Blog Posts - L.J. Zinkand

Happy To Agree

9/17/2019

In the Medford Mail Tribune Letters to the Editor, Sept. 17:

Happy to agree
Thank you, Carl F. Worden, for your letter of Sept. 8 regarding open carry. I’m so happy we agree on something! Nothing screams “I’m compensating” louder than a guy packing heat in a grocery store or a restaurant. Plus, my dad taught me how to shoot a .22 when I was 10, so not all us liberals want to overturn the 2nd Amendment — it’s the assault rifle thing that’s a bit extreme.
I bet our factions might agree on other things, too. Perhaps we could put our heads together to set term limits for Congress, or work to end their lifetime salaries and Cadillac healthcare once they leave office.
It’s worth a try.

LJ Zinkand
Medford

Ever since I could talk, I've used my Mom's colloquialism of "us kids," or in this case, "us liberals." People have corrected me, but like the expression "you guys," I can't seem to shake it. I have, however, stopped calling our refrigerator the "icebox."

Five Year Check-In

9/12/2019

This marks the 5-year anniversary of The Great Fall of 2014.
Long story short, today I picked up my newly sharpened chains from Crater Chain Saw (which I refer to as “The Toy Store”) before heading to the gym for a fast and furious workout. ’Nuff said. Physically, I’m over it in a big way.
But karma can be so opportunistic. My accident prompted a much-needed, deep cleanse of things about my life that weren’t really working, although I tried to remain painfully loyal for as long as I could. Do I appreciate it? Sure, I guess. Parts of it were really ugly. Made me feel a bit like Dorothy in Oz while strong opinions, armchair psychology and “You Need Tos” swirled around me like litter on a windy day. I was incapacitated. Wayne was apparently too compromised mentally, to care for me in a way others felt best (even though he cheerfully put on my compression stocking every morning, pushed my then-hefty body up the walkway after doctors’ visits, and assisted with the various contractors). Our kitchen was down to its studs.

“Meh,” I shrugged, attaching insulation in the kitchen from my wheelchair. The paint job I completed from the wheelchair could use a few touch-ups, but it still holds up. I actually had fun doing these things while listening to The Moth Radio Hour and playing movie favorites like Contact and Trading Places. Back then our house was in more trouble than I was. I wouldn’t be deserting it, or my husband.
Sometimes working through tragedy with a headstrong attitude helps, although it may just be a Taurean thing. Or having toughed out many storms on a boat in my youth. Or, if you’re into the Enneagram, a 6 thing. I've dabbled in this art for years and always identified as a 6 (the Loyalist).

Five years later, all things considered, I've decided to shift myself from a 6 with a strong 7 wing to a 7 (enthusiastic, epicurean) with a strong 6 wing. Not sure if this would pass muster in actual Enneagram circles, but hey, it's my life. I can still be loyal on a case-by-case basis, but I’ve got too many fun projects in the works these days to make it a full time thing.

The Conception

9/3/2019

I celebrated the new millennium aboard the Conception. Leapt over the side of the boat into pitch black water off the Channel Islands at midnight on January 1, 2000, along with eleven other scuba divers. With multi-colored glow lights clipped to our gear, and underwater flashlights, we looked like a slowly descending Christmas tree as we followed the boat’s anchor line to the bottom, about 55 feet down. There was a round, white light mounted in the bottom of Conception’s hull to find our way back. We wouldn’t be going far. All I could see was what appeared in the path of my flashlight and the lights of the other divers. I swam close to my dive buddy, careful not to lose sight of the soft glow from the bottom of the boat. Spiny California lobsters snoozed in small caves, and Nudibranchs fluttered on nearby rocks. A bright orange Garibaldi loomed out of the darkness, startling me as it peered into my mask with its characteristic furrowed brow. A Soupfin shark slept on the sea bottom like a 1950s Cadillac parked by a rock. We swam past kelp beds, careful not to get caught in the swaying fronds. We eventually circled back and gathered at the anchor, shielding our flashlights and waving our arms to make the tiny bioluminescent plankton swirl in glittering underwater clouds.
We made our way up the anchor line slowly, listening to the soft hum of the Conception’s generator as we took our decompression stops. Reaching the surface, we climbed onto the dive platform and the crew, all dive masters themselves, took our fins and helped us up the ladder, asking, “Have a nice dive?”

The following morning some of the crew would cook us tasty breakfasts made to order as we scanned the shores across the channel and checked our cell phones for signs of the Y2K upheaval that never happened. They cheerfully filled our tanks after each dive and kept the boat neat and tidy. When we saw a school of Barracuda, they made sure the Heart song, “Barracuda,” was playing on the sound system when we came back up.

We would eventually make our way down the stairs to the warm, dry sleeping quarters at night – curtained bunk beds with comfy mattresses, pillows, blankets, and reading lights. I fell asleep each night listening to waves lapping gently against the hull.

I can barely wrap my mind around this unimaginable tragedy.
My only consoling thought is that those lost aboard the Conception experienced the pure joy and beauty of scuba diving during their final days on Earth, and I'm praying that their terror and confusion faded quickly as they moved on to other realms.

I offer my deepest condolences to their families and friends.

Nudibranch

Garibaldi

Kelp Forest

Stirring the Pot

8/15/2019

My latest Letter to the Editor:
On a recent trip north, we encountered what appeared to be a Trump supporter in the breakfast room of our hotel. The morning news was on, carrying the president’s “teleprompter” response to the El Paso and Dayton shootings.
The woman at the table next to us turned and chortled, “He sure is stirring the pot, isn’t he?” We looked at her blankly and went on eating. We’ve accepted that we’re no match for those buying into the ideologies spewed by Fox, Russian-influenced affiliates on social media, and Ol’ Dead-Eyes presidential advisor Stephen Miller.
“It looks like he’s lost a little weight, too,” the woman added, somewhat proudly.
A number of sharp responses sprang to mind, from “Adderall does that,” to “Good grief, lady, don’t you know a crime family when you see one?” And my personal favorite, “You know what floats to the top when you stir a swamp, right?”
But I kept quiet, we half-smiled politely, and she eventually left. Some things just aren’t worth it. Not in a hotel breakfast room.

LJ Zinkand
Medford, OR

To clarify further, when this woman spoke up in the breakfast room, I could almost hear my late mother whisper in my ear, “Be careful – she might be trying to start a fight.”
When the woman stood up and sidled past our table, the crucifix she wore swung broadly in my face, bringing to mind a Sunday school teacher who once told me that God counted every hair on my head. “Does He come back and count again after I’ve brushed my hair?” I’d asked innocently.
A scolding finger wagged in my face and I was reprimanded for “asking stupid questions.”
As an adult, I occasionally wonder if God were that busy counting everyone’s hair, then it stands to reason that He might not have had time to protect us from the likes of despots and terrorists. If He weren’t so busy counting hairs He might even have the time to keep us from endlessly fighting over religion.

These Trump supporters, whom we lovingly refer to as “Trumpanzees,” seem so adamant about their position that they’re willing to throw just about everything we value under a bus to keep this guy in office.
“Is it okay with you that he’s replaced his cabinet with lobbyists from the Oil and Gas industry and rolled back regulations for clean water and air?”
“The economy is doing so well!” they answer.
“Does it bother you that he’s a sexual predator and a cheat who's told more than 10,000 documented lies?” we ask.

Now here’s where their responses vary a bit. Most often, the men begin cursing, calling me things like “Classless bitch,” and “Crazy Cat Lady,” (which is patently false, as we only have five and the unofficial count for CCLs begins at six).
The women, at this point, usually morph into Sunday School teacher mode, which involves the old finger-wagging, “make you wrong” mentality. When pressed further with actual facts, they invariably throw their arms in the air and sputter, “I don’t have time for this!” or “I don’t discuss politics!”

So really, who needs this in a hotel breakfast room, especially the morning after a great concert with Berlin, OMD and The B-52s?

This just in!
Barely 20 minutes after posting this I saw a late model Honda edging slowly up our driveway. They parked and three women got out. One was carrying a Bible. "Hit the decks!" I cried, dropping to the floor in the bedroom. "Jehovah's Witnesses are afoot!" They came up the front walk and knocked a few times before giving up, pressing a small pamphlet in the crack of the door entitled, "Who Really Runs The World?"
Apparently...

She's at it again!

7/3/2019

The party who ran away
Way to go, Republicans, now that you’ve clearly shown yourselves to be the party of shootin’, pollutin’ and Putin.
State legislators can add one more feather to your caps, and a legacy you can share with your children and grandchildren when they ask why you couldn’t uphold one of the most deeply cherished tenets of democracy: The Party Who Ran Away and Hid.
L.J. Zinkand
Medford

https://mailtribune.com/opinion/letters-to-editor/letters-july-3-07-02-2019

"Ya know, in the world of freelance writing where rejection is a way of life, it's always nice to be printed.

Married Ten Years!

6/6/2019

Goofy as ever, at "A Toast For Tails, May 2019."

Ten years ago I thought it was funny that one could use the words "Leanne" and "married" in the same sentence. By age 50, after several failed relationships, I'd considered myself a dedicated hermitess, having spent more time alone than most everyone I knew. "I'll probably learn more about myself by being alone, than in a relationship," I thought bravely.
Ha!
HaHa!
HaHaHaHaHaHa!

We've faced a number of obstacles and challenges, yet here we are, and not without a shyte-ton of work, each one marveling at our partner who, unlike many souls walking the earth, isn't the slightest bit interested in competing with the other.
Mutual appreciation for things goofy and wacky also helps.

We sought counseling when our difficulties seemed insurmountable. Thanks to our therapist who studied at the Gottman Institute, we learned about the "Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse" as regards relationships: Criticism, Defensiveness, Contempt and Stonewalling. Like most people, we had a hearty dose of 'em all, but were willing to work on banishing them. Of course, one of us still blows it now and then and we erupt into a short-lived argument followed by heartfelt apologies and often, dinner out!

When we first reconnected (we were make-out buddies in the drama department of our high school on Long Island, then lost touch for 36 years), I had little appreciation for country music, or the entire state of Texas. Thanks to Wayne, I've been to Austin a number of times, and although I still legitimately turn my nose up at mainstream pop country, I've developed quite a liking for the twang and swing varieties. Plus it's like visiting a whole 'nother country.

Extra points for us: We renovated our house, room by room, while living in it. During that time we survived mental illness, family drama, a few kooky contractors and one huge injury. But we carried on, warts and all. Luckily, we have design, taste, and check-writing skills that compliment each other.

For our 10th Anniversary this year we decided to take a small road trip to the Historic Carousel and Museum in Albany, Oregon, relax in the hotel's indoor pool and spa, and eat the kind foods we rarely do. While we were gob-smacked over the beauty of the carousel and the diversity of animals, alas, we forgot to photograph ourselves...

My Friend Dana

6/2/2019

Twenty years ago today my friend and mentor, Dana Conant, left the planet in a spectacular shower of silver shards, courtesy of a freak hailstorm on Route 36, not far from Susanville, California. Not completely without logic, as both of us liked the color silver, we both drove silver cars, and her graphic design company, Quicksilver Productions, was where we became instant friends the day I began working for her, exactly one year before she left. A year later I would be wallowing in grief, trying to revive and rename the business in Mount Shasta that she left for me.

Luckily, there were plenty of generous souls who helped me carry on, and I named my new company Silverlining Designs. It’s been an amazing time in which I’ve managed to keep some of the same clients for twenty years. This picture lives on the windowsill of my office. Still my mentor, she’s the inspiration, providing the imagined laugh when I need one, and silently reminding me which fonts would be the best for a project.

Would I go back and trade a successful twenty years for the chance to work with her again? You bet.

Runnin’ With The Big Dogs

4/11/2019

Received my first piece of hate mail today! I’ve had more than a half-dozen letters printed in the Mail Tribune this past few years with little to no response. Frankly, I was beginning to feel a little left out. Then on Tuesday, the paper published my recent letter:

A few questions
I’m responding to right-wing complaints that we liberals should accept the fact that Trump won, and “get over it,” rather than express concern over the handling of the Mueller report by Attorney General Barr. While I understand that some of the more staunchly conservative voters would no sooner change their minds about us than the guy on the Garrison’s TV commercial* might possibly show us a piece of his furniture, I’d like to pose to them a few rhetorical questions:
Why did they condemn Obama throughout his eight-year presidency, calling him names such as “Lyin’ African,” and continue to support Trump’s “birther” campaign? An erstwhile Facebook friend even posted a picture of her Chihuahua relieving itself on a picture of Obama one day, to the delight of her conservative friends. When I complained to her, I was met with enough profane insults to cause Alex Jones to shake his head in disbelief. And let’s not forget the woman in West Virginia who eventually hosed herself with a despicable racial slur about Michelle Obama. (Go look it up. I refuse to quote her.)
Does this not constitute the very name-calling and whining they accuse us of?
L.J. Zinkand
Medford

When I got home yesterday, this was in the mail. I knew exactly what it was when I saw my name scrawled on the envelope with no return address:

Yep—it's a Christian-themed hate letter! Ya just can’t make this stuff up. Even though it comes across as basic schoolyard nanny boo-boo, I must have touched a nerve. Someone actually took the time to look up my address, pick out a card and paste those pictures from the internet into it—and they spent a whole Forever stamp on me! The icing on the cake was that they responded exactly in the manner described in my letter.
I’m touched. I really am… I’m runnin’ with the big dogs now!

* There's a local TV commercial here where the guy just talks about his furniture and never shows a single piece. It reminded me of how people on the RR tend to accept things with little regard for the facts.

Shifting Gears

4/6/2019

It’s been a while, I know, but there have been lots of new things germinating over the past few months.
To catch up though, we spent Christmas in Austin, like we usually do. My trajectory was a bit bumpy, and suffice it to say that I am thoroughly finished with getting taxis, or anyone else, to come out to our somewhat rural property to take us to the airport early in the morning. All things considered, it’s just easier to drive there and park in the long term lot.
Upon arriving in Austin my time promptly got t-boned by my biggest client, so I spent part my vacation working and being burned out because of too much work. This client, Black Bear Diners, is now winding down for me, although I am truly grateful for their support. They picked me up when they were a fledgling company in Mount Shasta, stayed with me for twenty fun and largely unsupervised years, (I refer to it as “the perfect middle-child job”), became so wildly successful that I could no longer keep up with the workload, and saw me safely to the border of Full Retirement Age.

Meanwhile, we had a great time in Austin. I finally made it to one of Dale Watson’s Chicken Shit Bingo events. (Don’t worry, the chickens are well cared-for.) We saw lots more great music and friends, and then went down to visit with friends near San Antonio. We visited the McNay Museum, where our friend Mary has become a docent. It’s brilliant and I need to go back because we didn’t have time to see everything.

My Happy Place

Of course, there was plenty of skiing at Mt. Ashland. In fact, this year was right epic as regards snow.

I’ve also finished the first draft of Meteor Falls and am hard at work on revisions and designing the cover.
This is a mere tease of it.

Silverlining Designs will be adding a new division, something which I can only hint at for now. I will give a full disclosure on an upcoming blog entry when I’ve made it through the prototype phase. I will, however, leave you with this summary:
The fun never stops.

The Escape Room

12/12/2018

This was our very first experience in an escape room. I’d won a pair of tickets in The Lantern story-telling contest at the Black Sheep in Ashland, so Wayne and I decided to apply them to our Happy December 1st play date. Since we both spend time in Texas, we felt drawn to the Ramblin’ Rogue Saloon game. Naturally, I did a little preliminary research about escape rooms, so I knew to expect puzzles and code deciphering.

When we arrived, our host, Hannah, dressed in 1880s style, cheerfully explained the process. We were being blamed for a crime we didn’t commit, to be locked in a small jail cell and discover clues that would lead us out and eventually clear our names before the U.S. Marshal came to take us to the gallows!
The saloon is carefully decorated – so well that it felt like we were in a museum.
“We’re too polite!” we kept saying, somewhat ambivalent about rifling through other people's belongings. But ransack, you must!
"Pretend you're looking for chocolate," I suggested to Wayne, as it's difficult to actually keep any in the house. He ferrets the stuff out no matter where I try to hide it.

The clues that emerge are a compelling mélange of codes, problem solving, and the delight that comes with figuring things out together. Hannah, as the bartender, softly suggested clues when we got stuck. I can see where a few more “eyes” might have been helpful and in this process, although the experience was refreshingly engaging with just the two of us.