Writing Through the Haze

Headed into the smoke a week ago. Then... the same location
a week later. Ahh, Oregon rain has once again cleansed
our air and brought us some semblance of "normalcy"
back into our Northwest Oasis.

Deke's Note: What is normal? I'm not sure such a state ever existed. There was what was, there is what is, perhaps something good will bloom where naught did before. Life is so mixed up right now, I don't know that the "n" word will ever be properly defined. So be it. I'm not sure I want to know what that state is or should be.

Currently, I just take things as the monsoon wind blows them at me. After the past few months, it seems little surprises me. Why should it? We have all been blasted by a reality so harsh it's difficult to fathom. Every one of us can describe a personal hell as of late. Loved ones lost, property burned up, politics coming between decades-old friendships, brothers or sisters spurning us as the world burns in a firestorm nobody is prepared for. Yet, we survive. It's what humans do, what we have done for millions of years. Sorry, dinosaur deniers, try as you might you cannot logically deny science. After all, God created that, too. He even gave us logic, so your argument is without merit.

So, where does that leave us? Do I think it's biblical in proportion? No. The eternal optimist, I believe we still can find a way to survive. Together. What ails us most today is that we have been conned. Divide and conquer, the rich man's constant manner of controlling us, is working perfectly. We, the working ants or bees, doomed to slave away until death saves us from mortal torture. We, who allow ourselves to endure, all the while fighting each other over which slave master is best. Black folks finally exploded, after eons of insult, torture and oppression. Look what it got them? The rest of the worker bees turning against them because their "tactics" are inconvenient. Destructive. As if their anger is misdirected somehow. And how is that? Are they supposed to keep bowing down to the Great White Dollar-Doling Corporate Massa and be thankful they're being murdered or imprisoned disproportionately? I'm surprised at their patience to date. I'm also afraid, because as a white man I have benefited whilst they suffered. I wish it wasn't so. I'm also not guilty by association. I can only answer to my own actions.

Still, I hope we find a way to finally move forward as ONE race, the human kind. It will take a mass uprising of us worker bees. It's not important to take it all from the richest and re-distribute it. However, the time is long since past for a concerted effort to share more. Humans tend to attack what we don't understand. If it's not part of our psyche, outside of our comfort circle, it is feared. We bluster and fume easier than we muster kindness. You don't have to agree with someone to be kind to them, to forgive and move forward and forge compromises. When was the last time the two American political parties came together for the better of all? Me either. Not since 9/11 were we able to rise as ONE in this country. Then, we attacked the wrong country and appeased the guilty one. Damn! Once again, money won and we allowed it.

Those most afraid of what they do not understand are the most violent in nature, while those who understand their neighbors are the most kind. I have never been afraid to reach out to people, even when I know our politics are radically opposite. To reach within someone and pull out their best attributes is very rewarding. Often, those with whom I disagree have great treasures within their souls. When we find common ground, a friendship blossoms. As long as we avoid political argument, we have more to agree upon than otherwise. The more we talk, our differences fade until we find topics upon which we're in total agreement. And that, my friends, is a magical place to come into. I only wish we'd allow ourselves to lay down the swords which our words become, to realize we're all simple souls trying to find peace within and amongst one another. It's a lot easier than we allow; too often we're too eager to be right we fail to realize the other guy isn't always wrong.

Tonight, I'm at peace. Many of my fellow Oregonians are not. I feel guilty for my fortunate turn of events. We moved out of an apartment just over a week before a freak windstorm with un-Oregon-like low humidity roared into our already COVID-19 nightmarish hell. The combination exploded into a firestorm Oregon has never seen since we invaded this beautiful land and commenced ruining it some 200 years ago. No, we cannot "rake the forests" of fuel dry summers create. Forests often burn, given ripe conditions. With humans, it's alarmingly more frequent that our fire seasons have intensified the past 50 years. A carelessly-tossed cigarette butt, a campfire not properly-doused, or a teenager lighting fireworks in some hidden spot deep in the forest... any number of human errors can wreak havoc in this city we have created in the Great Northwest Forest. This time, Mother Nature decided to add Her anger to the mix. Hence, the Firestorm of '20. It will be forever compared to the greatest disasters along with Mt. St. Helens and the Big Earthquake to come.

I know people who lost their homes to this disaster. My fortune is dimmed by their misfortune. My son's good friend Reece evacuated, and part of his father's home in Estacada burned. Our good friends' son had to evacuate their horses and take refuge in their parents' home across the street from ours. A fellow operator had to leave her home in a Level 3 (GO NOW!) evacuation zone. Our old apartment was in a Level 2 zone for several days, and my bus route's southern terminus was just across the highway from there, closed because of its proximity to the closest fire and the resulting choking smoke.

The whole Oregon Firestorm Disaster is not over. Even though cool, rainy weather has overridden the previously-hot and dry weather, many fires remain burning across the Northwest and California. My prayers continue for the safety of residents and especially the brave souls who fight the flames. Where our transit agency once called us "heroes", the true ones continue to march into the fiery hell to contain what Mother Nature has wrought.

The "Deke Den", sans a few undecided wall hangings.

I thank the souls who guided me to move out when we did. Now, I have a home. I'm writing to you from my cozy den, looking across the street at the house where we raised our family. Alice Crader, who had this home built some 17 years ago and lived here until she left this Earth at 97 years last December, reminds me it is special. She was my neighbor for 13 years. Alice watched my boys play basketball from the porch just outside my window. Whenever I was out front trimming my roses, she would call out and I'd amble across the street to converse with her. Sometimes, I'd bring my garden tools and deadhead her roses as we chatted. She was an amazing lady, and I admired her spunk. The few times I entered this home of hers, I was amazed at its precision craftsmanship and beauty. Beloved and I enjoyed a dinner in this very room with Alice as host and chef, sharing stories and love in her dining room/my new den. We sat within arm's reach of where I write now. Ahh, the very history of this home! Thank you, Alice, for letting us live here.

There must be a reason we're here in this beautiful home. All my life I've been a worker bee. Writing when there was cause to do so, but still struggling to pay the bills and have a little fun here and there. Moving up or down, we always made ends meet. Now, I'm at the eve of my 60th birthday, still working my waning ass off to pay the bills, but with new hope beckoning in this incredible house. Having cheated death several times in my life, it seems I have been biding my time. Something BIG has beckoned me forward for decades. As my seventh beckons, I'm reminded that I wouldn't even be here if not for my mother's intense devotion. She willed me to succeed, defying doctors who said I'd never walk, talk or be worth a damn. Hey, I may not be now, but I haven't yet reached my destiny. I'm afraid of it sometimes. If I become a respected author, will I then die? According to the doctors who gave Mom that horrid yet faulty diagnosis of my supposed future, I should have succumbed to my prenatal brain injury before my fifth birthday, hidden away in some horrid 1960s "institution".

Instead, here I am. Again torturing you readers who have grown accustomed to two-minute reads prompted to you via cell-hell. Sorry, but it's my Friday night and this is my emotional explosion zone.

#BANDTOGETHER2020, in memory of Thomas Dunn
of Tampa, Florida. He safely secured his bus
just before he died... in the seat.

Bless you in safety. I end this week having worn a BandAid on my passenger-side cheek in memory of Thomas Dunn. Don't know him? Read my last post. It was #BANDTOGETHER2020 week, and I am sad because I have only seen two "selfies" from brothers joining in. After three years, I had hoped even more would have joined us. Alas, the devastation of a pandemic interfered, and I understand.

I did an interview with Tommy Transit and his lovely bride Michele where I tried to describe the why. Still, I did my best to memorialize our Tampa, FL brother Thomas Dunn, who died in the seat in May '19, his throat slashed by a knife-wielding passenger, after safely pulling his bus to the curb and securing it. We all fear this gruesome end, and that's why I had to do Mr. Dunn honor thusly.

Peace be with you, thanks for reading, and please continue praying for those on the West Coast who have been victims of a hellacious month. Also, add all transit employees who endure through any and every disaster that strikes anywhere. I want 2020 to end on a positive note. With your support, may God in His mercy spare more than be slashed, thrashed or splashed, forevermore.

Meanwhile in this beautiful home, I will finish my new novel (The Tilikum Troll) and then finish the tome I began (Gooch) some 23 years ago. May this home be ours another 30 years. I love it so.