If I left, how far inland would I have to drive to be safe? How hard would it be to find a motel that would take in my cat and I? How would my cat act all that time in the car? She gets very unhappy in just the five-mile drive to the vet.
The ordinance was written by and for the entrenched interests of downtown property owners, seeking to preserve their dominance in the short-term rental market, and hoteliers seeking to limit the growth of new, competing supply in a market where they are already concerned with over-building.
Honestly, I couldn’t give two damns about material possessions or money in the bank. What grinds my gears is that my children are hung up in a court system with a judge who refuses to make a decision about their lives.
A wasp bit me on the cheek the other day. And not the White Anglo Saxon Protestant variety, although that has happened in the past, too.
This was an angry stinging insect, pissed at my proximity to his or her home. I had plenty of warning, including an earlier bite. But some of us are stubborn.
I took Benedryl, dabbed some Caladryl and finally smeared a smuch of papaya. Too late. The sucker got me good. But I did eat the rest of the papaya, which I never think to buy.
This happened several days after Savannahs Lyn McDonald passed away and two days before Yom Kippur, the Jewish Day of Atonement. At 48, Lyn was an angel of a woman, young, passionate, engaged with life, a gardener, a philosopher, a fighter.
Yom Kippur is the holiest of holy days for Jewish people. It follows Rosh Hashanah, which is the Jewish New Year, now numbering 5766.
And while I am not a practicing Jew, I do occasionally come home for one or more sabbath services during these holidays, swollen cheek and all. This year I attended the Kol Nidre service the night before Yom Kippur.
The familiarity, the collegiality, the people, the memory of those who have passed away and the celestial voices of the I Cantori choir make the trip worthwhile -- even if I still dont understand the theology, the responsive readings or the need, really, of so many religions, so many churches, so much doctrine.
I had that same dialogue with myself the day of Yom Kippur. But this time I found myself sitting in a church, St. Pauls Episcopal on Abercorn Street. I was at a requiem mass for Lyn. Once again, I sat more as an observer than a participant.
I was not uncomfortable. The interior of the sprawling red-brick church, a building Ive passed hundreds of times without going inside, is knockdown gorgeous. The congregation seems enthusiastic, ecumenical, committed and inclusive.
The priest appears to have a good sense of humor. Just as important, he showed a good understanding of Lyn and her family. Still, none of that meant I understood what was going on during the mass.
But when Father Willoughby announced the family was inviting us back to Lyns garden in Baldwin Park for a celebration, well, that I could understand. Two hours after the service, which began under lowering skies, the sun came out and the mourners either moved to Baldwin Park or returned to the synagogue.
I chose the garden, a chance, I said to someone, to see a real garden. The McDonalds backyard filled up quickly. People talked and laughed and cried before breaking away to savor the basil, guess at the tarragon, take in the rosemary.
Most stopped to smell the single, blooming rose. The garden is welcoming and warm and challenging, not unlike Lyn.
But its hard to go home after something like that. So after checking in with the animals, the mail, the phone calls, the emails, I scooted downtown for a walk and maybe a chance to see the moon.
Most Jewish holidays start on the tiny sliver of a new moon, so I was seeking some open space to look up, to see a plump and growing moon, a harvest moon.
Once downtown, when I saw a crowd of people at SCADs Red Gallery, I squeezed in, too.
The poet Jim Moore was speaking. The name was familiar. Then it hit me. That week I had just heard a poem of his on Garrison Keillors The Writers Almanac.
Maybe it was because of Yom Kippur, when we cant help but think of people with whom we once shared High Holiday services, people who are no longer with us.
Maybe it was because of Lyns passing. But the poem of Moores that Keillor read registered with me. It was called, It Is Not The Fact That I Will Die That I Mind.
Its about the unique nature of every person, the singular way we do the most ordinary of things, the individual way we love a tree, a sister, a dog.
After addressing the group, Moore took questions. Thats when he posited the similarity between poetry and memoir writing.
Both forms start the same, he said, with an assumption: Life is difficult. Both end the same, too. With something hopeful.
Ill have to think about that . Ive got the first part. A wasp bit me on the cheek the other day. But Im still looking for the second.