talent, oregon

 

Top Ten
Reasons i love
Talent Oregon

10.  Look at that view!
That’s to my west.  To the north is a view of the valley and to the south, forest, horse ranches and fields of grass.  The sky is blue, when it’s not gray and in the summer, the sun doesn’t set until after 9 PM.  It’s virtually smogless.  i’m so used to chewing my air…

09.  There are four-count em-4 seasons.
Coming from a land of 2 seasons- brown & green- it is miraculous to see spring unfold herself in poppy gold and dogwood pink and the cream of pear blossoms.  The glorious reds and oranges of fall splendid, as we are surrounded by woods.  The cottonwood drift of summer.  The magic and hard beauty of winter snow.  It’s easy to remember God in this place.  His artistry is all around.

08.  It smells.  Good.
Pine.  Wagner Creek.  Hay.  Irises.  Clean.  Earth.  Horses.  -The perfume of peace…

07.  When i hear a gunshot, i know someone’s having elk or goose for dinner.
Also coming from a land where an eleven year-old girl helping her mother make tacos in their kitchen is killed by a stray bullet, and where such an event is one in a string of events occurring in one week, this is also miraculous.  And so heartbreaking to remember- because also when i hear a gunshot, i weep for the lives lost due to the senseless, pervasive violence we’ve escaped from.

06.  Deer.
Seeing deer hop about, frolick, rest, nibble in a pear orchard as the sun rises is amazing.

05.  The Downtowne Café.
Aside from my house, it’s my favorite place- The Downtowne Café.  It looks like a house.  It has a fireplace.  The owners actually work there.  They brew your coffee a cup at a time.  It’s delicious.  They make their muffins and cookies and sandwiches from scratch.  There’s live jazz on Sundays, open mic nights the third Tuesday of each month…  It’s Talent-y.

04.  It’s called Talent.
i’m sure it is named after the archaic unit of measure found in the bible but i like to think of the more pervasive definition- as in “i got…”

Now if only we lived on Talent Avenue.  That’d be rawk.

03.  The folks are friendly.
They say good morning.  And they actually mean it!

02.  The slow, slow pace.
It is calm.  It is peaceful.  There’s no traffic.  There’s barely any sirens.  Everyone is just free and easy.  It’s totally Mayberry and though i struggled with this in the beginning, i embrace it now. 

When i visited my mom and sisters in SoCal last August, my heart pounded with agitation- so many people!  Honking their horns, cutting people off.  A part of me will always love that recklessness, that sense of urgency, that noise, but i have to say that quiet has done much for my spirit.

01.  We’re happy here.
My family has never been happier.  My girls are doing well in school and’ve made lots of friends.  R is getting down at work.  i am prospering in words- i think i am anyway- and writing my patootie off.

Talent is home.  Finally home.

(copyright 2008 )  c A Hughes
05.06.08

call me rag

i’ve been dragged across dirty things
now they are clean

but i’m all dirty

(copyright 2008 )  c A Hughes
04.02.08

linky

And like geese, graceful in flight-
Angela Parenza soars
with these symbols-
rounded esses and ohs,
thin tees and els
sounds that are hard soft

like hearts and thoughts-
gray and cream and black
slim necks sleek bellies
spring blue and tulip red
she is renee- greek for reborn

(copyright 200 c A Hughes
05.05.08
Happy Cinco de Mayo!

charlie wrote music in his sleep

days made of dirt
everywhere, the creases
under fingernails
in cuffs and mouths

these are the days made of dirt
like childhood
only then it was his choice
his way

done day
he walks into voices and arms
a hot shower
dirty water swirls around his toes

i watch him-
face puffed hair wild
of sleep, a lifting of corners
when we met, he played piano

thin hands making
now rough
tremble at his sides
keys made of goose down

a melodic snore
i touch his face in applause
he turns away
the song ends

charlie writes music in his sleep

 

(copyright 200 c A Hughes
04.29.08

sunday, the sun exists,badass barbies & since it’s monday- something random

    My eight year old says, Mama look!  My Barbies’ve been fighting again!

    i look and one of her Barbie dolls has been bound with a lanyard.  Her hard plastic hands are raised above her soft plastic head and tied.  i find this a little disturbing, but only a little.  And didn’t these things used to have names?  Esther?  Lulu?  i can’t remember.  Now they’re just “Barbies”.  This disturbs me more than the fact that she’s knotted her toys hands.

    This reminds me of a story i wrote and deleted in the Moronic Purge of ‘07- a massive delete session i mourn more and more each day- i’m drama -about how my sisters and i played Barbies.  No Kens.  Driving skates.  Sustaining serious injury, scarred with teeth marks, cuts and burns.  Serious and long falls.  Terrible haircuts and many lesbian love affairs.  They were soldiers, cops, assassins and still managed to be prom queens.  i also wrote about how my younger daughter seemed to love and loathe Barbies for all the right reasons, how hers whupped on the Iron Giant and dreamed of a horse…  And i miss the story.

    i miss a lot of myself.  Because it is deleted.

    The sun came out yesterday.  i pinched myself to make sure that i wasn’t dreaming and to remember that i was alive and that sun is good.  And again today it shone.  The sky was blue blue.  The clouds kept her distance in the west.  i lived another day.  But yesterday, it wasn’t just the sun but that smell, that smell- the grass across the street, the dampness of Wagner Creek, purple irises, hay and pine and cows…

    i came downstairs after making beds and my beautiful daughters were on their bellies on piles of blankets and pillows reading.  Their heads bent together- Ramona Quimby Age 8, Summer of The Traveling Pants.  i like watching them this way.  Beautiful girls on a beautiful Sunday morning.

   And here’s the random:

democratic primary
organic
hope
bedlam
cliché
black
rejoice
taxes
faith
immigration
surge
stimulus payment
flew
$3.49 per gallon
Darfur
civilians
love
mosquitoes
died
i don’t know
running

(copyright 2008)  c A Hughes
04.28.08

15 is good times, Mayna.
God bless and remember-
kissing boys is super gross-
so don’t do it!
Happy Birthday!
~chrysanthemum

supposta

    This is based on the banana bread i baked, which is not bread-shaped but flat and rectangular, for i’ve no loaf pan, only my 13 by 9 or something sized pan in which i bake all things cake, ’loaf’- and casserole like.  My house smells like bananas.  It’s a warm smell, like sunshine would smell if i were The Lord, but i’m not the Lord so’m'yeah, and if it would ever freaking shine here again.  Anyway, it contradicts the bluster and gray and wet and blah outside.  

    It’s what i’m supposta do.  i mean, i don’t mind it.  i like it when i scratch something out in the kitchen and my family is impressed and happy and grateful.  Today, the girls will walk in from school and i’ll offer them some of this warm banana rectangle with a glass of milk and for a moment, i’ll be such a good mom, like i’m supposed to be- cleaning, baking, doting, caring, calm, soft in body and voice, reeking with common sense.

    And mashed, almost nasty, warm banana. 

    But for now, it’s just me, the smell of sunshine, our loudass refrigerator and my thoughts.  My crazy, banana-laced thoughts.  And i’m thinking i’ve done something i’m supposed to do, as a mother at home.  i consider devouring the pan myself, but decide to take a nap instead-

    the delightful, simple reprieve of homemaking.

(copyright 200 c A Hughes
04.22.08