Shattered dreams

Play this.

Please.

I've often fancied myself as a potter.

Betcha didn't know that.

And I've had a hankering to work with glass for decades.

So Friday night our local Art Walk found me brushing glaze on a bowl that I purchased from the Cultural Center.

Brush it on thick, was the advice, so I did!

Into the kiln it went.

I fell into a burning ring of fire

I went down, down, down, and the flames went higher.

And it burns, burns, burns, the ring of fire, the ring of fire.

That baby was hot.

A propane-fueled inferno.

It was my job to scatter sawdust on the finished pieces.

It was a bit scary.

And right about here was where my arm hairs got singed.

Then the dish sat in the ashes for a few minutes.

Et voila!

Oh.

Oops.

My friend at the CC glued it back together for me, but I am disillusioned.

There you have it.

My one attempt at Raku.

I do not like endeavours that stipulate such a tenuous outcome.

So.

I signed up for a glass class in November.

Stick around. It promises to be interesting.

In case you were losing sleep

Here ya go.
It was a little heavy on Shakespeare and Dickens.
Sorry about that.

1. Sense and Sensibility, of course. Jane Austen.
2. Hamlet. Shakespeare. I know, not a book, but all the classic lists include W.S.
3. A Study in Scarlet. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
4. Return of the King. Tolkien.
5. Great Expectations. Dickens.
6. The Mill on the Floss. George Eliot. I just finished reading this one and I'm telling you, Don't do it! I struggled through it and the ending killed me.
7. Hard Times. Dickens.
8. Bleak House. Dickens. Told you.
9. The Turn of the Screw. Henry James.
10. As You Like It. W.S.
11. The Grapes of Wrath. Steinbeck. Haven't read this one, I'm afraid it will depress me. 
12. The Good Earth. Pearl S. Buck.

That was kind of fun, wasn't it? 

Feel free to make your own list, so that Lindsay and I can lose some more sleep.

Sucked in and blown out in bubbles

Friend Lindsay posted a little quiz today.
I was determined to ignore it, but it preyed on my mind and if you read her comments section you will see how I was sucked into it.
It was against my will.
Then she challenged her readers to make a quiz so that she could play.
And I swore I wouldn't.
But of course, I did.
Couldn't help myself, even though I'm quite pitiful at word games.
Except for crosswords and anagrams.
I'm awesome at those.

So here goes.
Lindsay, this is for you.
And the rest of ya.

Cryptic classic book or story titles, in case you were wondering.

1. Pragmatism plus perceptiveness. (I know, too easy, right? But I couldn't resist the alliteration.)
2. An obscure little village.
3. A very red painting.
4. "His Royal highness came back!"
5. High Hopes.
6. Pepper grinder sitting on some embroidery thread.
7. "Well, let's say they weren't my finest years."
8. Sad, sad, establishment
9. Lefty loosey, righty tighty.
10. Sugar or cream? Your choice.
11. Angry Fruit.
12. Fertile Ground.

There it is.

Your turn.

Cherry-ripe

This is our cherry tree.

Pay heed to all of the lusciously-lovely-green-leafiness.

Notice the astounding lack of cherries hanging from those leafy branches.

These are the suckers that the cherry tree sends up from its roots.

All season long.

No matter how many times I cut them down.

We bought the cherry tree many moons ago.

We were so excited because it had three kinds of cherries grafted onto it.

Two dark sweet cherry varieties and one cooking cherry.

It's been so long I don't even remember the varieties.

I hacked off the cooking cherry branches long ago.

Who wants sour little cherries when you can have big black sweet ones?

About four years ago we had a bumper crop. A murmuration of starlings took possession of the tree and I thought that for sure there would be no cherries left for us humans. Surprisingly, I figured we got over 100 pounds of fruit, even if it was all sticky from the starling cast-off. We called all of our friends and cut down the branches, they were so tall, and sent the fruited branches home with them. We always do that because the tree gets so tall. 

The ground beneath the tree was covered with cherry pits from the ravages of the starlings and from all the fruit that got squished when the branches crashed to the ground.

I didn't expect another crop for at least a couple of years (cherries fruit on two-year-old wood) and I was okay with that. 

If you had had to deal with all those cherries you would understand.

But it has been four years and I am out of patience with the tree. 

I threaten to cut it down every year because I am sick of the suckers, but I had given it this year to supply me with another bumper crop and then (hand makes slashing motion across throat) it was to be Adios amigo cherry tree.

This spring, the tree was covered, covered I tell you, in blossoms. And I could have sworn that most of those blossoms got pollinated. But somewhere between the late frost and the wet spring, the cherries became almost non-existent.

That's it!  I cried. The cherry tree will be no more!

**********************************

I joined a harvest group last year and I am thrilled with the chance to pick free fruit and at the same time donate half of my bounty to food pantries and other charitable groups. To my mind, it's the best of all possible worlds. This year, I went on two cherry picks, but, sad to say, neither of the crops measured up to the lovely cherries in my very own front yard.

So, in memory of all the black, juicy, sweet fruit of bygone years, I am giving that darn cherry tree 

One. More. Chance.

And here's what I did today with Monday's harvest of Royal Anne cherries.

Washed, stemmed, and pitted....

...and into the food drier they went where hopefully, by morning, they will resemble something sweet-tart-and-shriveled that can be mixed into melted dark chocolate or sprinkled on my morning porridge.

Cherry-Ripe 

THERE is a garden in her face    Where roses and white lilies blow; A heavenly paradise is that place,    Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow:    There cherries grow which none may buy    Till 'Cherry-ripe' themselves do cry. 

Those cherries fairly do enclose    Of orient pearl a double row, Which when her lovely laughter shows,    They look like rose-buds fill'd with snow;    Yet them nor peer nor prince can buy    Till 'Cherry-ripe' themselves do cry. Her eyes like angels watch them still;    Her brows like bended bows do stand, Threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill    All that attempt with eye or hand    Those sacred cherries to come nigh,    Till 'Cherry-ripe' themselves do cry. 

by Thomas Campion

Part III: The mountain that won

Today's story mostly just emphasizes the fact that I am a slow learner.

I realized, as I have been telling these calamitous tales, that I neglected to give a full rendition of my climbing accident. I've mentioned it a few times, but never given it an appropriate telling, considering the enormous change it made in my life. 

So, here's what I'm going to do.

I found an old email that I wrote to inform my long-distance friends of the circumstances of my short-lived mountain-climbing career. Because I am basically idle and am always looking for shortcuts, I'm going to copy it here and intersperse the narrative with some illustrative photos.

Okay?

Let us begin.

Here we are, all optimistic at the beginning of the day.

Hi everybody

I was going to write my sister and tell her my story of woe, then I realized I might as well send

it to    anyone I might think will be interested. If you don't consider yourself to be one of those 

people, don't  tell me.

So, on Labour Day (September 3, 2007) Jeff and I decided to climb Mt St Helens with a few 

friends. 

If you want to get an idea of what we were in for, Google "climb Mt St Helens" and read some

of the accounts that come up. I read those accounts, but still didn't realize the extent of the 

project.

Up, up, up through the trees.

Almost to the top of the tree line. Last potty stop.

We climbed about 5,000ft (I think) in a little over four miles to get to the crater. It took five 

hours and was very strenuous, but we made it. However, as a ranger said to us on the way 

up, getting up is optional, getting down is mandatory. 

Most of the climb was very steep and consisted of trying to find the best way to clamber 

over boulders and loose rock between one trail marker and the next.

The view was magnificent...

...as long as you didn't look up!

Intrepid me.

The last 1,000 ft or so was pure scree, which is Latin for "hellish". Kidding. Not!  Ash and 

little pebbles, you take a step and slide down two steps. Lovely stuff. 

We spent about 30 minutes looking down the crater, which became covered in mist about

then and it was windy and cold. Jeff kept saying "Get away from the edge." What a wuss! 

Then we started down. The first part was easy, you just kind of shuffle down the scree.

I wonder how long it took this little guy to climb the mountain.

When we got to the boulders it became more difficult, very easy to slide on the loose rock. 

I fell several times and twisted both ankles, so I was going really slowly, convinced by now 

that it was almost impossible that I would make it down without injury. Sure enough, about 

3/4 mile above the treeline, which is still 2 miles from the parking lot, I fell one last time and 

this time we heard a distinct "crack". 

Intense pain and yelling on my part. 

Jeff and I had been left in the dust by our loyal friends, so he radio'ed down and the two guys

started back up the mountain. I must add here, that I had been ridiculed and mocked all day 

for insisting that each couple had a radio. Ha! Jeff managed to get me a bunch of ibuprofin 

from the first aid kit but other than that he mostly just sat and worried. The guys finally 

reached us and convinced me that we needed to start down the mountain. I though I had a 

badly sprained ankle, so we wrapped it as best we could, one guy took each arm, Jeff carried

the gear, and away we went, me hopping in the middle.  

One friend decided to carry me on his back (right about then I was wishing I'd gone on that 

diet) which scared the dickens out of me but he was quite sure-footed. We were sitting and 

conferencing on a strategy when two young guys happened by. One of them suggested we 

try a fireman's carry to distribute the weight more evenly. More discussion on that, then 

somebody asked him if he wanted to try it. 

More mortification for me. 

He was more than willing, and this young man became my savior. His name was Paul, 

ex-army, Iraq veteran, and a firefighter, and he was an ANIMAL! That boy (soon-to-be-father) 

carried me most of the way down to the treeline. 

Part of the way I had to crabwalk on two hands and a foot, because it was so steep I didn't 

trust anyone to carry me, and part of the way I hopped.

Hmmm, what now?

But a lot of the way Paul carried me on his back. 

By the time we got to the treeline another friend had called for emergency services and it 

took about an hour for them to reach us and another hour to get me to the parking lot. 

We reached it just as dark fell. The EMT guys told us that if we hadn't made it down to the 

treeline we would have had to spend the night on the mountain, because they wouldn't have 

risked doing it in the dark.

So, the end of the story is that I broke my tibia and fibula, ended up having surgery about 

three  weeks later, so I'm still in recovery mode. It's been a trial of patience, Vicodin has 

become my best friend, and I have finally worked through all of the sore muscles that result 

from using crutches. The doctor tells me it will be about a year before I am fully recovered, 

but all things considered, it could have been much worse. 

As one of my friends said, I could have broken it on the way up, then none of them would 

have reached the top. 

Hmmmm.

Love to all
Sue

And that.
Is why I am more cautious these days.
Sad, but true.

Did I mention that Jeff will follow me anywhere?

Part II: Even less funny

If you just tuned in, go back and read yesterday's post.

Fast forward a year, to the next summer.

You guessed it! We're off on another rafting trip.

Same amateur friends. Same lack of helmets.

I did tell you to remember that one. 

A little foreshadowing there, did you notice?

We were on a small raft with its owner, Dave, and a teenager, John. The day was just as gorgeous and fun, albeit uneventful until we floated past the point where we had bailed out the year before. Having missed out on Oak Springs, a Class IV rapid, I was jazzed to see if we could hit it just right. You see, at Oak Springs the water gushes through a narrow gap between two large rocks.

If you get lucky, your life dangles by a thread as your raft dips its nose down a precipice of white water. You feel an thrilling rush as it traverses the hazardous gulf to calmer waters. 

Well, we did hit it just right and it was an anticlimax. We had heard horror stories about this particular rapid, so I felt a bit let down.

I know, silly me, right?

I voiced my complaint to Dave.

You know I did.

He asked me if I wanted to get out and pack the raft back upriver to do it again.

Of course I did!

So this time we hit it completely wrong.

All I remember is being underwater and feeling perfectly serene. I'm pretty sure I was breathing water, being held under by a strong current. It happens a lot by the biggest rapids. I have no memory of the passage of time or of any panic, but then someone pulled me up to the surface. Jeff had managed to keep hold of the raft and felt something brush by his feet. 

It was me. 

The men righted the raft and we crawled back in. As we commenced our journey, Jeff noticed that my head was bleeding and he started messing with my hair. He was quite distressed to find that my head was cut to the skull. My husband does not handle blood very well; he goes green when he has blood drawn! 

Lucky me, I have very little memory of the next few hours, but I'm told we floated down the river to the end of our journey and, once again, we headed back to Newberg to the emergency room.

And the same nurse was on duty that had been there the year before.

And she remembered us.

It was mildly embarrassing.

I spent the night in hospital with a concussion, one of several in my life.

Do you begin to see a pattern here?

I didn't sleep much because I was in and out of the bathroom all night. Apparently, I also swallowed an enormous amount of the Deschutes River.

Annie, who was only three, was traumatized for days at seeing her mother in a hospital bed.

My own mother chastised me severely for risking my life in such a manner.

We didn't attempt rafting again for a long time, but it always galled me to think that that rotten river got the best of me. So five or six years ago, when my gym owner gave me a voucher for some guided tours on the Deschutes, I was nervously ecstatic.

Finally, I would face my fears and show that river who was boss.

We took Annie and Charlie.

We wore helmets.

We had a guide.

We had the best day together, but as we approached Oak Springs I felt a yawning pit where my stomach should have been. All of those old fears came rushing back at me and I felt nauseous. The guide knew my story and was reassuring, but I have never felt such an adrenaline rush as when those rocks came into sight. I gripped the handholds with all my might and braced myself against the side of the raft. 

And then, as we sped through the gap and out the other side, my mind and body were flooded with exhilaration. In a strange way, it was one of the best moments of my life. I, who happily shun roller coasters and gigantic bungee cords and say Phooey to skydiving and base jumping, I faced my fear and I won!

Which must have given me a false sense of accomplishment, because there is one more story.

Only it's not about rafting.

Tune in tomorrow.

You will understand why I am left at home, more often than not, these days.

~~~~~~~~~~~0+0+0+0+0+0+0~~~~~~~~~~

A funny/not-so-funny story

After writing the last post, I got to thinking
it does happen once in a while, you know
about the reason Jeff and I don't get invited on extreme adventures any more with our athletic friends.

It all started about 25 years ago, shortly after we moved up to Oregon. A couple of people at church owned rafts and asked us if we wanted to join them on a white-water rafting trip on the Deschutes River. It was more excitement than we had seen in a long while (maybe ever) so we made arrangements for the kids and off we went.

My mothering heart grows faint at the thought of the intrepidness and naivety of the state of our minds. We were about to embark on an often treacherous stretch of water with a bunch of amateurs and no helmets. A stretch of water on which people die almost every year.

Go here to see more photos. I have none of our trips. Pitiful, pitiful me.

Bear that in mind for Part II of the story.

We camped overnight on some very rocky ground and climbed aboard the rafts early the next morning. I think there were maybe three rafts and a dozen or so people in our group. It was a beautiful Eastern Oregon day and we had a blast. We paddled through rapids and jumped in the water and splashed each other and reveled in the sunshine as it glittered on the pristine water. At some point in the afternoon (remember, it was a long time ago, so you readers who were there on this trip may disagree on the details) we stopped for a break. The ground was covered in rocks and walking was slightly treacherous. Jeff decided he needed to relieve his bladder, so in his modest way he was searching for a spot that was completely out of the way. Pretty soon, we heard a yell. Jeff had injured his ankle and was in enormous pain. His ankle immediately swelled up and he had to be helped back to the raft. Luckily, we were almost back to where the road meets the river so Barb (yes, the same Barb) and her husband drove up to get him.

Questions occur to me, like How did they get back to their van, or did they not come on the rafts and were just waiting for us at the end?

I don't know, but I'm sure someone will tell me.

Anyway, after a small mishap in the crowded parking lot when the van got hit by a truck, we drove back to Newberg. Three hours, with Jeff in pain and, oh yes, still needing to pee.

We took him to the hospital and he was diagnosed with a dislocated ankle and sent home with crutches. He spent three weeks on those crutches, so it was, in fact, a pretty bad injury.

A few thoughts about that trip:

1. We missed some of the best (read: most exciting) rapids because we had to leave early.
2. I have always felt like I owed Barb and Larry because of the damage to their van. I know it cost them and I wish I'd have had the thoughtfulness to share that cost. One of the regrets of my thoughtless youth.
3. It was about five hours between Jeff's initial foray onto the rocks and when he was finally able to empty his bursting bladder. Which is, when you think about it, the funniest part of the story.
4. Some time that same summer, I don't remember if it was before or after our adventure, some of those same friends went out and one of the rafts flipped and trapped a young daughter underneath. Luckily, they were able to rescue her, but it was a close one.
5. What was I thinking? 

~~~~~~~0+0+0+0+0+0+0+0~~~~~~~

To be continued.


You didn't think that was all there was, did you?
You should know me better than that!