Masked Judgement

I’ve seen some disturbing things lately about wearing masks.

On one hand, people not wearing them are immediately labeled as Republicans, right-wing whack-jobs, people who think the COVID-19 virus is ‘no worse than the flu’, or standing up for their ‘constitutional rights’.

On the other hand, people who are wearing them are immediately labeled as Democrats, left-wing crazy liberals, paranoid over-reactors, and sheep.

In other words, damned if you do and damned if you don’t.

So let me tell you a mask story.

A few years ago I was lying on a table. A warm, soft, pliable mesh was placed over my face and neck, and pressed tightly into place. It was held there until it hardened. Imagine how that felt. If you can’t take two fingers and press them against your throat until you gag.

That was the first step in radiation treatments. Every morning I was on that table, the mask pressed over my face, and then bolted down. Because I was receiving very precise radiation, no movement was allowed. Even if you thought you were holding still enough, you weren’t.

Every day.

Eventually my throat swelled. Eventually I struggled to swallow water. And then eventually it was over.

At the time, I knew it was difficult, but during treatments themselves, I just daydreamed. I’m a pro at sliding off into my imaginary world. The staff gave me roses and a certificate afterwards for being the first person they’d had who was able to go through it without sedatives.

I convinced myself it wasn’t that bad. I truly believed that. It was hard, yes, but just something to get through one step at a time.

Now people are wearing masks. Stores require them. A co-worker brought me a package last week. I took one look at them, burst into tears, and had to leave the office because I couldn’t breathe. My throat closed up. I couldn’t swallow. I stood in the fresh air, telling myself over and over ‘you can breathe’.

My husband, being the brilliant man that he is, suggested I practice at home, putting the mask on as long as I could stand it and building up to being able to wear one. I tried that this morning. For maybe a second.

The flip side of this is that my husband has an auto-immune disease. So he wears masks out in public to protect himself. He has no problem wearing them and needs to.

In other words, when you see someone wearing a mask, or when you see someone not wearing a mask, there are more stories involved than simple judgements. More hardships involved than politics.

Please be kind, no matter where you fall in the spectrum of this virus specter.

Luke the Boxer

Why do Boxers always look worried? Even when happy they still seem to be concerned.

Luke

We were talking about our old Boxer, Luke, a couple nights ago. His full name was Skywalker von Stowe because he came into our lives as a very fat puppy with a heart condition, when our small son was so heavily into Star Wars that he would only answer to ‘Luke’.

animals

Luke (the dog, not the kid) wasn’t expected to live long. We were told he could drop dead at any moment because of his heart. But really, he had an incredible heart.

The medication he spent his long life on caused blurred vision, which might have contributed to his worried look. After all, when my glasses are off, I squint and probably look worried, too. Sometimes those heart pills would get stuck up in those floppy Boxer lips and he’d foam at the mouth like he had rabies. Poor thing.

Luke miserable

He hated camping, even with his bed and blanket and a fire

He loved the kid, unconditionally, and played with him tirelessly. The two Lukes would chase each other around and around the dishwasher until the whole world tilted in dizziness. Luke would trot slowly, careful to not get too far ahead of the gleeful little kid chasing him. When Arthur, thinking he was being clever, would change direction, Luke would patiently turn around, pause, and wait for Arthur to catch up before trotting off again. Over and over and over, as long as that little child wanted to run.

Arthur Luke 3

Arthur also played with matchbox cars in the long hallway. He would send the cars flying and Luke would run after them. Luke would then pounce on them with both front paws and send the cars skittering back to Arthur. A matchbox game of fetch.

Speaking of cars, Luke loved them and he wasn’t picky. If a car door was open, he would be found inside. It also didn’t matter if the car moved. He was just as happy to simply sit and watch the world out the windshield in all its blurry wonder.

luke 002

So he was a happy, gentle soul. But he always looked worried. I’d never been around Boxers before, so this then worried me. Was he in pain? Was it his heart? Was he actually unhappy?

luke 003

My husband grew up with Boxers. I saw old photos of him as a baby with Boxer puppies. I saw photos of Boxers owned by friends.

Eventually I came to realize, they all look worried. I guess it’s just a Boxer trait. Along with their incredible sweetness and devotion to their kids.

Arthur Luke 5

River Solitude

Recently I warned locals about the high number of deer on the highway. I gave the location as the area around Eagle Falls, Boulder Drop, and Split Rock. It dawned on me later that I used the river for highway locations rather than mile markers.

Boulder Drop and Split Rock are specific spots on the Skykomish River that are well known to anyone who lives near the river. And it’s nothing new to use landscape as maps or guidance or to center someone on where they are in their world.

Art in catboat 1

The husband at Boulder Drop

The 13th of April was Sam Grafton’s 29th birthday. Those who read this blog know he is gone from our lives, lost to a kayaking accident. For his birthday we went out on a sunny and cool spring day to visit some of his favorite kayaking spots. There was still snow on the ground in areas and the old back roads were empty of people in these days of social distancing and self-quarantine. Empty except for us, on our river pilgrimage.

DSCN0926

Sam’s mother, when she invited me, didn’t give me directions by saying we were going up highway 2 and turning on a specific road. Instead, she simply said we were going to Top Tye.

From there we followed the river and streams to Log Trap and the Spout and Box Top. I had never heard of these places before as they are kayak routes most kayakers don’t attempt. But Sam did. He was one of only five to ever run Log Trap. A second is Rob McKibben, also known in the kayaking world.

DSCN0940

The Spout. Use the rocks on the far side for perspective how high and sharp the drop is. 

Not only is Rob an amazing kayaker, he was also our gentle guide on Sam’s birthday, leading us through the woods from one spot to another, telling us stories and bringing those runs to life for us.

DSCN0938

Log Trap to the right and Box Top to the left. Photo doesn’t show drop well.

 

It was a beautiful day that will become one of those gems in my memory. I am grateful Sam’s family included me, and so glad I gave the day to sunshine and woods and river and stories and friendship.

I came home and pulled up a YouTube video called ‘Tumwater Solitude: Sam Grafton Kayaks Wenatchee River Class V’ (link below). There’s a scene in the five-minute video, right about 2:25, that is framed from above so that nothing is visible except water and Sam. The river is a living force in that frame, whitewater foaming and rushing, and this little spot of green in the midst of all that power. The video is heartbreaking to watch, but it’s also beautiful.

fullsizeoutput_25c

Log Trap. Again, the photo doesn’t give a good perspective for the size of the drop. 

Those few brief seconds encapsulate all that the river is and how it impacts us and forms our lives and marks our landscape. And how it forms our memorials, not just for Sam, but also for my sister, who loved the Columbia River in its wide-reaching depths. This coming weekend should have been her memorial, but it was canceled because of the limit on gatherings. We were to release her ashes to the river on that day.

road trip 002

The Columbia

Two people important in my life, both deeply tied to rivers.

Those few brief seconds in that video encapsulate how Sam was part of the river. Not ‘fighting’ the rapids or ‘beating’ the run or any other phrase commonly used to show that someone ‘wins’ against nature.

He was just there, with the river.

We will reschedule my sister’s memorial and release her ashes and she, too, will be with the river.

And then both Jani and Sam will be with their rivers, forever.

Tumwater Solitude