haunted or hunted or loved/ going, going, GONE/ %$&*!

274 Quatas St. Manson, WA 98831

‘Home’ to me for as long as I can remember.

Sold.

Will be back August 9th-ish to September 1st-ish.

Great reasons to rejoice!

Maybe I will write about it or tell you in person.

*Maybe you know where I might find a cheap last minute plane ticket?

another room in another house, another day in the same life.

When brushing my teeth I tap my chipped-red fingernails on the sink in time with the made-up song I dare to quietly hum. I am no composer. Left to right, left to right. Circular. Circular. Left to right. Spit. Repeat. From my pj’s I slip into a summer dress, sometimes heels, light lip gloss. And just as I am about to open the door to start a new day, I take what I hope to be a quick look in the mirror. It is never just this. My heart thumps loudly, gypsy eyes begin to water. In its reflection I look past me to see a growing library, photos of loved ones, unsent postcards serving as momentos collected from travels, a wine bottle sprouting a lost feather, a Picasso, a Matisse, plaid pillowcases and the friendly sun peaking in through the backyard apple tree. I smile and shift my eyes slighly left. I am now staring at myself. Water takes form to tears and tears take turns dancing upon my cheeks. They jitterbug their way to a loud kerplunk! as they hit the porcelain bowl. I lick the ones that make their way to my lips. I taste salt and watermelon. I wonder if this is where the silly southern tradition began. Sentimental Southern belles.

I try to shift my eyes to something insignificant, an uncovered nail hole, a wandering moth, a speck of dirt on the ground. It is no use, everything is significant. Everything is loved. I take several attempts to move my heavy legs towards the door, to cut off thoughts, but I am unable. I am paralyzed. Paralyzed by beauty. Tears dance for loves loved, houses homed, travels travelled, songs sung, hopes hoped, prayers prayed, life lived.

This is my Sunday. This is my most days.

Dear So-and-So

Dear ICE #2299:

I arrived on your track, number 5, thirty minutes early. I came dressed in my black dress and red boots, bottle of red wine in one hand and champagne in the other. In the top pocket of my 35L Black Diamond pack was a gift bag filled with some of the finest chocolates. When you arrived I expected two familiar faces to exit your doors. There were to be hugs, toasts, etc…How could you abandon my friends? Leave them deserted in an unknown city? It’s ok, really, I do forgive you. And I promise to use your services shortly.

Dear Frankfurt:

Here’s to the city I didnt even see! For 2 nights you provided shelter, a cute studio with an exquisite library and vintagey knick-knacks. Please dont be mad at me for not getting to know you better. I did enjoy you. It’s just that, I may have enjoyed Franksizka and Renee a bit more. Nonetheless, thank you for supplying us with decent weather, free music in the park and a Norwegian named Felix. Most importantly thank-you for inspiring our new said friend to wear hideous red pants to club, ‘Living XXL’, they provided many jokes and great laughter for the remainder of the weekend. Sidenote: Why in the world do you allow a club to exist with such a pathetic name? It’s a disgrace.

Dear www.amazon.de:

I blame you for my increasing brain size. You have provided me 8 books for 30 Euro. Keep these deals up and I’ll mention you at the Oscars.

Dear Sewing Maching:

I have a massive crush on you!

Dear United Airlines:

You were scheduled to arrive tomorrrow carrying one of my bestest friends. In the weeks leading up to this I have been reminded of the great memories Kt and I have shared over the past years: Moyer day slumber parties, 2 am worship sesh’s in the loop, overnight camping in the loop, last minute Thanksgiving flights to Cali, dairy-free days, Lake Chelan kayaking, Quest mornings and fine Ballard living. I have been reminded of her sincerity, generosity, silly laughter, listening ears and the beautiful way she loves. I have been eagerly anticipating the making of more crazy memories and blessed moments. Though I selfishly wish she were still traveling with you, I understand the circumstances. Thank you for offering wonderful ticket insurance! Hearts may be broken, but banks are not.

Dear Kt:

I love you, love you, love you, love you!

Dear London:

I am headed your way in a few weeks time. Please be ready for me.

To die would be an awfully big adventure

I am wearing my satin green dress. The one that makes me look like Peter Pan. Maybe that’s only my opinion, not everyone agrees. I do think its a bit silly, but its comfortable and for that I love it. So here I am, Peter Pan on a Saturday morning thinking that my blog deserves months worth of updates and wild stories, though I only have time and mind capacity to comment on a few of the events of the last weeks. Enjoy!

*’Hiking’ in the Black Forest:

…does not exist, even though it may be advertised as so. Carefully tended to trails along rolling green hills may make for a German hiking experience, but its nothing like the dirt and dust of mountains ín the Northwest.

*Homemade Chocolate Chip Cookies:

Chocolate Chip cookies, easy right? Not so overseas. Ingredients: brown sugar and baking powder here are quite different than our favorite American thick-fluffy-brown and the classic Rumford brand. Nestle chips, or any chips, too are hard to come by. All in hopes of introducing my host family to the delicious goodies I accepted the challenge and made 2 attempts to perfect the American cookie. Not gonna lie, they were delicious-devoured in minutes, but definately not the real thing. Since then I have now discovered that the asian market holds REAL brown sugar and I hear that the nearest Army base imports American specialities. Attempt number 3 soon to come.

* Eurocup 2008: Deutschland vs. Espana:

20:15- Neighbor Phillipe and side-kick Julian meet at my home. I am told we don’t have much time to make it to our game viewing destination. I don’t know where it is, but I am told that I will finally not be the oldest in the crowd. Julian looks like John Lennon in his shades, his long hair and barefeet. Philipe, well he just looks German.

20:40- Franny, Jana, Max, Katrina and Fritz met us near a U Line-in a new part of Stuttgart, one that had not yet been explored by my feet. The 8 of us, beer and champagne in hand, walked the 20 minutes leisurelly. There was no rush, though we knew the game had started…We made our way through the tall grass, corner gardens and wood piles to our destination: Frannys house. A make-shift projecter screen hanging from a cherry tree! In the background a ping pong table and a green painted out-house. On blankets we sat, bugs nipping at our flesh. By 1/2 time clouds were pink with sunset and smell of BBQ lingered. Germany lost in the end, but the good times with new friends were just beginning. From the after party, to celebrating with Spain fans, to the couple bars we visited until early in the morn., it all made for one very memorable fussball celebration.

And to come?

Today I meet Keefer and Milsow (friends from Mars Hill) at the train station, they have a quick transfer to get to Zurich and I have promised champagne and chocolates for our 30 minute reunion. Upon their departure I shall take the next train to Frankfurt to meet Renee (old 63rd st housemate). A week later Kt arrives. Then its Berlin to celebrate her 25th and to visit our dear friend April.

I am looking forward to great laughter and hearty cathing-ups. I am looking forward to being in the presence of woman! (No stinky, smelly boys) Woman who are fun, honest, real and above all love the Lord.

More to come.

When Your Shoes Are Tired And Worn (pt 2)

The employees of the hospital say they have never had a patient with this many visitors. The people that can’t come send mail and flowers. There are stacks of ‘Get Well Soon’ cards. I read them all. Some of them are funny. Some are too serious. They read like final goodbyes. Some people say they are praying. I think I am also? I want to buy a card. I am better at expressing myself through written words; even though raised an actress, I want to be a writer too. I want to tell Jamma how much she means to me. I go to the gift shop. I give the candy shelves a bad eye remembering what made me ill days earlier, I mutter a cuss word or two. F***ing Snickers. I make my way to the card section. I read atleast 30 and want to call it quites. F***ing Hallmark.

The front of the card that I finally settle on has an illustration of dirty old chuck-like shoes. ‘When your shoes are tired and worn, you can borrow mine.’ I like this. It’s not too cheesy. The shoe thing signifies travel and life lived. And by God, has Leah Sluis lived one hell of a life! Plus there is plenty of room to write on the inside and the back, if I need to- which I am certain I will. There is so much to say. I could write a 200 page book expressing my gratitude, my love, and even then it wouldnt be enough. At the check out stand I notice a sweet little teddy bear with butterfly wings. We are both too old for teddy bears, but this seems appropriate. I buy them both: the card and bear. I go back to my place in the waiting room.

There are more visitors now and fresh flowers have arrived. I will get another chance to see her soon… The hours pass. Dolores stands to sing an operatic piece. Its one I have heard several times before, but never can remember the name. Her voice is incredible, I always get shivers when she sings. She is rehearsing for an upcoming production. Can’t remember which one, maybe Teatro Zinzanni. To my left is the Lester’s telling stories of road trips and wild adventures we have shared. To my right sits Lauri Aleona, or MMMM as we call her (Methodist Minister Motorcyle Mama), she recalls the last show Jamma performed. It was just weeks before, at the methodist church-a set of negro spirituals. Of the hundreds she had performed, it is this that is her last. Swing Low Sweet Chariot, Down By The River Side, Amazing Grace, Peace In The Valley, Steal Away…

Aunt Sarah calls my name, I can go finally go in. I have been in her room much since her stay. I convince myself its getting easier. It’s not. Though she isnt blue any more, she is now pale and ghostly. She can no longer talk. There are tubes and masks, machines that make awful noises. I am nervous this time. I can’t speak. I sit and force an awkward braces-filled smile. She laughs, beckons me near, places her hand on mine and begins to tap a song with her warm fingers. I guess the tune correctly. She smiles. A greek goddess smile! I want to look at her, to take her in slowly. But it’s hard for me to stay in the present, it’s better to remember the past where health and joy abound. I find happiness in those memories… train rides to New York, saturday night PBS movie specials, records playing by candlelight, impromptu show- tunes jam sessions, sewing lessons, thanksgiving dinners, dance recitals, Dorothy Parker and Wordsworth readings, kitchen dancing, backyard grape leaves and homemade dolmas, our dog charlie, poker for money, gardening, springtime lilacs, dress-up parties, dutch lessons…

It is getting late now. My sweet memories and the tapping of comforting fingers are forced to a halt. It is time to leave the hospital. I give her the teddy bear, but not the card- I will write it tonight.. She smiles, hugs the bear and kisses me. Goodnight.

I stay this night with a friend, Brooke. My best friend Murial is still at summer camp and I want to be with her more than anything. But Brooke’s family is sweet and we always laugh (and they eat chips and pizza). I don’t remember what we do this night. I know I want to write my card, but I haven’t really slept in days. I will sleep now and finish it in the morning. I will give it to her tomorrow afternoon when I see her next. Brooke and I sleep, a deep sleep. Interrupted by a knocking at the bedroom door. Is it still dark outside? Mrs. Simmons peeps her head in, phone in hand… Are those tears in her eyes? I don’t know this woman that well. It’s a shame that she has to be a bearer of bad news.

It is so. It happened early morning in her sleep. It was peaceful. She is at rest.

-I am a mess.

A week or so later there is a memorial service in the city park. There are hundreds of people that gather. Someone head counts over 300, someone much more. Its all numbers, I look at faces. I know names and remember stories. I know Jamma has a memory, a significant moment with all of these. She, in her divine way, has influenced each and every soul. By wit, by laughter, by song, by art, by hospitality, by care and kindness, by efforts to fight for those less fortunate. Present at the service are the children from Kids Fest (the childrens theatre group she created) and members of CVP (the community theatre group she too created) there are the teachers from the local school districts, the workers of Safeway grocery and Bear Foods, city council members, local business owners, farmers, lawyers, artists, playwrights, journalists, pastors, jewelers, migrant workers, dr.’s. From near and a far. Healthy, deaf, handicap. Grandparents, parents, children.

The service is simple. There is no coffin, she is creamated. No photo slideshow. No pastor to officiate a formal funeral service. There are only words amounting to beautiful stories and precious memories shared by the community of individuals gathered. Her friends, her family. My friends, my family.

————–

I want to say that June 26th, marks ten years of her passing, But to be quite honest, I cant remember if its ten or nine. Earlier last week I was certain it ten, now I believe it to be less. My journals, which know my life best, are thousands of miles away in dusty old boxes next to a certain unwritten card. It is impossible now to consult them, and maybe it doesnt matter all that much. It’s just numbers. I know a name and remember stories.