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I’ve been having a hard time writing about our travels lately – I feel in and out of focus, sad about being away from Homer for Gaye’s memorial on Sunday. Rika and Sam asked me to write a eulogy. I’ve never done anything like this before and its very hard. I’m still in shock over her sudden departure. I feel badly and a bit disoriented being away from Homer. I think of what Gaye would want at this time. I know that Gaye respected family tremendously; she loved and longed for the family unit. She adored Jake. And because she was just his age when her parents passed, she truly supported our road trip. She was pleased and excited. I feel she would have wanted us to persist. I am comforted by the fact that we had a chance to say goodbye , to tell her at her bedside before we departed how much we love her. At Alaska Regional ICU, Michael, Jake and I started a book for people to write prayers in, something we envisioned her reading as she recovered.
But now, suddenly time has hurled forward and she is far ahead of us. Gaye lived like a comet. She burned bright and strong. She made herself into a light and brightened and strengthened our little hamlet in a special way. A person who had almost no family, she cultivated our community as if everyone was related. She made a family of friends. Between her many profound commitments, to Bunnell, to the Pratt, to ARTrageous Homer, to Public Art, to the diverse and wonderful creativity of our community, She truly nurtured and fostered, labored and mothered our hamlet.
To me, Gaye was more than a friend and mentor, she truly was family. She loved and advised and confided and counseled and watched over me. Sometimes it drove me crazy. Initially when we began working together, when she joined Bunnell’s Board, I had more family in town than most. I was overwhelmed with the responsibility of caring for so much extended family, for a young child and growing Bunnell Street Arts Center. I felt at that time my energy and inspiration were finite, that I had to choose between how much I could give versus how much I needed to sustain myself. From Gaye, I learned that the solution is to give more, to be bigger, braver and more generous. Her respect for family and her ethic of giving softened and stretched me. She taught me that if you give 100% you’ll get back a million.
Homer is going through a lot these days – that’s how we are. Exposed like our landscape, at the edge of our comfort, a bit weather beaten. It is hard to be away from Homer at this time, a time when need to stand close together. I would like to be standing with those who are grieving, at a time when the love in our community is so needed and so evident. Now, as I try to make sense of her timing, I’m certain that was intentional. She chose to cross the great divide, to bring us together precisely now, to remind us of our strengths, to remind us to feel our love and celebrate it.
But now, suddenly time has hurled forward and she is far ahead of us. Gaye lived like a comet. She burned bright and strong. She made herself into a light and brightened and strengthened our little hamlet in a special way. A person who had almost no family, she cultivated our community as if everyone was related. She made a family of friends. Between her many profound commitments, to Bunnell, to the Pratt, to ARTrageous Homer, to Public Art, to the diverse and wonderful creativity of our community, She truly nurtured and fostered, labored and mothered our hamlet.
To me, Gaye was more than a friend and mentor, she truly was family. She loved and advised and confided and counseled and watched over me. Sometimes it drove me crazy. Initially when we began working together, when she joined Bunnell’s Board, I had more family in town than most. I was overwhelmed with the responsibility of caring for so much extended family, for a young child and growing Bunnell Street Arts Center. I felt at that time my energy and inspiration were finite, that I had to choose between how much I could give versus how much I needed to sustain myself. From Gaye, I learned that the solution is to give more, to be bigger, braver and more generous. Her respect for family and her ethic of giving softened and stretched me. She taught me that if you give 100% you’ll get back a million.
Homer is going through a lot these days – that’s how we are. Exposed like our landscape, at the edge of our comfort, a bit weather beaten. It is hard to be away from Homer at this time, a time when need to stand close together. I would like to be standing with those who are grieving, at a time when the love in our community is so needed and so evident. Now, as I try to make sense of her timing, I’m certain that was intentional. She chose to cross the great divide, to bring us together precisely now, to remind us of our strengths, to remind us to feel our love and celebrate it.
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We’re having a wonderful time in Portland, dashing into groovy galleries and dodging raindrops. Just in one day the sun has been in and out six times. Spent a couple hours in Powells as the rain beat down. Jake camped out in the graphic novel section. Michael honed in on Art and I couldn’t get past Literature. Michael’s dad, Terry, was patient with us bookworms, perhaps dazed by the spectacle of Powells, its voluminous scale-more than one city block. Outrageous, fantastic, overwhelming--surely the biggest bookstore in the world. I wanted to find something about sports writing for Jake, but even so it was tough, perhaps because I lost focus amist that volume of volumes. It needs to be about football, baseball or soccer.
Jake went back to Powells while we explored galleries. Portland’s art scene is impressive. I haven’t seen so many decent galleries within a few square blocks since Chelsea. I admire the bravura of Stepen Hayes painting at Elizabeth Leach—making a sky in a few minutes of scrubbing, seconds of dripping or a long thoughtful moment of demarcation: a bristly line surges halfway up the canvas. The sky is an undescribed space above that edge, below knots of barns, bushes.
There were amazing encaustics by Andrea Schwartz-Feit at Butters. Michael and I tend to like the same things. Still, I’m sure if we ever had a gallery together we’d have to take turns making selections. We were offered champagne and chocolates at Butters, just minutes late for the artists talk. About a dozen people stood around talking. The art dealers were all quite friendly. I wanted to know how many attended the talk. Based on how many stood around, I’m inclined to think that more come to Bunnell.
The gallery spaces in Portland are beautiful, inspiring. Fat beams, tall windows, floors of polished concrete, steel plates or old tongue and groove, lovingly maintained. I guess they remind me of Chelsea because they are also one-story buildings, big windows – many with garage doors. The quality of Portland galleries, which so boldly surpasses Seattle or San Francisco (as a community, all in a dozen square blocks) somewhat explains the presence of several great galleries not far away in Astoria. I’m still thinking about Imogen Gallery and Lightbox. Imogen is new—I was immediately delighted to see Alaska’s Sara Tabbert’s work there, mixed in with a tasty variety of abstracts. Lightbox was amazing. It’s a photographer’s gallery – a deep space with very high ceilings in front, showing a rich array prints in small wood frames. Beautiful light – each piece glowed in a precious halo of amber. There was a wonderful collection of vintage cameras witnessing the scene, old guys, smiling with appreciation. The floors were stained very dark. In back, a handsome workstation for framing, packing. An adorable mezzanine doubled as an office (front) and critique/screening room (back). Also darkrooms one can rent – perhaps in the basement. So elegantly designed and atmospheric I would expect to find it in Seoul or Amsterdam.
Jake went back to Powells while we explored galleries. Portland’s art scene is impressive. I haven’t seen so many decent galleries within a few square blocks since Chelsea. I admire the bravura of Stepen Hayes painting at Elizabeth Leach—making a sky in a few minutes of scrubbing, seconds of dripping or a long thoughtful moment of demarcation: a bristly line surges halfway up the canvas. The sky is an undescribed space above that edge, below knots of barns, bushes.
There were amazing encaustics by Andrea Schwartz-Feit at Butters. Michael and I tend to like the same things. Still, I’m sure if we ever had a gallery together we’d have to take turns making selections. We were offered champagne and chocolates at Butters, just minutes late for the artists talk. About a dozen people stood around talking. The art dealers were all quite friendly. I wanted to know how many attended the talk. Based on how many stood around, I’m inclined to think that more come to Bunnell.
The gallery spaces in Portland are beautiful, inspiring. Fat beams, tall windows, floors of polished concrete, steel plates or old tongue and groove, lovingly maintained. I guess they remind me of Chelsea because they are also one-story buildings, big windows – many with garage doors. The quality of Portland galleries, which so boldly surpasses Seattle or San Francisco (as a community, all in a dozen square blocks) somewhat explains the presence of several great galleries not far away in Astoria. I’m still thinking about Imogen Gallery and Lightbox. Imogen is new—I was immediately delighted to see Alaska’s Sara Tabbert’s work there, mixed in with a tasty variety of abstracts. Lightbox was amazing. It’s a photographer’s gallery – a deep space with very high ceilings in front, showing a rich array prints in small wood frames. Beautiful light – each piece glowed in a precious halo of amber. There was a wonderful collection of vintage cameras witnessing the scene, old guys, smiling with appreciation. The floors were stained very dark. In back, a handsome workstation for framing, packing. An adorable mezzanine doubled as an office (front) and critique/screening room (back). Also darkrooms one can rent – perhaps in the basement. So elegantly designed and atmospheric I would expect to find it in Seoul or Amsterdam.
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We drove from Westport to Long Beach by lunch, enjoying a fantastic bike ride on a paved trail that snakes through dunes of beach grass about 100 meters from the shore. With peek-a-boo views of rollers and waves of mist, it was absolutely the best leg stretch imaginable. Yesterday I jogged with Michael and Jake in the morning; by noon my good knee felt bad. Like there’s a pea in there. So no jogging for me. But biking is heavenly. We met folks who directed us to Fort Stevens campground for the night. Its wooded, private and rather posh. RV culture spans the two extremes, neither of which are quite our scene. There’s the rat pack and the brat pack. The rats are tattered and woebegone, with tarps and moss and hard-luck story to be sure. We pass them on the fringes, in little gypsy camps. Brats are big and shiny and aloof like a bunch of refrigerators. They take up a lot of space.
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Maybe it will be sunny again in a few months. No matter what, we will have to brave it and head out on the road again, feeling our way forward. Strangely, today I have a horrible stomach ache.
It will be hard to leave Debi’s nest. Shortly after we broke the news of our departure Jake had a total meltdown. It took a while to realize that he was also hungry. He had another bowl of soup (his other favorite, clam chowder) and read in bed. He has plowed through four books in the past twelve days: Mattimeo, The Rescuers, Miss Bianca and The Hunger but Mainly Dying Games.
We stocked up on groceries. One risks a small avalanche when opening any of the cupboards. The yoga mats are freshly washed. It is warm enough now that we won’t use them as floor mats anymore. The nice wood laminate is exposed. Still, the RV is as forlorn as a wet chicken waiting in the driveway. There’s a leak on top of the toilet.
It will be hard to leave Debi’s nest. Shortly after we broke the news of our departure Jake had a total meltdown. It took a while to realize that he was also hungry. He had another bowl of soup (his other favorite, clam chowder) and read in bed. He has plowed through four books in the past twelve days: Mattimeo, The Rescuers, Miss Bianca and The Hunger but Mainly Dying Games.
We stocked up on groceries. One risks a small avalanche when opening any of the cupboards. The yoga mats are freshly washed. It is warm enough now that we won’t use them as floor mats anymore. The nice wood laminate is exposed. Still, the RV is as forlorn as a wet chicken waiting in the driveway. There’s a leak on top of the toilet.
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We’ve unfurled into Debi Bodett's like a bunch of marbles ecstatically sprawled out. She welcomed us with freshly baked bread and apple pie and her delicious chicken soup. Jake joyously ate soup for dinner and breakfast, and breakfast again today. Within a couple hours he read Debi his poetry. She responded with trays of buttered bread and hot chocolate as he read or watched TV. Within 24 hrs he was calling her Mom 2.
Again this morning he was up before any of us working on his blog: SimpleSite.com/SportsNow. While it has little to do with our road trip, it is clearly a great empowerment to him. He calls us over hourly to read his articles, which are generally one decisive sentence about how professional soccer, baseball and football are going. Then he erases it and starts afresh. She has also made him a business card.
I’m afraid his blog was inspired by the total computer geekfest of the adults. Debi is master of the universe at her big mac, effortlessly assisting us in orchestrating two new websites: Asiafreeman.com and Walshinthecloud.com.
We are almost “live”. If we can just get over ourselves, our zombie state. Debi’s home is carpeted and quiet. There are so many soft places to curl up and snooze. It was sunny here practically until we came, dry as a bone. We seem to have brought the rain. It is really coming down.
Longtime friend, mentor and arts advocate, Gaye Wolfe died last night. She was ready but I was not. When I held her in Homer, she was already too weak to speak. By the time she was flown to Anchorage, her infection was practically irreversible. She became too weak to recover from surgery. I want to crawl under one of Debi’s exotic rugs and stay there till the sun comes out.
Again this morning he was up before any of us working on his blog: SimpleSite.com/SportsNow. While it has little to do with our road trip, it is clearly a great empowerment to him. He calls us over hourly to read his articles, which are generally one decisive sentence about how professional soccer, baseball and football are going. Then he erases it and starts afresh. She has also made him a business card.
I’m afraid his blog was inspired by the total computer geekfest of the adults. Debi is master of the universe at her big mac, effortlessly assisting us in orchestrating two new websites: Asiafreeman.com and Walshinthecloud.com.
We are almost “live”. If we can just get over ourselves, our zombie state. Debi’s home is carpeted and quiet. There are so many soft places to curl up and snooze. It was sunny here practically until we came, dry as a bone. We seem to have brought the rain. It is really coming down.
Longtime friend, mentor and arts advocate, Gaye Wolfe died last night. She was ready but I was not. When I held her in Homer, she was already too weak to speak. By the time she was flown to Anchorage, her infection was practically irreversible. She became too weak to recover from surgery. I want to crawl under one of Debi’s exotic rugs and stay there till the sun comes out.
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I’ve just crawled out of a baaath and Michael is handing me a Canuck hemp beer. Palatable. Comes in a nice can and its organic.
Michael and Jake have reappeared from the sports bar where they enjoyed defibrillation by the Tennessee Titans vs. the Pittsburgh Steelers. Whatever. I walked my legs off, joyously soaking up the city until I could barely stand. I think my legs have atrophied in the tin chick. Jake ran in circles around us as if on pogo sticks, leaping over fences and popping up from behind lightposts. Michael seems no worse for wear than when we started. Although he has, in fact ,worn the heels half off his boots pounding pavement from San Francisco to Milwaukee, he doesn’t seem to notice.
His footwear is as compulsive as mine, thank god.
FYI, he run in tennies. And the last few runs have been downright satisfying.
Vancouver reminds me of…. lets just say it’s the most ethnically diverse city I’ve ever seen. Probably the only city in the Western Hemisphere where there’s a Christmas tree in every fourth window. Not in October of course. And, as Michael has noted, it looks very Asian. The way it rises in glassy waves of architecture along the river, fringed with boats – houseboats and sailboats and curvy waterfront walkways. Could be somewhere along the Yellow River, I imagine.
I think it makes Michael very self-conscious walking with Jake and I in cities. So far we have been busted for walking like cats, crossing in front of him and tripping over each other as we ogle the streetscape, mouths agape. (We both need to work on chewing with our mouths closed as well.) We walk against traffic, going on the left side to a stream of “sorry, sorry” by oncoming urbanites. It doesn’t help that I have a poor sense of direction and a tendency to walk against the lights. Even Jake feels its, “unethical.” I’ve taken to walking behind Michael to maintain my bearings. Nevertheless I frequently bump straight into him because he is always stopping short to take pictures.
“What’s so very fascinating about that, Mike?” Jake asks as we lurch along like animals escaped from the Peaceable Kingdom.
We strolled Davies Street to Granville Public Market. A heated discussion about what to eat resolved itself as each chose dinner independently. Mike had Greek; Me, Thai; Jake, fish and chips. We reunited for fudge. Then we took the aquabus, an adorable little riverboat, to Yaletown (think the Embarcadero, San Francisco), to Hornby and finally washed up at The Sands at 8:30. I think the boys could have drifted for hours. But I hear there’s an Irish band downstairs. I’ll go with gravity.
The band, “Boolya Roolya,” turned out to be a ton of fun. The lead fellow was a cool Irish crooner with an acoustic guitar and a Celtic drum, accompanied by a rotund, blind fiddler. She was a classic older Irish gal named Mary, just happened to be wearing sunglasses and a kilt. Prior to the show, as Mike and Jake watched the football game, they admired how he brought her beer and cut her steak and gravy-fries. She sat quietly onstage between sets, nursing a dark pint. When he introduced himself and paid his respects, she flashed Michael a big grin with teeth askew. The band relished taking requests of any kind. We stayed till midnight then tucked in with hopes of biking the waterfront in the morning.
We ate a big breakfast at the Red Parasol Café instead. It was raining. Easier to say goodbye to a place in the rain. After extracting three bikes from the chick’s dark interior and hitching them on back once more, we we’re rolling.
Michael and Jake have reappeared from the sports bar where they enjoyed defibrillation by the Tennessee Titans vs. the Pittsburgh Steelers. Whatever. I walked my legs off, joyously soaking up the city until I could barely stand. I think my legs have atrophied in the tin chick. Jake ran in circles around us as if on pogo sticks, leaping over fences and popping up from behind lightposts. Michael seems no worse for wear than when we started. Although he has, in fact ,worn the heels half off his boots pounding pavement from San Francisco to Milwaukee, he doesn’t seem to notice.
His footwear is as compulsive as mine, thank god.
FYI, he run in tennies. And the last few runs have been downright satisfying.
Vancouver reminds me of…. lets just say it’s the most ethnically diverse city I’ve ever seen. Probably the only city in the Western Hemisphere where there’s a Christmas tree in every fourth window. Not in October of course. And, as Michael has noted, it looks very Asian. The way it rises in glassy waves of architecture along the river, fringed with boats – houseboats and sailboats and curvy waterfront walkways. Could be somewhere along the Yellow River, I imagine.
I think it makes Michael very self-conscious walking with Jake and I in cities. So far we have been busted for walking like cats, crossing in front of him and tripping over each other as we ogle the streetscape, mouths agape. (We both need to work on chewing with our mouths closed as well.) We walk against traffic, going on the left side to a stream of “sorry, sorry” by oncoming urbanites. It doesn’t help that I have a poor sense of direction and a tendency to walk against the lights. Even Jake feels its, “unethical.” I’ve taken to walking behind Michael to maintain my bearings. Nevertheless I frequently bump straight into him because he is always stopping short to take pictures.
“What’s so very fascinating about that, Mike?” Jake asks as we lurch along like animals escaped from the Peaceable Kingdom.
We strolled Davies Street to Granville Public Market. A heated discussion about what to eat resolved itself as each chose dinner independently. Mike had Greek; Me, Thai; Jake, fish and chips. We reunited for fudge. Then we took the aquabus, an adorable little riverboat, to Yaletown (think the Embarcadero, San Francisco), to Hornby and finally washed up at The Sands at 8:30. I think the boys could have drifted for hours. But I hear there’s an Irish band downstairs. I’ll go with gravity.
The band, “Boolya Roolya,” turned out to be a ton of fun. The lead fellow was a cool Irish crooner with an acoustic guitar and a Celtic drum, accompanied by a rotund, blind fiddler. She was a classic older Irish gal named Mary, just happened to be wearing sunglasses and a kilt. Prior to the show, as Mike and Jake watched the football game, they admired how he brought her beer and cut her steak and gravy-fries. She sat quietly onstage between sets, nursing a dark pint. When he introduced himself and paid his respects, she flashed Michael a big grin with teeth askew. The band relished taking requests of any kind. We stayed till midnight then tucked in with hopes of biking the waterfront in the morning.
We ate a big breakfast at the Red Parasol Café instead. It was raining. Easier to say goodbye to a place in the rain. After extracting three bikes from the chick’s dark interior and hitching them on back once more, we we’re rolling.
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We are almost back in the USA and Jake is excited. He can make calls on the cell and it won’t cost $15 a minute. And although he hasn’t seen Debi Bodett for years and only then when he was a baby, he is, “just extremely excited to see someone I know!”
Passing a handsomely wrought wood welcome sign in red, white and blue, a flag-inspired garden and an amazing sculpture all within 100 yards of the Border had quite an effect. Different for each of us. Jake sang America the Beautiful. Michael was mesmerized by a 20 x 20 foot sculpture depicting a swarm of fine wires surrounding a perfectly neat and empty rectangle of sky. As if a mass of barbed wire had been shot through by a semi truck. It hung in space, the opposite of a billboard, a stunning eruption of metaphors.
Passing a handsomely wrought wood welcome sign in red, white and blue, a flag-inspired garden and an amazing sculpture all within 100 yards of the Border had quite an effect. Different for each of us. Jake sang America the Beautiful. Michael was mesmerized by a 20 x 20 foot sculpture depicting a swarm of fine wires surrounding a perfectly neat and empty rectangle of sky. As if a mass of barbed wire had been shot through by a semi truck. It hung in space, the opposite of a billboard, a stunning eruption of metaphors.
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‘From past perils…’ we have thoroughly relaxed. Something about knowing where you are gonna wake up when you go to sleep at night, and being able to plug freely into freely wifi and unwind ourselves on bike trails. Jake has been on facebook (Jake Freeman Marquardt for those interested) uploading pictures. Michael pulled out his guitar for the first time this trip, and I have unwound into words, yoga, and unlimited hot water. The little things.
While Jake and I played cards at a picnic table outside, Michael blasted John Lee Hooker and made dinner (It was great. The deliciously seasoned Slouvaki slid off skewers into a bed of rice and freshly sautéed veg. most divinely.) Jake began to sing, “I went down to the ri-vAH!”
His voice dropped into a dark neighborhood in Chicago. “I went down to the ri-vAH!
Ah put my face in the ri-vAH! Ah washed my past a-waaaay.”
In the distance, near the river that encircles the campground, someone was yelling joyously. Jake shot up and struck his chest, echoing the exaltation. It was great to see him relax as much as he might with other adolescents. I’d like to blame Michael for this entirely, but perhaps I do with affirm Jake’s…… expressivity.
“Cuz you’re such a wordstalker mom!”
My hope is that this trip is for him (well, actually for all of us) an epoch of comfortable exploration, from intellectual to social interaction. Its all hanging out in an intuitive way, where he is less self-conscious than with his peers, who can be cruel, as well I remember of adolescent years, even in the classroom. For Jake, Michael and I math comes slower than all the other subjects. Fortunately for me, Michael offered to teach this one. As they muddle their way through math using the teacher’s textbook, often using the answers to work their way back with logic and debate and reversing the role of pupil and teacher, the hierarchy and judgment he suffers from inside as well as out in the classroom dissipates. Puzzling out loud, stream-of-consciousness-speaking and the occasional farting noise seems to help. But it can mean other things, too.
“That’s it for now guys. I’m heading to the john. Gonna let go of some of my issues.”
While Jake and I played cards at a picnic table outside, Michael blasted John Lee Hooker and made dinner (It was great. The deliciously seasoned Slouvaki slid off skewers into a bed of rice and freshly sautéed veg. most divinely.) Jake began to sing, “I went down to the ri-vAH!”
His voice dropped into a dark neighborhood in Chicago. “I went down to the ri-vAH!
Ah put my face in the ri-vAH! Ah washed my past a-waaaay.”
In the distance, near the river that encircles the campground, someone was yelling joyously. Jake shot up and struck his chest, echoing the exaltation. It was great to see him relax as much as he might with other adolescents. I’d like to blame Michael for this entirely, but perhaps I do with affirm Jake’s…… expressivity.
“Cuz you’re such a wordstalker mom!”
My hope is that this trip is for him (well, actually for all of us) an epoch of comfortable exploration, from intellectual to social interaction. Its all hanging out in an intuitive way, where he is less self-conscious than with his peers, who can be cruel, as well I remember of adolescent years, even in the classroom. For Jake, Michael and I math comes slower than all the other subjects. Fortunately for me, Michael offered to teach this one. As they muddle their way through math using the teacher’s textbook, often using the answers to work their way back with logic and debate and reversing the role of pupil and teacher, the hierarchy and judgment he suffers from inside as well as out in the classroom dissipates. Puzzling out loud, stream-of-consciousness-speaking and the occasional farting noise seems to help. But it can mean other things, too.
“That’s it for now guys. I’m heading to the john. Gonna let go of some of my issues.”
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We are driving through the city in mid-day, making our way to the Sands Hotel. So far, the thing that has excited Jake most is a hedge. Nearly 12 feet high, the bristly green box obscures a home in one of the nicer neighborhoods. “So much better than a wall!” he declares.
“Especially if you ran into it in full gear and a football helmet,” Mike adds. (Have you noticed I’m calling him Mike a lot lately? It’s a behavioral thing.)
We are now on Granville St, streaming passed Williams Sonoma and Plum, Lucky Jeans and Purdy’s Chocolates. “Great,” say Jake, “I haven’t seen a single thing oriented to my age.”
“I love this city! Kids be damned.” Says Mike.
“Mike! In case you haven’t noticed,” Jake chides, “I’m the future.”
“Especially if you ran into it in full gear and a football helmet,” Mike adds. (Have you noticed I’m calling him Mike a lot lately? It’s a behavioral thing.)
We are now on Granville St, streaming passed Williams Sonoma and Plum, Lucky Jeans and Purdy’s Chocolates. “Great,” say Jake, “I haven’t seen a single thing oriented to my age.”
“I love this city! Kids be damned.” Says Mike.
“Mike! In case you haven’t noticed,” Jake chides, “I’m the future.”