It’s Game Six of the Stanley Cup. I’m zoning in and out — half-watching the commercials, pretending not to care that the team Dave’s rooting for (and, by proxy, me too) is losing. It’s only the start of the second period, but one more goal by Florida will stretch their lead to 3–0, and my sense of despair will spike accordingly.
I can’t pick a team and care. It’s too hard on me.
Work has picked up. People I haven’t heard from in years — and others who are prioritizing their mental health — have shown up over the past two weeks. I like it. I enjoy the Cheers-like, “Everybody knows your name” feeling that starts to happen in seasons like this.
Maybe that’s why I liked working in the casino environment so much. The old-timers in Ellensburg — Petrie, Kenny, Ed, Wayne — would show up at 4 p.m. to start the game. They had their special lunch orders: half sandwich and soup or salad, created just for them. They’d tell stories from the golf course or about the old days, whether as a trailblazer or postmaster. I could metaphorically belly up to the bar and feel a sense of belonging, while also not fully belonging. I was the one facilitating the game, but I was also an observer. It was meaningful.
Leaving was hard. It felt like a death. And in many ways, it was. All I have now are the memories… and checking the Daily Record’s online obituaries to see who’s passed.
Some might call me morbid — and I might agree.
In fact, I have been called morbid. Once, during a conversation about composting human bodies after death, I explained how I preferred that approach to the earth-impacting practice of embalming fluid — which was originally only used to transport war bodies home. Not everyone loves chatting about post-mortem sustainability, apparently.
Uh oh. A fight just broke out. Classic hockey.
I remember a poker colleague once invited me to a Thunderbirds game — my first in-person hockey match. I was shocked. Had I really never seen a game before? Maybe just highlights. But something about seeing it up close — the fan frenzy, the primal encouragement — felt a little… prehistoric. And all those missing teeth? Sure, fists. But probably pucks, too.
I’ll admit: I did an obituary search tonight. One of my favorite poker players’ wives recently died. He’s in his late 80s now, and with a quick Google search, I found his number — the same house, same line he’s had for years. And I’m feeling the need to call him.
All those years ago, he took me and another poker player on our first overnight hike and camp. It was above Snoqualmie Pass, up in the alpine lakes, with no one else around. One of my favorite memories is still vivid: I got lost, which led to an unexpected adventure. I swam in the clearest lake I’ve ever seen.
I’m feeling a little nostalgic tonight. And I know myself — if I don’t make that call, I’ll regret it the day I see his name in print. Not that I’m assuming I’ll outlive him. I’m not being presumptuous. But still — before either of us goes: chop chop.
I think that’s enough meandering thoughts for me tonight. I hope you are well, and I appreciate you stopping by.
Love, Jaclynn
PS I just called and he answered. He’s 87 and camping in his RV close to Cle Elum for the summer. We chatted about fishing and camping together. I told him about hiking the Wonderland Trail. He told me he’d thought of me frequently over the years, and I told him the same. At hearing I had a daughter, he said, “I always hoped you’d become a mother.” Which made me tear up. I’m so glad I called.
Going On 40 