve been paid well and able to work less than full time. I spent time with our kids as they were growing up and, more recently, on volunteer work in the community.

Once I started considering a change, the idea kind of got a hold of me. Louise kept encouraging me to take some time off, maybe write that book I’ve been hinting at (something to do with giving hundred dollar bills to strangers). She showed me spreadsheets and account statements, reassuring me that we would be okay financially. “Life is short; be happy,” she reminded me at least once a day. As a hospice physician, she knows this better than many.

So I did it. I gave my 90-day notice 92 days ago, and Friday was my last day. I feel extraordinarily lucky to be able to make this choice when so many people are struggling to get by and working multiple jobs or unable to find work at all. I have a lot of mixed emotions, ranging from guilt to giddiness to a morbid sense that my life is nearing its end. I worry that my cheapskate-ness will creep on back since I don’t have a paycheck coming in.

I’ll still be doctoring at the free clinic, but this old friend will be on reduced duty for a while. I’ve had this stethoscope since medical school – almost 30 years.

It’s been a pretty normal weekend, except I don’t have to set the alarm tomorrow. That feels very strange indeed. In a few days I’m making a trip east to rendezvous with a dear friend I haven’t seen for 25 years. The record-setting heat wave seems to have passed, but it’s going to be more hot and humid than I am really prepared for.

In search of a couple of warm-weather clothing items, this afternoon I headed to Beaumont Village – a part of town I don’t get to much. Gazelle is a lovely store which has beautiful natural fiber clothing, much of which is made in the USA. It’s on the pricey side but they were having an anniversary sale which would help a little.

I forgot about the consignment store down the block and that’s where I stopped first. A young woman was helping another customer when I walked in. I couldn’t see her but could hear her patiently explaining the consignment policy and cheerfully encouraging the woman to look around. I got closer and she turned her attention to me with an indulgent smile. She took my items and hung them in a dressing room, then seemed genuinely pleased when I found something that worked. She was so adorable and so sweet; I couldn’t help but think it was slightly incongruous that she had so many piercings, tattoos and dreadlocks.

Next I headed to Gazelle, where I proceeded to try on a veritable mountain of clothing. Most of it was awful on me, for reasons I don’t need to elaborate on. I decided to go with a tee shirt and a cotton wrap/sweater thing. When I got to the counter, there was the woman from the consignment store. “Oh!” we both said, laughing. I was inexplicably happy to see her again. I mentioned that I had tried on a lot of stuff. “Well,” she said matter-of-factly, “Sometimes you just need to start with a pile.” She got my purchases rung up, gently cajoled me into signing up for the store mailing list, and we said our goodbyes.

I had a hundred in my pocket and was determined to find it a home. Down the block in front of the grocery store I saw a woman and her daughter picking out a bouquet of flowers. I peeked in at them as they went inside and browsed through the greeting cards, then I stepped inside. Their next stop was a selection of cakes and I watched as they discussed the options, smiling and laughing. Whatever the occasion was, it seemed like a happy one.

I had decided to approach them with the gift and was about to make my move when I heard someone say, “Oh! Hi again!” right behind me. It was the woman from the store. Our eyes met and we both laughed in recognition. Then she went over to look at the avocados.

It seemed that a change in plans was in order. I stepped over to the woman and made a comment about seeing her three times. “I’m giving away a gift today and it just feels like I’m meant to give it to you.” She held my gaze, as sweet as ever but a bit puzzled.

I explained a little more about giving gifts in my mother’s honor and, finally, I held out the hundred. “Oh!” she gasped. “That is just the most grand gift ever, but I cannot take it! No! That is just too much!” I encouraged her but was getting nowhere. “A couple of dollars, maybe, but that? No way! I don’t think I am worthy of such a gift!” She laughed, turning her head away.

I’m not quite sure how I accomplished it, but eventually I did convince her. She have me a big long hug and told me her name is Alex. She’s an artist and does drawing and painting as well as working in the shops and doing some housecleaning. When I told her I hoped she used the money for something fun, she shook her head just a bit. “Oh, this – this is meant to be spread.”

Alex said I could take her photo and that maybe we could get one of the two of us. I saw someone I knew in the store and she snapped our picture, then disappeared before I could say thank you.

Me and Alex

Yes, Louise is right. Life is short. And grand.

They are helpful but not always around when you need them

I think I walked about 40 miles. First I did my shopping, including a few items from the frozen food section. I’ve gotten behind on my giving but was determined to give a gift today. I wandered around for a while, pushing my cart. All kinds of opportunities came and went for a variety of reasons. I started panicking about my frozen stuff and decided to put it back into the freezer and park my cart so I could wander unfettered. Then there was another few miles of walking.

I was thinking I might indulge in one of my favorite treats: fresh carrot juice. Since I lost my sense of small and taste (flavor, actually) I have come to really enjoy carrot juice. If I close my eyes, I can imagine that the sweet creaminess is a milkshake. I started drinking it a lot. So much, in fact, that my skin began to take on an orange hue – as if I had overdone it with the sunless tanner. So I decided to cut back.

I think my skin is starting to return to its normal shade of pale. It has been over a week since I last indulged, and I discovered that my favorite brand (Columbia Gorge – it’s the best) was on sale at Freddy’s.

All out!

Carrot juice is pretty popular stuff and, alas, it was all gone. Probably for the best. A woman browsing the juices pointed out the quart size bottle and I felt compelled to explain to her that I couldn’t buy that: I was on restriction and would be tempted to drink too much. “Good luck!” she offered, backing away.

A few more trips back and forth across the store and I could feel my calf muscles thriving. As it turns out, flip flops are not the best choice for such an endurance event. But I was determined not to give up.

A young couple in the toy section caught my eye. They were clearly looking for something as they headed down first one aisle and then another.

They were on the move

Then they split up to head down separate aisles, and I tried to make conversation with the man. I made a comment about how hard it was to find anything right now, and he agreed politely. The woman came along and brushed past me. Not so friendly. I let them go.

Back on the other side of the store, I ran into a friend and we chatted for a while. If she thought it was weird that I didn’t have a cart or any groceries, she didn’t mention it. As we said goodbye, I saw the young couple again. I decided to give it another shot.

“Excuse me!” I said, stepping up to them. “I’ve been kind of following you around the store!” “Why?” asked the woman. I beckoned that they follow me into an empty aisle. She was very skeptical. “I have something I want to give to you,” I explained.

“What is it?” she asked, clearly not won over by my charm. “Don’t worry,” I reassured her. “I know it seems strange.”

“It does seem strange,” she agreed, glancing at the man and toward the end of the aisle, as if to make sure she had a ready escape. I pulled the hundred out of my pocket and held it out to her. “It’s this. I want you to have it. I’m giving it away in honor of my mom.”

I felt the seconds pass in slow motion. Her eyes widened and a big smile lit up her face. “But…why? This is too much, really, this is way too generous.”  The man chimed in, agreeing that it was too much. “I don’t know if we can take that.”

Daniel and Elizabeth

They told me their names and Elizabeth reached out to me. “Can I get a hug?” she asked. Then I saw Daniel wiping his eyes. “We really are struggling right now. This is a huge blessing.”

Daniel works in a restaurant and Elizabeth teaches yoga. They are barely getting by and neither of them have health insurance. “Just stay healthy; that’s our plan!” admitted Elizabeth.

Elizabeth let me take this photo of her arm

We talked for a few minutes, then I hiked back over to where I had left my cart and collected my frozen items. There they were. “I’m following you again!” I teased. Daniel fell into step with me and asked me more about what I was doing and why. “Really,” he said, “I can’t tell you how much of a help this is. It really means a lot to us.”

I am crossing my fingers for their continued good health. And lots more good luck.

Some people seem to be surprised (and offended) when life intrudes on their plans for a perfect day. I’m like that myself sometimes. It’s not cool to be all entitled. But it’s really sad to expect nothing but crap from life. I get why some people feel this way but it breaks my heart.

I’m most at peace when I can take it all in stride – the “good” and the “bad” (when you take it in stride, it stops being “good” or “bad”, see? It just is). I’ve had a few moments in the past 50+ years when I’ve actually found this place. At least, I think so. My memory isn’t what it used to be.

I have lunch once a month with a dear friend. We have a kind of running joke because I am compulsively punctual and she is a recovering latenik. Meaning she is usually on time (ish) but she has to really work at it. In the dozens of times we have met, there have been maybe one or two when she arrived first. A couple of months ago she was thrilled to find herself waiting for me. As the minutes ticked by, her triumph shifted into curiosity and then concern. She checked her calendar and realized she was at the wrong location, and at least 15 minutes away from where she was supposed to be. She was going to be late. Really late.

We had a date this week and I arrived in plenty of time. Early enough that I figured I had time to run two blocks to the library, where I had a book ready for pick-up. I rounded the corner and saw, across the street, what looked like a big pile of blankets. A woman was crouched down next to it and few people were standing nearby.

Almost in slow motion, the picture came together in my head. There were two legs, in braces. It wasn’t a pile of blankets at all. It was a person. She was still strapped into her scooter and lying sideways on the pavement.

As I ran over I could hear the woman crying. I asked if she was hurt and her friend said maybe she had hurt her arm. “We can’t lift this scooter! I just called 911,” she said. “They should be here soon.”

I kneeled down and took the woman’s hand. I asked if we could take the blanket off her lap and put it under her head, which her friend was holding up off the pavement. “NO!” she yelled. Then she started to howl. “I fell down when I was a little girl and I’ve always been afraid of falling!” she sobbed. She clutched my hand.

We heard the sirens approaching and the woman’s friend told her that help was almost there. “You’re going to be okay,” she soothed. Sure enough, they were there within another minute and the paramedics were getting to work. The woman was squeezing my hand so tightly I had to pry her fingers loose. Carefully, gently, I broke our connection. I never even saw her face.

The whole thing had taken just a few minutes. I ran into the library, checked out my book as fast as I could, then trotted back toward the cafe. The woman was still lying in the street, but they had gotten her free of the scooter. My friend was just getting out of her car and grinned as she saw me approaching.

I’ll remember the woman for a long time – how she found some comfort in the familiar warmth of an outstretched hand, even that of a perfect stranger. She allowed me to feel helpful by doing the simplest thing in the world. I wasn’t using my hand right then so letting her borrow it was hardly an act of heroism. If I’d taken off my jacket to put under her head, that would have been good. But I didn’t think of it till later.

I made my first visit to the local farmer’s market today. It was packed, as usual. Still mostly greens, onions, plant starts and root vegetables but no one seemed to mind.

I made a few loops around and bought a couple of cucumber starts; that was it. We’ve got a ton of lettuce in the garden and nothing else really inspired me.

I passed a bus stop on the way back to the car. There was a man talking on his phone, pacing back and forth in front of the bench. He had a cane hanging from one arm and was holding a cigarette and a lighter in the other hand. Every few minutes he’d light the cigarette, take a drag, and then put it out. I could hear every word of his side of the conversation.

“So, what I’m gonna do is I’m gonna get on the 77 and take it down Broadway. Then I’ll hop on the 9 and take that downtown. Maybe I’ll stop at the Goodwill there on Broadway cause that’s where I make the change. Uh hunh, yeah.” There was a pause and I could hear a woman’s voice coming from the old style flip phone.

“If you want,” he continued, “maybe we could go to that big Goodwill down there. Say hi to that guy. And that girl with the pretty hair. She’s always asking about you. Uh hunh, okay. Yeah, I’m waiting for the bus now.”

I contemplated signaling to the guy to hang up so I could have a word with him. I did it to Dylan a few months back, but today it just seemed rude. I snuck a picture of him when he had his back turned.

We were both watching for the bus, except I was hoping it wouldn’t come for a while. Then there it was, and the guy started winding up his call. “Okay, here’s my bus, I gotta go.”

For a second I thought about moving on. Then I pulled the hundred I had stashed in my pocket and got the guy’s attention. “Hey, I know your bus is here but before you go I have something I want to give you.” I pushed the bill into his hand and got a good look at his face for the first time. “Wha… what’s this for?” he wondered. “It’s for you; I hope you have a great day!” I said. The bus had pulled up and was waiting but he wasn’t making any move toward getting on. “Wow, I don’t know what to say! I just really appreciate this.”

“Go!” I said, with a laugh. “It’s my pleasure!” He shook his head, smiling, and climbed up the stairs. I thought I saw a twinkle in the driver’s eye.

As the bus pulled away, The guy gave me a big wave. I could feel it even after he was gone. He was shaking his head. And wondering.

Louise wanted to get a hanging flower basket so we walked down to Fred Meyer together. The store is undergoing a major re-organization, which mostly seems like a ploy to get shoppers to wander far and wide.

Where is everything??

I got a little behind on my giving last week and was determined to take advantage of this opportunity. I also thought maybe I could make someone’s Mother’s Day a little bit sweeter with a hundred dollar gift.

I had my eye out for a mother and daughter. Or maybe a pregnant woman. I watched a man carrying a bouquet of flowers to the check stand. Lots of kids with dads. As I swung by the meat case, I heard two women talking. “Mine was medium well,” the older one was saying. “And it was just like butter. Melted in my mouth!” “Maybe we should throw it on the grill,” suggested the younger of the two.

I was at the other end of the store when I saw them again. They were still laughing and talking. “Excuse me!” I said. The younger woman looked at me questioningly as she brought their shopping cart to a halt. “Are you mother and daughter?” I asked.

They nodded, glancing at each other. I wished them Happy Mother’s Day and they smiled. I said I was passing on a gift in honor of my mom, who had died two years ago. I had their attention but they weren’t sure what to make of me. “Would you accept a gift today?”

“Yes!” exclaimed the mother. I put the bill in her hand. “Oh, thank you! That is SO NICE!” The daughter reached over and hugged me, and then they both had their arms around me. The mom kissed me, right on the cheek. “That is just wonderful,” she said.

A nice surprise

We talked for a few minutes, then I got another hug. Betty had some words for me. “Think about your mother today. In a good way.”

“I know you are,” she went on. “She’s smiling down on you. Because you’ve blessed someone else!”

Happy Mother’s Day!

Betty and Jo

I was near the checkout at Sears yesterday and a woman and her daughter caught my eye. I said hello and made a little small talk. The girl was very shy and would barely meet my glance. She said she was 9 years old and almost smiled when I noticed that she is on track to be taller than her mom within a year or two. “She has a great-grandmother who was six foot six!” her mother chimed in.

When we parted ways, they were sifting through the sale racks of purses. Everything was marked way down, up to 50%. As I saw the two of them approach the checkout I was thinking maybe I’d catch up with them on their way out and make my gift.

It was taking a long time and I got a little closer so I could hear what was going on. What a busybody! I heard the cashier saying something about how they had to make a payment or else they could “break the contract.” “Something something layaway.”

I couldn’t really tell what was going on, but it was taking a long time to sort out. People were lined up at the checkout and another cashier stepped in to help. The woman and her daughter stood there stoically while the cashier called her manager. I heard her say, “I have to run your card again. It won’t let me just take the payment. It keeps asking for the full amount.”

I’m not even sure now if they were buying something or just trying to make a payment on another item. But it was exhausting. The minutes ticked by. A manager came over, more officious than helpful. I was supposed to meet Louise and I was going to be late but I was determined now to give them the week’s hundred.

Finally something worked out and the two of them stepped away from the checkout, walking hand in hand toward the exit. I caught up with them and asked to have another word. The mom looked at me with a tired smile. “Yes?” she asked.

I explained that I was paying forward a gift in honor of my mother. The woman looked puzzled. “You want to buy us something?” I took the bill from my pocket and held it out. “No, I want you to have this.”

“Oh! Really? You sure? We’re okay!” she reassured me. Somehow, I convinced her to take it and she thanked me. “I certainly can use it. What’s your name?” she asked me.

They weren’t keen on having their faces photographed. The woman asked some questions about my mom and said her own mother was in the hospital. The little girl watched us, eyes darting away each time I looked at her.

We were standing in front of a display of kids’ watches. They were on sale too. The woman said her daughter had wanted one. “But I told her I didn’t have any money. Now you can pick one out, honey pie.”

Disney? Or Hello Kitty? That was the question.