We settled into a new three-bedroom duplex with an attached garage, situated at the base of the ridge.

Living in town: the newest and most modern dwelling of my life, even now 50 years later … (of my first decade after college, I’m seeing on aerial photos that the majority have been demolished) … It was about a 30-block walk to the office, something that could be done if needed but still long.

We even had a fireplace, come fall and winter.

Summertime, though, had us learning the intensity of the desert sun, including the need to close both the blinds and the curtains in windows being struck by direct sunlight. The radiant heat was brutal. That was especially true of our living room in the late afternoon. Many houses had extra blinds on the outside, too.

As I set up my meditation room slash studio, I noted: European/American Eastern poetry reflects a resignation, where Asian/American Western has an acceptance of life / one is essentially sad, the other full of discovery and delight / the curious juxtaposition of East and West here!

While I was reading the Hindu classic Patanjali, the doorbell rang. Thought it might be the mailman, answered it to find an old man carrying Bible tracts denouncing crime, asking if I had watched the presidential debates, handing me his Bible to read two verses — an answer, he said — talking all the while of meekness — but this was no dialogue, no conversation — it didn’t matter if I were here or not, only that there be an audience.

In his demeanor, no meekness, yet my feelings were mixed. Admiration in his determination going door-to-door, but sadness in his lack of holy radiance. His book for a quarter? “Can you speak to the dead?” and “Is Hell really hot?” And then his magazine, the Watchtower.

He kept speaking of the Kingdom. “Kingdom, isn’t that what it’s all about?” Guess he’s never heard of love.

Well, you can speak to the dead but don’t expect an answer.

Rosh Hassahna began that night — a new year of thanksgiving.

We were certainly on the verge of a new year, personally.

~*~

From Spiralbound Cascadia with commentary.

 

My journal entries from the Yakima years weave together — or more accurately jump among — a half-dozen major fronts in my life. In revisiting these in the upcoming postings, we’ll focus on one front at a time, hoping to gain a little more context of what was happening at the office, at home and my marriage, in the great outdoors, in my literary efforts, in my spiritual life especially as a Quaker, and with a grab bag of extras. The result will mean overlapping the chronology in advancing the timeline, but it’s the best I’m coming up with.

I should introduce Yakima, however briefly, by noting it’s the name of the River and Valley, the County, the City, the Avenue. Sometime after we left, the tribe and its large reservation altered its spelling to set itself apart from all of these other usages. They use Yakama, rather than Yakima. Fair ‘nuff.

Hardly anything grows without irrigation, so water becomes a significant consideration. The economy is principally agricultural — a fifth of the apples sold in the U.S. are raised there, with another fifth in Wenatchee County to the north. Peaches, pears, apricots, cherries, and plums are also prominent, as well as hops for beer brewing, barley, hay, and, after we left, wine vineyards. Cattle, sheep, and horses were the primary livestock, and logging was also a major industry.

Getting used to the arid landscape was a challenge … “like living on the inside of an ashtray,” as I read somewhere, describing another interior Far West scene.

The big snowy mountain to the west, which we could view almost everywhere, was Mount Adams, which we initially confused with Mount Rainier, which was visible from a few points.

Politically and socially, it was conservative, yet participated in a high level of collective action. Perhaps it was pragmatic more than ideological at the core.

~*~

Produce, produce
clear dry air
and everyone a gardener

 I just hope this elation lasts.

~*~

Here goes!

~*~

From Spiralbound Cascadia with commentary.

 

It’s amazing how much piles up in a short time. As they say about moving every five years to get clear of unneeded possessions? Here’s what went out in this relocation.

• Newspapers pages from places I almost worked.
• Notes to myself.
• Narrow neckties, worn-out belts.
• Love letters and photos.
• A wooden finger. Yes, that one.
• Rough drafts and manilla folders.
• Torn-up mat board.
• Crayons.
• Cardboard boxes, wrapping, and stuffing paper.
• A half ream of employment rejection letters.
• Topographic maps of Monroe and Lawrence counties, Indiana.
• Also, Catskills trails maps, Upstate New York.
• Day campers’ cartoons of “Fat Steve.”
• Duplicate copies of my college journalism or the embarrassing mistakes.

~*~

As I also noted:

After three months of unemployment, dejection, and waiting, we’ve made it … to Yakima, WA.

No Friends Meeting, but perhaps someday … Lord will make a way

~*~

From Spiralbound Cascadia with commentary.