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From behind the wheel Sam said, “No matter what the economy is doing, you find it happening right here.” Sam and Sally were out on a morning run of errands. With the doggedness of a beagle Sam zig-zagged the barriers that kept traffic off Spokane Street. Through a slim hole in the barrier signed “LOCAL TRAFFIC ONLY” he maneuvered the Subaru through the opening to get mid-block up Spokane. Construction and destruction make transiting the industrial sections of Seattle twice as complicated on a Monday. When the weather turns soppy Sam has a ready list of things to collect and people to see.

The marvel of this process has been the collection of craftsmen Sam has ferreted from the side-streets and sheet-metal workshops in this Pacific Northwest city. Sam was on a route to see Nick the metal man and creator of the beautiful copper roof to be. Nearly a month earlier, Max made their beautiful swing-out windows and delivered them. He was curious to see what Sam was building having never heard of a gypsy wagon. Round as Claus and of affable spirit Max was pleasantly surprised to see the home on a trailer, and together the two wood workers walked the perimeter of the tiny home. Max was especially taken with the roundness and curves of the vardo. Our friends had thought Max would also make their Dutch door, but Max never returned from vacation. Life changes. There were many other things to keep the vardo moving toward completion.

The last of the morning’s three stops led to a small door at the bottom of a driveway behind Stella’s Coffee. Slim was now making the door. Finding a new door maker took time and pacing. Sam loves to hammer home the importance of pacing. For all his lightning energy the mid-western farm boy has a sense of cycles that serves him. Being near his tribe of Workers Sam drew on his history of knocking on doors for a job to inject himself with project flexibility. The tall one multi-tasks while keeping his focus on the position of those screw holes. Our gal Sally did not miss the eloquence of her Sam’s dance. She knows he can get himself pretzeled with a detail that won’t untangle, and witnesses his temper when someone backs him into a corner. Don’t play a crab for a sissy, they don’t like that and they have sharp claws that pinch.

Four ribbed walls-to-be inform the world of the vardo in the making. The iron trailer upon which the pearl-like hermitage is built is twelve feet long and eight feet wide. The inside walls will give our dears just shy of a ten foot length. The other two feet will be their porch, useful for a multiple of purposes. With great care and many investigations, samples and tests to determine whether wood, sealant, and electrical outlets would be safe for both Sal and Sam, Sam Tall framed and tinkered with the shape of the vardo. There are experts who now offer their services to those who live with the fall-out of an over synthesized world. With the world of knowledge accessible through the pages of the internet library Sally spends hours at the keyboard researching material/products that work for sensitives like her. Like the Akashic Records the internet opens the world of human knowledge to those who sit to find them. No longer a library with old wooden drawers with Dewey Decimal indexed cards we surf the sea of a cyber-ocean of things/ideas/theories that support or contradict our own.

Throughout the cities and towns on the planet Sensitives re-write their lives. This part of the tale involves a community who will welcome Sam and Sally with their extension cord life. Here’s what I mean. “Where will you park it when you’re done?” Sam Tall had just shown a small group of Seattle MCS friends the photos of the vardo in progress. “Ever heard of Tahuya? It’s near Hood’s Canal. Sal and I have friends who are willing to share a spot on their acreage with us. Sal’s been friends with these folks for thirty five years. We’re working on this being our shared living place.” Turtle Woman Sal’s long-time pal lives with Parkinson’s Disease. The disease has created a hall of mirrors for Turtle Woman. She says she’s never sure who will show up on any given day. What Sal sees in her friend is an amplified version of the young woman who has always been Turtle Woman. Creative and communicative, her artist friend has always spoken her mind, and continues to do so. Complications happen when one of those mirrors in the artist’s hallway is turned in on itself, echoing into itself. What her experiences have done for her only Turtle Woman knows, but to see how unconditionally willing to share with Sam and Sally is to see communion of saints in practice. “I build the house,” Sam told his friends, “Sal builds community.”

Indeed, as Sam worked the details of his craft, molding walls, running electrical conduits and shaping the curved arch into the roof, Sally’s job is to care for herself and create a shared housing life with welcoming friends. When the summer heat settles into the city, the exhaust fumes from the billows of industry, the cars, jets, trucks and buses choke the oxygen from Seattle’s ethers. For all who breathe and especially those with illnesses like Sal’s the smog defies breathing. On the worst of days Sal and Sam separate for a few days at a time. Once again the Subaru become home for Sal. All the essentials go with her: nebulizer and medication, the air mattress for sleeping, two paper bags with clothing and towels. Sal always travels with food to share and to eat. She is a good cook, and her friends love that she conjures meals. The oxygen-rich air from the family of fir, cedar, and hemlock and the cool fresh water lake below Turtle Woman’s home turns Sal’s trust button back on. She can exhale. A new and troubling habit of holding her breath loosens its grip, and Sally relaxes.

Fresh air and conversation over dinner give the old friends new information about who has come to dinner. The Tahuya home is clearer and safer for Sal thanks to Turtle Woman’s promise to clear out the poisons and use fragrance free products. Life with Parkinson’s is not easy, and yet life with the illness out here on the lake keeps Sal’s old friend going. Turtle Woman has a pharmacy of pills that keep the pain, anxiety and discomfort of Parkinson’s at bay, and timing is everything. Each of the tiny pills does the work her brain used to do on its own, and at regular intervals, the spikes and dips of a short-circuited inner network even out. Mr. P, the nick name Sal has for Turtle Woman’s husband, has learned the color, count and timing for Turtle Woman’s pills.

Sal watched her friends pack up for a day trip across the pond. Mr. P quietly counted the mini mounds of pills stored in the pill-minded, going through the lot like a bookie keeping track of his bets. “Looks like you need one more Synamax, just in case.” With the help of a beautiful walking stick Turtle Woman moves through her wooded retreat with care. On the bad days the cane isn’t enough so she must ride out the pain, sometimes rocking herself into a calm that is as ancient as the sway of the giant firs that surround her, like a mother calming a child. “We have become our mothers,” Sal told her friend one afternoon over the phone. There are times when the comfort we need comes from unseen sources or from the old gods who send the wind or rain. But more often than not a sister who knows that life is thornier than we’d have wished it to be, is the one the gods send.