Such was the case last week when I spent three days backpacking 25 miles of the Lost Coast of California.

My oldest child, Maev, my youngest child, Mick and I had planned the trip earlier in the year, purchased our permits ($6 per day), reserved a shuttle ($98 per person) and packed our backpacks for an adventure into the most remote and inaccessible section of the West Coast.

On the morning of July 24, we parked our car in the parking lot of Black Sands Beach, which would be the final destination of our hike, and loaded ourselves and our packs into a van that drove us two hours north on a bumpy, windy road through the mountains of Humboldt County.

As we made our way to the trailhead of Mattole Beach, we listened as the shuttle driver shared dos and don’ts and helpful hints for the trip:

· Pay attention to the tide schedules; if you don’t think you can make it through the danger zone before high tide, wait for the next low tide

· Use your bear canisters to store all food and toiletries

· Watch for rattlesnakes, especially at Randall Flat

· Poison Oak is everywhere. Always wear long sleeves and pants and wash your clothes twice when you get home

· There are lots of rogue waves and rip tides. Don’t go in the water and never turn your back on the ocean

Amid the warnings, there were also reminders to enjoy the beauty of the rugged coast:

· Watch the sunsets over the Pacific Ocean

· Keep your eyes out for the sea lions, dolphins and whales, as well as deer, fox and bears

· Enjoy the waves and the coastline from a distance

· Take breaks at the numerous freshwater streams flowing down the mountains and into the ocean

While the route of our trip was a mere 25 miles, the majority of it would take place on difficult, if not treacherous terrain. Our shuttle driver, fellow shuttle passengers and all the online bloggers warned us not to expect a pace of more than one mile per hour. The beach sections varied from huge slippery, moss-covered boulders to wobbly rocks the size of watermelons to pebbles to deep sand.

Many of these sections were located in the “danger zones,” deemed impassable during high tide. That meant we had only a certain number of hours to get through that zone without being engulfed in waves or swept out to sea; or if you were lucky, climb an otherwise inaccessible cliff to higher ground.

Waking at 4:30 a.m. every morning and being on the trail by 5 a.m. gave us a good amount of time to get through the danger zones. We never cut it close on the tides and we made it through every zone with time to spare. There were a few rogue waves that reached our feet, but no one twisted an ankle and no one was swept out to sea. At the end of the trip, we found that we’d averaged 1.2 miles per hour. Better than average, but not by much.

I’ve carried a lifelong fear of bears, particularly grizzly bears, but black bears terrify me, too. We didn’t see any bears, but we saw so many bear tracks and bear scat that I can honestly say my fear of black bears has been dramatically reduced. Something about the fact that they were traveling this same rugged path as we were for most of the distance made them seem less threatening. Not quite companions, but definitely less scary.

At the end of the trip, we talked about the parts that scared us the most. With the threat of impassable tidal zones and having no way to call for help if it was needed, the whole trip felt dangerous to me. But when we put those fears aside, I was surprised at what actually scared us the most.

For Mick, it was the threat of landslides as we walked along mountainsides that looked like they were ready to crumble above us. More than once, pebbles and rocks landed on our path below.

For me, it was the unexpected cliffs. At certain points, we’d follow a marked trail up and above the ocean to find ourselves on sheer cliffs with a rocky beach and the surf pounding 100 feet below. The first time I found myself on the side of one of those cliffs, everything in me said, “Turn around and go home.” But that wasn’t possible, so I continued on. Exposure therapy to the max.

And for Maev who has acquired food poisoning more often in her short life than any person I’ve ever known, it was eating the foil-pouched chicken that I put in our tacos on the first night.

We saw wildlife including dolphins, sea lions, deer and a rattlesnake that crossed the path directly between Maev and Mick. We never saw a sunset because we were in our tents asleep before 8 p.m. every single night.

The gaiters we wore couldn’t keep all the sand out of our shoes. Five days later, I still have sand under my toenails.

In addition to sandy toes, I came home with a little less fear of the unknown, a lot more confidence in myself, a deeper respect for my kids who I already deeply admired and memories to last me the rest of my life.

I’m so glad I didn’t know how hard it would be to hike the Lost Coast. Had I known how scary and difficult the trip would be before I hiked it, I surely would have chosen not to go.

What a terrible loss that would have been.

At exactly the time this joyous and jubilant photo was taken, a community in Texas was watching families, their 8-year-old girls, their homes and their lives being washed down the Guadalupe River.

Every person in this photo was aware of what was happening. I was watching the news at the same time. If I knew, they knew.

Of course, they knew.

None of them cared.

Because they had just signed a bill that would make them and all their friends richer. At the expense of all of us. Including the people of Texas who were watching their children and their homes and their livelihoods be completely destroyed.

Trump eliminated hundreds of people from the National Weather Service because it was a waste of money. Seems like the guy whose job it was to notify communities of imminent risk was actually valuable. But, dang. Trump got rid of him.

Every jubilant face in the photo above gives no care or thought for our well-being or safety.

If they can benefit from our loss? Jubilance.

I thought they all just hated California.

But today, after over 100 people, including 28 little girls, have died in a tragedy that deserved way more attention than it got from the people in this disgusting photo, it turns out, they have contempt for all of us.

.

Darla is my brain. And she is one wacky, mercurial, overly optimistic, unreasonably negative, extremely sensitive, excited and exciting mass of neurons that reside in my head.

I haven’t gone mad.

Naming my brain, personifying it and giving it an identity separate from who I am as a human being, has been an effective way to address the world in a healthier, calmer, more realistic way.

I don’t think I’m alone when I tell you my brain, while helpful most of the time, can be a bit of a troublemaker.

I understand that Darla is wired to protect me from the dangers around me. When a tiger is chasing me and Darla says “RUN,” for sure I’m going to run.

If the mountain whose shadow I live in starts to rumble and spew ash, Darla is the boss and I’m going to do exactly what she tells me to do.

But when I wake up in the morning and the first thing I hear from Darla is, “Ugggghhhhh. It’s going to be a hard day”? Unless my house is on fire or the IRS is knocking on my door, Darla’s message is not helpful.

When I have an unpleasant interaction with a neighbor and her unkind words lead Darla to tell me that nobody likes me and I’m a loser? Not today, Darla.

Probably because we needed these messages to keep ourselves safe in different times, we are wired to think the worst. Even when the worst is not inevitable or even likely.

My daughter, Maev, a young adult with lots of legitimate adult worries on her mind, called me yesterday morning with some anxiety. It seems one of the outdoor cats she’d been pet-sitting hadn’t returned the night before. She’d walked through the neighborhood calling for the cat. She’d left the back door open so the cat could easily return home. But the next morning before she left for work?

Still no cat.

It was clear from her voice over the phone, the worry about the cat was going to supersede all other worries on this day. Considering the things our young people have to worry about these days, this didn’t seem like an effective or efficient use of my daughter’s energy or time.

Hearing Maev’s concerns (and knowing that Maev’s brain is named Claire), we had the following conversation:

Maev: Mom. One of the cats didn’t come home last night.

Me: What cats?

Maev: The cats I’m pet-sitting.

Me: How did he get out?

Maev: Well, he was already out. He’s an outdoor cat.

Me: He’s an outdoor cat and he didn’t come home last night? Maev, can you please put Claire on the phone?

Maev: (A bit confused) Ummmmm. Yeah.

Pause….

Me: Hi, Claire. It seems like you’re worried about the cat Maev is caring for.

Claire: Yeah. The cat we’re watching didn’t come home last night.

Me: The outdoor cat?

Claire: Yes. The outdoor cat is still outdoors.

Me: So, what is the problem?

Claire: The outdoor cat is outdoors.

Me: Yes. Claire, are you okay?

Claire: Yes. The outdoor cat is outdoors. He’ll probably come back for dinner.

Me: Exactly. Can you please put Maev back on the phone?

The outdoor cat we speak of returned for lunch that afternoon. Problem solved.

I can’t say that my new relationship with Darla will eliminate all my needless worries or anxieties. But hopefully, as I learn to assess situations in my life and determine Darla’s role in those situations (ie: Am I being chased by a tiger or is the outdoor cat outdoors?) I’ll be better able to exist and thrive in this funny, sad, happy, sometimes dangerous, mostly wonderful world around me.

“Give them wings so they can fly” they said.

“Give them roots so they’ll return to you” they said.

So we did.

Last fall, our three oldest children spread their wings wide and flew away from home, all in the separate directions of their dreams. All for the first time and all within months of each other.

This summer, after living on their own, exactly as the wisdom predicted, they returned to our home and their roots for the summer.

OK, not exactly as the wisdom predicted.

As with most life advice that can fit on a prefab 8-by-10 canvas on the clearance rack at Home Goods (think: LIVE, LAUGH, LOVE and FAMILY IS FOREVER), there is never enough guidance included to support the pithy sentiment. Such is the case in the simple “Wings and Roots” credo.

My first case in point: Nobody ever prophesied with teary eyes and a heart full of love, “Give them wings so they can fly and give them roots so they’ll return to you and your tiny house with two mini fridges, a microwave oven, a dorm fan, three overflowing shower caddies, a giant pink bean bag chair and 150 garbage bags bursting with clothes.”

Nobody told me that in nine short months of being on her own, a child of mine could learn to surf the waves of the Pacific Ocean, ace every final exam, develop a recipe for perfect hollandaise sauce and still not remember to replace the empty toilet paper roll on the bathroom dispenser.

As the world opened up after COVID, three of our kids went off to college. In fall of 2021 they left home wide-eyed teenagers, nervous and excited about their futures, still honing their driving skills, not old enough to drink or buy lottery tickets.

Less than a year later, they returned to us seasoned young adults, independent, self-sufficient, responsible.

Sort of.

As parenting goes, I have found myself in unfamiliar situations a thousand times over the past 21 years. I’ve been adept at rolling with the punches and learning as I go and it helps that my parenting partner, Bob, has been down this road before.

But this summer feels different. Less like unfamiliar territory and more like living in a wild mashup of Friends, The Twilight Zone and Modern Family. Not just unfamiliar territory, but rather a completely new, fun, funny, bewildering, bemusing and amusing life phase.

A life phase where your independent young-adult children are less like children and more like great roommates. Great non-rent-paying roommates.

It’s been a time where I recognize for the first time the unique and individual passions, talents and skills that will lead our kids into successful and happy adulthoods as artists, tech gurus, world-savers.

But I still see so clearly all the things that I loved in them as 2-, 3-, 4- and 5-year-olds.

Recently, on the same day one child spent hours learning about a new exhibit at a local art museum, she spent a fair amount of time creating an intricate “Hi Mom” with a heart message on our shower wall using a single strand of her long hair. I know it took her a fair amount of time because I was the one waiting to use the shower next.

One technologically savvy kid who solves all our computer problems, installs and maintains all our electronics and recently hung and programmed a new smart TV in a matter of 15 minutes is the same kid who, for no apparent reason, changed our network name to mickisawesome this week, requiring all of us to text him at various hours of the day requesting a “smart” password that only he has memorized.

And then there is our young person with the lifelong love of animals. Her passion became evident when she used my toothbrush to remove the tartar from our cat’s teeth. Had it not been for the fact that my toothbrush was sitting on the kitchen counter next to a tube of Advanced Oral Care Pet Toothpaste, peanut flavor, I might not have known this. I appreciate our daughter’s commitment to our cat’s dental health, but I also think the cat should have his own toothbrush.

Yes, wings to fly and roots to come home to are wonderful concepts. But they don’t address curfews for young people who’ve lived on their own for nine months. Or chores or car-sharing or grocery shopping or meal preparation.

Wings and roots don’t address the fact that that your hallway bathroom has been transformed into an unregulated, unlicensed stick-and-poke tattoo parlor for your 19-year-old and her friends.

All new territory. All bemusing. And amusing. And I don’t have answers or advice to address any of it.

So, like I’ve done before in my life as a parent, I will roll with the punches and enjoy the surprises that come with this new phase. I know it will pass too quickly.

Summers home will turn into week-long visits.

Mini-fridges and bean bag chairs will turn into fully furnished apartments to be returned to rather than brought home to be stored in our driveway.

Our shower won’t always be adorned with our daughter’s bright red hair and creativity.

Serious jobs will replace sleeping in until noon.

Our kids will learn to replace the toilet paper and eventually, some of their dreams, maybe lots of them, will become reality.

In the meantime, I will embrace this precious and lovely in-between. This summer has been a short and sweet bridge where I can see clearly who my children were and who they will be. It is a view that spans 21 years and four young lives and even though I know that I can’t hold on to every memory, I will never forget how beautiful this view is today.

And for now, I won’t sleep peacefully until the last kid returns safely at the end of the night, peeks in our room and says, “I’m home.”

I own a store. 

It’s a little store, barely more than 250 square feet, tucked back on D Street between the Pence Gallery and The Mustard Seed. It’s called Mabel’s Market.

We sell jams and jellies and honey. And pickles and hot sauce and really good salami. And tinned fish. Sardines, anchovies, oysters, tuna belly with yuzu, salmon with chili crisp and cockles and mussels. Our shelves are lined with every kind of tinned fish you can imagine. 

I am the improbable, self-proclaimed Tinned Fish Queen of Yolo County and I couldn’t be prouder.

You’ll also find fresh baked baguettes and fresh cut flowers in my store.

If I’m being honest, I give away more bread than I sell, which, when it comes to my bottom line, is problematic and would seem to defeat the purpose of having a store. Except that it brings me great joy to give away fresh-baked bread. 

In my defense, I also sell tiny jars of salt tossed with edible flowers for $22. I know. Ridiculous. But the fancy salt is a big seller and it supports my bread habit. It also pays the rent. 

All in all, it’s a pretty nice way to spend my days, giving away bread and making a killing on fancy salt.

We’ve been in business for 18 months and moved recently from a tiny location in the breezeway between Peets and Chipotle to our current location on D Street. 

I love my little store and I wanted to share with you some big plans.

Today, after months of preparing, I am turning my plans into the City of Davis to add a kitchen to the back of our space so we can open a bistro.

I want to provide a beautiful space to serve little seasonal plates, meant to be shared, and prepared with all the products I sell in the store: Bowls of warm marinated olives drizzled with the best olive oil; little sandwiches with smoked salmon, yogurt and truffle honey; our special balsamic strawberry shortcake. Hopefully, your meal will be served with a flute of champagne or a frosty glass of Sunshine Highway. 

The plans aren’t complicated. I did them myself with frequent advice from friends who work as architects and contractors. We need to add some plumbing and upgrade some electrical. All doable according to my plumber and electrician and other advisors.

I am absolutely terrified to embark on this process. For lots of reasons, but mostly because, just like every small business owner in the world, I’ve put everything into this business. To say “I want this to work” would be an understatement. Like so many business owners, I feel like I have everything to lose. That is wonderful and terrifying at the same time.

For my part, I plan to embrace the process ahead. I know there will be adjustments and recommendations and hurdles. It will probably cost more that I planned and take longer than I hoped. But I’ll move ahead with the assumption that it will all come together in the end.

And I hope, in return for wanting to do something good - something that could be beautiful and fun and build community - that the people with all the power to help me make it happen do just that: Help me make it happen.

I hope you’ll come along with me on this adventure. 

I’ll keep you informed every step of the way.

.

Last week I had an encounter that has me thinking about an interview I watched years ago.

Oprah Winfrey was talking with Hilary Swank about Hilary’s role as Amelia Earhart in an upcoming movie. To best portray her character, Hilary had watched hours and hours of clips of Amelia giving interviews and talking in front of the camera.

The most valuable clip, though, according to Hilary Swank, was the one that was 45 seconds long of Ms. Earhart when she didn’t know she was being filmed. Hilary told Oprah that in those 45 seconds, she saw the real Amelia Earhart, not an actress playing to the camera. It was a true reflection of the woman she needed to understand and it was on that short clip that she based her portrayal of this historic figure.

To have someone sum up your identity and character in 45 seconds, that’s something. 

It’s easy, if not expected, to behave appropriately when the camera is rolling and the focus is on you. Who wouldn’t be on their best behavior when all eyes are on them?

But what about when we don’t know the camera is rolling? 

Last Sunday, when I didn’t realize the camera was rolling, I exhibited 45 seconds of “not my best self.”

I have a hundred excuses for my behavior: I hadn’t slept well the previous night; it had been a long day; some things didn’t go the way I wanted them too and I was frustrated. Not one of them was a valid excuse for my behavior later in the day.

I stopped at the grocery store on my way home from work to get dinner. The lines were the longest I’d seen at this particular store and after standing for a moment in one line, I moved to another line that I thought might move faster.

A man who’d been in front of me in the previous line saw me change lines and said to me with a serious face, “Doing that is guaranteed to slow down the line.”

Now, I’m usually a good-humored person and I’m rarely quick to anger. But this was not a usual day for me. I responded with the words, “Why do you want to fight with me?”

I followed those words with the pitiful statement, “I’ve had a hard day and I don’t know why you care that I changed lines. I just want to go home, make dinner and go to bed.”

As if everybody standing in those lines hadn’t had long days. Some probably way longer than mine.

And then the man’s wife, in a gentle voice said to me, “He’s kidding with you.”

I was mortified.

I apologized for misunderstanding and for my knee-jerk and less-than-kind reaction to his humor.

As I walked away, I was thankful that there were no cameras rolling and that this unflattering moment would not be remembered by anyone beyond an unpleasant experience with a grumpy woman – me - at the grocery store.

The next day after a good night sleep and feeling my happy self once again, I arrived at the front door of my store downtown. There, sitting on the porch was a beautiful purple Cyclamen. Inside the flowers was a note that read:

“Hi Shelley. Hope you had a better day.

Take care.

Neil and Carole from the Co-op.”

I suppose we’re all going to have days and moments like the one I had last Sunday. Sometimes it’s hard being human. And flawed. How wonderful, that on our most difficult days and in our most unbecoming moments, there are people out there to pick us up, forgive us and cheer us on to better days.

I learned two things from this experience: 1. As my son Mick and my friend Jenny remind me quite often, “Always assume positive intent.” And 2. As often as you are able to remember and muster the strength, behave as if the camera is rolling. Put your best foot forward. Be kind. Keep your sense of humor.

And when you’re tired and having one of those days and you’re unable to pull off either one of the practices above, pray that the graceful folks in your path are Neil and Carole from the Co-op.

P.S. If you know Neil and Carole from the Co-op, please send them my regards and thank them for being such lovely humans.

I did not peak in high school.

I was well-liked but not popular. 

I was bright but not brilliant. 

I had unruly curly hair that refused to “feather” and very little sense of style. 

No, I did not peak in high school.

In fact, I like to believe I’ve yet to reach my full potential.

But there was one event, one spectacular performance, one moment in time in Spring of 1983 when I transcended my ordinary 17-year-old existence to mesmerize, inspire and bring an overflowing high school auditorium to their feet. I exceeded even my own highest expectations.

It began with an unlikely decision my junior year in high school. Against my better judgment and countering what everyone who’s ever known me might expect, I signed up to join 31 of my fellow co-eds, most of whom were Varsity cheerleaders or members of the Jazz Team (or both), in Wyoming’s Natrona County Junior Miss Pageant. 

Each evening for a week, we would gather at the high school auditorium and rehearse for the events that would be presented to community members, family and fellow classmates on the coming Saturday night. Our skills would be honed to exhibit all the charm, beauty, talent and personality that existed within us. 

We walked in heels, learned about stage presence and practiced public speaking. We perfected our posture and eye contact with the goal of capturing the judges’ approval and, eventually, endorsement.

Not yet understanding the Junior Miss Code of Conduct, I showed up for the first rehearsal in my favorite Coors Light sweatshirt and was immediately sent home to change. Apparently “Brewed with Pure Rocky Mountain Spring Water” across my chest was less wholesome than the off-the-shoulder Flashdance sweater everybody else was wearing.

I inevitably rolled my ankle during the group dance rehearsal. When the pageant director expressed her concern at the size of my ankle as I lay on the floor surrounded by the onlooking contestants, my best friend told her, “That’s not swollen. That’s just how her ankles are.” Later on, during the actual group dance performance on Saturday night, I would like to have attributed my sad performance to the fact that my ankle was sprained. But, alas, I was just a terrible dancer. I struggled to keep up and with every ball change, chassé and plié, my neighboring dancers’ long graceful arms would fly in front of my face, their  manicured nails grazing my nose. 

I pray every day there’s no video.

If there was a swimsuit competition, I’ve blocked it from my mind. No good can come from holding on to those kinds of memories.

Beyond the disastrous group dance, I remember very little about that evening except for the very last few minutes, which may or may not have been the best in my 17 years.

The final event of the night was the talent competition. Thirty two girls, three minutes each and, for better or worse, I was last on the list to perform. As I remember, about one third of the contestants played piano, another third performed jazz routines and a final third showcased the ballet moves they’d been practicing since they were three years old.

I, sadly, had never had a piano or dance lesson in my life. My list of talents was short, including things like being able to catch a grape in my mouth from 10 feet away and having the neighborhood record for number of pogo stick jumps without falling. Realizing these gifts weren’t the kind to put me on the pageant map, I searched deep to find a talent that would set me apart from my fellow pageant contestants.

I wasn’t a terrible singer and I knew how to play the banjo. 

This was the era of the Muppets and there was no more beloved frog on earth than Kermit. For my talent, I would play the banjo and sing Rainbow Connection. In a homemade Kermit the Frog costume. On the edge of the empty stage. How could I go wrong?

An hour and a half and 31 performances into the talent portion of the pageant, the lights in the auditorium and on the stage were lowered to almost black. A single spotlight shone on the back left of the empty stage.

I waited until the crowd was completely silent and then emerged from behind the curtain dressed head to toe in green. I’d made a fantastic Kermit headpiece and wore a green leotard, green tights and green scuba flippers. I carried my banjo at my side.

The spotlight followed me as I flip-flopped my way to the front of the stage. Upon reaching the edge, I steadied myself on my banjo, lowered my green bottom to the wood floor and tossed my green frog legs and webbed feet over the side of the stage.

The crowd was silent with anticipation.

I positioned my banjo on my lap and began to play.

I was later told that, as I began my solo banjo intro, my green legs hanging over the edge of the stage began to swing slowly back and forth to the rhythm of my song. Apparently, they continued to swing through the entire performance.

My three minutes of fame flew by. I never missed a note. I didn’t forget a word or blow a chord. My voice didn’t shake, I stayed on key and I felt confident throughout the entire performance. I actually had fun. And when I was done, the crowd roared their approval. I had done Kermit proud.

Within minutes of me plucking the last note of Rainbow Connection, the winners were announced and the 1983 Junior Miss Pageant concluded, as did my pageant career. Not surprisingly, my name was not among those on the list of winners. It was the first and last time I would perform on stage.

I’m still not sure if the rousing applause and standing ovation was for me and my brilliant performance or the spontaneous reaction to an excruciatingly long night coming to an end.

I choose to believe the former.

They say the first step is admitting you have a problem.

Hi. My name is Shelley and I’m a compulsive scavenger.

I’m not talking about digging through strangers’ trash bins or diving in dumpsters. I don’t do that.

But piles of books, small kitchen appliances or furniture left on the curb with the word “free” scrawled on typing paper and taped to them?

I can’t help myself.

I’ve tried to explain to friends and family who don’t live in college towns exactly what it’s like to drive through Davis in late August and early September. College graduates who’ve made Davis home for the past four or six or eight years are making a mass exodus as summer ends and their leases expire.

Bright-eyed, full of hope, diplomas in hand, they are ready to move on to the next exciting chapter in their lives. Ideally, that next chapter will not include most of the baggage they acquired over their academic career. I mean, who wants to move forward into a bright, shiny future lugging a greasy, chili-splattered microwave oven? Who wants to enter adulthood with packs of Pokémon cards, boxes of leftover purple hair dye and One Direction posters?

It is impossible to drive through any student neighborhood in Davis without encountering heaps of abandoned household goods, knickknacks and memorabilia. And while most of it is junk, if you’re brave, you will inevitably happen upon treasures that still have life and value in them. Among the tattered mattresses and grimy kitchen appliances, you might find a new Keurig, still in the box, or a sturdy leather footstool. Or a solid oak dining table in perfect condition. Recently, I came home with a wicker settee, a patio table and four chairs, a child-size toy tractor with pedals and a horn, a high-quality, newly upholstered club chair and a darling kitchen table that was actually scavenged by someone else and then gifted to me.

I do have rules – standards – that guide me as I pick through the remnants.  My discernment is comforting to my husband, Bob, upon hearing my rules, commented, “You’re sorta crazy but not really crazy.”

·      Do not delve into garbage bags. I get that mystery grab bags are fun and mysterious, but let’s be honest, if it’s in a garbage bag, it’s probably garbage.

·      Do not pick up mattresses. Metal bed frames? Sure. Box springs? Probably fine. Mattresses? Absolutely not. Don’t make me explain.

·      Use your senses. Not just your common sense but, literally, your five senses. Actually, only four senses are necessary. Your tongue should probably never touch anything free and left on a street corner. No, not even if it’s food. Especially not if it’s food.

But regarding your remaining senses, does it smell like mold or beer? Leave it. Do you see rips or stains or cracks? Keep moving. Does it feel wet, damp or, God forbid, moist? It’s not for you. Do you hear rustling, squeaking or hissing noises from under the sofa cushion? Run.

·      Make sure the items you are loading into your car or truck are actually free and meant to be given away. If there are people moving the items into a moving truck, they are probably not free. If the items are on someone’s porch, sealed in an Amazon box, they’re probably not up for grabs either.

·      If someone else is picking through the same pile as you and decides they want the same item you want, let them have it. Be gracious. There is no need for conflict. You’ve lived a long, happy life without that end table/lamp/blender. If a 21-year-old first-time-apartment-dweller walks away with it instead of you, you’ll be okay.

Now, you might be wondering, what do I do with all this stuff that I collect. Well, I’m not here to toot my own horn and I don’t consider myself to be all that benevolent, but I give it away. Yep. I share the wealth. Recently, I’ve furnished much of a college student’s first apartment, provided two chairs and the child’s tractor to a friend and gifted books to my neighbors. If I see something I think you’ll like or need, I’ll load it up and deliver it to your front door. Even if you didn’t ask for it and even if you didn’t know you needed it. No need to thank me.

I need to go now. Someone just sent me an article titled “I Don’t Want Your Free Stuff” and I promised I would read it. It’s probably going to hurt my feelings, but I’m guessing that reading it will be the necessary second step in the recovery my friends and family so desperately hope for me.

In the summer of 1983, when I was 17 years old, I embarked on a two-week journey into Colorado’s Holy Cross Wilderness. My goal was to reach the top of one of that state’s most famous 14-thousand-foot peaks, Mount of the Holy Cross. The mountain is so named because snow gathers in a crevice shaped like a cross at the top of the peak. Because of its orientation, the snow never melts, forming a white cross that can be seen for miles.

My trip was book-ended by two notable events: On the first day, the all-natural peanut butter I carried leaked peanut oil and paste all over my 14-day supply of hiking clothes, sleeping bag and sleeping pad.

For the next two weeks, the wildlife of Colorado’s high country would find a feast in and on my backpack, whether it was on my back or not.

The second bookend came almost two weeks later, within minutes of our group reaching the 14,009-foot peak of Mount of the Holy Cross. I, along with two other members of our small group, was struck by a single bolt of lightning.

Read more

Part I is free to all subscribers. You can find it at WhatABeautifulMess.Net

Parts II, III and IV is available to paid subscribers.

PART IV

Every Sunday morning we were paid cash in a plain white envelope for the signatures we’d collected. It never quite added up with the records we’d kept on our own, but it was always close enough to call good. And over the weeks, I’d saved nearly enough for a bus ticket to - and first and last month’s rent in - my next home. But I needed this last week’s pay. And they didn’t have it.

This was the end of the line for me. Some of the people I’d grown close to had been with this group for a long time, traveling all over the country working on ballot initiatives. They didn’t want to rock the boat because, I think, they had come to depend on this couple for their job and their security. I, on the other hand, was ready to move on. We’d been lied to, compromised and taken advantage of. Now they weren’t going to pay me for the work I’d done. And they weren’t going to pay my friends.

I packed my bag, called a cab and hugged Bobbi and Eric goodbye. My days of gun shows and champagne were coming to an end. My cab took me to the Greyhound station where I boarded a bus north to Salem.

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Following is Part III of a series sharing the story of a time in the Pacific Northwest when I was a paid signature gatherer for a variety of issues. I couldn’t have imagined when I started this job, the highs and lows I would experience, the kind and incredibly interesting friends I would make and the strange and dramatic way it would all end.

Part I is free to all subscribers. You can find it at WhatABeautifulMess.Net

Parts II, III and IV will be for paid subscribers.

Part IV – Sunday.

Part III

“Save the salmon.”

I was back in Medford and this is what I was hearing from my fellow signature gatherers on the street.

“Sign here to save the salmon.”

“Salmon? What did I miss? Is there a new initiative?”

“They want us to tell people that the Indian Gaming initiative is actually the Save the Salmon initiative.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Here’s what Eddie told us: if the Indian tribes win in November, they will give money to help protect the salmon population. So now we can call it the “Save the Salmon” initiative. It sounds better and we’ll get way more signatures.”

Eddie was the boss and the patriarch of this odd “family.” The spin he was putting on this one made me dizzy.

A few days later, as I stood with my petitions in front of a Fred Meyer in Medford, a man passed by, put his hand up defiantly, and said, “Don’t talk to me. I read about you in the newspaper.”

What? They’d written about me in the paper?

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Part I is free to all subscribers. You can find it at WhatABeautifulMess.Net

Parts II, III and IV will be for paid subscribers.

Part III – Friday, Part IV – Sunday.

PART II

In the early days of my signature-gathering adventure, I made a dear new friend. Every evening, after work, I would meet Bobbi in her room. She was the only other female on this odd circuit and we stuck together. She was 25 years older than I was, grew up in Atlanta and wore bright red lipstick and expensive shoes with high heels. To look at us – a young white woman from Montana and a middle-aged Black woman from Atlanta – we were an unlikely pair. But Bobbi liked good champagne. And I’d never had good champagne. So we got along just fine. Every evening we’d sip champagne in Room 106 at the Super 8 in Medford. And I’d listen to Bobbi’s stories about the big city of Atlanta and her sophisticated friends and fancy restaurants and the theaters she would attend when she returned someday soon. She talked about her best friend who had AIDS and the death of her father the previous year. 

One night, after a hard day’s work, our entire group decided to splurge and go out for dinner. We met in the parking lot of the motel and walked to a nearby Denny’s. This is important because Denny’s had just settled a hugely public racial discrimination lawsuit and this lawsuit was about to have a direct impact on our dining experience. 

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Part I is free to all subscribers. Parts II, III and IV will be for paid subscribers.

Part II – Wednesday, Part III – Friday, Part IV – Sunday.

Part I

I was a paid signature gatherer.

I’m not proud of it. Or ashamed of it. But I was paid real money to get voters’ signatures on paper in order to get initiatives on the ballot. It was a job I had for a month and I took the job for two reasons: 1) I thought it would be noble and educational to be involved in the legislative process at the grassroots level, talking to the voters, influencing our legislators and inspiring change, and 2) As a young person finding my way, I needed to make enough money fast to make a fresh start somewhere new. If I worked hard, I knew I would achieve this goal.

I read about the job in the classifieds of the Seattle Times and after a short interview to which I wore a suit from a thrift store, pantyhose and pumps, was offered the job. I accepted and embarked upon perhaps the most adventurous month of my life to that point.

I was hired in Seattle to canvass the city for registered voters who were willing to sign petitions to get issues on the ballot. The specific issues I was working on were term limits, property tax and health care reform. I remember my employers, a shady married couple from a southern state who were contracted to gather the signatures necessary to get the issues on the Washington ballot in November, telling me it didn’t really matter how I felt about the issues. They told me, “It’s important to get this issue on the ballot and then let the voters decide. This gives them the chance, the opportunity, to say ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ ”

So I hit the pavement. I got up every morning, took King County Metro Transit from the University District to downtown Seattle and worked to fill my signature sheets. At 25 cents or 75 cents or even $1.25 a signature, depending on the issue, there was money to be made. I spent my days wherever the people were – Pioneer Square, Pike’s Place Market, the Space Needle - and I filled my signature sheets. One after another. 

“Excuse me, are you registered to vote in the state of Washington?” If the answer was “yes,” they would, more than likely, sign my sheets.

I was good at my job. So good, in fact, that after a week of canvassing, my employers called me into their headquarters - an office in an industrial area with no signage or furniture, a few cardboard boxes, and carpet and windows that were much too clean - and told me I had “real potential.” Then they told me some big issues were coming up in Oregon and Ohio. They needed their best people to join them. They referred to us as “the cream of the crop.”

I’m not a snob and I don’t mean to pass judgment, but when I got on that chartered bus with my duffle bag, headed for Portland, I hardly felt like I, or any of my fellow travelers in this enterprise, was the cream of the crop. For heaven's sake, more than a few of us were actually homeless. But we were all in this thing together, with the same goal and living the same experience, no matter where our lives had been or where they would eventually go.

It was on that two-plus hour bus ride to Oregon that we bonded. Standing out in this motley crew were James from Des Moines, Eric from Oakland, Bobbi from Atlanta and Calvin from Gary, Indiana. For the next three weeks, these would be my dearest friends in the world. I would come to know them, like them and care about them in ways that still warm my heart decades later. 

At first the rules were simple. We would be lodged at the Motel 6 in Tigard, eventually moving on, more than 250 miles south, to a Super 8 in Medford. Everyone got their own room as long as they met their signature “quota.” Fall below the quota and you had to share a room (with whom I’m still not sure). Fall really far below the quota and you had to pay for your half of your shared room.

Issues we were working on: Indian gaming, tobacco tax and collective bargaining. And, depending on the initiative, we would be paid anywhere from 75 cents to $1.50 per signature. The take had gone up.

We did our homework, researching where the biggest crowds would be each day. I worked crowds at gun shows and gem shows and drag races. When there were no special events, I chatted up the folks entering the Walmart in Talent and the Fred Meyer in Medford. My biggest problem was that I had too much fun visiting with people and, in this job, you needed to move fast. I wasn’t being paid to make friends. Get their signature and move on. My hard work paid off. I never had to share a room.

Read Part II on Wednesday

You can reach me at dunningsm@gmail.com

Recently, I joined the Facebook group, “I Worked at a Mr. Steak Restaurant!!!”

The three exclamation points are not mine. They are a part of the name of the official Facebook group and do not indicate my excitement at having worked six years at Mr. Steak in Casper, Wyoming.

This is not to say that I wasn’t or am not currently grateful for my employment with this Midwestern, mid-priced, mid-century-modern steak restaurant.

I am grateful. Indebted, in fact. Working for Mr. Steak from the age of 13 to 19 provided me with friendships, memories, life lessons, and a work-ethic that gave me a solid foundation on which to build my life.

My years at Mr. Steak taught me how to get along in this world.

My love affair with Mr. Steak began on my seventh birthday, which, coincidentally, was the day of my First Communion at Holy Rosary Church in Billings, Montana. It was a big day for me and as such, I was given the privilege of choosing the restaurant where my family and I would celebrate. 

I chose Mr. Steak.

On that celebratory afternoon in 1972, in my white ruffled dress, white tights and patent leather shoes, and basking in the glow of having just partaken in the Body and Blood of Christ for the first time, I ordered the Continental Burger, a hamburger stuffed with mushrooms and pasteurized processed swiss cheese and served on a slice of buttery rye toast.

I was in love.

I’ve always felt like I’ve lived a charmed life and one of the clearest examples of my fairytale existence came when, seven years after that family lunch in Billings and having moved to Casper, I applied for, was offered and accepted my first real, paying job.  At the age of 13, I was gainfully employed as the new dish washer at Mr. Steak, making $2.50 an hour before taxes.

For the next six years, I would hold almost every job that Mr. Steak had to offer, working my way up the steak house ladder.

My stint as a dish washer was short-lived. I’d like to think this is because management saw greater potential in my abilities, but it was likely due to an unfortunate incident involving toxic fumes and the need for the Casper fire department to clear the restaurant.

I can’t say it was my idea, but I was on the clock the afternoon someone in the dish room combined Lime-Away and bleach to cut through the stubborn grime on a broiler pan. It was a valuable lesson in reading warning labels. Following the chemistry-experiment-gone-wrong, a visit from the fire department and a full evacuation of the restaurant because of the chlorine gas we’d created, the dish room staff was reassigned. Or in my case, promoted. To prep cook.

I spent my days preparing huge vats of what I now know was the best blue cheese dressing in the world, thick with chunks of stinky cheese, sour cream, mayonnaise and Worcestershire.

I would prep a hundred heads of lettuce for the Friday night salad bar, banging each head on the worktable and twisting out the core. I learned that the lettuce needed to be torn into bite-size pieces with my hands rather than be chopped with a knife because the metal on the knife blade caused the edges of the lettuce to turn brown prematurely.

There were five-pound blocks of cheese to be grated, onions to be diced, coolers to be organized, bins to be labeled and dated. Each task was listed on a laminated poster on the wall, and as I completed each one, I got to put a check mark next to it with a black crayon. I loved all of it.

I survived the mandatory “busser” phase (which lasted way too long), donning the world’s ugliest uniform every night and working harder than I’d ever worked, clearing dishes, setting tables, hosing down floor mats and being yelled at by everyone from the guests to the dish washers to the servers.

Being a busser at Mr. Steak was a step you couldn’t skip. If you wanted to be anybody at this restaurant chain, you had to serve your time. For lots of employees, this was the end of the line. Clocking out at the end of every shift smelling as if you’d bathed in bleach and blue cheese dressing was too much.

It was a test: If you hung in there through the dirty silverware, the dirty tables, the disrespect from the diners, well, you were probably going to be up to your ears in all-things-food for the rest of your life.

And if you decided that it wasn’t for you, you left the restaurant business forever, finding a nice, tame job taking tickets at the Rialto or stacking boxes at Kinney Shoes.

For better or worse, I hung in there.

Eventually, I earned the coveted title of waitress, along with the cute brown polyester wrap-around skirt and button-down blouse with the Peter Pan collar. But not before I served as a line cook, salad bar girl and hostess. Every job taught me something new and every responsibility made me more ready for whatever was ahead.

Even today, I don’t walk through my house without something in my hands that needs to be put away. I still use the term “86” when we’re out of toilet paper and “I’m in the weeds” when I’m so busy I can hardly breath.

As the cashier, I learned to make and count back change the proper way. As a hostess at 15, I could size up an individual guest in a matter of seconds, determining their approximate age, marital status and general disposition. On slow days, I’d use this valuable information to create “love” matches, seating single people in individual booths or tables, but facing each other. Kind of like the original “Love Connection.” I like to think I made some successful matches over the years.

On Thursday evenings, our Mr. Steak had an all-you-can-eat rib night. One “regular,” a single man who loved his ribs, would get his waitress’s attention by whistling for her. After a few weeks of enduring this disrespect and no change in his behavior after asking him to stop, we banded together.

The next time he came in for ribs and whistled, we all ignored him. Not one employee in the restaurant would acknowledge his existence.

He stopped whistling, asked politely for another plate of ribs and the problem was solved.

Teamwork makes the dream work.

I paid for my first year of college with the tips I earned as a waitress at Mr. Steak, and I’m so grateful to continue to still call some of my co-workers “friends.”

I remember playing Frisbee in the parking lot all night after we learned that one of our colleagues had died suddenly. It was one of the saddest days in our young lives.

At its peak, Mr. Steak operated 278 restaurants across the United States. In 2009, according to Wikipedia, the last Mr. Steak closed its doors in St. Charles, Missouri. I’m sure the decline and eventual fall can be attributed to lots of things: Changing times, challenges with franchising, changes to the menu.

But for certain, nobody can blame the employees who bussed the tables, grilled the steaks, stocked the salad bars, seated the guests and delivered the food. To this day, I can’t tell you what made my experience, and the experiences of thousands of other employees, so very special. There must have been a set of values that guided the hiring and managing of employees that I couldn’t appreciate back then. But I appreciate it today. And so do thousands of former Mr. Steak employees.

One of my favorite shifts at Mr. Steak was on my 18^th birthday. After my coworkers and I closed out our tickets, reset out tables and finished our side work, we gathered in a big booth where everybody sang Happy Birthday to me and cheered as I drank my first legal beer. 

It was every bit as memorable as my birthday 11 years earlier.

The cleaning and scrubbing will wait till tomorrow,

for children grow up, as I’ve learned to my sorrow.

So quiet down, cobwebs. Dust go to sleep.

I’m rocking my baby and babies don’t keep – Ruth Hulburt Hamilton

Yes, to my sorrow, my babies have grown up before my eyes. Looking back at their early childhood, I’m happy to say, I never  let “cleaning and scrubbing” interfere with a chance to rock, play and create wonderful memories with one or two or four of my babies. Truthfully, I didn’t let “cleaning and scrubbing” interfere with much, child-related or not.

But as the years have flown by, I must admit that the cobwebs did not “quiet down” and the dust did not “go to sleep.” In fact, at some point during my kids’ elementary school years, I realized that somebody needed to clean the house. Somebody needed to pick up the Legos, wipe the grape jelly off the wall and clean the dog’s nose prints off the patio door. The dust and the cobwebs were the least of our problems.

Realizing that I was probably earning high marks in Memory Making and failing miserably at Housekeeping 101, I found the answer. And it, my neat-freak, memory-making, fellow-parenting friends, was the solution to our problem.

It started as a way to get my kids to help me pick up our very messy house. It ended with a clean if not spotless house and four kids - ages six, seven, eight and nine - begging “When can we play the Cleaning Game again?”

Here’s how it works:

On little slips of paper, write down all the jobs that need to be done.

*Wipe down the baseboards

*Make the bed

*Scrub the crayon off the wall

*Load the dishwasher

*Organize the art bins

*Disinfect the toilet

*Sweep the kitchen floor

*Fold one load of laundry

Break down the bigger jobs into smaller jobs that can be accomplished in three minutes or less. For example, if there is a sink full of dishes, you might break it down into three different jobs. On one piece of paper you might write LOAD ALL DIRTY CUPS AND GLASSES INTO THE DISHWASHER. On another slip of paper you could write LOAD ALL PLATES AND BOWLS INTO THE DISHWASHER. Or WASH ALL POTS AND PANS. Instead of CLEAN THE BASEBOARDS, you might write CLEAN THE BASEBOARDS IN THE GUEST BATHROOM.

If it’s a challenging job, add the words PICK A PARTNER TO HELP to the slip. Or add PICK TWO PARNTERS.

To make it more fun and exciting, add slips that say things like TAKE A BREAK THIS ROUND or GOOD FOR ONE FREE YOGURT or CHOOSE TONIGHT’S DINNER. Fun stuff.

Put all the slips of paper into a hat and let each kid choose one. There will be lots of groans as one chooses LOAD AND START WASHING MACHINE, but cheers as another chooses TAKE A THREE MINUTE NAP.

Time each round of jobs for three minutes. Everyone starts at the same time and everyone stops at the same time. If the job didn’t get completed in three minutes, then the kid has to complete the job in the next round before going on to a new job.

There are lots of upsides to The Cleaning Game. It’s creative. It’s fast. It’s challenging. It shows your kids that fun can be found in the most mundane tasks. Even cleaning the toilet.

And yes, the downside is that it won’t all be perfect. The windows might have streaks and the bedspread might be crooked. And, as was the case at our house, your kids might actually fold and put away a whole basket of dirty laundry.

But really, if your kids are game, the good will outweigh the bad. You will make memories, your house will be (sort of) clean and you won’t miss a minute of time with your kids.  Together, you will be immersed in the cleaning and the scrubbing and the dust and the cobwebs.

That basket of dirty clothes my kids mistakenly put away? They did it in less than three minutes. I’m not going to complain

.

It wasn’t my first panic attack. Or my last. But it was the worst I’d ever felt in my short life.

I was young and brand new in a job that had taken me to a new home in an unfamiliar town. This major life change, on top of years of living with unaddressed anxiety, were taking their toll.

The attack came out of nowhere while I was sitting in a movie theater on a Saturday afternoon watching a matinee by myself. One minute I was sipping my Diet Coke, snacking on popcorn and rooting for the heroine. The next minute, I felt like I couldn’t breathe, my heart was racing, forehead sweating and I knew that, if the presumed heart attack I was having didn’t kill me, something else was going to in the next 30 seconds.

I thought I was going to die.

This not-so-fond memory resurfaced this week when I was walking downtown. Leaving the hardware store, headed for home, I came across a distraught young man sitting on the curb. He was surrounded by a bicycle and what appeared to be bags of his possessions and he was screaming at the top of his lungs.  Ironically, the backdrop for this scene, literally a few inches behind him, was an A-frame sidewalk sign that read “Anxious pets? CBD sold here.”

The man’s shouts were not those of joy or excitement. They didn’t seem angry. And they were directed at no one. They were the nonsensical shouts of someone confused and hurting, needing to get stuff out of his head but not expecting anyone to listen.

I don’t know what this man was experiencing – anxiety, panic, delusions – but it was clear to anyone who walked by him that he was not in a good place. What he was feeling was not good. Just like I wasn’t feeling good in that movie theater so many years ago.

Seeing the man on the sidewalk took me back to that day in the theater when my genetics, brain chemistry and a thousand stressful life experiences all combined to explode in my head and my heart and release themselves in the form of complete and terrifying  panic. And I wondered, what would have happened if I hadn’t had the means to get help.

There are many reasons I am not sitting on the curb downtown screaming my lungs out. None of those reasons have anything to do with my character, my resilience or me not deserving to be someone sitting on a curb going out of my mind. I didn’t pull myself up by my bootstraps, I wasn’t “blessed” and I didn’t deserve to have all the resources I had any more than that man on the sidewalk deserved to not have resources.

The reason I am not sitting on the curb is because when I was hurting, I had a place to go to take care of myself. I had people who loved me and wanted me to be okay. I had a doctor to call and a way to pay that doctor. I had a home with a bed and clean sheets. And a kitchen table and a place to have a cup of tea, and friends and family to help me through.

But if I hadn’t had those things? If I hadn’t had the means to work through my anxiety? I would have done anything to feel better. When we feel horrible – afraid, unloved, insecure, sick, sad, hurt, guilty, alone – we just want to feel better. If I hadn’t had people to help me, I would have smoked cigarettes to calm myself. Without a doctor, I would have self-medicated with alcohol or drugs if they took away the terror I felt in that theater. And if I hadn’t had a home, I most likely would be sitting on a curb or a bench or a sidewalk doing anything I could to get through that moment.

I know many good people are working to provide mental health resources for those who need them. But for those of us who are not immersed in the everyday, life-changing work of finding a solution, perhaps just recognizing the humanity of that person on the sidewalk will help to ease some pain. Maybe remembering the time that life was hard for us and how we couldn’t have gotten through it without our family or friends or doctors or morning runs or medication or cups of tea or glasses of wine will soften our hearts enough to make tiny changes for the better. To be a little kinder, a little more patient, a bit less judgmental. A little more loving.

Let’s take care of ourselves. Let’s take care of each other.

“Don’t worry about the future. Or worry, but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubblegum.The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind; the kind that blindside you at 4:00 p.m. on some idle Tuesday.”

This sentiment from a commencement speech written by Chicago Tribune columnist Mary Schmich rings true with every word.

We worry ourselves sick about things that never happen and then, BOOM, out of nowhere, on a Tuesday afternoon, you get a phone call that destroys you. 

You can labor through your high school career taking AP classes, joining all the clubs, doing the service work, A-cing your SAT, certain you are securing your rightful place at the college of your dreams. And then that rejection letter shows up in your inbox. You didn’t get into your dream college. Or any of the colleges on your list. 

You can plan the trip of a lifetime, save your money, do the research, make the reservations at the best hotels, pack your bags with all the special clothes you bought. And then someone gets sick. And you can’t go.

Or maybe you work for the same employer for 55 years, proud of the work you’ve done and looking forward to many more years of the same and then, in a short unexpected phone call on a Tuesday afternoon, you’re done.

Life is unpredictable. Full of setbacks, disappointments, curve balls.

In our family, we have a saying, started by my husband and taken to heart by the rest of us, that when unexpected things happen, we shouldn’t look at them as “bad.” These surprises, disappointing as they may be, are simply a reshuffling of the deck. Most likely changing everything about the direction you thought and hoped your life was going.

The dream job you didn’t get? Reshuffling. 

The canceled trip? Reshuffle. 

A speeding ticket that made you miss your flight to Portland? Yep. Shuffling.

Community college when you were hoping for Cal? Shuffling, shuffling, shuffling.

The deck is being reshuffled and it’s a brand new game.

So many times, more often than not, that new game is more fun, more successful, more satisfying than you ever could have imagined. And none of it could have come without that unexpected setback, defeat, disappointment. And the subsequent reshuffling of the deck.

We tell our kids every day, and we remind ourselves to do the same: Embrace change. Roll with the punches. When a door closes, look for a window. Accept the challenge that is in front of you.

And learn to shuffle. 

Try the Riffle Shuffle. Or the Corgi Shuffle. Maybe the Overhand Shuffle? Shuffle like a pit boss. Or just throw the whole deck face down on the table and mix them all up like you did when you were four.

Get good at shuffling. You’ll be amazed at the wonderful and unexpected places it will take you.

I love the Central Valley in summer. I’ve had almost 30 summers in this hot, dusty and most bountiful region in the world and every year I love it more.

In all my summers and in all the trips I’ve taken to the country, nothing can top the experience I had late one night a few years. My day ended after midnight with the most wonderful and unusual and heartwarming adventure I can remember. For the first time, I saw a glimmer of the California that I’d read about as a child. The California that John Steinbeck had known and loved and romanticized in “The Grapes of Wrath.”

I’ve lived in lots of places and I can think of special things about each one of those places. I grew up in the state that has the biggest sky and went to high school in the state that produces the toughest cowboys. I lived for a time in the coffee capital of the country and I met my husband in the great potato state.

But now I live in California. Specifically, the Central Valley. And we have bragging rights to the mighty tomato. When it comes to that big, fat, juicy, red fruit, no one can touch us. When you go to the Piggly Wiggly in Franklin, Ky., or Stew Leonard’s in Danbury, Conn., or Albertsons in Casper, Wyo., for a can of stewed tomatoes, you have us to thank.

In late spring, my husband and I would take our kids to watch the workers plant the tomato fields surrounding our little town. And over the course of weeks and months, we’d go back to check on the progress, to see how a tiny seedling can become a wild tangle of vines, laden with plump red tomatoes.

Other than those little tomato plants turning into big tomato plants, though, not a lot goes on in those fields during the summer. But at the end of summer, just when those tomatoes are at their peak, the workers move in, ready to harvest. And harvesting tomatoes is fascinating stuff.

A tomato harvester is a huge, awkward contraption that rumbles and rocks its way through a field. It moves ever so slowly, ripping up every tomato plant in its path. Then, the entire plant — leaves, roots, bugs and all — is sucked up onto a metal track that tosses the tomatoes onto a conveyor belt manned, in some cases, by workers in perpetual motion as they pick out vines and dirt clods and debris from the bouncing tomatoes.

The workers are the last line of defense before the happy parade of tomatoes moves to a chute where they are sucked up and then launched through the air into the tractor-trailer that has been following alongside all the while.

This time of year, mid-July through September, as you travel from Davis to Woodland, Winters and Dixon, you’ll see fresh tomatoes scattered across the curves and corners of the country roads. It is, once again, harvest time, that time of year when these mobile factories appear in our fields. You’ll see them in the fields, lumbering up one row and down the next, shooting a constant stream of red tomatoes that fill trailer after trailer.

They operate around the clock, harvesting acre after acre after acre. And around the clock, those trailers full of ripe tomatoes are hauled up the road to Williams where they are dumped and washed and transformed into all sorts of canned tomato products.

Photo credit: California Tomato Machinery

One night I got into bed thinking about those harvesters. Not just the big, clumsy machines, but the people who were working on them. It was 10:45 p.m. and we were all safe in our beds. We’d had dinner, watched a movie with popcorn and were now settling down for sleep.

Meanwhile, out in a field very nearby, there were people standing for hours on end on a noisy, Rube Goldberg-like contraption, sorting tomatoes all night long.

What was that like? Where were they from? Were they cold? Or hot? Did they get to take breaks? Had they had their dinner?

So, at eleven o’clock, with my husband’s encouragement, I got out of bed and tossed a sweatshirt over my pajamas. Then I told our 8-year-old, Maev — the only kid who wasn’t asleep — to put on her sneakers and get in the van. We were going on an adventure.

Our first stop was McDonald’s, where we ordered 20 double cheeseburgers. By 11:15 p.m. we were officially out in the country with tomato fields on both sides of us as we traveled up County Road 102. Only five miles outside the city limits and we were about to enter a different world.

Maev and I both spotted a cluster of bright lights in the field to the east at the same time. I slowed the van as I approached Road 28 and turned right onto a dusty dirt road, taking us to the edge of the field being harvested. Ahead of us, parked on the side of the field, were two huge white trailers, filled to overflowing with tomatoes. We passed by them and pulled our van to the side of the road, just a foot or two from the tomato plants.

As we got out of our van, a white pickup truck approached, headlights shining on us. It slowed to a stop and a man got out. Uh-oh. Should we run? I’m sure Maev was wishing she was back at home in her bunk bed. Maybe this wasn’t my best idea. But here we were. Nowhere to hide in a tomato field.

The man was wearing a baseball cap, jeans and a long-sleeved work shirt with the name “Roberto” embroidered on it. He smiled at Maev and then looked at me. Before he could ask the question, I said, “We came to see the harvester. We brought cheeseburgers.” He looked at me and then at the big McDonald’s bag I was holding. Then he smiled at Maev again.

“Is it OK if we’re here?” I asked nervously.

“Of course,” he replied. And then, in his heavily accented English, “Would you like some tomatoes?”

I gave Roberto our heavy bag of cheeseburgers, found an empty Nugget shopping bag on the floor of the van, and together we picked tomatoes. As we filled the bag, waiting for those bright lights from the harvester out in the field to arrive at our end of the row, I asked Roberto all my questions.

“How long are these rows?”

“A mile.”

“How long before the harvester gets to us?”

“Probably 10 minutes.”

“How long to harvest this whole field?”

“About a week.”

“Where are the workers from? I mean, are they all from Mexico?”

“Yes.”

“Do they go back home when they’re done with the harvest?”

“Yes, most of them.”

“Do you get very many visitors out here at night?”

(Laughter) “No. Never.”

“Do they get to take a break?”

“Yes. Lunch is at midnight.”

Well, it was just about midnight. And, right on time, that big tomato harvester was arriving. I asked if we could walk out into the field to watch it working.

“Of course.”

And so we walked between the tomato rows through the dry dirt to the harvester. Roberto motioned for the drivers to stop. Then we followed him as he walked right between the harvester and the tractor pulling the trailer.

“Would you like to ride it?”

The engines and machinery were roaring in our ears. I must have heard wrong.

“What?”

“Would you like to ride on the harvester?”

Now, I feel like I’m a pretty lucky person, but realizing we were being offered a chance to ride on this huge hunk of metal as it spewed tomatoes and rumbled through a field in the middle of the night, I felt like I’d just won the lottery. At that moment, I’d never wanted anything more in my life than to ride on that machine.

C’mon, Maev. Let’s get on before they change their minds. Or think twice about “liability.” Or decide they’re not in the mood for cheeseburgers.

Within seconds, we’d pulled ourselves up onto the platform where the workers were systematically picking unwanted debris from the passing tomatoes, their arms and tomatoes flying simultaneously. We stood there and watched in awe, the workers smiling at us.

At one point, as we bounced through the night, Maev yelled above the noise, “This is so much fun.” I turned to the young man working next to me and asked, “Is it fun?” He replied, with a smile, “Too much standing. I wish I had a chair.”

We rode that tomato harvester until it reached the end of the row.

Maev and I thanked Roberto and his crew. Then we got back into our air-conditioned Honda Odyssey and drove home, knowing we would never have an experience quite like this again. Or ever forget this wonderful, adventurous night.

The smell of the dirt and the over-ripe tomatoes; the feel of the mosquitoes and the hot summer air; the hospitality and true graciousness of Roberto and his crew.

It was a magical night.

Thank you to the beautiful shopper in the pasta aisle at Nugget who danced with me to the irresistible swing music playing on the sound system this afternoon. You were so lovely and you made my day. How wonderful that a woman, nearly twice my age, who grew up with the swing of Benny Goodman, could dance so effortlessly with a woman who learned country swing on the weathered dance floor of the Eagle's Nest in Billings, Montana. I've never danced so well and I hope anyone who has a chance to review the Nugget security footage from Aisle 13 this afternoon enjoys the moment as much as I did.

It was a Monday and I was in a hurry to get dinner and get home. I remember telling myself, as I often do, “Get in and get out.” But the music was infectious. When I saw the beautiful silver-haired woman tapping her foot and snapping her fingers in front of the rigatoni, I knew we had to dance. And when the song ended, my new friend looked me square in the eye, leaned down and kissed my hand.

This memory came to mind as I watched one of my favorite Ted Talks, “The secret to living longer may be your social life.” In her presentation, developmental psychologist Susan Pinker shares her assertion, along with a study, that shows the greatest indicator of how long we will live is the number of face-to-face interactions we have every day.

The study by Julianne Holt-Lunstad, a researcher at Brigham Young University, was summarized with 10 indicators that determine a person’s longevity. Listed from least powerful to most powerful, they were:

Clean air

Hypertension treatment

Being lean vs. overweight

Exercise

Cardiac rehab

Flu vaccine

Quit boozing

Quit smoking

Close relationships

Social interaction

Social interaction ranked as the most important indicator of a long life. According to the study, the number of interactions we have with people on a daily basis is more important even than those close relationships we have with the people we love the most.

Community and a sense of belonging are vital to our well-being. As Ms. Pinker shared, “Building in-person interaction into our cities, into our workplaces and into our agendas bolsters the immune system, sends feel-good hormones surging through the bloodstream and the brain, and helps us live longer.”

Knowing we will be seen, recognized and welcomed is one of the reasons so many of us continue to get up every morning, brush our teeth and venture out into the world.

We can join book clubs and poker groups. We can walk our dogs around the block and talk to our neighbors. We can buy our morning coffee from the same shop every day. There are many ways to find our people.

My way is grocery shopping at Nugget.

Davis has a wide variety of grocery stores. We have big ones, small ones, chain stores and independently owned stores. We have supermarkets that play great music and some that don’t. There are stores that specialize in local and organic and others that regularly offer bargains. They are all different, all fully stocked and all provide two things human beings desperately need: food and endless opportunities for social interaction.

If you want guaranteed face-to-face social interaction, all you need to do is go to your nearest grocery store with a desire to interact.

Over the years I’ve had thousands of meaningful social interactions while grocery shopping. I could never recount all the conversations and encounters with old friends, new friends and strangers, but they occur every time I go to the grocery store. Many times, they are small interactions, like “Hey, Chuck!” to our favorite checker, or “How is your writing coming along?” to another checker (who also happens to be a writer and singer). Or to my friend Susanne who I see about once a month when we both happen to be shopping at the same time, “What’s for dinner tonight?”

Other times the encounters are helpful, such as the time our daughter wanted to create a charcuterie board for dinner. Emme, who is on a first-name basis with the cheese experts at Nugget, secured the assistance of Christina who helped her choose the items and advised her on how to assemble the board.

When I can’t quite get my barbecued ribs to “fall off the bone,” I ask the guys behind the meat counter and my problem is solved (you must remove the thin, plastic-like membrane from the back of the ribs by gripping it with a paper towel, then cook them low and slow).

And other times, the experiences are the kind that stay with you, make you think, and help you to understand the world a little bit better. Like spontaneous dancing. Or changing the tire for a mom in the parking lot who was already having a tough day. Or asking the gentleman buying the pickles if they are good and ending up learning all about his life in Brooklyn, how he moved to Davis to be closer to his son and grandchildren, then taking his recommendation on the Grillo’s Pickles, as well as the lox and bagels, and going home with a bunch of stuff that was never on your shopping list.

If you haven’t already found your grocery store, find it. Make it yours. Get to know the butcher and the baker and the bagger. Get to know the other shoppers. Smile. Be curious. Ask questions. Next time the kind associate asks if he or she can help you out with your groceries, say “Absolutely!” If you’re curious about the beer with the funny name that a college student is reaching for, ask about it. When the checker who is also a serious “foodie” recommends the newest meat substitute and even leaves his post to show you where it is in the cooler, try it and then let him know what you thought. You will have a new friend, another reason to look forward to grocery shopping, and you will possibly have added to the length of your life.

I intend to grocery shop every day for the rest of my life. And I am hopeful, if I do, I’ll be telling that story to my great-great grandchildren when I am 105.

No, we didn’t hear banjo music.

For almost a week our ears were graced with the buzz of cicadas, the whistle of wind through narrow sandstone canyons and the steady rhythm of our paddles pulling through the wild river, propelling our canoe east.

And there was silence. A vast, peaceful and oddly comforting quiet, interrupted only by our own voices and the sound of the wind and the wildlife that call Montana’s Upper Missouri River “home.”

In 1805 Lewis and Clark traveled up the Missouri River in their quest for the Pacific Ocean. Sixty-two years later Chief Joseph and the Nez Perce crossed the Missouri at Cow Creek in their futile and heartbreaking attempt to flee to Canada.

In 1976 the 125-mile section of river between Fort Benton and US 191 was designated a Wild and Scenic River, and in 2001, President Bill Clinton named the 375,000 acres surrounding this section a National Monument.

On August 8, 2020, my 15-year-old son, Mick, and I packed our Honda Odyssey with camping gear, drove to Fort Benton, Montana, rented a canoe and paddled 150 miles down this Wild and Scenic section of our country’s longest river, the Mighty Missouri.

Now, before we go any further, there is something you should know about me.

I love nature and outdoor adventures. Some might call me “outdoorsy.” Some might even refer to me as an enthusiast.

But the truth is, I am a chicken. A scaredy-cat. A nervous Nelly.

When it comes to hanging out in Wild areas, I have a deep respect for things that are not within my control (ie: wild animals that are bigger than me, water currents that are stronger than me, strange men with guns, and so on).

When I camp at Donner Lake or Tuolumne Meadows, I sleep with the van keys and bear spray under my pillow and I always introduce myself to the families on either side of my campsite. I’m not being neighborly; I just need to know I’ll have allies in the middle of the night when the bears and gun-toting men show up.

It is no small accomplishment, then, that Mick and I not only survived, but thrived, on our six-day, self-guided, Wild and Scenic Missouri River adventure.

We did not drown and we did not get eaten by wolves. We heard a few gunshots, but nobody killed us. Most importantly, we did not end up in Kansas City.

As the summer of 2019 ended, and months before we would hear the words Coronavirus or Covid, Mick and I had gone for an evening walk. We were sad to see summer ending and we talked about all the things we wanted to do the next summer. Among a hundred potential experiences that made our list was “Canoe the Missouri River in the paddle strokes of Lewis and Clark.” It was more of a fun addition to our dream list than it was a plan. But as August 2020 approached, and Mick and I realized this odd summer of quarantine and lockdowns was passing us by, we remembered that entry on our list.

With nothing to lose, we packed our dry bags, tent, camping gear and cooler and headed out, camping our way through Idaho and Montana to Fort Benton. We arrived at the outfitter headquarters on the morning of August 10, paid for our boat, made arrangements for our van to be shuttled to the James Kipp Recreation Area where our trip would end and drove another 45 miles east to Coal Banks where our canoe was waiting for us.

We received only two pieces of advice from Missouri River Outfitters:

1. Don’t drag the canoe through shallow, rocky water because it will scar the bottom;

2. When you take the canoe out onto the bank at the end of each day, make sure it is completely out of the water, otherwise it will float away during the night.

The first piece of advice proved impossible to follow and within five minutes of putting our canoe in the shallow, rocky water at Coal Banks, we christened our new boat “Scarface.” The second piece of advice elicited a solemn promise between my young first mate and me that we would not embarrass ourselves by losing our boat to the Fort Peck Reservoir 223 miles downriver.

And with that, we were on our way. Armed with our Bureau of Land Management maps, Mick took his seat at the front of the boat. He would serve as the navigator for the next week, identifying the geological formations and islands marked on the map and pinpointing our exact location by river mile.

I spent my days steering from the back of the boat, making sure we cleared big rocks, stayed upright in the rapids and battled the winds that pushed us every direction but forward.

When we put our canoe in the water on that first morning, we had a plan for where we would camp each night. Eagle Creek, Slaughter River, Lone Pine Rapids, Gist Bottom, Hideaway. It was a thoughtfully planned itinerary, for sure.

Remember that Woody Allen quote, “If you want to hear God laugh, tell him your plans”? God had some good belly laughs during the second week of August.

On our first night, before Mick had perfected his map-reading skills, we mistakenly sailed miles past our intended camp of Eagle Creek. Instead, we spent the night under a huge cottonwood tree in the shadow of Hole in the Wall.

Having paddled more miles than we had planned on day one, we adjusted our destination for our second night, thinking we would “wing-it.” Just before dark and near tears, having found no other places to pull up our boat, we settled on a rocky sandbar, barely big enough for our tent. We drifted to sleep with water rushing on three sides of us and to the sound of a small animal clawing under the plastic floor of our tent between our sleeping bags.

Another night, again, just before dark and in sustained winds that would knock us off our feet, we pitched our tent on a low bluff above the river. After a dinner of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and chocolate milk in the tent, we snuggled into our sleeping bags. Just as my eyes began to close, Mick whispered a quiet concern that if a strong gust of wind caught our rainfly, it might blow our entire tent, with us in it, into the river below us. I reminded him how much I weigh, told him there was nothing to worry about and that he should go to sleep. Fifteen minutes later, with the wind still raging and haunted by the image of being tangled in a zipped-up tent at the bottom of the dark Missouri River with paddlefish lurking everywhere, I got up and removed the rainfly. It rained only a little that night.

From the peaceful green valley lined with cottonwoods at the start of our ride to the stunning White Cliffs to the ruggedly beautiful Badlands, it felt like we were traveling through an interactive nature museum, designed just for us. I had to repeatedly remind myself that the scenes surrounding us were not divinely inspired works of art. They were not the toppled ruins of ancient temples or the remains of monumental marble sculptures.

They were, rather, the result of tens of millions of years of glacial flows, volcanic eruptions and the folding and faulting of the earth. There were too many geological landmarks to describe – Hole in the Wall, Steamboat Rock, Seven Sisters – all of them perfectly named. But one formation that stunned us as we came around a bend was Dark Butte and the Archangel. The butte, dark and foreboding, loomed over the river. Directly in front of it, almost like a guardian protecting us from the doom of the butte behind it, was what appeared to be a towering, white sandstone angel, her massive wings spread to the sky. It was like nothing I had ever seen, breathtaking and awesome.

I wish I had photos of all the animals and strange bugs we saw. There were too many Bald and Golden eagles to count, sometimes nestled high up in the shade of the sandstone cliffs and other times soaring down over the river to snap up lunch. 140-pound paddlefish swirled around our boat and the river’s edge was alive with ducks, geese, frogs and turtles. One of the benefits of paddling into the evening was seeing the deer and Bighorn sheep come down to the water for a drink. One night, we watched as beavers came out from their dens to retrieve dinner for their families. The babies remained on the bank, pushing their little faces out from the sticks and reeds as their parents swam to the middle of the river.

There were old homesteads along the way, dilapidated but still standing. The roofless log cabins and free-standing chimneys were reminders of those adventurers who’d made their way to this new land after Lewis and Clark showed them it was possible, only to find that the climate, terrain and remoteness, while beautiful, made it too difficult to build a life.

Other than the deserted homesteads, an abandoned ferry landing that once accommodated bootleggers headed to Canada and a few worn trails leading to spectacular views, this land remains as it did when Lewis and Clark explored it. In fact, everywhere you look you will see and hear things that Lewis and Clark wrote about in their journals. The pesky prickly pear, gnats, mosquitoes, eagles, coyotes and mud. So much mud. It remains as it existed over 200 years ago.

In the six days we spent paddling the river, camping and hiking the land, we didn’t see one piece of litter or trash. Not one beer can or candy wrapper. Other than my sunglasses resting quietly on the murky bottom at river mile 112, you would be hard-pressed to find any sign of human life left behind. In a time when it is difficult to feel comfortable with the world, when it comes to the Missouri River National Monument, things are as they were meant to be.

There is so much more to share. I want to tell you about the meteor showers in the darkest, clearest night sky I’ve ever seen. I want you to hear the coyotes barking and howling at each other in the middle of the night. I want to share the disappointment we felt when we reached Judith Landing on our third day and found there was no snack bar. Designated as a “Developed Access Site” on our map, we had allowed the hot sun and wishful thinking to influence us into believing there might be a place we could pick up a Diet Coke and some Doritos. Apparently, “developed” means it has a vault toilet and a fire ring. No snack bar. No Doritos.

Mostly, I want to tell you that you should go. That you should pack up your camping gear, grab your favorite people, reserve a canoe and go paddle the Missouri River. It wasn’t expensive. It didn’t require any special skills, equipment or even planning. It was completely achievable and it was the adventure of a lifetime.

And if a scaredy-cat like me can do it, surely you can, too.

You can reach me at dunningsm@gmail.com