Weekend magic

I need to get away, he said.

Again? she asked.

So they did.

They spent the weekend at the McKenzie River Inn, a bed-and-breakfast establishment that sits right next to the McKenzie River. 

The bed was mighty uncomfortable (curse you, memory foam mattress that makes all others seem inferior) but the breakfasts cooked by the lovely innkeeper, Ellie, were fresh and delicious.

On Saturday, after a breakfast of sausage, fried potatoes, English muffins with homemade plum jam and homegrown apple cider, they shook off their aches and pains and hit the road.

Forty-five minutes up Highway 126 is Sahalie Falls.

If you get to Clear Lake, you've gone too far.

Thick, spongy moss covers everything.

He took his binoculars in hopes of bird sightings, but forgot how noisy a rushing, turbulent river can be.

A three-mile hike makes a loop down the east side of the river,

which roars and tumbles and rushes along until it cascades over Koosah Falls, 

where everything is green and misty.

Layers of green.

Moss.

Leaves.

Ferns.

The trail was, for the most part, soft and easy, covered with pine needles that were shed like tears from the trees above.

The trail crosses the river by Carmen Reservoir and heads north. 

It had been a damp and slightly drizzly day so far, but as they crossed the river the clouds lightened and the sun peeked out of the clouds.

There were curious sights along the trail.

And we are not talking about the mountain bike riders, who should be banned from the forest.

This fallen tree was completely cleaned out and hollow.

The ground is often littered with large and small basalt rocks, which were spewed from nearby Mount Belknap, which is now a mere crater for the price of its sins. Sometimes, trees grow right out of those rocks.

Behold, the root of the tree, which split the rock right down the middle.

Grotesquely formed fallen-tree roots are a common sight along the trail.

Sometimes, they are very large.

The damp forest harbours many fungus growths. This one, on the sawed off surface of a tree trunk, had a light green base with pink nodules.

These holes, near the bottom of a dead tree, were mysterious. 

They seemed to be too big for a woodpecker.

Hey Joe, this tree is pretty danged big. I don't know if we can move it.

How about we just build some steps over it instead?

The trail crosses back to the east side about half a mile north of Sahalie Falls, so they crossed it on this lovely footbridge which is made from a log.

The trail was even softer and cushier on the other side, which was just as well because her injured foot was starting to complain.

We should have brought the hiking poles, he said.

She agreed.

When they got back to the parking lot, they were hungry and so they feasted on eggs and cheese and apples and crackers.

At least we remembered to bring food, she said.

But no water.

They forgot the water.

This little chipmunk was appreciative of the cracker crumbs.

They drove south on the highway, looking for more waterfalls, but were lured by a field of basalt.

Trees, both large and small, are thriving in the rocks.

Sometimes, it's just rocks.

A left turn onto Highway 242 took them up a much narrower road to Proxy Falls, which is really two waterfalls. 

The trail is a little bi-polar.

It begins deceptively smoothly, 

but soon transforms into a rocky path through a lava bed.

They wondered how such a narrow path was ever cleared through so many large rocks.

No Google search has been able to answer the question.

A tree has to really want to live in order to survive in such an inhospitable environment.

And yet, there is beauty.

And moss!

They heard the Lower Proxy Falls long before they could see it.

And even then, they couldn't get close because he wouldn't let her climb down the cliff to get to the base of the falls.

This is one of the most photographed falls in Oregon and falls 226 feet.

A short walk and a bit of a backtrack (due to an ambiguous sign) later, they reached Upper Proxy Falls.

Another mystery.

They wondered where the water goes, as there was no outlet to the pond at the base of the falls.

When they got back to the inn, she researched a little and discovered that the water goes into a hole in the ground and resurfaces as springs a couple of miles downstream.

On the way back to the inn, hungry and weary, they wondered about the piles of brush that were lining the edges of the national forest. Even more mysterious, they were usually covered in black plastic, as if to keep them dry.

Ellie told them that they are part of a controlled burn programme.

So now you know.

The Christmas shop was too alluring, so they stopped.

They did not buy one of these large wooden chainsaw totems.

But they did buy a small raccoon ornament for their Christmas tree.

And, ever fascinated by the legend, he had to check out Big Foot.

And then they went back to the inn and ate warmed-up burritos that she had (luckily) made to take along.

And, after another uncomfortable night on the mattress from Hell, they ate another delicious breakfast of 10-grain pancakes, homegrown pears and blackberries, and bacon.

And then they went home.

Did you clear your mind, she asked?

Yes, he said.

Good, she said.

Those were the days, my friend, we thought they'd never end

Do you remember that song? I still sing it in my head. Often.

Have you been watching the new PBS series, Call the Midwife?

The first week, I forgot it was starting. I think we had a houseful of progeny, which wipes my brain of all coherent thought. I tuned in the second week and then watched the first episode on pbs.com. 

I am in love. 

The story takes place in the East End of London in 1957. It was a period and area of great destitution, and the show highlights the plight of working families. It also puts in frequent plugs for the glories of the National Health Service, a fairly new institution in England at that time. I will not debate the pros and cons of that topic here, because that is not the story I wish to tell. Just let me say that, while I am opposed to a health care system that is run by the government, the plight of the working man and his family in early 20th century England was hard indeed, and heavens knows they needed a break. If government health care made their lives a little easier, hallelujah!

I was born in 1956 in an area of Birmingham that was not unlike the East End. My heartstrings strum a little when I see those babies sitting outside, all strapped into their prams.

Why, you ask?

My little self, alongside a friend.

I'm pretty sure my doting, overprotective mother would never have left me alone in the pram for one second, but the pram was probably the one essential piece of baby equipment for every new mother.

Oh, ha, I just noticed that Anne has the straps on! 

While I was looking for photos of the pram, I ran across a bag of photos and letters that I brought back from New Zealand last year. When Anne and I were going through Mum's house, we ran across lots of photos that we had never seen before, including several of Mum when she was a girl. 

We knew about this one. Mum, or "Elsie", as she was known back then, is the little one in front.

Then, we found some treasures.

Elsie, who must have been a bridesmaid at her Aunty Vi's wedding, front and right.

Again, with her Aunty Vi and a friend.

I don't know anything about this next one, except I'm assuming the girls were dressed in some kind of costume. Mum is on the left.

That's all we have of our Mum as a girl.

Four blurry snapshots.

Then, she met my Dad.

Oops, this is with little brother Dick, who often tagged along on their dates.

Although, how they worked that out when a motorbike was their form of transportation, I do not know.

And then they got married.

And life was beautiful and Mum was always in style.

She designed her own clothes and had them made by a seamstress.

She used to tell us that her best friend often copied her designs.

I think it annoyed and secretly delighted her.

These were the good old days.

Yes, that's our lovely cousin Lynne in the front.

I must be getting old, because my mind often wanders back to those times of innocence and simplicity. I love my life now, but it is so darn complicated. And I miss my Mum as she used to be. It has been a long time since she was really happy.
I miss my Dad, more and more, it seems, as the years go by. I was reading a letter aloud to Jeff tonight, words written about Dad by a man who knew him, and I ended up reading most of it through my tears. He died too young, for someone who had such a zest for living.

This memento is proof positive of Dad's dreams.
The passport that opened the way for our family to move to New Zealand.

And this one just for a laugh. I think one of my aunties was the instigator. A hairnet, big glasses, and my knitting.

Almost prophetic, isn't it?

Thanks for walking down memory lane with me. 

Hope I didn't bore your socks off.

P.S. I learned how to use our scanner, can you tell?

It must have been a slow day at Station 21

We live just around the corner from a fire station, the second to be established in our town. We often hear sirens as the medics and fire fighters rush to an emergency.

I always wonder whose life has been inexorably altered at that moment. 

It was built just a few years ago, and a several-stories-high training structure was erected in the back lot, so fire fighters from all over the area come here to train. 

This morning, I was working on arranging a number for my senior choir, enjoying the challenge and feeling good because I was ahead of schedule, when every single smoke alarm in my house started blaring. 

It was unnerving.

After I had inspected the premises and determined that there was no smoke, no itty-bitty flame to be found anywhere, I called the fire department. 

About ten minutes later (lucky I wasn't on fire), a small truck pulled up and parked on the road. A couple of hunky dudes, all geared up, came sauntering up the driveway and into the house. 

Just as well I had been tidying up all morning, although our bed was unmade in our messy bedroom. 

Embarrassing.

They checked all of the alarms and were soon joined by another, who seemed to be slightly higher in the hierarchy because he immediately took charge.

I do love a bossy man in fire gear, don't you? 

They removed all of the detectors from their brackets and played around with them for a while and still couldn't figure out what was wrong.

Well, I said, the one in the hallway is about thirty years old.

That impressed them. 

It's not working at all, said number one.

He turned over one of the four newer ones and read aloud, Replace by the year 2005.

Oops!

But still, none of the detectors were acting as he expected.

Maybe because they were almost as old as him.

Are you stark raving jealous?????

Number one apologized after about half an hour of head shaking and bemusement.
I'm so confused, he said, I've never seen this before.
The detectors howled with their batteries in and no electricity.
They even howled with them out.
What is going on? I thought, Phantom electrical impulses?
They howled when they were plugged into their electrical outlet, whether the batteries were in or not.
It was a mystery.
It's okay, I said, I'll just go buy new ones.

So I did!

P.S. I have to say that these men were so dad-gummed sweet and helpful (did I already mention that they were hunky?) that I just might put some money in the boot next time they're raising funds on the street corner.

The Great White Huntress

Warning: graphic pictures may be upsetting to some people.

Well, if you dislike photos of ugly upper arms, anyway.

The story goes, on Saturday I decided to be daring and spontaneous and rid us of the recently-discovered nest of yellow-jackets that had taken up residence in a corner of the greenhouse.

So I grabbed the hoe (in my best Indiana Jones imitation) and bravely knocked the nest to the ground.

Yellow-jackets flew out of the greenhouse door, but I ran as-fast-as-a-rabbit over to the house and was none-the-worse for it. 

Too many hyphens?

A little later, I found the killer spray and aimed it right at the corner, where the insects were congregating and (I assume) were planning their rebuilding strategy. 

This made them very angry and they buzzed a little louder and the ones that weren't lying on the ground in the throes of death flew at me, but I escaped yet again.

Angry, stinging insects: ZERO.

Great White Huntress: EVERYTHING.

Behold, the site of the former nest.

Well.

I was feeling pretty cocky and bragged just a tad on facebook.

You know how it is. A body has to celebrate the small victories, right?  Because life can knock us down in a heartbeat. 

My friend, Marissa, happened to mention that she was the proud owner of some kind of buzzy stinging insect nest by her front door, and her husband is out of commission for a while. Like the stupid brave-hearted soul that I am, I told her that I would bring my hoe and can of wasp killer and rid her of the beasts.

Well.

I walked over to her house and was surprised by the fact that this was not a yellow-jacket nest. It was a ground-dwelling, mud-slinging nest of wasps. 

Now, if I had done my research. I would have known that wasps are much more aggressive than yellow-jackets when their nest is attacked, and that this is a particularly bad time of year for said aggression.

But I hadn't done my research.

So I attacked that little nest with my trusty hoe and the wasps came after me and I ran very fast and got away.

The mud nest was not as easy to dismantle as I expected, so I tried the spray.

Which was all used up.

So I tried the hoe again, only those little wasps must have remembered me and this time they attacked with a vengeance. I ran screaming across the lawn as the wasps flew up my skirt and in my hair and up my blouse, stinging me multiple times. I ran into the open garage door where Marissa and her boys were hiding hanging out and ripped off my blouse, modesty thrown to the wind. There were several wasps between the layers of clothes and I was slapping my skin and shaking my clothes and trying to get them all off my body. The pain from the stings was intense, so it was hard to tell whether I was still being stung or if it was just existing wounds.

We decided to call a truce with the wasps and wait to get some spray, and as I was standing talking to Marissa a dead wasp fell out of my skirt.

Awesome.

I walked home, carrying my hoe, and felt like I still had wasps in my clothes, but figured it was just the pain of the stings. When I got home, I scurried into the bedroom and ripped off my clothes and out flew....a wasp. 

My skin crawls as I think about it.

That wasp settled on the mirror and I squashed it dead with a copy of Martha Stewart Whole Living.

I knew those magazines would come in handy some day.

Great White Stupid Huntress: about ten stings.

Wasps: one slightly damaged nest, which they are now rebuilding.

Most of the stings were on my upper arms, which are not attractive at the best of times, and there are others on the back of my neck, stomach, and leg. The stung areas swollen and red and are now at the itchy stage.

More awesome.

Jon said, when I told him my sad story, that I should have called him because he has obliterated many nests of stinging insects. 

Too late, I said.

He also said that pouring rubbing alcohol on the nest at night would do the job.

Did you get that, Marissa?