A Staycation in Ashland, Oregon

     Let's say you live in the mountains and a friend who lives in town has offered you her house while she's away for five days. Here are a few tips, in case that happens to you.

(1) A staycation! Accept excitedly.

(2) Pack the car with everything you think you might need: skis, since you'll be an hour closer to the ski trails; yoga gear and clothes (this is not an excuse not to do yoga for five days); computer, books, hiking clothes and poles, dinner-out clothes and ski clothes and hang-around-the-house clothes and everyday shoes and dress-up boots and hiking boots, and don't forget your ski boots and poles, too.

(3) Leave your work behind so you don't end up doing everything you do at home except in a different place. Be free to do things you can't do at home, such as:

(4) Walk twenty minutes to a coffee shop every morning for a leisurely cup of coffee.

(5) Go to a poetry reading at the college and a dramatic reading at the local bookstore and especially go to the local theater to see the new Bob Dylan movie.

(6) Browse the bookstores and clothing stores. But watch your wallet; it could empty fast.

(7) Slip around the corner to a pub for dinner and have the best beer you've ever had (pFriem pilsner).

(8) Once you figure out how to work the remote, sit on the couch and watch movies, like Erin Brockovich, The Pianist, The Great British Bake-off.

(9) Meet a friend for dinner.

(10) Meet a friend for a hike.

(11) When it's time to go home, leave a nice thank-you gift on the table and be sure to lock the door behind you as you leave the house.

(12) Walk into your own little house on the mountain, glad to be home and grateful for the good time you have had on your staycation.

Cleaning Out the Entry Closet

   The Swedes have a word and, I guess, a concept that we don't have in English—döstädning: dö (death), städning (cleaning): death cleaning, downsizing so your children won't be burdened with your stuff after you die. I thought that's what I was doing when I started cleaning out the entry closet last week, but now I think I was just wanting to be able to walk into it again.

    Basically, I don't have a lot of "stuff" in my house, though I did in the entry closet. Most of it was memorabilia that, sentiment aside, wasn't worth keeping, although when I found a box of puppets my son and I had made when he was small, I gasped with delight. What characters we had created! And the puppet shows we performed with them! But the cloth faces were dirty and the gourd faces had been chewed by insects and the sock dragon had lost teeth, and so on. Out they went. I boxed the good ones to donate to a school, and, yeah, okay, I kept a few, too. 

    When I was cleaning off the shelf of games, I found cards for a game Ela and I had been making up when he was still learning how to write. It was going to be a literary board game. I don't remember what the start and end squares were, but the cards were delightful: "You dropped your golden ball into the well. Go back 2 steps." "The tortoise wins the race. Go forward 8 steps." We must have been reading Robin Hood stories and Arthurian tales at the time because a lot of cards reference those stories: "Arthur pulls sword out of stone. Advance to any intersection." "Little John fights Robin Hood on bridge and knocks him off. Go back 3 steps." The game was never completed, but the cards are too fun and hold too many memories to be tossed. I put them back on the shelf.

    I also kept the Alice in Wonderland chess set Ela made from Sculpty clay–Alice as the Queen, mushrooms as castles, lobsters as pawns, and so on. I don't play chess, but I love these playful chess pieces.

    I don't think I'll do any more beading and I don't paint any more, so why keep the equipment? It wasn't hard to give away such things, or to toss paint that had dried up and children's books that won't have any more readers in my house. I tore the hardback covers off books too ragged to give away and recycled the paper. I don't know if children read books these days, but I took the books I liked best to the Goodwill. They had probably come from the Goodwill in the first place. And I kept the ones with the most sentimental attachment, either for me or for Ela. I'll probably never read The Little Colonel's Hero again, but looking at it gives me a warm feeling from my childhood, and maybe, after I die, Ela will feel the same way about finding the Dr. Seuss and Richard Scary books I used to read to him.

    Still, I got rid of a lot of stuff. Here's a picture of the second carload to go to the transfer station and the Goodwill, as well as a couple of elegant jackets and other special things I'm offering on Jo's List at a good price.

    I found the architectural plans for my house and thought why should I keep them now that the house was built? But I was unsure, so I asked my son. He said they had important information about the house and that I should keep them. That made me uneasy. What if I had thrown out something important? What if I threw out sentimental stuff that Ela would have enjoyed seeing again?

    No matter. What's done is done. And it feels good, now, to walk into the entry closet and see all those half-empty shelves.  It feels like a good way to start the new year.

Christmas Decorations, Present and Past

     Last week, I cut down a little fir tree close to my house and brought it inside. Then I invited a friend to come over for eggnog and tree trimming. 

    It's not a modern Christmas tree, with a perfect cone shape and tight limbs. It's a wild tree. The ornaments don't nestle into branches; they dangle where you can see them. (Look for the origami and other decades-old, hand-made ornaments in the picture.) I found the the tree growing trunk-to-trunk next to a large ponderosa pine. With truncated back branches it nestles close to the banister, allowing walking room to the pantry and the bathroom.

    The Christmas trees in the larger house of my childhood were always ceiling-high and broad-limbed, as Christmas trees from lots were in those days. We, too, had ornaments from long ago, such as twisted tin dangles made from tin cans during World War II. Tinsel had to be hung one strand at a time, the way I still do it. Every year, when the tree was trimmed, my mother would stand back and say, "It's the most beautiful tree we've ever had."

    One year my father built a five-foot-tall Christmas star. Every year after that he would lay the metal strips, screwed into a star shape, on the floor and string the large-bulb, multi-colored lights along the points. Then he would climb onto the roof and erect the star at the peak. Every evening during the Christmas season, we would plug in the star just at dusk. We couldn't see it, but we knew people driving down the road could. (After a while, Dad just left the star on the roof, unlit until the Christmas season.)

    We were so proud of that star! When we had been out and were driving home, down the long, dark hill of Long Island Drive, we eagerly looked for it. We were probably at least a mile away and still high on the hill when we spotted it, colorful and bright and big, asserting itself alone through the distance, in the dark. No other Christmas lights were visible, just our star. We thought it was thrilling. 

    It was that kind of family. Not that we had to have the best of everything but that what we had was so often what we had created. Other houses were more grand, but ours was the Coogle home. Other Christmas lights were more elaborate, but ours was a Coogle star.

Atmospheric river

    It has been raining steadily for two days and nights. Is it another atmospheric river? 

    Such a great term! My son, Ela, visiting during the days of intense rain before Thanksgiving, gave it to me.

    I was immediately charmed. It sounded like something from a fairy tale, a flow from mystical regions through the sky, touching down to earth with replenishing rain, flowing and weaving and meandering like an earthly river, carrying fairies and elves riding on dragonflies, riding the currents on invisible canoes. 

    I wasn't far wrong. The atmospheric river starts in the tropics and moves towards the North Pole, sliding over the Pacific Coast into the valleys, then up and over the Cascades. It's a river of vapor, carrying more liquid than the Amazon River and treating mountains the way the Rogue River treats boulders—obstacles to flow over. 

    Since 2019, atmospheric river events have been rated, along the lines of hurricane ratings, from AR 1 (weakest) to AR 5 (strongest). AR 5 means "exceptional" or "primarily hazardous." AR 4 means "mostly hazardous, also beneficial." Damage could be from mudslides, flooding, saturated soils, windstorms, and, where I live, downed trees. That week's storm was rated between AR 4 and AR 5. 

    At that, I abandoned the fairy-tale fascination. 

     That afternoon, clothed against the rain, Ela stepped through the upstairs window to unplug my gutter. 

    "Don't get swept away in the river!" I warned.

    Unlike the Rogue River, where you could, if you wanted, stand on the shore and watch it flow past for years, an atmospheric river eventually flows past. At 4:00 that afternoon the rain stopped. Everything became quiet. Occasionally a drop of water plinked against the deck. Patches of blue showed through thinning gray mists.    

A Great Job

    One of the most exciting jobs I have ever had is to write profiles of Marshall Scholars for the Marshall Scholars Newsletter. I have met so many amazing people this way, people who have followed astonishing careers and done much good in the world. Here are a few examples:

    Terrorism studies. Audrey Cronin's career has centered on understanding terrorism and terrorists and helping governments and other groups prevent terrorist acts.

   Pharmaceuticals. Alex Oshmyansky was so angry at drug companies for their exorbitant prices that he started a Public Benefit Corporation, backed by billionaire TV personality Mark Cuban, to lower the cost of generic drugs by eliminating the middlemen of the industry whom Oshmyansky called "the worst actors…a morass of, basically, theft." 

    Music. Concert pianist Donna Stoering started a nonprofit, Listen for Life, through which she has gone around the world to preserve native music by filming and interview musicians, making their music as exciting for young people as MTV. 

    Climate change. Jennifer Mills is a scientist at a company that counters the effects of climate change by using an "enhanced weathering technique" to pull carbon out of the atmosphere. (You can imagine what a stretch that article was for me to write!)

    Literature. John Galassi became a publisher with and, finally, president of the prestigious literary publishing house Farrar Strauss and Giroux, discovering, among other writers, Lydia Davis, Jeffrey Eugenides, Jonathan Franzen, George Packer, and Alice McDermott. He is also an award-winning translator of Italian poetry.

    Journalism. Lane Greene is a business and finance correspondent for The Economist. (Another topic way outside my usual path.)

   Sports. Ahalya Lettenberger is a world champion swimmer whose physical impairment (arthrogryposis) led her not only into paralympics sports but into bioengineering studies and a search for assistant technologies for people with disabilities.

    Medicine. Geoffrey Tabin, a world-class mountain climber and one of the inventors of bungee jumping (along with other members of the Oxford University Dangerous Sports Club), has gone around the world as an ophthalmologist with the goal of eliminating treatable blindness in developing countries. He is a recipient of the Dalai Lama's Unsung Heroes of Compassion Award.

    These Marshall Scholars are also just plain brilliant. Take Alex Oshmyanski. He taught himself trigonometry and calculus when he was in grade school, graduated from the University of Denver in one year, entered medical school when he was 19 and won a Marshall Scholarship the same year, earned a Ph.D. in mathematics at Oxford and an MD from Duke, and took a year of law school as "an elaborate hobby" while he was doing a medical residency. 

    I am awed by such brilliance, but even more, I am impressed by the way so many Marshall Scholars use their brilliance to make the world a better place.

    

    

First Ski of the Season

     After days of indecision—enough snow? wet snow? good snow?—my son, Ela, and I decided suddenly at 8:00 Monday morning, the day before his return to his home in Washington, that yes! We would ski at Crater Lake.

    I slung wax on my skis and flung them into the car along with boots, poles, and ski clothes, then drove to Jacksonville and met Ela at his dad's. And then more delays: coffee, ski rental, and, at Union Creek, a bathroom break. I was anxious about getting in enough skiing without having to dive home in the snow and the dark.

    Fortuitous delays! The turn-off past Union Creek was blocked with snow, but just as we got there, a snowplow pulled up behind us. Any earlier, and our plans would have been foiled. We followed the snowplow all the way to the park entrance.

    Snow was falling. The temperature was 21 degrees. Not a single car at the trailhead. Expansive solitude.

    We parked, gathered our gear, took a quick photo,

then stomped steps into the seven-foot snowbank, snapped boots into skis, and took off. It was just after noon. Still snowing.

    Ecstatic pleasure! Perfect snow—soft and fluffy as kitten fur and unbelievably deep—gorgeous soft powder through which we sank to our knees at every step. The tips of our skis only occasionally peeked through, sliding into view like little animals. Pretty soon we were breaking trail uphill. Such hard work! And gloriously beautiful. On and on we went, Ela usually in front. I did my share of breaking trail, too

though maybe not my fair share unless you take into consideration differences in age and stamina. The sky was gray, the snow soft, the route uphill, the forest dark-trunked and white-burdened. Snow fell and fell. We pushed on and on and on through the soft, deep snow.

    After two hours, at a suitable fork in the road, we started back, skiing in our tracks at a good rhythmic pace, in a slow, steady glide. Ela was far ahead of me, skiing fast, but every once in a while he stopped and looked back before continuing. At one point a huge blast of cold wind and heavy snow obliterated him from sight altogether. The last half-mile (or more, surely!) was uphill again, and by that time I was worn out. One step, the next step, then another, and finally I saw Ela disappear down the stomped-in steps to the road. (He tried to ski it. Bad move.) We dumped skis, poles, and wet clothes into the car, climbed into the front seat, and turned on the heater.

    We had skied five and a half miles, through that glorious deep snow. It was 3:15. The temperature was still 21 degrees, but the snow had stopped. 

    Ela drove again. We stopped for a beer, then to return the rented skis, then to Ela's dad's house, where dinner was waiting. I gratefully accepted the offer to spend the night.

    I fell asleep with my body still attuned to the graceful rhythm of skis on perfect snow and the bracing sensation of cold fresh air as I followed my son up the mountain and back down. What a wonderful, wonderful day it had been!

Cataract Removal

     Thursday I had cataract surgery on the left eye, the long-distance eye. Friday I had a post-op, everything-looks-good appointment. Saturday I took a walk through the forest.
    How the world has changed! I hadn't realized how restricted my world had become. Now, I peer through the trees and can see, sharply, to the vanishing point. I can see the deep clefts in fir tree bark and the tiny, shaggy shingles of madrone bark. I can see the difference in the patterns of bark on pines, firs, cedars, and oaks. I raise my eyes to the tops of white oak trees, where individual lobes of bright yellow leaves are etched onto the sky. Colors, which I had thought bright already, have deepened and glow.

    You know how images in some modern photographs are as sharp in the distance as those in the foreground? That's how it is: an unbelievable clarity, an indescribable depth in the world around me.

    I did an interview years ago with a Marshall Scholar named Geoffrey Tabin, an ophthalmologist who provides free cataract surgery in many developing countries In a video about his work, one man says he was knocked down by a cow because he couldn't see. Another says it was so hard to get to the outhouse he stopped eating. A woman hated being a burden on her daughter, who has her own children to care for. Then the operation. Then removal of the eye patch. Then amazing joy. Such dancing! Such ululation! Such smiles!

    I wasn't running into cows before my surgery, but, yeah, I know why these people were dancing.

    Next month I'll have surgery on the other eye. Then I'll be able to read without blurred vision, too.

Such joy! Such smiles! I might even ululate.