Oldtown

I have this habit of agreeing to do things that sound good, but actually scare me witless when I really have to do them. Like canvassing this October for the Yes on 49 campaign. Why would I think I'd be comfortable knocking on strangers' doors, talking to them about a highly controversial ballot measure?

When Sarah and I parted ways, and I started down Main Street toward Oldtown, I seriously doubted my resolve. Talking to acquaintances is tough enough - and forget about strangers! But I took my clipboard, literature and map and a deep breath, then looked down the street. It was a glorious warm afternoon, and at least it would be 2 1/2 hours of good exercise.

And then the familiar magic happened. It was like stepping into "State & Main" where all the people I met were friendly (even the one who gleefully told me she'd voted against the measure!). So, what was I so reticent about?

Icing on the cake? The measure passed 65%/35%, and our little county effort accounted for 8% of it - huge for a not-so-populous, usually conservative, rural area. We have vote-by-mail, so by 8:00 on election night, counties from the smallest to the largest reported results in couple of hours, and suddenly all the walking and phoning seemed well worth it.

And next time, I'll be just as reticent, and get just as big a surprise, because some things don't change very much.

Some days are better than others

Maybe I can blame this on the cat. He was pretty pissed off that he couldn't go back outside after his supper (as if that's a new rule!). We forgot to keep an eye on the little bugger and maybe you can guess what he did . . . again



You think part of this roll can be salvaged?



I think he may have missed that last sheet that's glued to the core.

What makes it hard is we secretly think this is really funny, because we imagine him lashing his tail and thinking, "I'll show them! When I get done with their toilet paper, they'll mew like kittens and beg for mercy! HA, HA, HA, HA..."

I was cooking when this happened, and I was in sort of a hurry, because we wanted to go to a movie. Let's say the cat distracted me, ok, because what happened next was just so completely stupid, I can't believe I did it all by myself.

See, I had onions and mushrooms sauteeing in one pan; the turkey cutlets were browned and lounging casually nearby, and there was this great big ceramic casserole on another burner, ready to saute the rice a bit and then combine everything, right? I looked down into the casserole and thought, "Hunh! That looks hot."

Ok, you're not going to believe this, but I then - oh, yes! - reached into the casserole and touched the bottom - really fast, because just as four of my fingertips touched the ceramic, it occurred to me that the reason it looked so hot was because it really, really was.

There was this tiny Pffffffttt! as flesh met searing pan. My fingertips were a funny shade of white, and after I ran cold water over them for 5 minutes, they felt fine, but sort of like they had white glue dried on them. No pain - none at all!

I know this isn't a good picture, but here's what the bottom of the pan looked like:



There were parts of four fingerprints in that casserole. You can pretend to see the two biggest ones.

I'm really not sure what more to say about all this. Was it a bad day or a good one?

Home again, home again, jiggety-jig

I'm back from grandma-land again. It's as cold and rainy as it's supposed to be in October, which could be depressing, I suppose, except that when I look out the window I see all this rich color and texture



and think what a nice day we're having.

It helps a lot that we finally found pizza that is worth the drive! Because of the dearth of edible pizza here, we've been making our own - with pretty stellar results:



But now we have Apizza - no, not the one in Portland - it's in Stayton, and it's well worth the drive (like going all the way to Morton Grove for Burt's pies). Their pizza crust is crisp, yet tender, and the toppings don't crowd and jostle, but greet our palates a few at a time. The beverage list is twice as long as the pie menu, with Busch Light and fountain drinks, organic wines and beers, pear cider (hard) and cane-sugar sodas (like Coca-Cola as it was made before about 1970).

I'd put in a picture of their pie, but then I'd have to stay up all night worrying you'd come sneaking around looking for the two pieces we managed to save for tomorrow.

At the bottom of the menu it says, "We do not accept tips. Money left at the tables will be donated to charity. Thank you." No; thank YOU!

Unabashed promotion

Seems we're all about phones today. While I drank my coffee this morning, I was musing over how much time I'd spent on the phone lately and decided I'd better check my minutes. Panic struck when I saw 556 of my 600 were gone! Downside of giving up the land-line? Not having it as backup for just this situation. Chances of getting Bill to hand over the iPhone for the next few days? I'm sometimes mean, but it would be nasty to even ask!

So I called Working Assets and told "Julie" I needed help. "OK!" she said, "You can buy 'Talking Liberally' minutes for $5 to cover any minutes over your plan until the end of the month." Best of all? I can do it any month! Great name, too . . . Yes, I am devoted to Working Assets, and will refuse the blandishments of all other carriers.

If you're tired of pouring your telecom charges into the pockets of Big Business, and would like some of your long-distance, cell phone, or credit card charges (not profits) to go to progressive causes, take a look at Working Assets. You can round your payment up a bit and increase your (tax-deductible) contribution, and once a year we get to vote on which organizations we support. It's an education just to read about all the candidates!

The network has contributed over $50 million to causes like Doctors without Borders, Planned Parenthood, Amnesty International, and the ACLU. And through the political action program, some 80,000 calls, emails and letters are sent free on our behalf on social and political issues each month - to Congress, the White House and to business interests.

Oh, and if you do switch, let them know I sent you. We might get some Ben & Jerry's!

The Cat IS the Hat

When the boys were little (see picture) I decided they should always live inside. I think I'd found one too many surprises in hay bales, and wanted them to live long, if dull, lives.

For months the plan worked well. They were happy chasing yarn balls and could spend a whole afternoon playing with a single sheet of tissue paper.

But, as they grew, the yarn balls lost their charm and a sheet of tissue lasted about 15 seconds. We learned their new games, which involved emptying the bookcases, patrolling tabletops and counters, and savaging innocent household objects . . .



The new plan is that they go out during the day and come in for the night. It's a simple plan, and it works pretty well most of the time. Even when the grass-seed field was being swathed, we thought it would be easy to keep them inside for a few hours. But it took until noon, while the boys suffered, hanging out by the door, complaining that we were sooooo mean. Their pitiful cries would have melted Voldemort's heart (if he had one). It wasn't a fun morning. The only peace was when I showed J and B a slender stream of water in the bathroom sink, which kept them busy for half and hour (and left lots of muddy little footprints for me to wipe up).

Even when we can let them out first thing in the morning, there are glitches. If Maybe hides in the back bedroom for a long afternoon nap, he's going to want to stay out all night. If Jerome is in at 8:30 or 9:00, he suddenly remembers a shrew carcass he needs to bring us. If Bungee's the only one inside at curfew, he'll put on his sweet-kitty look and volunteer for duty: "I know where they are! I'll get 'em quick! I promise I'll be right back!" Riiiiight....

Sometimes, if we're outside at dusk, we've been able to find them and bring them in without much fuss. Other nights, we've gone hunting, and found ourselves carrying one or two squirmers a long way back to the house. But then Bill (how?) came up with a hold that immobilizes/tranquilizes them. No writhing, no complaining; just placid acceptance - even purring:

The man's either a genius or seriously demented. Either way works for me!

OK

You can bother me now. I'm done reading.

Don't bother me

. . . I'm reading.

Full of wonder

One May day, on the theory that I might be getting bored with grandbaby business (as if that could happen!), Ella sent me looking for the Bohemian National Cemetery. I'm good at getting lost, but they've made it pretty easy to spot if you can get within a mile . . .



As I drove in, it looked pretty much like your average nice, old cemetery on a lovely spring day.



As I walked around, I felt like I'd stepped into The Orange Fairy Book or the land of the Ents.




Who were these Bohemians? What was all this tree symbolism? Broken trunks and limbs (life cut off?), lots of ivy, and here and there a squirrel or so.


And what about these with their hefty, hefty anchors?
Were they riverboatmen, or did they go off to sea?

After a stroll about the cemetery, I found a parkland a bit farther on. In the woods were a pair of placid deer who looked me over with the barest flicker of interest. I was glad they didn't disturb the bird on the branch near me. I was trying to see which of the warblers it was when it hopped a little closer, tipped its olive-green head down and flashed a brilliant red-orange patch as if to say, "Hi! I'm an orange-crowned warbler! What are you?"

That's my idea of big-city fun. Chicago really does have whatever I'm looking for.

Worlds collide

They're repaving our road, so I came the loong way home. Cunningly, I chose a road that was blocked by housing construction, and had to detour through the new streets surrounding piles of dirt and weeds. When the huge belly dumper and roller got out of the way, I was just about to pull back onto the main road. But a little flurry caught my eye just ahead.

A mother duck was walking her brood of six chicks from the construction site, down across the road to the creek. What she didn't see was that a red-tailed hawk was stooping on her/them. What the red-tail didn't see was that two blackbirds were dive-bombing him/her. What the blackbirds didn't see was the car coming from the opposite direction.

I flashed my lights. The car stopped. One of the blackbirds whacked the hawk. The hawk flew off. The blackbirds went on about their business. The duck family continued waddling across the road and disappeared into the grass. The people in the other car stopped when they came abreast of me and said, "What do you think of that?"

I think it was good luck they were paving our road. Well, not for the hawk.

Close call

In fits of spring fever, we've gorged on new plants, and are tucking them into their new beds as fast as we can, and not without problems. There were a pair of salvia I bought impulsively, thinking they'd bring late summer color to the edge of a bed. The tag wasn't alarming, but yesterday - after I'd planted them - I looked them up on a lark. They grow up to six feet tall! Not so much of a foreground plant, after all - but easily moved still.

I'm always doing that - I pick out something that seems like a good idea when I'm at the nursery, and then wander around (sometimes for weeks) wondering why I thought I'd want another four cistus when they already seem to be in every spot one could conceivably grow.

Or, worse, I finally find the one plant I've been after for years, and find that all the spots it could go are filled with the pale imitations I bought in a moment of despair over ever finding the one perfect one. So do I euthenize perfectly good plants? Try to fob them off on unsuspecting friends? Move them somewhere less high-profile?

And, at the Saturday Market where I'm trying to decide whether four types of basil are enough, and he says, "Did you want chard?",Chard Bright Lights

I don't hesitate. I'm a goner as soon as he hands me the tray of seedlings. Are six plants too many? Sure they are, but I know I'll find room for them somehow, because they will dazzle both in the vegetable bed and on the dinner plate, never mind what they'll do at the cellular level.

The real reason people have babies

Because they do funny things like this when they're sleepy.

I think it will take more than 12 steps

I'm restless, distracted, moody... I reach for the phone every 10 minutes. If I don't get help I'll soon be dressing the cats.

Do I miss my grandson and want to be around him all the time? You bet I do. But he's being mothered and fathered most tenderly. Although it conjures unfortunate strains of "McArthur Park", we grandparents can only be the icing on a grandchild's cake - delightful in modest amounts.

No, it's the mothering I'm missing - taking care of the new mother and father as they find their way to being a family. They will certainly be fine without me around; it's my need I'm speaking of, not theirs.

This is what I'm talking about...

Calum R. MacAdam

He said, "Hi, Grandma!"

... and I knew that Calum Robert MacAdam was born! Did my dear son-in-law sound just a little smug? Deservedly so, because it's a stunning achievement. Never mind how many billions of organisms reproduce on any given day - birth is a bona fide miracle; I am filled with joy and awe.

You can have your basketball, your football, your marathons; they pale in comparison to nine months of pregnancy culminating in labor and delivery! Maybe if Peyton Manning blew that football out his ass, I'd pay more attention.

For the statisticians and genealogists:
Born on 4/12/07 at 11:44 PM, weighing 7# 15 oz. Mother, father and baby doing well, thanks.

Funny old brain

I've never kept a job that was truly aggravating, and I was often flip to the point of insubordination. But at my volunteer gigs, I just don't get aggravated - things that would make me crazy if they were paying me just roll right off. I don't give a rip about all the dopey little things other people do or don't do, which makes me realize what a hell of a lot of time I've wasted stewing about work.

I'm not talking about glorious, foaming-at-the-mouth rants; they're great recreation and some (like Emily's) of considerable literary merit. I mean my bleak, turgid, dismal thoughts that swirled and eddied about, gumming up my mind and frizzling everything they touched. It's when I began to believe that people were idiots that I got in trouble. Maybe they were idiots, but it worked out best to give them the benefit of the doubt when I had to work with them.

And now, magically, most of the time, I can let go of that shit and just think, "Hunh! That sounds stupid. Whatever." And not feel compelled to endlessly analyze the idiocy, and crusade to eradicate it.

Except when someone loads the dishwasher wrong. I'm mellowing, not going completely dim!

Ode to John Denver

OK, I know "Country Road" is sappy, but after 27 hours in airports, jets and departure lounges, I was humming it under my breath as we turned off the highway at 4:30AM into the dark stillness of Greenwood Road. (Note to self: flying in February ... a bit fraught.) I'll spare you the details except to say that when a block of seats finally opened up in Miami, there were cheers each time a name was called. From a high of 93, the standby list was finally shrinking!

We brought two pilgrims home - Jemma and Dana still needed to get to their luggage and car in Eugene, and then home to Roseburg, but needed sleep even more. Bill, who is a saint, had been making hotel reservations along our flight path (and then canceling them) and brought us home to a lovely fire and freshly-made beds. After we slept a few hours and had breakfast, we picked up all our luggage at the Eugene airport, had a lovely Thai lunch (thanks, Jemma & Dana!) and dropped J&D off at their car. We were home "for good" by 5:30. Fire up the grill and I'll pour the wine!

If you're wondering, gentle reader, if it was worth it, look at the pictures and then decide: Guatemala album. I've sipped neon-pink wine high on a tower above a piss-elegant composting toilet at Candice's enchanted organic acreage by Santiago Atitlan, hiked four hours up hill (I mistyped it "hell"!) and down dale birding with Josue at Tarrales Reserve, walked my ass off looking at ruins all over Antigua with Debby, was bitten by a gorgeous macaw in Honduras, near Copan Ruinas, and was conked on the head by a little boy with an eggshell full of confetti. Luis made me speak Spanish for over two hours, and I found out I could!

At the elementary school where Luis teaches, we delivered our supplies to each teacher and spent a happy hour in L's class. The kids tried out their English and we tried out our Spanish (the kids did better than we did). I showed them a finger game and Morocco juggled a soccer ball and two rolls of toilet paper (use what you've got!). Soon they'll be raising brine shrimp (sea monkeys to you) to watch with their new microscope.

And I met the weavers, Johanna and her mother, whose work left me drunk and stumbling. This little piece is meant to be sewn together at the blue ends and then have the top edge gathered together for a baby cap. Don't worry! It's not for young master MacAdam! The ones I found for him won't get him beaten up on any playground!

Everywhere we went, we met Americans, but no ordinary tourists. A few were in language schools, but most were in Guatemala to serve. We met doctors, nurses, Habitat for Humanity teams, and masons. These last are installing simple, high-efficiency low-emission stoves,like this oneto replace the open fires inside many homes. This stove uses 1/4 the wood of an open fire, too, which may relieve some of the pressure on native forests while making less work for the family. At Candice's we had a gourmet meal for 16 cooked on one of these, including banana cream pie!

So, maybe it's windy and cold and wet back here at home, but I've got triple-tasty memories, a bunch of new friends, and - best of all - I'm back in my sweet baby's arms!

Now I´m the one far from home

This post is from Antigua, Guatemala, where I´m typing while watching the Cody Banks movie dubbed into Spanish and eating pupusas or appetizers - Salvadoran cornmeal pancakes filled with cheese, pork, mushrooms, chorizo, etc., and a cabbage salad that kicks ass.

When I´m done here, there´s music in the town square and I expect to find the other 11 crazy women who thought this would be a good way to spend February. They were soooo right!

This morning we had breakfast in the ruins of a convent (Santa Domingo) built by the Spanish in the sixteenth century. Beautiful young Mayan women drift about in garments that make nuns habits look like high fashion. The gardens glow against the massive stone walls and there are breathtaking art exhibits around several corners.

Of the women, I only know my cousin, and we haven´t spent more than two days together at a time since we were children. A week ago, my new best friends were strangers to me, but now I know details of their lives that would have taken years to learn in the real world. I have to say I was verrry apprehensive about subsuming myself to an estrogen borg, but I needn´t have bothered my pretty little head. If we have a fault, it´s that we bend over backward to accomodate one another. Weird, hunh?

Sorry I can´t upload any pictures. I´ve taken hundreds, but didn´t bring the cable. Later for that. And now I really have to go. I can hear the music over the TV and I hear there´s dancing in the streets.

My final note: these are the sweetest, most gentle people I´ve ever seen - the beggars, the street vendors, everyone one the street - with no exceptions. EVERYONE greets EVERYONE with a face-splitting smile, and now they are greeting us with hugs! It´s crazy and I love it.

Hasta luego, amigos . . .

The End is (Not) Near

It's the end of January, and you'd think we'd be done messing about with trees from the December storm. But we had the arborists out Friday to make four big new messes - two of them where we'd already spent hours cleaning up!


Oh, be very careful, tiny man!
That can't feel very safe
Sure it's less stately, but the house is safe

Since then we've spent three days picking up sticks and making firewood around three of the trees, and I need to take some time off before doing any more. We've got the area around the house looking tidy (after our fashion), but plenty of work lurks a little way away.

The only property damage from all this was the barn across the road, so we don't see devastation every time we look out a window or step outside any more. But it's amazing how wearying it is to have all this to deal with. I know it pales in comparison to - oh, say, Katrina, or Baghdad, or even our Columbus Day storm. Why doesn't that make me feel better than it does?

It's true that when we're out there in the sunshine, warmed up and working together in that companionable way, I feel great. It's just that when I get tired and sticky with pitch, and there's still another hour's work before it gets dark, I have trouble with my inner two-year-old. And like spoiling a bad child, we went to a movie Saturday and Sunday night! A little popcorn shut her right up, the little hoyden...

Heat Wave

We woke up early this morning because, for once, the sky didn't just go from black through infinite shades of grey, but was clear and blue with perky clouds in Martha Stewart shades that harmonized nicely. For a moment, I wanted to slip into a peignoir and fluffy mules so I could trip downstairs and whip up some beignets. Then, I snorted derisively, pulled a sweatshirt over my tshirt and found a pair of not-too-gross jeans in a heap on the floor so I could make it to newspaper box and get a bowl of cereal. (OK, I did have a huge cafe au lait after, and the milk was steamed just right.)

Because I live with a genius, we made progress on two projects at the same time today. He made racks for the pickup so we could clean out the top of the broken barn, and we dumped four loads of the straw in a row where we'll plant the grapes we started last year. If it kills some of the grass and weeds, that's great. If it just rots into the soil, that's great, too. I can just hear the worms now: "Hey, Frank! Get a crew together. There's a bunch of stuff up there we gotta get to work on!" Go, little buddies, go . . .

And it seemed really warm, too. I guess it was only 44 or so, but with a long-sleeved shirt (and a job to do) it felt lovely.

Tag, hunh?

It's been a while since I played tag, but here goes:

I was tagged by snarkapuss.
The game is to list six ways in which I'm weird and then tag six other bloggers who each are to write the six weird things about themselves and then go to six other blogs, leave a comment saying "You are tagged", and tell each to read the tagger's blog for details. It's a chain letter, see, only without the warnings of dire consequences for not passing the challenge along. That's a good thing, because I would have to pick bloggers at random, since I don't actually read six other blogs. Hey! What a good idea!

Here are the six I've tagged:
Banana Theory
Ameliorable Logorrhea
Teck on the Web
Crimes & Corruption of the New World Order News
Reset
string theory

Yes, nearly random . . . There was one, I admit, that scared me, so I just "accidentally" clicked "Next Blog" and hummed a little tune. And I stuck to blogs in English, on the off chance that any of them take up the challenge. I'd like to be able to read their responses (I think).

And how, you ask, Ms Snarkapuss, am I weird? Heck, I should let you guest this post - you could point out a few that I hadn't noticed (or had my face rubbed in) yet. Let's see:

1. When I have a conversation of more than a minute with anyone who has an accent or speech pattern much different from mine, I end up talking like them. They probably think I'm mocking, but really, I don't even notice I'm doing it. And there's a hangover. I'm still getting over spending five days with a woman from Min-a-SEW-da.

2. I count things. Lots of things. Useless things. I don't have to count; often I don't even notice I'm doing it until something interrupts me and I stop. And I almost never remember how many telephone poles there are between here and the highway or the number of steps from the front door of the State Library to the Reference Room. I just count them.

3. I can't look at birds on the ground or sitting in a tree without seeing their "arms" folded behind their backs. It was crows at first. They look like men in dark suits walking bent over, pondering deep stuff. Now all birds look like that, except most of them dress more casually. And a lot of them walk funny, too.

4. I can bend the tips of my first three fingers without bending the second joint - on both hands.

5. Although I don't even look at the price of the coffee beans and have been known to tell the shoe clerk to just bring me something comfortable, I will not pay someone to cut my hair. (I can just hear you saying, "Ohhhhhh! That explains it!") The first four items only seem weird to other people; this one seems weird even to me.

6. I keep a pretty light grip on reality. It's not that I believe in fairies or chi or God or anything; in fact, I don't really believe in much at all. It's nice just to let reality rest on the palm of my hand so it has room to flex a bit from time to time.

That was fun.

Lemonade

Our exercise program is back in gear. Bill's chain saw has a shiny new part, and we can get back to cutting oak. Well, he can cut; I can drag limbs and pile brush.

We've been trying to decide whether to make it all into firewood and sell it ourselves, or just sell the logs and let someone else do the commerce. A third option seemed appealing but had about 47 questions to research, not the least of which was cost.

Then, Monday, it all fell into place. We have a trucker, a miller and a moulder, who will take our logs and, Presto!, instead of firewood, we'll have oak flooring! How sweet is that? Instead of going up someone's stovepipe (and adding to global warming), the trees can come inside and play.

Drive, drive! Go, go!

We're in the first throes of buying a new car, and for once I'm not looking forward to the dickering part. It's a shame, because we've had such a good time playing with car salesmen over the years. Bill usually gets to play Mr. Nice Guy and I get to be the bitch (typecasting) and we've made some fine deals. But I just don't have the stomach for it this time.

The web has spoiled me rotten. I like surfing for as long as it takes to get the features and price I want and then watching the product wend its way to us. Before Christmas we were visited by UPS, DHL, FedEx, and USPS package handlers all in the same day! After service like that, going to a car dealer seems like something out of the 19th century.

I have a couple of disturbing dreams that I torment myself with from time to time. One is that I'm secretly a couple of credits short and have to go back to high school. The horror is that I've forgotten my locker combination, can't find my gym shorts, etc. The other one is that I find myself with a lit cigarette and an ashtray full of butts - proof that for twenty years I've lied about quitting. That one makes me wake up with tears in my eyes.

But worse than either of those would be to dream I'm selling cars.

Cardamom

Disclaimer: This post has nothing to do with spices; I just like the word.

I think I'm getting the hang of this retirement thing at last. I'm starting to flash back to how life was when Bill was off farming and I was around the home place or just working part-time. It's like rummaging through the closet for a more comfortable pair of shoes and coming across that pair I loved twenty years ago - still comfy and just right for today.

I am a little disappointed, though, that when I reach for a real pair of jeans my choices ares still those soft ones (with a few stains), the thick warm ones (all ragged at the cuff and a dingy grey), or the one pair I swore I'd only wear for good (definitely pale at the knees). Why do I still not have a decent pair of pants?

Oh, yeah . . . I still hate to shop. Doesn't look like that's going to change anytime soon. Sigh.