 Backyard denizen. They like to hang out here in the summer. With fires surrounding our entire valley, this summer seemed like a bizarro version of cabin fever. The dystopian kind. The air in town was tinted brown on some days, often coupled with a creepy, thrashing wind. People went about with N-95 masks, myself included for several days. Even though Hayleyanne’s Hideaway is up in the hills a bit, this was the first summer we’ve ever had to run air conditioning steadily for an entire month.
So we stayed indoors a lot. I ripped up my office and painted it True Peach. It’s still in the finishing stages, as I am planning for the first time ever in this location, to display a good portion of my fabulous chicken collection. I wasn’t completely idle as regards writing during this time. I’m (finally) getting close to the first draft of Meteor Falls, honing my skills writing letters to the editor of our local paper. I’ve compiled a number of them, so here are a few of my favorites as collected from the Medford Mail Tribune archives: May 10, 2017 Adjust tinfoil hats After reading the Point/Counterpoint article in Sunday, April 30 paper, I respectfully suggest that authors Haskins and Burnett have their tinfoil hats readjusted. “The number of workers employed full-time has risen by 1.3 million since Trump was elected in November” bears some review. What happened between Nov. 9, 2016 and Jan. 20, 2017 cannot be attributed to the current sitting president. Also, bear in mind that the holiday season accounts for temporary jobs being added to the workforce. Trump had little to do with that, either. Trump’s recent, somewhat fanciful claim that he “created 600,000 jobs” since taking office can also be dismissed by a few simple facts from the U.S. Labor Department: A total of 219,000 jobs were created in February and 98,000 in March. That makes a total of 317,000 new jobs. L.J. Zinkand Medford July 19, 2017 Trump supporters puzzling After reading Bill Hartley’s letter of July 15, I would like to suggest that he and his fellow Trump supporters re-acquaint themselves with some basic concepts most Americans share:
L.J. Zinkand Medford October 30, 2017 Please stop bickering Yes, sexual predators are creepy and need to be confronted. And I respect the recent national conversation that has ensued. What I find annoying is the attempt to politicize it. One thing to remember is this: Politicians do not always behave the way we want them to, whether they’re Democrat or Republican. So could we please stop arguing about which one of them did what? This endless bickering does not serve in any way other than to divide us. Do you have children? Grandchildren? What’s really important to you? The environment they will inhabit as adults? Making sure everyone’s educated enough to be a contributing member of our society? Working together to maintain a strong, intelligent, prosperous country? Or are we bound to descend into interminable disagreement and chaos? We have a choice. L.J. Zinkand Medford December 16, 2017 Had us going Regarding Doug Dusenberry’s letter of Saturday, Dec. 9, our household wants to thank him for his attempt at comic relief. Gosh — he really had us going for a moment there. At first we thought he was threatening many of us in a public forum. L.J. Zinkand Medford February 20, 2018 Yes, we'll rant In response to Marilyn Hermant’s letter of Feb. 8, yes, we will continue to rant as long as there is a racist in the White House, thank you very much. Many of us listened, with a fair degree of distaste, to your heroic leader conducting his endlessly absurd “birther” campaign during the Obama years. And if anyone happened to have missed any State of the Union speeches during that time, with many Republicans behaving like sourpusses, we can supply a number of them. L.J. Zinkand Medford Note: In line 3, my original letter read, "...to your heroic leader..." Somehow, the "y" was removed, so I reinserted it. May 27, 2018 Trump’s tweets In the MT’s May 21 issue, Doug Dusenberry suggests not only that you publish our president’s tweets, but that you “try harder” and “dig deeper.” Although we do not subscribe to cable TV or Twitter, we would have to bury our heads in sand to avoid Trump’s tweets. We see several of them a day on network news and on the internet. On Monday mornings it’s hard to avoid the torrent of puerile weekend “tweet storms” we’d rather not have to revisit in the paper. But, as a faithful subscriber to the MT, I thought I’d put in my 2 cents and dig deeper on your behalf, to better understand the person who is currently acting as our President. What I found was a profusion of Trump endeavors prior to his presidency: Trump Airlines, Trump Vodka, Trump Mortgage, Trump Casinos, Trump Steak, Trump Magazine, and Trump University. All ended in failure, some with continuing litigation. When I add to these the more than 3,000 documented lies he’s told our country since his inauguration, I have to ask Mr. Dusenberry, have I dug deep enough? L.J. Zinkand Medford July 7, 2018 Lake of fire awaiting? I’ve been noticing a tendency for some of our more deeply devoted Christian brethren to threaten us liberals with a “burning lake of fire” if we don’t conform to their ideology. In the small Lutheran church I attended as a child, I cannot remember feeling constrained by this kind of wrath. My most vivid memory is a banner that read “God is Love” hanging next to the altar. So I consulted a King James Version Bible and found that indeed, in Revelation 21:8, such a lake imperils the very worst of us (as in “whoremongers”… ahem-hem?). Considering we have a leader with the apparent emotional maturity of an 8-year-old who excels in glorifying despots, alienating our closest allies, ginning up his base with falsehoods and emboldening hateful extremists, with no real plan to recover several thousands of missing children, I have to wonder if we’re already hovering dangerously over that burning lake of fire. LJ Zinkand Medford
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 After 14 years of mowing our 2-acre front yard with a push mower, which often took between 12 to 14 hours, I opted for a riding mower a few years ago. A real John Deere tractor. Sure, I once rationalized using the push mower: Why pay for a gym membership when I can just mow the lawn and weed-whack? But, a couple of years ago, after The Great Fall of 2014 it became unpleasant to plod back and forth on the uneven terrain of our sloping yard, so I made the switch. My rationale shifted 180° to: Why push a lawnmower all day when I can go to the gym?
Don’t get me wrong - I love my wood-gathering chores, as I get to spend more time out on the property cleaning up our forest and stock-piling wood for the winter. I can still swing a pretty mean chain saw and mauling ax. It was the uphill pushing of wheelbarrows full of wood that was taking its toll on the both of us, actually. So this year I ordered the official John Deere Utility Cart to go with my tractor. Assembly took about 2 hours. You wouldn’t believe how much fun it is to haul that firewood uphill with a tractor! I even bought myself a slope gauge. It’s another great tool added the homestead we fondly call Hayleyanne’s Hideaway. I’ve also decided it’s time to stop struggling against aging. With any luck, it’s going to happen anyway. I just have to find a way to relax into it. As of last week, I received my first Shot-That-Blythe-Danner-Sells-On-TV. My bones need a little help and I’ll admit that I’ll do just about anything to stay active for as long as possible. So there was that. Plus, the other day when arriving at the gym, there was a gaggle of young, 11-ish girls coming out the door. I held the door open for them just long enough to hear one girl remark, rather cheekily, “You’re old.” Ah, young one, you’ve no idea with whom you’re dealing. But, mindful of unleashing a torrent of retaliatory snark lying dormant in the scar tissue of junior high school on Long Island, I decided a quick, derogatory snort was all that was required. After all, parents and staff were in the vicinity. Later, as I pumped iron, noticing those body parts no longer as tight as they used to be and my pink-tinted, “arctic blonde” hair I decided, Well, yeah – of course I’m aging, and I may have to start taking things down a peg or two – but I’m still having a blast and I get lots of discounts on stuff! It’s time to make this mellowing stage my ally and have some fun with it. A lawn cart definitely helps. And meanwhile, thank you, budding young snot-piggy from the gym, for pushing me through that final layer of denial.  The one thing I wanted most for my birthday this year, was time. Time to work on my current novel, “Meteor Falls,” without the need to cook, clean, work, or otherwise be accountable to anything besides my book. Mount Shasta lies in close proximity to the fictitious town of Meteor Falls. I wanted to immerse myself in the area that has inspired my book. It was a stealthy sort of visit in that I hoped to maintain my anonymity in a place where I once lived for five years. “I’ll just be down the road,” I told Wayne, since we live a an hour and a half north of the city of Mount Shasta. He supported me wholeheartedly in my quest, and we agreed to celebrate my birthday when I returned. The Shasta Inn was rustic yet comfy, super-friendly and somewhat Twin-Peakish, surrounded by gigantic Douglas fir trees. My room had a bed with a carved wooden poster frame, and there was a collection of large stuffed animal heads in the bar. The first morning I picked up some supplies at Berryvale, my favorite groovy grocery store, then drove over to McCloud and hiked the Lower Falls to Middle Falls trail – an easy 4-mile round trip. It was a quiet, sunny Thursday morning with a comfortable sprinkling of other people so as not to make me feel too lonely, (even though I still feel spry and quite capable of behaving like a wild animal if cornered). I told myself the entire story of "Meteor Falls" to date, inside my head as if someone were actually listening. It really helped organize my thoughts! I came back to town later and saw that a lenticular cloud was motoring toward Mt. Shasta. I drove up Everitt Memorial Road to Bunny Flat, which is a popular trailhead where people begin their climbs to the summit. It was a mellow parking lot that day, warm in the 70s and people relaxing in folding chairs by their cars, and others tending to their climbing/skiing equipment. Since there was still a good deal of slushy snow on the trail, I hung around the parking lot taking pictures. The lenticular cloud was good, but not a super-bombastic one, so I came back to town and sat at one of those tables outside the hotel and wrote for another hour. Then I ordered Mexican food from Casa Ramos across the street, and holed up again in my room writing. On Friday, my actual birthday, I decided to go to the Black Bear Diner in Mount Shasta. At the risk of outing myself, I’m the one who creates their newspaper-style menu covers. It all began for me in Mount Shasta, when they had a mere three restaurants. They have 118 of them now, all franchised-out and sprinkled widely throughout the western states. My graphic arts career actually began in newspapers, specifically preparing photos and art, so this has turned out to be a most satisfying business for me. I opened my laptop while waiting for breakfast and saw that there was a message from someone at Black Bear Diner Corporate Headquarters, now in Redding, California. Even though I was taking the day off for my birthday, I responded, as is one my most important tenets of business communication: “Yes, I heard you.” I added, with a note of exuberance, “I just happen to be having breakfast at the BBD in Mount Shasta!” This is somewhat of a departure, as I usually like to remain incognito when I visit a Black Bear Diner, (although Wayne is always happy to announce proudly to the servers that I’m that menu cover person). When I went up to pay, the manager said, “It’s on me.” Very sweet. Corporate had called him while I was eating. Then I went shopping. Since I lived there from 1997-2002, a number of crystal shops have emerged. I would be willing to guess that there are more crystal shops in Mount Shasta per capita than any other place on earth, although I’ve not been to Sedona, Arizona. I did find a few gifts I liked that weren’t crystals. The face of the town has changed a bit. I would be lying if I said there weren’t a number of empty storefronts. Even so, the culture of eco-tourism seems to be thriving. Most of my old favorite stores and restaurants were still open, and someone I liked with an aesthetician business now occupies the office on Castle Street where me and Dana once worked. Afterwards I drove back up to Bunny Flat in hot pursuit of another lenticular cloud, and sat in the passenger seat of my car writing for another hour or so. Coming back down, I stopped at Berryvale and picked up more treats for my birthday. I brought my laptop into the hotel bar for happy hour and wrote for a while in front of the huge fire-pit, then returned to my room for a Jeopardy! break and wrote for a few more hours before falling asleep. All in all, it turned out to be a wonderful writer’s retreat. I managed to fill in almost all of the plot holes in "Meteor Falls" that were either missing or in need of a re-write. I highly recommend this kind of retreat to my fellow writers in the Ashland Novelists' Group. I would be remiss in not telling you that the city of Mount Shasta still has the best water on Earth! You can drink it straight out of the faucet and it tastes wonderful. I am also happy to report that I rediscovered the blithe, touristy, open-hearted awe I once had for Mount Shasta before I moved there. Other highlights which took place since my last posting include painting the trim in our bedroom with sparkly paint; staying at goal in Weight Watchers for an entire year; passing the eye-test at the DMV without glasses; adding the B-52’s classic, Love Shack, to my Skiing Tunes playlist on my iPod (why I hadn’t done this a long time ago is a mystery—it was a total blast!), and skiing as a chicken on Animal Day at Mt. Ashland.  Happy Birthday to me! —and thanks for reading!  In spite of all the current craziness, this is probably one of the coolest things I've seen in my lifetime. SpaceX actually launched a Tesla Roadster into space with a dummy behind the wheel, playing a loop of David Bowie's "Space Oddity." Add to that, two boosters landed simultaneously, as if it were a dance.
In spite of most of us believing that an excess of wealth should be used to level the playing field on Earth and solve all hunger, let's face it: people are going to continue to invent new toys and concepts no matter what. You just can't keep a good nerd down.  Danoota and Possum Meet Danoota*, the newest addition to our family. She’s a bit of a rarity – a ginger female. We wanted another girl as the men outnumber the women around here, and Wayne has a thing about ginger cats, so I put the word out at SoHumane. They called while we were in Texas, saying they’d gotten a little female ginger kitten, and would we be interested?
Of course! We brought her home on New Years Eve. Like her uncles Sparky and Possum, who also came from SoHumane, she came pre-socialized, and leapt out of her cardboard carrier upon arriving, instantly curious about everything. Our older cats have been patient, often allowing her to work them over in casual wrestling. Really, did they think we were all just going to doze quietly into our golden years together? Actually, Sofie and Skeeziks probably had that in mind. Sparky is somewhat indignant, as he had previously considered himself the official Baby of the House, but Possum is the Danoota magnet. She just loves him and we find them curled up together a lot. She's already demonstrated an aptitude for massage, so here she is, under the tutelage of her Uncle Possum, ready to begin her training. *The name Danoota comes from a John Lennon poem, “Deaf Ted, Danoota (and Me)."  Day 10 at the Armadillo Christmas Bazaar. I used to wear black a lot. First in my punk/new wave band days, then later, perhaps due to its “slimming” properties. Now that my hair has turned arctic blonde and I’ve lost 40 pounds, I am seeking out a few more creative ways to stave off aging. There’s a body to decorate here, and I can’t just let it languish into old age.
I’d been considering hair coloring for a while, after seeing people in our own Medford, Oregon sporting all manner of bright, jewel-toned tresses. But I wanted pink. Taking into account that older people tend to gravitate toward pastels, I too, have been gravitating, which goes against everything I used to think. I would have scoffed at the idea of anything pink in my earlier tomboy days, but now when I see myself in a storefront window and wonder how my mother got in there, I am intent on staving off the effects of old age at every turn. “Besides,” I thought, “lots of women older than me have blue hair. Why not pink?” Before I go any further, here’s a little secret: I’ve been doing face exercises since the late 90s, when a friend of mine lent me a VHS tape by Greer Childers. They really work! Check her out on YouTube. Finding all manner of temporary hair treatments at the local Walgreen’s I began timidly, with just a few streaks. Wayne approved, so I got sassier the next time around, applying the color more liberally. Then I noticed that my hair at the scalp was somewhat resistant, I applied more pink color left it on a lot longer. By the time the SoHumane Employee Holiday Party came around, I was brightly pink-haired. After several washings, the pink would be toned down to perfection for my trip to Austin. Cotton candy with tiny red glitter highlights was my goal for Christmas. Turns out pink hair had a major impact on my attitude – I felt younger! I stood up even straighter. Christmas stress? “No problem,” I thought. “I’ve got pink hair!” Rushing around trying to get packed for a trip? ”Yeah, but I’ve got pink hair.” A few somewhat negative comments in the Best Buy parking lot? “Bwahahaha… I have pink hair and you don’t!” So that’s my free advice this Christmas: try something outrageous. And do those Greer face exercises—you will see a difference in less than a week. Meanwhile, we spent another Christmas in Austin, as Wayne enjoys working at the Armadillo Christmas Bazaar every year. There’s great art, music and wonderful people, and… I did see a woman sporting tresses of iridescent green. I’ll be considering that for the warmer months ahead.  I'm considering offering the entire costume on eBay. A life-long Wizard of Oz fan, I never would have considered dressing as Zombie Dorothy. Nonetheless, I attended the annual Puss n’ Boots Ball in Ashland this year, a fundraiser for the other animal shelter in town. I'd planned on being the most disgusting, creepy zombie of my entire costuming career, but then one of my friends from Darkwing wanted to wear her flying monkey suit. Another wanted to be the Wicked Witch of the West. I agreed to be Dorothy, on the grounds that it be Zombie Dorothy.
I had a lot of fun putting the costume together, most of which was bought, I’ll admit. The ruby slippers are actually a pair of beige patent leather pumps I got at Payless Shoes, which I transformed with glitter, (not the real sequins, as I still work for a living and also need sleep). I was slightly reticent about dancing in them, but boy-oh-boy were they great! Motivated by a little beer, I could even moon-walk in them. And I swear I wasn’t one of those people who think they can dance because they’re loaded. Oh no. Not only was I awarded a bottle of Chardonnay for a category created just for me: “Best Twisted Classic Movie Theme,” but the bass player in the band, The Rogue Suspects, announced that he wanted Dorothy to come to all their future gigs. So there goes Halloween 2017. Now let’s get on with the really spooky stuff happening in Washington.  Fall is here, and it’s time to clean the chimney of our wood stove. Three years ago I was banned from ladders after The Great Fall, and we had a chimney sweep come and do the deed. It was expensive, plus they didn’t even wear top hats. This summer my ban on ladders was lifted during the last renovation I ever hope to be part of in this lifetime: updating the outbuilding where our studios are. Seriously—but more on that next time; we’re close to finishing. My ladder ban was initially lifted to admire the new roof on the outbuilding, then help paint its upper siding, and finally, to view the partial eclipse in late August. I also took the job of insulating the newly renovated studio building, including the 11-foot ceiling in the laundry room. This part actually scared the crap out of me, but there were plenty of places to hold on, and I thought deeply about each step I took. So I pushed further, hoping to avoid that $180 chimney-sweeping charge. I waited for the most opportune moment to state my case. “Y’know, I could easily climb up there on our new ladder and save us the money. Besides, I need to know what it’s really like up there.” Admission was granted. So yesterday I mounted the new ladder in the exact same place I fell from three years ago, in my good gym sneakers – the ones with really deep tread. Wayne held it steady as I took each step carefully. I nearly froze at the spot where I had to step from the ladder to the roof. Keep me safe, keep me safe, I whispered, my quiet mantra of the past few years when I attempt feats of daring and risk. I took a deep breath and stepped onto the roof. Ya-ha! I carefully picked my way over to the chimney and removed the spark arrester, which was packed with soot. Then I scrubbed the chimney itself with my chimney brush. The cherry on top was when our contractor saw me up there and handed me his gas-powered leaf blower, which I used to blow the leaves out of the gutter. Yes, it was scary, and Wayne stood on the ground under wherever I was, spotting me in case. But I did it. Sometimes I feel the need to confront scary things head-on. It’s just easier that way   With profound sadness, we said goodbye to our beloved Minnie last Saturday.
Minnie did very well for herself, by cat-lore standards. A small cat scraping by on the grounds of the Parole Board in San Antonio, Texas in 2007, she attracted the attention of a pair of kindly women who rescue cats. Part of a network, they made a flyer with her picture and sent it up to Austin. Another caring individual taped it onto the wall in the women's rest room at the Austin Convention Center, where Wayne happened to be working the front door for the Armadillo Christmas Bazaar. A friend brought him the flyer and Wayne, still reeling from the loss of his beloved cat Teysha, was instantly smitten. So Minnie caught a ride to Austin with the two kindly women, where she lived with Wayne and his other cat, Skeeziks. In April 2009 she made her way to Medford, Oregon, with Wayne and Skeeziks. She spent eight happy years on our four-acre property exploring the bushes, climbing trees, fishing down by the creek, chasing birds and lizards, and wrestling before dinner. She sported the best pair of furry little pantaloons any cat could ever wish for. We also believe that she was a champion player on a local cat soccer team. Sweet little Minnie was a tiny cat with a big personality, and the apple of her daddy’s eye. She is survived by her loving parents, and adopted brothers Skeeziks, Sparky and Possum, and sister Sofie.  Pacific Tree Frog I wanted to write “Toad in the Hole,” but she’s actually a Pacific Tree Frog, otherwise known as a peeper. These little creatures are the auditory signal of spring around here. They let us know our woodstove-packing days are dwindling and cold mornings are receding as they cavort in the forest during their first rollicking orgy of the year. When the weather gets hot they gravitate to cooler, damper realms. She found her way inside our bathroom sink this morning. I was poised above the sink with a sponge, ready to clean it when she stuck her head out of an overflow hole. I have much to thank her and her ancestors for. For one thing, I had no idea those overflow holes were so filthy! You can’t see them normally unless you bend over to say, photograph a tiny tree frog. Then last spring we found several of them sleeping on the inside of the door to the electrical meter, as if guarding us from the dangers of an obsolete electrical box. When an electrician arrived to replace the box, he had to temporarily remove the meter. Here's what he found:  I’ll patiently wait for you to find your way back to coherence. I myself had to sift through the five stages of bewilderment: shock, disgust, laughter, compassion and finally, acceptance.
In the meantime, listen to the Pacific Tree Frogs. So we’re at it again. Renovating the outbuilding that houses Silverlining Designs, The El Wayno Loco Show, the laundry, and storage. What originally seemed like a simple plan to remodel the space, the ensuing weeks spawned a massive overhaul including a new roof, new walls, pulling a 1930s Oldsmobile frame out of the woods and redirecting a seasonal creek. I was perfectly happy with that seasonal creek coming down the ravine behind us and flowing under my office during the winter, as it’s a post and tier affair. “Hey, a river runs through it,” I always said. But the creek bed had been widening, so it was time to fill it in. This one is Wayne’s baby. He’s been scheming to redesign this space for years, and it’s finally his turn. Not this again, I thought, imagining the demolition, the noise, the very upheaval of my life. But it’s an outbuilding and my office is still intact. I have a new Yamaha electric piano adjacent to my computer, so I can swivel around and play a tune whenever I want. My new role is The Producer. I like this new arrangement. I nod and write checks, and approve this and that, making the occasional comment or revision. I did, however, insulate under the new floor before the heat became 104° outside yesterday. The tiny tree frog must have shown up this morning for comic relief. Our woodland creatures have a way of doing that around here, I swear. |
Here's where I expound on whatever I'm passionate about at the time. I welcome your comments, as long as you're not hateful, a terrorist, or attempting to pedal work-at-home offers.
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