Life in the great Northwet

Wild weather

2009-09-07T10:44:00.000-07:00

wow, yesterday was awful at the Market, or the attempt at Sunday Market.
Ultimately, it cancelled, but not before everyone was soaked and some people had some serious damages to their canopies and goods.
The little boys start school in earnest on Wednesday.
It is muddy outside on the track that is my "yard" but everyone is heading out to do some track maintenance anyway.
Since Christmas is only a few months away, I am thinking on the things that I would like to give as gifts, and thinking also that with a Wal-Mart coming, how I will do even more to stay out of such institutions (I will not EVER go inside that store) and buy instead from people that live here and work here like me.
I would hope the rest of you that care about our corner of the state would do the same.
There is nothing good, nothing we need inside a Wal-Mart. Give them their walking papers.

Hope you all enjoy the good weather promised to return this week, and have a safe back to school week!

Echoes

2009-06-30T21:56:00.000-07:00

These memories or times past which never fully developed, instead the possibilities ache at my core.
it is a festering kind of wistfulness.
Something about the way the wind moves over the water and the golden, late-afternoon sunlight blindingly glares over the ripples. It is evocative about unfulfilled possibilities, something that my life is haunted by.
I recognized it fully 15 years ago when my mother died and I was watching the cable channel that shows the weather. It was showing a ship moving along the river with the foreground probably video'ed from the column vicinity. Stalks of yellowed grass waved at the edges of the picture. For the first time since I'd lost my mother, I cried. Not because I missed her, but because of what could have been. The possibilities were dead right along with her. She was not a good person, but could have been. She could have kept herself in line and not poisoned herself with drugs, but she didn't. The mother I wished I'd had was dead right along with the one I despised, feared and avoided. Not nearly the same as the wracking grief I felt when I lost the mother I did have: My grandmother.
I feel that sensation easily, now, though. The melancholy sort of ache that can only be drowned in strong embrace, firm, soothing whispers and stoic presence. The problem is that I don't really have those things often enough.
I suppose it's good that I know where to find it, though.

I felt it tonight when I was looking at some photos posted by a friend on Facebook. I'll snag one here just so you can see, but I didn't take this photo...it just makes me feel...or rather peer into some emptiness I can't quantify.
At other, more fragile times, I would choose to look away, but instead I will immerse myself in it and slip away for sleep as the darkness deepens.

Stars and stripes

2009-06-13T14:56:00.000-07:00

Just about this time of year I get a craving for Americana: Red, white and blue, sparklers and lemonade. Strawberry pies and front porch swingin'. Long Summer evenings while the smell of newly-mown grass lingers and the barn swallows sing goodnight to the bugs they left alive (for now).
I like to decorate my spaces with flags, but find it averse how many of these painted gewgaws are mass-produced overseas and sold in stores to appeal to those too lazy to do it oneself or without the time for same.
I know there are many artisans producing nice work and I would seek those out were I buying new ones to add to what I already own.
One year I dumped beach sand along my mantle and filled the space with glass floats, pebbles, shells, fireworks and pictures of my children playing at the beach. That was probably my most creative seasonal display and messy too though it mostly vacuumed right up. I might do it again but the cords for the video games tend to disrupt such delicate displays.
As I type this, the spousal unit is driving a bobcat back and forth to fill my lower pasture with extra dirt from whence to create jumps and banked turns so the boys can ride their quads and dirtbikes on a little track.
A family of swallows has taken up nesting on top of a floodlight under the front porch eave. I love their blue and orange color scheme and the fact that they eat bugs all day long. Detest the piles of turds but I'll deal. I built a barn ten years ago for them and while they use it occasionally it seems they prefer to make their own way. I admire that feature of barn swallows but most envy their jet-fighter-like maneuvers over roads and streams as they scoop up their meal.
There are five eggs in the nest. I could barely fit my cell phone camera in there to get a pic of the speckled "bird larva" but slipped my finger in to gently caress each egg and know there are indeed five of them. The parents don't seem to mind that we are so near though they check out while we bbq out there. I hope it doesn't doom the newborns to failure but again they DO have the barn....
Sunday Market's in full swing with both improvements and what I feel might be backsliding tactics. Still, I know what it's like for most of these vendors and feel better spending my money with them than the local big boxes.
I find myself buying things from multiple, smaller, locally-owned sources nowadays, bucking a trend that began when I was small: that of the one-stop shop.
Yes, it's easier and quicker, but I don't know that I will go quietly into the night of retail giants, especially when I realize the price might be my town's identity.
It might be a tough thing for me just because I know or am acquainted with so many small business owners and think about their livelihood and well-being. I want them to stay here and thrive here and so I will buy my canned tuna from local processors rather than off the shelf at Fred's or Safeway. My artisan bread will not come from the shelves of those stores either, instead from the fabulous Blue Scorcher.
No Starbuck's brew passes these lips, I only drink Thundermuck.
Gifts purchased for others will be for the most part of the locally-produced and American made variety. They mean more that way, and hopefully mean more to those that need the money most, will re-use it within my community.
Good luck everyone, enjoying your Summer activities. This territory really glows this time of year. Make the most of it...

Think before you buy

2009-03-28T19:40:00.000-07:00

Read labels, ask questions and modify your spending. Seem tough?
No tougher than being "green" is it to buy locally and buy domestically-made and owned items.
Some things may seem impossible, but there are options for just about everything we need or want in this world.
I really don't want to see some of my favorite locally-owned and operated businesses go away and so I take a bit of extra time to patronize them. Think it takes extra fuel to do so?
Not always...many of our local businesses have online stores from which to purchase and even have the items delivered to you.
Rumors of another big-box store make me queasy, but I will not shop there. I have been in the Home Depot just a few times, and purchased nothing personally so far. I have no need to, and when/if I do, it will be out of sheer necessity and lack of option that I do.
We have plenty of options here and I will continue to shop with them as long as they exist.
My Easter candies will not be from Hersheys or Mars, they will be from local candy stores from local and domestic sources.
Times like these, we all need to tend the yards and gardens closest to home, to take care of our neighbors and the ones that take care of us.

Fourteen

2009-03-14T17:50:00.000-07:00

and this just floated my lil' ol' boat:
Demolition Man!
Been lost in a little YouTube nostalgia since the afternoon is not conducive to my other desired pursuit of yard work. Yeah, like I really desired the yard work over sitting around watching videos...but I would like to get that done.

WMDs in my home

2009-01-10T12:33:00.000-08:00

Yep, you read that right: Weapons of Mass Destruction are right here in the walls of my own little house.
My oldest son observed that, this morning, and it made me laugh when I thought about it.
I was referring to throwing out one of those self-inking rubber name/address stamps that I found lying on the counter after one of my cleaning rampages. Not sure where I'd shaken it out of before that, but the reason it has that reputation is this:

About two years ago, my husband ordered this item, with his name and my name and our address, phone number and a website. It was part of a pyramid scheme he'd fallen into, but that is irrelevant.
The future WMD was stored in a room we didn't use very much, a guest bedroom.
We have two boys, then 2 and 5. They became fond of playing in the guest bedroom after a visit from their grandparents where the grandparents stayed while they visited.
One day I went into the guest bedroom to look for something else and generally tidy up. Jumping on a bed really can trash the look of a room!
What did I find? Not just a wrinkled and mussed bed and pillows on the floor, but our name and address stamped on every conceivable surface.
It was a decorating disaster!!!
Our names and addresses were displayed prominently on the bedsheets, the walls, pictures that hung on the wall. I saw the ink on the curtains, a box of Kleenex, the countertops and drawer fronts.
The capper for me was the carpet. The ink was immovable. Luckily the carpet is dark green. You really have to look to see the stamp.
Yes, the name and address stamp earned its reputation that day. I put it high on a shelf in the kitchen inside a cupboard. Hubby knows where it is should he ever need to use it. We still get the shipments of "juice" from said pyramid scheme, and he occasionally even sells some of it to other people.
That stamp has never seen paper that I know of. It works real well on fabric, though. If we had pets inside, I'm sure we'd know how it transfers to furry surfaces.

What is Christmas?

2008-12-25T11:09:00.000-08:00

"What is Christmas? It is tenderness for the past, courage for the present, hope for the future. It is a fervent wish that every cup may overflow with blessings rich and eternal, and that every path may lead to peace."
~Agnes M. Pharo

This is a fine quote for the Christmas that does not feel like Christmas. Funny how that could be when this is one of a very few white Christmases here in the Great Northwet since I've been alive and breathing air (or should that be filtering it from the liquid atmosphere of Oregon and Washington...much like a fish!).

The short ones have had a nice Christmas although there is less than usual, that is not a painful thing.
Santa was wise and left a Flexible Flyer (Made in the USA/purchased locally at Utzinger's Hardware, a win/win!!!) for them, and they will be able to test ride it in their very own backyard.
The dog's passed out on her side in the living room and we all are arranged on the couch while the kids play with their brand new X-Box 360 and the oven is pre-heating for the roast. Agnes has no idea of the euphoria that awaits her in the form of prime rib scraps and bones!
Still, I know that many have had bad news this holiday, in one form or another and I can't help but notice a homeless sort of feeling permeating the let-down after the mad-rush-scramble of the last few weeks.
2009 will see less of this, of that I'm sure. I want focus and I want strong, forward momentum. Rock star momentum!

Snow: Bah! Humbug!

2008-12-21T21:18:00.000-08:00

Instead of the hackneyed "Let It Snow" comments and blog titles I've seen of late, I'd like to change the tone and put forth my plea of: "make it stop!"
I want a break from this, damnit!
Doesn't the snow make the pasture and barn look almost idyllic?
Probably would have been better had I put the cart away and not left it in front of the door, but it was COLD the night before!

Most years I'd love a bit of snow in the days preceding Christmas and of course the Eve of as well as the day itself, but this year it's just getting in the way of my overall tardiness in preparation for the holiday.
It didn't help that I was away for five days on the East coast. Since I am a "shop local" enthusiast, I could not justify doing much Christmas shopping there (I think I bought one jar of pumpkin butter at the Lancaster Kitchen Kettle Village), so you see my hands were tied!
Previous to that, we were awaiting our first settlement from the crab season to really get started on the shopping, so here we go...I am behind, and need a break in the weather to get it finished up. Not much, just a day or so, please?
I thought for sure that back in PA it would be snowy and cold, but it was more like 65 degrees although the freezing rain showed up the day I was to leave, giving me fits of flight delays. I made it home, though, to arrive to frozen water pipes and haven't seen the lawn in over two weeks (which really is ok).
The roads today were a sea of brown slush, the parking lots, too. Just gross. Stores are crowded, but luckily I have not and do not shop much in the stores like Freddy's or Costco, the worst offenders. They were my last resort for a few items, but I will do without if I cannot find them in smaller stores.

In looking all over the county for toboggans and sleds, we started in Costco (because we were nearest when we had the inspiration) and learned they would be getting a shipment of them in. We left, to look first at our local stores...Purple Cow, Ace, Builder's Supply, etc. etc. and lo and behold, the last place we looked, Utzinger's Hardware had scores of them! We purchased about five and took 'em home and used 'em well.

I felt sorry for the "lucky" ones who got part of the shipment at Costco; those styrofoam things should last about two hours. Our Utzinger's-purchased toboggans were even made in the USA.

Well, I'm off to sleep, to see what tomorrow allows for finishing my holiday preparations.

Look at how much the family loves making snowmen...even my yearling, Pyro, got into the spirit (it really was the peppermint eyes and parsnip nose that held his interest in the long run, but Pyro LOVES people and all they do, even though he fails to understand the purpose of the activity).

Anyway, shoo, snow, shoo!

Perspective

2008-12-14T08:16:00.000-08:00

Looking at the live camera on top of the Columbia River Maritime Museum from my parent's house in West Chester, PA. I can see snow on the rooftops and can hardly believe it.
We rarely get snow this time of year...here I am looking at the cold, wet miserable weather and it is cold here, too, but bright and sunny.
I feel odd about everything in between myself and home. It's been 16 years since I have been here, and though I've flown and been a few places since then, it feels both sad and liberating to be this far away.
I would love to travel more, but mostly by car, I think. Unencumbered, and with all that implies.
Monday will see my father graduating with his Master's Degree in Physical Science (the reason we are here), and Wednesday we will be winging it home.
I hope that all of you are well and your holiday preparations are going swimmingly.

Interesting article

2008-12-01T06:30:00.001-08:00

on our year-ago storm:
http://www.oregonlive.com/news/index.ssf?/base/news/1228109205174760.xml&coll=7&thispage=1

What a week that was!
It's interesting to read the post-mortem, and see the damage that still persists. The little boys won't remember much of it, though Colton (our youngest) is still rather traumatized at each new loss of power and resulting dark the symptom of a generator dependent on fuel that would run out of gas now and then when we (the adults) were not paying attention, and putting the house back into pitch blackness for a few moments during that week we lived on nothing but its power. The smell of the exhaust was everywhere. I can't imagine what we would have done without it. Thankful for the Olney Store that sold gas and diesel for our genny and truck.

Still, let's hope we don't see another like it. Ever! For three days the wind blew, and sucked! Hahah.
For 7 days we lived without power, alternating dependent appliances to the little Honda to make sure we nurtured their wards through the outage. Mostly the freezer (a hundred lb. of frozen Alaskan Halibut among other things can't be left to go bad), refrigerator (so that we could have water and keep our food), computer w/satellite modem (for communicating outside the county) and tv (for something to do on long nights) and occasionally the coffee maker, although that one coffee maker strained the generator to the maximum of its capacity.

Fires and Flowers

2008-11-30T08:42:00.000-08:00

Link to video of Roger performing in Shanghaied in Astoria's Olio Act
As so many of you must already know, we lost our friend Roger Martin on Thanksgiving night in a fire that also burned most of a block. We will not soon forget this loss, and certainly every time I attend an Astor Street Opry Company production or event, his memory will be near. Roger was a troubled man, to be sure, but why dwell on that at this point. He also gave a lot to the show he was in, and in turn to the community. The video above shows his game attitude, and his portrayal of Capt. Jack was always my favorite. As I drove past the florist where he was living/had lived and died, I noticed the stack of flowers and notes. I will add to them. I don't know that it helps in any way to do so, as in flowers for the dead, but I also want to send a message to those of us here dealing with his loss that I remember, and I remember the good things about him. I hope somewhere he can feel that. I have forgiven him for saying I'd make a good Miss Vivian. ;) Love to you, Roger, and godspeed.

Autumn moves on

2008-11-05T19:50:00.000-08:00

and Fall is here, treading eagerly on the heels of Winter...or is that the other way around?
Either way, it's a long, dark, wet haul from here on 'til about June, maybe July.
Seriously, though, I hope for a few breaks in the weather between now and then.
I can hardly believe the week of Halloween is past with its scorched-pumpkin smells, the chill of fear a tingly, giddy bit of excitement amidst the sweet and sugary treats.
So next come the big family holidays, the long dark nights and...and...mud!
Yep. I fell down in the pasture twice, last night. Our pastures are all sloped and so with the clay-based soil they turn to the consistency of grease with just a little moisture.
I'm sure I've ~~bitched~~ complained about this in the past, probably even here.
The second time I fell down, I had a half-full bucket of soaked beet pulp in one hand and of course that was what cushioned my chin when I hit the ground. Uggh.
My little old mare (32 going on 33) is off her feed and seeming...well...just faded. I am worried for her. She seems healthy enough and drinking water, even showing interest in some food now and then.
My Dad's getting his Master's in December and I'll fly to West Chester to see that. Been 16 years since I've been there.
This is going to be short because the short ones need to get into bed.
We've got a new president and much of the "change" is still in OUR hands.
Happy November, Clatsop County!

Santa Claus is coming to town

2008-10-02T10:50:00.000-07:00

I have my list, and I'm making it locally-made, Made in USA, maybe even Canada, but I am staying out of China as much as humanly possible.
If it is NOT possible to avoid China, then I will re-think the need for that item. I may well do without, or find an alternative.
I am also letting the producers of these multiple catalogs which plague my mailbox from about August until January, know that I am disgusted with the low-quality, cheap garbage they are peddling for the most part.
I don't really want their catalogs, and I don't want most of what they sell.
It would be refreshing to me to see a catalog of locally, domestically-produced items which to purchase and feed the local and domestic economy for a change.
It may not make a HUGE difference, my buying everything or almost all of it here, from people that live and work here, but a small one will be noticed by those that need it the most.
Times are tough: shop locally.
Some of the things on my list:
Limited, framed art by NW Limited...History in Vogue Bill does "wow" gifts like no one else
Coffee from Columbia River Coffee Roaster Great company that supports its community
Chocolate from Columbia Chocolates and Duffy's (more on them, later!)
Made in USA or locally items from Columbia River Maritime Museum (yayy, two birds with one stone: support the great museum and local/domestic business).
Tiki Juice Lavender Mint Julep (I vow to make everyone a fan)
F/V Sonja Tuna (yum!)
Josephson's Smokehouse canned salmon/sturgeon, etc.!
Don Nisbett custom portrait.
Girardet wine (oo their Baco Noir is amazing)
(if you've got other great stuff from "here" please leave it here so I can add it...I am very passionate about locally produced items)
and I hope to supply at least some of our holiday food from local producers.
Keeping the money here has a double effect: less stuff to ship in = less use of fossil fuels to do so, less to use to "go buy it" elsewhere.

I urge you to do the same, and please read the labels on everything you buy. It IS important and it makes your shopping more special when you ensure that it IS from the town you are visiting (such as a made in China souvenir from Seaside, Oregon? How cool is that?)
We all benefit from a stronger local economy. Shop the local art fairs, markets and stores. Stay out of the big boxes.

Late Summer

2008-09-16T06:44:00.000-07:00

the last few days, to be exact.
Soon it will BE Autumn, though we've been flirting with Winter for months, now.
Not so these last few weeks, and I am grateful.
The breeze smells of ripened blackberries and sun-warmed, dried grasses. Even the earth is giving off a loamy, over-ripe scent.
When the air cools at night, the pine oil is most noticeable, wafting about on a lazy breeze. The river's own perfume is heady, overbearing. I love it.
Gone are the weekly, pungent green grass mowings, the frantic sweetness of Spring and early Summer.
The tomatoes may have never ripened, but the plants are large, bushy and I love how they smell when I pinch 'em, which I do...just for that olfactory reward.
I am reminded of the late Summer and Fall in 1986; I worked in Portland and had just bought my first car. I was 18 and I headed back to here to rekindle my relationship with my mother and half-sister.
In the process, I thought I fell in love, but it was just a silly crush, and I was over it, fast.
What lingered, though, was the infatuation with here in this season. I left on Sunday nights to go back to Portland and work with great remorse. Curiously, it was not him that kept my thoughts occupied, it was the afternoons, the mornings and the long evenings lit by sunsets, the smell of the ocean on the northwest wind, the walk along the (then railroad tracks) by the river's edge and the little beach beneath the bridge, which has now been shamelessly groomed, cultivated and edged in pavement, a little whore of a spot in front of several hotel windows (where sleeping under the bridge is a good thing)!
Used to be Farrell's home improvement store was in that spot, that was were "he" worked and we would end up there often in our meanderings.
Not much came of that relationship except a more solid realization of what I didn't want from life (would that I had explored that avenue further), and it only lasted three months, about as long as the wonderful weather.
I'm enjoying it, now, though it is giving me a strange sense of deja vu.

Patriotic School Shopping

2008-09-01T11:26:00.000-07:00

I finished the school shopping for my two boys the other day.
I managed about 98% Made in North America, too.
I was unable to easily find folders/pee chees and sketch books made here in the USA, but those were made in Canada, and I find that acceptable.
We had to buy an alternate brand of glue from the typical Elmer's, because good ol' Elmer's is made in China. The other brand was less expensive and also made in USA.
The only failure we had was the glue sticks. I didn't go back to change them out, but read the back (my oldest son picked these up) and these ended up being made in China.
All the Crayolas were made in USA, at least the crayons themselves. The watercolors were made in China, so I chose the "off" brand at a slightly higher price.
I'm pretty proud of that and hope that we can continue with clothing, although I have little control over what their grandparents buy for them.
Even if there aren't any school supplies that I know of made here in Astoria/Oregon, I can still buy American.

O, Summer where art thou?

2008-08-29T17:34:00.000-07:00

I wish you hadn't left so early!
It's really messing with my head this time around, and it's not even September, yet.
This weather.
I was hoping we'd have a stretch of nice weather to make up for the non-event our Summer was.
'Nuff bout that. I have been organizing my great piles of clutter. Much of it isn't mine at all, being the domain of little boys and grown ones.
The latters' possessions I am moving aside to make way for my own organization.
I would say that there is a considerable amount of it that 'belongs' to me, though, and some of it's been taken away to other places, a little's been tossed or burned, and stuff's up for sale.
For some reason I can't seem to give away my old saddle. Granted, it was inexpensive to begin with, but it has a nice Cashel cushion. I suppose some 4H-er or someone might show an interest if I did put it on Freecycle.
Space is at a premium, though, and the clutter is torturous to me as much as the weather is only it seems a hazardous juxtaposition to it when the indoor spaces we flock to in order to hide from the wet and cold are so cramped and impossible to keep clean with piles of things here and there and it only seems to get worse.
I've been neglecting my blogging for the most part, but it's been for good reasons.
I hope the Expo next weekend is fun. I wish this weekend would dry out! Last year, the weekend following Labor Day was hot indeed.
Happy Labor Day, y'all, stay dry!

Commercial Fishing Expo and Hotdog Highliners Competition in Astoria, OR

2008-08-28T17:32:00.001-07:00

Astoria, Oregon is hosting an entertaining, informational display of "Deadliest Catch" type skill on Sept. 7, 2008 at Astoria's Sunday Market Sept. 7, 2008.NW Limited...History in Vogue will be there selling Dead Reckoning of the Pacific Graveyard lithographs for $50 each or $500 for the full "Cadillac" version with all the photos, framed and documented.

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Shooting stars (make a wish)

2008-08-12T21:39:00.000-07:00

Many opportunities, last night, to make wishes on falling stars.
Last night we sat out on the front porch to watch the Perseid shower since it was clear out and we were close to the peak rate for these meteors.
The little boys were awake and excited to be there, and got out their little glow-necklaces they'd bought at the Regatta fireworks last Saturday (we put them in the freezer to conserve them), which luckily didn't cause enough light interference to make a big difference.
That big ol' waxing gibbous moon did some work on washing out the sky as did the neighbor's mercury vapor yard light. Still, we saw several per minute at times.
Many were the long, faint blue streaks that leave you wondering if you really did see anything at all. Others were larger and almost audible.
We watched for about an hour and a half before we all got too cold.
I wished we could have gone to a more remote location (that's funny considering we live 12 miles outside of town already) away from the lights of the neighbor and our own.
I've fantasized about watching them either from Neahkahnie mountain or out on the water maybe in the river, lying flat and looking up from the deck of a boat.
Over the years, we've had some good nights. Our "stargazing hill" was sold and now has a family living there above their new stable, so we no longer have that nearby. One year we saw several meteors with persistent trains and even some large fireballs.
Some years we've been "clouded out" and had to come home and listen to them on forward-scatter radar via the internet.
Even when there are no meters, there's nothing like the view of the night sky with no light pollution.
Last night was still great. We pointed out a few constellations (bonus to having a father with a degree in astronomy and a deep love for it), stars, saw several satellites, and best of all, nobody was scared of the dark.
A simple, good time was had.
Sorry, no pictures...

Nine Inch Nails in Seattle

2008-07-27T21:38:00.001-07:00

WOW, it was great! Not as great as Ridgefield two years ago, at least energy-wise, but still great.
Loved the visuals, the lighting effects and the sound was mesmerizing.

Not much a fan of the opening act, Crystal Castles, but the music part of that was pretty good.

Anyone else from the 'sop go to this?

The Dark Knight

2008-07-19T19:51:00.000-07:00

(going to see it, tonight).
Much of the anticipation...most of it, probably, is due to witnessing the creation of the above. Bill built it as part of a small edition of "Joker" featuring Heath Ledger as the DC Comics' villain.
Bill now has a reliable connection for a few of these originally autographed photos.
What he's done with this one is nothing short of incredible.
What I see when I see the picture is a little bit of who Heath might have been, what was and what could have been. He touched, in signing, the photo, and the picture is intriguing.
It's a bittersweet kind of thing (this feeling) and apropos of a movie title such as the Dark Knight.
Heath's daughter will never really know him, and he did not live long enough to outrun his demons. I cannot truly pass judgment on him being that I did not know him.
I've known a few like him, though admittedly less famous, perhaps one or two as much so. Strange, the mixture of pity, revulsion, of incredulous disgust that reigns, as well as the sympathetic when we encounter people afflicted with chemical dependency issues.
All of that aside, I am looking forward to seeing the Dark Knight on this night.

http://nwlimited.wordpress.com/2008/07/16/heath-ledger-is-the-joker/

HMS Bounty stops in Astoria, OR

2008-07-16T07:48:00.001-07:00

The historic tall ship Bounty is just passing through on her way to San Francisco. Astoria is no stranger to movie stars!

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Well, duh...

2008-07-13T16:49:00.000-07:00

Robert Kennedy, Jr. says LNG Bad for NW (article)

Oh, say can you see?

2008-06-30T22:26:00.000-07:00

Independence day approaches!
We really enjoy making ribs to take to the beach with us...we always go to Long Beach and set up our screen tent at Bolstad approach for the entire day.
It is entertaining to watch the people in their seriously ON road vehicles tackle the approach. Dubs don't necessarily make good beach cruising.
There was the one year when our neighbor came over to slap my sister (she deserved it) and the men then got into it. Can you say Jerry Springer?
The firework display over there is spectacular though the private displays rival that, there is never a dull moment.
One big birthday party!
I'm just bummed that we didn't pick up any of these over in Chinook, today:

What better to go with a national holiday? I got a great chuckle out of a shopper at the stand reading this off his "list" as he walked past!
How can you not love a nice rack?
Wanna see it in action?
Pyro King Nice Rack

Saturday is Columbia River Coffee Roaster's Grand Opening...yep, it bodes well for a great weekend.

Stay safe!

8-Minute Abs

2008-06-27T15:41:00.000-07:00

Hm.
Hubby seems to think he has the answer to every body image dilemma: a fifteen-minute workout book that was published in 1976.
It's $1.99 at Amazon. Don't think I'll get it, though.
Life marches on...30 years later, almost every workout one could need is available for free online, or a minimal price.
Guess I'll never know the joys of the fifteen-minute workout, expansion sitbacks and wall pushups.
It's hot, today. Not as hot as that one day last month, but good enough.
Friend Bill left for Las Vegas this morning. He has built an incredible body of work to take to the Fest for Beatles.
8 brand new Beatles' pieces, a Yoda and Evel Knievel.
He only lost the tip of his thumb in the process, too. Color me impressed.
Looking at the pictures all together, I really got a feel for the magnitude of what he'd accomplished.
Some of these came apart multiple times to ensure that there were no fuzzies, lint, or even glitter that were trapped under the glass. His attention to detail continues to amaze me.
I really love the "Michelle" but I also like the Parlophone "I Want To Hold Your Hand."
I got my new laptop battery, yesterday! Woot!
The new boarding facility near here is opening up on the 1st of July. Going to be interesting having a place like that so close. I hope it does well.
I'd better post this; the aforementioned battery is running down and needs to be charged.

Enjoy the Summer heat, North coasters!

Astoria's Columbia River Coffee Roaster opens new store

2008-06-19T20:16:00.001-07:00

The Company Store is open with great coffee, WiFi! And great art!

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A teeny bouquet of wildflowers

2008-06-16T18:36:00.000-07:00

Makes me think of a piece of a William Blake poem (from Auguries of Innocence):
"To see a world in a grain of sand
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand
And eternity in an hour."

We were out at the Hammond marina viewpoint, today, watching the USCG Eagle depart.
The boys (and dog) played in the biting wind, and (once done taking photographs of the tall ship on the way out of the river) I plucked the tiniest bouquet with my numbed fingers.
I don't know what any of the three are technically named (my grandmother loved the "homespun" names for flowers, as opposed to the real ones), but they made a sweet, little arrangement.
If only for a moment, for they wilted rather swiftly once they were on the dash of the truck.
Glad I snapped a pic.

somewhere i have never travelled

2008-06-06T22:08:00.000-07:00

I found a small bit of indulgence the other night while browsing around looking for historic fodder:
Lost Oregon at Wordpress
A favorite of mine is kitschy, roadside Americana, and the stuff of my childhood landscape even more intriguing for the fact that I almost recognize some of it.
If not the structures, then the surrounding territory.
My Dad used to take us (brother, step-mom and grandma as well as myself) on road trips, sometimes the only purpose was the trip itself. No real destination, and no itinerary.
Such things as the Erratic Rocks near McMinnville, or the Columbia River Gorge's multitude of waysides (Dad was also a geology (is still!) nut and filled our heads with stories of glaciers, fossils and volcanic events...small towns were popular pursuits on our trips.
Dad drove a scale truck for Toledo in the 60s. He subsequently travelled to very remote locations in Oregon and Washington to service the huge scales for log trucks, dump trucks and other businesses like livestock yards (oh, he has some nightmare stories of rats and the like).
Driving along the Washington side of the Columbia River towards Ocean Park, he would point down a road barely wider than a small path and say "used to be..." some such or other. I couldn't imagine anything down that road. The old stores were mostly gone.
Dad would extol the virtues of an ice-cold grape Nehi or Green Mountain (gave him brain freeze in Madras, OR once) bought from the icy depths of a barrel or vending machine.
He knew lots of stories about these places because he also knew the people that worked there.
Later, he migrated to UPS and drove package cars, managed drivers and regions and so gained even more knowledge of the area.
We would try to find a new route to our destinations every time we went if possible. I-5 was a necessity, never a choice. Hwy 99 was much better!
I know one of Dad's favorites is from I-5 over to Drain, OR and then on to Gold Beach or thereabouts. We stopped at one of "his" stores which was closed, but still looked much the same as it had when it sold gasoline for 50 cents a gallon.
We got to hear about the storekeeper. I could almost see his ghost.
Another plus on these trips was Dad's memory and recitation skills of e.e. cummings poetry. Grandma would toss in some Tennyson and there you have it.
Road trip ala Douglass.
I miss it.
My kids don their headphones and view an episode of Sponge Bob, or watch Ratatouille again...for our sanity! Sometimes I take the headphones and DVD player out of the truck, though.
Not to mention the price of fuel's a bummer, and the thought of the environment, etc.

I could go for a drive East 'til you find the sun road trip, though (one of my own inventions once I got my license. My partner in crime, my best friend Chris).
F*ck this weather!!!

Sick to death of February, already.
Back to the "Lost Oregon."
What is it about viewing those fading photographs that incites a squirming discomfort, a reluctant acceptance of the passing of time, the finality of life?
I stare with the same fascination a mouse must do before he is devoured by a snake or striking hawk.
Unable to look away, also helpless to change my fate. That is an extreme comparison, but it is similar in a slowed-down-kind of way.
We all crumble to dust, eventually, though photographs and others' memories resurrect us (even if incompletely) at will.

I will leave you with the e.e. cummings I quoted in the title (not my favorite, but it works for some reason):

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look will easily unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

Hmmm

2008-05-22T19:06:00.000-07:00

The doldrums have arrived!
I haven't been able to get completely out of them, either. The weather is my main excuse. Someone told me it was "just" an excuse, and well...they're right, I suppose.
Still, the sun, when it shone one week ago, was blistering hot. Didn't do much for my motivation.
The house has been torn apart, and one appliance after another seems hell-bent on quitting. Can't quite get my sh*t together to get it as clean as I'd like to before something else happens that stalls my progress.
I guess last weekend was Summer, but I'm not ready for Fall, and not wanting Winter. Please come back, Summer. I miss you!
TV is boring, and sleeping more than 7 or 8 hours is overrated.
Back to the surfing.

Spring!? Is that you?

2008-05-04T18:21:00.000-07:00

All in one day, Spring has appeared.
Granted, it's about 60 days later than I had hoped for, but it seems to be here. Much more tentative than that day a few weeks back (Apr. 12) where we had one single, blazing heat wave (it was about 80 out here where the Klaskanine and Youngs River meet).
I've been using the crappy weather as an excuse not to garden or clean, or organize other than the bare minimum. I couldn't do that, today.
I weeded. I started taking stock of the containers that didn't get run over in the limo rampage of January. Dumped some out, tossed others, even planted two!
I schooled my gelding (in hand, he's a Miniature) over jumps until I could not anymore. My lungs are recovering from a bout with the crud, my only real illness of the bad weather just had to descend as Winter was finally letting go of the region.
There's been an animal neglect case in the "news" lately. It happens to be very near where I live, and I am acquainted with the people involved. When someone alerted me via email that all was not well, there, I went right over.
They were right.
I was concerned for the people, too, but apparently they are fine. They no longer live there, but the horses and donkeys and mules still do. Lots of them were in very unacceptable condition.
They needed hoof trims last year, and they had cases of rain rot. Most were undernourished and hadn't shed properly. The worst was an old Belgian locked in a stall. I could not get near him, but he looks miserable.
I did what I could, but hopefully the relief will come more quickly for the horses than I worry it will. I don't see much excuse for most of it, but then again I drove past it several times a month and didn't see the truth of the matter.
What will the Summer of 2008 hold in store for me?
That is, if it ever really arrives.
Not that I'm complaining about Spring, just the Winter version of it.

Crab Festival!

2008-04-23T18:23:00.000-07:00

It's coming up.
Get ready to get crabby and drink wine, listen to some great music, and buy awesome stuff.
The first Crab Festival I went to was probably 1986? I think it was held out at Tongue Point, and it was pretty ok! I was too young to drink anything, but my friend, little sister and I had a great time people watching, riding the rides and eating the yummy stuff for sale by vendors.
I lived in Portland, then, and thought the feel of the festival was just right. Not podunky-small town, but not nauseously overwhelming like the Rose Festival.
Since then, I can remember at least three other venues, though the one at the Port of Astoria Pier 2? is not for sure. I may be confused with the Reggatta.
The year that it was at the Warrenton City Park was not so great. I lived about a block from there, and while it was convenient, the grounds got soupy, fast.
The helicopter got a little annoying.
I liked the placement there at the Hammond Marina, but realize the reasons it had to move.
I don't care for where it's moved to, now, but then, I've never been much of a fan of our Fairgrounds et al. It was pretty cool where it used to be, as people could happen by and see that something fun was happening. Again, I realize why it had to move, but don't understand why this county can't get their act together and do something right the first time.
There WERE other places, and I just don't know that the "seafood festival" and wine tasting was necessarily meant to mingle with the smell of cow crap and so far off the beaten path that it's almost non existent.
Don't get me wrong, I will go and support the festival, I just wish we could get back to the waterfront with this one.
Enjoy!!!

Oxymoron

2008-04-15T11:09:00.000-07:00

I am sure it must be.
My stepmom sent some great new clothes for the boys.
Colton has a bit of a "thing" for Superman since that was his Halloween costume.
One of his gifts was a set of shorts, shirt and zip up hoodie that had the "S" logo on them. I looked at the tag, and sure enough: "Made in China."
Hm. I thought The Man of Steel was an American icon?
Well, no matter...I guess. Still, I would have passed it by on the shelf.
In a google alert I got this a.m. (Lewis & Clark related), it showed something else I am interested in: the closing of another long-standing American business.
I read the links relating to it, and feel sad about how it happened, and thinking that this is inevitable.
I detest the quality of most things that are Made in China...it seems so much that quantity vs. quality is the order.
If something breaks, it is almost cheaper (certainly less trouble) to buy a new one than to send the other back for a replacement. There really IS no warranty on much of this crrrrap.
Having small children makes the avoidance of Chinese-made garbage a lot more difficult. I did, however, find some nice little plastic boats at our local Walgreen's (after looking at the locally-owned toy store(s) in the area, and finding the ones unsuitable for surf/river/stream play for their price and construction).
My 3-year-old actually noticed "they are made in USA momma!" I couldn't believe it.
Yep, there was the notation on the plastic hull. At $1.99 ea. and buy two, get one free, I managed two boats that will likely disappear one way or the other this season, for less than $4.
I do still have some of these similar boats from when my oldest was their age, about 15 years ago, but sometimes the tide pulls them out, or they sink out of sight, though that is not our goal. I just can't see plunking down $39 + for something to play with at the beach or down in our muddy little pond.
I'm going to get new dishes, and they'll probably be Homer-Laughlin unless I find another good domestically-made company.
There are even some nice picture frames (pre-made) down at Old Town Framing.
I am having a TOUGH time finding new throw pillows that are not made at least partially in China. Guess I could make them myself?

Bang your head!

2008-04-05T18:50:00.000-07:00

I just detest hitting my head. Don't know too many that enjoy the sensation, though I wonder...
My small barn (six stalls for six small horses) has always been a little bit of a "make do" situation. From the days when we first moved here and it was just a two-stall shed, to the expansion in the Winter (yes, Winter) of '99.
I ADORE having an indoor space to go and feed the horses, and the barn cats have shelter.
What's happened is that it's a storage space for everything else. Four-wheelers, lawn mowers, extra lumber and what-have-you. The things that go with the horses are supposed to go in there, but the other things really bug me.
At times when we've had an extra stall, it's not so bad other than the dust and such that goes with the horses/bedding ends up on the stored item(s).
Martin had the idea to put in a shelf-type setup. This would make space for storage overhead. I didn't know this was going to happen until after it was built.
I thought it was a fine idea, but when I saw the execution, I was disappointed, though I tried to temper that.
The shelf was approximately 5'6" off the ground. I am very nearly 5'10" tall. I am the shortest adult member of the family. That was explained by the shelf being only 4' from the back wall...very little need to get under there.
Not so, I thought, as I remembered that that's where the horses like to go to pee. Of course, I ended up dropping it. Not sure why the shelf couldn't have been higher off the ground.
I envisioned myself bumping my head. Often. Happily, that did not happen.
Instead, it happens about 2-4 times a year, give or take. Today was the first time in about 6 months.
No matter, because it was a doozy.
I was dragging a huge, probably 80-lb. sack of bedding into Mouse's stall, walking backwards and shuffling at that. I had it going pretty good when I felt it.
I think I had one of those jaggy dialog clouds over my head like in the comic books. It said "KERRR-THUMPPPP-KRAKKKK" as the back of my head hit the corner of the 2X4. I had been in the process of standing up as I was shuffling backward.
I cursed. Loudly.
The horses, which had been milling around outside the doorway, thinking about coming in, quickly left, crossing the creek and away from my negativity.
Something about hitting your head that puts visions of violence dancing through the air.
I squeezed out tears, sobbing a few times just because it hurt that bad. I would have fallen to my knees, but I was in a horse stall that had just been stripped. Guess I didn't hit my head THAT hard.
Still, it pissed me right off.
As my Dad used to like to tell me, "better to be pissed off than pissed on."

Remembering mother

2008-03-29T19:33:00.001-07:00

When one endeavors to write about personal topics in a public format, it bears keeping in mind that others may know of the ones involved.
I wonder, then, does anyone who stumbles across this remember my mother?
If so, I wonder what their recollections were.
The nature of my maternal family was to ostracize and "reward" those of blood relation with unusual cruelty. I have no idea why, but my theory remains that it was the ultimate in self-loathing manifesting itself.
In other words, these individuals disliked themselves to the point of hating their own offspring because they WERE flesh and blood. I could be wrong.
If, however, you were lucky enough not to have been born with a genetic link to them, the Piersons were apparently good as gold. I wouldn't know, though my grandmother Connie was very kind and generous to me, it still hurt that the others were shunned for one reason or another.
I think it's interesting how the other blood relations from that side of the family all but amputated any contact with myself, my brother and half-sister, at least as far as I am aware, for my relationship with my siblings is very sporadic in the former, and completely over in the latter. I guess again the fact that we were related made us repugnant. Family = the people who know all the right reasons to hate you.
This is probably greek to most of you.
I realize also that many of my mother's friends are either passed on or moved away. Several of her contemporaries (how can you call such creatures friends?) have probably died of the same vices that took her life. The good ones, like Heidi, I miss. She died last Summer.
I wonder where Frank has gotten off to, and wonder many things about many people I met there.
Most of them had no idea what kind of monster she had the potential to be. Why do I feel guilty in saying that? I can't completely forgive her, even though she is dead and cannot redeem herself.
If I were to do that, it would feel like acceptance (of what she was), and I will not do so. I know what she is/was, and that is enough. I don't have to like it or be comfortable with it.

So if you were a friend or acquaintance of Julia Cargill (née Parsons, Branigan, Seely and Douglass, maiden name Pierson), hello to you!

The number of my blood relation family is quite small, but I count myself fortunate to have many good friends. Some better than others for sure, but friends nonetheless. I hope that I am as good a friend as you are to me.

Wanderlust

2008-03-29T11:28:00.000-07:00

yes, it is there, always looming, or bouncing slowly around the spaces of my brain.
As much as I tend to spend time at home, I love the open road.
I love to stop in a new space, and sample the sensual variety. Sights, sounds, scents and the ensuing change in feeling.
Short trips tend to mollify this beast within, but nothing more so than the "someday" imaginings of fruition.
Luckily, I live in a vast and expansive region. For as long as I have lived here, there are still new, and where once was something old, is quickly changed by the elements.
Craving desert, I can drive for less than four hours and find it. Verdant gaps between craggy mountains, streams and waterfalls. Snowy meadows, all of these exist near enough to soothe my need for different.
I suppose that I may need to bicycle there in order to afford all of these things, when and if that someday comes.
Right now, there is no better place than here.

Vacant

2008-03-25T11:48:00.000-07:00

It's Spring Break, though you'd not know it to look and stand outside.
This is nothing surprising, for next week the sun will shine warmly, and the breeze will caress the empty playgrounds, parks and beaches in a heartbreaking display of irony.
It's too bad, that.
Another thing that is depressing is the vacancy in the downtown business areas. I don't pretend to know every contributing factor in this sad eventuality, nor do I profess to have the remedy.
That, as well, is too bad.
Since I don't own anything there, the most I can think to do is frequent the shops that are open, and pick up trash here and there. For no other reason than that I live here, and wish things were different.
Why do people let their dogs crap on the sidewalks? Why do they feel the need to dump their trash everywhere? Feeding pigeons is right up there...As is waiting with baited breath for the Home Depot, the Staples, the Big 5 to show up and further the destruction of small businesses.
Competition is all fine and well, but what about monopoly? Soon there will be no choices. It's a good thing we all love the exact same things, in great quantity, because it's being provided in convenient formats.
Buy, buy, buy, and throw, throw, throw. (as in trash)
Something vicious about the circles we seem to walk around in.
baaa!!!

Ovum

2008-03-23T10:09:00.000-07:00

This soggy, Sunday morning has been peaceful in comparison to our sunny Saturday.
The throwdown in the parking lot at the Warrenton basin with one of the "shortest" (now this isn't all about physical limitations, mind you) men I've met fizzled, luckily.
I left the basin puzzled for more reasons than Chester's erratic and irrational behavior, and realizing that it's not worth getting upset over. It did consume too much of my time, even so.
The boys had a great time at Tapiola. Brandon got to move up in the world of cordoned-off egg hunting zones, competing in the 6-8 category.
Colton is well in the middle of his 3-5, and well-matched at that. Don't underestimate those toddlers gone wild! I nearly tripped over a dozen or more determined knee-high egg-hunters.
Back home for a bath for the truck, some fun in the mud for all three of my sons, and then back to town for me.
Lucky I was to pick up my Indian Nations (giddy happiness!!) map from Bill, and appreciative that he went out of his way with as busy as he is with shipwreck charts and upcoming events, that he finished it rapidly and it looks even better, if that could be possible.
Topped off the truck wash with a fairly thorough vacuum job. It is interesting how soothing the process as well as result of cleaning can be. As a kid we had our dreaded "Saturday clean" day (in hindsight, what a f*ed up mess that was), I thought cleaning was the most horrible task/punishment ever designed. Hey, I was ten...and things were inevitably let go to the point that it would have been easier to burn it and start over fresh.

(doesn't it look great there on the right? Good ol' #4!)
Home again for the ceremonial map-hanging (and just in time to celebrate the 202nd anniversary of the Lewis & Clark expedition's homecoming, something I found out on Bill's blog).
A quiet evening, and for that I am grateful.
A relaxed sleep (Ok, I probably DID drool) put things into better perspective.

I do have lots to do including painting (indoors for now, but I'm making inventory of the areas that need attention outside, in case Martin can't get to them before he heads to AK). Doubt I will paint today, but likely this week.
I will probably cook up the rib steaks for dinner, broccoli with cheese sauce, and of course deviled eggs. Hopefully rainbow-colored since the dye always seeps in!
We will be going into town, later, just because we need a few things (heck, I love to go for a drive as much as the next person (probably more so), but damn that diesel is spendyyyyy).
Happy Easter, Clatsop County!
Don't forget to vote...

Is it really coming?

2008-03-13T21:20:00.000-07:00

The S-word. Spring.
There have been a few times when it felt close. Times when the sun felt warm, and glimpses of daffodil-strewn banks. Pussy willows, skunk cabbage...and mud.
I had hope that the grass, even the weeds would absorb most of the mud created when hurricane Cooper showed up on the heels of our major storm last December.
No such chance.
I'm ready for an eternity of Spring, of Summer...

100 years of service USCG Tillamook Bay

2008-03-10T22:32:00.000-07:00

Great trip down with Bill Brooks of NW Limited...History in Vogue!
My "job" was to take pictures and document some of the trip for his blog.
You can see them at:
Coast Guard Station Tillamook Bay (the very last photo in the post will take you to a slideshow when clicked on)
My brother was stationed at Garibaldi in 1988. These guys have a tough job, this is a rough bar.
My nephew lost his life along with his crew on the Catherine M on Feb. 7, 2006, increasing the toll dramatically, though none so much in recent years as the Taki Tooo.
In talking with a few of the crew there, it's evident that the bar needs some attention, but unlikely in light of funding issues. 20' of depth is a scary prospect, and recent storms have hammered the jetty.
Driving past the bar on any day, it is deceptively inocuous-looking.
Kudos and gratitude to the men and women of the United States Coast Guard, and thanks for inviting the public to celebrate. Thanks, Bill, for letting me tag along and attend!

Moorage

2008-03-05T12:32:00.000-08:00

(Originally posted October 10, 2007)
We took a walk, today, along the riverwalk and to the West End Mooring Basin with a stop at the Fishermen's Memorial along the way. For the first time ever, both boys were riding their bikes without training wheels. They rode on along ahead of us until we called them back to keep them in sight.

Martin remarked that they must feel so free, and told me the first time that I must have felt free was when I got my first bike. I thought about it a few seconds, and could not find that memory associated with my bicycle. A sense of power, maybe. Of course there were the obligatory accidents associated with it, too. Skinned knees and the inevitable "bar incident" that even hurts for girls!

I tried then to find that sense of freedom's arrival and I could not locate it til well later in my life. I realized why, too:

I think that in order to have, or truly feel freedom, one must first know security. It must be deeper than acquaintance; it must be unmistakeable, intimately familiar. That did not exist for me until I was grown.

As we walked later along the docks between the boats all buttoned up in their covers and tied securely to their moorages, I thought of how the shelter of the harbor always calls to mind the contrast of open water, the limitless freedom of flying over the river. Perhaps it is more a yearning.
I never imagined, when I was young and had no choice but to go along with my mother and her husband on our 48' Salmon troller, that I would love the experience so much. Not all of it, but there is something indescribable about being on the ocean, or even a lake or river. The boat felt both powerful, invincible and miniscule at the same time, heading West out over the bar and into the open ocean. Not so much fun idling along at troll speed waiting for the fish to bite. There is a certain thrill to watching a 70+ lb. King Salmon breach the water on the other end of the line, and the paydays made the adults happy. My favorite, though, was when we were up on plane, soaring along at 28 knots. I would either lie on my stomach on the top of the lower house, or stand on the deck and jump in the air or let it fall out from under my feet for that giddy weightless feeling. Either way, it was glorious to me, even now remembering it.

(gads, she was ugly colored, but I was proud of her even though she did not belong to us, the "Freeloader" in all her glory, in her slip at Ilwaco, WA., probably about 1976, bless her diesel heart)
I'm glad for those times, which were also some of the most uncertain times in my life. A taste of freedom in the midst of uncertainty.
They're part of who I am.

I understand freedom, now, though happily, I also understand security.

Oregon Shipwrecks!

2008-02-29T13:19:00.001-08:00

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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4 a.m. and feeling daft...

2008-02-26T05:58:00.000-08:00

Four a.m. is a lonely time to be on the road, but meditative in ways no other time of day seems to be.
The drunks have bumper-car-stumbled their way home to bed or death, and most have yet to rise for work.
A clear sky above, and a half-moon rides high, illuminating tendrils of fog. Beams of pewter light filter through the arms of evergreens as I wind my way along the road.
The city is quiet and still, though the lights shine, it's obvious that the majority are sleeping. It seems a quiet lump heaped there on the hill, and spilling to the water's edge. The moon sets the river to a glistening streak. I feel like the only one looking, and yet I know that could not be true. It only feels that way.
I catch sight of that loneliness feeling again, but push it away. There's a warmth waiting, I know.
Daft Punk's on the CD player, "Something About Us". Nice that it decided to go ahead and honor me with its cooperation, since my iPod's dead and Martin took off with the cable. Not sure I'm up for the randomness of the radio, either.

"It might not be the right time
I might not be the right one
But there's something about us I want to say
Cause there's something between us anyway

I might not be the right one
It might not be the right time
But there's something about us I've got to do
Some kind of secret I will share with you

I need you more than anything in my life
I want you more than anything in my life
I'll miss you more than anyone in my life
I love you more than anyone in my life "

The last song on the CD, it seemed to fit the mood this morning. Once the CD was done, I got "Error-20" so that was that. Luckily I was about 90 seconds from home by then.
Now off to see where the Grim Reaper has gone to. Death IS an International Arrival, you know.

For want of a farrier...

2008-02-25T09:08:00.000-08:00

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.

Detachment...

2008-02-16T21:07:00.000-08:00

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?

Respite at the water's edge

2008-02-07T23:36:00.000-08:00

"Climbing up on Solsbury Hill
I could see the city light
Wind was blowing, time stood still
Eagle flew out of the night
He was something to observe
Came in close, I heard a voice
Standing stretching every nerve
Had to listen had no choice
I did not believe the information
(I) just had to trust imagination
My heart going boom boom boom
"Son," he said "Grab your things,
I've come to take you home.""
-Peter Gabriel

Quite luckily, there is a path that leads along the river. Handy for a break in the weather, the opportunity to get outside. Eggshell past, becoming substantial footing. Dependable, solid pavement, and a keen, almost-too-cold wind in my face. Ships lie at anchor just that side of the channel. Their bows point upriver; the tide's on the ebb.
Needed a change of scenery, some brisk clean-sweep of exertion. We ran for a brief stretch, the boys had to sound the bell 'til I was nearly deaf. Re-focus. The voice in my ear a calming presence. I could feel the warmth of a smile that stayed with me.
We ran some more, the boys and I, into the wind.
Later, as we made our way back to where the truck was parked, the sun shone. The sun. Gone so long, it was all but forgotten.
I looked up into a patch of blinding blue and limitless atmosphere. Such contrast to the strings of gray, low-ceilinged days of recent.
A bald eagle commanded my attention, screeching indignantly at seagulls who were hoping to heckle him out of their territory. As I am often wont to do, I stopped walking to watch a while as he displayed his mastery of the elements. Wings outstretched, his tail spread. A row of feathers curving, his large body described a graceful, sweeping arc. Powerful wingbeats brought him out of reach of the diving seagulls and he paid them no more mind than the single utterance of which I'd heard.
It was too cold in the wind, to stay and watch him disappear over the hill, so I continued back to the truck. Better for the time spent at water's edge.

Crunch, crunch

2008-02-06T23:06:00.000-08:00

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.

No parking at high tide

2008-02-05T13:13:00.000-08:00

(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.

"I hurt myself today

2008-02-01T10:52:00.000-08:00

to see if I still feel."
Not literally, but I am feeling more than a little melancholy.
A friend just informed me of the passing of his father. I do not know many details of their relationship, and how my friend is feeling about this.
A father, still, is a tough one. A close shave with mortality, and no doubt brings to surface a melange of emotions, for better or worse.
When I hear about others' losses, I tend to go over my own, to touch on them. Today was, for other reasons, probably more susceptible to a little vicarious blues than others. Of course there are the biggest goodbyes that are always there, and always will be.
Then there are the ones that really didn't bring that big of a change in my life, and yet they had to have their due.
My mother, for example. One would assume that the loss of one's mother would be a sizeable event. I had pretty much said goodbye to mine years earlier. She had ceased to be a mother, and had become more of a tormentor, a black hole of emotion.
She was quite ill for a long time, of her own doing, before she did finally pass. It wasn't a surprise when I got the call from the hospital she was at for her final days. it was, though, something of a shock. She was 51. We had not spoken in nearly a year, and when we had, it had been very angry and combative words that we had exchanged. I had been wishing that she would leave me be for many years by that time. Death seemed too good to be true for her, as it seems people like that tend to keep on going, if only for the pleasure they get out of stepping on others.
I was relieved. She could not do anything to me, or my family, anymore. She was done for. Nothing more would come from her direction (I was wrong about that one, but more on that later, no doubt).
It took a while for the grief to settle in. Not for her, but more for what could have been. I'd realized when I was in my mid-teens, that she was not ever going to be my mother. I still kept hoping for many years after, though. I was willing to compromise. She could be my friend, or some semblance of such. That never happened.
I thought I was over it already, when I heard the news that June day, but I wasn't.
I was left with a strange feeling of being out of sync, or disjointedness, for lack of a better descriptor.
The realization of what I'd lost hit me one day probably a week later, while I was watching the local cable channel that the weather, local events and advertising. It showed as a background to these a view of the river on a sunny, breezy day, all the while playing something like "Theme from a Summer's Place." A ship lumbered slowly upstream, against the ebbing tide. The bridge was evident over and behind the ship. My mother's house, during the last of her "good" years was right near the bridge and had a beautiful view of the river. I associate that view with possibility, with glimpses of hope for something people often take for granted...no wonder it reminded me of her.
The camera's point of view was low, behind a few browned wisps of grass, seedheads bending them provocatively in the breeze. Late Summer.
I felt, just then, poignantly sad. She was gone, and what she could have been was gone with her. What I could have had...
Julia was, at one time, a very brilliant, wonderful and creative person. I'm told she had a very high IQ, for what that's worth. She was innovative and fun...and I just barely remember that version of her. That version of her was a fiction to me.
A fairy tale I clung to, because you could still see glimmers of it beneath the tainted surface of what she'd become.
This subject, as you might guess, could drag on forever. Not really necessary when the point is that I feel badly for my friend and his family, and I wish there were something I could do to make it easier for them.
I can't, so I will instead just keep them in my thoughts, and wish for them some peace in their time of grief....

Unfettered

2008-01-27T21:22:00.000-08:00

(a bit of allegory?)

A hot, Summer afternoon. I admire you from a distance; your strength and carefully managed grace. Agile in spite of your substance and Life burns in your presence, a beacon unmistakable. Undeniably masculine, the atmosphere hums around you. Something has you agitated and your muscles bunch, your jaw ripples with clenched teeth. Your eyes flash and simmer as you pace, coiled. Furtively, I glance about, to seek the cause of this distress, hoping it could not be my vantage, my presence.
I wish for just one touch, or to join your powerful, hurtling destiny if only I could twine my fingers in your hair and straddle your muscular body. So tantalizing is the display of savage freedom before me that I bite my lip and look away, fearing that I intrude where none is welcome lest they be added to the focus of that rage.
At last, you look my way, distracted from the demonstration of your power. Breath held, I watch, hoping. Your expression is none from which to conclude that my hopes and wishes will be answered. You are bold, though, and stride directly to me, your gaze on mine. So unlike any other wild creature I've encountered. I look away, unsure of the right answer.
You gain a close proximity, and your greeting is full of joy, and inviting, a yes of hello. I move my hand to reach and touch, but think again and refrain, instead sampling your attitude with all my senses. You smell of sun and dust and the intangible heat of the afternoon winds blowing through yellowed-grass fields and of greenery already tiring of the season, releasing from the branches, tangling themselves in your mane.
Without thinking, I reach to remove a tiny leaf, and imperceptibly you meet that contact and through just those three fortunate fingertips I feel, see and hear the wind rushing through my ears a white-noise break from the surroundings of here and now. Just as quickly, the contact is broken though that static call is still singing in my veins.
Incurably, it spreads throughout. I watch your eyes begin to search the horizon and I know my time in your presence is limited. I crave to touch you again and possess this that feels wild and without bounds, that lifts my soul to merely contemplate. Would that I could slip a snare around your neck, forever connecting you to me. I know that to attempt such would be brash. I wonder would you bolt as fast and far as you could go, or would you submit in time? I think for just one second how empowering it would be to possess you, control your every move. The disappointment in that eventuality slips like a curtain over the sun burning overhead.
And so I watch as you speed towards that horizon, the dust trailing in your wake and without me as passenger....or as part. I exhale, ever so softly and rub the crumbling leaf to dust as you disappear from sight. I know that if I play my cards right, we will encounter each other again, and I anticipate it even as I contemplate this most recent.
It is because you don't carry my brand or wear my bond that I see the depth of your beauty, and revel in the displays of your fury and strength. If you were mine, I know that I would seek to tame and soothe the very expressions I stand now in awe of. And that would be akin to tragedy.
Run free and never know the rope, never know the binding restraint of respect. In your current state, you are perfect and I will always love that.
Something I can never have...

Take me to the river

2008-01-27T16:53:00.000-08:00

The river running right past our town is to me a talisman; a soothing, calming presence as well as inspirational. As much as I love road trips, the river is the ultimate road, beckoning with a greater sense of freedom, an elemental appeal that tarmac and concrete just can't match. It provides an endless parade of color, light and activity. Ships, marine life and a vast array of flotsam and jetsam ride past in its currents. The skies above are reflected on its surface. At any one time, you will find shades of blue, gray, or the reds of sunset and rise reflected in its ripples and waves.
This river is the very reason "we" are here. It is the core of this region, a magnetic presence even before we were here. Consequently, I feel that it's important to maintain broad access to the river. Visually, physically, as well as practically. Fishing and pleasure vessels use it constantly. Even on a grey, low-ceilinged day, it is a focal point. From the streets and sidewalks laid out over the hills of town, it's where the eye naturally settles, and inevitably follows Westward to where the river meets the sea. Dreams follow suit. A mental cleansing, of sorts.
Very often, it is pivotal in turning around my mood. Sitting still, watching the tide flow past is meditative in nature. Even the smell of a clean river is something irresistable to me.
Last night, on our way back from the beach at sunset, the river called me to its side. A barely audible whisper I could not even so ignore. It had turned to liquid black, reflecting a glittering array of lights. The night was calm, clear, as it settled into the region. To the west, a sublime stripe of maroon and persimmon burned horizon objects into sharp relief. Opposite, low in the eastern sky, a magnifed, mellow, golden moon held court over snow-sprinkled hills. Ships sat quietly at anchor. I felt a surge of equanimity as I observed and became part of this magical landscape.
Every sense felt renewed, my psyche soothed. I was gratefully overwhelmed, immersed in the beauty laid out before me. The liquid lane beckoned. It would be cold, though.
I started my truck, and reluctantly backed away.
Maybe some other time.
I did take with me some fodder for daydreams, and other mental meanderings.

Deep freeze

2008-01-18T22:08:00.000-08:00

It's cold. Crisp and clear, and I certainly appreciate the view of the night sky. The stars, planets, the Milky Way itself, are gloriously showcased against the blackest of black backgrounds. It's cold, though, and I am loathe to linger too long in admiration. The ground winks back with its own reflected sparkle.
Instead of slopping through the mud, I crunch over it on my way to the barn.
The horses are thick with glossy Winter fuzz, their guard hairs standing out. I've let their bridle paths grow out, and they all sport a Tina Turner-style 'do.
I hear that more cold's on the way. The kind that will freeze the water buckets even inside the barn.
I could complain about it, but it's not raining. The brightness is welcome, though I could do with a longer day in lieu of these short, bright, brittle ones.
So each little fuzzball gets a bit extra hay, and then it's back to the now overly warm-seeming house.
The phones are all screwy again, so I'll have to assuage this bit of Winter loneliness with trying to scare up some online friends for a bit of distraction, tonight. See how everyone's doing. My cell doesn't work very well at my house.
The cold seems to add an extra layer to the isolation I feel sometimes. It has nothing to do with being alone, though everything to do with loneliness.
Even those stars seem more distant, this night.
One other thing about nights like this is that the bed sheets seem every bit as cold as the air outside. Climbing in, I huddle in a fetal ball, and try to conserve body heat. Luckily, I will fall asleep before I get fully warm, and wake up midway through to enjoy that warmth.

The mail

2008-01-15T08:35:00.000-08:00

was an ambiguous lot, yesterday. Often it is a rather small variation of things I find in my mailbox: expected bills, notifications, perhaps an announcement or two, catalogs for car parts to fishing boats for sale. If I'm lucky, my Miniature Horse World or Journal, or even the Showcase might be in there. These things are somewhat boring, though, just because they are wholly expected.

Yesterday was quite an exception. I'd purchased a rather cool item on a sales board, a few weeks earlier. I had forgotten about it in the meantime, and it was pretty cool. I was pretty sure of what it might be when I saw it, and sorted through the credit card offers, the sales flyers, finding one addressed from one of my Miniature Horse Registries, I sort of flinched, figuring I'd forgotten to send them some bit of paperwork to renew my membership, amateur card or some futurity nomination. I noticed there was what looked like a late Christmas card from my friend, Bev, in Kenai. I set that one aside.
Opening the AMHR letter, I was very pleasantly surprised to see that it was the National All-Star results! These are the high-point horses for each class, age, and gender. Last year's red colt brought home two, which is unprecedented because he was gelded halfway through the year. These are high accolades, especially given that Pyro is a baby, and for most of the year, his mother travelled with him to the shows so that he would have his milk to drink. He beat stallions ten times his senior, repetitively, gaining Supreme Awards, more championship ribbons than he could wear around his little neck. It was a rush, but this is a big country with a lot of participation in that division. I hadn't any idea we'd finish so close to the top in the point standings. No doubt he's well on his way to a Hall of Fame in Halter like his big bro, Mouse.
Raftered Hearts TNT a/k/a "Pyro" took the Reserve National All-Star Award in Stallion Foal of Current Year 30" and Under, AND he took the Reserve for Gelding Foal of Current Year, Over 30" to 32" (did I mention he grew a lot his first year?)!
We kicked a lot of tail last year. The above results were gained from just two shows in the first case, and one show in the second case. Not bad.

A picture of Pyro at the ripe old age of 7 days. I knew I liked his form as soon as he unfolded from his (traumatic) birth. Just glad to see affirmation in the form of judge's and respected trainer's opinions. I don't breed many horses for a lot of reasons, but it's nice to see that the few that I do are of nicer quality. Not that I didn't kinda know they were...
This year, we have no foals coming, but I still have Pyro and his sister, the Little Black Meanie, and both are for sale.

On to the last part of the mail, which is where the tone changed dramatically. I opened Bev's card. She and her husband, Bob, moved up to Kenai to be near Bev's daughter, Becky, a few years ago, now. I want to say at least three years ago.
They used to live out on Dell Moor Loop Rd. I met Bev in 1989 or thereabouts, and subsequently her husband. Martin had known Bob a lot longer. Robert Driscoll used to build and repair fishing nets along with his neighbor/business partner next door, John. Martin had worked with both of them when he was working at the net shop. Not to mention that when you work on draggers, you get to know the net builders pretty well. Their shop area was always a fun place to sit around and talk while they sewed.
Bob was quite the character. When he and Bev got together, they also began raising exotic animals, which were "her" thing, but Bob helped with building shelters, pens, and cleaning chores. He was always there telling jokes and teasing whenever we'd go to visit to see the Bev and the animals. Always smiling and laughing.
Bev's card informed me that Bob had died in June.
I had sent her a Christmas card, addressed to both of them. She had tried to send a note about Bob when he died, but apparently we didn't get it. I felt very badly for that oversight. I hadn't known. Her succinct words had a lot of grief and disorientation between the lines. "After 30 years, it's hard." I am just glad that she lives near her daughter and grandsons.
I wish she were closer, because I want to see her, and hug her. I miss knowing there's a Bob Driscoll in the world, cracking wise with his weathered-faced grin. He looked for all the world like a worn cowboy type, still as tough as the day he turned out, just showing his time in the elements.
Coincidentally, Bev is where I got my Miniature horses from, one frozen December in 1995 after their place flooded out. She sold us the entire lot of four mares and one stallion. One of those mares had a filly by the stallion two years later, Cherry Bomb. Cherry Bomb gave birth to Pyro on Feb. 13th of 2007...
I still have the one oldest mare that Bev gave to me.
Godspeed, Bob.

Local

2008-01-13T12:22:00.000-08:00

Originally posted 7-16-07 3:00 pm
Living in a small community has a few challenges. Many of these require extra investment of time and resources to make up for. Being in business in a small community brings even more challenge. Competition in some markets can make it hard for a consumer to comparison shop and therefore get both a good deal and good service. Same goes for the business owner, and then they have to worry about that competition while making their living.
I came here from a large city (Portland), and though I had grown up here and on the Peninsula (much smaller communities of a few hundred, if that) for periods of my life, I was used to having everything (and multiple variations and choices of it) available at my fingertips, or a short walk down the block. If it wasn't available there, I probably didn't need it. I was young, then, too, and quite unaware of the complexity of life and economies, local and global and everything in between.
I found myself back here at the age of 20, and missing those perks. Homesick for the overwhelming array of new, for the multitudes of options. Probably just homesick, as I'd left behind my friends and work, and spent most of my time alone. Consequently, many miles and hours were racked up traveling back and forth between Astoria and Portland. I knew where everything was there, and if I didn't, I could easily find it.
The stores were in abundance. We bought everything from groceries to new cars there.
Not that I didn't have my local indulgences, but the majority of spending was done two hours inland.
That was in 1988, though, and things were already beginning to change. It seemed to me that more and more people were realizing the uniqueness of this place, and tending that ideal. I myself was realizing it right alongside everyone else. I had been making plans to move away to somewhere with nicer weather, more options for employment and schooling. Somewhere with more...everything.
I was, therefore, in a suspended state, a hesitation and a waiting for the next phase to begin. Meanwhile, I was busy missing out.
I rode my Arabian mare along the tideline at dawn and dusk, and easily could find forest trails to traverse and explore as well. Driving home from that, I was surrounded by glorious vistas.
I had forgotten the traffic jams, the general dirt and unpleasantness of the large city I'd left. Carrying out chores is less unpleasant for the fact that you are constantly accompanied by what would be less than ordinary in most of the world, even sought after. Things smell great here, look amazing. Even a winter's storm has its attraction. Driving home from picking up groceries, I am often treated to a glorious sunset, or even a misty monotone river scene.
As the downtown area became vacated by some of the businesses (Newberry's, Sears, pharmacies and the like), both old, new, small and large, it also started being refilled by locally-owned business and galleries showcasing products from here and by the people that live here. My habits were such that it took me a while to realize how enjoyable a walk through the streets of Astoria could be. What is missing in volume is made up for in uniqueness; The little trolley putters along the tracks while tugboats, fishing vessels and deep drafts make their way along the water. Inside the stores is artwork by local artists, most often with the surrounding landscape and experience at the core of their inspiration. Books written or illustrated by local authors, and food grown and cooked here. The restaurants are really great, for the most part. Each of them has some aspect of their menu that appeals to just about everyone.
Friends from out of town asking where to go for something special were proudly pointed in some direction or other...by me! I am proud of what is becoming, and worried at the same time. All of this success seems to have a price.
Those that want to capture the essence of this place for themselves will develop the places we have taken for granted as free and accessible by all of us. They will indeed turn this into their playground. Not that I mind visitors, but some of the changes they bring about are unmistakably bad for my hometown. It may be in part, our collective faults.
Do we buy things at a grocery store that is locally owned? How to do so, when none exists? The profit is not staying here, though the minimum wage jobs are in abundance. Do we buy our coffee at the local Starbuck's (bleah), where all the must-have accessories are made in China? There is a plethora of wonderful coffee to be had, here, and everyone knows Starbuck's is passé.
If we want a strong community, we have to invest in it from the ground up.
Consequently, I find myself seeking the locally made, the locally owned, more and more frequently. I do love to have the option of heading up to Portland, Longview or Seattle for something in particular, but I am even more relieved and excited to be back home, and to know that it's waiting for me.

Yesterday, we went to our local Sunday market, which started out so very small as a "Farmer's Market" set up alongside the river near the new Maritime Museum. I say new because I can remember when that museum was housed in the big, white building a couple blocks to the South. Now, however, the Sunday Market is filled with just what I love to see and experience: local! Here as in Astoria, Oregon (and surrounding communities).
I recognized many of the faces of people I pass by often as we go about our daily lives and see that they have something here to sell. They may not make a living per se doing this, but it's something that they're proud of, something they want to share. We ended up purchasing mostly local produce, some for dinner that night, but I came away with many ideas for items to purchase either soon or for someone I care about. (see link below!)
Brandon and Colton had to have Kettle Korn, and were so into the balloon animals that we were not allowed long to look at things. They would see another one go by in the hands of some lucky little kid, and we'd be pulled faster towards our destiny. It turns out the guy (in clown makeup of course) was really enjoyable to converse with, and his sentiments further paralleled my own. He was talking about appreciating the process behind enjoying the things we take for granted here in this region, the fruits of the land, products of the people that live and work here.
Having been "in" the commercial fishing industry for nearly 20 years now, I better appreciate the trickle down effect. When you finally get down to those that actually come up with the product (aside from the powers that be, the miracle of evolution and chance that put us here, that put these plants/animals/materials here on earth with us as well as we ourselves), there is precious little of the reason we all do it ($$) to go around. The trickle dries up to a few spare drops.
Knowing I can purchase some of these things from the growers and producers themselves is comforting, rewarding even. Why shouldn't they who live and breathe their work, who wear their bodies out, exhaust their minds and spend their worries on their businesses be the ones to get the majority of my money, if those things I desire?
I even made a new friend, whose dedication to his product is greatly admirable. He has an enthusiasm and sincerity about him. I had "known" him only in passing, in the manner of acquaintanceship we all get from living in this small place, but now feel happy to have met him and discovered more about this person I'd only smiled, nodded and waved at and/or spoken to briefly.
Now I had the joy of discovering another person's passion for something I also enjoy (historical maps).He was more than just another pretty face!
Have a peek at his website:
NW Limited...History in Vogue^TM
You never know what you'll find at the local market!
If your area has one of these, go check it out if you haven't. You will be pleasantly surprised.
We happened to come home that trip with a bag of local potatoes, tomatoes, berries and nectarines, but no doubt it is the new friendship as well as the renewed appreciation for this facet of our community that will linger.
Think before you shop...

Dissertate, Pontificate, Articulate...Oh, hell, just Elocute me!

2008-01-12T12:17:00.001-08:00

I love voice, and of course the male voice holds particular charm to me. Pitch and timbre, expressiveness are key. So when I read this NPR article, I was not surprised a bit. I've always been very aural.

"The Rules of Attraction May Turn on Our Voices":
http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=17840835

I'm a sucker for a fine voice, but the absolute clincher is one with impeccable enunciation.
Of course, the charm of a few peculiarities (such as influence of accent and habit) make it irresistible. This is probably an understatement of fact, but one of those things I don't advertise. It'd probably make y'all blush if I did.
Maybe it's no surprise to anyone that a sexy voice is attractive, but it might just shock the you-know-what out of some to know the depth of that attraction for me. Not to the exclusion of every other feature, but it is more than just the sugar and shortening of the icing on the cake. It's more like the icing that pervades every other part of the cake.
Deep is good, but not Barry White deep. Nope. Just the same as I've never liked the look of a weight-lifter or any extreme, it's always been more about the average for me. With voices, it's different, though. Maybe my proclivity borders on a fetish?
The sound of the voice, of course, is first and foremost, but then comes what is delivered by that voice. Sam Elliot may be distinctive in sound, but it's overdone with drawl, and he's not really said much of anything of consequence. Not to me, that is. Just for an example.
Maybe it is rooted in my younger years, when I would listen to music with headphones, searching for the less than perfect, the humanity in the voices if not the instruments. In the dark, with nothing save those sounds and no other, I found a connection.
As far as voices, I have a top three right now, and that list's private. If only those on it made audio books. ~lol~
My ~~secret's~~ out!

Butt, butt, butt!!!

2008-01-07T08:59:00.001-08:00

The kind that's (usually) yellow, cylindrical, and usually attached to a cigarette. I found one in my yard, today.
The reason that bugs me is:

I live a good distance from town, and not prone to having passersby just toss one down as they walk along the sidewalk past my house.

I hate cigarettes.

I dislike people that throw down cigarette butts as well.

If it was someone I don't know, it was someone I know too well.

So, yeah, why do smokers do this? Anyone that knows me knows how I feel about smoking. Even catching sight of someone smoking sends a wave of revulsion through me. I have never smoked, and never will. If I can at all avoid it, I do not spend time around smokers.
If someone feels the need to indulge in what we consider a vice, do we need to victimize everyone else in order to pursue our indulgence of same?
If someone visits that smokes, I will frequently see that they have tossed down a few butts in the driveway. Grrr. Why should I have to pick these up? They are not biodegradable, at least not fast enough for me. They stink, and they've had the smoker's lips all over them!!!

I can't begin to count the times when, driving, I've been following someone and seen a little orange fireball fly out the window, bounce along the road. Cigarette butt, still lit. Nice. In this county, roadside fires may not be the problem they are in other areas (one can usually guess what happened when they see the big, blackened circles alongside the road when driving inland or other, more arid climes). They do happen, though, and at the least, the litter's not necessary, is it? Do they still make cars with ashtrays? (not that I want one)
Granted, I'm sure that not all smokers are so inconsiderate, but a damn good portion of them seem to feel the need to expose all of us to their d-sgusting habit. Case in point: Why must you stand in front of the (non-smoking of course) building, smoking yourself into an early grave, stinking it up for everyone exiting or entering, and in effect, whenever the door is opened, sucking all that foul stink back into the building intended to be non-smoking? Why do you feel the need to smoke in a non-smoking room at a hotel? That smell is so hard to get out of everything, and so persistent.
Why?
If you're chewing tobacco, I surely don't want to see you spit, don't want to look at your bulging lower lip or your brown-stained teeth, but at least I don't have to go home smelling like death once I've walked past your cloud of foulness.

At the very least, extinguish your own butt, then take your stinking butt somewhere to dispose of it that makes more sense than the ground, the lake, river, or anywhere else where it will lie around reminding me how inconsiderate you are.

/end rant

Snow today, wind tonight

2008-01-07T06:53:00.000-08:00

I've heard at least five accidents in the hour or two that I've been listening to the scanner, this morning. Much of the county is encased in a layer of crusty, frozen slush or ice. What I don't get is why people drive fast enough to flip their cars over when they know it's icy?
It snowed out here for several hours, though it would mostly melt on groundfall, some of it piled up in the form of heavy, wet snow. Which froze overnight.
Kids have a two-hour delay and it's pretty obvious the second one steps outside that driving will be dangerous, something to be done with caution.
This wintry landscape seems especially foreign to me, in light of the dream I had last night: It was complete with rocking, floating on blue water, warm, soft (not hot) sunlight and the sweetest scent of Spring bourne on a breeze that was more like a gentle caress itself. Short and sweet. The details were muted, though it all felt very real. Every sense was supplied with exactly what was necessary to fool me into thinking that I was lying on my stomach in the sunshine, on a boat, with the warmth of the sun on my back, and the sweet scent of life and rebirth around me.
I clung to that bit of bliss for as long as I could, which was about a nano-second.
Next best thing is a big, hot cup of XDPNG coffee from Astoria Coffee Co.
Good thing, because the hike across the pasture's going to be cold, this morning.

Forecast is for another wind and rainstorm, tonight. Let's keep it interesting and add some sunny, warm days? I need light, dammit!

Stay warm, and drive slow.

Lately things just don't seem the same...

2008-01-05T11:58:00.000-08:00

(originally posted Nov. 9, 2007)

After seeing one of Bill Brooks' NW Limited...History in Vogue^TM Beatles tribute pieces, he was asked to create a custom Jimi Hendrix tribute piece for a friend, in turn for that friend's long-time friend. (not confusing one bit, these details don't really matter) I got to see it while it was being assembled, and finally at its fruition.
It was as if I was witnessing, through a privileged window, the embryonic stage of this piece. It began auspiciously enough, though it was not without its tribulations. I truly believe that challenge and trial often give rise to more heroic effort, a grander success in the long run. Could be it just seems simply more in contrast with those low points.
Larger, stronger, flashier. We were talking about Jimi Hendrix after all.
Bill, however, had a vision.

The various components were assembled, each important in their own right, though gaining greater and new importance as they were joined in pursuit of their combined, singular destiny. If this sounds as if they did it themselves, arrived of their own volition, it only seemed so. This process, on my observation, was so natural, truly as if it were growing from a single seed, following an invisible plan.

At times, a palpable excitement hovered in the possibility-laden thoughts, woven through the ideas and talk of the man at the helm of the project. Still other instances, it seemed that the path to greatness led over the brink of extinction. Not only for the piece itself, but for Bill. I suppose it is a cliché to liken it again to a birth. Each birth seems to drain its parent markedly. He's pretty resilient, though. Less so the glass. Like I said, it only seemed effortless.
Weeks pass, life intervenes; a van dies, resurrects and dies again (which was, ultimately, the dark star it was conceived under), clocks fall back. The reconnoitering, re-situating of one invalid father later, and in spite of all of these events, it took its first breath. It lives. Thriving in spite of adversity. No; dancing in its face!
Today, I got to see it. Completed albeit still ensconced in its nursery. There it laid, face-down. Don't assume this would be unflattering, for it was not. Instead it was quite the congenial introduction:

A succinct collection of memorabilia; the handshake: Find your seat, this will, quite happily, take a while.

The lower left corner bore a stamp, a signature and number.
Birthmark extraordinaire, befitting such a tribute. One of one. Oh, yes. I felt a little giddy tingle thinking of what the other side must be like.

I had a vague idea, for I had seen the individual elements, or most of them meant to become the one. One of one. Unique, individual....sensing a theme, here.

In my mind, I heard the clamor of expectant crowds, the hum of amplifiers, perhaps a little feedback: The awkward, disjointed sounds one encounters prior to a performance as the musicians take their place onstage. A different kind of anticipation; that of arrival. It is here, and yet it is not happened, though it is now, the waiting's over. This well could be the best part, the high, so to speak. In front of my seat, on my feet, the show starts.
I was expecting the liquid light display, the bright colors, the sweaty, dance-all-night energy; loud humming and lots of feedback. Not that I ever got to see Hendrix in concert, I was just three when he passed away. I have my own imagination to rely on, though, that and old footage. It was, however, not what I expected:

A hushed awe settled over me as I finally came face to face with this new creation. Creation is inept, for it had indeed taken on life in an organic manner. A life now gone, though surely not silenced, nor finished influencing its world. Staring between the lines, I heard them; the first notes of "The Wind Cries Mary": Unmistakably the voice of a man whose hands expressed more than one could hope to scream in a lifetime. Jimi was here.

The quiet was not quiet at all, it was a reverent dance within my own

memories of how his life, his talent touched mine through his music, and of course, his death so long ago. It allowed me the lattitude to pay homage within my own string of memories, yet represented exactly what it should. Fitting, perfect, and, it wasn't mine.

It did, however, leave me changed.

"Purple haze all in my eyes,

Don't know if it's day or night

You got me blowin', blowin' my mind...

Is it tomorrow, or just the end of time?

'Scuse me, while I kiss the sky..."

Again with the wind

2008-01-04T12:59:00.000-08:00

Another storm's on the way. No panic mentality, not even after last month/year's doozy.
I am, however, doing the usual that I like to do when I hear one of these is on its way: making sure all the vacuuming, laundry and cleaning is done. Well, as much as I can GET done, for as soon as I stop cleaning, dirt will commence its dictatorship.
Charge all your lights, batteries, fill the gascans and generators, lay in the firewood, and take a good, long, hot shower. Prepare for a windstorm.
I'm hoping they're right about the rain, though, that it is mostly headed south.
Summer, anyone?

Reality show

2008-01-04T09:37:00.000-08:00

overload.

What gives?
Originally, I think the concept was a sound one: to see how real people handle real situations. Hopefully we'll see something extreme. It started out innocently enough, to go to these extreme places and situations and watch it all go down.
Now, though, we've managed to take it to the extreme. The glut of these shows is hardly reality, IMO. It's more like delusion with a dose of bipolar disease on crack.
Rock of Love, Flavor of Love, I Love New York (who coined that one...does anyone love New York?), The Bachelor, Big Brother, Survivor, and more I'm hopefully blissfully unaware of. These people are pathetic, not interesting. If this is reality, I truly need a break from same.
Editing, scripting and carefully planned situations turn it into a circus of fantastic proportions. It's insulting to the average viewer. Like 60-minute long ads, punctuated with annoying commercial breaks which advertise more of the same.

Do I really want to watch (insert has-been of choice) go through addiction counseling/fight with his or her wife/make out with same and have tantrums ad nauseum? Nope.
I'm sure there's the old can't look away from the train wreck mentality at work, but the train wreck likely needs a mirror to see these days!
What's wrong with us that we even bother? Just one of those burning questions.

Thar she blows...

2008-01-01T18:18:00.001-08:00

Here goes the video for the gingerbread demolition (daytime version):
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NJ6kzW5t02Y
The ending needs to be edited out (I shrieked because I was hit in the back by warm shrapnel as I was running off, and then started to laugh about it all), and hopefully add a slo-mo of the actual explosion in its place. I have asked a friend to assist with this.
One interesting note was that the only piece of gingerbread that remained at ground zero was the gingerbread man's EYES.
Anyway, that's the gingerbread house New Year tradition. "My" raven really enjoyed last night's explosion this morning. She was waddling around in the front yard and gorging on gingerbread bits when I looked out first thing. The bluejays were happy to help with cleanup as well.
I think the best thing we learned this year was to remove the plastic tray before adding the explosive device. Last year, we spent a good amount of time hunting for the fragments of plastic.
Next year, we have designs on a full-scale gingerbread hotel or condo. Possibly a townhouse or high-rise. Thinkin' there needs to be a happy crowd of onlookers with gumdrop buttons and icing grins.
Dinner for us was our first deep-fried turkey. Not bad.
Happy 2008!

Gingerbread fallout

2007-12-31T18:41:00.001-08:00

Sure, it's great fun to go out on the town and see everyone we rarely see these days just because we so seldom hit the bars, but...
something pretty cool about a house party. No need to drive anywhere, and the facilities are pretty decent.

The last day of the year was spent getting ready for saying goodbye to 2007. I am having a pang of yearning for it just now as I typed that last sentence. Hadn't given it a ton of thought 'til now as to it truly being gone. Ran into a couple old acquaintances at Costco and the liquor store. One was unpleasant and luckily we didn't talk. The other, we just don't run in the same circles anymore. Was kind of nice to say hello casually and walk away from that one.
Still hurting from ~~that damn shaving cut under my arm~~ doing battle with a supervillain earlier today. Doing my best to assuage that with mandarin vodka, lime juice and mint leaves.
The XM satellite (nobody was up for playing DJ, the potential for dissing is way too high) was disappointing, though, so we had to change up the tunes. Sublime is better than Cher and listening to whiny 90s music.
Later, we will annihilate the two gingerbread houses we built way back before Christmas. Explosives + candy, frosting and gingerbread. There is NOTHING cooler than gingerbread fallout (well, there might be, but right now I'm fixated on that). Last year was the first year we instituted this tradition. It became one because of the joy it brought us as we remembered the sound of the shrapnel landing on the neighbor's tin roof. We laughed 'til our stomachs hurt.
The birds were quite pleased the next day to carry off the bits and pieces, and whatever candy eluded their beaks, merely melted in the rain. We found pieces of the house as much as a quarter mile away.
Cooper tried to get us to do one early for him, but New Year's is for gingerbread explosions. Oh, yes.
That and mandarin mojitos, though having them in the glass and not on the floor's always good. The neighbors are having a bonfire, but it's muddy over there.
Hoping we can get some video footage of the gingerbread house demolition...stay tuned.
Please drive carefully out there...don't drive drunk...
Happy New Year!!!

Rude awakening

2007-12-30T22:28:00.000-08:00

I'd just gotten to sleep last night (stayed up late browsing websites, and researching other things that interest me) when I was awakened by the loudest clap of thunder. The house was shaking in its wake. I was instantly propelled from deep, relaxed sleep to an adrenaline-burst of fearful uncertainty.
Had my house just exploded?
Apparently not. I was lying in my bed, still. I laid there not moving, just listening. I felt like if I moved, I might just lure whatever had made that sound back, attract the attention of some lurking monster. Half-in, half-out of some nightmare. It doesn't make sense, it's just what occurred to my sleep-drugged brain. Probably the leftovers of an ill-at-ease childhood. I don't usually get back to sleep easily if something traumatic happens in the middle of the night. Like gunfire, or the sound of the car doors slamming and mom driving off into the night, leaving us alone again.
I knew it was just thunder, minutes later, when the heavens opened up and pelted the top of my house with hail. It sounded like a dumptruck was relieving itself of millions of tons of gravel, or we'd suddenly turned up under a waterfall. I found my heart pounding again as I laid there hoping the house would hold up to the assault.
Not long after, the lights went out. I hate to say that I was such a wimp, I couldn't even bring myself to get out of bed and shut the computers down when they started their chirping set off when they switched to battery back-up power. It was too dark. That thunder had been too loud.
I laid there instead, tense and afraid to move.
Luckily it's not too often that I feel this way, and I can manage to talk myself out of it or ignore it and move on when it does.
I did get back to sleep, and though it was restless sleep (kept waking to check on the status of the power, I'm a little nervous about it after the six and a half days' worth we put in early in December without electricity), I managed a few more hours and woke to a house with a furnace, lights and coffee!
Still, that rude awakening left behind a feeling of doom that I couldn't quite shake.
I noticed, as we drove to town, there were pockets of white hailstones piled up.
Oddly, I forgot all about that strange, dark cloud while sitting staring at the river, and eating a very cold Snickers bar.

None of my beeswax (of shipwrecks and treasure)

2007-12-28T21:35:00.000-08:00

Chunks of beeswax with enigmatic symbols carved into them, shards of once-beautiful pottery, and pieces of exotic wood intermingle with the sand, rocks, seaweed and sea, at the foot of Neahkahnie Mountain near the inlet to Nehalem Bay. In decades past, the pieces were large, and quite useful. They held great value as trade items. More recently, the smaller pieces are revealed in a random pattern; gifts from the past by way of the sand and sea. Don't forget, they seem to whisper even as the retreating waves beckon further exploration.
My friend Bill Brooks, in working on his shipwreck chart, inspired me, throwing out a few facts, myths, and tall tales, which sent me off in search of more about the beeswax of Nehalem. I'd only ever touched on the subject briefly in my reading, compared to what I have recently learned, inspired by Bill's idea. (and again gained a whole new respect for the depth of research he's put in on this project) Who doesn't love a mystery?
I have never found a piece of beeswax, though admittedly most of my beachcombing is done far North of where the ship resides. I found in my research that others have found some fairly recently. Envious, I daydream about finding even a bit of it, if only to capture for myself a little of the mystery of the beeswax Spanish galleon. A recent news article shows a rather large piece from a wooden ship, partially burned, which was found on a Washington coast. Exciting stuff...
Long before Lewis and Clark arrived at the mouth of the Columbia in 1805, ships had been plying the coast, and losing their lives in the treacherous waters, along with those of their crew. Also lost were the cargos. The items which comprised those cargoes then became a new element amongst the natural, precious resources to be traded, and ultimately modified the lives of those living near.
Among the stories was one which told of a light-skinned man, reportedly the son of a castaway, the sole survivor of a shipwreck, perhaps the one that had deposited the beeswax?
Whether or not all the details of the wrecks are known, one thing is certain: That they have altered history irrevocably. Whole communities were founded around them, place names were born, safety provisions which permanently altered the landscape ensued. They have also captured our imaginations: Lost treasure, tales of impossible survival against the odds, and heroic deaths, as well the unavoidable intrigue of unnecessary tragedy. Woven amidst the fabric of our existence, these colorful tales are based on facts, fueled by myths.
I grew up amidst these. The beach house I lived in on the Long Beach (formerly North Beach) Peninsula was constructed by my father and grandfather, with beams that had been part of the shipwreck Arrow.
We often traversed the beach in rusty cars and trucks, on our way south or north to and from town. At low tide, I could see the remains of the shipwreck Alice, who inadvertently created her own headstone, in effect, when her cargo of cement solidified in her hull as it flooded with seawater in 1909. There were books on shipwrecks on the shelves in our little cabin, and they piqued my imagination. As I read the passages, and visited the sites, I discovered that the truth of the historical facts was more fascinating than any fabrication. To run my fingers along the rusted skeleton, and climb amidst the ribs of the Peter Iredale's hull brought some sense of scale, a tangible link to what I read and heard. The photographs in the books were helpful, of course, but no one element managed to capture the magnitude of these disasters.
I sought out charts which approximated these wrecks, and spent time matching up the numbers with the names and dates. There were a few available, but they were ultimately dissatisfying for one reason or another, and I ended up giving up on finding the right one, the disappointments hidden in tubes or gathering dust in boxes. I wanted something I could live with, something beautiful to look at, worthy of the space it occupied, and intriguing beyond the obvious.
There are only so many pieces of beeswax, so many bits of wood, steel and pottery, and even fewer pieces of fabled gold.
I never did forget those names (and how could I, when I hear and see them multiple times in a day?): Desdemona, Peacock, Iredale, Galena, Benson.
When the wreck of the Titanic was located after so many years of searching, I couldn't help but think in terms of the local missing shipwrecks, and wonder at what might be there, just offshore in the depths awaiting discovery. There are so many known, though the enigmatic ones such as the beeswax ship hold special favor. In those there remains a glimmer of possibility, a freedom in these immortal mysteries.
Those that are unclaimed belong potentially to anyone, to everyone, and just maybe to me, as much as they'll ever be claimed by any but the sea.

I am eagerly awaiting the chance to own my own bit of history, come hell or high water (how apropos that is) a Dead Reckoning the Pacific Graveyard chart by NW Limited will be mine.
I've seen the preview(s), and trust me, it's incredible.
You will, no doubt, be hearing more about this in the near future.
Not that I'm excited or anything!

New here

2007-12-25T15:37:00.000-08:00

I've been blogging for a long time, and reading at blogspot here and there. I joined today (Christmas, 2007) to help broaden my horizons (and yours!).
My goal for this Christmas was to avoid buying massive amounts of Made in China garbage-y stuff, and to pursue more meaningful gifts, and less of them with more in the quality department.
I would say, now that it's been said and done, that I have been about 85% successful. Much of my success started with avoiding big box type stores, and shopping with local vendors.
I don't usually make New Year's Resolutions per se, as I find that a little ridiculous to do so merely by virtue of the fact that the calendar has turned over. Why not start today? Why put off taking the first step of my journey until tomorrow? Even if all I do is start packing my bags, I can do something to move towards my goals even as I plan them.

In 2008 I have many goals, though I will not be too upset if they don't happen IN 2008.

You'll find that I write about a wide variety of subjects, mostly those that I feel very passionately about. I will also from time to time write about the frivolous or trivial, just because these things are akin to the "seconds" that make up the hours, days, and years of a life.
Most of it will relate to my rather quiet lifestyle here in the Oldest Settlement West of the Rockies, a/k/a Astoria, Oregon. Favorite hangouts, people and events might just show up here. I love taking photos, so there'll be lots to see, as I have time.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year (look me up on myspace if you want to see some of the archives: www.myspace.com/nootka1)!

Transformation (sea glass)

2007-01-31T23:22:00.000-08:00

Sea glass. Itself not much more than castoff, unwanted items turned to something comely by nature itself. Inocuous enough, yet it draws me and my boys to the beach where we know it to be abundant. We dream of finding the pieces of red, yellow, cobalt blue, and any of the other less usual shades. What we usually find are white, brown, and green.
It begins as a bottle or anything made of glass being tossed into the waterways and swept along a current or into the rhythmic waves of the ocean mixed with sand. The sea and sand then turn an everyday shard of potentially dangerous glass into a matte, sensually appealing treasure.
(there are five pieces in this photo...do you see all of them?)

Nestled in the pebbles, and frequently partially obscured by sand, they are so plentiful here that we bypass many pieces for the reasons of "not done" (too sharp/smooth), or just too usual, as in the regular old beer bottle brown, and so we toss them back to age a while.
Often during these excursions, I bring a separate sack to throw garbage into. The same currents that shape and smooth the sea glass into something ethereally beautiful also bring flotsam and jetsam of every human description onto the beach: a piece of a dock broken loose during Winter floods, a full 50-lb. sack of oysters still in its netting (p.u.!), which I liberated from the sack, left the oysters and tossed the sack out, plastic bottles, fishing gear, etc. etc.. They go home with us to go into our refuse can to go to where they should have gone in the first place. I would never intentionally leave these things, and so it makes sense not to just walk past them, leaving them where the water's abandoned them.
The little ones often lose focus, running with their pails over the algae-covered rocks, and either trip w/their pail full of sea glass and shells, slip, or merely lose track and forget where they set it down.
They find sticks to play with, rocks to throw, and climb over other large rocks, very occasionally remembering what we came for.

There's something therapeutic about staring down at the beach, looking for a dull gleam of color amidst the muted rainbow of stone, shell, driftwood and sand bits that naturally occur, or sitting on a bleached log or stone, and sifting through the pebbles to find the hidden ones.

The mind is not much needed for the task, and so it wanders. I suppose one who was raised inland would be more attuned to the surroundings: fishing boats bobbing in the current, the pilings of a cannery providing refuge for a flock of cormorants, which hold their wings open to dry between dives for fish. A Bald Eagle pair screes in the tall spruce nearby, distinguishable easily for me from the screeching of the Seagulls, or the squawk of a Least Tern. The sky, the huge river, the thought that Lewis and Clark camped very near here at the end of their expedition, all of it is somewhat routine, hum-drum for me. Not that I don't look up and appreciate it, it is just that I see it, have seen it, live it, lived it daily. It is as much a part of me as I am of it. I take it for granted as a luxury, and don't get me wrong, I don't think I could live without proximity to these things.

I am not here to watch these other things, though at times I have paused to observe, and rest my eyes on something different than the sandy shoreline.

I see a large piece of yellowish-green, its surface sanded and no longer clear, all the points worn smooth. In addition to its color, it is unusual for its thickness.

Even the most common (and wonder at that) brown turns uniquely appealing with the softening, dull finish, perhaps some UV exposure changing the color just slightly.

(brown on the left is just right and the green on the right probably needs a while longer to age.)
Another piece is opaque, and flat, with crazing and a bit of a design, a few words. China, perhaps a piece which fell overboard from a small boat, a large ship, or who knows how it got here. It has a story, and it is evocative of another era, another life, and I add it to my bucket.
I find my mind wandering aimlessly as often does, here on the lapping shore of the river near where it meets the ocean. Touching on lives spent working the river, the ocean, and lost here as well. I look up and over at the busy marinas, the ships on anchor waiting to journey upstream and offload.

I suppose that even if it isn't the most physically intensive (climbing over the rocks up and down can get a little harrowing at times), nor really challenging in any way, it still leaves me with a refreshed feeling, a diffuse sense of non-accomplishment if that makes sense. A mental tidy (nod to Marty).
So I leave with a pail of candy-like glass bits, a sack of trash, tangled hair from the wind, sandy feet and a relatively clean slate.

Even driving back across the big bridge, the open water all around us, nothing but sky, seagulls riding the currents seem more a part of me than something I'm just looking at. Elemental.

Happy Birthday, Boots

2007-01-24T20:59:00.000-08:00

The night of February 6th, morning of the 7th was clear, and brittle-cold. I had been out helping my mare deliver her fifth foal, a silver buckskin colt. By the time he was out and stood, and had found his first taste of colostrum, it was about 3:30 a.m.. He had begun arriving around 2:30 or thereabouts. I went in to upload the photos I'd taken, and continue watching the video monitor to be sure he was adjusting to life "on the outside."
An odd thing happened: The phone rang. Caller ID said it was a US Government return number. It was exactly 4:00 a.m. I puzzled briefly. They asked for Kenneth, but he was out on a crab boat in Coos Bay, which I told them. They asked if I had any idea of where Craig Larsen's boat, the Catherine M, might be. I told them I thought he was fishing out of here, the Columbia River area, though I hadn't heard from him in a week or so. I realized what this was, even as he explained it: "We've had a call and need to locate his boat." I told them I wasn't certain, and gave them the phone number for his uncle's boat. I've taken these calls a few times before, and luckily they've turned out to be false alarms, but this felt different. Those times had merely ended up being, when all was said and done, a long night of waiting by the phone, with the reward being a call from the worried missing, my husband.
Craig is my nephew, the oldest child of my husband's sister. She'd had him when she was just 15, and his father was no part of the picture. His male influences were his uncle, his mother's subsequent husbands, for better or for worse, and his grandfather, also various men in the community that he built working relationships with.
Craig had been on a downhill slide lately, and the boat he'd purchased to live his dream of owner/operator was less than ideal for his aspirations. 46 feet, a seiner in her "youth", the wooden Catherine M was in bad repair. Craig had the ambition to rehabilitate her. that was about all he had. She was old, and wooden, and in need. He spent months working, unimaginably hard, re-nailing the boards along her hull, repairing the rotting house, and coaxing her machinery to do some semblance of its job. He'd had close calls in the calm of Summer, while he tried to make her pay at trolling Tuna and Salmon and his emotional state was ragged. Crab was a stretch for the poor boat, as the season begins when weather is at its worst. There is a reason that insurance companies don't write policies for wood boats of that type.
Still, Craig was full of enthusiasm for his work, if distracted by demons of excess. His 19-month old little boy was just one week older than my son, Colton, and he loved Lake so intensely. All of these things came to mind as I worried. Though I'd had little sleep in the past nights, and had been up nearly 24 without any, I was not tired as I thought back to the last time I'd seen him and spoken with him in the parking lot of Fred Meyer, where I'd related the latest "rumor" of his misadventures, which turned out to be false. He had grinned like crazy and asked if I'd heard the one where he'd gone down on the Bold Contender, another boat which he'd worked on last year, which had just rolled over a few weeks prior. I shook my head. He seemed so alive, just fine, himself. Glad to see him, and see his levity, I waved and watched him go. He had laughed off the whispers of an ugly rumor, rather seemed to revel in it. Very much like himself. I was left smiling, as well. Relieved.
When I first met him, Craig was a mop-headed waif of a 13-year old. I was only six years older than he. My then-boyfriend, his uncle, had driven about a hundred miles to pick him up from the juvenile detention facility he was in for having taken a car joyriding. He was going to spend Christmas with his mother and younger brothers, but only if someone would pick him up and bring him back. This would be his uncle, and I was along for the ride.
Living in a van is tough anyway, but living in it with a rambunctious and reckless, troubled youth, not to mention a cat, can be harrowing. He drove me nuts, then. He seemed hell-bent on getting into trouble, causing it or being it. He was polite enough to me, but behind our backs, he stole loose change, tried to burn things, and he would sneak off to smoke or procure cigarettes. I was relieved when we dropped him at his mother's house, even though I felt guilty because it was so lackluster with her depression looming. He was glad to be with his little brothers, though, and even glad to be with her, at home. I think I saw a glimpse of why, though I was far too young myself to really understand what I was seeing in him.
As time passed, as he aged and grew, he became less and less oblique and more and more direct; more real, and even if he made mistakes, he was Craig. No apologies, no communication if he knew he was doing something he shouldn't. He quit telling people what they wanted to hear. He was loyal and caring, and honest in who he was, even if it wasn't a pretty picture. He was also full of mistakes and ineptitude at life and relationships. Being a fisherman was easiest for him, for it fit his ability to party while the money held out, then get away and build up again, or escape legal charges from his latest fight/driving offense or the like. Noone does background checks on a deckhand; matter of fact, the stories of misadventure are traded proudly, almost, and with a sense of camaraderie. He loved to fight, and he was strong. He hurt people in his brawls, and he got hurt. He was large as life, and as much as I despised his inaccountability, I admired his bravado. He cared for his family, and always gave us our due, even when he was asking to borrow money for whatever reason. I lost count of the dollar figure he'd borrowed, because my philosophy is you just don't loan it if you can't give it. I only wish it had truly helped him.
He gained the nickname of "Boots" when he'd showed up for his first big crab boat gig in the Bering Sea: He'd brought with him some farm boots which were not appropriate to what he was going to be doing, and everyone called him Boots instead of Craig or Chimpy, which was his previous nickname. They were teasing him, but he took it in stride. It was his initiation, and being the honest worker he was, he was always fine with paying his dues. He loved his nickname and he loved being a part of these robust men who earned their living on the ragged edge of nature, risking life and limb exuberantly. They also loved him. Hard-workers with a team-oriented mentality are always welcome on these boats. The money he made wasn't always to his credit, for he used it to do himself harm in the form of chemicals, and struggles with the law. Hundreds of thousands of dollars disappeared quickly, and of course none of this went to the government for taxes, nor to pay for his fines from driving violations and other run-ins with the law.

On the deck of the F/V Ocean Ballad in the Bering Sea.
When he met Jessica at the end of his 20s, he seemed to settle, and it was about time. We were skeptical, but hopeful. They were soon expecting a little one, and he did his best, and became even more of the man I think he could have been, had he had a little more support when he was young, some stability within his own life. His uncle was more like his father than many, though he had many paternal influences in his life, none of which was his real father, all but completely absent in his life, who really missed something, in my opinion.
He purchased the Catherine M to fulfill his dream, finally. A banner year on the deck of a Dungie boat earned him the capital to do this. If only a down payment, it was what he wanted: His boat. He worked on her all the time, and when he couldn't get along with Jess, moved to live on her. Crossing the Columbia River Bar on one of his first crab trips, he got into trouble just weeks before this night, and he was so proud of how "tough" she was. That was certainly a mantra of his; "what doesn't kill me makes me stronger." Unfortunately, wooden boats do not adhere to these philosophies. Perhaps that rough crossing weakened her. Or, just perhaps she didn't have another rough crossing in her no matter what.

The Catherine M w/Craig on the flying bridge, her back deck stacked with pots on the way out of the Skipanon River...this was displayed at the memorial.
Either way, they had attempted another very dangerous bar, the Tillamook Bay bar at Garibaldi. I hadn't known this til the morning, having assumed he was still working out of here, the Columbia River Bar. I finally went to sleep at 6 a.m., and was awakened at 8, hoping the call wasn't what I feared, but knowing by its existence that it meant: real trouble. It was his stepfather. Everyone was just now finding out what I had known for four hours. That first call was the first one to a land-based number with the news. I had been the first to know, other than the Coast Guard, that he was in trouble. I suddenly felt very small, very useless. I hadn't known what to do because of the hour and the likelihood of a mistake. What could we do, anyway?
I thought of Jessica, his girlfriend and mother of his youngest son. I knew they'd been living apart, but their relationship had been as close as I'd seen to Craig being happy, being accountable. He was making his way, even if it wasn't the way most would have liked to have seen.
The next call was his mother, who never speaks with us anymore over other issues. I knew it was bad, and I felt so helplessly swept along as I heard her crying. I called anyone I could think of, and we all hoped we'd hear good news. His boat was missing, and pieces of it were washing up on the beach near the mouth of the bar. A man's body had been recovered on the same beach just a half hour after I'd gotten that call. It was not Craig though they would not say who it WAS. He was not in a survival suit. The suits were on the beach, and the raft as well. That boded badly as well. The water was cold and the night air had been down around 30.
Debris of every kind littered the stretch of beach North and just South of the bar's mouth. I sat watching the news footage in disbelief. The stern of his boat laid there like a monument, her name stenciled across it. The footage showed the rolling swells, a terrible ebb current which would have been, twelve hours earlier, what he would have faced. Heavy rains and flooding made it stronger than usual, and silting in had filled in the center of the bar, making it impossible to cross safely even if you knew the bar. Veteran crabbers had waited to cross, and warned Craig not to. He was determined to go, however, to get in with his load of crab, one of the first money-making trips with his boat. HIS boat, which lay in pieces, at least one body strewn amidst the wreckage. 46 feet of boat doesn't disappear so easily, nor do three lives, though in this ocean, bodies often do. A 47-foot USCG surfboat on the bar the next day as they searched. This would have been similar to what Craig was facing the night before (same tide conditions).
I was sick, wishing it wasn't happening. Yes, he had made mistakes, he had rushed in where he shouldn't, crossed when he should have waited. What was in town that he so badly needed? At 1:30 in the a.m., which was when they figure the wreck happened, two flares had been sighted and then no more.
His GPS was recovered later, and the investigators determined that he had started crossing the bar, made two loops in the middle of the channel and then gone. A few theories: one is that his 1200 lb.of crab loaded (the tank is full of sea water as well to keep the crabs alive) boat drove straight down the face of a swell possibly as much as 16' in height and the bow hit the sandy bottom (he should have been off the main channel as the main channel was silted in with sand, but only the veterans knew this, it would have made sense to anyone with any navigation experience to be in the center of the channel), and the weight of the tank in the possibly weakened hull caused the boat to either shatter catastrophically or just begin to break up. Another was that he was driven onto the rocks, or swamped by a rogue wave, though knowing of that bar, I figure he was the victim of the former series of events. No matter how, he was gone.
Search Called Off For Missing Fishermen (news link)
The day wore on with no sign. We stared at the tv screens, shocked. Helicopters were leaving the nearby Coast Guard station regularly to patrol the shoreline. I knew where they were headed and what they hoped to find. I sent my hopes with them, that Lake would get to know his daddy for longer. We cried, we waited. We wished. The search wore on and on, though it was modified even as we invented impossible theories of survival which we knew to be impossible, merely delaying uncomfortable acceptance. Three days later, on Friday morning, the other crewman was found. It was six days before they found Craig, washed ashore at Bay Ocean, South of the wreck site. Unfortunately, the retrieval of their bodies, while it brought closure, also brought shame: meth, marijuana and alcohol in his system. We knew he had a problem with all of these, though he'd straightened out from time to time from any of the three or all, he had relapsed with a vengeance, if he'd ever been completely away from them.
Crew Used Drugs (news link)
It was not the drugs, or the alcohol that caused this accident. It created a neat little package for a shocked community, a shocked state. "Oh." they all must have said, collectively. It was the crime that fit the punishment.
Those of us that know, though, know it was more this: His foolhardy bravado, his drive to succeed and his perceived invincibility were to blame as much as the fact that the channel was misleading to anyone not familiar. His balls were bigger than his common sense. He had turned his back on the sea, and for that he paid with his and his two deckhands' lives. All three had had the same drugs and alcohol in their bodies. No surprise, given what we all knew. Did they deserve to die? Probably not, but they definitely endeavored to. A death wish, and of course they quoted him generously, "This boat will be the death of me." (mostly this had been related to the fact that it was always breaking down and needed so much work, but it fit quite neatly into the articles) He'd known he was risking a lot, was warned, but he had still felt invincible, and continued his course. The drugs may have been the reason he was so eager to get in that night, and ultimately risked their lives to do so, but they were not clouding his judgment, not at those levels, and not in the way people might have figured. It likely would have happened sooner or later, given the nature of his profession (and how odd to use that word to refer to that occupation).
The bar was dangerous, there's precedent, of which Craig, his crew and boat have now become a statistic:
Safety Changes to Tillamook Bar

I had to go out to check on the little colt (registered name Raftered Hearts Buckin' the Tide, in honor of Craig) who'd just been born, before finally going to sleep that morning, and saw that he was doing fine. I remembered the time Craig had been fighting with his girlfriend and feeling bereft; he had come out to our house to just be away, and helped (single-handedly is more like it) dig out the mud from the entire uphill side of the barn so that the water would drain away. It was back-breaking, hard labor. He said his anger fueled the swift accomplishment of his task. His frustration. He was just glad to have physical labor to occupy himself, something productive to do, and a fine meal afterwards. He grinned and sparkled, and I loved him as family. It was such a gradual realization that I liked him, enjoyed his company and who he was, unapologetically himself, considering where we started.
He was loud and full of life.
I looked up at the sky full of stars, no doubt the last thing he would have seen, it being so cold. I hoped he hadn't suffered...though I knew he had never known he wouldn't make it.

New Year's Eve, 2005.
Other crabbers who'd seen him the day previous to his death would say he was up on the flying bridge grinning and waving at them, he was "on the crab" and seemed to be doing well. I was comforted by that. He went out doing what he wanted to do. He died with his boots on. This time they were the boots of a full-fledged fisherman, a crab boat owner/captain with the heart of a lion and the psyche of a little boy with big dreams.

Here's to you, Craig, "Boots" Larsen/McMaster, Jan.24, 1974 - Feb. 7, 2006.
I, among many, miss you, and won't forget you. Your mischievous, brown eyes look back at me from your son, and I know you hope for him to be just like you, with improvements (and how you would grin at that).

(working in the Summer of '05 in Alaska in Bristol Bay w/Bill on his Salmon seiner, about six months before he died)
Sunset and evening star,And one clear call for me!And may there be no moaning of the bar,When I put out to sea,
But such a tide as moving seems asleep,Too full for sound and foam,When that which drew from out the boundless deepTurns again home.
Twilight and evening bell,And after that the dark!And may there be no sadness of farewell,When I embark;
For tho’ from out our bourne of Time and PlaceThe flood may bear me far,I hope to see my Pilot face to faceWhen I have crossed the bar.
-Alfred Lord Tennyson