Civil Disputes

IMG_6746Today is January 2, 2016. This photo tells a story. The temperature on our front porch is 27.9 degrees. See the frozen rugosa roses in the background? The naked, shivering tree limbs dreaming of leaves, squeezing out buds? The chairs, loving servants, blown over to the doorway, reminding us they are ready for service anytime we are. Note the muddy swipes all over the bottom of the glass in both doors. The paw painting goes as high as Winston, our neighbor’s cat, can reach. Miss Emma waits on the rug for his surprise attack. Then they will both jump up on two legs, swat on their respective sides of the glass, yelling and hollering at each other. When they tire of this doorway, they move on to the window next to the door, then the dining room widows, where Miss Emma mounts her condo and Winston hangs from the outside window screens. Holes in the screens now reach as high as Winston’s paws. They breathe hard in retreat and then they move to the dining room door where Winston hangs on the doorway screen and remounts his assault. Miss Emma gives as good as she gets on her side of the glass. Sometimes this performance plays out three or four times a day, morning, bedtime when lights are out, and in the wee hours of morning. Sometimes Winston comes and is disappointed because Miss Emma has taken to her bed and doesn’t know he’s encroaching on her territory. She needs her beauty sleep to gather her energy for another battle. Recently, because of the frozen deck and landscape, I presume, we haven’t seen Winston as often. We miss his sweet face. We sneak him treats when Miss Emma is abed. That may be the reason for their difference of opinion. Today I may wash the windows outside; give them a clean slate for the next battle–the best kind, where no one gets hurt but everyone gets heard.



Green as an alligator

the Wilson River

chomps whatever stands

in its swollen path.

Trees bow down,

a kind of surrender,

in the wake of

these mighty jaws.

Kayaks bob along

from scaly bump

to scaly bump.

Bridges quake

at the thwack of its tail,

waters rushing at

their abutments.

This is no placid swamp,

no stagnant pond.

No, this green monster

thrashes headlong

creating its own purpose,

mashing whatever

appears in its path,

emptying its gullet

into the sea.


2009 award[#TheWilsonRiver]

Home Grown Thanksgiving

Bountiful Table

Bountiful Table

As my family—my sister, my mother, and my husband–made way to eat Thanksgiving dinner, my sister Anita surveyed the table and said, “Wow! Just look. Most of everything here we either grew, canned, or froze. That’s awesome!”

And true. She grew the potatoes she mashed and the green beans. She grew the butternut squash she candied. She didn’t make the marshmallows, but maybe next year. The turkey and gravy were not grown by us, it’s true. However, when I was in the 7th grade, my mother grew turkeys on our farm, so that year, we could definitely say we grew the turkey we ate. That was the only year we could say that, though, because the turkeys were so stupid and time-consuming they about did my mother in, so she went on to focus on chickens, who at least have a brain.

The gravy came from McCormick’s, gluten-free, and we hadn’t grown the kinds of plants used to assemble the gravy mix. Give my sister time, okay?

The anti-pasto plate was yummy and due to our joint summertime efforts. My sister grew the cucumbers she pickled. We grew the green beans, carrots, cauliflower, cucumbers and peppers for the vegetable mixture I pickled. The apples I wedged and candied came from our apple trees. My sister grew the beets she pickled. The olives, bless their finger-tipping hearts, my sister withdrew from a can she opened and drained. She could have planted an olive tree, picked and preserved her own olives, mind you, but alas, she’s allergic to olive trees.

All of us have grown the carrots, cauliflower, and cucumber sticks on the appetizer plate.

My sister grew the loganberries, blackberries, raspberries, and marionberries in the berry delight for dessert. She bought the ice cream, but in the past we’ve milked the cow, separated the milk, and churned the ice cream. My sister Susie still makes ice cream the good, old-fashioned way, by hand. It’s one reason I will drive eight hours to visit her in the summer.

At the head of the table sat the major reason my sisters and I know how to do all this—our mother. Looking at our well-provisioned table, we were all grateful for what our parents passed on to us.

Growing up, my siblings and I learned from our father and mother how to grow, can, and preserve. My husband learned from his parents as well. I say we were lucky to have grown up in rural areas where people could live off the land and have the foresight to teach their offspring how to do the same. My sisters and I have never forgotten the lessons we learned and when we are able, we provide for ourselves. It warms my heart that many of my young friends are discovering anew these skills, if not from their elders, then from 4-H classes, the Extension Service, and from each other. They are making sure their children learn the skills as well, especially since many schools have opted out of teaching the home skills.

Self-sufficiency feels good, especially when you know that what you’ve grown is organic, without harmful chemicals, and truly tasty. Besides, you’ve kept in better shape working for it! Our whole neighborhood shares produce, techniques, recipes, and canned goods. Nothing better than that!

This Thanksgiving, among other things, I was grateful for the bounty at our table, the family members seated around it, especially our mother, and for the lessons we’ve learned and put into action.


Grown-ups are reading my journal!  I think I know why.  They want to see if my sixth grade was anything like their sixth grade.  I’ll bet it was.  Well, maybe not EVERYTHING.  Their mother might not have dated their teacher, and they didn’t have Melvin Porter trying to kiss them all the time.  Ick!  But probably they had to think about how people treat other people, how we get accused of stuff we didn’t do, or how we wish we would have not done something because of how it turned out. They might have solved mysteries and they might have had a dog. Maybe they even had a teacher with a big behind.  Hahahaha!

I hope if they like Sally Jo Survives Sixth Grade: A Journal, that they tell readers in grades 4-6 all about it.  And I hope they answer the journal question after every chapter and share what they wrote with the kids they know.

Whatever the grown-ups do, I hope they keep reading and writing about the changes we all go through in life.

Sally Jo says hello!

Sally Jo says hello!

Hello everyone!  I am so glad to be able to meet you all and invite you to read my journal.  You will find out my life was like in the sixth grade–how my friend Eddo and I solved mysteries; how the new kid Melvin kept bugging me, how my mom and my teacher fell in love, and how all of us lost someone we loved. You will get to read the column Eddo and I wrote for our school newspaper and follow the recipe I gave you for growing something monstrous under your bed. Best of all, after every one of my journal entries, you will get to write your own answer to a question I ask you about your own life.  It’s best if you have a trusted grown up in your life answer the questions, too, and then share your answers with each other.  You will begin to see how we all had to survive the same things in the sixth grade.

Here’s the link for my journal:

Sally Jo goes for a visit!

Hi, Everyone! I am going to be in Ms. Harrington’s second grade class at South Prairie School in Tillamook tomorrow, September 23rd. We are going to talk about my journal (of course!) and the personal narrative form. That makes sense because a journal is nothing more than a whole book full of personal narrative! I hope you are enjoying your new school year! Hooray for the sixth grade! It’s a learning year, for sure.


THE POOP SCOOP (or a cautionary tale in which I learn not to believe everything I read on the web.)
I often use Dr. Google as a reference in health matters, instead of incurring the cost of going to my doctor, only to discover that he also, in order to answer my questions or address my symptoms, turns to his computer and googles.
         Last week I became interested in why my poop was black. I wondered what that meant, knowing that poop color can signal illness or merely tell what a person has been eating; for example, red poop and pee means I’ve been eating beets. I hadn’t eaten beets, and the poop was black. So, I googled “black poop.”
         Pages of sites popped up on my Google list. More people than I ever dreamed of had the same question. Perhaps black poop had become an outbreak of epidemic proportions. That thought gave me pause.
         I clicked on the Mayo Clinic site and read. And froze. All systems froze. Denial arose. Surely what I read could not apply to me.
         I clicked on the next site, and the next site–
         No, I hadn’t drunk any Pepto-Bismol or eaten licorice, which could cause black poop. None of the possible non-horrible reasons suggested on these websites applied. That left only the horrible reasons.
As the saying goes, my shortened life flashed before my eyes. I might be afflicted with kidney disease or a perforated ulcer. Esophogeal, stomach or intestinal bleeding.
         Oh, my god, I was going to die! I was going to die!
What was I going to do? Would I want a service or not? I weighed the pros and cons. Right then I decided I would not tell my husband of my findings just yet, because there were fun events coming up in our lives. I didn’t want to miss any of them in lieu of making preparations to die. I wouldn’t tell my friends, either, for the same reasons. I had things to do, it was summer, and I just wanted to enjoy my last moments on Earth.
I hoped only to have enough energy to complete my amusements. In order to determine my level of energy as a baseline, I took a quick assessment of my present condition. I felt fine. My stomach didn’t hurt. I peed right on schedule. I was amazingly healthy given what these sites told me I was dying of.
         Feeling so well, I realized I was unwilling to accept my certain fate as  promised by these websites, I hoped for another opinion. I opened another site,, and read more. There, off to the side under a photo of a bowl of blueberries, I read, “A bowl of blueberries is a healthy snack but they can also turn your stool black, causing ‘false melena.’”
         Why the heck wasn’t this exception placed FIRST in all the symptom explanations of ALL the sites? Why did I have to die at least four deaths before I came to this sentence?
         Of course. I’d picked blueberries two days before, and when I pick blueberries, it’s four for me and one or two for the bowl. In this manner, I’m certain I ate waaaay more than one cup of blueberries. Please assure me I’m not the only one who picks blueberries this way. How can one refrain when the blueberries are fat, fresh, tasty, healthy for us, and so readily available?
         I offer readers this cautionary tale in case some of you pick blueberries the way I do and suffer the consequences, then in your search for explanation regarding your symptom do not find the teensy relieving photo and sentence. I also offer this cautionary tale if you have a dramatic bent and only a small wisp of common sense and leap immediately to the worst conclusion.

         The lesson in my newfound wisdom is this: Many doctors hate Dr. Google for a reason. Don’t believe everything you read on the web.
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