Monday, March 14, 2011

Ubiquitous Rain

ubiquitous -being everywhere at the same time It is March so if the complaints of the ubiquitous rains seem tedious and never ending that’s what it is, rain, rain, rain, ceaseless and never ending. The sky gray and hovering pressing down like a moldy washcloth, one day of radiant sunshine would evaporate the mood, but it never comes. Honestly, that beaming orb in the sky never comes. I lived in the Kilmer Homestead on 7th and Eugene. One day, a man who seemed to be in his hundreds stopped by to tell me the story of his house. His mother raised him and 10 children in this little ramshackle house. He fashioned a story of him and his siblings walking down to Chimacum creek at the base of the wooded hill every day to get drinking water and all were happy as kids at a carnival to do so. Believe me I was rather embarrassed as I lived in that house alone, well; Alan the Irish shed-boy rented the out building from me. The dining room was my “Dance Hall”; I had an antique queen sized bed to myself where I would eat bon-bons and promise every morning to kill the moles. “I never did have the heart to kill a single one. I strung Christmas lights around the dance hall and hung mirrors on all available wall space, bought the loudest stereo I could afford, a 3 pack cd set of Disco songs from days past and invited friends to clomp on the old growth hardwood floors for hours on end. I forgot to mention that the Christmas lights were altered, the greens and blues were combined and the reds and yellows were combined so as to make a kind of strobe light effect rather than a Christmas effect. It was decadent compared to housing 10 children. How dare Mr. Kilmer come by and humiliate me so. Not only had I the entire house and full attic to my working self, but never once had I walked down to Chimacum creek to get water or to see the salmon swim upstream or etc. The house was falling apart, one time a friend came from Seattle and remarked “groovy” I love all the angles. I gave her a “look” out of the corner of my eye that said without saying. That is the floor you are talking about, there are no angles in this shack. The rains kept coming. I have this theory that wherever a person lives they have a phobia concerning their house. When I was a child my parents built a new home on the edge of a forest, my fear was fire, enormous, raging forest fires. Living on a hillside with a creek at the base lent to a phobia of landslide. With all of the rain, I was convinced the thing was on the verge of dumping down the hill becoming one with the salmon. The downpours continued, eventually, it came, the big slide. I felt the house rumble and shake, rumble and shake, I braced myself for the crunching and smashing down the hill. Although the house kept rumbling, I didn’t feel the slide, just more rumbling. I looked outside and nothing was moving. The little brown cabin and I weren’t heading downward, but rather back and forth in a good sized earthquake. Imagine my relief. That little shack in Irondale has a great many stories I hope this sets the stage to them all.

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