Great expectations (and small disappointments)

One thing I forgot to mention in my last post: The weather was gorgeous and I wanted to keep the window of our room open.

But I couldn't.

The cows. 

They smell.

Maybe it was the direction of the breeze, but the odour was pungent and continuous.

We started our morning on Saturday by perusing some flea markets and shops in downtown Tillamook. It's a quiet, quaint little town without the kitschy tourist traps that often accompany beach venues. We worked up an appetite even though we kept our dollars in our pockets, so we found a little restaurant that served clam chowder and it was delicious.

The clam chowder.

Not the restaurant.

Usually, when we go on a weekend adventure, we like to do a good-sized hike in the forest. I sabotaged any such plans ahead of time by incurring a stress injury in my left foot. 

Running was suddenly not my friend and, rather than a visit to the doctor and possibly end up wearing an orthopedic boot, I opted for a pronounced limp in order to not bend my foot.

Yeah, that worked like a charm. Suddenly, my whole body hurt! But I was determined to make the best of it so I toted along my hiking poles and my cane, saved from the days of the broken leg.

With our plans tempered by my limitations, we chose some easy walks for our Saturday itinerary. The first one was to Oregon's largest Sitka Spruce. It can be accessed along the Three Capes Scenic Route, so off we set. 

The smell of cows was in the air.

Ahh!

The tree is located near the entrance to Cape Meares State Scenic Viewpoint. Hiking poles in hand, we set off along the soft trail.

The woods were in fine form.

I am a great fan of ferns, as you will see, especially in their embryonic stage.

No photograph can do this tree justice. It towers above the rest and those branches that you see about halfway up the tree are as big as trees themselves.

Also in this state park is Cape Meares lighthouse. At 38 feet in height, it is the state's shortest lighthouse.

I dunno....that's probably the flimsiest claim to fame I've heard in a long time! 

It is also a wildlife refuge and bird enthusiasts were everywhere. 

They were a little too fervent even for Jeff!

We followed the trail, which was luckily punctuated with many benches for resting sore bodies (namely, mine!) along the top of the cliffs.

And so we came to the Octopus Tree.

We took a little break after all this excitement and paid a visit to the Tillamook Cheese Factory. Not to do the tour, but to use our coupons for a free ice cream cone.

No visit to Oregon can be complete without paying homage to all things milk-related at the Cheese Factory.

Feeling somewhat refreshed, we soldiered onward to Munson Creek Falls. It lies a few miles south of Tillamook and the brochures promised an easy hike of half-a-mile to the base of the falls and a more strenuous hike to the top. I figured I still had half-a-mile in me, so off we set.

It was a nice stroll and I was feeling pretty perky, although Jeff laughed every time I stopped to take a photo.

This tantalizing glimpse of the waterfall did not prepare us for what was to come.

The trail was closed off and this was as far as we could go.

One of the hazards of hiking in the forests of Oregon in spring is the trees that fell in winter storms. Trails are often closed until later in summer when they can be cleared of debris.

I was seriously ticked. If they could go to the trouble of barricading the trail, you would think they could erect a sign announcing that fact at the beginning of the trail! 

Sheesh!

And did I try to get around the barricade?

You know I did!

It was the big old tree across the trail just beyond it that stopped me!

So back we traipsed.

It was a pleasant walk, but without fulfilling the expectation of the rushing waterfall.

If you want to see a photo of this 266-foot, spectacular waterfall, go here. 

We stopped at the Blue Heron French Cheese company (are we sensing a theme here?) to see if we could nab a bite to eat, as the afternoon was waning. Just our luck, it closed as we pulled in. So we wandered around, admiring the motley assortment of animals and vintage vehicles that adorn the property.

We never quite figured out the purpose of this one.

Here's a sight for sore eyes: a London double-decker in the outskirts of Tillamook.

Right about then, I was done. 

We picked up a Subway sandwich for Jeff for dinner and spent a relaxing evening in our room.

On Sunday, we stopped at the Tillamook Forest Centre on the way home.

But that is a story for tomorrow.

Expect more fern fotos.

What became of my foot? you ask.

Why, how kind of you to care!

I have babied it for a month now and it is healing. I've started running small distances, very gingerly, and it seems to be holding up. I have high hopes for my future.

The greenest place on earth

Last month we escaped to the coast for the weekend. My Groupon of choice was to the Ashley Inn and Suites in Tillamook. 

We wended our way around the back country roads and feasted our eyes on the brilliant sunshine and the green fields and hills.

This is the Tillamook National Forest, a place of history and hills and lush green landscapes. There are places where the forest is in states of clear-cut and regrowth, but most of the road looks like this.

As beautiful as the scenery was that rolled past our view, we were glad to see signs that we were nearing the town of Tillamook.

Cows, my dear. 

Cows.

Tillamook is the home of the best dairy cows in world.
Or so we Oregonians like to think.

The Ashley Inn and Suites is part of a national chain and it, along with a Shiloh Inn, is about the only accommodation in Tillamook.
Our room was large, with a sitting area, two televisions, and a nice welcome basket filled with Tillamook Cheese Factory goodies. The bed was comfortable and, as usual, I didn't care about the pillows because I carried my own.

The hotel lacked something, though. I couldn't help comparing it to the lovely Garibaldi House that we visited over New Year's weekend. There were so many extra little touches that made the Garibaldi House unique, welcoming, and comfortable, which I covered in this blog post. The Ashley, in contrast, had no ocean view, as it is slightly inland. The breakfast was mediocre compared to the chef-prepared morning fare in Garibaldi. The towels were unexceptional, the toiletries minimal. The lobby had none of the homey features like snacks and drinks and evening vittles and a puzzle by the elevator. It was, in short, lacking personality.

The strangest thing of all is that rooms at the Ashley run around $130 a night in the summer, compared to $109 to $139 in Garibaldi, depending on ocean view and number of beds. This is very puzzling to me. 

Garibaldi, however, is almost completely devoid of interesting activity, which is a bit of a handicap. 

So here's what I would do if I were you and I wanted to spend a weekend on the northern end of the Oregon coast. I would stay at the Garibaldi House, which is a mere eight miles north of Tillamook. Then I would drive down to Tillamook for the day and visit the natural wonders that I will tell you about tomorrow.

I know.

Bated breath.

Hold on, my lovelies!

Moving on

Just a little brag to begin.

Remember this post?

The flower bed by the mailboxes is finally looking how I have imagined it should look. It has taken several years, but the perennials are filling in and there will be colour all summer long.

<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>

In breaking news, guess who was eating unmentionables at my kitchen counter at eleven o'clock last night?

They're incognito, due to the nature of the food being consumed!

Charlie and Sam drove up from Southern California on Wednesday in a car packed to the brim and got here at about 5am yesterday.

It reminded me of our move in 1984. We had two small children and I was eight months pregnant with Annie. We had set our sights on Oregon ever since my first visit the year we married. We scrimped and saved and lived on air, it seemed at times, and as soon as Jeff graduated from Junior College we were ready. It was a crazy time to move, but I desperately wanted my midwife to deliver my baby and she had moved to Oregon some time earlier. So we assessed our finances, rented a truck, and off we went. Minus our bed, which was the last to be loaded and missed the boat truck.

You'd be surprised how much hand-me-down furniture a poor young family can fit in a two-bedroom apartment! The old ugly metal hutch where I had once found cockroaches I didn't mind leaving behind. Ditto the ugly greenish-gold velour couch that stubbed my toes every time I got near it. But I would have liked, in my swollen state, to have had a bed upon which to lay my body.

You should have seen us on the day we left. Jeff drove the rental truck with Jonnie, who was two, perched in a booster seat beside him. It was such a cute picture, his little face poking up above the big dashboard. Bethany, three, was traveling with me in our tiny Toyota Starlet that did not have one more cubic inch of empty space.

 My lovely Aunty Joan had given Bethany and Jon little bags of goodies to help them pass the time. I think of my aunty and Uncle Charlie waving goodbye to us that day and I am sure that Uncle Charlie's heart must have been breaking, but he never said a word. And I, in my excitement and selfish youth, hardly gave it a thought. Uncle Charlie was exceptionally close to my kids and he must have hated seeing us leave.

We left in the late afternoon and in my memory it was raining. Driving through L.A. in our tiny car was scary; every time a truck passed I thought we would get blown off the road. Jeff drove behind us, ever the protector, and as the hours went by he got concerned as he saw me starting to weave back and forth in the lane. He finally got me to pull over by flashing his lights and insisted that we find somewhere to sleep for the night. We had only made about five hours, but we found an exit where there was supposedly a motel and we took the chance. The motel was about 15 miles off the freeway! We thought we would never find it in the dark, but were glad for the rest once we did.

The next morning we drove to San Francisco and visited with some dear friends and stayed with them for the second night. We arrived at our destination, my midwife's house, on the evening of the third day. I often chuckle when we drive down to SoCal in one day, remembering our three-day journey.

We stayed with my midwife for a week while Jeff looked for a house in his family's old town.
And we have been living here happily ever since.

A rose by any other name

Why, oh why, do I end up on a weeding binge every Saturday evening, when I know it will hurt even worse tomorrow than it does tonight?

My fellow church-goers will think that I habitually hobble!

But I did find some serendipitous surprises as I made my way around the garden. These roses clamber towards the sky against the back fence. They have a sweet old-fashioned appearance and a subtle aroma.

We have a snowball bush in the side yard and during the storm yesterday it snowed blossoms all over the ground beneath.

Well, the garden has a few less weeds than it did this afternoon and, after the rain this week, my veggie garden is full of small seedlings and shows great promise for harvest-time. 

Speaking of roses, here are a couple more for your pleasure. These lovely red, almost thorn-less roses were planted in the flowerbeds at church after it was renovated a couple of years ago. 

And here is the sweetest flower of all, getting some Mommy time after that mommy finished her first 5K this morning.

Happy Sunday, lovely readers.

Just like Johnny and June

I sat in a room with a bunch of old fogies (of which I am not one) at the Senior Citizens' Centre for an hour this morning, stuck all over with acupuncture needles (trying to pretend I wasn't), listening to an eclectic mix of music on my shiny blue MP3 player, with my eyes shut and my mind unfettered. I tried to forget all of the ailments that brought me to that place and concentrate on the music.

The man next to me is almost always there at the same time as I am. He has a prosthetic leg and the skin on his other leg is tight and looks uncomfortable. I wonder if he has lost his leg to diabetes, like so many others, and if he worries about his remaining leg. I think how much more difficult life would be for him if he did.

After the acupuncturist takes the needles out of his leg, the man sits and talks to the other patients in the room but I can't hear what they are saying because music fills my head. His wife has been waiting patiently, having conversations of her own. They have a friendship of sorts, the people in this room who sit here, week after week, looking at each other's bare legs and feet and talking about everything in their lives.

The wife takes out a compression stocking and turns it inside out, rolls it up between her fingers the way our mothers used to roll their stockings to put them on their legs, and eases it onto his foot. I watch her as she lovingly pulls it up her husband's leg and then  manoeuvres his shoe onto his foot, smiling and talking to him all the while.

The Oakridge Boys start singing "Absence of Love". I adore The Oakridge Boys. They are not subtle but they sing with devotion unfeigned. 

As the man heaves himself out of his chair and, using a walker, slowly wends his way out of the room with his wife by his side, I think of some other examples of selfless devotion that I have witnessed recently.

One of my frequent joys is facilitating music therapy sessions with Alzheimer's groups. In one care home there was a woman in the late stages of Alzheimer's whom I shall call Sadie. She had been diagnosed over ten years ago and her husband, Charlie, came to the home every morning at 9 o'clock to sit with her and make sure she ate.  At lunchtime, he would go home. He was a lovely man and we often talked a little as I set up or packed up my instruments. His wife didn't know he was there and was unresponsive even to me, but still he showed up every day of the year. She has been absent for a few months and I haven't seen Charlie, but I think about him often.

In my group this morning, a man wheeled in behind everyone else, riding on an electric scooter, and insisted on sitting next to K. I didn't know the man, but K. has been in the group several times before. I want to sit next to my wife, he said, when I suggested he sit in a chair that was vacant. I apologized to him for not knowing they were together. As the hour progressed, he was attentive to his wife and held her hand. I noticed that he got teary during several songs, especially as K. responded to the music. His devotion to her was visibly apparent and very sweet. I don't know their situation, but, although he is physically ailing, he seems to be fully cognizant and may only have been visiting the facility to be with her.

I often ponder love. And the absence of love. What makes some couple stick together like glue and others fall apart on a whim? I don't have any profound answers, other than noticing that commitment and unselfishness play a big part in a long-term love affair. We have several friends that are going through tough times together right now, some of them terminal and others long-term. I have examples of unconditional love everywhere I turn.

I love to see my younger friends proclaiming their anniversaries of nine or ten or more years.
I think back on our thirty-two years and remember the times that I was ready to walk out of the door and never look back.
And Jeff threw things around a few times, but he never gave up on "us".
So here we are today, better than ever.
I really, really, hope that when things get tough, I can be the wife that is patient and kind, instead of sassy and independent, as I usually am.

When I look at this photo, I ask myself Why did Jeff not take his wallet out of his pocket?

And Why is my face so round?

But I know the answer to both questions.

Jeff is a creature of habit.

And I never saw a chocolate that didn't end up in my mouth!

We had time for some quick family photos when everyone was here.

Here they are, our pride and joy. 

They are a little rag-tag.

Just like us.

Swopping with purpose

Adam Smith, the oft-debated Father of Capitalism, once wrote that "The propensity to truck, barter and exchange one thing for another is common to all men, and can be found in no other race of animals."

Well, I have embraced my inner propensity with gusto these last few weeks. A couple of local young mothers set up a "handmade and homegrown barter" group on facebook and I have had tons of fun trading and chatting with the group. I love that these younger ladies are so interested in growing their own food and developing traditional skills, like soap-making and food preservation. They outshine me by far in their commitment to the lifestyle, but I am inspired to up my game.

This afternoon, I exchanged a bag of fresh rhubarb, half a pound of chia seed, and a little pink Himalayan sea salt for a marionberry start,

and nine adorable, squatty Ball canning jars with lids and rings.

I just finished boiling up some beautiful multi-hued home-grown eggs for Jeff's lunches that I exchanged for rhubarb starts.

Look at these little beauties. Don't you want to just EAT them up? After you get done admiring them, of course!

I've also exchanged fresh rhubarb for homemade soap.

Tomorrow, on my way to a music therapy group, I am meeting another lady to swop some tomato starts (mine) for some pint canning jars (hers). 

While I realize that it would be impractical to acquire everything I need by bartering, I think it's a good mind-set to develop. We're accustomed to running to the store every time we need something, which is a pretty commerce-dependent way of running our lives. I have watched members of the bartering group exchange, not only goods, but advice, support, and information as well. I suggested that we add a tool-and-equipment swopping element to the group and the administrators approved. 

But the best thing, the very best thing, about bartering is that two people give up something they don't need and, in return, acquire something they really want. Without any money changing hands. And there is something infinitely satisfying about that. 

P.S. And no, I didn't misspell "swop". It's the Queen's English.

Speaking of crafts...

...how about these babies?

I am slightly addicted to Pick Your Plum lately. 

Their daily offerings tempt the latent crafter in my soul.

In my younger mommy days I sewed and crafted up a storm, but I tend more to stalking old boyfriends on facebook in my spare time these days. However, PYP is inspiring me to indulge in a little creating of over-the-top frou-frou.

So how about these lovely little resin flowers?

I just realized that they're perched on a box of chocolates!

And these trendy and adorable ribbons?

And this assortment of buttons that are not plastic but made of some kind of nut?

I have earring backs that I think I'm going to use for some of the flowers and Bethany and I have been looking at hairclip ideas and such, but I'm open to suggestions.

Fire away, my friends.

P.S. You knew I was joking about the old boyfriends thing, right?

P.P.S. Well, kind-a.

Bin feelin' a little buggy lately...

Yes I have.

Thanks Lori.
You are the Queen of Crafts.
There would be no craftiness without you.

I think there's a song in there somewhere.

Ain't Nobody Here but Us Chickens: The Story of the Bad Egg

I recently joined a swap group on facebook and have been enjoying trading some garden goodies for homemade soap and homegrown chicken eggs. They are happy blue and brown eggs with deep yellow yolks and I love them. Jeff is very partial to a hard-boiled egg in his lunch. So partial, in fact, that I have to ration him to one a day. Not that he pays much attention to my rules!

I arrived home this afternoon after a busy day of leading music therapy groups, hanging with grandkids, and teaching piano lessons. I walked through the door and my nose was assaulted with a peculiar stench. I followed the afore-mentioned olfactory organ around the kitchen, searching for the source of the putridity. Neither the rubbish bin nor the compost bucket yielded any clues, so I hastened out to the music room to teach the last lesson of the day.

When all was done, I returned to the kitchen and immediately noticed a strange-looking egg sitting on the counter. I fear this egg may have been hiding in the chicken coop for a few days before it was found. 

I called out to Jeff, who was hiding in the back of the house, to ask why there was a half-peeled rotten egg sitting on my counter.

I wasn't sure if it was okay to eat, he replied.

Really?

I whisked it out to the compost bin before you could say sunny side up and there it sits.

So tell me.
Would you entertain, even for a second, the thought of eating this egg?

Circus of the Sun: Ovo!

While I have loved Cirque Du Soleil for decades (ever since first watching it on VHS tapes we rented from the library) I had almost decided not to attend another performance. Familiarity breeds...not contempt, perhaps, but lack of enthusiasm. Two years ago, we took my Mum and Annie to see Kooza. See the account   here. But I happened upon some seats to see Ovo for a ridiculously low price and had the brilliant idea of taking the two oldest grandkids to their first Cirque show.

They were a pain in the neck all the way to Portland, giggling and wrestling in the back seat, and I finally had to tell them to Cool it! 

Although Ovo wasn't as death-defying as some of Cirque's past shows, I thoroughly enjoyed it. We had pretty good seats, although they were towards the side so we missed a little bit of the action. I had my eye on the V.I.P. front-and-middle seats all through the first hour and as soon as half-time started we hopped on over and got some fantastic seats. My best strategy ever. You're welcome. 

Kenzie and Daniel were quite impressed with the stage and the performers who were roaming around the grande chapiteau as we sat and waited for the show to start, but my favourite moment was when the first acrobats made their moves. I heard Kenzie whisper Wow and both of their little faces were raptly intent on the stage. 

I loved the butterflies best of all. You can see a few seconds of their act in this trailer (the couple in white on the ropes) but it doesn't do justice to the beauty of their moves and the way it fitted the music so perfectly.

This video will give you a taste of the ants' juggling act. 

I like ants. 

I am an ant, as you know.

It was fantabulous.

This act with the trampolines and wall was the climax of the show and was very fun to watch. There were many performers involved and it was difficult to keep track of everything that was going on.

The show ended late and these two young souls slept all the way home.
It was heavenly.

Ovo is still in town for another week.

Here's what I think you should do.

Buy the cheapest seats you can find. Just make sure they're not behind a post.

Then make a move on the VIP seats at half-time.

You won't be sorry!

Happy Mother's Day

I did not do it perfectly, but it is, possibly, the best thing I ever did.

Jeff and I are spending the weekend in the lovely town of Tillamook, where the best cheese in the world is made. Only in Tillamook can you smell dairy farms through the open window of your slightly upscale hotel room!

Asparagus adventures

Three years ago, fulfilling a long-time hankering, I planted ten asparagus plants. It was a serendipitous trade with a friend for all the rhubarb she could eat that first summer.

I felt adventurous. Not many people grow asparagus and it was a bit of mystery to me. I did my usual in-depth Google session and instructed Jeff as he dug the trenches. 

I was very diligent about not picking too much for the first two years as the plants established themselves. This year, anything that pokes above ground before the middle of June is fair game.

Jeff raved about the perfectly cooked, green and tender shoots that were piled on his plate the first few times I served them.

Three weeks into the harvest, not so much.

Did I mention that I don't particularly care for asparagus?

But I sure do love messing around with it!

I discovered these a few days ago.

I left the ferns to winter over in the raised bed and, apparently, conditions were ideal for the sprouting of the seeds that nestled into those lovely red seed pods.

Being in a meddling mood yesterday, and also a sowing-of-seeds mood, I dug a bunch of them out of the ground and re-potted them in my milk-jug greenhouses.

Asparagus has interesting roots. They grow horizontally rather than vertically. Look closely at this tiny root and you can see the exact point at which it turns horizontal.

Isn't it adorable?

Not, like, grand-baby adorable, but cute in an asparagus-y kind of way.

There were more little ferny seedlings than I had the patience to dig, but I have about twenty of them in three milk jugs. We shall see how they fare.

I also planted some cosmos, marigold, and impatiens seeds in the remaining jugs, and carrots, parsnips, lettuce, radishes, New Zealand spinach, and cucumbers in the raised beds. And I re-potted the former residents of the milk jugs, tomato seedlings, into their own tiny pots.

Bring on summer, I say.

And if you want some asparagus plants in a few months, you know where they'll be.

You're welcome

When our street was widened and repaved a few years ago, we ended up with a couple of garden beds around the mailboxes. We live on a driveway that accesses five houses, two of which are rentals. I casually suggested to our friends, Jim and Carol (who live across the driveway from us and have an awesome garden) that we put down weed barrier and rocks. Jim opened his mouth in mock horror and countered with a proposal of planting flowers.

Fine, I conceded, let's do it.

By us, I guess I meant me, although I have cajoled the neighbours into contributing in ways that aren't painful to them. Jim ponied up a boatload of perennial starts that, combined with my own, have made enormous progress over these last few years in filling up the beds. My goal is for the plants to completely cover the area and this just might be the year that it happens.

Another neighbour, who lives next to the street, kindly lets me drag her water hose to the flowers so that I can water them in the heat of the summer. I try to be kind to her water bill by irrigating as minimally as possible.

Other than that, it's usually yours truly doing all the planting, weeding, watering, slug-baiting and soil amendment tasks throughout the year.

So, I figure I get to post as many political signs as I please.

And I do.

Vote for Angel, he's our man!

The beds are filled with a mixture of perennials that grow larger every year and annuals that consistently re-seed, such as cosmos and these pink bachelor's buttons. This clump sprouted in the late fall and somehow survived the cold of winter. It is almost ready to flower.

I love the different shades of huechera. This is one of my favourites.

Also known as coral bells, they attract humming birds and bees. The clumps in the back are shamrocks that will soon be covered in pink flowers.

Hardy pink geraniums are already in flower.

Daniel and I had weeded most of the two beds a few weeks ago. This one was more than our stamina could handle, so the seedy grass was in full reign by last weekend. Jeff kindly asked me what I wanted him to do in the garden on Saturday and I jumped at the chance to have help with this final bit of weeding. Notice that this flowerbed is not technically completely in our jurisdiction, but I take care of it anyway. The far end of it is in front of the next house on the street and houses their mailbox. The house is another rental.

Jeff and I were digging (him) and groaning (me) as we neared the end of the job, when out walked the lady of the rental house. We had never met her before. She kind of chuckled as she collected her mail and made a comment about how all the weeds had grown.

And then she went back into her house.

Wait.

Seriously, lady?

We are weeding your flowerbed, which we also planted, and you don't even have the grace to say Thank you?

Maybe she thought we were the hired help.
Whatever.
You're welcome, I said quietly, as she closed her door.

Last Christmas, Carol gave me some lovely chocolates and a thank you for taking care of the flowerbeds.

Saying thank you is more than good manners. It is good spirituality.

                   ~Alfred Painter

Silent gratitude isn't much good to anyone.

             ~G.B. Stern

There is no such thing as gratitude unexpressed. If it is unexpressed, it is plain, old-fashioned ingratitude.

                ~Robert Brault

Who have you thanked today?