Here are some small adventures that I have been experiencing in Oregon lately. I am going to write one paragraph about each one, an exercise in brevity if nothing else. Some of these might be full-length blog posts in the future, but here we go!
This week I went to the Oregon coast. It was sprinkling rain as I got in my car to leave Eugene, and the moment I was fully out of town on Highway 126 heading west, it began to rain without mercy. This continued for my entire drive to Florence; the only change was when it began raining harder. I drove idly around Florence for a bit, curving through residential streets to find the North Jetty, where the Siuslaw River meets the Pacific. By this point, it was pouring rain, and wind whipped every which way. I zipped up my jacket, changed into old jeans & running shoes, and dashed onto the beach, where I spent a merry fifteen minutes cavorting on the beach. I ran into the wind; I ran with the gales, and allowed them to carry me in a dance across the deserted, swept-clean beach. Then I raced back to my adventure-mobile and changed into dry clothes after a brief wander through old-town Florence before driving the hour-plus back to Eugene, a drive where I was again escorted by torrential rain.
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Sam Bond's Garage used to be a garage, but now it is a bar in Eugene's Whiteaker neighborhood. The neighborhood gets a bad rap, a mishmash of old hippies long-wandering bums, dirty punk rockers, and an emerging artsy youth. My dad turned up his nose when I told him where I was going; I too in my decades of living in Eugene had never once been to this bar, iconic for serving drinks in Mason jars. The exterior was framed in cheery lights, sparkling through the dark, past several much more decrepit buildings. The hipster bouncer looked up from his reading to peruse my ID. The bar, a long room, hummed with energy. A stage lay at the far end of the room. Men with various instruments had assembled upon it, quietly plucking bluegrass tunes. A brightly colored chalkboard listed the brews on tap - an assemblage of local micros, house-made mead and hard cider, the usual litany of wine, spirits, bottled beer. A colorful sign hung over the bar, touting late-night appetizers, organic salad greens, fancy pizza by the slice. The bartender poured me up a double-red ale (brewed just blocks away) and people crowded in, elbow to elbow at rough-hewn round tables around the room. Everywhere people were chattering away, sharing thoughts, creating connections, clutching their Mason jars.
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It seems trite to call it an adventure, but for the past two weeks we have been full into my mother's chemotherapy adventure. The cancer center sits right off the river; sun beams in through wide-open windows. It may be the most welcoming doctor's office I've been to, populated with friendly staff, rooms filled with jigsaw puzzles, brewed coffee, and the like. The chemo infusion takes four hours, as they fill my mom's IV with a variety-pack of drugs to pre-empt certain effects of the chemo before the chemo, too, runs through the line into her arm. Liz, the nurse, is loving and patient, but matter-of-fact. She describes each drug to us as she adds it to the olio. My mother dozes. We eat the lunch we brought along. My dad leaves to run an errand. The staff eat their lunches, and remind us to take advantage of the assorted tea and dried soups in the nurses' corner. I go for a jog along the river, feeling the rushing rapids, dodging a sprinkle of rain, cutting back through the mall parking lot to return to the cancer center. When the last chemo drug finishes its slow drip into her vein, Liz wraps my mom's arm in a hot pink bandage, and ten minutes later we're in the car. Day one of chemo, and done.
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One of my favorite Christmas gifts this year was not under the tree. The chemo put my mom out of commission for several days, so my youngest sister Laura and I wound up with most of the holiday shopping. We didn't mind this in the slightest, and easily spent a few days running this errand or that, coming up with action plans to find the best presents at the best places. It was fun to imagine what Mom and Dad might want, and to buy presents for one at the behest of the other. We had a great time browsing bargain bins, laughing wildly at silly fun facts (FUN FACT!) in childrens' books. Here's a joke we learned: What do polar bears eat? Iceburgers! Ha ha ha! Laura and I also brainstormed the same present for Mom that Mom wanted to buy for Laura, so I surreptitiously bought both. We stayed up late one night assembling a scrapbook binder for Mom, filled with get-well cards she's received, including a darling set of photos from the third-grade class she teaches. One day we made fudge to get in the holiday spirit; another, we listened to campy Christmas songs on the radio while wrapping presents. Laura lives in Illinois now and is six years younger than me; the greatest gift of all were these days we spent together preparing for the holiday.
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