A Year of the (somewhat) Daily Rhubarb

February 8, 2024

Huff Lake, Kiniksu National Forest

Up from Ashes

I don’t sleep the way I used to; at least not in the same way I slept before the building I used to live in caught fire around 3:30 a.m., 65 weeks ago. The couple in the apartment next to mine were already awake when flames erupted on the floor above us. The young woman who quickly dialed 9-1-1 on her cell phone likely saved my life, and others, although it was too late for a woman in an apartment above us. It was her lifeless form on the sidewalk, a paramedic hunched over her, when I reached the bottom of the back stairs.

That night was clear and bitter cold outside. A thick plume of smoke rose toward the stars. I had grabbed at a few things as I was quickly getting dressed—a hard drive, my wallet, keys. Once I reached the safety of the street my heart sank, all the more, as I realized I would likely lose family heirlooms I’d recently inherited from my parents after they’d passed. I feared for certain books and the paper notes I still keep, because that’s how I remember things, the numbers, dimensions, observations that I often share here.

The Columbia River at Wallula Gap

I’ve covered fires in freezing conditions as a reporter. There was a night blaze at an old hotel in downtown Ellensburg, January 1980. It was nearly 30 below, and we could watch as the water from the fire hoses aimed at the top floor froze in mid-air, returning to the ground as snow and ice. The newspaper’s Rollieflex camera froze after only a couple photos. The panic of the residents fleeing into the night was juxtaposed with the professionalism of the first responders.

The same was true that night in Browne’s Addition, November 2022, except that I was a shaken (though fortunately unburned) victim of the story, instead of the story teller. Thanks to the Spokane Fire Department, I didn’t lose nearly as much as I thought I would. But the memory is still fresh, and there’s a chair, here, in my new apartment, between my bed and the door. It has a pair of jeans across the back and, on the seat, at least one long-sleeve shirt, an insulated coat, and socks and shoes on the floor nearby. The car keys are at a reliable perch within easy reach.

This—The Daily Rhubarb—was only a couple weeks away from launching when the fire forced me to move. By the time I got relocated and somewhat re-oriented it was this time a year ago.

Spokane River at Coyote Rock, looking east

I was shaken but I had stories lined up that were more than half-baked. Because my work is a therapeutic preoccupation I was eager to dive back in. Plus, I very much needed, and still need, the income (the penalty for being unable to hold a regular job for the majority of my career, if we can even call it a career) and the Substack platform is a good medium for getting paid directly by readers for what I create. I wanted to do more journalism. I wanted to share more photography. I wanted to write about the subjects—like geology and physics and the cosmos—that fill me with wonder and fuel my curiosity. Now into my sixties, it’s sinking in that the world won’t get fixed in my lifetime. That’s sobering. But I enjoy learning more than I ever have. I enjoy knowing that I’ve fathered two remarkable children who inspire me and others with their character and talents, in that order.

The result is all here, and here, here and this and that, if you include the cover stories for The Inlander.

I realize not all of my posts are uplifting and I also realize they’re not literally daily. (I knew from inception they wouldn’t be weekly, nor daily. Stories should be handled like avocados; it’s better to publish them when they’re ripe). From inception, the idea was for The Daily Rhubarb to be in synch with the fare at the Rhubarb Skies mothership, the website that the wonderful broadcaster and writer Taylor Rose helped me design more than a decade ago. A subtext for Rhubarb Skies is the proposition that we’re the better for keeping at least one foot in the natural environment that sustains us, while we laugh and cry and celebrate and mourn and go about trying to live meaningful and honorable lives. It’s not so much a formula as a living proposition for what mortal life can be.

Today is like any day but also that day, The Daily Rhubarb’s 1st anniversary, a day to take a breath and for me to thank all of you who’ve found my work and shared it with others, and to especially thank all of you who’ve supported me with paid subscriptions and photo purchases and generous donations without which I simply couldn’t do the work that appears in this space. I also want thank the more than 200 of you who packed into Hamilton Studio five days ago for the Preposterous Spokane Flood presentation, which was brimming with its own delights and surprises and challenges—just like real life. My deep thanks again to Don, Lorna, TJ, and Linnie Dee at Hamilton. I’m sorry I couldn’t visit with all of you in person. I hope you enjoyed the evening as much as I did.

With your help and support there is more to come. 2024 will be a consequential year; Another reason to keep the jeans on the chair near the door. Please share. Bless you all. amen.

—tjc

The Sky You and I Share (2014) east of Pasco