Hunting and gathering in the heat of the day

This morning I had a choice: take a bus to buy groceries at Gateway, or walk a mile to the big store on Glisan. Choices, choices. Waiting for a bus would be boring, especially in the blazing hot mid-day sun. The bus would be air-conditioned, though. Tempting. Plus, I like the store at Gateway. I've shopped there for years; I know where everything is, which is reassuring. Waiting for a bus to take me home, somewhat boring. But at least I wouldn't have to lug groceries home on foot.

Seems like a no-brainer, right? Well, besides saving the $2.50 bus fare, the main factor that swayed me toward walking was the depressing spread of my ass. I need exercise. The only way I would be inclined to get moving is if I had a purpose: the hunting and gathering of food, or what passes for that activity in the modern age of Western civilization in East Portland. Plus, oddly enough, the vertigo seems to be better when I'm walking. So, at a little after high noon, I embarked upon the approximately one-mile journey to the store on Glisan Street.

Are you wondering if I was pushing my shiny new red shopping cart? Thanks for remembering. No, I did not, and I'll tell you why: The thing is huge. And heavy. I might as well steal a shopping cart from the store. It's quite a device, though, I must say. It folds up flat for storage (although the only place left to store things in the Love Shack is on the walls). It's quite sturdy. It's impressively shiny and red. Did I mention it is huge?

Unless I can figure out how to put a motor and a steering mechanism on the thing, I can't see myself wheeling the red shopping cart up hill and down dale to the store. I parked the red cart next to the other rarely used appliance in my bedroom, the vacuum cleaner. I've ordered a folding handtruck from Sears (I know, I'm insane). Until the new device arrives, I'm relying on my new backpack and two cloth grocery bags. I don't know how Bravadita does it: Despite being a pedestrian (by choice), she always seems so stylish, carrying the most lovely, functional bags while hiking the city in designer shoes. Sigh.

After making sure I had a bottle of water and my straw hat, I set out into brilliant 80° sunshine. Most of the trek to the store is downhill. It's not bad, walking downhill. Moving at the speed of walking, you can see things. I noticed used cars parked along the curb (none for sale). Now I know what a Pontiac Vibe looks like: just like a Toyota Matrix. Huh. I noticed lots of people grow vegetables in their front yards. The gardens are glorious, a direct contrast to the lawns, which are already crumbly gold fields of straw, even though it's barely summer. A long hedge of honeysuckle filled the air with a sweet delicate scent, blending interestingly with someone's crappy perfume and the smell of a decaying squirrel carcass.

I paced along, measuring my progress from shade patch to shade patch, winding through the hilly neighborhood down to Stark, then quick like a bug across Stark, then over to Burnside, and finally a few more long blocks to Glisan (our blocks are rectangular here on the Eastside). A few short blocks up the hill is the big store, on the other side of the street. A fancy pedestrian crossing, complete with flashing lights, gives the pedestrian the illusion that she is safe if she steps out into the street. There is no stoplight. I gave a special WTF, jackass! wave to the driver of an SUV, who waved back as she barreled through the crosswalk mere feet from my toes. I can see how pedestrians, especially those older than about 30, get killed while crossing wide boulevards: Once you step off the curb, you've got nowhere to go if someone doesn't stop. One little hitch in your gitalong and bam! you are flying into the gutter, a broken mess.

Luckily, that did not happen to me. I made it across the wide boulevard with no mishaps and entered the store from the parking lot, looking like all the other shoppers who came in cars to shop for groceries. I sank into air conditioned comfort. I don't know where things are in this store, so it seems bigger than it really is. Wandering the aisles, I saw lots of things I thought I needed and wanted. I limited myself, however, to what would fit in a tote basket, knowing I would have to carry it all back home.

Shopping as a pedestrian is different now. I'm making new choices. I have a list. I can't afford to forget anything; it's not like I can just hop in the car and zip back to the store if I forget eggs. Today I bought smaller versions of things, and fewer of them. Where I used to buy three cans of organic garbanzo beans, now just one. Instead of the large size olive oil, the half size. The smallest cabbage. Two onions instead of four. One dozen eggs, instead of two (I eat a lot of eggs).

I always go through self-checkout so I can avoid interacting with others. I also like to pack my own bags. As a pedestrian, I need to devise a new packing system. I put some heavy stuff into the backpack and distributed the produce between the two cloth bags, one for each shoulder. Apples, onions, broccoli, zucchini, carrots. Heavy but evenly balanced. I took a long swig of water, put on my sunglasses, and headed for the door.

The heat of the day hit me like a fist in the face. For a long moment, as I crossed the shimmering parking lot, the thought occurred to me that I may have taken on more than I could handle. I trudged slowly back up the hill, well aware that my next conscious thought might be from a hospital bed. But the heat was just tolerable. The space between pools of shade was just doable. The weight of the two bags was just about balanced. The sweat rolling down my back was soaked up by the backpack. My feet were hot, but the soles weren't melting, quite. I stopped once to drain my water bottle and let the sweat roll down my butt crack. Then I hoisted the load and plodded the last three blocks to the Love Shack. I guess I'll have to do it all again in about four days, or when the zucchini runs out. Bright side: I can always take the bus.

Feeling the heat? Let's all scream like babies!

When I got home from a walk in 98° sunshine, I saw a strange shadow on the drape that hangs across my front door to shield my living room from the brutal rays of southwest summer sun. I pulled aside the drape and saw a large, flat box on my front porch. I knew what was inside. Although it is exactly what I ordered, I am not jumping for joy. What is in the box? It's my ticket to the old folks' home. It's my invitation to finally surrender and join AARP. It's the realization that life as I know it is over. It's related to the sinking feeling that comes over me when I realize I should have started saving when I was 22. Yep. It's my brand new, shiny, red wheely cart, ordered online and delivered by some sneaky delivery person while I was out. It's official: I'm old.

I took the contraption out of the box (heavy!), but I'm blogging to delay the moment of assembly. I dislike those instruction sheets that show exploded views of nameless gizmos that seem to fly under the desk as soon as I open the plastic baggy. I'm not that great at assembling things. I once took an aptitude test at a temp agency. The nice lady set me up with a small piece of wood drilled with holes. In each hole was a bolt with a wingnut on the other side, holding it in place.

“Just undo the wingnut from this side, take out the bolt and put it through the other way. Then screw the wingnut back on.” She left me to it. Within moments, I had two wingnuts and a bolt flying across the floor. On my hands and knees in a pleated skirt and blazer, I rescued the pieces and eventually got them inserted and partnered up. I held up the wooden torture device triumphantly. Other people in the waiting room avoided making eye contact. As you probably can guess, I didn't get sent on any assembly line jobs. Too bad. I could have had a great career over at the sheet metal plant. Seriously.

Now that my eyesight has gone south, I don't expect putting together this cart to be any easier. I predict at least one washer will make it under the baseboard heater before I'm through. Truthfully, I'm postponing the task because it's 90° in the Love Shack. Because it's only 89° outside the Love Shack, I have opened the windows and the back door. Two old tired fans labor to shift air around the room. One is wheezing rhythmically in time to my music.

I got the wheely cart so I can pack my groceries home from the store. I'm carless now, remember? It's the carless summer. How is it going? Thanks for asking. So far, not too bad. Twice, no three times, I have made navigation errors that added many extra steps to my hikes. For example, a couple streets between the Love Shack and the store don't go all the way through. Hey, how was I supposed to know that? I can't pull out my dumb phone with an armful of groceries! I ended up walking around a block back to where I started. People watering their lawns or weeding their roses probably thought I was nuts when they saw me stomping by, carrying a bag of groceries in my arms like it was a baby, alternately cursing and laughing.

Today I walked a long way out of my way because I didn't know there was a pedestrian footpath across the freeway. In my quest to seek the shady route, I avoided the desert-like bicycle path, which would have taken me over the freeway almost straight to my destination. Instead, I walked several long, hot blocks to another street that crossed over the freeway. From there, I looked out over the parked cars heading in both directions (rush hour), saw the pedestrian bridge off in the distance, and started once again cursing and laughing. Luckily, no one could hear me, although some drivers probably worried I might be planning to take a header onto their overheating Ford Focus. No wait, that's a different story...

So. A whole lotta walking, that is my new reality. I got a new backpack and an insulated tote bag to keep my frozen food frozen (although I found out it doesn't work that great in 98° weather). As soon as I admit I'm too old for anything, I'll assembly my wheely cart and join the throngs of gray-hairs riding the bus in the middle of the day. I'm all set.

All together now, let's scream like babies!

It's official: The chronic malcontent is old

Welcome to the summer of carlessness. Mine, that is, I hope not yours (unless you want to be carless). I spent time this week embracing my new status as a professional pedestrian. It's all about framing the experience. Instead of bemoaning the fact that my car is a heap of metal and plastic sitting on four rubber tires and gathering dust, I'm saying, I'm doing something good for the environment. I'm shrinking my carbon footprint to the size of sweat droplets on the pavement. Look at me go! I'm a walking, bus-hopping, train-riding dynamo!

I could also say it's the fashionable thing to do. All the coolest people (my sister, Bravadita) are carless by choice. Both have been supportive, giving me tips on how to travel, what to carry, how to pack stuff...it's quite complicated, the pedestrian lifestyle. Suddenly I'm very conscious of the weight of my shoulder bag. Big questions: plastic water bottle or stainless steel?

How committed am I? Today my mother offered me a ride home from her place (we live maybe 2 miles apart). I was adamant: I had come prepared to walk: sneakers, hat, backpack, bottle of water... I was ready. For a moment, I thought, oh man, I could be home in ten minutes, well, five the way my mother drives. I shook my head. “No, thanks, I'll walk,” I said and set off on my journey.

What could go wrong? Heat exhaustion, strained knees, twisted ankle, upset stomach...I was sweating by the time I reached the end of her street, but I kept going, thinking, if it really gets rough, I can catch a bus part way.

I wandered through Montavilla Park, taking pictures with my old digital camera. The park has changed since I was a kid. The trees are bigger. The swings are gone, replaced by a fancy plastic structure swarming with screaming children. The outdoor pool was still there, not quite as big as I remembered it, crowded with splashing kids and parents. The sun was hot. The grass was green, dotted with little white flowers we used to string into bracelets and necklaces.

The world looks different at street-level. Walking offers time to think about what I'm seeing. It also gives me time to think about my mother and her recent declaration that life is no longer worth living and she wishes she were dead. I responded by making an appointment for her to see her doctor. Now she has a prescription for an anti-depressant. I hope she'll be willing to move into the retirement community in a few months.

Down the boulevard is the elementary school I attended in the late 1960s. The windows are new, but the brick walls are the same red-brown I remember. A tall chimney tethered with guy wires in case of earthquake pokes up into the sky (has that chimney always been there?). I crossed the wide playground in back of the school, snapping photos, and found the three ancient wooden portables still standing. These were supposedly temporary buildings set up to ease the overcrowding of little Baby Boomers. I remember practicing air raid drills in 1962, marching from the portable into the big brick building, sitting cross-legged with my face turned to the wall, one anxious child in a row of anxious children, waiting for the atomic bomb.

The hardest part of the walk was the final stretch, the trek uphill to the Love Shack. It's a long, fairly steep hill, which may account in part for why my old car died an early death: I felt my own internal carburetor overheating as I trudged, one step at a time, fighting gravity, sweltering in the sun, gasping in the shade, stumbling over curbs, until I reached the top, where my dusty dead car sat with its butt against the hedge, nose out, waiting for the tow truck.

In addition to being a professional pedestrian, I'm now officially old. Today I ordered a wheeled cart to pack my groceries home. It's red.

Poverty is not a moral failing

As I nodded off on the bus today on my way across town, I remembered that 40 years ago, I took Portland buses everywhere. Long before the MAX light rail system was a gleam in the eye of some progressive Portland mayor, sweltering or soaking wet with rain, I lugged my blank canvases and tackle box of paint and brushes to Portland State and back to the east side on huge, loud, orange buses and thought nothing of it. I had no intention of getting a car. I didn't need one. Lots of people live perfectly normal, fulfilled lives without cars. My sister, in Boston, for example. Bravadita, in Gladstone. Of course, it's easier when one has the energy, stamina, and naivete of an 18-year-old.

I made one last effort to resuscitate my Ford Focus (mechanic in a can, poured into the radiator, by my mechanic, Mr. What Have You Got to Lose). It didn't work, despite a money-back guarantee. I presume Ping will get his money back. I also presume I will not. It was worth it, though, to know finally, once and for all, that the patient was truly, irrevocably dead.

“Dead!” my older brother protested when I called him to ask his advice about cars. “Head gasket is fixable,” he said, making it sound like it was as easy as topping off the oil or something. “You just need to do a long block rebuild.”

I'm not entirely sure what a long block rebuild is, but the word rebuild implies this activity is outside my expertise. Not that I couldn't learn how to do a long block rebuild... grrl power and all that. But seriously. Not going to happen, not with these old tired gnarled-knuckle hands. Not with this old tired leave-me-alone-so-I-can-die-in-peace brain.

Ping said drive the car around a bit, to see if maybe the stopleak crap would circulate in the system and do what it was supposed to do. No such luck. The car ran fine on the way to the store. I thought, oh, joy, maybe I can get a few more months out of the old buggy. Part way home, the temperature gauge soared dramatically into the red, and the engine began to wheeze. I flogged it up the hill toward home, thinking, yeah, okay, no problem, I could walk from here, no problem. Sweating, I pulled into my parking spot (nose out to make it easier for the tow truck to cart it off to its next incarnation), shut off the engine, and sat back in the seat. Good-bye, old used up Ford Focus. Not quite Found on Road Dead, thank god, but not First on Race Day, either. To tell you the truth, I never expected the thing to last this long. It's totally possible that when I go out tomorrow to catch the bus, all that will be left of the carcass is a pile of dust.

Hey, bright side: Now I can pretend I gave up my car to support the environment. I admit, over the years, I have had twinges of guilt about (a) burning fossil fuel, (b) polluting the air, and (c) dripping oil and coolant wherever I go. Yech, you say? Well, you can only say yech if you walk, ride a bike, own a bus pass, or your car is electric. Which leaves out about 93% of the adult population of Portland. Otherwise, pot, kettle, shut it, if you get my drift.

When I lived in Los Angeles, many years ago, I used to loftily claim I chose not to drive a car because I was doing my share to save the environment. (That was 1980, before global warming was a thing we worried about. Back then, it was the ozone layer and acid rain.) The reality, of course, was that I said that because I couldn't afford a car but I didn't want to admit it. The moment I could, I got a wheezing, gas-guzzling pollute-mobile (1966 Dodge Dart) and drove it till it dropped (which is apparently my pattern... I can't think of any car I've ever owned that I haven't completely used up. Well, maybe the 1974 Toyota Corolla wagon, which was still hobbling gamely on three cylinders when I sold it).

I told my mother I was considering going carless for the summer. She didn't sound impressed. In her defense, she's still coping with the impending prospect of packing up and moving into a retirement community. She's like a freshman during the last week of summer, scared of all the big kids at the big new high school. Where's my home room? How will I make friends? What if I get lost? Can I bring my eldest daughter with me so I won't be alone?

I told my younger brother about going carless; he was appalled. “How can you go without a car?” he exclaimed.

“People live without cars all the time,” I said. “Your other sister lives without a car. She's never had a car. It's not a moral failing, it's a choice.”

“You can borrow my [old Ford] pickup truck any time during the week” he said magnanimously. Or is it a Chevy? Something old and American-made, uh, no thanks.

“Thanks,” I said. “I'll keep that in mind.”

Last rites for my four-wheeled friend

I'm sad to report, the Focus is dead. Long live the dusty, dirty, moss-covered, drippy, leaking Focus. On Saturday I flogged the old buggy up the hill in 85° weather, watching the temperature gauge jerk toward hot. We were mere blocks from home when the needle sprung decisively into the red. I sat at a light in a line of traffic, listening to the engine wheeze, praying maniacally and laughing, thinking, if this thing dies here, how will I push it out of traffic? After an eternity, traffic moved. The engine light came on (Danger, Will Robinson! Danger!) The clutch slipped, but I got it going up the last hill. As I parked, I could hear the water bubbling in the coolant reservoir. (Stand back, she's gonna blow!) I backed into my parking space and shut off the engine, fully aware that the next time the car moves, it will be behind a tow truck. Found on Road Dead. What's left of the coolant (or maybe it was the oil) was still burbling as I slunk into my house.

The car gave me good service, considering it's a Ford. But I admit to feeling a bit cheated at getting only 119,000 miles out of it. (Well, I only got 59,000 miles if you consider I bought it used with 60,000 miles on it already). I hear lately the lifespan of a car engine is trending toward 200,000 miles. I guess my old 2001 Focus missed the memo. Sort of like me missing the 60s... darn it. I wanted free love and flower power, but all I got was Peter Max peechees, hot pants, and disco.

As part of my grieving process (denial stage), I've been viewing YouTube videos entitled How to know if you have a cracked block. Cracked block? Blocked crack? Wha–? What is a block, anyway? I think it's part of the engine. Or it could be my head. I'm so confused. It's 90° today, too hot to fret over anything, let alone a broken-down car, and stress is stirring up the vertigo in my middle ear. Sigh. (All these things indicate I'm alive; I should be grateful to have such luxury problems, right?) Anyway, I feel mildly compelled to yank the plug on my oil pan and see if water comes out after the oil has drained away. (Definitely a bad sign). Part of me hopes that my mechanic was wrong and that all I really need is a new, properly pressurized radiator overflow container. Clearly I've been spending too much time on the Internet.

Grasping at straws is futile, I know. I need to get another car. But how does one go car shopping if one doesn't have a car? Lucky me, I happen to live a few blocks from “used car row,” also known as 82nd Boulevard. Despite efforts to beautify, the stretch of boulevard I live near has long hosted a number of seedy car dealerships, along with some derelict motels, unmemorable Chinese food places, and the occasional stray hooker. I'm not so interested in the motels, chow mein, or hookers, but I'm feeling fortunate that I have so many options for buying a used car, just blocks from the Love Shack.

In preparation for shopping, I've been reading online reviews of used car dealers.

• Best dealer ever! ★★★★★
• Worst dealer ever! ★
• Got the greatest deal, so happy! ★★★★★
• Don't go here, you'll be throwing your money away! ★
• Treated like royalty! ★★★★★
• Gave us the bait and switch and didn't care the battery died on the way home!★

What the heck? Can any of these reviews be trusted? I guess I would tend to believe the irate reviewers, if for no other reason than because we all know that if something goes right, we rarely take time to tell the world, but if something goes wrong, we feel righteously obligated to exact revenge by telling the entire world in excruciating detail just how Tony done us wrong.

If you live in a city, you can't escape the fact that the world seems to be full of used cars, jamming freeways and hogging neighborhood streets, polluting the landscape and clogging the air. Every size, shape, make, model, color... so many vehicles! Where did they all come from? Who cares! What matters is, how come everyone seems to have one but me?

Do you drive? How would you choose a car? First, you have to decide, new or used? Macy's or Goodwill? Fresh new undies straight from the package... or someone else's faded gray bloomers? I try to imagine what it would feel like to buy a new car. (I've never done it). Is it like first-time sex? Well, I guess it would feel like this: Prestige, respect, handshakes and promises, double-digit odometer readings, new car smell, posh waiting rooms and free lattes, energetic salespeople in khakis and ties, sweet courtship, and then pow! skittish interest rates, sneaky financing, exorbitant monthly payments, bankruptcy, divorce, repo.... gak! That sound was me upchucking.

My father never bought a new car. He always bought used, usually from one particular local dealer who still has a small lot on 82nd and SE Stark. We all know Dad got swindled multiple times; it's the stuff of legend. Dad would come home with a new car every year or so. We kids used to be able to name the list of cars: '58 DeSoto, '64 Oldsmobile Delta 88, '60 turquoise blue Caddy, sporty little dark green '74 Malibu... now I can only remember a few, the ones I learned to drive on. In my mind, the cars blend together in a photo album of brandless, leaky, beat up American cars. (No Datsuns or Toyotas for Dad). The stories of breakdowns on Marine Drive or the AlCan Highway are legendary, part of the dusty memories of my childhood, comical gems that glow like dust motes in my mental attic now that he's dead and can't set me straight on the details. The used car lot where he was swindled lives on. I'll probably check it out, just for old time's sake.