Stephanie says

Postcard from Yellowstone

2012-01-08T10:34:00.000-08:00

Yellowstone Park

Dark of winter, the perfect time to sort through a multitude of cardboard boxes filled with three generations’ photo collections. Treasured finds surface during this process, i.e., this giant postcard from our 1958 Yellowstone Park vacation.

The Thompson and Reynolds families motored off on a madcap road trip, a 2,000 plus mile trek across Oregon, Washington, Idaho, Montana, Wyoming, back through Idaho, through Eastern Oregon, to Sitkum, (just about 40 miles shy of the Pacific Ocean,) us in the family station wagon, the Reynolds sedan towing a small camper. Four parents and five children (six year old me, Michael eight, Susie nine, Joe 11, Charmagne 14,) were in on the adventure.

Mom mostly drove while Dad played guitar and we all sang any song that came to mind. Whenever the parents’ stamina wilted, Michael and I sang our favorite, “This is the story of 26 men who road the Arizona territory. Ride on, ride on, ride on.”

Ride on

Ride on

Ride on

Ride on

Ride on

You catch the drift.

Mile after endless mile we drove; Michael and I amused ourselves as best we could, doubtless with a lot of bickering and wrestling. Once when the back seat was down and there was plenty of room to stretch out, I climbed into my sleeping bag then pulled the zip closed. It zipped all the way around, instant flannel cocoon. Problem was the zip stuck, me trapped inside, unable to free myself. A panic attack ensued. We had to pull off to the side of the road to get me out. New rule: Not allowed to zip the sleeping bag closed. As if…

Sometimes the passenger arrangement switched. One day in the wagon, Chuck at the wheel and Dad riding shotgun, sipping whiskey, a police car pulled up behind and flipped on the lights. Chuck pulled the car off to the side of the road; Dad opened the door and hopped out, tossing the whiskey bottle, but not far enough. He spotted it near his feet so gave it a discreet kick into oblivion. Michael and I were rendered mute in the face of the law (good thing.) No ticket issued, tail light or something, was out.

The usual order of the day upon arrival at that nights camping site: Dad and Chuck erected the canvas tent; Mom and Billie started on dinner in the camper; us kids ran amok burning off long suppressed energy. We’d eat our meal at the picnic table, (now shrouded by a washable plastic tablecloth,) included in the camping space. One particular evening, the sky darkening, I spotted Dad and Chuck sitting in the wagon so wandered over to see what they were doing.

I heard “Tiffy, look over by the garbage can.”

“I don’t see anything.”

“Go closer then.”

“I don’t see anything.”

“Go a little closer.”

So I did. As I neared the garbage can I eventually noticed a big brown bear ransacking the contents. She seemed close enough to touch. Fight or flight response kicked in, I opted for flight, and madly dashed to the station wagon and hurdled in through the window, opened about six inches. I’m pretty sure Dad and Chuck wouldn’t have put me in any real peril, unless you consider the drinking while driving incident… Hmmm.

google photo

We stopped at a trading post with the added attraction of a buffalo herd fielded nearby, my first sighting. Inside they had a caged monkey (I’ve never liked monkeys,) named “Pinky” who Joe teased. I thought he was being mean, but soon distracted by costumed Indian dolls for sale.

google photo

When we arrived at Yellowstone Park our camping site was much upgraded from the usual primitive campsite. Up to now Mom used a zinc washboard to wash our clothes, but this place had a Laundromat (!) and showers. Communal showers, gender based, I never saw so many naked people in my life. I was slack jawed in amazement.

We saw “Old Faithful” spew in sulfuric glory. We saw amazing flying fish and mudpots. Oh yeah, bears. Lots of bears. Any many other types of wildlife.

google photo

Most clearly, I recall my sorrow at leaving my new red shoes forgotten on some trail head. I loved those shoes.

I need to phone Joe and get his recollections on this trip. He is an inventive storyteller!

Notice the "Closely Control Children" bit? Look, there's Michael in a tree...
Me and Michael with the Reynolds family.

My baby turns 30 on Thursday

2012-01-01T11:15:00.000-08:00

Lo, 30 years ago: Tuesday 1/5/1982 dawned predictably gray and overcast with the occasional downpour in Salem. The world was smack in the middle of a recession, work scarce, and Jim was home. At 38 weeks along, I was ponderously pregnant, a veritable earth goddess of fecund amplitude, childbirth (please, please) imminent.

Tomato soup and sticky cheese for lunch then time for “Perry Mason.” I went to pee during a commercial, (probably at every commercial break by then,) but this time it was an unending stream. An absolute novice at this pregnancy stuff, I thought “I wonder if my water just broke?” It seemed too convenient to have that occur when I’m on the toilet, in the middle of the day. But then again, I’d had the textbook case of an ideal pregnancy, a picture of glowing good health.

Unscathed by morning sickness I had a few nauseous moments, in particular when a jellyfish flotilla washed onto the Manzanita shore. Living at the coast at that juncture, I habitually walked the dogs on the seven miles of pristine sandy beach but had to hold my breath until below the high tide line of decaying blue and black jellyfish carcasses. The stench was wretchingly pervasive.

In full-blown nesting mode, we moved to Salem anticipating more available work in a larger populace, and cobbled together enough money to buy a small house. That my parents lived nearby was added incentive.

Time passed, my water broke. We phoned up the birth clinic, told to come right away but expect hard labor likely hours away, (Yes, birth clinic. What, you expected a hospital? Hardly.) We got there at 2 p.m. and I had an immediate pelvic exam, Jim visibly uncomfortable witnessing the exam table/stirrup scenario, which I found vastly amusing. I loved that part.

Turns out I was in labor - which progressed rapidly to hard labor. Oh boy. This is where any lingering doubt I held about being of the mammal species was put to rest. Let me just add there is no dignity involved with actual childbirth.

During that stage of labor Jim was behind me on the bed, legs astraddle about my upper body, in position not to have to see anything, (right where I’d choose to be should I ever be called upon to witness a birth,) trusty pocket watch in hand, timing contractions. Except his watch didn’t have a second hand, a point of consternation to the clinic staff, a subject they’d address in future birthing classes. (Later I overheard Jim telling people of my “easy” delivery, which irked me no end. Hey, you try expelling a watermelon and tell me it’s easy…)

Tyler was born at 6:01 P.M., 8 lbs 9 oz, 20 inches long. It was love at first sight for our perfect baby; ten fingers, ten toes, dark hair, with a cupid’s mouth.

We’d been told all along that the baby was a boy, evidenced by heartbeat speed, (this was long before ultrasounds were de rigueur) so when they announced “You’ve got a girl” I asked “Are you sure?” (To my delight) they were.

Jim phoned my parents with the news saying we’d be at their house soon, (where we stayed the next couple weeks, pampered by our doting familia.) They’d taken to driving past our house to check if our car was in the driveway, suspicious I’d go into labor without telling them, (which was absolutely the plan.) We didn’t want a bunch of hoopla.

We left the clinic that evening in the wake of an ice storm, sidewalks and roads slick as glass. Picture ebullient new parents making that first attempt of securing the baby into the apparatus of a still alien infant car seat, while ice skating sans the skates, then driving slipping and sliding home at the stately speed of 10 mph. My parents got to hold the baby before she was two hours old.

Now let the hoopla begin!

The rest is herstory.

The proud parents

What an adorable little face!

Sing to me

2011-12-31T09:47:00.000-08:00

Lawn chairs drawn closely together, knees touching, we lounge on the back porch sipping icy cold beer, laughing and talking while watching the huge harvest moon hug the horizon. A wash of moonlight illuminates the barn. The moon slowly rises in the dimming night sky, diminishing in size as it ascends higher and higher against the perspective of the skyline. Moonbeams peep through leafy branches of the canopy of an ancient maple tree, and briefly disappear.

He sings “Angel from Montgomery” a capella, a favorite John Prine tune, the progression of G, C, D, F chords enchanting in my ear. He looks at me and grins on the high notes. This man can’t carry a tune, but no matter, I treasure this moment. I laugh but it catches in my throat as my heart swells in an intoxicating rush of breathlessness, joy, contentment, and soaring love. It is a perfect evening.

Speaking strictly for me, we both could have died than and there.*

(Words and Music by Joan Baez)

Well I'll be damned
Here comes your ghost again
But that's not unusual
It's just that the moon is full
And you happened to call
And here I sit
Hand on the telephone
Hearing a voice I'd known
A couple of light years ago
Heading straight for a fall

As I remember your eyes
Were bluer than robin's eggs
My poetry was lousy you said
Where are you calling from?
A booth in the midwest
Ten years ago
I bought you some cufflinks
You brought me something
We both know what memories can bring
They bring diamonds and rust

Well you burst on the scene
Already a legend
The unwashed phenomenon
The original vagabond
You strayed into my arms
And there you stayed
Temporarily lost at sea
The Madonna was yours for free
Yes the girl on the half-shell
Would keep you unharmed

Now I see you standing
With brown leaves falling around
And snow in your hair
Now you're smiling out the window
Of that crummy hotel
Over Washington Square
Our breath comes out white clouds
Mingles and hangs in the air
*Speaking strictly for me
We both could have died then and there

Now you're telling me
You're not nostalgic
Then give me another word for it
You who are so good with words
And at keeping things vague
Because I need some of that vagueness now
It's all come back too clearly
Yes I loved you dearly
And if you're offering me diamonds and rust
I've already paid

"This is where I leave you" book review

2011-12-25T14:58:00.000-08:00

This is where I leave you

Jonathon Tropper

I just finished this – dark humor at its best – about a family coping after the death of the father. I laughed uproarishly throughout, my dogs kept running to me to share in the fun. It’s sad too; I had to wipe away the occasional tear. I hadn’t heard of the author – but now I have and ordered two earlier books – hope they’re as good.

The author’s observations of sexual acts are detailed and snortingly humorous. Fun as sex is, it surely looks as ridiculous to the uninvolved as any barnyard coupling. Remember your astonishment upon learning about the birds and bees? Who among us didn’t see the ick factor and vowed “I’ll never do THAT.” Ah, we were wrong about so many things.

The protagonist’s portrayal of his childhood is bittersweet and his depictions of the siblings is wickedly brilliant. Interactions between the sibs and spouses have surprising and often uncomfortable results.

I was pleased with the ending – no spoiler here though.

And maybe a peak into the male psyche?

Tropper has a descriptive gift, no doubt about it.

It's hard to be a volunteer when you're real picky.

2011-12-22T15:45:00.001-08:00

I’ve volunteered at a variety of organizations over the years. I loved hammering away at Habitat builds where I also served on the board of directors. I was the go-to person for mitered trim boards. I do love angles. My friend Tim commented on this photo “What, they ringing the dinner bell?” Wise guy.

I ushered at a community theater the second Wednesday of each play which meant I got to see all the plays. “Cat on a hot tin roof” in the round was magnificent! I sat mesmerized in the first row, arms length proximity to Brick, played by a marvelously formed male clad only in tighty-whities during the first act. My, oh my, but I enjoyed that play.

My winter working schedule is down to one day per week. I could be writing a book but for an elusive plot, so I decided to devote some of my free time volunteering. My particular workday floats, dependent on business needs so I need a drop-in volunteer position.

I met with the staff at the United Way office to discuss options. They aim to match volunteers to positions for maximum effectiveness and enjoyment, (probably promotes longevity.)

So Diane reads descriptions from the affiliate list:

“Blah, blah, blah agency, working with little kids?”

“Oh no.”

“Blah, blah, blah agency, working with teenagers?”

“No.”

“Red Cross?”

“Oh no. I can’t stand the sight of blood.”

She peers at me over the top of her glasses.

“Oh here. How about rocking babies?”

“Not a chance in hell. I hate babies.”*

This outburst followed by absolute silence. You could hear a pin drop. Then they all burst out laughing.

Some people are just better suited for data entry.

I’m a little concerned that my filtering system has vanished. I used to be tactful.

*To clarify: I’m not a baby person. They’re all right once they’re old enough to exhibit some personality. In small doses.

Bag of Bones

2011-12-18T15:35:00.001-08:00

Bag of Bones
By Stephen King
Published 1998

I just finished this book and enjoyed its conversational style. I’ve read so few books by prolific author Stephen King. Why? Because I’m a big scaredy cat and reading spooky stuff is at my peril. I wasn’t allowed to see scary movies as a child, this mandate following my older brother’s watching “The Blob” and having horrendous nightmares for months. There were no such restrictions on scary books although I didn’t read many. I had enough weird dreams where I’d wake in terror and make a torturous dash down the hallway to jump into bed with my parents screaming “Mom!” all the way.

At age 18 I read some strange devil worship novel that scared me badly enough that I slept in my mother’s bed, my back to hers so I could watch for the boogey man coming to get me in the wee hours. I (barely) slept in her bed for two weeks. Scaredy, scaredy cat.

There were a few ghosty rumblings in the early chapters of “Bag of Bones” that gave me pause. I wondered if I was going to hear my old house settling and jump out of my skin, even though I’ve got the beasts to protect me and they have superior hearing. But I was fine so kept reading.

I enjoyed the 529 pages with few exceptions. The wrap-up had some loose threads in the plot unless it was just misdirection, but all in all, it was a good read.

The Marriage Plot

2011-12-09T10:19:00.001-08:00

The Marriage Plot
By Jeffrey Eugenides

This is the second book I’ve read by Jeffrey Eugenides. The first was “Middlesex” which alas, I did not finish. Eugenides’ books require serious concentration for me to read. His use of language and extensive vocabulary intrigue me yet make me feel undereducated. Maybe it’s his Ivy League background and I’m a state college type…

“The Marriage Plot” set in college is a tale of a woman and two men immersed in a love triangle, told from the perspective of each.

One character, Mitchell, studies religious philosophy and provides Eugenides a format to delve into a broad spectrum of religious dogma. A Russian fable from “A Confession” by Tolstoy particularly captured my attention. I have to admit the only Tolstoy I’ve read to-date is “Anna Karenina” which I have not finished. Stuck on page 337 for oh, the last year or so, and just not that interested… Are you sensing a trend here?

To paraphrase the fable: A man chased by a monster jumps into a well. He sees a dragon at the bottom waiting to eat him. He spots a branch growing from the wall and grabs on for dear life, relieved momentarily, until he sees two mice gnawing at the branch. He considers his certain death. He notices a few drops of honey dripping from the end of the branch. He licks the honey. The human predicament, no getting around we’re not getting out of this alive, but we’re going to take pleasure in the taste of the honey in the meantime.

However disturbing this eventuality, I intend to lick whatever honey comes my way for as long as I’m on this planet.

“The Marriage Plot” has an unexpected and most satisfactory ending. It’s a thought provoking book and well worth the read.

Maybe I’ll give “Middlesex” another try.

The stuff of dreams

2011-11-24T18:26:00.000-08:00

I have vivid dreams. They explode into my deep sleep with movie intensity, reel after reel. Something I suspect rather peculiar is the particular location of these dreams. The vast majority of them are in two settings: one atop our grassy hill where I lived as a child in pastoral Sitkum in a little, pink stick-built house surrounded by myrtle trees; the other a two-story porched house set amongst towering trees where a middle-school friend lived at the end of our lane in Eugene. As I write that line I realize I visualize these same locations while reading. The plantation at Tara is at the Eugene location in my mind.

Think about your dream locales peeps. Do you have primary locations where dreams occur? I’d love to hear your thoughts.

The other night my dream took me to the seashore but through a curious landscape shape shift, now an ocean cove butted up to the Sitkum grassy hill. The actual ocean was just beyond a peninsula, which one could reasonably expect to protect the cove from breakers.

I’m walking a sandy beach with three small children and a kitten at my side, (Melissa laughs at this part and says “Your idea of hell.” Honestly, sometimes I don’t know where she comes up with these ideas. I like kids. I like cats.) Suddenly there ARE big waves churning into the cove catching us unaware. A sneaker wave grabs the kitten and two children pulling them into the undertow of water rushing away from the shore. I splash into the breakers in pursuit in nightmare typical slow motion, snag all three and drag them out of the water. They’re shaky and cold, we hightail it to the grassy hill for safety.

Oh sure, what about the third child? I look down the hill and see him caught by a wave. He struggles to free himself but the undertow is too powerful. In that instant, I realize this boy is my oldest brother. I run down the slope toward him. The cove seems so very far away. I spot a man ahead, walking very, very slowly. I catch up to him and he is my oldest brother, who through some bizarre synchronicity is in both places at once, as a man and as a child. He feels the physical pain of the boy trapped in the sea and can barely move. I shout, “I’ll save the boy. It’s his pain you’re feeling” while running past the man.

End of dream.

Back story: I’ve had recurring BIG wave dreams since my Hawaii bodysurfing days. Ya learn respect for the ocean when you’re caught in a set, rolling on the ocean floor, eating a whole bunch of sand, knowing the next wave is seconds away and you’re gonna be down even longer… This probably signifies control issues. Sounds like such a fun sport in retrospect. It was exhilarating however.

It was a dark and stormy night

2011-11-19T09:01:00.001-08:00

From the time he was a very small boy he had a recurring dream. More familiar each time, he finds himself in a residential area in unknown city. He is confused because he is alone, walking on a sidewalk on a street lined with hovering and somehow big menacing houses, late at night, catching glimpses of the moon as scudding clouds cross the night sky. Fog billows and condenses around street lamps glowing dim then bright in wafts of mist. He’s not allowed to be out at after dark and he is certainly not permitted to be wandering unfamiliar city streets alone. He is very frightened but continues walking. He notices a twisted, wickedly speared wrought iron fence next to the sidewalk, looks up and sees a square multi-storied brick house fronted with many darkened windows, a column lined vestibule centered between them. Trees are creaking and groaning in the breeze. Gazing at the house his feelings of foreboding escalate to terror. He knows something bad is about to happen. Something really, really awful. He wakens screaming, soaked with sweat, gasping for breath, in his own bed, in his own bedroom in the little farming community where his family live, far removed from even a town, let alone a city.

The dream eventually stopped, the boy grew into a man, he went away to college then moved to Louisville KY for officer training in the Air Force. One particular evening he walked to a nearby tavern for libation. He stood at the bar, this tall and handsome man, clean cut, in peak physical condition, with a ready smile. He chatted up the two women bartenders behind the counter. They were both his type he thought to himself: blond, short and petite. They must have thought he was just their type too as they invited him to return after hours at which time he could pick the one he wanted. Hey, these were loose times. He was young and randy and far from the moral influences of home.

He returned to his rooms then later headed back to the tavern at the appointed hour. He is walking alone, down a sidewalk on a street lined with big houses, late at night, catching glimpses of the moon as scudding clouds cross the night sky. Fog billows and condenses around street lamps glowing dim then bright in wafts of mist. He notices a twisted, wickedly speared wrought iron fence next to the sidewalk, looks up and sees an oh so familiar square multi-storied brick house fronted with many darkened windows, a column lined vestibule centered between them. Trees are creaking and groaning in the breeze. Gazing at the house his feelings of foreboding escalate to terror. He knows something bad is about to happen. Something really, really awful.

He makes an abrupt turn and returns to his rooms.

The cruelty of passport renewal

2011-11-11T15:28:00.001-08:00

Must renew my passport, a task I’ve put off for two years. But gotta do it as I’m meeting my daughter in Barcelona shortly. So I woman up and hit The Shutterbug, a camera shop that shoots passport photos. This is the first time the clerk who’s helping me has done one, giving me an instant feeling of dread. She is shorter than me which results in a shot up my nose making me look like a pinhead with slits for eyes. No neck and my hair just looks like a Cocker Spaniel. All this confidence stealing for a mere $9.99. I’m horrified by the end result.

Glancing at my expired passport once home, I remember thinking that photo made me look maniacal. Amazing the perception change in 12 years… Now I think I looked just fine. Well yeah, younger and thinner, and a little giddy with excitement.

I compared the two photos, then and now, knowledge I’m stuck with the next passport photo for 10 years struck fear to my vanity. Melissa took a look, I noticed she sort of pursed her mouth, trying to suppress a laugh I suspect, but because she is my friend and tactful about sensitive areas like this (not so much on other occasions) said “Well, it’s not that bad. You’re running out of time Tif,” sympathetically. Gee, here I envisioned standing at the customs counter, the agent suspiciously glancing from my face to the passport photo, denied travel because it doesn’t look like me. More likely in hopes I’m denied travel for above cause…

I decide to shoot my own photo, haul all the equipment to the upstairs bath, (the only room with white walls and some semblance of good light,) don my reading glasses so I can actually see the camera timer button, give that a push and rush around to the front of the camera while removing my specs. Click, click, click. I figured out how to operate the timer button while facing the camera in short order and ended up taking many, many, many shots. I promptly rejected the vast majority upon previewing because of closed eyes or some weird thing going on with my mouth. I smile crooked. Hmmm, go figure.

Another hour spent tweaking my feeble results in Photoshop and I’ve got a few semi-reasonable likenesses which I email off for Melissa to review. Her comment:

“Good god, these look like jail mugshots.”

“Yeah, but aren’t they better than The Shutterbug image?”

“Umm, yeah.”

She picked the best two and I spent another hour finding an online site to process the chosen pic. Then I discovered sizing requirements: 2” x 2” overall, face size from 1” to 1-3/8” to appear x inches from top of frame. I flicked it in for the night.

I decide to give it another try but this time I’ll haul out the big guns. I use Preparation H as a moisturizer. Yes, that sounds odd but it’s an instant facelift. Think of the original purpose. Smelly, but effective as a skin tightener, and Moose wanted to lick my face. I apply foundation, half a wand of mascara and fool with my hair. I am not good at applying makeup or fixing my hair. End result not too bad.

I search high and low for the camera manual. No luck. The problem with having three desks is apparent. I trudge back upstairs and begin the process yet again.

Melissa’s comment this time, “Tif, you’ve got to quit taking these pictures.”

The project remains unfinished. Tick tock.

untitled

2011-11-06T06:20:00.000-08:00

He’s on the phone, on hold.

I’m getting ready to leave. I’m pacing, waiting for the phone call to end.

I turn and it seems I’ve caught him checking out my ass. Maybe. But he’s just gazing at me with this steady look. You know the one.

I realize in that heartbeat he has fallen in love with me. My knees are jelly.

Will work for milkbones

2011-10-30T12:27:00.001-07:00

Ah, football

2011-10-30T10:44:00.001-07:00

I work for a man with a passion for Ducks football – to the extent that our firm maintains the landscape at Autzen Stadium for free. The season for Ken is a feverish mix of season tickets, boisterous tailgate parties and of course, the main event. The GAME. Which hopefully includes jetting off to the playoffs. And even more hopefully, a WIN this year.

My knowledge of football is limited. I dated a guy in high school nicknamed “Tasmanian Devil” for his prowess on the field – hey that counts because I sat in the bleachers and pretended to watch. I am partial to the term “tight end” (position) just because of the image it conjures up in my bawdy mind. And of course, the actual football is a funny, oblong pigskin ball. Oh and you get seven points for something.

Ken invited me to the Oregon:Washington State.

“Thank you for thinking of me. But no. I don’t like football.”

“What?”

“Yeah, I really hate football.”

Big stare, long pause, funny look. This was clearly so out of his realm of the possible.

“Than how are you going to get into heaven?”

“Guess I’m not.”

The Hundred Secret Senses book review

2011-10-28T08:05:00.000-07:00

Written by Amy Tan, published in 1996. I’ve read a lot of her novels over the years with great enjoyment; the first I heard of this book was when my friend Steven lent me his copy. My nose was stuck in that book until I finished.

Amy Tan is a great storyteller. I enjoy her portrayal of a modern American heroine’s interactions with her Chinese immigrant sister. The characters are fully developed and take on a life of their own. It’s a good read.

This novel is about fate and reincarnation, two subjects that enthrall me. Right now I’m particularly intrigued with the concept of fate.

BFF Melissa and I have a long-running discussion about fate. She’ll comment about some life event “It it’s meant to be, it will be.”

And I’ll counter with “So does that mean you believe in fate?”

“No, not necessarily.”

“But if you believe what’s meant to be is – well then isn’t that predestination?”

“No, not necessarily.”

Mind you, I’m merely trying to pin Melissa down on her actual belief, (or perhaps drive her crazy because I like to argue either side of a point.) For the most part I am of the opinion that “what’s meant to be is” is a panacea doled out whenever some event makes us unhappy.

Bachelor uncle died and left entire estate to your worthless brother? Too bad, it was meant to be. Boyfriend dumped you over silly argument? Too bad, it was meant to be. But I digress.

Back to the fate angle. This story progressed in a circular Dickensian way: Characters living in a small village in one life reconnecting across continents in the current life; Characters with unresolved romances in the past reconnected and married in the current life; Characters making other-worldly agreements to wait for each other. All the reconnections happening because they were meant to be. Predestined. Fated.

Do I believe in fate? I am undecided. My belief or lack thereof won’t change the existence of fate.

Would fate mean my ex-husband will be waiting for me in my next life to resolve the unresolved? Or did divorce resolve everything? Do we ever get totally away from those people who drive us nuts? It gives one pause.

Final note: Hey buddy, (you know who you are) I’m not waiting for you until the next lifetime.

It's official

2011-10-08T17:05:00.000-07:00

Post from my child: "My first go at rock climbing!" posted by Into the Invisible World at 11:01 PM on Oct 7, 2011

Comment: Stephanie said...

Sure. Every mothers wish to see only child dangling from ropes while climbing a sheer precipice – halfway round the world. Hmmm. Hey my girl, you could do this at Smith Rock...

I have turned into my mother.

Postcard from S Korea

2011-10-01T17:15:00.000-07:00

A postcard from my girl. This buddha dating from 751 is in the Seokguram Grotto, (Mt. Tohamsan)in S Korea

Glorious tomatoes

2011-09-22T20:30:00.000-07:00

On my way home from work this afternoon I stopped and picked these beauties, organic plum tomatoes destined for a divine sauce. A bushel cost me $12 and will yield a heady aroma of sun-kissed tomatoes in the drear of winter. Hansen's Farm has a produce stand and u-pick fields. A sign instructs if stand is unmanned to deposit payment for your purchase in the lockbox.

Naked Tomato Sauce from Smitten Kitchen.

I made this recipe the other night, it smelled so wonderful I decided photo be damned, and ate the evidence. This is an amazing sauce!

Blind date - wait, did we meet?

2011-09-14T18:34:00.001-07:00

Surfing the net recently a Match.com popup popped up. I thought “Gee, I should take a look.” And I did. One fellow really caught my eye. He was articulate, big plus. Among other things, his great fishing photo struck me. But peeps, as we all know, I am nothing if not frugal. Possibly parsimonious. Whatever. I searched the web for free dating sites and “Plenty of Fish” ranked high and is totally free. Okay. Time for me to venture back into the dating scene. I signed up.

Within the hour, and I am not (for once) exaggerating, there was THE fisherman sending me a message. I responded that I’d been looking for a fisherman as I needed fish frames (that would be the carcass for you non-cooks) to perfect my beurre blanc sauce.

And the rest, as they say, is history.

Music swells in the background. Think literary love stories, crossed signals, little misadventures, like Cyrano de Bergerac and Roxane, such lovely tales. Well, this is nothing like that.

Joe and I make a date (his name turns out to be Joe) – which he at the last moment cancels. Food poisoning. Okay. That shit happens (har har.) We reschedule for the Monday.

That would be today. A workday. Okay – home. The beauty prep begins. On state occasions I curl my eyelashes, wear mascara and eye shadow, shave my underarms, don earrings and a necklace. I did that today. As well as armor up (thank you Spanx, ultimate women’s support undergarment.) So with everything pushed up, out, and generally into place, even wearing new underwear (not that there was the remotest chance of Joe getting lucky – wearing new underwear is a power move – you know you’re wearing the cute stuff and it gives ya some edge. You know?)

I leave right on time. Half hour to Roseburg. Zip. Catch I5 exit 150. Three miles later two DOT trucks pull in ahead of me, one in each lane. One with a reader board “Rolling Slowdown. Do Not Pass.” WTF. My car, the first vehicle behind these two traffic- slowing pain in the ass DOT, masters of the universe, slow to 20 mph. For no discernable reason. For friggin 10 miles. They offramp at exit 138. Let me do the math for those of you math impaired. 10 miles at 20 mph = 30 minutes. My timeline is shot. I phone Joe, who is not picking up, and leave a message just before 7 p.m. State the facts, running late. The DOT trucks pull off (I mentally give them the finger, fuckers.) And have 13 more miles, some through the city.

I arrive at the restaurant. Take a quick walk through. This is the bad thing about blind dates. One is never quite sure. So I enlist a server – I tell her my rather humorous tale – she is sweet – and goes off to check men who sit singly within the bar. I flirt in the meantime with a cute baby who gurgles and smiles at me. I respond in kind. His mother comes up and asks “Are you on a blind date? – I met my husband on one.” That’s so sweet. The thing here is she actually MET him. Hmmm.

I phone Joe again to say that I have arrived and am at the bar. He never shows.
My bank account is depleted by a glass of wine that cost $8.80 before tip, whine, whine.

A total waste of mascara…

I am an eternal optimist and figure I dodged a bullet with this guy. Goodbye Joe.

Is it hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk?

2011-08-24T18:31:00.000-07:00

Breaking News - Heat crazed woman in temperate Yoncalla apparently loses mind. Seen running down main street of town. Bare naked. Flappin big boobs and large white ass. Two dogs on her heels, one smallish black lab dog. The other, a behometh black and white sheepdog. People were shielding their eyes but alas, that image is burnt forever into their memories.

No clue to her identity. Yet. Over and out.

I have eaten the plums

2011-08-21T19:49:00.001-07:00

This Is Just To Say
by William Carlos Williams

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

Moose's version:
I have eaten the plums
and raspberries and blackberries and gooseberries.
The grapes are next.

Bear's Breeches

2011-07-26T18:16:00.000-07:00

Acanthus mollis

These babies grow in my grape vines and are very tall, thorny spikes with a most unusual flower. Click on the images to see them enlarged.

The vase is 12 inches tall to give a sense of scale!

Blooming Magnolias

2011-07-17T15:49:00.000-07:00

Wonderful fragrance! Click on image to enlarge.

Country life

2011-06-30T19:07:00.000-07:00

I was outside this fine morning enjoying a cup of coffee when I heard the dogs rustling in the side yard, then a big yelp, and the Mooster came bounding past, frothing at the mouth, heading right inside the house. My first thought was, “damn, a skunk” and sure enough. I got the big boy outside in record time. He was still frothing. I figure he bit the rear end of that itty bitty skunk, his reward a hit of skunk musk directly in the mouth. Dogs can’t spit but he sure was trying. Rosie appeared unscathed apparently recalling her two encounters last year. But Moose is not as quick a learner.

I gave him a quick douse with soapy water and a cold water hose rinse. Tough love. Then I headed off to work. He was lucky to get a biscuit before I left…

I had one stinky dog upon my return this afternoon and one baby skunk carcass (in full rigor) to deal with. The dog got the magic peroxide/baking soda bath. The skunk, carefully double bagged with a very long handled pitchfork, tossed into the garbage.

I think Moose is going to remember this adventure. I certainly will.

Ahhh, peonies

2011-06-16T19:54:00.000-07:00

First time ever bloom from this plant - which I've had for at least six years. Peonies don't like to be moved... The color came as a complete surprise to me! Their fragrance is ethereal.

But I'm moving this baby into a sunnier location. Last time. I promise.

Brilliant poppies

2011-06-12T17:52:00.000-07:00

I'm thinking about painting (using the intense colors in the second shot) a couple wooden chairs on my front porch. Too much? Wonder if I can spray paint them? Gardening time constraints...

Annoying big brothers...

2011-06-07T13:02:00.000-07:00

I got an email from a kid from grade school who’d happened across this blog.
It so amazes me to make a connection through the invisible magic of the internet.

I conjured up some memories from grade school then phoned my brother to see what he remembered about David’s family. Michael is two years older than me so presumably has more childhood details stored in his brain. Or not.

I gave him a quick rundown, then say, “So you remember the grandparents, right? He was named Ivan. They lived in that lovely house with eyebrow dormers. I loved the interior.”

“Sure I remember that house but I was never inside.”

“Maybe you were at school because I’ve been in that house.” Then I say, “David’s uncle lived at the dairy farm next to us. What was his name?”

“Oh, that’s Kenneth. He and Ivan were brothers.”

I say, “Ivan was the father. Kenneth had children our ages.”

“No, I think you’re wrong.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

I say, “I think David was in my grade. Or was that Steven? They lived on a ranch on the left side of the road on the way to school.”

“No, I was never there.”

I say, “Sure you were. Don’t you remember their player piano?”

“No. I never saw a player piano.”

“Sure you did. We got to watch it play.”

“Nope, never did”

“Did too”

This from my brother, a musician intrigued with all things mechanical, and he doesn’t remember the player piano? I remember the placement of the piano in the room.

I say, “Do you remember the time, right before school let out for the summer, you and I each wrote a love letter to a kid in our respective classes. I think mine was to David.”

“I never wrote a love letter.”

“Sure you did. We sat writing out in Mom’s sunny garden. I think we forgot the letters at home on the last day of school.”

“Nope.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

At this point of the conversation I know that if I could see my brother’s face, there would be a quotation caption hovering above his head, “Where does she come up with this stuff?”

We are six and eight again. Not as contentious these days. Back then I’d of popped him a good one.

So good to see you again

2011-05-26T17:54:00.000-07:00

We meet downtown at the park. I am so happy to see him, we are elated to see each other, we’re both grinning ear to ear and can’t stop touching. We talk excitedly, our words rushing into and over each others conversation. Our hands are clasped tightly. I’m never letting go.

My eyes open and spy the bedside alarm clock; it reads 12:15 a.m. Dammit, I let go of his hand. But I’m still grinning. He died 12 years ago and I miss him dreadfully, but I’m happy when he comes to me in dreams now and again.

Mullein - a wonderful flower

2011-05-22T20:03:00.000-07:00

I discovered this flower some years ago and adored the shape and color of the stem. I moved and looked about for a replacement plant unsuccessfully until this year. Knew it was close to "mullet" and did a lot of looking on the internet. Eureka! I found a local source - wholesale! And love the flower as much as ever.

Vagaries of Time

2011-04-29T08:30:00.000-07:00

In a few blinks the first four months of 2011 have disappeared into the past.

Contrarily however, since the onset of my diet*, 14 weeks within those four months sputtered and dragged. Go figure.

* Live-it actually

Oh my petty annoyances...

2011-04-24T11:40:00.001-07:00

I enjoy listening to “Fresh Air” with Terry Gross on NPR on my daily commute home. The wide ranging subjects and the typically articulate speakers are a delightful and stimulating interlude. One program earlier this week interviewed the two authors of “Bang Bang”, a story about the hazards and hardships of investigative reporting in war zones.

Listening away I was caught up in the telling by one author until I kept hearing “you know” in just about every sentence. I found myself counting “you know” and lost the thread of the story. (This counting is an annoying habit formed during my Lamaze training.) I found myself waiting for the next “you know” until I couldn’t take another “you know” and changed the radio station.

My daughter developed the lazy speech pattern of “you know” which drove me to distraction. We two were together practically every moment during a four-week trip when the “you know” phrase broke me. I began consistently replying “Yes I do know” and by the end of the trip my girl was so annoyed with me that she quit using that phrase.

My big fear is, you know, that I’ll begin, you know, interjecting, you know, into my speech. You know?

Outsmarting Rosie

2011-04-02T08:18:00.001-07:00

A hellacious windstorm blew through my town recently and a huge Douglas Fir tree toppled in its wake. It fell straight down my property line and took out 100 ft of my fence. The porch roof was damaged but I counted myself fortunate that it didn’t land on my house. The butt is six-foot in diameter, I stopped measuring it at 76 ft with a six-inch diameter. Big, big tree. Just so you know, according to the insurance company the property owner where a tree lands has the liability. So its up to me to get rid of this behemoth. And replace the fence. And repair the porch roof. With a cash influx from the insurance company minus my deductible.

My neighbor helped me put up some temporary fencing on either side of the porch so the dogs wouldn’t be able to climb out over the tree. This didn’t work at all as both dogs jumped off the porch rail onto the lawn.

Much to my dismay Rosie discovered an escape route. On two separate occasions she took off when I was out in the yard. I called her name, she turned and looked at me, then took a flying leap over the tree and away she went. What a brat. For a week now she’s been chained when outside. The forlorn little thing has that chain stretched taut trying to make a break for another chance at freedom.

I have a dog containment system which I hadn’t installed as the entire property is fenced. Was fenced… I located all the components after much searching (I found my bicycle shoes, my baseball mitt, AND my missing childhood photo album!) except the plug that connects the controller to the wire circuit. I flashed back on disconnecting the system when I moved – the plug was wired through a wall - in a fit of impatience I just cut the mother. Yeah, rather a dumb move in hindsight. Particularly since it is quite small and easily lost… After a couple stops at the local hardware and automotive stores I did the smart thing and located a dealer some 50 miles distant. And scored the part for $10. I wired a temporary circuit blocking the downed tree and placed white flags (a visual reminder for the dogs) along its path. I got everything plugged in and tested the system with a dog collar. Beep, beep, beep. Success! I collared and leashed Rosie and walked her over to the flags. She did not want to get anywhere near them. It’s been two years since we moved and she clearly remembered! Her escape path is blocked. That escape path anyway.

She immediately went to the front of the house and CLIMBED up the porch rail (5 ft from ground level). When I caught her she was contemplating jumping over the hedges lining the porch to reach the tree. I planted more of those white flags along the porch – and that was the end of that. Hopefully she doesn’t test the system!

One lucky dog

2011-03-27T08:34:00.000-07:00

Xberry Azalea blooming in my yard

2011-03-21T12:44:00.000-07:00

First the quince, now the lone azalea in bloom. Hooray for spring!

Primal Blueprint works for me

2011-03-13T13:42:00.001-07:00

I’ve been following the “Primal Blueprint” for seven weeks now and have lost nine pounds and my lipid panel has improved. It works! And it works for me because I like to cook as much as I like to eat.

Very simply stated: Primal Blueprint is a lifestyle of eating organic meats, vegetables, and fats. As I had followed the Atkins diet since August 2010 I was used to eating very little of grains & rice, legumes, or processed foods. These foods are discouraged in Primal. Hmmm, taco chips are processed – and they were my last holdout junk food. And I do love black beans and rice… I eat meat. I eat dairy. I eat fruits and vegetables. I eat fat, my favorite food group.

I recommend reading the book for all sorts of informative and thought provoking information on nutrition and exercise. Primal’s dietary structure is in direct contradiction to the Food Pyramid, the dietary guidelines promoted by the USDA which touts eating a diet heavy in carbs and light in protein and fats. Interested in the connection between high carbohydrate consumption and adult onset diabetes? Read the book.

I set up a free account at Fitday.com and charted my daily food intake for several weeks to get a feel for this new way of eating. Now it’s become routine and I know what I can eat. There are cookbooks available for free download at marksdailyapple.com for menu ideas.

I do my grocery shopping in Eugene, an old hippy town with many organic markets and produce stands. Market of Choice has an excellent selection of organic meats and wild-caught fish.

The book has a formula to figure grams of protein, fat, and carbs to consume for weight loss. For me this translated into 92 grams of protein, 96 grams of fat, and 72 grams of carbohydrates daily which equals 1,666 total daily calories. (I’d give you my specifics but I’m too vain to put my weight out there in the wide world of the internet.)

Want to give this a try? To calculate your nutrient intake requirements for weight loss - or improved health in general health - pop on over to my other blog: http://goinprimal.blogspot.com/

Again, read the book.

Another home repair

2011-03-12T12:18:00.000-08:00

Yesterday at work I received a call from my neighbor saying my dogs had opened the gate and escaped. Russ lured them back into the yard with dog treats but they’d figured out how to open the latch and they escaped again, (they’re smart and persistent). He corralled them back inside the yard but this time twined the gate shut. I was intensely thankful, envisioning them hurt, lost, or stolen and sold to the dog factory. Gulp.

The ground had shifted since the fence was installed, pulling the gate post out of plumb and leaving a gap on the latch just the right size to be dog-nosed open. I’d fleetingly considered how to fix the gap, and discarded the “best” method of actually resetting the post as too labor intensive. I figured there must be an extender that would pull the latch up snug against the fence post – so I was off to the hardware on a quest.

In these situations I gravitate toward the seasoned (okay, older) clerks as their experience results in a higher level of knowledge and creative ideas waiting to be tapped. In the fencing department I quizzed two young clerks on possible solutions. Zip, zero, nada. Sigh. I methodically made my way through the racks and bins of galvanized fence hardware until, eureka, there was a latch mechanism and extender that seemed like the ticket. Sometimes I think I should work at a hardware store.

It was a seemingly straight forward repair. Yes, seemingly. I cannibalized the extender from my recent purchase and bolted together the old and new. The length was exactly right. But now the latch didn’t fit over the post, it was too small. What? Metal doesn’t shrink.

Took it all apart and put the latch into a vise-grip and pried that baby apart with a large pipe wrench. Put it all back together and voila, a perfect fit. Problem solved.

I loosed the dogs and the first thing they did was run to the gate… Hah!

I like mine fried

2011-03-05T14:07:00.000-08:00

I've been thinking about weeding my garden plot. It has a nice, sunny location and is much favored by numerous garter snakes. I was turning the soil last season and located many, MANY snake burrows, each one giving me a nasty turn even though I was protected by boots and wielding a long-handled implement.

So wondering if surprise burrows with sleeping snakes are in store for me this season brought to mind the following stories:

Story 1:

To: Tim

My fierce hunter Rosie killed a snake and brought it home for me. I wandered out to the lawn and immediately noticed the distinctive white underbelly of a dead reptile prominent on the green grass - then noticed the lovely tan diamond pattern on the other side. Yikes, a friggin rattlesnake. I kept hoping she'd eat the damn thing and relieve me of disposing of it - but no go.

She had a great deal of fun tossing the carcass in the air - it kept moving all over the place and I jumped and shrieked numerous times discovering it in a new location. I finally got the pitchfork out and cautiously (how silly, it was way dead) balanced it up on the tines and deposited it in the garbage.

Intellectually I know snakes are good - but they creep me out when I see one... No doubt having my brother put a live garter snake down my shirt 50 years ago permanently scarred my psyche.

I must admit leaving it out on the lawn longer than necessary hoping somebody would drop in for a visit and get a big start.

Got any snake stories?

Story 2
Response:

As a matter of fact I do.

We were on one of our earlier family camping trips. You know the family outings with teenagers that really don't want to be on a camping trip with their parents because it is not cool.

We were actually in your neighborhood on the Crooked River just downstream of the dam. I had been there before many times with my uncle, it is his favorite fishing hole. So, they have campsites, the kind where you actually put up tents to live in overnight. This seems so wrong now that I have discovered the Marriott.

Anyway we got over there just in time to set up camp just before dark. Jacob was out wandering the campground because it was almost too dark for much adventuring. Bear in mind he shares your love of snakes. He was about 4 campsites downstream and all of a sudden we heard him scream the big f---bomb. The rest of us went running down to find him pointing at a very large bull snake. I would guess it to be over 4 feet long and about 2 inches in diameter.

The good news is it was dead too. So being me, I decided to have some fun with it. I took it and wandered back towards camp trying to decide what to do with it. Then I had a revelation. I took it to the women's outhouse and coiled it up just outside the door. You would have been proud of the setup. I even had the head raised up in what might have been a striking position. I had to prop it up with a little rock and a twig. (editorial note: I appreciate that attention to detail!)

Since the outhouse was close to our campsite we had a good view of the next hour or so. I know we scared the sh*t out of at least 5 different women before one came along who was not afraid of snakes and discovered our little game.

We were laughing so hard it brought tears to my eyes. You would have been proud. (editorial note: yes, I was proud)

The good news is that this little joke brought us together for the weekend and we ended up having a very good family type trip.

That was the last camping trip we had as a family so I really enjoy the memories.

Tim Sly

(Tim has since passed away. I find it comforting to read his well-crafted stories. I miss that man.)

Violet Tisane

2011-02-18T15:45:00.001-08:00

I drink a lot of tea and tisanes, (a non-tea herbal drink). I’ve been amassing recipes, searching for ingredients I can grow in my garden. There are gazillion tisanes besides the standard mint or chamomile drinks.

Inspiration struck when I walked past a violet patch, its wonderful fragrance catching my nose and imagination.

I take delight in growing or gathering edible foodstuff. I must have been a medicine woman in a past life, gathering roots and berries and making concoctions to soothe a bellyache or ease a sore throat. Or maybe it’s now that I really am on my way to becoming a herbalist. This all fascinates me.

I found recipes for violet syrup, jellies, tisane and a LOVE POTION.

“In some countries people wear a violet leaf in their shoe for 7 days to find a love and treble that in terms of leaf and days on occasions, depending how desperate they are I suppose. Mixed with lavender flowers, violets are said to be an aphrodisiac, whether in a tisane or just the smell is not clear.” (from Herbs-Treat and Taste.com)

I picked lots and lots of violets, gave them a rinse, and placed in a drying rack.

FRESH VIOLET LEAF TISANE
Ingredients
2½ oz violet leaves, freshly picked
1 pt boiling water

Method
Clean the leaves in cold water, then place in a stone jar. Cover them with the boiling water and cover the jar tightly. Leave to steep for 12 hours, overnight, or until the water is green. Strain through a muslin or fine cloth and store. Drink cold.

Use 2 TBL dried violets for one cup of tisane.

The jelly is so pretty but requires TWO CUPS of violets! Imagine the flavor!

Poser - my life in twenty-three yoga poses

2011-02-03T20:15:00.000-08:00

Have read the first three chapters - and found this book to be uproariously funny. I've been chortling! Claire Dederer's writing sytle is conversational and breezy.

A wedding - part one

2011-02-02T12:57:00.000-08:00

I recently attended a family wedding in Eugene. The entire event was well planned then well executed. And a whole lotta fun!

We’d received “save the date” cards months back so Tyler promptly made reservations and scored a great deal, (My daughter is a typically frugal Thompson). We met up at the hotel room, I was staying with her - a new situation sponging off my kid. I like it!

Determined not to be late we were the first ones seated. Well, I was determined not be late. Tyler thought I was going overboard. My brother and his family slipped in next to us at the last minute. We’d been watching for them and were happy to have them show as they’re always fun, often entertainment in their own right.

A collective jaw-drop when the mother of the bride, my cousin Cathy, was escorted down the aisle. She was absolutely stunning, wearing a lovely dress, her hair upswept. She’s been kick-boxing and it’s certainly paid off. Jees, I hope I look that good when I’m her age. In nine months time.

The bride and groom were a handsome couple. I’m sure the bridesmaids were lovely, but I was focused on the groomsmen, all Oregon State football players, quite fetching in black tuxedos. I have a strict rule not to hit on men younger than my daughter, but I can still enjoy the view. And the view was fine throughout the evening.

After the ceremony, we were off to the top of the Hilton for cocktails and appetizers. Ty and I positioned ourselves at a table near the serving door so we were in direct line of sight as servers came by bearing trays of delicious tidbits: shrimp cocktail; sushi; butterflied chicken kabobs; blackberry champagne cocktails. Lest we go hungry, we were also right by a cheese and fruit table.

Violet blooming

2011-02-02T11:16:00.001-08:00

perfume wafting by
of sweet violets abloom
teases me with spring

For Melissa

2011-01-30T15:46:00.000-08:00

Last year - but my violets are blooming profusely now!

I hate it when I'm obtuse (which is more often than I care to admit)

2011-01-25T17:42:00.000-08:00

I’ve been on a low-carb diet for about six months. I’ve followed it faithfully but haven’t experienced any great weight loss although I have lost inches. I figured I lose at a slower rate than most.

While chomping away on sugar-free gum this morning I had what some would consider an “ahah” moment. I however consider it a “duh, you dumb ass” moment. The carbs in the gum you ask? Yes. Peering through my spectacles at the miniscule print I discovered each piece has 2 grams of carbs.

I often mock “Big Gulp” guzzlers, waddling by, drink in hand. Lo and behold, those diet soda drinkers are getting less than 1 carb gram per drink. Less than in one stick of my favorite gum. Damn, my judgmental-ness has doubled back and bit me on the ass.

Here’s the math: I chew about a box a day, 15 pieces @ 2 each = 30 absolutely empty carbs a day. And I thought I was limiting my carbs to 50 a day… Hmm, go figure.

The Social Network

2011-01-12T20:45:00.000-08:00

I watched “The Social Network” last night. Then I watched it again this morning. Most movies only merit one viewing for me so this is high marks indeed.

The first rowing scene especially caught my attention. The river was remarkably calm in the early morning, water smooth as glass, the sound of the rowers’ oars slapping against the water a rhythmic drum beat.

I love to be out on the water. I’ve always wanted to crew. (I knew a woman who did although I never liked her; something about the shape of her nostrils irritated me. I hated how great her arms looked. Oh sure, that was envy. Her biggest crime was dating my friend when I didn’t want to share him… But I digress.)

Back to the water, just imagining the river smell in my nose, and the peace of rowing on a quiet river, feeling the heat of muscles working in my arms is an intoxicating fantasy. I imagine watching the sky change color as the morning sun moves across the horizon, foliage of passing trees coming into verdant focus, and being one with the oars propelling the boat along. Sheer heaven.

But here’s the rub. I’m pretty lazy. You have to get up early to row and while I could drag my indolent butt out of bed somehow I prefer to be snuggled in my lovely down-filled duvet at that hour, dreaming of rowing and listening to the dogs snoring softly.

Chicken with green grapes

2011-01-09T16:51:00.000-08:00

A cousin requested this recipe today. This dates to the mid 1970s from Cosmopolitan magazine. They actually published some pretty tasty recipes! We considered this one the height of sophisticiation. We made it for a dinner party once with an "Impossible Coconut Pie" for dessert, yuck.

Chicken with Green Grapes

Split 4 whole chicken breasts (about 4 lbs), remove skin, and cut meat away from bone in one piece. Lightly coat breast with flour and shake off excess.

Melt 4 TBL butter in a 12-inch frying pan over medium-high heat. Add chicken pieces and cook, turning once, until browned, about 10 minutes. Remove chicken from pan, set aside.

Melt another 2 TBL butter in pan. Add 1/2 lb sliced mushrooms and cook, stirring until lightly browned. Add 1-1/4 cup chicken broth, 1 cup dry white wine (or white grape juice) and 1/2 tsp crushed dry rosemary (increase if using fresh).

Return chicken to pan. Cover and simmer, turning once until meat is no longer pink when slashed, about 20 minutes.

Transfer to a service dish with a slotted spoon, keep warm. Mix 3 TBL flour with 1/2cup water until smooth. Gradually stir flour mixture into pan juice. Cook, stirring constantly, until thickened 2 to 3 minutes.

Add 2 cups seedless grapes. Cook, stirring often, until hot, 3 - 4 minutes. Season to taste with salt and pepper.

Pour over chicken in serving dish. Makes 4 generous servings.

Make me a match

2011-01-09T08:07:00.000-08:00

I was intrigued when the local newspaper ran a piece on a real, live matchmaker operating in Eugene. A Jewish matchmaker to boot. Saints be praised, my dreams were answered (okay, so I’m not Jewish, no matter).

A quick trip into Hollywood memory-land produced “Fiddler on the roof” and then “Crossing Delancey”. Ah, that was the one. Can’t beat a good data base in the brain. The basic story: Grandmother hires matchmaker, girl meets boy, boy loses girl, boy gets girl, the end.

As my grandmother is unavailable in the mortal world, I figure I’ll have to personally do the hiring. Enter Marilyn, the matchmaker. And my preconceived ideas: One-on-one; an interview; the matchmaker reviewing her client base and recommending Mr. So and So for a coffee date. I got some of it right.

We complete the interview such as it was, and this limitation was totally the fault of my imagination and getting stuck in that blasted mindset. My daughter says I live in my own world. I don’t necessarily think that’s a bad thing.

Marilyn’s service is like a computer dating site without the computer. Her method is a three-ring binder, one for men, one for women, a brief bio for each person in the front side of a clear plastic sheet with photo on back. Browsing through the sex-appropriate binder you get a feel for the person before you see them. But I didn’t understand this when I filled out my bio (thinking that only Marilyn would see it – see getting stuck in one’s own mindset can create issues…. I would have been sooooo much more creative had I just known.)

Marilyn cautioned me that she was short on men right now, like 3 women to 1 man, then handed over “the book” – which is divided by decade. So I begin at 50. And they all look so old. Continue on to 60. They look even older. Continue on to 70. Seventy – I’m floored. And by now totally bummed. Here is yet another grim look at my mortality. Jesus. More than that though, the thought of being 70 and looking for a mate…

Marilyn asks if I’d like anyone’s phone number. No way. I have to process. And wait for that gray feeling of doom in the pit of my stomach to go away.

Part of the program is a monthly mixer. I talk and talk and talk and finally get my best friend from 9th grade, also currently single, to accompany me to this function. 5:30 – 7:00. We make it at about 6:15, perfect. We peer in the windows at the designated coffee house AND ONLY THE BARRISTRA IS THERE. I bit the bullet, walked in and said I was looking for Marilyn, and am directed across the street to the International Café. That boded well, too large of a crowd had gathered for the small coffee house. We meander across the street and nonchalantly again peer in the windows (because we’re cool) and there is indeed a large group of people. Who are all old. Really, really old. Every single one of them with grey hair. I’m not old (in my mind) but I am immature. So is Melissa. We just keep walking. Fuck it.

My Farmville days are over

2011-01-08T11:01:00.000-08:00

Goodbye Farmville. It was fun if obsessive. Or was it compulsive?

Theme Thursday - Green

2010-03-03T17:06:00.000-08:00

We drove eleven slow, slow miles up a winding and rutted logging road hewn out of a Douglas Fir forest. Afternoon light dappled through a tree canopy illuminating oxalis and fern on the shady forest floor. An autumnal splash of orange and yellow Vine Maple leaves provided contrast to the palette of green in the thick forest. The air was heavenly with the singular fragrance of Port Orford cedar. I was indeed in the land of my childhood.

My cousins, Jeanne, Betsy, and Gayle, and I were on an impromptu road trip to the Rogue River by way of Powers, hometown of my late grandmother. We’d stopped at Jack’s Fountain for pie. I spent plenty of time in that shabby diner over the years. It looked the same as it had for decades, sprung vinyl seats in the booths, mismatched chairs. They are deservedly known for good pie however.

We’d just about finished when the door opened and in walked Danny Dement. I'm pretty sure I never met him until right then although he was a schoolmate of my cousins. Those girls wasted no time turning on the charm, an annoying tendency they exhibit in the presence of a good-looking man.

It flashed on me that grandma tried to hook me up with him in my teen years. Looking at that gorgeous and now married man made me a bit sorry that I, then a sophisticated Eugene teeny didn’t deign a Powers hick worthy of my company. I heard my grandmother laugh in the ether.

A chance encounter, the next thing we knew we’d hit the road to visit Eackley, the Dement family ranch, which was in high gear with a cattle roundup. We finally reached the top of the peak and looked down onto the ranch. Eackley, it was like reaching Shangra La. Awe, the majesty of that valley bemused me.

The two-story ranch house, porches all around, was a Pony Express stop-over 140 years ago, and I suspect is remarkably unchanged. The only source of electricity was a generator. No phones. No television. A functioning outhouse.

Eleven people had gathered for the roundup and were preparing dinner on an ancient wood fueled kitchen range when we arrived. Sam Dement, the patriarch, an absolutely handsome man, tall with silver hair, (first time I'd been smitten by an octogenarian) welcomed us with open arms in true Coos County style. They added another table, set more places and fed us dinner (and sly Jeanne sat next to Sam) then invited us to stay the night.

We enjoyed a delightful meal, good food and entertaining company, then moved outside and built a fire in a huge coupler scavenged from the Alaska pipeline. It was etched with the state map and each family member's brand. As we told stories around the fire, red light danced across the faces opposite me, a silhouette of Sugarloaf Mt. dim behind them in the distance. Over our conversation and much laughter I heard the cows bawling for their newly separated calves.

We turned in early, Jeanne and Gayle sharing a bed, me and Betsy the other. The walls were paper thin in that old house, but the four of us we were so keyed up we got to talking and giggling then trying to stifle our noise.

At 4:30 a.m. the cowhands were up and off on horseback to roundup strays. We had the house to ourselves for the morning. I shot a black and white exposure of the entry hall, light reflecting through etched windows onto the scuffed wooden floor, walls hidden behind hanging coats and cowboy hats, a line of cowboy boots all in a row.

I’m marginally satisfied with that photograph. It almost captured the magic of Eackley.

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Sepia Saturday - Modern Woodmen

2010-02-27T08:16:00.001-08:00

Notation on back of postcard (in my grandmother’s hand)
“My father W.C. Billings & son George A. Billings taken in 1897 at Custer, South Dakota. Modern Woodmen”

Modern Woodmen is a fraternal organization founded in 1883 by Joseph Cullen Root in Lyons, Iowa. It is still in existence today. The society is organized around a lodge system called “Camps” that offer fellowship and community service for members.

One of the most visible elements of the organization was its drill teams, which came to be known as Foresters. The first drill team was organized in Hutchinson, Kansas, in 1893; and became nationally known for entertaining crowds at parades and other events from 1890 to the late 1930s. The Foresters were even honored by Herbert Hoover at the White House.

I surmise based on this photo that my great grandfather and uncle were photographed in costume for the Custer South Dakota club.

Photo and caption below courtesy of the National Heritage Museum.

“….set your minds back nearly a hundred years ago, when the Modern Woodmen's drill team, the Foresters, would deftly spin, toss, and wield axes in unison as they marched in parades, and when joining a fraternal benefit society meant learning secret ritual work and promising to uphold certain moral values.”

Good times!

This Is A Sepia Saturday Post. Click this link for more photographic history from fellow bloggers all over the place.

Theme Thursday - Bottle

2010-02-24T09:33:00.000-08:00

She’d had a minor vein surgery. She’d never had an i.v. drip and didn’t figure to get one just for the convenience of the doc. She went with a local anesthetic, the surgeon muttering about control issues. “And your point being?” she thought. It was a bit unsettling lying on the surgery table wide awake and discussing movies with the doc while he sliced and stitched away. She could feel skin being pulled about and it was creepy.

While unwilling to get an i.v., she was very willing to fill a pain pill prescription. Once home, ensconced on the couch and being waited upon by her family she took full advantage. The surgery site wasn’t painful but she took the pills anyway enjoying a dopey relaxation. She had three days off and spent most of that time lounging in front of the tv watching old movies. By the third day she was down to the last few pills. She’d been thinking “good thing I don’t have access to prescription drugs, I’d be tempted to abuse them.” Then, “sometimes drugs ARE the answer” she picked up the prescription BOTTLE containing the last pain pill. “Hmmm, wonder exactly what it is that I’m taking?” There on the label: Tylenol 3. So much for addictive drugs, she could catch a buzz of a placebo. She burst out laughing.

This Is A Theme Thursday Post. Click this link to check out what others have written on the subject of "Bottle".

Sepia Saturday - Aunt Carol

2010-02-16T09:31:00.000-08:00

My grandparents Charles and Francis Thompson, Carol and Bob on wedding day, Carol's parents, Jesse Hoover (and right now I don't recall his name.) The photo taken at the Hoover farm. This photo was hand colored.

Carol and Gayle Thompson

Carol was my aunt by marriage. I've always been delighted Uncle Bob had the good sense to marry her. She was a corker. Carol was a most loving and generous person. She welcomed all comers into her life and especially made her family feel loved. Plus she was just brilliant.

Michael and I often spent weekends at Bob and Carol’s ranch in Broadbent. Poor Uncle Bob, four women in the household and only one bathroom, an array of Avon products like a yellow bottle of Topaz lotion, decorating the counter, the bathroom always smelled sweet. Broadbent had one store/gas station, a community church, and a grade school. Betsy, Jeanne and Gayle had, wonder of wonders, a charge account at the market. The market had a small selection of toys and somebody usually bought me a minuscule plastic tea set that lasted for two tea parties before coming apart at the seams. I had a penchant for tea parties. Sometimes Aunt Carol allowed me to use her “Desert Rose” China tea set for full blown tea parties.

We’d sleep in the screened summer porch, zipping two sleeping bags together. All of us kids would squirm into the sleeping bags, laughing and talking in the dark. We could fart at will so a dare game evolved where one by one we took turns at the bottom while the others all broke wind. Being able to hold my breath for a limited time I was delighted to find an air gap where the two bags zipped together. It later turned out that everyone had discovered the same gap.

We’d breakfast on dry cereal with fresh cream from the previous nights milking. We were water dogs, the river was nearby and warm in July and we’d spend most of the day diving and splashing in the water with a bunch of Broadbent kids, not a parent in sight. On the way home we’d swing by the market and buy fudge-cicles on account.

This Is A Sepia Saturday Post. Click this link for more photographic history from fellow bloggers all over the place.

Theme Thursday - Bell

2010-02-16T09:29:00.000-08:00

The day came when it was time to dispose of my mother’s belongings following her death. It was hard and it was sad. Amazing how many objects a person collects over a lifetime. The decisions on disposal were left to me and my oldest brother. There were so many belongings to claim, give away, or donate to charity.

Some of our family came to help; the grandkids and some cousins, thankfully. There were all manner of things: The large (piano), the small (delicate crystal BELL), books, dishes, pots and pans, computer, furniture, garden tools, costume jewelry, photos. We loaded up a borrowed cube-van and found homes for it all.

I laid claim to an ancient set of aluminum measuring cups. Those cups, around some 60 years since my parent’s marriage, had constant use whether measuring dry goods in the kitchen or a multitude of other uses by me and my brothers.

We might be playing cowboys and Indians under the blanket-draped kitchen table, the humidifier blasting moist Vicks vapor-rub air into our lungs, little cups filled with treasures of raisins and chocolate chips ready for snacking. They were great bath toys: we used them to measure water and bubbles. And splash and pour.

They were guaranteed entertainment to an infant parked on the kitchen floor with a few cups and a wooden spoon. And infinitely durable.

Of course their primary use over the years was performing their intended function during all those years – my mother was an excellent baker. Our desserts were homemade. Pies, cookies, candy, cakes, oh my.

Her grandkids had a tradition of eating cinnamon toast at grandma’s house. The cinnamon and sugar mixture was stored in one of those battered aluminum measuring cups. The kids went right for the kitchen upon arrival and made toast.

So I have them now and use them just about every day. I just had some raisins served up in the 1/3 cup size measuring cup. Just like the old days. Funny that such a small thing provides so much comfort.

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Sepia Saturday - Ethel Ellen Billings Post

2010-02-12T11:57:00.001-08:00

1907 My maternal great grandparents and my grandmother.
She was the youngest of six children and the only one born in Oregon.

1908
1917

1918
Calistenics at Triangle High School

On back of photo - in Ethel's hand:

Triangle Lake
Blachley, Oregon 1918

Now houses are built around the lake - roads were muddy in winter - mail delivered 2 times a week - all had telephones - a horse-drawn stage was one way to go to Junction City.

Bobbed hair and ankles visible. The times a changing. She went off to Oregon Normal School in Monmouth and graduated a school teacher in 1927.

She taught elementary school for many years then switched to special education in the later years of her career. She taught until she was over 70. Upon retirement she became a volunteer for adult literacy.

She was the only grandmother I ever knew - and she was a very good one. We were a tightknit bunch right until she died in 1997, shortly before her 94th birthday.

A heartening number of her former students attended the funeral services.

This Is A Sepia Saturday Post. Click this link for more photographic history from fellow bloggers all over the place.

Theme Thursday - Mirror

2010-02-10T18:52:00.001-08:00

A man is a room.
There are no doors or windows.
The only things in the room (besides the man)
Are a table and a mirror.

How can he escape?

Simple.

He looks into the mirror

And sees what he saw.

With that saw he cuts the table in half.

Two halves make a whole.

So he climbs out the hole.

This story problem just popped into my head, I remember it from 7th grade algebra. Really, does that seem like a math lesson? Or logic? Hmmm, not sure if it was worth using gray matter all these many years – but there it was, waiting for just this moment in my life.

This Is A Theme Thursday Post. Click this link to check out what others have written on the subject of "Mirror".

Spring is coming

2010-02-09T11:20:00.000-08:00

Drama king

2010-02-06T16:05:00.000-08:00

Ah, poor boy is starving to death. Just wasting away...

Sepia Saturday - Marjorie Billings

2010-02-05T15:37:00.000-08:00

7/17/1917 - 3/03/1998

Marjorie and her father, George Billings, my maternal grandmother's eldest brother. George was 18 when my grandmother was born. My grandmother was 14 when Marjorie was born and they spent a lot of time together.

Marjorie was an only child.

Marjorie and her mother Mina on a picnic.

Marjory was the Lebanon Strawberry Queen.

Marjorie never married. She had one serious suitor but her parents didn't think he was good enough for her, much to my grandmother's chagrin.

Marjorie and George in 1960

This Is A Sepia Saturday Post. Click this link to check out what treasures others have posted on the subject.

Theme Thursday - Red

2010-02-03T13:55:00.000-08:00

The day began with a rush of excitement. She’d gotten all dolled up for the trip this morning, full makeup, great dress, and high, high heels. Tossing her long RED hair over her shoulder, gold highlights glinting in the sun, she’d set out to catch the Caltrain to San Francisco to spend the day in the city.

It was a perfect spring day: fluffy clouds scudding across blue skies; light wind gusts; throngs of people walking the sidewalks; street cars zipping by; fascinating buildings and storefronts. She’d dreamed about this adventure for so long. Now a reality! San Francisco was such a sophisticated city.

Now here she was. Her best friend was madly in love and wouldn’t come along on this trip – so she said “fuck it” and came alone. A friend of a friend lived in San Jose and let her stay there. San Jose was practically in San Francisco!

So here she was - on an exploratory visit to the city. She’d done a modeling class back home and had a portfolio with the requisite head shots. She was smart and young and beautiful. She’d figure out how to break into modeling.

In the afternoon she wearily caught Caltrain back to San Jose, glad to rest her tired feet. Once off the train, cursing her choice of footwear, she must have made a wrong turn while trying to backtrack the morning journey. She begins to think she is lost. Damn, damn, damn. She is getting a little worried.

Crossing through a park she hears someone yell, turns to see a man flash open his trench coat and expose his bare dick right at her. He is staring fixedly at her face, getting off on her terrified reaction. Flight. She screams and runs in the opposite direction. She is scared and alone and getting further lost. She begins to cry as she walks along the street.

But then up ahead she recognizes a landmark from this morning. Thankfully. She heads in that direction with a sigh of relief. She hears someone yell, turns to see a man flash open his trench coat and expose his bare dick right at her. Again. Second time in one day. He is staring fixedly at her face, anticipating a terrified reaction. But not this time. This time she turns on her heel and heads right for the perv screeching “You. Fucking. Cockbite.” So surprised by this response it takes him a moment to realize that she is getting way too close. He takes off running, his coat flapping in the wind.

This Is A Theme Thursday Post. Click this link to check out what others have written on the subject of "Red".

Wolf Moon

2010-02-01T11:21:00.000-08:00

I actually got out my camera operational manual to prep for some shots of the Wolf Moon the other night. I miss my old SLR cameras. I KNEW how to operate them. But there is that instant gratification factor the old timers just didn't provide...

And while the sky was too cloudy to get a shot of the moon I did learn how too shoot a nightsky photo. And I practiced on some rainy day shots:

I learned about a nifty tool that takes a normal shot

followed up by a flash shot.

Then of course, I practice on my long suffering companion.

Sepia Saturday - Leland Post

2010-01-27T14:18:00.001-08:00

1923 – 1991

My uncle, Leland Post, was the eldest son of my grandfather Elmer Post - with his first wife. Divorce was pretty scandalous at that time. My grandfather, who had a creamery and made cheese in Blachly Oregon, had full custody. My grandparents married in 1931 when Lee was eight. He saw his mother only infrequently. Ethel and Elmer had three children, my mother Helene, and uncles Lynn and Howard.

When Leland was a young boy, he was angry at his father and planned to run away from home. He didn’t have any money so he loaded up a wagon with cheese wheels and went around selling cheese for cheap. Elmer heard tell of it when one of the neighbors asked if something was wrong with the cheese since Leland was selling it for so little.

In 1941 my grandfather sold the creamery and started a logging business in Powers Oregon. Leland was 18 and moved with the family to help with the new business.

Poaching was commonplace in Coos County. A Powers cop stopped by for a chat with Grandma Ethel, who talked and talked, unaware Uncle Leland was butchering an out-of-season deer in the nearby woodshed. The conversation continued, “On and on and on” said Leland, as he stood paralyzed over a teetering pile of tin cans that threatened to fall and expose him.

In Masset, British Columbia, Canada

His daughter added the following:
I have two pictures you can add to your blog if you like. This one of my favorite pictures of Dad. He was training in Texas as a pilot just before the war ended.

Dad told me this story: He was practicing touch and go landings on base. The pilots were not supposed to fly if they had a cold and of course Dad had a cold and his ears were plugged up. As fate would have it, his plane was not in good repair (because of the war effort, the good equipment had been sent into battle) and he was having problems with his landing gear. So he set the plane down on its belly in front of a commanding officer. When the officer was questioning Dad about what happened; Dad couldn't hear the commander so Dad was shouting back and his superior officer thought Dad was being insubordinate. Oops!! It worked out fine in the end, but was "touch and go" for a minute.
In the end, the war ended before Dad was out of pilot training and he missed the war altogether.

Theme Thursday - Felt & Impression

2010-01-27T12:16:00.000-08:00

It is dark and dank in this place. And scary. The smell of pigeon shit and fusty soil are stuck in my nasal passages as I crouch, a loaded AK47 grasped so tightly in my right hand it makes an IMPRESSION. Heavy mud caked on my overalls weighs me down as I inch along toward safety. Flashes of gunfire light up the night sky behind me, followed abruptly by the cacophony of automatic weapons discharging. In that brief instant of light I can see I’m on the right path. My heart beats rapidly, fear makes my breathing hard. I hear a whisper. “Susan. Keep coming this way. Keep down.” Thank God, it’s Kevin. Kevin, my fearless and athletic lover, leads me through a maze of crumbling buildings away from our enemies. I stay at his heels as we slither through oozing mud, bird crap, and who knows what else, to a nearby two-story house, our reconnaissance point.

I send a silent pray of thankfulness to the heavens when we reach the interior unscathed. A wave of light from another burst of gunfire exposes the strained and pale faces of Patty and Dave, our team reunited. A plan evolves for two of us to sniper from the second floor vantage, the other two on the ground floor defense. I volunteer for the second floor action. So does Kevin. We wipe more mud on our faces for camouflage and ascend. Standing in complete stillness at the windows we watch for incoming movement. And it comes. Nearer and nearer. We’re not disclosing our advantage. We wait until they’re close enough to take out as many as possible. My heart, racing so hard as a new level of fear builds and builds until I can barely swallow. The enemy gets closer and closer, every forward movement one step closer to oblivion. Keep on coming baby. I’ve got them in my sights. Just a little more. Come on. Gunfire. Not from us. They’re wasting their ammo and losing any element of surprise. Hah.

I look at Kevin. He flashes me a grin, teeth white in their gun light, and gives me a nod. Okay. Here we go. I lock in on my scope. Depress my finger tight against the trigger to a resounding blast. One down. And another. There goes another. I see movement far too close. Oh damn, I FELT impact on my hand. My middle finger, stung and dripping.

Orange paintball.

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It's raining

2010-01-25T13:40:00.000-08:00

A little drizzle

Then a downpour

I love Julia

2010-01-24T11:00:00.000-08:00

Dear Jeanne:

There you are in the Middle Kingdom - craving French food. Certainly by now you've had the finest Chinese food available - something you'll be unable to get once you get home. But for now you're craving glorious butter. There is a certain irony in this...

I recall being so sick of Italian food after one mere month... I craved - get ready for it - Kentucky Fried Chicken - got a bucket from the colonel when I got home. That was probably the last time I've eaten at KFC... They do make an excellent coleslaw.

Speaking of irony, I'm reading Julia and cooking from Weight Watchers. I think it's your cookbook actually that I've ended up with somehow. Been doing the soups and the minestrone recipe therein is pretty damn good. So is the clam chowder.

Your cuz

Sepia Saturday - Uncle Minor

2010-01-22T14:48:00.000-08:00

My grandmother Ethel’s family travelled the Oregon Trail near the end of the great migration west. They left from Neligh Nebraska and made their way gradually to Oregon. Grandmother, born in 1903, was the only one of six siblings born in Oregon.

Her brother Minor Billings, born in 1890, was old enough to recall events from the time of the family journey. (I typed up some stories for him but will have to delve further to find them. I have not been as organized as I would wish.)

Minor was an avid fisherman from the get go. Here is his 1915 hunting license - I do have some of his fishing licenses.

Portrait of Minor in 1917

On the back of this photo is a notation in my grandmother's hand "A very fine person".

Franked enveloped dated Oct. 7, 1918 from Minor at Fort Lewis, Wa. Addressed to Miss Ethel Billings, Blachley, OR. And it made it!

Following WWI, Minor worked for the forest service until he retired at age 60. He married along the way although it was an unhappy union and he divorced.

Minor lived along some of the best fishing rivers in Oregon and had secret fishing holes up and down the coast range streams. He had a big station wagon that was always so filled with belongings there was only room for the driver.

In the last years of his life he moved in with grandma, (he died in 1986). They were always close. I have a great black & white photo of him at that time (also buried in my stacks of albums). He used to sigh and say “all the women wanted to kiss my toes when I was a baby but not now”. At 90+, go figure.

This Is A Sepia Saturday Post.
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Theme Thursday - Bread

2010-01-20T18:13:00.000-08:00

King's Hawaiian Bakery Sweet Bread, ono delicious bro!

I lived on the windward side of Oahu, with my husband Jim and my brother Michael. We were in our mid-twenties and having a roaring good time living in Hawaii.

We didn’t have a car in the early days but our apartment wasn’t far from the ocean. We’d jog over and have a swim or do a little boogie boarding.

We bought Hawaiian sling spears, rubber band propelled eight-foot metal tubes with three long prongs that spear the fish. I carted that sling around for miles and miles over the years but my single catch was a sea cucumber, a very sluggish creature creeping to its doom on the ocean floor. Jim and Michael quickly mastered the sling, Michael in particular caught lots of mahnini, elusive octopi and claw-less lobster. Once he killed a Moray eel and stuck it in the kitchen sink when he got home. The eel was only playing dead however. It slithered out of the sink and hid behind the refrigerator. I was fortunate to arrive in time for the hilarious sight of Michael cautiously angling out the refrigerator with one hand and his spear in the other while that cornered eel snapped at him.

We discovered a sandwich shop, “The Bread of Life”, within walking distance. We called it the “Bible Burger” because of bible quotes displayed on the walls, etc. What incredible wit. We really cracked ourselves up. Regardless, they made excellent sandwiches and smoothies. My brother was always flirting with the female staff. He made an impression on them by doing weird stuff like paying with wet money because he swam with his wallet in a pocket. Or ordering a “telli” burger. One momentous day, Michael and I stopped by after a swim for a bite to eat. There was a new girl behind the counter. Michael was trying his best to charm this girl. He noticed her looking at me and said “that’s my sister”. And I just sucker punched him. I looked at the girl, raised my left eyebrow, snarled my lip and said, with a dash of sarcasm, “yeah, he’s my brother”. She just didn’t buy it – no luck for my brother. I have delighted in that moment ever since.!

Try that Hawaiian Sweet bread if you have a chance. It is wonderful.

Or is you're in Kailua try "The Bread of Life" - it's still there.

This Is A Theme Thursday Post. Click this link to check out what others have written on the subject of bread.

Fog world

2010-01-19T11:43:00.001-08:00

I walk my dogs at this pioneer cemetary.

Fog is so deceptive and somehow elegant.

Here's my big guy - running off-leash! A two-year old who never avoids a mud puddle.

Me and grandma

2010-01-16T10:13:00.000-08:00

I'm busily scanning family photos, a task that I've finally begun.

My grandmother was a school teacher so there are a number of school photos of her.

To my horror I look just like her. Change the hair color to dark brown and there I am. Accckkkkkkk.

Theme Thursday - Surface

2010-01-13T18:26:00.000-08:00

Pinned.
Can’t move.
Pressure on my chest.
Gripped by terror.
Can’t breathe.
Heart pounding so hard I’m afraid it will burst from my chest.
Pinned.
Can’t move.
Can’t breathe.
I try to fight, can’t move.
Groan.

I hear “you’re dreaming, wake up”

And reality breaks through the surface of the nightmare.

I awake drenched in sweat, gasping for breath.

This Is A Theme Thursday Post. Click this link to check out what others have written on the subject of surface.

Trapped in the bathroom - revisited

2010-01-11T17:21:00.000-08:00

The move from Central Oregon to Yoncalla went quite well. I led the caravan at the wheel of a U-Haul van with Rosie cowering in her crate at my side and towing my ‘62 F100 pickup, next came Gus and Octavia in my car with Moose in the backseat, followed by Carlos bringing up the rear in Gus’s truck with Lilly and Bella strapped in their car seats.

Carlos had the little girls to entertain but they love their uncle and behave for him. Gus and Octavia enjoying some quality alone-time were hampered with Moose, aka Mr. Flatulence. Lots of time spent rolling down the windows whenever he cut a foul one. I figure I got the best of that deal. Gus actually suggested switching dogs at our one rest stop. Yeah, right.

Gus and Carlos began unloading as soon as we got to the new house while Octavia and I made a grocery run. We got back to find Gus searching for tools and Carlos nowhere in sight. Turned out he was locked in the bathroom. The door latch mechanism wouldn’t respond to turning the door handle. After a Keystone Kop routine we eventually figured the bathroom window was the only access point. Carlos took the screen out of the window, Gus handed him a straight-edge screwdriver, Carlos did some tweaking and freed himself. Of course we all had a big laugh.

We had a bigger laugh 20 minutes later when Octavia went into the very same bathroom, closed the door, and was trapped therein. Down to a science by now, she was freed in record time. Gus took the door off the hinges to prevent future incidents.

Next day, Gus reinstalled the door. I made a mental note to repair the door hardware. In the meantime I just left the door open.

Fast forward one week. Tyler came for the weekend. We unpacked. Tyler was sputtering comments like, “Why did you save this? Did you really need this?” Then the next thing I know we’re in Cottage Grove searching out thrift stores finds, trying to find new stuff to buy for my new house. Seemed ironic. At some point I informed my child that my intention was to never move again and that she would inherit EVERYTHING.
HA!

Well and good. Home again, I sauntered into the bathroom, closed the door. And was trapped. Tyler stood outside, taking delicate little bites of Jello tapioca (truly disgusting) and laughing. I’m locked in the bathroom, and my kid is taking inordinate pleasure from my dilemma while snacking on tapioca pudding. Hmmm. Go figure.

I said the previous lock-ins were Keystone Kops. For the record this lock-in was far beyond that. Bruised and battered from this whole move thing, I knew the bathroom window was the only way out. I also know my child is not that strong and perhaps just not that motivated to get me out (since she now knows she’ll inherit and who am I to interfer with a Jello tapioca pudding???) At my request, she got me the kitchen stepstool. Positioned right in front of the window, a very small window. She stands there snickering while I ponder a frontal move. Hmmm. Do I have the upper body strength to support the weight of my body as I wiggle out of this tiny little window or will I collapse on my face and take out my teeth?

I waited until my soon to be disinherited child, snacking away on pudding, had wandered out of view, before clambering out of the window (and indeed I had the requisite upper body strength necessary to pull my battered body out of that ridiculous little window). The door mechanism is currently disengaged.

Sepia Saturday - Oregon Creamery

2010-01-09T15:19:00.001-08:00

My grandfather, Elmer O. Post graduated from Oregon Ag (now Oregon State U - go Beavers) in 1917.

After college he opened a creamery and made cheese.

He operated a creamery for 24 odd years. He's the good looking man in the rubber apron. No bias here.

He was visiting us shortly after attending his 50th class reunion in 1967 - I remember asking him how he could possibly recognize anyone after 50 years. Impertinent. As that milestone approaches for me, it doesn't seem as improbable as it once did...

Oregon Truffles

2010-01-07T18:26:00.000-08:00

Photo courtesy of Oregon Truffle Festival

“In the rarified world of truffles, Oregon is known as the premier center of research and expertise outside of Europe.”

Who’d have guessed? We’re talking Eugene Oregon specifically, a mere 40 miles north from my home. There are a variety of events scheduled, for the well-heeled anyway: Cultivation Seminar; Growers' Forum; Truffle Dog Training – which is of particular interest to me. My black dog has a keen sense of smell and is pretty smart (of course). I could train my big boy but he’d scarf down any truffles he found – he eats orange sections for heavens sake.

I’ve read my share of the “A Year in Provence” genre and the subject of truffles get a lot of ink. But to date I have not tasted one. That is about to change. There is one event in my price range, for $20 I get truffles tastings, wine tastings, and a commemorative wine glass.

I’ll let you know. I may have found my calling.

http://www.oregontrufflefestival.com/news.html

Theme Thursday - Polka Dots

2010-01-07T09:47:00.001-08:00

polka dot piggies

This Is A Theme Thursday Post.

Animal crackers and cocoa to drink

2010-01-02T16:34:00.000-08:00

On a wintry dark and rainy evening animal crackers and cocoa were exactly what I wanted for my supper.

No cocoa to be found in the cupboard but a few squares 60% bittersweet chocolate melted in hot milk did the trick, a melting candy cane for my stirrer.

No animal crackers to be found alas, so substituted toasted sour dough cut in dunking strips. And all was well.

Animal crackers, and cocoa to drink,
That is the finest of suppers, I think;
When I’m grown up and can have what I please
I think I shall always insist upon these.

(Excerpt from Christopher Morley poem.)

Fearless Critic

2009-12-30T15:02:00.001-08:00

I lived in Portland in the late 1960s and some of my haunts still stand, like “The Original Pancake House” at the end of the Ross Island Bridge. It seems like my group were pretty much unemployed and we’d hang there eating pancakes, drinking endless cups coffee (free refills) and smoking cigarette after cigarette. Ah, fond memories hack, hack.

Restaurant venues in those days were blue collar American: Burger joints; pizzerias; breakfast chains; steak houses; bar food at taverns; one Greek cantina; fish houses; and “Chinese” – mainstream version of Mandarin. Taco Bells were just opening up and Mexican food was new to me and probably most of Portland, it seemed exotic, and I’m talking Taco Bell here. Go ahead and laugh.

In the ensuing 40 years good food has made it to Portland and I make it a point to try new places when I visit my daughter. We had some very good Turkish food for cheap, cheap, cheap on my last visit. She taught a course in Thailand a few years back so we’ve been frequenting Thai restaurants looking for the perfect green mango sticky rice dessert.

I’ve ordered this first edition restaurant guide for her birthday next week which “features brutally honest full-page reviews of 300 restaurants, coffee shops, food carts, and food stores”. I so love it when I buy someone a gift and it benefits me too! Is that selfish? Or just fortuitous?

Holiday fun

2009-12-28T09:17:00.000-08:00

We had the company of a ten-year old this Christmas. Miss M set the table in full holiday splendor - lining up every fork and spoon available. She adored the dogs - it was mutual.

Morning blues

2009-12-22T11:06:00.001-08:00

My beloved Cuisinart coffee maker has shut down. There is no l.e.d. indicator - no power - a serious event in the life of a coffee junkie. This has been a fine machine nicely grinding the coffee beans just prior to brewing, sweet scent of coffee wafting out to grab me by the throat - "come get your coffee" Ahhh.

So I got out the owners manual - three-year warranty - which expired 10/15/2009. Go figure.

This morning rather than get dressed and make a coffee run I opted for pomegranite green tea. I'm here to report its just not the same.

Almond Toffee Popcorn

2009-12-21T13:20:00.000-08:00

I've started on some Christmas goodies. While toasting the almonds and burning a CD simultaneously I nearly burnt the nuts.

My dogs love me cooking in the kitchen. They are always available for floor cleanup.

This is a first time to make this recipe in this rain planet. I'm concerned the popcorn may get soggy.

Almond Toffee Popcorn Recipe

1 cup sugar
1/2 cup butter
1/2 cup white corn syrup
1/4 cup water
1 cup almonds, chopped and toasted
1/2 tsp vanilla
1/2 cup popcorn kernels - popped

In heavy saucepan, combine sugar, butter, corn syrup, water and almonds. Cook over a moderate heat to 280 degrees F on candy thermometer.

Add the vanilla. Stir well and pour over the popped corn.

Recipe from That's My Home.com

I stand corrected

2009-12-21T12:18:00.001-08:00

So much for my recollection that Julia's husband wrote the following for their wedding anniversary. It's much tamer than I recall!

Birthday 1961

O Julia, Julia, cook and nifty wench,
Whose unsurpassed quenelles and hot souffles,
Whose English, Norse and German, and whose French,
Are all beyond my piteous powers to praise --
Whose sweetly rounded bottom and whose legs,
Whose gracious face, whose nature temperate,
Are only equalled by her scrambled eggs:

Accept from me, your ever-loving mate,
This acclamation shaped in fourteen lines
Whose inner truth belies its outer sight;
For never were there foods, nor were there wines
Whose flavor equals yours for sheer delight.
O luscious dish! O gustatory pleasure!
You satisfy my taste buds beyond measure.

PAUL CHILD

Julie & Julia

2009-12-18T16:36:00.000-08:00

I watched “Julie & Julia” recently, a movie about Julie Powell, an aspiring writer who starts a blog (in 2002!!! man, I don’t think I’d ever even heard the term then.) about cooking her way through Julia Child’s “Mastering the Art of French Cooking” 524 recipes in one year. The film is interspersed with scenes of Child’s life in France learning to cook and is based on her autobiography.

It was a sure bet I’d like this film as I am a confirmed foodie - which is how I keep my girlish, whoops, make that matronly figure. That and I’ve admired Julia Child for decades and used to watch her TV show. I recall one particular program where Julia read a poem on air, a wedding anniversary poem actually, written by her husband Paul; they’d been married a very long time by then. The poem’s title is “Julia’s Bottom”. Hearing Julia read this poem was both humorous and unsettling. I didn’t want to consider their sexual attraction. Sort of like thinking about your parents…

But now that I’m a woman of a certain age, I quite like that Paul Child wrote such a delightful poem regarding his wife’s hiney. I’d be very flattered for my derriere to inspire such devotion.

Theme Thursday - Herstory

2009-12-17T06:23:00.000-08:00

My family: Keith, Helene, Michael and I, lived in the Coos Bay Timber Co.’s Sitkum logging camp housing, built close to the east fork of the Coquille River. Sitkum, a small community in a narrow valley of the coastal range, thrived in the post WW2 boom. Eisenhower was president, timber was plentiful, the housing market strong. Times were good.

Mom worked at the camp cookhouse to earn money for a piano. She’d take us along and Michael and I got to choose a little carton of cereal and then eat it right out of the box, a big treat. The excitement level was high when the long yearned for piano was delivered. Dad played his guitar and Mom played the piano one-handed with the cornet in the other for an occasional toot. We kids danced and sang. Our Post grandparents doted on us and loved to watch our performances thinking us quite brilliant.

Bruce was born during this time. I remember a very pregnant Mom gone to Myrtle Point for doctor appointments while Dad cooked up pancakes in shapes of dinosaurs and whales for Michael and my dinner. A record flood overflowed the banks of the river, stranding our community in the spring of 1957, before Bruce turned one year. The National Guard evacuated us by “duck”, amphibious tanks into Myrtle Point. When we boarded Mom handed Bruce up and over the side of the duck to a soldier who released him on the deck and Bruce took his first steps.

My parents bought a small two-bedroom house under construction a few miles from the logging camp. It was framed but the interior wasn’t done so Dad and Mom did the finish work with lots of help. A bunch of friends showed up one Saturday with a truck load of plywood for a housewarming party. They laid the flooring in an afternoon then gave it a tryout as a dance floor that evening. Michael and I were put to bed, not to sleep though as there was an intriguing gap in the wall between our bedroom and the bathroom. From our observation point on the top bunk we watched the adults using the toilet until our giggles gave us away and we got a good scolding for our efforts.

Our house sat on a hilltop in a Myrtle tree grove, (their fragrant leaves suspiciously identical to the bay leaf Mom cooked in spaghetti sauce). Our land was rampant with wild blackberries and poison oak. We were all susceptible to poison oak rash, except Michael who’d show-off his immunity by rubbing the leaves on his body and never getting a rash. Household water was pumped from a year-round stream running through a forested section of the property. Michael and I caught a small trout swimming there with our bare hands. It was still squirming as we rushed it home and Mom fried it up for our lunch.

We were neighbored on one side by the Laird dairy, where we bought our milk, and by the Reynolds ranch on the other. Michael and I would climb over the fence and explore the dairy property. An ancient rusted car captured our imagination – it was so far from a road, we couldn’t imagine how it came to that end. We’d catch a cow and squirt warm milk into each others mouth. We played constantly with the Reynolds kids, Joe, and Susie. We’d walk out in the field where their horses grazed, halters hidden behind our backs, and lure them close enough with sugar cubes or carrots to pop on the halters and take off. We disdained saddles. We’d play cowboys and Indians, shooting at each other with imaginary guns, waiting for a big patch of scouring rush to fall into when “shot”.

Mom built a tree-house platform for us in a Myrtle tree near the house. Michael fell off and landed on his back one day. I scrambled down in time to see big bubbles foaming from his mouth. He was rushed to the hospital in Myrtle Point Hospital for treatment, leaving a forlorn me behind. We were tight, 22 months apart, and I worshipped the ground he walked on. I have a memory fragment of him standing in the corner for punishment while I cried beside him in sympathy.

Traveling 27 car-rattling miles from Sitkum to Myrtle Point over a narrow twisting gravel road wash boarded from logging trucks was an event. It took a minimum of one hour. The road, not wide enough to merit a center-line, hugged a bit of hewed-out ground, landslide prone hills on one side and a deep gorge sheerly dropping into the faraway silvery ribbon of the river on the other. There were no guard rails to keep our car from hurtling down into the massive rock encrusted maw of the gorge save for a massive Douglas Fir log seated on the barest edge of a cliff on one particularly wicked curve. Each blind corner hid certain death if a log truck came barreling along at the precise instant as our car. There was a definite thrill factor in a simple trip to town, for me anyway. I never slept during the ride along the gorge, certain my vigilance increased the odds of a safe trip. I’d feign sleep once I’d spotted the dairy so Dad would carry me into the house.

Sometimes Mom ran a quick errand leaving us waiting in the car. Michael had a recurring fantasy that kidnappers lurked nearby and he spun defense tactic after tactic in preparation. Once he sounded the alarm, Bruce and I were instructed to jump out of the car and run screaming at the top of our lungs into the nearest public place (a sidewalk width away) while he fought off our attackers with his trusty pocket knife, or better yet his hatchet. I don’t think Mom ever sensed the danger we’d faced in her absence.

During the school year a tiny yellow school bus picked us up at the end of our road and delivered us to the Sitkum School. The school had two classrooms, grades one through four in one, five through eight in the other. An office for the principal served double duty as a library, one wall anyway. The bookmobile arrived on a regular schedule supplementing our book supply. I checked out “Little Toot” as often as I was allowed. The school grounds had a house for the teachers, usually a married couple. A fine gym was in a third building. It had basketball grade floors where we roller-skated on Thursday afternoons. A cafeteria occupied the lower floor where hot lunch was prepared daily. A stage overlooking the gym was used for school plays, community events, and church services.

The Reynolds family went to church regularly and I often tagged along. We’d be sitting in our row of folding chairs, I’d listen as the sermon began, and then the pastor’s voice would fade to a pleasant drone in the background as I became immersed in the play of light streaming through the windows. After most sermons Mrs. Alice Stroud, a doughy faced statuesque woman dressed in a full-skirted cotton dress, would warble bird calls. It was a joy to hear. Western Meadowlarks, purple finches and golden-crested sparrows, not that I discerned the different calls, it was just so amazing to watch this grandmotherly figure pucker up her lips and create magnificent bird song.

Mom sewed all of my clothes. I loved pedal pushers. She favored dresses with puffy sleeves, full skirts with big sashes tied in the back, some vision of a demure little girl futilely lodged in her brain. Dresses were required for girls so off to school I’d go in a flouncy dress, all neat and tidy. I’d come home with my dress crumpled and dirty, and likely with new scrapes on my legs. She despaired over the state of my scratched and bruised legs.

Mild weather conditions and fertile soil produced a wealth of vegetables from our garden. We feasted on heaping plates of sliced tomatoes daily as long as the season lasted. Mom canned green beans and tomatoes from the garden. We made a yearly produce run to Roseburg for peaches and apples. Her canned peaches were highly prized; we kids preferred them to fresh. Piquant aromas scented the kitchen when Mom made mincemeat, a mix of ground elk neck meat, onions, and apples, with cider, raisins and spices. Come winter she’d bake exceptional mincemeat pie so good even the bottom crust was flaky.

We ate dinner at the kitchen table together every night. Mom must have aced nutrition in home-ec. We had meat, potatoes, and three colors of vegetables at every dinner followed by homemade dessert. Mom is a fine cook - of most things, the exception is meat, that woman can take the best cut of meat and desecrate it to a state of jerky. I was scolded every night because I’d chew that stringy meat, savoring whatever juice I could find, and then spit out the gray remains on my plate. One evening Mom called us to dinner once – where we watched in astonishment as she poured a glass of milk on the table saying “Now, we’ve got that out of the way” as she wiped up the spill then sat down to eat.

Mom and Dad were voracious readers. Dad read us our nightly bedtime stories; childrens rhymes, legends and lore. He’d change the storyline or his voice to keep our attention. He read the Book of Revelations to us, not a particularly good choice for his imaginative children. For a sixth birthday party Michael and friends (Bruce and I deemed too young) saw a horror movie, “The Blob” in Myrtle Point. Michael suffered horrendous nightmares for months, thrashing about groaning in terror until he woke screaming. That experience eliminated any chance of scary movies for me and Bruce.

Using directions gleaned from a “Popular Mechanics” magazine Dad built a cannon for sheer fun. Bruce had a big rubber ball that perfectly fit the barrel. Dad set the charge then fired the cannon and we kids retrieved the ball for round after round until Bruce tired of the chase and reclaimed his ball. We had a telescope and dark, dark nights, free from city sky glow. Dad taught us to identify stars and constellations.

We got television when I was six, a black and white Zenith. The signal was spotty, the reception cloudy with ghosts and static, but usually clear enough to catch a good western. “Have Gun Will Travel” , “Maverick” and “Gunsmoke” were favorites of the entire family. Dad bought an issue of “Mad Magazine”, the first I’d seen, the feature story spoofing Matt Dillon and Miss Kitty in “Gunsmoke”. We watched in wonder when the storyline of the next episode of “Gunsmoke” was the same as the spoof.

During the summers Dad worked the “hoot owl” shift, leaving for the woods when it was dark to cut timber before the day got too hot and increased fire danger. He’d get home early so we’d load up the car and head to one of many swimming holes for the afternoon. Mom often packed a picnic dinner. I’d dog paddle in the shady shallows near the bank, chasing after minnows and crawdads. I learned to swim in the warm, green river water.

Myrtle Point, the county seat, hosted the fair every July. I’d be overcome with excitement during the tortuously slow trip into town, imagining the scent of cotton candy in the air, the vivid colors of the merry go round, carnies hawking kewpie dolls and goldfish swimming in water filled plastic bags, the swell of music, swarms of people everywhere, the main street parade. We’d make a candy run at the dime store then line up along the street to watch the parade. Some years Jeanne would ride by, wearing a cowboy hat and dressed in fancy western garb, her horse prancing on the pavement. I’d swell with pride at that sight, my cousin in the parade. We’d meet up with Grandma and Grandpa who took us kids to the rodeo while the folks went honky tonky-ing at the fair dance.

We kids spent the weekend at Powers or at Bob and Carol’s ranch in Broadbend. Poor Uncle Bob, four women in the household and only one bathroom, an array of Avon products like a yellow bottle of Topaz lotion, decorating the counter, the bathroom always smelled sweet. Broadbend had one store/gas station, a community church, and a grade school. Betsy, Jeanne and Gayle had, wonder of wonders, a charge account at the market. The market had a small selection of toys and somebody usually bought me a minuscule plastic tea set that usually lasted for two tea parties before coming apart at the seams. I had a penchant for tea parties, sometimes Aunt Carol allowed me to use her “Desert Rose” China tea set for full blown tea parties.

We’d sleep in the screened summer porch, zipping two sleeping bags together. All of us kids would squirm into the sleeping bags, laughing and talking in the dark. We could fart at will so a dare game evolved where one by one we took turns at the bottom while the others all broke wind. Being able to hold my breath for a limited time I was delighted to find an air gap where the two bags zipped together. It later turned out that everyone had discovered the same gap.

We’d breakfast on dry cereal with fresh cream from the previous nights milking. We were water dogs, the river was nearby and warm in July and we’d spend most of the day diving and splashing in the water with a bunch of Broadbend kids, not a parent in sight. On the way home we’d swing by the market and buy fudgecicles on account.

The Oregon Centennial in 1959 was a statewide celebration of life and industry. Timber was king and the search was on for the biggest tree in the state for exhibit at the State Forestry Center. That tree, a majestic 286-foot high Douglas Fir, was found deep in the woods not far from Sitkum. International Harvester sent a photographer and a film crew from Chicago to document the event. School was closed for the day. The community flocked to the site to witness the tree being logged. There was my father putting on his spurs, wrapping his ropes around the Herculean tree trunk and climbing higher and higher with his chainsaw in one hand lobbing off branches in the way until he reached the perfect height to slice off the tree crown. It fell with a resounding boom, the big tree swaying in the wake with Dad holding tight, so very, very far from the ground. It was a glorious moment. In the aftermath Dad was dubbed “Keith the Giant Killer” in the Oregonian and on a film reel we watched at the school. Dad was kidded for years about that name.

That day was the pinnacle of logging in the area. My early childhood was one long sunny day, surely a state of mind because although Sitkum sits in a banana belt, it gets 50 inches of rain annually.

This Is A Theme Thursday Post.

White Christmas - Thank you Irving Berlin

2009-12-10T16:13:00.000-08:00

Lady of Wellington's "White Christmas" post on Theme Thursday reminded me that my grandmother had the “White Christmas” sheet music, usually standing on the piano music stand. I’d riffle through just to look at the cover all through the year. This memory segued into the following:

I’ve loved Christmas as long as I can remember. The excitement of the season as a child was an escalating flurry of fun. It began early in December with Mom baking and making candy. We kids helped where we could, (read that to mean we ate the broken cookies and licked the frosting bowl.) Mom had a gift with sweets, her goody plates were legend. The house smelled of sugar for weeks.

We’d make a foray into the dime store in Myrtle Point to select gifts for the siblings. I’d forget my purpose and wander mesmerized down dimly lit rows admiring its wares: pots and pans, coffee pots, wooden clothespins, dolls, miniature tea sets, board games and puzzles, rings and bracelets, tools, pill boxes, bubble bath gel balls, jump ropes, hula hoops, metal jacks and balls, marbles, stationery, powder, rock candy, and best of all, rainbow colored all-day suckers prominently displayed at the checkout counter. I’d buy Mennen Skin Bracer for Dad, toys for my brothers, and a box of Life Savers for Grandma.

Anticipation for Christmas was enhanced by the thrill of the annual downtown Christmas display, ropes of lights stretched across the street, and an aloft Santa Claus riding in his reindeer drawn sleigh in center place.

My family spent Christmas with my mother’s relatives during my youth. The Christmas tree was off in one corner of the living room, secured in place by a guy wire to the ceiling. This was a precaution because of me. One year my Post grandparents stopped to visit my Grandfather Thompson and in my enthusiasm to show them Pappy’s tree I climbed it, toppling it with most of the ornaments breaking in the fall. Pappy never had another tree and the Post household had a guy wire on their tree henceforth.

We got to open one gift - selected by Mom - on Christmas Eve, usually a game to keep us occupied a bit. Brother Michael, two years my senior, and I would be so excited by Santa’s impending visit that it was hard to sleep on Christmas Eve.

Our Uncle Lynn often made things worse. He’d get us all crying and carrying on just for fun, mean fun, telling us he’d be lighting a fire in the fireplace to keep that old, fat man with his bag full of gifts from coming down the chimney. Or one year waking us up in the middle of the night to say he’d bought us a pony and it was out in the machine shop – no pony of course, but we were wide awake after walking clear back there.

Mom didn’t approve of Lynn’s behavior and got subtle revenge on him by sending us in to jump on his bed and sing at the top of our lungs early in the morning. He’d invariably been uptown boozing the night before and was trying to sleep it off, (yes New York City, Powers Oregon has an uptown too).

Finally it would be Christmas Day. Michael and I’d wake up at first light but weren’t allowed to open any presents until Grandpa got up and we’d eaten breakfast. That man worked hard and liked to sleep in on his days off. He also liked to torture us on Christmas Day. We’d go into his bedroom begging him to wake up. Again and again. In the meantime Mom and Grandma cooked breakfast so by the time Grandpa did arise we were set to eat. An incredibly slow meal it seemed.

Then finally, finally, finally we got to open presents.

Merry Christmas

Theme Thursday - Snow Day

2009-12-09T18:16:00.001-08:00

More like an ice day...

Now this is a snow day.

This Is A Theme Thursday Post.

Early Christmas present for me

2009-12-09T13:15:00.000-08:00

I cashed in some airline miles and got an Ipod touch. It arrived today. So far I've figured out how to play music - the sound is good. Will need to master the apps feature!

My friend Teresa makes playlists for her various exercise routines. Yeah right, I can really see me doing that... What tunes work well with walking the hounds?

Mutant Message Down Under

2009-12-07T14:35:00.000-08:00

I volunteer at the local library one day a week. Sometimes its special projects but frequently I’m in the stacks shelving books and tidying rows. Browsing the many books I handle results in a constant supply of reading material to take home.
All sorts of books make the cut.

Case in point: Mutant Message Down Under. The book notes say this is a woman’s spiritual odyssey with the Aborigines in Australia. I’ve got a certain fascination with Australia. Have two beautifully illustrated “dreamtime” books with Aboriginal creation myths. Loved “Thornbirds” and “A Town Like Alice”. So I checked out MMDU and brought it home.

I enjoyed reading about the Aboriginal telepathy abilities, likened to a cell phone without the phone. Yeah, I liked that. No more phone to keep track of or batteries to charge. There was a bit about well telepathy works with child rearing – i.e., the child’s naughty thought goes out into the ether and then all the adults are looking at the kid, saying “nope” in the kid’s head. There was a lot about the Aborigine being the “first people” and their efforts not to impact the environment.

A disclaimer stated this is a fictional work but I am gullible in many things (and I do hate to admit that) so I somehow forgot about that and began considering this a true story. I wondered if the American author, Marlo Morgan, was still in Australia, etc., so off to Wikipedia I went in search of answers.

And found a veritable firestorm from Aboriginal groups stating Ms Morgan’s message was false and misrepresented Aboriginal culture. A further search found a group of Aborigines travelling to the states to confront Ms Morgan - which supposedly resulted in an apology by the author for representing the work as truth. Do we ever really know?

Ah well, it was fun while it lasted.

Oh I am a happy gardener today

2009-12-01T18:39:00.000-08:00

Look what came in the mail!

I'll be spending these long wintry evenings curled up in my easy chair, hot tea at my side, glasses perched on my nose, perusing this catalog and planning my spring garden.

Visions of celeriac root, sweet peas, and heirloom tomatoes dance through my head.

Ruralite

2009-12-01T08:43:00.000-08:00

I’m glancing through the August copy of Central Electric Ruralite this evening, relaxing until my tv program airs. The Ruralite is a monthly energy magazine for us outback souls off PGE or Pacific Power grids.

Flip, flip. I find the editorial cartoon. And get a chuckle from the caption. Yeah, right. People look forward to getting this rag?

I realize that I do look forward to each new edition. Not for the energy articles. I scan them feeling the need to be current on fuel cell development or harnessing wind power.

The odd article turns up double-duty for old air conditioners: you can warm your water for free using the handy tips included.

I browse through the feature human-interest story. A country slant typically featuring musical folks, once in a while some of them even live here on the Butte. Flip, flip.

I’m nearing the section near and dear to my easily entertained heart. Flip, flip.

Good reproduction on the recipe photo page – “Blueberry, Apricot & Pear Salad with Almonds” sounds interesting until I discover the majority of the ingredients are canned. Food snob – or food purist - attitude intrudes and I quickly turn the page.

And then, here it is. Each month I’m afraid this section is going to get cut. But it’s here once again, saved from the axe for another month.

“At Home” page, “Odds” heading:

“Looking for crochet patterns for poodle toilet tissue cover and hair spray cover. Kenna in Pahrump, NV.“ Pahrump, harump. Immediate visual of a crocheted poodle toilet tissue cover in shades of lavender made circa 1970 by my beloved mother-in-law. What she was thinking when she crafted this thing is beyond me. Living in a household of four men at that time, hmmm. I’d bet not one of them ever lifted out a disguised roll of toilet tissue from that poodle and replaced the empty on the spindle. Definitely an aberration, she has such good taste otherwise. No hair spray cover yet I can see and almost smell that big ole can of Aqua-Net.

“Searching for words to song “In the Shadow of the Pines” Ellen in Reedsport, OR. In the pines, in the pines, where the sun never shines and you shiver when the cold wind blows. Nah, probably not the same song.

“Need new rollers for my antique hand-crank wringer washer. John in Brookings, OR. There’s an image. Is thinking old hippie judgmental? In the coastal pines, in the coastal pines, where the sun never shines…

“Want a pattern book for knitted animals. Some of the patterns are tigers, hippo, snake and parrot. Beverly in Noti, Or.” Whew, not much to do in Noti. What ultimately happens to all those knitted animals?

That's all folks. So much for my entertainment until next month.

Antique Roadshow

2009-11-30T13:18:00.000-08:00

The Antique Roadshow was a highly organized event. My 9:30 a.m. tickets were the second wave, with a new round of 700 tickets every 90 minutes. A fast moving queue, considering the crowd, gave me a chance to see other people’s treasures as I inched along. Each person was required to bring a minimum of one item and two maximum. Staffers worked a table outside the appraisal area issuing markers for each item category (mine was glass). An usher led me to the correct appraisal tables.

I got out my candlesticks and the sugar bowl and ran through my spiel, “family history has this bowl coming around Cape Horn”. I mentioned I’d been told the candlesticks were signed at which point the appraiser said she wanted a more knowledgeable appraiser to look at these things. I’m thinking, “All right, I’ve got real treasures!” So next stop is a gap-toothed portly fellow with one wandering eye who I’ve seen on TV. I repeated the Cape Horn story. He replied that stories about family pieces are often embellished. Hmmm, not a good sign. End result: the sugar bowl was made around 1910 with an inferior grade of glass, which is why it is turning pink. It probably sold in a dime store and is currently worth about $40.

However the candlesticks, circa 1920, were deemed a lovely example of (not signed) pressed glass, and currently worth $250 - $300, a nice increase on $20 spent in 1972.

Note from my cousin in Shanghai

2009-11-28T10:34:00.000-08:00

...after work, I jumped on a city bus with no idea where it was headed. I just wanted to experience the freedom of seeing new sights while taking in the familiar sounds of the city. I ended up getting off in a very old, established part of town. It was dark by then and all the beautiful lights and Chinese Lanterns were aglow with vibrant colors. I meandered through narrow, stone streets lined with open air eateries, little flower shops, fruit stands, and vendors from every corner of China. Since I was already bundled in my winter garb I decided to have coffee and plate of local Chinese food at an outside table set up for pedestrians. It was so cold that I could see my breath, but very exhilarating.

Cranberry Grape Salad

2009-11-27T14:57:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving this year with my brother's family. Sometimes my contributions take a theme, like molded foods. This was a "Pink" year: Raspberry Chiffon Pie and Cranberry Grape Salad.

My mom came across this recipe in the mid 1960s and it's been a holiday tradition ever since. The sweet grapes counterpoint the tart cranberries - and the whipped cream just pushes the combination into the realm of heavenly.

Seedless grapes were not available in Oregon in those early days - so Mom would hand everyone within reach a paring knife and enforce the grapes were pitted. Escaping this onerous task became a game for all in the know, including my grandmother, cousins, sister-in-law and brothers. The salad is so good that somebody would relent (sometimes Mom).

Helene’s Cranberry Grape Salad

12 oz package fresh cranberries
1-1/2 cup sugar
1-1/2 cup whipping cream plus 2 Tbl. Sugar
1-1/2 lb grapes
¾ cup chopped nuts (optional)

Grind cranberries in food processor. Mix in sugar. Put in colander and let drain 8 hours or overnight.

Quarter grapes. No grumbling. It's sooo much easier these days.

Whip cream and add 2Tbl. Sugar. Fold into cranberries. Add grapes.

Enjoy.

Gingersnaps

2009-11-21T08:24:00.000-08:00

Christmas music should only be played after Thanksgiving but there is no wrong time for gingersnap cookies. I make a batch of the following recipe, freeze in balls, then bake whenever I feel the urge for a warm cookie and a glass of milk.

I bought some at Heathrow a couple years ago, made by Prince Charles’ company (I admit to a silly fascination with him – being incredibly wealthy makes one remarkably better looking – and there aren’t any princes in Oregon…). Those cookies had little chunks of crystallized ginger baked in and were decidedly good.

I searched the internet and the following recipe fills all my requirements for an excellent gingersnap.

Gingersnaps with Crystallized Ginger
(from a Real Simple recipe)
4 1/4 cups ap flour
1 tbsp baking soda
1/2 tsp salt
2 tsp ground ginger
1 tsp cinnamon
1/2 tsp ground cloves
1/2 tsp cardamom
1/2 tsp ground black pepper
1/2 cup butter, at room temperature
1 3/4 cups granulated sugar, plus more for coating
2 large eggs
1/2 cup molasses
1 tbsp balsamic vinegar
1 tsp pure vanilla extract
1/3 cup crystallized ginger, finely chopped

In a large bowl, sift together flour, baking soda, salt, ginger, cinnamon, cloves, cardamom and black pepper.
In another large bowl, cream together butter and sugar. Add eggs in one by one, followed by molasses, balsamic vinegar and vanilla. Either by hand or with the mixer on low speed, gradually stir in all the flour, adding the minced ginger with the last addition. Stir until all flour is combined.
Form dough into 1- 1 1/2 inch balls, roll in extra sugar and place on baking sheet. Press cookies to flatten slightly and bake for 10-12 minutes at 375, until browned around the edges.
Makes 5 dozen.

Late?

2009-11-19T08:00:00.000-08:00

Theme Thursday

I heard the first Christmas carol on November 16. Turns out that radio station is playing round the clock Christmas music from that moment until the season is over. Since their season began November 16 - I figure it will end after New Years Day.

Their underlying motive is to get consumers spending. Guess it will work on me as I will be buying lots of music for my car trips.

It’s not late enough !!!!

Me and the heater, day 3

2009-11-18T16:59:00.000-08:00

My project is done. After making numerous trips to the hardware store (looking a fool each and every time due to my inability to name that part…), a blood blister on my left index finger, bruised knuckles and sore knees, warm air is radiating throughout my house. As enticing as a crackling fire in the fireplace looks, thermostat regulated air temperature is hard to beat…

I undertake these projects, partly from absolute belief that I CAN do anything with the correct manual written in English and partly because I’m exceeding frugal – perhaps parsimonious. It surprises me however that I get this stuff to work. Because I don’t have that clear of an understanding of HOW it all works. I’m peeved at myself after all these decades that I never took Physics – I’m convinced that is THE class where the root of all practical understanding lies. I am nothing if not practical so the valuable lessons I missed learning is mind boggling.

My daughter, rudely, says I can take Physics now. Of course I can. I can also learn how to be a brain surgeon and a rocket scientist, except I faint at the sight of blood and there’s no way in hell I would EVER go into space. Jet planes are bad enough – beyond gravity is out of the question for me. Space is just a huge coffin in my mind. Ah, I digress.

Me and the heater

2009-11-17T12:17:00.000-08:00

I’ve spent many hours installing an oil heater (OH). I’ve had this unit for three winters and it has always behaved perfectly. But me and OH moved in March and OH has been hanging out on the back porch waiting to be installed in the big house.

My neighbors came over and moved the 200 gal. oil tank into place on Sunday. So yesterday I made a trip to the local hardware store buying a 2-1/2 in. hole-saw drill bit and brass compressions fittings for copper pipe. I broke out my bad-boy electric drill, loaded the new bit and promptly drilled a huge hole in an outside wall. Between the interior wall and the exterior wall was nada. No insulation. Hmmm.

I got the exhaust pipe fittings installed on the second attempt. I drilled another hole for the 3/8” copper pipe and discovered to my frustration that I’d drilled on the wrong side of the exhaust pipe. Hey, I had a job interview in the morning and blame it for addling my brain… At that point I called it a day.

First thing this morning I drilled a NEW hole for 3/8” copper pipe. Note to self – buy some plugging material at the hardware store for the first hole… Attached the compression fittings to the copper pipe using all runnels on hand plus two more I bought on second trip to hardware store. I have to relearn this task each and every time I do a plumbing project.

I ran the copper pipe outside to the tank (my brother was very impressed that I could do this on my own). In the rain with wet, smelly dogs underfoot. Put away all the outside tools and equipment. Plugged in OH – clicked the “ON” button – lit right up. Then sang the “error, error, error” song.

I probably have to bleed the bleedin line of air bubbles.

teepee in snow

2009-11-15T15:42:00.000-08:00

Powell Butte morning

2009-11-11T14:20:00.000-08:00

Black & White

2009-11-10T10:33:00.000-08:00

I've been organizing my photos. I'm fond of these shots.

Theme Thursday - Telephone

2009-11-10T10:18:00.000-08:00

Ring. Ring. Ring.

In the early days of telephone technology the family telephone was on a party line. Due to a finite number of phone lines installed and available, nearby households shared a land line. The phone rang at each home for every incoming call. Each household had an identifying ring, one long and two short was ours. The phone company provided the telephones, heavy black ones with no rotary dial. To make a call you picked up the hand unit, an operator answered and you asked to be connected to your three digit number.

Mom and Dad had very strict eavesdropping rules. We were not allowed to listen in on other people’s calls. I was sneaky and nosey although the location of the phone made listening in prohibitive. I was persistent however so once in a while an unsupervised moment and an incoming call coincided. I’d pick up and listen in, a resulting a click on the line alerting the caller to the fact someone was listening. “Who’s there, who is this?” but I’d be very quiet and eventually the conversation resumed. Not for long though. I’d hear Mom walking my way, her radar alerted to sudden silence. I’d put the phone down very quietly and quickly find an acceptable activity, a picture of innocence.

Mrs. Potato Head

2009-11-09T10:06:00.001-08:00

I used to pose my daughter's toys for photo opps. back in the old 35mm days.

Tim Sly

2009-11-08T10:21:00.000-08:00

Theme Thursday: Friend.

This is a re-post from earlier this month.

My friend Tim Sly died Friday. Of cancer.

I was the building manager at a newspaper. A corporate visit, a big whoop-de-doo, scheduled a few months out generated a rush to gussy up our old building. I hired Tim to do the construction work. That’s how we met.

He did a fine job on our project. When the assistant building manager position opened up he applied and I happily hired him, I think that was 1995. He’d just finished a huge building project for the V.A. in Vancouver and wanted to work in town for a change. He’d been self-employed forever – paid vacation, holidays, and sick leave were a delightful novelty. Tim joked this newspaper job was his retirement. He always had my back in the guerilla warfare environment of a big corporate newspaper.

Tim was 6’8” tall. I always felt like a delicate flower walking next to him – not common at my 5’8’’. His wife, Angie, is maybe 5’. I’d see them walking downtown, his hand on her shoulder. It was cute.

We became friends as well as colleagues. Tim had a great sense of humor and was always good for a laugh. He learned PhotoShop and for awhile I’d find pictures of me taped to my office door, my face pasted on unlikely bodies. He was just a big kid – he pulled practical jokes like shrink-wrapping cars on their owner’s birthdays.

Tim was a foodie, into gourmet cooking, and willing to spend great chunks of time making the perfect sauce. I certainly benefited, loved those dinner invitations. The man collected cooking gadgets. He loved all manner of gadgets to be precise. We had that in common as well. We both enjoyed excellent coffee and made the daily trek for a good cup.

I moved across the state in 2001 and missed that daily contact with Tim. The internet played a huge role in our maintaining contact. And a previously unknown talent emerged: He wrote wonderful stories, vignettes of his life. He wrote one about witnessing the birth of his first grandchild that was so moving it brought tears to my eyes. He sent a copy of his wedding toast to his son, profound and also moving. He sent jokes and photos. He sent a collage of his deep-fried turkey event (there’s that love of gadgets again.)

He was my role model that a good and happy marriage is possible. He and Angie renewed their vows shortly before he died - see, what a romantic.

He always brought a smile to my face when I saw him or got an email from him. I knew he’d impart some good cheer or some smartass comment guaranteed to bring a laugh.

A fine man indeed.

Rest in peace my dear friend.

Rainy day

2009-11-07T15:16:00.000-08:00

indolently snuggled in bed this dreary morning
listening to rain drum on the roof

Castle Gruyere

2009-11-05T16:51:00.000-08:00

We ended up in Switzerland by chance. The gondola at Chamonix was closed on the Italian side of Mount Blanc, my dream foiled by an Italian holiday.

So we caught a train that wound up and around the Alps. I kept expecting to see Heidi and her herd of goats. We figured out we were in Switzerland at the Matigny train station, “Swiss.com” signs were posted everywhere. In retrospect, passing by the Materhorn should have been a clue.

My daughter lobbied to visit the HR Giger Museum. We were in Switzerland after all, and this trip is all about the spirit of spontaneity. I caved.

We took the train to Bulle, smack dab in the center of the country, to Castle Gruyere, the unlikely location of the museum.