The Rock Lady of Santa Cruz - On the Road #23
/Image by Paul Brennan from Pixabay
Your friends will know you better
in the first minute you meet
than
your acquaintances will in
a thousand years...
"Illusions, The Adventures of a Reluctant Messiah"
by Richard Bach
Hey y'all
Well, I've just had an experience like the one described above.
At the moment, I'm in Ketchikan for a few hours before the ferry carries me to Bellingham.
The ferry is always an experience, especially the three to four day milk run between Juneau and Bellingham.
And of course, I'm sleeping on a lawn chair in the solarium with a toaster oven heater hanging six feet above me to stay warm.
I met Lili Rose due to a reluctance she had to break a promise to her husband. We had several hours in Sitka, and we became hitchhiking buddies on that stop because he didn’t want her hitching by herself, and the town of Sitka is several miles from the ferry.
She was based in Ketchikan for a month. Visiting from Santa Cruz, CA while her cousin was on a diving trip. While he was gone, Lili Rose took a four-day roundtrip on the ferry from Ketchikan to Skagway and back to Ketchikan. We crossed paths as she was going back.
"I have a gift for healing," she said, as we strolled around the church in Sitka. "I'm known as the Rock Lady because I do so well with stones."
Like many people from California, she was very open in sharing her story, and at first I wrote her off as a New Ager, but she was good company. We got a bottle of wine and two brandy snifters at good will to drink wine in the solarium later. Because of course, she was perched up there too.
I had to admit she even looked the part of a mystic. Petite, with long reddish brown hair, and large crystal green eyes, Lili Rose has a vivid presence.
And then she told me she was only 74 pounds a few months ago, and that she had died and been brought back three times in the last year.
Having four disks in her neck fused together, complications with her medication affecting her health, she had run the gamut of a modern-day medical nightmare. She had a food tube forcing nutrients directly to her heart at one point before she figured out that it was the pain killers she was taking for her neck were affecting her system, and got a medical license for marijuana to stop so she could take in enough calories to not starve to death. She gets high, so she feels okay enough to eat, and if she's not in too much pain, the food stays down. Since she had stopped taking the painkillers, she had gained forty pounds and was healthy enough to take this trip to see her cousin and twin soul.
"I choose to be happy," she said. "It is all a choice, so why choose suffering?"
A healer in pain all the time, a giver who can't receive, Lili Rose gave me a stone she had carried for almost twenty years. A clear piece of quartz with copper filaments threading through it like angel hairs, she described it as "rutile quartz." She had it with her when she was holding people's hands as they passed from this life, or brought new life into the world. She swore by it.
"This stone is very powerful," she said. "It'll send your messages
directly to God."
Since the stone was important to her, the agreement at first was that I could carry it until I came to see her in Santa Cruz, and then we would trade out for a stone with gold filaments. But by the next morning, she said that it was my birthday gift.
"My dear, what is the point of giving a gift if one does not also treasure it oneself?"
This classic quote by Colette - the French writer, not our beloved slinger of hash and singer of songs - was the last sentence in a short story by Truman Capote. I was so impressed by it I recorded it in my journal years ago and thus, have never forgotten it. So the significance of this gesture by a woman I had known for three hours was not lost on me.
But the best gift from Lili Rose to me was the missing piece in the puzzle of forgiveness. Without going into the details of the conversation that led to this - anybody who's done any living at all has been stumped on this issue at least once in their lives - we were treating ourselves to a less-than-mediocre dinner served in the swanky ferry dining room when Lili Rose dropped this pearl of wisdom on my plate.
"When you truly forgive, you give up your right to retribution."
Now that's some profound shit, but she went on.
"When you wait for an apology, an acknowledgement, or a punishment to forgive, you are still giving up your energy to a situation, which is what somebody wants who does things that hurt us. When you give up that right to retribution, no matter how justified, you take back your power."
Wow.
Something tells me this leg of the trip is going to turn into some mystical avenues.
If I ever lose that rock she gave me, shoot me.
Montgomery
Suckers for Cutsie Poo and Unexpected Good Dates - On the Road #19
/Hey y'all,
Before I get too carried away, let me just say one thing: next time any of you are in Anchorage, you must check out El Tango on Tudor behind the Holiday gas station.
If you've gone to Hooters, you have definitely gone too far!
El Tango has a fantastic menu of Latin cuisine - Columbia, Argentina, and Puerto Rico - a very friendly staff, and a small dance floor.
It's only been there for a year. The location sucks; but if you like your ambience refreshing, then this is the place for you.
How did I get there?
Last night at the Cook Inlet Bookstore, I was crushed to find that I was one of a cluster fuck of writers.
Needless to say, the four of us were overcrowded at one small table. So we got another one and two of us sat there.
I figured I’d stake out the front door in the hopes I’d get more attention. But everybody still herded around the schoolteacher at the other table.
She had a mountain of books and a generous target audience. Her book, “Recess at 20 Below” was full of pictures of her students having FUN in her class and adorable narrative about school life in Delta Junction.
It was both cutsie poo and Alaskan at the same time.
Meanwhile, I misread a potential fan, Sheila. And I found out she was anything but when I told her the first chapter of Ella Bandita. I included the dirty old sorcerer, the cold-blooded daddy, and the eaten heart.
Sheila scrunched up her face and let me know that she was a fan of the Walt Disney version of whitewashed fairy tales. She also said that she used to have a friend who would have been into my writing because she wrote a lot like me.
"But she's dead now," Sheila said.
So heartwarming of her to tell me that.
Do I sound bitter? Really, I'm not. Even though the night was a dud.
At this point in my road trip, I have had enough successes to not sweat the flops.
Besides, last night was a quality, if not a quantity, experience.
I ended up with a date. A good one, too with a nice guy.
Go figure. That practically never happens to me.
I usually gravitate to the those-I-cannot-or-should-not-even-consider-wanting-to-have types.
This guy has a steady job, no addictions ( at least, not obvious ones ), courtly manners, a good body, and blue eyes that are awful purty to look into.
That's how I ended up at El Tango. Because Nice Guy With Pretty Blue Eyes took me there.
Besides the food and the Argentinian staff, they had a keyboard player whose keyboard created a symphony with every note, and the staff would get up there and sing.
Since they didn't have the TV screen that enabled bad singers to massacre mediocre lyrics, it wasn't really karaoke. But it kind of felt that way even though the staff were the main singers.
Most of the songs were in Spanish, so it was very cool. It also helped that they could...oh, sing.
Hugo, the owner who was from Argentina, played kind of the Latin version of a bluegrass washboard - a weegel ( I don't know how to spell it, and the closest he could come to describing it was a plant, kind of like a zucchini, that's dried and then hollowed out - if you want to know what the hell I'm talking about, go to El Tango and you'll see), while the bartender had maracas.
I love Latin folk. They really have the happy-to-live mentality down pat. Hugo gave us free drinks, calling us amigos and that we are family.
"When you are in Anchorage, this is your home." Hugo said.
Nothing is perfect, however...
Hugo is a sucker for Celine Dion, because his daughter, Lilly, belted out "I Will Always Love You," and he sat there, looking emotional and teary-eyed.
Lily sang beautifully. I simply don’t like Celine Dion’s music.
But other than that, the night was awesome.
I was going to come back on Tuesday. But my good date asked me out again, so…it’s good to explore the possibilities.
I'm coming back to Juneau roughly sometime before I head down to the lower forty-eight by November 1st.
Does anybody have a housesitting gig or an extra room?
I rented my place out and I don't know about crashing on my own couch for almost two weeks.
It'll be good to see the Vagabond - my cat, that is. And of course, all of you. I’m really excited to see all of you.
Peace,
Montgomery
Living the Dream - On the Road #18
/Hey y'all,
I am so glad I listened to the wisdom of my inner voice, the same inner voice that told me to go back to Seward for the Music and Arts Festival, even though my first tableside storytelling adventure was not immediately profitable.
In fact, my first day I told stories with my whole heart and soul into it because I wanted to sell my book, dammit!
This was only my second stop on the trip. I had had a couple of things in Homer. I was in full-throttle eager novice mode and people could smell blood...I could sense them smacking their chops as I concluded my story without closing the sale. I sold nothing!
And that really sucked.
And frankly, so does Anchorage.
I did my last storytelling tonight at the Organic Oasis, and it is impossible to do what I'm doing and not do it often in Anchorage. But I just do not resonate with the vibe of this town, it reminds me of the Orlando of my teenage years.... AAIIGGHH!!!
So let's get back to the good stuff, Seward.
After that discouraging first day, however, it got better. I sold two books on my second day, and on my third and final, four. So, the word was getting out there.
Also, on the third day is when deliverance in the form of Joe Alaniz came along and saved my demoralized ass by selling fourteen books by the next day.
Remember Joe?
So that was my Seward experience in early August, but they had just put up all these flyers for this festival and since the booths were cheap, I marked my space.
I woke up to beautiful weather in Seward with the colors in full blast and knew it would be slow at the festival.
And I was right, but I learned a few things since my last time in town. I set up my space with blankets, pillows, and although I left the candles in the Beast, I laid out my purple sari over the table with the book displays, and a sign under an orange patterned fake-silk poly scarf that read:
FREE!!!
Hear a story...
Buy a book...
Get Tarot reading...
FREE!!!
I figured if everybody was going to confuse me for a fortuneteller, I might as well give them what they wanted. And golly gee! It worked!
To make it even better, people were into the storytelling and into buying the book. But about a quarter of my sales happened because somebody really wanted their cards read and the book was only ten bucks.
I sold twenty-two books at full price. And the experience was effortless, at a festival held indoors at the Cruise Ship Terminal, which looked more like a hangar.
The turn out was low due to sunny weather. Got to get that hiking in! Because the darkness, rain, and snow are just around the corner.
I also sold ten books to the lady who had an all-purpose gift shop coffeehouse in town, so now the book is being carried in Seward. I traded a book for a bracelet.
So in one weekend I sold over thirty books.
This, of course, feeds the soul...not to mention the validation that I'm on the right track.
But the best part of this week-end was not the sales - not that I minded those! It was really connecting with people when they sat down to hear a story.
The way I see it, I'm laying the foundation for my base of readers for the future, and it is such an intimate way of connecting with them. It worked well at Borders as well.
One woman said that I was living the dream, and she was right. Right now, I feel like I am.
The weekend was so great that I didn't mind coming back to the tepid atmosphere at the Organic Oasis. I sold a couple of books and it is happening...one book at a time. One person sold on my work at a time.
I'm getting better at this, but the tarot cards were a nice touch.
I must admit being a fortune-teller was fun too.
Anyway, Keep in touch...
Peace,
Montgomery
PS God I was naive!!! This was from the DIY booktour roadtrip I made in 2005-2006. Things have changed a lot since then.
Brown Bear Saloon in Indian, Alaska - Population 85 - On the Road # 16
/I even had a really nice date while i stayed behind the Brown Bear Saloon in Indian, Alaska.
Hey y’all,
I have so many vivid memories of the people I met at the Brown Bear Saloon in Indian, Alaska (population 85) along the Turnagain Arm.
As tourism slowed way down in the autumn, I stayed in one of the cabins behind the Saloon for about two weeks. I hoped to take a break from selling and being “ON” for the sake of getting some writing done.
The Brown Bear Saloon was my go-to for morning coffee and dinner, as well as those conversations that kept me somewhat tethered to the human race, and kept the loneliness at bay.
I remember meeting a very kind-hearted woman who had been a bartender since she was 23. She had a pretty face, with sparkling green eyes, and graying hair done in braided pigtails. She didn’t work at the Brown Bear Saloon. She had worked in a neighborhood watering hole for 17 years somewhere in Anchorage.
Restaurant/bar work can really suck people in. Most people work in hospitality as they go to college or figure out what they want to do. I had been one of those, and managed to pull myself out of the hospitality vortex in the nick of time.
This lady admitted she had stayed there too long, was burned out, yet didn’t know what to do beyond starting a hot dog stand. I hope she found her way out of there because she was very gentle with a very peaceful energy.
It’s a dirty business. There’s no shame in it.
I even had a really nice date while I stayed behind the Brown Bear Saloon in Indian, Alaska. Remember, the population was only 85 people, so this date was pretty remarkable.
I don’t remember my date’s name, which I feel bad about because he was a really lovely man. He had dark hair and eyes, and a cheery round face. He took me to dinner and a movie in Anchorage. The movie, “40 Year Old Virgin,” was a guaranteed icebreaker and we both laughed so hard, it hurt.
Afterwards he talked to me about his new career as a teaching assistant in a kindergarten class, and how relieved he was to no longer be a used car salesman. He said that the profession was every smarmy as reputation had it, and gave me a few pointers of tricks they pulled to make a sale more likely.
“For example, say you go for a test drive and come back to the lot. The salesman would encourage you to leave your purse in the car while you look around, go to the bathroom, etc.”
“How will that make me more likely to buy the car?”
“Because when you leave such a personal item as a purse in a car, you’re already claiming ownership. They salesman is putting it in your mind that the car is already yours.”
I was speechless, and he nodded.
“It’s a dirty business. There’s no shame in it.”
Of everybody who stopped by the Brown Bear Saloon, the motorcycle day-trippers were the most fun to watch. The bikers were not gangsters. They were Anchorage professionals who loved taking day and weekend trips to zoom their bikes along Turnagain Arm and/or into the Kenai Peninsula.
The last pit stop on their way home was at the Brown Bear Saloon. They were a sight to behold decked out in their leathers and bandanas, laughing and talking, and on top of the world.
The last pit stop on their way home was at the Brown Bear Saloon.
I sold a book to one of them. I don’t remember his name, but we had a lovely conversation about his fiercely independent daughter. She was only 17, and had been out on her own since she was 15. He said she lived in Sitka, had a great head on her shoulders and already so capable of taking care of herself. He sounded so proud of her.
I had been in Alaska long enough to not be shocked by this. Talk about kicking ass and taking names? Alaskan teenagers are a different breed. They believe they can do anything, and they often prove themselves right. I met a woman whose 17 year old son already had acquired his pilot’s license. While I lived in Juneau, two 17 year olds who weren’t of legal age to vote, ran for the council positions on the School Board. Neither of them won, but that’s not the point.
But the kicker was that 2 years later, after I’d been back home in Juneau for a while, I met the weekend biker’s daughter. Her name is Ashley, and she taught skiing and snowboarding, as well as doing Ski Patrol.
Those are the moments that make all the suffering worthwhile.