Pigtails and pinto beans

Remember Judy and Joe -- the couple from the church in Loomis who drove me 30 miles to Sacramento in the middle of an early morning rainstorm so I wouldn't get lost on the freeway exchanges? Well, I got an email from Judy the other day. I loved it. Hope she'll forgive me if I quote a bit of it here:

"After we dropped you off in Sacramento and came home we both sat down on the couch with silly grins on our faces and joy filled hearts. Joe asked me if the house felt different. I understood exactly what he meant. Yes! We both think it was the residual of angel dust or star dust or energy that is surrounding you as you walk this journey right now. I described the feeling as being in a little boat on the ocean when a really BIG SHIP goes past. You get caught in the wake for a while and bob up and down and it's thrilling and exciting and you laugh and hang on tight until the waters calm down again. It sure puts you on the lookout for another BIG SHIP!

"Incidentally, I decided to look up 'pilgrimage' in the dictionary...an old habit...just to try to see all the nuances that may be listed. I laughed when I discovered that the lead words on the two pages where I found pilgrimage were 'pigtail' and 'pinto beans'. I can't think of two things that are more frivolous and practical...I imagine you find all kinds of pigtails and pinto beans on your journey."

I got emails from two Judys that day. The second one was from my friend who is a nurse in the cardiac intensive care unit of a medical center. She gave me permission to reprint her message. I have changed the names.

"I want to tell you about one of my patients yesterday. Her name is Annie and she is 73. I took care of her when she was in the hospital last January. She has a very bad heart. When I got to work yesterday, she was crying and continued to cry off and on for several hours. Her long-time doctor had come in that morning to say goodbye to her. He told her there was nothing more they could do for her heart. She was being released to hospice care. Annie knew she was going home to die.

"I sat with her for a while as she cried and talked about letting go. Her husband came in and we all sat and talked. Then I had the idea to give her your book. I decided to read it to her first. As I read, both Annie and her husband seemed to be enchanted with the story. She smiled and laughed and cried and hugged me after I finished reading. She said she was going to read it to her daughter and her granddaughter and then give the book to her daughter who is a third-grade teacher so she can read it to her class.

"I discharged Annie about 11 a.m. She and her husband walked out of the hospital arm-in-arm. They seemed happy to be going home. Annie had the book tucked under her arm."

Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou

Re-entries, especially after a pilgrimage, are sometimes hard for me. This one is particularly tricky. My body has been back in town a couple of days, but the rest of me hasn't quite caught up. I'm still in a journeying mode.

Right now I'm sitting by the fire in the lobby of the Ashland Hotel. It's the coziest place I could find on this buffety blustery early Sunday morning -- that also has wireless access. I told the desk clerk I'm not a guest at the hotel, but hoped it would be okay if I used their internet connection. "Of course," she said with a charming smile. I had a feeling if I'd asked for tea and a laprobe, she would have brought them herself. This is, after all, Ashland.

Which brings me to the purpose of this message. For those of you who know, and those who don't, the book-reading pilgrimage I've been on this past month was made possible, mostly and almost entirely, by the people of Ashland. The Grandmother book itself, which is what I went on the road to read, was also made possible by the people of Ashland. In actual point of fact, there is pretty much not one miraculous thing that has happened to me or through me in the last two years that wasn't, in some way, facilitated by someone in this town.

Like, for instance, but by no means only:

Tia Hatch, who met me that fateful morning, two years ago, when I snuck into the wooden church with the red door to see the pretty stained-glass windows from the inside. "Let me introduce you to every single person I know in this town," she said. And she did.

Elizabeth Austin, the very wise life coach Tia told me about who tried and tried to help me heal my writer's block so I could finish the Serious Nonfiction book I came to Ashland to write. And when she couldn't (because, as we all know, those pesky Story Angels had other plans), she introduced me to a woman who needed a bit of healing -- which is what I do when I'm not trying to write Serious Nonfiction. And which, in the most roundabout way, is what ultimately led to the story I was supposed to write AllAlongInTheFirstPlaceForHeavensSakeDuh! I told you she was very wise. And so she is.

Nancy Bardos, a woman I met at a movie theater during the Ashland Film Festival two years ago. She was there with--you guessed it--Tia. "You need to write a children's story for grownups," she said a few weeks later. At first I said, "No!" but then I said "Yes!" Whereupon, she said, "I think I will do three thousand four hundred and thirty-three things to make your life easier and your path more joyful. I will start by making a Grandmother pendant that says 'We're saving the world.' And, one day, you can give them to lovely people when you go on a book-reading pilgrimage." And so she did.

Jean Bakewell, who collects river rocks on the Oregon coast and decorates them with beautiful designs and calligraphed words. Bet you know who introduced us. "You must read your story at Bloomsbury Books," she said. So she arranged it. "You must read your story on the radio," she said. So she arranged that, too. "You must sell me ninety-two books," she said. "I will send them to teachers here and there and everywhere. And one day, when you go on a book-reading pilgrimage, I will give you hundreds of my decorated river rocks to give to lovely people along the way." And so she did.

Marta Gomez, one of the kindest, most computer-savvy persons this side of Hewlett Packard. I met her, too, in a movie theater during the Ashland Film Festival. (Quaintly pitiful synchronistic factoid: My birth was announced on the marquee of my father's movie theater in Fresno.) Marta was there with her best friend, Tia. "Soon I will send you a greeting card with an illustration of cute little grandmothers that will change your life, and the life of the illustrator," she said. "Then I will spend days and weeks and months of my life at the computer helping Nancy create an artbook about your book that will be so especially special it will be put on display at Gallery deForest across from the Peerless Hotel starting April 7, 2006." Well, maybe she didn't say exactly that, but she did say: "And then I will spend hours and days and weeks of my life at the computer doing exceedingly creative things that will help raise money for your book-reading pilgrimage." And so she did.

Brenda Barnhill, proprietor of The Pelton House Bed and Breakfast, who just floated on a cloud of angel dust into my life one day not too long ago. She had never even heard of Tia! "I want to have a fundraiser at my Bed and Breakfast for your book," she said. "Maybe my friend Cathy deForest who owns a gallery across from the Peerless Hotel will help." I was puzzled and perplexed. "But my book doesn't need a fundraiser," I said. "Ah yes," she said, "but in eight days it will." And eight days later, as I stood in front of the wooden church with the red door, looking up at a pretty stained-glass window, an idea spoke to me. "Take your story to small towns," the idea said. "Read it in schools and churches and hospitals and centers where old people gather. Read it on reservations and in prisons. Read it wherever there are people who believe they can't save the world..." And so, with Brenda's help, and Nancy's and Jean's and Marta's and Cathy's and so many, many others from the little town of Ashland, I did just that.

But it's not the end. In fact, I have a feeling it's just the beginning.