Posthumous Potluck

The first row of cars came into view around the tight bend. Cars, trucks, and SUVs lined both sides of the road as far as could be seen. Some were parked off the road, some at dangerous angles in the trees, others halfway into the oncoming traffic lanes.

How many cars are there?

Around the next bend they were crammed anywhere they could fit for another quarter of a mile. At least ten people were walking. Some this way, some that. Some smiling, some staring ahead blankly. All carrying plates of food under aluminum foil.

Approaching the beach took longer than expected. Close to the middle of the queue of vehicles, where they were most haphazardly parked, was a trail entrance. An older gentleman emerged, stooping over his plate of steaming halibut, carried idly in his left hand. When asked how he was faring, he looked up, fatigue in his eyes, and replied breathily, "I'd be better if I didn't have to climb all of these steps!" He shuffled past, towards his car, that way.

Down a cleared dirt path, down a flight of stairs, past an open window looking into an immaculate kitchen, across a deck with a beautiful set of wind chimes, down a second flight of stairs, and all the while with the quiet roar of a waterfall guiding the way. Suddenly, the beach appeared.

It's one thing to see so many cars, but so many people! They must have carpooled, maybe some cycled in, maybe some walked from neighboring houses.

What throngs!

At that moment, the sound of a banjo broke through the serene pounding of plunging water.

This is the place.

The first table beyond the path was covered in a light cloth, a picture of a middle aged man smiling out at the beauty of the world placed carefully next to an open notebook and a wrapped box with a slot labelled "Donations" in loopy letters.

"Love and light. - Jen Reid," was written on the exposed page.

Should I?

The second table called loudly. Round and full, almost crowded, it was obviously the desert table. Unmatched tupperware containers of moist brownies, slices of sweet pies, batches of homemade cookies, and full loaves of beautifully baked breads beckoned, teasing and tantalizing tempted taste buds. An array of fruits, cakes, crackers, and muffins asked to be eaten.

The next table was rectangular. It was longer, covered in a white cloth, and equally filled to capacity with treats, although on the non artery clogging side. Salads, pastas, hummus, salmon dips, unnamed side dishes, and store bought cheese platters were strewn about lazily. Some containers had been scraped clean, others were getting there quickly.

Just past this table were two large grills. The smell of freshly caught and grilled salmon and halibut played in nostrils, making the hungry salivate. Norman smiled, asking if anyone wanted some more fish, fresh off the grill.

Could I say no even if I wanted? Probably not.

More spectacular than the food, than the path, than the rock riddled beach, were the people. The sheer amount of people, milling about, discussing this and that. The smiling man in the picture on the first table clearly brought smiles to their faces. Some smiled through tears, but mostly, they just smiled, laughed, and danced.

A banjo, a guitar, a base, some drums and a trombone. That's all there was, and that's all it took. The Fishpickers played their hearts out in the name of the smiling man, spreading the contagious energy he had given them before his sudden and unexpected death. The energy was spread through the crowd, and it could be seen. The energy in the air was so thick it was nearly tangible.

This could be taken and spread to folks who couldn't make the festivities.

Festivities is an odd but appropriate word.

Tommy strutted through the crowd, boasting happily of his books. "Small book, big story." He repeated this at least four times.

In wonder, a passerby expressed without lamentation, "We were just having coffee at Mountain Market on Wednesday! Now he's gone."

The music softened, then quieted. A grizzled man who looked older than his years approached the microphone. He started, "Mike wrote this........." The crowd laughed hysterically at the poem about a polar bear that hitched a ride on a fishing boat, ate the crew's fish, and then dropped them on a dime when he saw a female polar bear waiting for him at his destination. It was noted that the polar bear and fishing crew had a lot in common.

A member of the band grabbed the microphone and told a bit of a story about how silly Michael had been before he gave a gruff, "Shit, ah never mind, let's just play some music!"

As the band played, the beginnings of a rainbow peaked through the overhanging clouds that had engulfed the towering peaks across the Lynn Canal. They parted enough for the colors to break through, and everyone took it in at once. Rainbow Glacier earned its name yet another day.

In that glimpse of light, of color, the moment reopened. Sure tomorrow would happen without Michael, but today; that's what really matters. A celebration like he would have done it.

The band picked back up, playing two waltzes. Two older women danced together, roughly swinging each other one way, then the other, truly enjoying the moment. Pushing and pulling, giggling, and making silly faces. Laughter lit their eyes, and years plummeted from them in their merriment leaving nothing but youth and happiness.

By the calm canal, a single woman wearing a soft crimson sweater with a flowing black skirt stood watching over her little boy play by the water. Her dark hair danced in the wind, as if trying to reach for the adventure of the silent, still, snow capped mountains opposite the celebration.

The crowd was thinning. As if on cue, mother nature sent a visitor from the sky. Swooping in cautiously a bald eagle attempted to sneak some fish from the nearby rocks. Sensing the crowd's shifted attention, it retreated, only to attempt again in a few minutes. The game of chicken, better yet, eagle, continued for close to a half hour.

The spirit of a small fishing town in Alaska was brought to light by the death of a remarkable man. Signs had been put up on storefronts, bulletin boards, and invitations were passed around by word of mouth as well. His beauty needed to be celebrated, shared, and through that he could continue to live.

I did not know Mike Saunders before his memorial potluck, but in seeing the effect he had on the town and the people, I sure wish I had.

Indecently Discarded

Before I get tons of questions, no, this is not a personal experience. I was just sitting in a bar this evening musing about the way people treat one another. How often this happens. I got a little carried away. Read on.

Her: Driven, ambitious, quirky, light hearted, and in love with nature, outdoors, fun, and experiencing life. She's soulful; someone who has experienced more than her share, more than she should have for her age. She's 27, and what people tend describe as exotic. Almond eyes, white smile, dimple, olive skin.

Him: Driven, ambitious, accomplished. In love with adrenaline, people, and improving the community. He's attractive, open, spontaneous, and family oriented. He's something of a legend in his community, and has made an impression on the world. He's 44, and what people tend to describe as ruggedly handsome. Laughing green eyes, distinguished, weathered.

The two met by chance, through both of their passions, live music. He caught her eye, bouncing around to the music, travelling the floor, making his presence noticed with less than no rhythm. She sat back for hours until finally asking him to dance. He complied. They laughed, drank, danced. They loved their moments together.

A short while later, the two bumped into each other again, and the chemistry was undeniable. Their concern for people brought them together. They understood each other. They talked for hours, tiptoeing around the obvious age difference, the potential between them. They enjoyed each other's company, and it didn't seem to matter.

He commanded her attention, she commanded his. They found ways to see each other, even for a short bit. A 15 minute smoothie break, a short jaunt by the docks. Their time together was a complement to each.

They chased the moon hand in hand down the center of an empty road, with the sounds of the sea at their backs.

They idled in the dark, chatting, laughing, until there was a rustle in the brush that could have been a bear. They picked up the pace a bit more, laughing all the while.

They kayaked together to a secluded beach, sat against some drift wood, and fell asleep in each other's arms.

He had her over for dinner, and in moments of passion, they became one.

They weren't prepared for each other in this life. He had almost given up on her existence, and while she knew he was somewhere, it didn't cross her mind that he'd be found in a town of 2,500, in a small bar in Southeast Alaska.

They had a serious conversation. He hadn't been with anyone in years. He thought she was incredible, and he had even told his mother. She met his brother. He invited her to have Thanksgiving with his family. He showed her his dreams. He shared with her his fears. He told her how good he made him feel, so good, in fact that he felt as if quitting smoking could be possible. She embraced them, him, his faults, and his passions.

He offered her undying and endless support, told her he'd be there for her, and even offered her a drawer in his house to encourage her presence in his life. He set the pace. He offered his home. He told her to make herself at home, but she couldn't just move in completely.

Then one day, she noticed a change in the weather. Something so abrupt, she didn't have time to react. Suddenly there were no more smoothie breaks, no dinners, no time together but time after work. He still wanted her to come by the house, but their time together seemed loveless. They were no longer one when together, just two people, one driven by lust, one by the hope love would return.

Eventually, she didn't want to visit the house anymore, but she complied because it was their time together. She hesitated to go home with him one night after a particularly cold evening together. She felt used. Sex is nothing but an annoyance without love.

When he ran into her in public, he seemed irritated that she would approach him. He avoided her. Refused to acknowledge her in front of his old friends, and refused to introduce her to anyone new. He even went so far as to turn his back on her upon her approaches.

She was confused. Her heart pulsed, felt as if it would burst out of her throat in a violent gush of tears. After several days, she pulled him aside, and demanded he explain to her the change.

His only response was, "I need to slow down. We can't live together. I'm confused. I need time."

She wanted to scream at him that HE set the pace. HE cleared the drawer. HE pursued her. HE entered her world. HE promised trips, time together, family, future. HE took her by surprise. HE broke her heart.

But she only responded with a quiet, "I'm not in a rush, but you could have handled this better." He had made her feel worthless, like a bother. Like the problem was hers.

They decided she would pull her things from his house, and after that they didn't speak. She decided to wait for him to come around, but he didn't call for several days. When he did, he offered a smoothie break, and some support. She believed him, and he stood her up. The third week in a row.

She started to doubt what she had to offer. She started to doubt her strength as a woman. Did she do something to push away this man? To make him embarrassed enough of her in public that he felt it necessary to ignore her? To cut communications? Was the hunt the only exciting part for him? Was she not a good catch?

She had seen this happen to others. This was the first time she experienced it first hand. She realized in an instant she had become disposable. A toy that had become a hassle on top of other responsibilities after an initial enjoyment.

She lamented. She had sleepless nights. She cursed him. She cried. She laughed at him and herself, but eventually she wished he would just speak to her like she was a human being. He treated dogs better than he treated her. All she wanted was acknowledgement, a sort of truce to become friends, because at that point there would be no reconciliation on a romantic level.

She lives by the saying, "When somebody shows you their true self, believe them." There would be no convincing her he was a better person than he had shown her. She had made that mistake before. He had lied to her, filled her head with empty promises, and decided he could drop her like a bad habit. Or maybe not. He had a MUCH harder time quitting smoking than he had quitting his time with her.

The part that made the hot tears stream down her face when she was alone was how worthless he seemed to think she was.

She recognized what was happening, as in one of her lesser proud moments, she had treated somebody the same way. In private, she had been one with a man that she was embarrassed of in public, and one day she cut him off completely and suddenly with a shoddy excuse of needing time to herself, being confused, needing to think, etc. She had truly enjoyed time with him, but one day things changed. She refused to speak to him because he complicated things in her head, the worries, the stresses. She didn't give him the respect he deserved because it was an inconvenience to her. She had treated him as if he was disposable. He had cried, written her letters, and pleaded with her to talk with him. He even threatened her. She couldn't be bothered. She didn't answer his calls, and was dismissive to his cries. She thought her problems were worth more than his ego. She figured he'd recover, and just wished he'd disappear instead of making her feel bad about the way she was treating him. She just wanted him to move on, and leave her alone.

In that moment of realization, she felt bad for both men. The man who she had stood by and dismissed her without a thought, and the man she had dismissed. She wished with her entire being that she could rescind her wrongdoings, hug him, make a friend of him, and take away his pain. For people are beautiful beings, not objects, not toys. Emotions are not disposable. It is not right to just drop someone because they have become an inconvenience. It's not OK to ignore someone completely. Simple explanations, honesty, and a little courage is all it takes to mend relations, yet we tend to cut them so crudely. It's instant gratification. It's a loss of values over generations.

It hurts. Nobody should have to experience it.

People would be kinder to one another if they could empathize with the feelings of the indecently discarded.