Recent storms have revealed a plethora of shipwreck mysteries.Oregon's maritime history is showing up, and there just may be treasure lurking out there in the sand and salt.This is just one reason why 'history is in vogue'!We live in a fascinating part of the world...
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Friday, February 29, 2008
Monday, February 25, 2008
For want of a farrier...
I've had the same farrier for 9 years, now. Robert Larson of Tillamook. Loved our time chatting as he trimmed, and felt like he was a friend. He would tell stories, and I would tell stories, we would laugh and pass the time. I think he did a darn fine job on my horse's feet, and didn't charge me double just because they are miniatures. Miniatures, after all, need the same type of attention a full-sized version does, with few exceptions and the fact that they don't wear shoes.
I had him out in December, and desperately need him back. I can't get ahold of him. I've tried calling a few people that I know used him in the area, but their phones are either out of service or they don't return the calls.
Bob's home phone is disconnected and his cell phone mail box is full. His emails go unanswered. I'm a little worried, really. For him and his family.
And on the home front, I hate having to look for a new farrier. If anyone in the area reads this and has a recommend, I'd appreciate it. I've got two yearlings and I like to stay on top of those growing horse's hooves....they've gone too long already.
Meantime, I hope if anyone knows Bob, they can pass along my concern for his welfare, even if he's not trimming anymore.
I had him out in December, and desperately need him back. I can't get ahold of him. I've tried calling a few people that I know used him in the area, but their phones are either out of service or they don't return the calls.
Bob's home phone is disconnected and his cell phone mail box is full. His emails go unanswered. I'm a little worried, really. For him and his family.
And on the home front, I hate having to look for a new farrier. If anyone in the area reads this and has a recommend, I'd appreciate it. I've got two yearlings and I like to stay on top of those growing horse's hooves....they've gone too long already.
Meantime, I hope if anyone knows Bob, they can pass along my concern for his welfare, even if he's not trimming anymore.
Saturday, February 16, 2008
Detachment...
denial, destiny. I arrive at assumptions of some type of guilt in these. I know that I cannot force anyone to feel a certain way, or do a certain thing. Perhaps it's so. Is it a disservice to allow these sleeping dogs to lie, while the rest of us tip-toe past?
If they wake, a small sacrifice (dignity, comfort and security are good bets) will often mollify the fearsome beast long enough to forget. And wait.
I feel the inkling of alarm bells, but also know where the lines are drawn. I am resilient where I need to be, and fragile when I can.
If this is cryptic, I apologize. I may be more forthright over at myspace, just because some of my dearest friends are there, and because I've been "there" longer, and have my comfy little preferred list.
I have to think that some brighter, warmer days would help. I look forward to them. If I did not have friends, and some indulgences, it would be considerably more difficult.
The error of my ways are just that. Mine. I will do better.
A tonic is the burst of energy I can feel looming with the change of seasons. Many things need doing. I am equal to the tasks, for they are fully surmountable. This is comforting, as is the work I enjoy when time allows. Paint the windows, walls, and clean all of the above. Pieces of cake, each of them.
Ice cream, anyone?
If they wake, a small sacrifice (dignity, comfort and security are good bets) will often mollify the fearsome beast long enough to forget. And wait.
I feel the inkling of alarm bells, but also know where the lines are drawn. I am resilient where I need to be, and fragile when I can.
If this is cryptic, I apologize. I may be more forthright over at myspace, just because some of my dearest friends are there, and because I've been "there" longer, and have my comfy little preferred list.
I have to think that some brighter, warmer days would help. I look forward to them. If I did not have friends, and some indulgences, it would be considerably more difficult.
The error of my ways are just that. Mine. I will do better.
A tonic is the burst of energy I can feel looming with the change of seasons. Many things need doing. I am equal to the tasks, for they are fully surmountable. This is comforting, as is the work I enjoy when time allows. Paint the windows, walls, and clean all of the above. Pieces of cake, each of them.
Ice cream, anyone?
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Crunch, crunch
Eggshells underfoot.
I detest eggshells. Ever get one in your omelette? The feeling as you bite down on it is unpleasant, but can't match the one of walking on them. Even worse is knowing you will, and being unable to avoid that inevitable.
Every step is bound to make that dreaded crunching (reverberates through nerve endings painfully), and so you wait, and hone your tread-lightly skills.
It should be second nature, for the path stretches back as far as I can see, and well into the future. There are little breaks, here and there. For that I am grateful.
The eggshell path leads up the steepest slopes.
The wind is roaring, and pummeling the already-stressed trees. Good night to climb in bed and pull the covers over one's head.
Hey, at least my shoes are dry, today.
I detest eggshells. Ever get one in your omelette? The feeling as you bite down on it is unpleasant, but can't match the one of walking on them. Even worse is knowing you will, and being unable to avoid that inevitable.
Every step is bound to make that dreaded crunching (reverberates through nerve endings painfully), and so you wait, and hone your tread-lightly skills.
It should be second nature, for the path stretches back as far as I can see, and well into the future. There are little breaks, here and there. For that I am grateful.
The eggshell path leads up the steepest slopes.
The wind is roaring, and pummeling the already-stressed trees. Good night to climb in bed and pull the covers over one's head.
Hey, at least my shoes are dry, today.
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
No parking at high tide
(or the dumb@ass award).
Today's Fat Tuesday. Mardi Gras! It also happens to be one of those blustery, wet days as is typical for the season. A gumbo day. Sure enough, I decided that would be dinner: seafood okra gumbo with rice and cornbread as sides. The problem with that is that I would need to go the grocery store for some of the ingredients.
I had a few errands to run in town, or so I thought. Turns out it was two of those instead of the four or five that I had hoped to get done. I figured that stopping at the grocery store would be the last one. Turned out to be pretty much the only one.
Pulling into the parking lot at Fred Meyer, I had a whole 50 minutes to get home, whereas I would have had no time budget, if things had gone as originally planned. It was icky out, so I parked as close to the door as possible.
Grabbed Colton and off we ran to the door, my grocery list in my head. Even with a "rest stop", we managed to get in and get out of there in record time. 12 minutes!
I left the cart inside, thinking it would be a nice change for someone to come in and find a dry one, not a wet one blowing into the side of their car. I only had four bags and Colton, so off we ran, into the wet.
I stopped when I realized that I was standing at the edge of a stand-in for the great lakes. Or was it the Pacific Ocean lapping at the toes of my walking shoes? Ugh. Either way, my truck had gone from being parked on wet pavement to an island. A big, dirty-white island. Surrounded.
I sure as hell didn't have time to wait for the tide to go out, or the drain to unclog, or whatever was supposed to happen.
How did I make this particular mistake? I even know that Warrenton is below sea level. Dumbass! "Double dumbass!" I cursed inwardly.
"How deep could it be?" I stepped in, gingerly, to avoid splashing or rippling the water. That effort would cease to matter within seconds. The water was higher than the rubber soles of my Reeboks. It was deep. Annnnd cold. Crap.
The color of the water swirling around my feet and ankles was a grungy-grey complete with a rainbow sheen. Not much choice, now. I reached the truck by the time the water was mid-shin. My toes were feeling numb. I didn't even bother to look down and get grossed out at the gack I was wading in. Opened the door, tossed the groceries and kid in, and moved them all aside so that I could step inside onto my ingeniously-placed floor towels. At least they would absorb the runoff.
I wanted to take them off, but instead traded the time spent for getting home asap.
Shoes are on the dryer after a quick detour in the washing machine with the floor towels, and the house is filling with the pleasant aroma of simmering gumbo.
I made the roux while the shoes were washing. Takes just about the same time to do each. Never made that correlation, before.
Lesson learned.
Happy Mardi Gras!
At least my shoes are wet.
Today's Fat Tuesday. Mardi Gras! It also happens to be one of those blustery, wet days as is typical for the season. A gumbo day. Sure enough, I decided that would be dinner: seafood okra gumbo with rice and cornbread as sides. The problem with that is that I would need to go the grocery store for some of the ingredients.
I had a few errands to run in town, or so I thought. Turns out it was two of those instead of the four or five that I had hoped to get done. I figured that stopping at the grocery store would be the last one. Turned out to be pretty much the only one.
Pulling into the parking lot at Fred Meyer, I had a whole 50 minutes to get home, whereas I would have had no time budget, if things had gone as originally planned. It was icky out, so I parked as close to the door as possible.
Grabbed Colton and off we ran to the door, my grocery list in my head. Even with a "rest stop", we managed to get in and get out of there in record time. 12 minutes!
I left the cart inside, thinking it would be a nice change for someone to come in and find a dry one, not a wet one blowing into the side of their car. I only had four bags and Colton, so off we ran, into the wet.
I stopped when I realized that I was standing at the edge of a stand-in for the great lakes. Or was it the Pacific Ocean lapping at the toes of my walking shoes? Ugh. Either way, my truck had gone from being parked on wet pavement to an island. A big, dirty-white island. Surrounded.
I sure as hell didn't have time to wait for the tide to go out, or the drain to unclog, or whatever was supposed to happen.
How did I make this particular mistake? I even know that Warrenton is below sea level. Dumbass! "Double dumbass!" I cursed inwardly.
"How deep could it be?" I stepped in, gingerly, to avoid splashing or rippling the water. That effort would cease to matter within seconds. The water was higher than the rubber soles of my Reeboks. It was deep. Annnnd cold. Crap.
The color of the water swirling around my feet and ankles was a grungy-grey complete with a rainbow sheen. Not much choice, now. I reached the truck by the time the water was mid-shin. My toes were feeling numb. I didn't even bother to look down and get grossed out at the gack I was wading in. Opened the door, tossed the groceries and kid in, and moved them all aside so that I could step inside onto my ingeniously-placed floor towels. At least they would absorb the runoff.
I wanted to take them off, but instead traded the time spent for getting home asap.
Shoes are on the dryer after a quick detour in the washing machine with the floor towels, and the house is filling with the pleasant aroma of simmering gumbo.
I made the roux while the shoes were washing. Takes just about the same time to do each. Never made that correlation, before.
Lesson learned.
Happy Mardi Gras!
At least my shoes are wet.
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