Moving

I love this packed-in Wallingford neighborhood with water views of Lake Union and the canal. Today, I drove slowly down my street, cars on both sides as always, waited for Debra's Penske van to get situated, and then parked carefully in my minimal garage space. Driving, parking where I live is always a tight squeeze and I see the moving van is a bit of a walk from the front door for the movers. I meet Debra in the hall; she says she is moving to a house in West Seattle.
The little rental moving van reminds me of Mill Valley and how we Marinites would try to warn the monster trucks that store a dozen households' belongings before they could turn onto the twisty, narrow Mt. Tamalpais roads and get stuck in the redwoods. As the vans lumbered by, I would wave my arms and shake my head from side to side, which is "No" in sign language. I lived in the flat, flood-prone part of town, on camellia-lined Miller Avenue, and within walking distance of The Book Depot. Other people lived on the mountain, and I never discovered how they got up there, and left, with all their stuff.
I have lived in a number of places and, for me, the perfect situation would involve the civil amenities of relative quiet, clean and healthy air, and a variety of songbirds, combined with fun urban things like great restaurants, museums, and lots of interesting people to meet and things to do. I settle for some part of this picture.

Green Lake

December 31, 2010 is a rare and fair, cold and sunny, day. Bare trees lace their arms against the sky and the choppy water of the city lake shivers itself blue. My face and ears are freezing cold and I envy the bearded chaps with puffs of hair on their faces for insulation. Above, a helicopter rotors a distant background rumble as I overhear bits of conversations, "symphony," "ashram," "wrong color," "Keep doing it." To me, Green Lake is the center of the city, the place to go to see the Seattle people, and sometimes you even see your friends.

Everyone, child, adult, pram, and bicycle, passes me by. Dogs in sweaters, hats, outfits, dogs are part of the parade. Runners' shoes thump on the pavement, and the air disturbance shoots a few zippy, trippy endorphins in my direction. Maybe that is what keeps me going, walking as fast as I can.

Nowadays, no one walks with me; I am slow. With increasing neuropathy, I attend to my stride and the ground ahead, doing the best I can. In the past, my sisters, sometimes all three of them, walked with me. Many years ago, we sometimes saw our father, in his eighties, running. For some reason, he wasn't supposed to run, so we hid or pretended we hadn't seen him. Even yet, a ghost of that memory will trot him past the outside corner of my eye.

The sun is out at Green Lake. Next time, I'll bring my ear muffs.
Happy 2011.