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  Watercolor   6/7/2026  

  Watercolor   June 3, 2026

The house that Elmer built 

 

 

 

  On school days, my job is to pick up my grandchildren at our community school bus turnaround, a scant quarter mile from my house. I like to get there early — I wouldn’t want my little darlings to get wet or cold. On this random Thursday, I’m parked at the bus stop on a misty afternoon, both dogs asleep in the backseat, awaiting the bus. I listen to a podcast as the heater blows toasty warm. Movement catches my eye, and I spot a bright yellow jeep when it passes, typically just ahead of the bus. Sure enough, I hear the crunch of gravel, and I spot the approaching school bus. I clear off the front seat, then roll down my window and unlock the doors in anticipation. I glance up, ready to greet the children, expecting the bus parked in the turnaround. There is nothing there. It is absolutely quiet. Except for a bird calling in the distance. I look all around. Confused. There is nowhere for the bus to go. The lane narrows just beyond me before climbing a steep hill. Maybe there is a n...

  Sunday school and the smell of felt boards linger in my nose I learn about heaven, of angels singing hosannas in a celestial choir Of peace and joy eternal As a child I think it sounds very dull As a child I figure I'll end up there But not just yet.

  I took Henry bowling yesterday.  He’s been a few times while I haven’t bowled in likely 25 years.  You may be thinking I’m building up a defense on how my 11-year-old grandson beat me in all three games, and you’d be right.  It’s particularly galling since I’d bragged to him about consistently beating my mother who bowled on a league team for decades.   Back in the 1940s era there was a bowling alley in the Wendling/Marcola area, a popular activity which provided a little pin money (ha) to my MIL who’d work as a pin setter whenever she could.  Before the advent of electronic pin resets, bowling was more labor intensive as each pin was hand set.  Pin setters waited at the end of each lane for the first ball then they rushed to hand remove any fallen pins.  After the second ball all pins were reset for the next bowler.  Repeat until the game was over.     Now lanes boast digital scor...

  Mom was walking in downtown Myrtle Point and heard some commotion ahead.  She got closer and realized her young nieces were the culprits.  Aunt Carol left them in the car while she did some business (you could do that in those days,) and Gayle, Jeanne, and Betsy had rolled down the windows and were popping up to shout at passersby then ducking down to hide amid loud giggles.   Mom heard, “Look at the fat lady in the pink dress” and this is where she lost control of the story because at this precise point one of us would ask “Were you the fat lady in the pink dress?”  That really got her goat.  Kids.

She invited Neil to Sunday dinner,  a bold move considering she couldn’t be absolutely sure  we’d behave ourselves,  Michael, Bruce, me and Jim.   She’d prepared her usual company meal:   exceedingly dry roast beef, mashed potatoes and gravy,  green salad, various veg,  and some scrumptious home baked dessert for later.   We sat at the dining room table and served ourselves family style.     Conversation flowed smoothly,  nobody asked,  “Ah, Neil, exactly what are your intentions with our mother?)     We were behaving!   One of us broke out a favored refrain,  “Mom, Neil doesn’t like your roast.”  Neil bit - to our delight.  He, stammering, “that no, he really liked the roast.”     The gravy boat was dry  Mom refilled it in the kitchen  and offered  “more gravy?” to Neil.     Walking around the table she stumbled,  lost...

  Travelling in Mexico US Hwy 18 Mex 15 - Copper Canyon Bound Tucson to Los Mochis via bus is a long ride.  Gone are the rickety buses so stuffed with passengers they’re hanging out the windows as live chickens squawk in the aisles, as portrayed in old western movies. This bus has air conditioning, comfortable seats, and drivers' uniformed in crisply ironed white shirts and dark blue slacks.  A video screen plays American movies voiced-over in Spanish, the audio lingering a few beats after the lips stop.  Crossing the border proved easy.  Everybody got off the bus, lined up with their bags and punched a metal button on a pole hooked to a stop light.   We foreigners were directed to a Customs counter where we filled out a form, bought a tourist visa ($200p), then back on the bus.   Mexico Hwy 15 stretches narrowly across flat desert, oncoming traffic rushes by with a suction of wind shear.  My travelling companion...

  Jim and I moved into Honolulu proper to a 10 th  floor apartment with a lanai overlooking city to ocean. I don’t know quite why we moved there as Jim always took care of relocating, (and I loved that about him.) So he chose the place, maybe forgetting his fear of heights.  That lanai was a source of torture for the man. It was large enough to hold a table, several chairs, a hibachi, and plants. Jim always sat in the chair nearest the sliding door.  Always.  He would not join at the table whenever our portly friend Dick Royes was over for dinner. Maybe he worried about the tensile strength of the rebar supports.   Dick’s theory on the fear of height, one of his many interesting and often outrageous ideas, was that it wasn’t so much the height that people were afraid of, but that they wanted to jump off - and feared they would.   One night I was shooting photos from the lanai during a lightning storm over the ocean when Jim not...

One sleepy Kahaluu evening Jim had turned in for an early night while I studied in the living room.  A loud explosion startled me and when I looked up from my book I saw a red-orange glow lighting up the night.  Mil’s house was ablaze.  Engulfed. The intense heat of the fire blew out the window glass. I dialed 911 while yelling for Jim.  He ran into the living room and immediately sized up the situation.  Saying, “Mil,” he was out the door and running down the common driveway.  Augie ran out to meet him and they both ran into the burning house and found Mil incapacitated in the living room, some of her clothes smoldering.  They carried her outside to safety.  Neighbors sprayed water on the houses closest to the fire with scrounged garden hoses until the fire department arrived.  Thankfully the trade winds weren’t blowing. The parameds quickly sent Mil to a burn unit, much of her body was seriously ...

  Perusing cookbooks over the years I’ve gleaned all manner of cooking tips and food information. I’m happy to share with you, dear reader, a payoff from this flawed database.  I was online searching baked good recipes when I stumbled across a Swedish Saffron Cake which got me to thinking about the sheer number of Nordic recipes using saffron that I’ve encountered.  Why was saffron so commonly used in cooking there? How did they get it?  I had in my mind that saffron was regarded as a luxury item, like Swiss chocolates and caviar.  From Wikipedia:  Saffron is a spice derived from the flower of Crocus sativus commonly known at saffron crocus. I’d never heard that.  I phoned Melissa to share the remarkable information that saffron threads are crocus stigma.  She said, “Everybody knows that.”  Huh? Not me.  Inner gardener kicks in:  Wonder if I can grow it?” And the answer to that question? ...