5 posts tagged “tacoma”
August, and specifically the middle, is proving to be a watershed of momentous or life-changing events.
It was in August three years ago that I fled the desert for the cool and wet Pacific Northwest.
It was in August one year ago that I moved from the house with the nazi queen to my own space again, ending not only a terrible situation but years of (less than positive) shared living.
It was also in August one year ago, a week after that move in fact, that I lost my job with the property management company that I loved.
Now it is August and my year of unemployment benefits is ended.
Which places me in the precarious position of no job and no income.
Today I go to the unemployment office to file for new benefits; applications are reviewed and decided on a case-by-case basis.
Time after time when I’ve been there taking care of matters, I’ve been offered this helpful advice: “Don’t do it on Monday. They’re slammed at the telecenter. It’s their busiest day. Wait till Wednesday if you can.”
Since I have zero money coming in, Wednesday is light years away. So I’ll be going down with a couple newspapers, including the Sunday paper, which isn’t nearly as thick as Sunday editions used to be, and a book to pass the time on hold.
August will also be remembered as the month I made the decision to let Tacoma go.
This is a decision reached after long thought and contemplation. It’s hard and mournful to even write those words for the love I have for this town that I also embrace as my adopted hometown. But there. It is said and written because it can be written now. There’s no muting the glare of realities. It’s coming time to go.
Strangely, I’ve nothing more to say. Except that there are certain creatures I will miss very much. Including this guy, who happened by this morning and just jumped up; it’s not often he sits on my desk.
Today and thereabouts mark an anniversary. It was three years ago that I exited fled for my life from the scorching desert for the cooler and wetter climes of the Pacific Northwest, answering the Call of the Water.
A journey of approximately 1,400 miles just me and my Subaru expertly packed with the basic essentials: the stereo and CDs, important files, an air mattress and on the luggage rack a large duffel bag of clothes held down with ratchet straps - I love those things!
I remember trial runs of packing and repacking the car toward maximum efficient use of space. I’ve been praised by many, including professional movers, for this talent and gift.
I went where I’d never been before and knew no one. With three exceptions, this is how I’ve always moved leaping the world over. The idea of going someplace where I know someone is foreign. Why would I do that? There’s no adventure in that, no fulfillment of the nomadic spirit.
Why Tacoma? Ah, that's a remarkable story of itself. Vivid still is the day I landed, on a weekend with sunny gorgeous weather (and rare, I soon discovered). Everyone was out and traffic terrible. I had no idea where I was or where I'd stay. I was on a shoestring budget and could ill afford the high summer rates. Half a day of navigating unfamiliar terrain, I eventually found lodings outside Tacoma that I could afford -- for one night.
The next day began an intense search for an affordable place to land (sleeping in the car was not an option since it was fully loaded); I pulled it off.
Tacoma was immediate affinity and love. And why wouldn't it be. It was where I was supposed to be, my City of Destiny (coincidentally the town's official moniker). Three years later, and amid considerable if not death-defying hardship, I still have no regrets, doubts or second-guessing about coming here.
Hardship. Jobs (and income) have been a bitch then a bear and now a black hole. Five jobs in three two years:
1. Delivering phone books - one month
2. Delivering phone books (another brand) - one month
3. Warehouse - nine months
4. Paratransit driver - one month
5. Cleaning - one year
6. Unemployed - one year
Wow. One year looking for work. That's beyond my comprehension. I can't recount how many resumes I've sent out or low the bottom of the barrel scraped for a job any job no matter how low the wage or demeaning and still .....................................
I'm not alone. In the last year, I've seen the place I love and call my adopted hometown also struggle and fall into hardships. My county's among the state's hardest hit and in the top three in unemployment. That surprises me not at all. I'm in the trenches daily, I live it, feel it, know it. People are seriously hurting and struggling and we've not even hit bottom. Crime's up, like in so many places, and folks are reaching out for food from food banks unable to stock half their shelves. It tears my heart. I fear for myself and so many others.
Five jobs, one year unemployed and five residences in three years; that's a helluva lot of change even for me.
There's much I contemplate on this anniversary. While life has been far from easy, it has offered two things that'd been absent in the seven years post Japan: a town for which I feel passion and heart and water.
I know not what will come of ye and me, Tacoma. Whatever shall be and wherever the journey, you remain my high school sweetheart, a first love, real, true-blooded and tumultuous and perhaps one that invariably if not inevitably ends. You're to be remembered, held and cherished in the heart with fondness and affection, passion and gratitude.
On this third anniversary, thank you, Tacoma, for having me. Like the bird soon if not now I turn skyard for the magnetic path, the arc that takes me where I am to go, you in my blood and bones and tucked safely beneath the wings, you, my city of destiny Thank you.
Tacoma has lost one of its finest residents.
The Black Water cafe is no more.
With backpack, laptop and Berr Symon, I arrive at its door this morning afternoon for my first cup of coffee -- an Americano with a little room for cream, please -- and am greeted by scrolls of green construction paper draping the window.
The handwritten obituary begins:
After three and a half years of serving the community we love, Black Water Café will be closing its doors. It has been an honor, a privilege and an inspiration to contribute to Tacoma.
It continues to direct customers to other small community coffeehouses and concludes with rolling credits to a long list special supporters.
The Black Water is no more and this time it's not coming back.
I write thusly because it was only a couple months ago that it pulled up stakes from a location with solid and successful business to downtown, considerably smaller in space and "closer to the action." I sensed something amiss, penned reservations something to the effect of "we'll see how it goes."
Sadly, it went as I sensed: south. Not all moves are for the best. Sometimes it's best to leave well enough alone. Either adage is appropriate and changes not the outcome: The Black Water is deceased.
Gone is the cafe where I most liked to write. Quite a number of postings were born at the Black Water. This sentiment holds truer for its prior location than the second, which suffered from a set of flaws, including poor seating -- four tables were inadequate for cafe that renowned and popular. Unlike its former location that was spacious and bright and for me felt like writing in the middle of an open field, the second was tight, narrow and dusty and felt like writing and sipping coffee inside a large closet.
The move of course didn't altogether deter a hardcore set of devotees, a cult, a sect of the funky and the creative, cool and disenfranchised, eclectic and experimental. And it continued serving the best damn espresso in town. Yet unlike Stella of the film fame, the Black Water never got its groove back. It couldn't. The conditions weren't right.
I loved going to the Black Water, a walk approximately seven blocks from my abode through a neighborhood that juxtaposes seediness and re-invention of self. The steep slopes were easy going down and a bitch going up and usually when I was in a rush to get to work in time because I'd hung out at the Black Water too long.
Thus it is with sadness, but not surprise, that I pen my own epitaph for the cafe whose final resting place is on St. Helen's Avenue.
I bid a warm and loving adieu to the Black Water. Your death leaves a hole in the soul of Tacoma and in the hearts of your countless admirers and devoted family members. You are remembered. You are missed. You are irreplaceable. And you served the best damn espresso in all of Tacoma!
We shan't ourselves soon enough but may you rest in peace, holy Black Water cafe.
The town is mine.
This is my sentiment yesterday as I take to the streets of historic downtown Tacoma beneath sharp blue skies and perfectly balanced light.
I walk. The inner photographer and storyteller reach for a camera that does not exist.
I must get a camera. I am missing a part of my body and soul. Without a job, with what money?
The streets are sleeping, washed of their weekday activity and traffic. Perhaps Tacoma noticed that God rested on the seventh day and followed suit.
I take the road that stays a bird’s eye view of Thea Foss Waterway, a determined watery arm of Commencement Bay, to my left.
It’s a rare day when the sun is out and the sky is blue and the water blue instead of all saturated in a seamless dreary gray. There is spring in the air and in my step too.
I pass the spanking new condos on hilltops affording a magnificent view of the bay and port, condos that are a stone's throw from the from gritty historic buildings of the early 1900s whose weathered stones and bricks are older than any of us.
Juxtaposition. That is Tacoma through and through.
A graystone elk head up on the old Elks Temple, nearly 100 years old and in disrepair, catches my attention. His antlers are missing so someone has inserted branches. He stares fixedly into the world with naked eyeballs with nary a blink.
Again, my hands instinctively reach for a camera not there. I seriously must rectify that.
The elk speaks: “I have stories.”
I respond: “I know. One day I’ll return so I may photograph you and tell them properly."
The elk does not blink a yay or nay, rather nods me onward.
* * *
I’m in Fireman’s Park, which I’ve not explored though it's right there and I’ve had dozens of opportunities to do so.
Now I understand why the local banter about erecting fences.
This narrow park follows sharp angles and juts of land that offer sweeping views of the bay and sailboats and cargo vessels and port equipment and railroad tracks and cars head to toe in their lot.
If you disobey the sign reading “Danger. Do Not Climb” posted on the 4-foot-high (121.9 cm) retaining walls around the park, you're standing on small wedges of land that drop perilously and unforgivingly onto a concrete freeway below.
Of course I disobey the sign - my instinctive response when someone tells me not to do something, I will want to do it.
It’s unnerving, standing on that open edge with such a terrific view outward and such an unattractive view straight down, one potentially grisly with a misstep or severe intoxication or suicidal impulse.
Though not a soul's around, I keep checking over both shoulders because in a book this is where a nefarious character appears and pushes me.
* * *
Styrofoam cups litter the park. I collect them and when I dispose of them in the metal trash can, I behold the sight before my eyes!!
Scattered amongst the layers of discarded paper plates and cups and plastic forks are cheesy macaroni shells! -- the remains of a large picnic, based on the volume of trash.
And a patch of park is occupied by a good two dozen seagulls, who'll be all too happy to receive whatever I throw, with the exception, experience has taught, of brussel sprouts and raw cabbage.
I must appear quite the sight in my ragamuffin clothes with head sunk into a trash can while I search and scoop morsels of macaroni onto a plate. When it comes to feeding animals, I'll do whatever it takes, I feel no shame.
“Yack! Yack! Yack!” raspily broadcast the birds as pasta descends from heaven onto their grassy plate.
A threesome arrives with a camera; they take turns photographing one another with the bay as a backdrop. Meanwhile I go about collecting macaroni wondering whether they think I'm a homeless person scrounging for a lunch. Fortunately I'm not there yet.
The two remaining cans I suss out yield jackpot! -- more pasta and a quarter left in a large bag of Doritos nachos. A banner day for me and the birds!
* * *
My hands are sticky, gunky, I need to rinse.
Funny, there's this great big body of water before me and no way to get to it.
No water fountains either. No place downtown's open except a couple pubs. I'd feel badly walking in and out only to use the restrooms.
So I make due with what I've got, a paper napkin and spit. Water would be nice though. That way I could put my gloves back on for the nip.
I venture onward to wherever the wind takes me.
* * *
The wind delivers me three blocks away. In front of the Russell Grant Investment structure, a behemoth complex with -- and I swear this is true! -- water flowing down one entire face!
Sometimes the divine does answer and in a most surprising way!
* * *
I begin inching my way back for the evening meditation circle.
I traipse through historic Antique Row. Tired buildings hungry for business. Empty buildings hungry for tenants. One building jam-packed with antiques and cluter hungry for space.
An object on the sidewalk catches my eye.
It's a tarot card. Face down.
It's been a magical and blessed afternoon, a sacred journey into my town.
What is the message?
I retrieve the card and flip it as if I'm turning a page from the book of the divine mind.
Hanged Man.
What is your message?
Things on hold, in suspension. Yes, uh huh.
I flip it to its reverse position.
Let go and let God.
Strolling, I contemplate the card held in full view along with the single yellow daffodil plucked from a planter near the building with the wall of water. The daffodil had been leaning at a hard angle skirting the planter's edge so I reckon it didn't object.
* * *
I ascend the wide staircase that hugs the aged disused Elks Building with its ornate weather-beaten carvings along its top perimeter.
This spot built into a slope affords a view of the downtown buildings and skyline. I am in love with my town.
A seagull is aloft above the landmark clock tower of brick the shade of burnt orange.
Is the gull attempting landing but deterred by gusty bay winds?
Is he hanging on a voluminous wave of air for pure joy?
What shall he do when this moment of utterly perfect balance and moving stillness recedes?
He flies northward in the direction of the bay.
* * *
And a black bird nested in a bowl of a curved shell-like carving high up the old Elks Building eyes me with apparently the curiousity that I eye him.
We dance eye to eye for a while. He does not respond to my cluckings and whistles. Are they a foreign language?
He cocks his head. Is he attempting to decipher my mortal bird song? Or thinking: Silly girl, why do you do as you do?
I must move on. As I slip away, he steps forward to the edge of his bowl, revealing a second black bird tucked behind him.
I'm sure I could find some metaphor or allegorical omen in that if I let my imagination wander.
Are they mates? Parent and child? Two birds sharing warmth away from the bite and the chill that roll off the Puget Sound?
Perhaps I shall find that out on another day -- that and a waiting story to be told by the elk head with branches for the antlers and the eyeballs that never blink.
Tacoma rocks.
These are my exact words spoken to a galpal's friend at yesterday's Maritime Fest. An annual summertime event celebrating the town's working waterfront with activities including dragon boat races. Quick & dirty boat building. Tub fishing and face-painting and rides down a giant inflatable boat.
Vessel models completed in tiny detail and bandana-ed pirates of Puget Sound strolling the grounds with a har har har and rope matches.
There's the stick-on tattooes sponged on by a cheerful woman -- 60 seconds that brought back terrible memories of the injections from the school nurses. Free tattooes for old and young alike. The miniature blue whale still rides the words Port of Tacoma and grins impishly while spouting on my upper left bicep because at a port, where else are you gonna set a tattoo?
There's the inevitable food vendors, crafts, live music, beer garden.
And the boat tours, the highlight IMHO.
Last year when I went, it was cold, gloomy, gray. I stood at bow wrapped up head to toe like I was heading to Alaska.
This year the gods were kinder, bestowing sparkling blue sky and sunshine that all of us are drinking in before the weather turns back into 10 months of darkness, rain and constant overcast.
The tour boat carries a couple hundred. It's got a snack bar, two decks of enclosed open-air seating and standing room at bow. That was packed because of the weather. Your (free) ticket gives you a shot at a Port of Tacoma gray knit cap. Mine missed the mark.
As the boat glides through the waterways, it pauses here then there so we can observe and listen as the announcer details port operations. He's not as engaging as last year's but informative nonetheless and I soak it up, even the stuff heard last year.
He tells us about the various businesses. The towering cranes. How the workers in windowed cabs transport 40-ton containers while sitting sideways -- that'd be like us driving cars facing the passenger seat.
He details how monstrous containers are hoisted and deposited in stacks and their journeys from overseas to local vessel to railroad tracks, destination Midwest (chiefly Chicago). And why some working vessels wave the U.S. flag and others the Monrovian.
The No. 1 Pacific Northwest export? Not microbrews, albeit a reasonable guess from the audience. Neither lumber. Grains. Third is airplane parts - that's Boeing's presence.
Whether it's pouring rain or smiling sun rays, I love being out on the water. Those 75 minutes touring the port of the town I call home are gonna be some of the best minutes in a year.
And all of it -- the festival events, activities, entrance, the boat rides throughout the weekend -- all free. You can have a terrific day and not spend a penny!
In so many other places including nearby Seattle, they'd charge 5 bucks just to be on the boat.
Tacoma so rocks.
I've been around the country and world as resident or traveler, to massive metropolises that swallow humans whole to sleeping boring middle-class American cities to eye blinks with a single gas station, a single eatery and a single market, often incorporating someone's name, that closes at 7 o'clock, 5 on Sundays and that's if it's open.
Among the plethora of places, Tacoma shines. All the events I've attended here where other places would or do charge: free. And they're always so relaxed and relaxing and friendly, and the volunteers genuinely cheerful and smiling and willing to help.
A more authentic and engaging and friendly town I have yet to discover.
Surely Tacoma's particular charms and grit, history and spirit and edge won't resonate with or appeal to all. That's natural. This town is the salty and seasoned drunken sailor who's got rip-roaring tales to tell from the seat in the pub or the sidewalk and you'd better get 'im before he collapses into a sleeping stupor.
On second thought, no worries if you don't because the next day he'll be up -- perhaps woozy, perhaps drowsy but up nonetheless -- to live another day. Like the roughened seaman, Tacoma may fall flat on its face, and when it does, it'll do so hard, but it'll rise again, ready to meet the day, even strive for better. Because Tacoma is a survivor.
So a hearty thank you to you; you impress consistently and remind why I call you my adopted home. And a most special thank you to the port and to all who gave generously of yourselves in time or money on behalf of showcasing one of the town's sparkling jewels. See you next year on the boat, aye! {blows whale kisses}
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