Writing Honorable Mention: “Life after Death”
Photography Honorable Mention: “January Morning” by Norlynne Coar
by Georgette Barrows Gantner
It’s been a year since I learned the awful truth, proving, that nightmares really do come true. It had only been a few days since we last spoke, not an extraordinary amount of time; just long enough to make me want to hear your voice. I dialed you up, and received the recorded ventriloquist channeling you in a moment of silliness, a voice pretending everything was normal. But when you recorded that message, you were alright, having just moved into your cabin, an acre in the forest, busy cleaning and painting, rebuilding the woodshed and storing the freshly chopped wood for this winter and the winter beyond.
Last summer, I wanted to get away. I was facing the 28th July 4 holiday in this place and since the kids had grown and moved out, the fun had gone out of it. All those years down by the breakwater, perched on the seawall watching fireworks exploding over the bay were wonderful memories. But now, our priorities had shifted and we all drifted apart. Tired of the holiday sameness and loneliness, I made the decision to spend the rest of my Independence Days anywhere else. This year, 700 northern miles away sounded about right and you didn’t protest my upcoming visit.
The truth is that I wanted to check on you. Two years before you had moved to northern California where there were more trees than houses, fewer people, more wildlife, a place where you could afford a home and a big piece of property. But you knew no one in this new place and had trouble making friends. Even though you and I had been divorced for several years, we remained close, forever linked by the birth of our two children and personalities that were maybe too much alike. But I never understood your need to be so alone.
When we first met, you needed space but so did I, so nothing seemed unusual. As the years passed, you withdrew more and I thought it was something I did wrong. And, sometimes it was. After the divorce, your interest waned in those things that used to make you happy. You sold your surfboard, weeds camouflaged your kiln in the garden, you stopped making furniture. There was less to make you happy and more to complain about. You sold the home your kids grew up, the place we designed and you built, and moved away from your family.
Two years later, at 9:30 a.m. on July 2, I’m traveling north on the 405. I needed to arrive in time for the Foggy Bottom Milk Run, your local 5K, and experience whatever new things were happening in Humboldt County on the 4th of July. I went down through the San Fernando Valley, and waved as I past Victory Bl., about 3 miles from my childhood home. My parents had long since moved from there and now were both gone. But the wave was more like a salute to them, to my happy days in the then, newly built neighborhood where we swam in everyone’s pools, played softball in the streets, dug forts in the nearby wash, stubbed toes, had crushes and grew up and moved on to another life. It was a long, winding block with kids in every home, every age, always someone to play with. The long days and evenings of summer were the best and no one wanted to be the first to be called home, staying out way past dark, roller skating with metal wheels that threw sparks against the concrete sidewalks, sweating, laughing, always laughing, overflowing with excitement and anticipation of who and what could happen next.
Just north of the Valley, the 405 becomes highway 5 and channels up through beige hills to the Grape Vine. I stopped for gas in Gorman and purchased a 7-11 butterscotch latte a coffee drink that had more sugar than caffeine. After passing the off ramp to Bakersfield/Fresno, I saw miles of desolate feedlots, void of any visible greenness, where incarcerated cows pace in the dirt awaiting their days to the slaughterhouse.
Three hours later, at the intersection of highways 5 and 20, I pulled off into the Williams exit for the night. The local Motel 6 is located between a rice factory and a Chinese restaurant. Even after the factory closes for the day, rice flakes continue to float through the air like peach blossoms in a continuous springtime.
The Rice Bowl serves a tasty meal, and the rice is a standout, maybe due to the proximity of the mill. I’d been craving their chicken all day, wok-fried in a light oil with broccoli, mushrooms and red peppers served with the requisite white rice and all the piping hot, sweetened green tea, I could drink. Perfect. Just as they set the steaming plate before me, you called.
I let you do most of the talking, not wanting to bother the other patrons with my cell phone voice. It was like you and I were dining together, 450 miles apart.
No one would ever call Motel 6 luxurious but neither is the price: $39.95 and not an uncomfortable night’s sleep. The towels are extra white and stiff from the disinfecting bleach, the water pressure in the plastic shower is sufficient, the linoleum floors have been swabbed clean enough, and there is a cable TV. Most important, the A/C delivers the required lulling white noise as people continue to claim their rooms with leaden feet, loud voices, and heavy luggage throughout the night. And, the doors have good locks. The coffee in the check-in office is served all day and they give you a fresh pot in the morning. It’s surprising how good it tastes, despite the powered creamer.
July 3 delivered a wondrous surprise: Dragonflies, everywhere, floating in the breeze, buzzing past my face. They join the airborne rice flakes in a music-less tango against a backdrop of periwinkle blue, with the heat of the day starting to bear down in a cloudless sky. Are they here all year, I wonder? I ask the motel attendant as I hand in my key but she doesn’t know.
After a breakfast of cheese, grapes, and peanut butter bread from my food stash, and motel office coffee, I turned right onto Main Street, under the curving WILLIAMS sign that leads me past the Burger King on the way to highway 20, west. Because of the holiday, the going was slow through Clearlake with the RV’s, oversized vehicles and trailers and boats being towed behind.
I pull into the Clearlake Country Kitchen Café for coffee but stay for breakfast and chose a back corner table to soak up the atmosphere. Salmon pink walls, curdled ceilings and faded, still life flower prints decorate the place. Three dark wood fans are spinning at full speed. The waitress looks to be my age with a thick, dishwater blond braid streaming down her back. A blue butterfly tattoo peeks out from underneath her sleeveless grey shirt, her long, baggy jeans hanging down over her black deck shoes.
Her face reflects her share of bumpy roads and wears that wardrobe like her drooping sweater. She is the only one on the floor waiting six tables with seventeen people, plus four at the counter. But she is an expert at her job and moves efficiently. A customer asks her about chorizo and out comes her raspy, smoker’s laugh, “Don’t even go there”, she advises.
A sluggish busboy, who bears a faint resemblance to the waitress, possibly a grandson, needs constant direction. He wears his baseball cap backwards with sunglasses on top, facing the same way. He’s a big boy with an oversized shirt. His trousers are too short for pants, too long for shorts and he responds to the woman, but minimally and slowly.
School’s out, summer is just two weeks old and the long, touristy days stretch before him like an endless highway with very few rest stops.
I get my vegetable omelet, dry toast, butter on the side, no potatoes, yes, fruit, in no time flat and my cup stays refilled with hot coffee. The bill is $8.66 and gets slapped down on the formica table in front of me. She moves with the speed of a person anxious to go out back for a smoke.
By 3:30, I’m in another county taking an arduous uphill hike with you and your dog through the neighborhood forest. I much as I think I’m in shape, I still have trouble keeping up with you.
July 4 dawns as cold and overcast as any day I can remember in Redondo. At 7:30 a.m., the Foggy Bottom Milk race circumnavigates a lake that stinks of sulfur and this is said to be a natural occurrence and good for wildlife. It can’t imagine how that can be, but the water is full of birds floating and paddling. After 25 minutes I cross the finish line, with no applauding onlookers, no electronic timing devices, no posted times, no medals, no celebration. You run then you walk away. A lot of dreariness here.
Later on, bundled up in several layers of clothes, coat, gloves and hats, we watched the Humboldt Crabs play the Nevada Bighorns. These were teams made up of college players, with traveling games only in the summer. They knocked several foul balls over the wall and since parking was just on the other side, heard one hit a car. The car alarm went blaring away but nothing was damaged, reported someone in the crowd.
A guy who sat in front of us was the spitting image of a good friend of ours living on his boat in King Harbor. One of the players on the Crabs’ team had the same first name as our son, so we kept cheering him on like we knew him. I bought tacos and several beers and everything became more festive.
People who sat near us were chatty and friendly. The second game went into extra innings, well past sunset. By nightfall, it was still too overcast to see the fireworks exploding in the distance except that the undersides of the nearby clouds turned red or gold every now and then. By the time the show ended, so had the game: Crabs-3, Bighorns-2. The digital thermometer above the bank read 55 degrees.
As if a new season had begun overnight, July 5 was as sunny and warm as any summer day I can remember in Redondo. We explored state parks, were transfixed by the lavender orchids, saw mud nests built by tiny black birds with pointed beaks and walked along the beaches where dogs roam free. We visited secret places where you roamed, paths high on cliffs far above the beach, through forests where we found black bear scat, and you held my hand when I teetered on rocks in a stream. When we reached a clearing, you sat down on a weathered carved bench, probably donated by the Friends of Nature. You scooped Boomer in your arms and I took your last photo. You didn’t really smile but you somehow appeared content and settled. This photo sits in my dining room on the buffet.
I was planning on staying for two more days, but by July 6 I wanted to leave for Mendocino early. It’s always a slow drive, 150 miles away, along Highway 1, but wondered if you might want to follow me. In thirty years, I’ve stayed at the Little River Inn so many times in previous relationships, with you and our kids, me and the kids, with my dog, by myself. But you declined. Too much effort and you had things to do. As I backed out of your driveway to leave, it never dawned on me that I would never see you again.
Twelve days later, I’m calling you. Our daughter is saying that she is worried because you’re not answering her calls either. I call to ask your landlord to drive over and see if you’re OK. “I’m sure everything is fine. He’s probably out and about”, he answers dismissively. I almost expected that any second, you would show up at my door, for a surprise visit.
But you didn’t show up. You were found dead in your bedroom. Self-inflicted, the coroner said. No note, just gone. Your dog lives with me now and your truck is in my driveway.
For those first few days, I kept losing myself. I thought I saw you everywhere. I was no where. We all wandered in circles for a while, alternating between confusion, frustration and depression. I awoke each morning at 4 a.m. I was aware of something, someone, not in a disturbing way, but aware just the same. As soon as I acknowledged the thing, I grew tired again and feel back to sleep, somehow feeling content and settled.
On my way home, last July, I stopped in San Luis Obispo to visit our son. In the early hours, my phone rang, but I was too sleepy to answer. You left a message.
“Just calling to see how you’re doing. The weather’s cold again, socked in with more grey predicted next week. The house is quiet. The dog misses you. Looking at a map and thinking maybe I’ll might move to Grant’s Pass. What do you know about Ashland? It’s more inland, sunnier, maybe. There’s three acres for sale, maybe I could farm some. I finished the soup you made me. I’m watching ‘Rescue Me’ on the computer. Call me.”
Photography Honorable Mention: “Promenade in the Rain” by John Post