What I’d like to do is share why I was Saying Hello in this living room in Seattle. Maybe before Christmas the time for words and more pictures will present itself.

Meanwhile, may your days shine, or if they’re dullish, may there be reflections (which often hold more depth, longer, as the times of our goodbyes and griefs often do).

Right away Tim spotted this nifty travel alarm. It’s a Bulova, shaped like a stack of Liberty dollars, and the face cover rotates over to open or close. I bought it a few days later, stopping in at the shop late after work, hoping my hubby wouldn’t have already snatched it up. But he didn’t, and for once, anyway, I surprised him this birthday morning with something he likes.

Interesting how growing older makes one in-the-know regarding antiques. I remember toting travel alarm clocks on camping trips and to motels. The need to wind them, the way we wound our watches, a ubiquitous part of life if we wanted to arrive places punctually.

The hands on my first watch, a Timex, had the same glow-in-the-dark stuff. At 2:00 a.m. I squinted at it and felt relieved to have three or four more hours left before I’d need to get ready for school. Lying in the stillness of night I could let my mind roam free.

I may have had a wind-up clock before receiving my rectangular, electric timepiece somewhere around third grade. On trips, though, we always snoozed to the tick-tick-tick of our travel clock. And of course we could nestle one of them close to a new kitten or puppy so they wouldn’t miss their mother’s heartbeat.

Nowadays, the luminated, digital watch James Bond first made famous has given way to the cell phone. Which is kind of funny. Our grandfathers carried pocket watches, and we do, as well, though they’re part of a whole different paradigm. Trying not to be late has evolved (or devolved) into carrying along all of life’s necessities and every Facebook friend. It’s cool and weird.

Also weird is that when I didn’t use flash, capturing Tim’s clock made it look silver, while using my camera’s automatic flashbulb shows his birthday present in its true golden state. Remember flash cubes? And snapping photos with an Instamatic, then waiting for the film roll to be used up, the developing time the drug store took, the lack of ability to share a present’s image with anyone till long past the celebratory date?

I also know this talk is free and open to everyone. Gutenberg’s address: 1883 University St., Eugene, Oregon. That’s on the corner of 19th and University, up the hill from the classic McArthur Court, which has been abandoned for a larger, spiffier arena with pine trees painted on the basketball court. Which Tim and I saw last Friday night when we attended the Harlem Globetrotters game. I sported a wet sock from a puddle that accosted me while crossing the U of O campus, which has no bearing whatsoever on Lisa’s book reading and talk next Tuesday, except to say I plan to show up at this event with both feet dry.

The 1991 Dodge Dynasty is fine for me. I think it has plenty of power, though Tim says its engine’s got nothing on his ’66 Falcon in its glory days (I think his speedometer showed high numbers for real a couple times on Illinois back roads). The Dynasty runs and is paid for, however there is the speedometer problem. There is also an occasional right turn signal glitch, in that its light comes on, but without the click, click. It shines steady and makes no sound. Is this legal? I’m not sure. Today a sheriff’s car followed me briefly, and I turned to the right in from of him. He didn’t come after me, so if I’m in the wrong it’s at least not a big enough infraction to warrant immediate action by law enforcement.

Something happened last weekend, though, that brought the authorities to our doorstep.

Tim and I were alone most of Saturday, so of course we were highly stimulated to clean the kitchen counter. Then Tim, in typical fashion, made his way to the garage while I went online and tinkered with my blog. After an hour spent cajoling HTML widgets and thingies to do what I wanted I took a break and wandered through our living room, past the front window, where outside the green trunk of a sheriff’s car showed, its front obscured by Tim’s work truck. The sheriff, his back to me, was jotting things on his clipboard and talking to a man who had his hands behind his back.

I stepped quickly past the window. “Tim,” I called to the garage door. “You should look out front. A sheriff’s arresting someone on our driveway.”

I felt rather like Mrs. Kravitz from the old TV show, Bewitched. I kept peeking to see what might happen next. Amused, Tim offered to go out and ask the arrestee (a middle-aged guy we didn’t recognize) what he’d been handcuffed for. “I can tell him my wife wants to know,” Tim said. “My wife, Deanna, who frequents the jail to visit her cousin.”

I rolled my eyes. “Thanks, anyway.” Still, it was hard not to check the scene every few minutes.

It was Tim who noticed when a couple of city police cars parked near the sheriff. Things were serious, yet also quite familiar. The guy being arrested had the dazed look of the usual Cops felon. Tim has watched that show for years, and we could guess the sort of dialog transpiring. Criminal: “Why’d you stop me? I wasn’t doing anything.” Policeman: “What did you toss out when you saw us behind you?” Criminal: “Nothin’. This is my friend’s car. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” And so it tends to go.

Why we had this particular episode out front was a puzzler. Our house sits in the middle of the block on a quiet street. Such drama doesn’t transpire here. Had this man fled to our home for some reason? Conceivably, my cousin in prison could have given him our address.

I sure hoped not.

At last I made it back to my computer, just before the doorbell rang. Uh, oh. I skittered toward the front door, glad to see Tim there first. I peered over his shoulder at two state patrolmen.

“Do you recognize Ken out here?” one of them asked.

“No,” Tim said. “We checked, and he isn’t a neighbor or anything.”

“He told us his cousin lives here,” the officer said.

“Hm, Ken…” I think Tim was smiling by now. “Cousin Ken…I could go look up the family tree.”

The officers’ laughs relieved me, but I tensed again as Tim started making more comments, mentioning kissing cousins and the like. The first officer said they would get his truck out of our driveway, and the two of them moved away, while Tim swung the screen door wider and made to say more. I motioned quickly for him to get back inside. “Enough,” I whispered. I love my funny guy, but the troopers might have stuff to do.

A big tow truck pulled up in front. That’s when I saw the newish truck “cousin” Ken had been driving being backed out of the slot my Dynasty normally occupies. I’d all but forgotten Victoria had taken the car to work, and Tim’s truck had been hiding Ken’s vehicle. Now the situation made better sense. Ken had been fleeing the troopers and had turned down our street and found what he thought might be a hiding place on the other side of the large-wheeled Dodge Ram Tim drives up to transmitters. If the troopers had been snoozing, perhaps Ken’s plan might have worked. Instead, a crime was foiled, for which I’m definitely grateful.

I’m pretty sure he wasn’t in trouble for a faulty blinker. But next week mine’s getting checked at the garage, along with the crazy speedometer.

I salute Beth and Deb, and since I have two books available, I’ll send them each a copy.

Whew, that was easy for me!

A last thought. I’ll plagiarize the format of Dorcas Smucker’s wonderful blog, and give you a Quote of the Day (because I can’t resist):

Me, to James, this morning: Happy Birthday!
James: Happy birthday.
Me: Well, then, happy birthday to all!
Tim: And to all a good grief.

There are many anthologies out there, lots with great short stories but Saying Goodbye is about much more. It’s about memories… There are heart felt memories, humourous memories, some extremely personal memories. Some really made me smile. Others brought tears to my eyes. I’m not sure if this was because of the writing or because often the content was so real.

After her review and interview, she was inspired to post her own goodbye story, about the death of her father-in-law.

Which got me thinking. I’d like to do a book giveaway contest. I also want to encourage anyone inspired to tell a life story. Mel Sherratt hints in her interview that another call for “goodbye” submissions is upcoming in 2011 at Dream of Things.

What would you write for a story of saying goobye? Would your topic be very personal, like mine about my marriage? Would it be humorous? Dramatic? Completely original?

Let me know, in the comments, via email, phone, etc., what your idea might look like. No need to craft the whole piece, but a taste of it would be fine, or simply a sentence or two describing your tale. If more than one brave soul responds by December 20, I’ll draw names for a winner (I can autograph the copy, if you want — boy, that feels weird to say).

Goodbyes tend to be that way–the tension, the ghost of regret (should I have said or done more? differently?), the release. Even when they’re short-term. Even when all is well between us.

This weekend I read the new anthology in which an essay of mine appears; its full title is Saying Goodbye: to the people, places, and things in our lives (the link takes you to its official Goodbyebook.com website).

As might be expected, many entries deal with the loss of a loved one, usually a parent, but sometimes a friend or pet. I think Dream of Things publisher Mike O’Mary expressed well what’s in the book in his foreword, saying that “in the midst of the most solemn of goodbyes, there is sadness, yes. But there is also irony and humor and in some strange way, a sense of continuity.”

I chuckled plenty of times, and often my reaction at the end of an essay was a sound of recognition. Compared to others, I haven’t lost a lot in my life, but these authors wrote their grievings companionably; I felt with them more than for them.

My story fits in differently. In it I say farewell to, I drop off, a relationship and a place. For many years a negative tension held me there. As did the ghost of regret. But as with other goodbyes, I continued forward and found–continue finding–release.

Sales pitch: If you’re thinking about a selection for a reading group or about Christmas (already), there are several places online carrying the book, in print and PDF format. Look here. And here’s my author page (w00t).

I sat up, awake, not sure where I was. There was some urgency, something wrong, but I couldn’t think what. Maisa’s white bedclothes rose and fell slightly with her breathing. Only a dream. I slipped out of bed and found my socks. It was daylight out. The bedroom felt dim and stale. Maisa had pulled the curtain shut against the sun, though the window had been bare all night to the Ramadan moon. Yes, my friend was still breathing. It wasn’t too late. I didn’t have to be tormented by my dreams like Maisa was by hers.

My summer reading included Lisa Ohlen Harris’s book, Through the Veil, from which I snipped the above quote. I had read a few of her essays in their original form in journals, such as “The Pied Piper of Damascus” (Eclectica and Rosebud) and “Torn Veil” (Relief Journal). Separately, they wowed me. Together, they have brought me inside Lisa’s memories of people who are like me and yet who view life through different cultural lenses.

Her first trip to Damascus, Syria was with a group of ethnographic researchers, and in that group was Todd, her future husband. The two of them were only friends until after they returned to the U.S., but later, married and with one child, they returned to live in Amman, Jordan and set up housekeeping and have two more daughters.

Ever since I read James Herriot’s books in grade school, I have loved a story told in snapshots, in smaller stories. This is how we relate our adventures to friends and family, whether relaxed on warm evenings or aching for news in cold waiting rooms. Lisa’s book travels well. It has accompanied me to the dentist’s office, the blood bank, my work breaks, and our easy chair. Even after finishing it, I’ve returned to her stories as I’ve followed up on thoughts I didn’t have to think first time through (such as, what do ethnographers do, anyway? and, was Miriam from Chapter 7 Sunni or Shia?).

The best part has been getting to know Lisa, whom I had so far experienced in her editor and writer aspects, but whose heart and thoughts I recommend getting into through these essays. As she mentioned on her blog a while ago, “When you hold my book in your hands, you’ll be holding the blue and the dim and the dark cloths of my life. You’ll trace your fingers across pages that reveal my struggles and my dreams.” Her skill makes doing so very worthwhile.

Strolling a bit around the booths and events, I toted my camera, figuring I might find artistic shots behind the scenes. It turned out I was too hot to be much inspired.

I got the Norsemen singing. Dan Moore, up front, led a joke bit, “She Gave Me Lefse” (to the tune of “She Gave Me Fever”). Dan goes to our church. I’m sure he doesn’t mind being blogged about in Scandi silliness.

Wilting a bit on the way back to my air-conditioned office/nursing station, I paused to scan for some brilliant photo op. There was only a viking of interest in view. He seemed to hold up well in the 100-or-so degrees, even under his helmet.Did vikings ever face such warm weather? Hm. I guess now we know how one would look. Perhaps he wished for some lefse with ice cream.