Destination: Stories from A to Z

When I arrived in Portland with my two large, checked bags, Forrest must have regretted me being his traveling companion. 

“Mom, why did you bring so much? We need to travel light.” He loaded them into the trunk of his car. “These weigh a ton!” 

“Remember, I plan on setting up housekeeping somewhere. I needed a few essentials for cooking. Plus, it’s winter there and the clothes are heavier. I wasn’t sure what to bring or how often I could do laundry.” 

“So, you basically brought everything you own plus kitchen stuff.” 

I laughed and slid into the passenger seat. “You’ll thank me later for those two big jars of peanut butter, believe me.” 

We pulled into his driveway twenty minutes later, no traffic to speak of, despite it being five p.m. Forrest lived near the airport and knew his side streets. 

“Is your landlord at home?” I asked.

"No, but he probably will be later." 

I had met him before, a friendly, talkative man in his fifties named Kevin. I was glad he wasn’t there as I was tired from the long day and not in the mood for small talk. 

Forrest rummaged through the fridge and cupboards. “Let’s make dinner from my leftovers. All these things are mine.” He lined them up on the counter. Rigatoni, cheese, half a bottle of tomato sauce, a few tomatoes. Bread. Dinner practically made itself. 

After eating a large plate of pasta, I felt even more tired. With the landlord gone and the bathroom free, I showered, washed my hair, and put on pajamas. It was eight p.m., time to lay down. 

“You’ll take my room,” Forrest said. “I’ll sleep on the living room couch. But I need to study for an hour or so. Will that bother you?” 

“Not at all. I just want to lay here and read for a while. When I’m ready to fall asleep, nothing will keep me awake.” I turned on my Kindle. 

Forrest sat at the desk in front of his bedroom window, sunshine still brightening the room. The sun would have set by now in Utah, but Oregon was farther north with longer summer days. 

I set down the Kindle. No book could interest me as much as this scene, my youngest son silhouetted there at his desk, deep in study. Tomorrow was our morning flight to Santiago. Happily, I drifted into sleep. 

Now and then, Forrest asked me a question or made a comment that broke into my sleep.

“Did you leave your car at Don and Lauren’s? Will they keep it at the house for when you come back or is Nathan going to use it?” 

I’m not sure. I guess that’s between them. 

“Are you setting an alarm, Mom? My friend is coming to pick us up at six-thirty and dropping us off at the airport.” 

No, I never set alarms. I always wake up on time. 

“I can’t believe you brought those two suitcases.” 

I told you about that already. I’m looking for a home. Maybe temporary, maybe permanent. 

“I almost don’t want to come back. Do you?”

Not really. I wish it were longer than ninety days. 

“Don’t say ninety days. Say three months. That sounds longer. Ninety days doesn’t sound like any time at all.” 

Let's say twelve weeks. That sounds really long. 

“Will it bother you if I turn on this lamp, Mom?” 

No, nothing is bothering me. I feel drugged by the pasta. 

I kept dropping back into that deep sleep. At some point, I wasn’t sure when, Forrest shut down his workstation and left the room in darkness. I slept straight through until four a.m. 

I wrote for an hour then got up and dressed, checked my luggage and carried it out to the front door. Forrest was sound asleep on the couch. I woke him and sat next to his feet until I was sure he was fully awake. 

I cannot remember ever looking forward to anything as much as this trip. Forrest did too but for different reasons. We each had our reasons, although we probably didn't fully understand them within ourselves or with each other. 

Neither one of us wanted to come back, and we hadn’t even left yet. 

Yet to look at the two of us, no one would’ve realized our level of excitement and anticipation. Forrest and I are not very demonstrative; we keep strong feelings to ourselves. I’ve always been quiet and reserved and so is he. If we had not been so alike, this lack of expression might have been frustrating to a more demonstrative companion.

We were going to get along just fine, despite my luggage.

Companions: Stories from A to Z

Before South America came a short trip back to Guatemala. The family would return Bruce’s ashes to the place he had been so happy. Panajachel, near Lake Atitlan was the obvious resting place. Mine too when the time came.

RJ had found the perfect spot for releasing his ashes; a cliff above a wooded area that led down to the lake. During the rainy season, it got covered by the water beyond. RJ also let us occupy his hotel while we were there, a kind and generous gesture. 

While in Guatemala, a few of us stayed over to go to Tikal: Forrest, me, Travis and Jessica. Upon arrival, we bought our tickets and toured the ruins, staying that night in a cabin outside the park. 

The next day before the park opened, Forrest and I asked at the gate if we could come in for a bit. No, they said. We aren't open. And you will need to buy tickets for today. You can't use yesterday's tickets.

Forrest and I left and out of view found a wide-open entry into the side of the park, crossing a path used by workers. We came in like we belonged and climbed up one of the smaller pyramids. A few workmen passed by on a trail near the woods where we’d entered. Nobody bothered or questioned us. 

“Mom, I think we can travel together. Getting away from civilization brings out your inner hippie. Were you a hippie before you married Dad?” 

“Oh, definitely. I didn’t do drugs or protest the Vietnam War, but I had a rebellious streak. I always went my own way.” 

“Did Dad calm you down?”

“Quite a bit, because he was so traditional and conservative. Hair, clothes everything. He had such thick, curly hair. I wanted him to grow it out a little back in the 1970s. But of course, he wouldn’t hear of it.”

We took a picture together in front of the pyramid. Mother and son, forty-three years apart in age, a new widow weary of life and a twenty-seven-year-old grad student eager to start his life and career. I suppose we each needed an escape from our current situations. We would escape together to South America, and it would be good for both of us. 

When Forrest told me he thought we could travel together, that meant he was okay with me coming along on his summer travel plans. It was the highest compliment.

Booking the Flight: Stories from A to Z

One Sunday afternoon in November, my youngest son called me. “Guess where I’m going next summer, Mom.” 

“Sri Lanka?” I knew he had been looking at volunteer opportunities there. 

“Chile. I’m going for the eclipse and plan to stay three months.” 

“I want to go with you!” 

Forrest hesitated. “I don’t know what my travel plans will be. It’ll be traveling around and staying in house-sharing situations. Couch-surfing. Maybe work different places as a volunteer.” 

"That's fine. You go do whatever, and I'll find a little casita to rent. Then when you take a break from traveling, you can come back to my little house while you decide what to do next. I’ve always wanted to go to South America!”

I was a new widow, and all my kids were being very good to me. Perhaps I took advantage of it in Forrest’s case, but South America! 

"Well, I guess so. If that’s what you want." 

Over Forrest’s Christmas break from school, we decided to go online to see about flights. 

Delta had good ones at the best prices and offered an immediate discount if you applied for one of their credit cards. Forrest often utilized credit offers to get free money, being disciplined and organized enough to pay them off right away and avoid trouble. The best flight departed at four pm from Portland, where he lived at the time. It had a layover in Salt Lake and in Atlanta, then arriving in Santiago the next day at noon. 

We had vague ideas about what to do once landing in Chile. Forrest said he would look for couch-surfing opportunities. I searched Booking.com and was surprised by how inexpensive small hotels were in Santiago. We needed a place near the bus station since we planned to take a bus from Santiago to Coquimbo, a town on the direct path of totality. 

We would leave for Chile end of June and come back end of September—three glorious months. Forret would get his summer abroad and I would walk the earth for real. Not driving a car on American freeways. 

He booked the tickets.

 “Merry Christmas to us,” I said. 

“Yep, Merry Christmas to us, Mom. We’re going to South America.”

Arriving Late: Stories from A to Z

After my husband Bruce died, I wanted to run away and walk the earth. Or as a normal person would say—travel. I was lost, confused, damaged, cut in half. Not normal. My first choice was to join him on the Other Side. I couldn’t have my first choice. 

Anywhere I went those early months, I wanted to leave. I hurried from the apartment to the car to the grocery store; hurried through the aisles and checkout line back to the car, back to my apartment. No matter where I was, I didn't want to be there. 

Two months after the funeral, I drove my little car to Southern California for my daughter’s birthday. Her husband was in Guatemala as he so often was in those days. I didn’t like the idea of her being alone on her birthday so soon after her dad’s passing. 

I set off from my son and daughter-in-law’s house in St. George, only a six-hour drive from LA. South of town, the freeway was down to one lane each way due to construction. I called my daughter to tell her I might be delayed. 

“That shouldn’t make any difference, Mom. Once you get past it, you’ll make good time. You’ll get to Vegas well past morning rush hour. There won’t be traffic between Vegas and LA since it’s a Wednesday.”

“I hope so,” I told her. “I can’t drive in the dark because of night blindness.”

“Oh, you’ll be here before dark, no problem. Call me when you hit Vegas.” 

Sally had driven this route countless times and knew her business. Her confidence made me think it would take no time at all. Mentally, I turned it into a four-hour drive. Once I get past Vegas, I think, I'll drive through a few mountains and outlying cities in California, then LA, and I'm there. 

Sally lived in Torrance, “right off the 405,” she said cheerfully. 

What a breeze, I think, as I zoom along on Interstate 15. I settled into my own thoughts, missing Bruce and wishing he were at the wheel like always. He loved to drive, and I enjoy the passenger seat if the trip isn’t too long. Truthfully though, I am no fan of road trips. Sitting forever in a car is uncomfortable.

I stopped often at the shining gas stations with their spacious restrooms and enticing lines of snacks and sodas. I liked seeing the other travelers in their family groups, the retired couples, or occasionally a single person like me. Everyone seemed glad to be going somewhere, perhaps on their way back and looking forward to relaxing at last in their own home. 

On the road, I listened to the CD recording of Bruce’s funeral, hearing the hymns he loved that I chose for opening and closing songs. Enjoyed once again the remarks of our ten children, speaking for just three to five minutes as I’d requested. Not one of them went over the time limit. 

Bruce’s closed casket had been at the front of the chapel, centered below the podium and covered with a magnificent spray of flowers in autumn colors created by our son-in-law Rob. He had registered with the state as a florist so that he could purchase his selections for the flower arrangements at the florist discount. 

I imagined Bruce standing near the casket, filled with love for each family member there in the front rows of the chapel, and for the many friends who had come to the service. He must have been bursting with a father’s pride as his children, from oldest to youngest, took their turns at the podium to share favorite memories of their dad. 

Driving, reflecting, crying, and stopping for breaks as I zoomed through Vegas. Sally thought I was late reaching it but said, "You'll make better time once you get through the city." 

Nevada is awful to drive through. Ugly, boring landscape and seems to take forever. Finally, I crossed into California. 

As the sun dropped in the sky, it bothered my eyes. I squinted through my sunglasses and slowed down, feeling nervous and vulnerable. By four or five, I had enough of the blinding western horizon. I passed a motel in Barstow and turned in to see about a room. 

Checked in, I lay down in the cool, dim room and closed my eyes. When I felt better, I called Sally. 

“Where are you, Mom? Have you hit the 405 yet?”

“I’m in Barstow.”

“What? That’s all the farther you ? I figured you’d be here by now, especially with gaining an hour.”

“Well, there was traffic remember.”

“Where, in Vegas?”

“No, St. George. The construction that slowed me down outside of town.”

“Oh, that. When did you get to Vegas again?”

“Around noon.”

“Noon Utah time or Vegas time?”

“Utah time. I looked at my watch.”

 “That’s only eleven Nevada time. I can’t believe it’s after five and you’ve only made it as far as Barstow. You’re still two and a half hours away from Torrance. That’s nine hours to make a six-hour trip, or seven if you don’t consider the time change. What have you been doing?” 

“Driving. And stopping a lot.”

She laughed. “Mom, you must have stopped at every gas station along the way.”

“I’m not used to driving long distances. Dad was always the one who drove.”

“Mom, nobody takes two days to make that trip.” She was laughing like it was the biggest joke.

“Well, I guess I do. The sun was in my eyes, and it made me tired. So I stopped for the night.”

“Okay. I was super excited about seeing you today, but I guess it will be tomorrow. If you get on the road around eight, you’ll miss morning rush hour.”

“I’ll make good time tomorrow for sure. I always have more energy in the mornings.”

“Okay, Mom. I’ll see you then. Call me when you leave, and when you hit the 405."

In the morning, I felt rested and glad I stopped. Plus, it gave Sally a story to tell, about how her mom took two days to drive from St. George to LA. 

At her apartment, we lay around with the cats for two days. We cooked and ate, watched our favorite British mysteries on Netflix, napped in the afternoons, went to bed early. Except for the cooking part, we kept the same schedule as her three cats.

 

I had planned to leave on the third day but didn't want to go so soon. That restless energy pushing me to flee, to go on to the next thing, was gone. "I don't feel like leaving tomorrow," I said. 

“Why should you? What else do you have going on, and besides I have the time off. You might as well stay until Thursday when I go back to work.”

I decided to stay. After all, I loved laying around like a relaxed cat with my daughter in her one-bedroom cluttered apartment. I slept on a mat in the corner of the living room, and I could not have been happier. For once, I didn't want to be anywhere else.

A Few Questions for Writers

One of my favorite books on writers and writing is called  Process: The Writing Lives of Great Authors by Sarah Stodola. I've read it numerous times, reading it now in fact, and finding it interesting how different writers approach their work. Of course the ones in this book are or have been famous, their work widely read with high acclaim.

How about the lowly writer like myself? Is anyone interested in how we folks view our work and our process? Well, I for one am very interested, which is why I feel sad that so many of my peers have left blogging. It was where writers wrote about writing, the challenges and processes and successes, small though these may seem compared to the rich and famous in the literary world.

Even without writer blogs, in my work with WiDo I have come to know a wide range of writers. I've seen healthy attitudes and unhealthy ones and those in the middle, maybe depending on the response to their submission or their book once it comes out.

Here are a few questions I'd like to ask every writer:

Are you excited about the idea of people reading your work, or would you rather keep it private? 

Do you have an audience in mind when you write?

Have you always wanted to write a book? 

If you have written your book, do you feel satisfied with it or discouraged and disappointed?

How many forms of writing do you like to do? For example, journaling, poetry, blogging, fiction, personal stories or memoir? 

Is your voice the same regardless of the format?

If you have published a book, what do you think determines how well it sells?

How do you feel about critical reviews? Do you shrug and move on or do you feel devastated by them?

Do you feel that book publishing only counts if it's done in a certain way, such as through an agent or a particular publishing company?

I know that other writers as well as avid readers are interested in these kinds of questions and answers. I'd love to see the return of the writer blogs--the ordinary ones, not the professional or monetized ones, wouldn't you?

And if anyone reading this post is a writer, I'd love to see your responses to this list of thought questions!

A Sweet and Gentle Star is Born

Recently I read a post on BB's Creations about best movies of 1952. I thought about watching them, but it can be hard to find what you want on streaming services. 

Amazon makes you pay for nearly every film they offer, even if you have Prime. Netflix never has anything good anymore. HBO Max isn't too bad and offers a nice variety of classic films. They had Singin' In the Rain, one mentioned in Birgit's post. I was sorry they didn't have The Quiet Man because it sounded good. 

Singin' in the Rain has the dance numbers, the music, Gene Kelly dancing through puddles--these well-known clips that show up everywhere. Yet I had never seen it in its entirety and didn't know the story.

Well, I watched it and wasn't that impressed. Now, White Christmas is another movie with familiar music. The story holds up and decades later, it's still mesmerizing. Singin' in the Rain, on the other hand, has a thin plot and predictable characters. I couldn't see how it qualifies as one of the greatest films ever made, Academy Award-worthy, or deserving of all the praise heaped on it in its Wikipedia description.

What I did find interesting was Debbie Reynolds, who was only eighteen when she filmed it. This was her first real role and it made her a star. A beloved star who is 100% real and honest and as true to who she was at eighteen as at eighty. 

I then watched Bright Lights, also on HBO Max, a documentary about her and her daughter Carrie Fisher, and their close relationship. It's especially poignant knowing they died within a day of each other. Carrie died of heart issues at 60. The next day while discussing arrangements with her son Todd, Debbie said, "I just want to be with Carrie." She died shortly after that at age 84.

Debbie's beautiful spirit shines through her eyes in Bright Lights, filmed a year before they died, just as it did 70 years ago in Singin' in the Rain. Despite aging, she still had that special quality of goodness and honesty that made people love her in every movie she did. Singin' in the Rain is worth watching to see the emergence of this eighteen-year-old actress who doesn't look anything like a movie star. She just looks like a really nice and kind person.

And watch it for the dancing, of course, and all of the fun music that just makes you happy to hear it.

Good Morning from Veracruz

 Finishing my last book gave me the freedom to blog again. 

It was a tough book to write, taking ten years. Other things of higher priority came first. I thought maybe I should at least try blogging but decided not to. It's the only form of social media that can get addictive for me, and I have to guard against that. The book had to come first.

I am back at work on another book, but that's okay. I can still blog because I'm in a regular work routine and have been for a couple years now.

I do random other social media but don't find it as fun or interesting as blogging for some reason. Actually, I do know the reasons but they're boring so why go into them. Instead, I'll share a couple recent photos from an early morning walk. Veracruz is on the Eastern shore of Mexico and is lovely in the mornings. The second one may look like a sunset but no, it is the sunrise. 

Seeing the sunrise in the morning always feels special to me, because it's a rare opportunity to actually be awake and present at the right time and place for a significant event. 

To see it actually pop up from the horizon as it seems to do is remarkable.  (This picture does not do it justice.) You must wait patiently, eyes focused on the horizon where there's light with its play of colors but no sun yet. Turn away for a second and you miss the moment when it appears. 

First comes an even more glorious display of light as the top of the sun peeks out. Then the full circle follows, quickly it seems, and you can't stare any longer for the brightness. It is the sun after all, although after watching it wake up step by step, you feel like you're now friends and you should be able to look at it directly. 

Have you ever seen a full eclipse of the sun? To witness Emperor Sun completely covered by tiny, reclusive Queen Moon is more astounding than I ever supposed it would be. Unthinkable that our Sun can get blocked out like that, even for a brief moment. You see it but can hardly believe it. And then it passes, leaving you with the sense that something extremely meaningful just happened.

My next book is about the summer my son and I traveled to Chile for the full eclipse in June 2019. Afterward, we bussed north to Peru where we lingered for over two months. That was the year I wanted to walk the earth. Those plans were of course cut short by the pandemic six months later.  

There's a full eclipse crossing northern Mexico in April of this year. I haven't decided yet if I'll travel north to see it or not. That's how far I've come from wanting to walk the earth.

Minimalism

 Such a long time since I posted on this blog! Not really, only since 2020 but how many of us feel like the time from 2020 to now feels more like ten years than two? 

WordPress informed me that the cost of my domain and website karenjonesgowen.com is going up by a dollar a year, from $18 to $19. All well and good, although the minimalist in me is saying, Do you really need two websites? I hardly use one let alone two. And I greatly dislike the Wordpress block format, find the Dashboard difficult to navigate, while posting on Blogger here is essentially the same as it has always been. 

I would happily let go of the website but then I'd also need to let go of the domain. It's my name. My author name. I'm not yet done with my name. I hesitate to let go of it. 

Lament of the Empty Nest COVID-19

Today, hunkering down in my apartment in my paradise of Veracruz, Mexico during my 90 day retreat that– due to the corona virus– has turned into 5 month retreat. I’m not sure why, but I’m feeling unusually sad. Maybe because it’s Sunday and church of course is still canceled. No church, no family all under one roof to draw close and be one during these uncertain, scary days....  Full post on my website

Soltera

My son and I arrived to Cusco at different times. He came from Puno via bus, I traveled from Arequipa by plane. I had no desire to visit Puno and wanted to stay in Arequipa as long as possible. After a month there, the city felt familiar and, as one does after awhile in one place, I had a routine that felt comfortable.

Still, I looked forward to Cusco. I had booked an apartment as a pleasant change from hotel rooms. And then there was Machu Picchu! Cusco is the major hub to get there as well as to many other Inca ruins in the area.

My first look at the apartment was disappointing. Yes, it was spacious with two bedrooms but the kitchen could hardly be called a kitchen, not even a kitchenette. There was no refrigerator, no pots and pans for cooking, and although the website had said "oven" it was just a two burner propane unit on a table next to the tiny sink.

Forrest, who had arrived earlier in the day, reported the shower was just lukewarm, the WiFi wasn't great, and "Look, Mom, how dirty the floors are--" the bottoms of his bare feet were black. Also, within a few hours, there was no water at all!

The water eventually came back on. Apparently this is Cusco's dry season and water has to be rationed. I understood that since we experienced the same thing in Guatemala when we lived in Panajachel. I kept water stored in jugs for these times. But I had just arrived here and it was all too much!

I went to bed feeling very frustrated. I kept checking on Booking.com for something else. Finally, I decided not to be rash or impulsive and to give it 24 hours.

The next morning, Forrest left on his 5-day trekking journey along the Inca trail to Machu Picchu. As for me, nothing looked better in the morning light. As so often happens during these kinds of situations, I sat there crying and thinking if only Bruce were here, he'd make everything better. We'd see it as an adventure and would immediately set to work tackling the problems together, rather than me sitting here alone wondering what went wrong.

I imagined how Bruce would handle things, what he would do first. From my vantage point in bed under three heavy blankets, I saw a clock on the wall in the not-really-a-kitchenette. It wasn't keeping time (one more lame thing about this crappy place.) I knew that right off Bruce would get one of the AA batteries I brought for my camera and put it in the clock. So I dragged myself out from under the covers to get the battery and put it in the clock and set it on the right time.

The dear little clock started ticking, a comforting sound that made me feel immediately better. What else would my capable husband go after?

"What should I do next, my love?" I asked him, and then wrote out a list of simple tasks we'd undertake if he were in this situation with me.

One of them was to talk to my contact person for the apartment. I put that one way down on the list, because when you're feeling discouraged and sorry for yourself, you don't want to talk to anyone.

Finally, after I completed everything else, I messaged the person, saying I had some questions about the apartment and could they come by. At 11:30 a.m., there's a knock on the door, and it's these two smiling women, one with a baby in a backpack. Turns out they're mother and daughter, and I'd been messaging the daughter as my contact person.

I ask about turning on the heater, about turning on the hot water, about cleaning the floor, and what about no pans to cook with, not even a little one to fry an egg. The mother said, "I'll clean the floor right now!" I told her I wouldn't mind doing it, but I had no supplies. During all this, I saw a man in the hall carrying a mini-fridge down the stairs from another apartment.

I said, "I wish I had one of those here," and they said, "We will bring you one, and pots and pans later today."

While the mom mopped, she asked why I was in Cusco. I showed her a picture of my husband, saying he died last year and I just needed to get away from everything familiar. She understood, said "Ah, tu eres soltera," told me her mother was also a widow and very independent, just like me. We had a nice conversation, although with the stress of the past couple days, my Spanish wasn't very good.

When they left, everything looked so much better after having all the rooms mopped. It felt clean and, with the sun now shining brightly through the apartment, more like home.

Around six pm, they come by again with a man who's probably the husband. He is carrying a mini-fridge, still wrapped in plastic from the store. The women have a big box with new pans, cooking utensils, a cutting board and a knife. Also, a brand new broom and dustpan. The mom calls me Karencita which is so sweet. And they dropped the rent by $50.

This day that had started off so badly with my dark thoughts, ended with joyful gratitude, a day I would never forget. I felt hopeful, blessed, and just happy to know people like this would be my landlords for one month in Cusco.