Sometimes, performing a simple task, I can forget for a few minutes that my brother is gone. That’s usually when I look up and see someone weeping, someone coming for a hug, someone saying “so sorry, there are no words, if there’s anything i can do.” And I’m recirculated back into a hole of emotion. It’s then that I remind myself, he was their brother too. So they are my brother too. And you can’t choose your relatives, only how you love them.


Overnight, everything has changed. A lifetime – no, many lifetimes –  burned to the ground in the falling snow and the shy light of the full moon. We’re all feeling our way through this life without Slate now. Mostly, we’re feeling around for some scrap of normalcy, letting the love and hurt squish out around the edges on its own time.

kiddo 1

It’s hard to process the loss of a person you turned to for help processing. Now, it’s the strangest little things that help. I remember dropping the anchor on river left just below a bedrock nose in the Klamath River, drifting in the light glow of the water and the reach of the bare willow sticks on the bank, passing back and forth a bag of leftover ribs. I remember him marveling at how the rapids and fishing holes along that run had changed over the winter – noting shifts in depth and deposition of rock bars and root wads in new places, adding that new data to a 40-year hydrological repository he kept in his head, navigating to just the right places. I can hear the sound he’d make when a fish was on the line.

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Many people have recounted that sound in recent weeks. Many people remember most his stance and laugh, characteristics he seems to have had since birth. The stories of “when Slate saved my life” are numerous and funny, and they continue to surface.

Slate Shawna Wedding 3


Slate had a strong sense of right and wrong, which could be endearing or infuriating depending on whether you were on the right or wrong side of his moral compass. His sense of responsibility for family and home place rarely wavered. I remember him bringing borrowed tools back after helping to dig a grave a few weeks before he died. He washed the tall rock bar off and stuck it upright in the dirt of the flower bed in our front yard. We celebrated the invention of root saws for a few minutes before I changed the subject, switching to recent happenings in basketball and football. We were both Warriors fans, and I often felt like a Raiders fan by association around him. We weren’t the same kind of sports fan – he wanted a close game, while I just wanted our guys to win, regardless of the point margin – but we were together in our sports fan-ness.


I can still hear him saying hello and goodbye – he said them with the same uplift in the second half of what he said. I can hear how he hung up the phone, with one swift ‘bye,’ sucking the y and e back in even as he said them, like those last letters weren’t important because he’d see you again soon and you’d pick up right where you left off.


The hardest thing, talking about Slate, is figuring out which verb tense to use. People have often introduced me as Slate’s sister. I hope he can go on being my brother – all our brother – present tense. Or is that future?










This place, atop a roof surrounded by partial walls and ceiling of cinder blocks, tin, burlap and tarps, has a feeling like home. It’s not the physical surroundings that feel familiar, but the strong sense of community that clearly lives here.

On a walking tour of the narrow, bending roads of Deheisheh Refugee Camp in occupied Palestine, I don’t see a single unpaved inch other than the dusty roads underfoot here and there. Yet the folks at Laylac (Youth Action Community Center) are growing something organic in amongst the hard edges of cement walls and the harsh realities of barriers dividing people and land.

Young people who bring their ideas here are encouraged, empowered, and supported to do projects that carry them out. Laying around on this upper, open-air story of their community center are laundry lines, rainwater catchment buckets and tanks, a wide ring of benches and chairs made from recycled materials. Political resolve is painted on the walls. Behind me on a concrete pillar is scrawled:






A hand symbol for peace follows.

The ability of these people to still call for peace in the face of so much unjust, oppressive violence perpetrated on Palestinians on individual and systemic levels is humbling.

Back to the street tour. Barely half a block from the community center, our young guide explains that his left wrist and arm are bound in a cast because of a soccer injury. It doesn’t hold him back. In an off moment he is wrestling with a friend, and when we are crowded around him, he delivers a piece of his mind, once holding up his green ID card to make a point: “I want to throw it away. It’s worthless. It’s just so much trouble.” Israeli soldiers demand to see these IDs at checkpoints Palestinians are forced at gunpoint to pass through to reach school, jobs, family members, and medical help. You can see the dilemma our host and millions of other Palestinians face. Without an ID on their person, a Palestinian is subject to immediate and indefinite administrative detention by the Israeli state. Yet with the card, Palestinians are subjected to unjust racial profiling and inhumane treatment. Which is worse?

On a nearby wall is an artistic rendering of UN resolution 194, that affirms the right of Palestinians such as him and his family to “return to their homes and live in peace with their neighbors…” This is important. Many Palestinians see coexistence with all religions in one state as the best – in fact the only – solution. On the larger commercial street to our right, a burst of horn honking drowns out our guide for a moment. He pauses, then explains that the noisy outburst is celebrating “either a wedding or someone getting out of prison.”Both causes for celebration, clearly. Sixty percent of Palestinians have been imprisoned, locals say.

Further up the hill, in a maze of bending residential alleys barely wide enough to squeeze a car, let alone a delegation of 28 people hugging the walls while a car wends through, our guide tells us two stories that stick with me.

The refugee camp has a vertical character, with many people stacked on top of each other in close quarters. Situated on nearly every rooftop is a laundry line and at least one large black rainwater catchment vessel and water storage basin. When Israeli military forces raid the refugee camp, routinely in the middle of the night or early morning, hauling people out of bed and off to prison for asserting their internationally recognized rights, Israeli soldiers like to shoot holes in these rooftop water storage tanks. When this happens, people on the floors below wake to water dripping down on them. If they wake in time, they rush to fill household containers and do their dishes while they can. The tanks, once damaged are difficult to repair and even more difficult to replace. And life without this precious water supply, once drained, is extra challenging. “Our people are a very clean people, so when we can’t wash, it’s hard,” our host says. “Fortunately, people here (with intact water tanks) have always helped each other when this happens.” Glance around these streets and it’s immediately obvious that there’s truth to his statement about cleanliness. In the midst of so much repression, poverty and political and physical discrimination, these people go to great lengths, and manage their garbage better than most. When you are left with so little, what choice but to get organized and help each other.

We continue on our walk as dusk wraps around our heads, drapes over our shoulders, and sinks down to our feet with bougainvillea and grape vines slinking up structures and spilling out overhead. Again we halt, this time to talk about the brave history of writing and art on walls all around us. During one of the Palestinian uprisings against displacement and genocide by Israel, the state outlawed books and other written materials in refugee camps. Refugees in Deheisheh took to leaving messages and exchanging ideas on walls, until that was also declared illegal. When Israel sought to punish wall artists and writers, elders in the camp conferred, and decided to cover every wall in the camp with words and images. Strength in numbers exemplified. They were betting that Israel wouldn’t be able or willing to haul every last refugee in the camp to jail. And the elders were right. The walls here are still covered with resistance art at every turn, and this story gives me new respect and deeper appreciation for its meaning and its role in local culture.

The most heartbreaking story we hear of this place is still fresh and raw for residents of Deheisheh. A Palestinian youth named Raed As-Salih contributed his idea to create a public library by fastening bookshelves to walls in the street and furnishing them with books. For no good reason, Israeli soldiers came for Raed in a nighttime raid on the camp earlier this year. As he ran from them, Israeli soldiers shot him. Six bullets entered his back, hitting his liver and kidneys. While Raed laid there, with family and friends witnessing from a distance, unable to go to him or be with him for fear of also being shot, an ambulance came. It delivered an Israeli soldier hit in the knee by some of the bullets immediately to a medical facility, but left Raed behind to bleed. Half a day later, soldiers transported him to an Israeli hospital off limits to his community. He died in intensive care, but Israel refused to release his body until it had decayed beyond recognition. When Raed’s body finally came home 21 days later, many vital organs were missing, leading to the belief that they had been harvested without consent to supply a growing black market for transplants.

Cases like Raed’s are routine, our hosts report. Raed is gone and the pain of losing him in such a horrific way is palpable, but his peers assure that they will redouble efforts to create his street library, and in that way he will live on.

Before bedding down here in this community center, multiple people warn us to keep the lights off and stay away from the windows if Israeli soldiers pay a visit in the night. Almost ready to leave the rooftop, I move a bucket I had shifted over to make room for an activity. I place it back in its original resting spot to catch drips from the tarp overhead. What can we really do, I ask myself. The answer is simple: every drop of resistance to this unjust regime counts. And just as at home, the drops add up to make a reservoir we’ll need to get through this together.

The last conversation I had with my grandma Rose was labored. Like listening to someone fluent in a language like Creole or Spanish, I filtered heavily, only catching every fourth or fifth word. She talked in short, slurry bursts. I strained to get her meaning, and somehow managed it.

“Our…family has…always…. helped people,” she said. She gave several examples of do-gooder relatives. She talked about her husband Abe being in the union at the Caterpillar plant in Peoria and then organizing typesetters at a newspaper in Tucson.

Rose and Abe wedding photo

Rose, who outlived Abe by almost 30 years to be 98, also lived this ethos out. In my time knowing her, she was a fervent saver of water, a brilliant teller of stories delivered to neighborhood kids who gathered in her yard, and a persistent volunteer at a local hospice.

Besides being a quintessential good person in my life, she was undeniably a character. I credit her with my love of words, walking and wandering.

I remember playing Scrabble with her a few times. I don’t remember winning even once. The losses stung. Still, they helped me to realize that you don’t need to know every word out there, but it’s a good idea to continually expose yourself to new ones, and to ask about the ones you don’t know. This translated into not only an itch to learn about words and ideas for me, but also a curiosity about other cultures and languages. And those interests landed me in Mexico, Central America and South America. When I got to those places, and long after leaving them, I had developed both the inclination and the capacity to write about them, so I did.

Rose would walk many miles per day in spite of the Tucson heat until her last few years when the mileage on her body began to catch up with her. She made her way to the library, the grocery store, and then home, lugging her groceries, daily. Many people she encountered along the way knew her and would stop to chat.

She was an institution of the best kind – a wealth of compliments and curse-words in Yiddish. A reminder of the 1920s and 30s depression era, and later a time when adobe houses were still the norm on her block, situated on the outskirts of a much smaller Tucson. I used to be embarrassed at restaurants when she would carefully wrap half-eaten biscuits and other food scraps in napkins or stuff them into styrofoam cups to carry them home, determined not to waste. That habit never stopped being exasperating, but it was hard not to admire her survival instincts and determination.

In some ways at least, she had exceptionally good luck. She would enter contests and routinely win cars, televisions and cash prizes. The cash often went into college funds for her grandkids. The last time a stranger broke into her house to steal her television, she told the intruder “I have a gun and I’m not afraid to use it.” When she recounted this to me, I asked, “Rose, why did you say that? You don’t have any guns.” “No,” she said. “But they didn’t know that.” It worked. Proud pause. I’m happy to have you on my bargaining team, Rose.


For most of my life, Rose was my only living grandparent, so she defined that role in large part, though I didn’t see her that often with a few states separating us most of the time.

I have some hazy but deeply impressioned little person memories of her: when she fainted from sunstroke while we were watching the San Francisco gay pride parade roll past, when we would walk the familiar paths of the Sonoran Desert Museum outside of Tucson, the profiles of saguaros rising up on all sides.

My deepest and strongest association is one of her walking behind me, somewhere in Flagstaff, I think around the time that Terry graduated college. Her hips and arms swung out to the sides, creating an almost centrifugal, yet forward-moving momentum akin to a spinning top. “Show me the way to go home,” she belted. Her voice rose, and fell and sparkled and bopped. “I’m tired and I want to go to beeed! I had another drink about an hour ago, and it went right to my head!” The next part in her rendition cracked me up, and since she was somehow my first exposure to this old song, it took me a long time to figure out that the lyric “A bottle of booooooze…” was not a traditionally included one.

Rose liked to joke about many things, but you couldn’t pass a visit with her without the term schnapps surfacing in the conversation. She used the word liberally to include every variety of liquor, I think. Part of what made it funny was that I never knew her to drink even a little schnapps. Besides typifying her strain of wit, the schnapps references did something I think she enjoyed immensely and I came to respect profoundly. In her grandma phase, at least, she was tough sometimes to the point of being stubborn. She loved to bust up stereotypes and expectations about little old ladies. And she did a smashing job of it.


So, yes, Rose. We will go on helping people in loving memory of you, and Abe and the Terence family. By fighting for better working conditions, health, peace and justice for people, communities and the environment. By treating people like people, hearing them out, going through it with them, and putting ourselves in positions to get new perspectives. By channeling the power of words and good humor. By keeping our minds open and opening the minds of others. By reading, writing, talking, walking, growing and singing our way through this life, however long it lasts.

With so much love and appreciation for you, Rose.


A few days ago, I squirmed at the prospect that an electrical circuit in my friends’ home placed in my care for a few weeks could have fried during a power outage. At the same time, I had to laugh. I’m so accustomed to the convoluted but effective method we’ve developed of fixing our off-the grid power systems at home, but when it came to a breaker box full of switches, I was intimidated.  So, I gave myself a little get-over-yourself talk and asked one co-worker, then another, and a third.

One of them gave me some helpful advice. My discomfort with the whole situation must have been palpable, because he offered to come help me troubleshoot the problem. A few hours passed, and I couldn’t focus, so I went back to my friends’ place to see what I could do with his advice. Just as he’d suggested, a switch needed to be levered back and forth several times before it fully flipped back into the power-consuming mode designed for a utility load.

While I worked, I found myself saying aloud a refrain I often repeat when faced with the need to solve a problem or fix something. “You are smart enough for this.”

Living in the country, we get used to things not working right, or just generally not going according to the plan. Roads? Ha! Don’t get too used to having those. Pipes? They break. Electricity, water? Sometimes you might have them. Other times not. Make the most of them while they’re in good supply.

The “You Are Smart Enough” refrain may sound silly. In fact, it does to me. But even having had at least 20 years of time to absorb the rural sensibilities required to find and fix our own problems – essentially to adapt – in places like this, the fact remains. The nuts and bolts of mechanical function behind the tools we use, the chemical and biological makeup of our world, the physics of subsistence in the vast mountains and rivers here, and the math of what makes it work or not work are all extra challenging for women much of the time. It’s not that we’re not smart enough. It’s that we’ve witnessed and heard how the world thinks we’re less capable, and we’ve internalized that, often to the point where we’d deny it if asked.

And reminding myself that I’m smart enough helps. So show some love for the women who persevere to figure things out, who are smart enough to ask for help and make it work. And save some love, also, for the men who share what they know without laughing or making fun of these women, and who share in the feeling of pride and victory when these small battles are won by women who feel empowered to fix their own shit on their own. (Shout out to Michael Stearns, in particular.)

Last weekend, I sat down to get going on exercising my right to comment on pipelines, dams and suction dredging, and this was the map that my mind issued.


Today, I’m again surfing my caffeine surge and dedicating my Saturday morning to doing something about a few of the world’s many injustices. My to-do list is actually much longer than this, but I wanted to share with you a convergence of opportunities to protect our gorgeous rivers around this state and this country. They need our immediate attention. Please join me – here’s how.

River Gorgeous To-Do List:

  1. Find ways to voice peaceful protest of the Dakota Access Pipeline (DAPL) and all pipelines that threaten clean water. Today: Call on Wells Fargo to divest from DAPL, in solidarity with these guys. I called these numbers: Arcata branch – (707) 822-3642, Eureka branch – (707) 443-4542, Dedicated Wells Fargo DAPL feedback line – 1-844-931-2273. Let’s insist on corporate accountability and social responsibility. My takeaways from today’s conversations with bank representatives: (1) They aren’t hearing from us enough. (2) Wells Fargo employees are concerned about the impacts of DAPL. (3) Wells Fargo is falling back on lending practice regulations as a defense, encouraging concerned citizens to call Congresspeople and lending regulators for enforcement of existing regulations and/or changes in lending practice regulations.  Tomorrow: Call again. Day after tomorrow: call again to register concern. Tuesday: Think about who you know who has a Wells Fargo account. This could be an individual, a business, a municipality, a union or so on. Talk to them. Empower them with information and support to close their account. Wednesday: Write comments on the scope of the DAPL EIS that is getting underway and add them to the record. Address your comments to: Mr. Gib Owen, Office of the Assistant Secretary of the Army for Civil Works, 108 Army Pentagon, Washington, DC 20310-0108. Use the subject heading “NOI Comments, Dakota Access Pipeline Crossing.” E-mail your comments to
  2. Write and submit comments supporting Clean Water Act section 401 water quality permits for removal of four aging and harmful Klamath dams. These are due by Feb 1. After more than a decade of advocating for decommissioning these environmental albatrosses that block more than half our 300-mile river system to salmon migration and spawning, we can’t let our foot off the pedals now. We are on the verge of a major breakthrough. This is an example of something we can get right locally, in spite of all the retrogressions we are witnessing on larger scales.
  3. Write and submit comments about the negative impacts of suction dredging on our streams and the aquatic life they support. We call this the Stop Miners From Sucking (up river bottom and spitting it back out downstream) campaign. We are only half joking. Here’s some background. You’ll have to actually go outside the bounds of social media, but trust me, your input carries more weight that way. Open a document, address your comments to the right place with the right subject line, and write a paragraph or two opposing hobby gold-mining at the expense of rivers, fish, concerned citizens like you and me, and indigenous peoples.  Address your comments to State Water Resources Control Board, Division of Water Quality – NPDES Unit, P.O. Box 100, Sacramento, CA 95812-0100. Entitle your comments “Discussions Concerning Potential Actions To Protect Water Quality From Suction Dredge Mining.” Send them to
  4. Get in some cold water in solidarity with the good guys in the Potomac watershed today!




Today was one of those days when I woke up with food on my brain. Not what I would eat for breakfast, or lunch or even dinner. Apparently, I’ve recovered enough from making wild mushroom cobbler for more than 150 people to benefit the Mid Klamath Watershed Council last weekend to begin obsessing over the next culinary project.

I’m part of a cooking commune, inspired by a similar arrangement I participated in during my college years. So, having committed to making a main dish for about a dozen people on New Years Eve, I was turning it over in my head, what wanted so badly to be made that it rose above other things. The process of figuring these things out for me is fairly intuitive, and infinitely fun. The food finds me more than the other way around. When I’m tired, however, as I was yesterday, my foodie receptors don’t work well. But today, I got up around 5 a.m. and just fooded out.

Roast pork marinated in soy-garlic sauce served with a shitake gravy. Or maybe roast pork rubbed in pepper and served with a vermouth sage sauce. Perhaps something with fresh crab because its seasonal and supports a local fisherman. Or could it be the time to make clams steamed in butter and wine? All the seafood ideas got me thinking about paella. And that got me going on saffron. Then I switched tracks again, surfaced from Smitten Kitchen and started down the Ottolenghi rabbit hole and started dreaming of making quails with burnt miso butterscotch and pomegranate walnut salsa. None of these are practical ideas – it must be something I can cook at home and transport to my friends’ home a half-hour drive away, then serve. But that’s never stopped me – just ask my friends and family. Still, none of these ideas feel quite right. I’m still searching, still feeling around for the thing that talks back, that says affirmatively, I want the job and here’s why.

In my casting around, however, I found this grilled saffron rack of lamb which has secured a central spot on my Christmas Day menu. I only need to start preparations a day before, as opposed to a month ahead with my brined duck eggs wrapped in red bean paste and two separate pastry casings, or a solid week ahead with the wild mushroom cobbler. So, I’ll call that practical, relatively speaking.

The last few years, lamb has made a strong bid to be part of my holiday cooking and eating plans. Butterflied rack of lamb has captured my imagination, I think because of a time in the meatpacking district of New York this country mouse was out bar hopping with friends. The whole evening felt like a spinning teacups ride, because of the imbibing, sure, but even more so due to the wildland-urban interfacing happening inside me the whole time. By far the most memorable part of the evening was a platter of this cut of lamb, seared, glazed and encrusted in something delightfully obscure. It put my stomach at ease and tickled my food feelers.

Coincidentally, all this food feeling-out has made me curious about how much of our lives we spend cooking and eating. The answer, according to this site: You spend 2.5 years cooking. You spend 3.66 years eating, about 67 minutes a day. That’s an average. I bet my data point ends up higher. At least, I hope it will.



Today, I had to do something in defense of the brave people in North Dakota defending every American’s right to get together and speak up.

Using this link from YES! magazine, I began making phone calls. The comprehensive list of agencies with some say over the use of militarized force and violent tactics at Standing Rock was better than most. The phone rang when I dialed these numbers, and I was able to leave a few messages. But, it was a Saturday, and many voicemails were clogged full already, not accepting messages until Monday, or not designed to accept public input.

Besides, I’ve always understood that letters (not the cookie-cutter kind, but the personally written ones) are worth more weight with decision makers, because if someone took the time and effort to write their own letter, the issue is clearly important to them.

So I sat down, wrote the following, and spent the past several hours addressing and readdressing it to the recipients on the list, then e-mailing it or entering it into online feedback submission forms. This process has not been quick or easy, but has been a cinch compared to suffering hypothermia from water cannons in extreme winter conditions, internal injury from rubber bullets, teargas and pepper spray, dog attacks and other repressive tactics.

I can’t decide what’s worse: the fact that our country is unapologetically attacking peaceful people for exercising their First Amendment rights, or the fact that we give white people a pass for this type of civil disobedience while turning our backs on or even harassing Native American people for showing the same proactive love for country.

One concerned citizen rightly wrote on Instagram recently: “Reminder that DAPL was re-routed through Standing Rock because Bismarck’s residents feared it could poison their drinking water. The Sioux are literally being forced at gunpoint to accept ecological risks that North Dakota’s white residents refused.”

If you’re – like I have been – feeling powerless and stuck, start calling or writing or both (add your own contact information at the bottom)…it will take all of us to weight the scales for justice in the face of such grave abuses of power and resources.

DO SOMETHING! After the agencies and lawmakers, start on the banks invested in this pipeline.

Here’s the text of the letter I wrote. Take it, make it your own, and send it.

Morton County Sheriff’s Office, 205 1st Ave NW, Mandan, ND 58554

December 3, 2016

Dear Morton County Sheriff Kyle Kirchmeier:

I am writing to appeal to your sense of human decency and ask you to do everything in your power to halt the use of inhumane, violent and unconstitutional tactics to suppress free assembly and speech by water protectors at the Standing Rock camps in North Dakota.

Please, bring all your resources to bear to right this wrong. Please, help prevent a 21st Century atrocity. Please protect the proud American traditions of First Amendment freedoms, honoring and supporting First Peoples, and protecting the water we all depend on to live and sustain our families and towns across this great nation.

The use of militarized force, government resources, denied access to emergency and medical services, media suppression and infiltration to shut down people exercising the most fundamental rights guaranteed to American citizens is unjust, morally reprehensible and completely unacceptable. It is even more shameful because it shows that we are still, in 2016, asking Native people to bear the social, economic, and environmental burden of our actions while we won’t treat them like people.

The use of water cannons in extreme winter conditions, close-range use of rubber bullets, tear gas, pepper spray, dogs, military equipment and weapons, barbed fencing police raids, blockades, eviction notices, media gag-orders and blackouts, surveillance, and “free-speech zones” are inexcusable, and they represent grave civil and human rights violations. Further, use of these tactics is un-American.

The people there in Standing Rock standing up for the rest of us should be protected, not attacked. If there is any illegal action here, it is the use of violence against peaceful people. Please do something. Please do the right thing. Please investigate and speak up. Please call on others to do the right thing. Please refuse to participate in the brutal treatment of the water protectors gathered there. Please send and defend human rights monitors. Who do you have to answer to, at the end of the day? Yourself? Your God? Your children? Your neighbors and fellow American citizens? How can you explain initiating this aggression or sitting on your hands through this injustice? That could just as easily be any of us speaking up and standing up for what we believe in.

Please get in touch to discuss what you are doing about this situation.

Thank you.

Erica Terence