Unleashed in Oregon

Under the Depoe Bay Bridge

2012-02-13T12:20:00.000-08:00

When I was Depoe Bay last week to do a story on saltwater taffy (Oregon Coast Today, next Friday), I headed across Highway 101 to use the restroom at the whale watching center. Usually you can visit the facility downstairs, then head upstairs for a great view of the ocean and a chance to see a whale. Or you can stay on the main floor and peruse the whale museum and the gift shop. But not this time. A sign on the door told me the building is closed for renovations.

Sigh. Behind me stood a big tan port-a-potty. It was like going to the bathroom on the freeway, but when you've gotta go, you've gotta go.

Afterward, as I started back toward the road, but I noticed a set of stairs heading in a direction I had never been. The stairs led me under the Depoe Bay Bridge, where the view was fascinating, the bridge posts framing the world's smallest navigable harbor. The thick concrete muffled the sounds of the cars driving over me and shielded me from the light rain. A sea gull roosted in one corner, a pigeon in another.

I never thought much about the Depoe Bay Bridge. Last October, Newport went crazy as the Yaquina Bay Bridge celebrated its 75th anniversary, but the Depoe Bay Bridge, also the work of famous bridge engineer Conde McCullough, is older.

The original 312-foot long bridge with its 150-foot arch was built in 1927. It was expanded in 1940 to accommodate four lanes of traffic. Eighty-five years later, here I am walking underneath with my little digital camera. When last year's tsunami hit, it damaged the nearby docks, but the bridge stood strong, as it has all these years. I'm so glad I took those stairs.

Sing Your Song Now

2012-02-06T10:38:00.000-08:00

This past week, I’ve been thinking about death. On Friday, I heard about the deaths of two friends, the mother of a woman I sing with at church and the husband of my lifelong best friend, Sherri.

Catherine, the mother, was 89. She had suffered from the effects of a stroke for many years, and she had been bedridden since October. For years, I saw her sitting in the front row at church, a little confused, most of her hair gone, but so in love with God. Shortly before Catherine died, she told her nurse, “My stroke is better.” She was ready to go. Last Thursday, she passed peacefully into the next life. We’re singing at her funeral this coming Thursday, repeating the songs that were sung at her husband’s funeral in 1993. They’re together now.

After I heard about Catherine’s death, I gave up on work. Whenever someone I know dies now, I relive my husband’s and my mother’s deaths. I need time to deal with the turmoil in my mind and my heart. We had sunshine and blue sky with the most fascinating cloud patterns, the kind in which you can imagine all kinds of things, from animals to angels. I lay on the deck and watched them slowly change.

As the afternoon wore on, I took Annie to the dog park, where she romped with four other big dogs and a shitzu-maltese that didn’t realize it was little.

It was at the dog park that I got Sherri’s call, one I had been fearing. Her husband, Gene, had been in the hospital for two weeks, unconscious the whole time. A massive heart attack, coupled with out-of-control diabetes and kidney failure, offered a bleak prognosis, and he died. A week before he went to the hospital, they had been living a normal life with no idea that he would not make it to the end of the month. Gene was 69.

Sherri married Gene the same year I married Fred. We have shared so many things in our life. From first grade through high school, Sherri and I were always together. We went through lost teeth, First Communion, first periods and first bras, first crushes, and first attempts to play the guitar. We both married divorced men who had three children from their first marriages. As we aged, we saw the same chiropractor and took the same pills. When another friend and I formed a traveling vocal group, Gene sang bass with my husband Fred. I can still see them in their white shirts and red bow ties.

Sherri worked at Los Gatos Town Hall while I worked at the Los Gatos Weekly-Times. Eventually we both left California, but for different reasons. Sherri and Gene ran into financial trouble, lost their house and hoped to start fresh in a small home on a big patch of land in Texas. They had only been there eight months when Gene went to the hospital in Ft. Worth. Sherri buried her husband on her 60th birthday. I’ll be 60 next month. Now, we have something else in common, something no one would ever wish for: We’re both widows.

I’m thinking a lot about death these days. You never know when it will happen. If there’s something you must do in this life, do it now. Yesterday, I sat in the sun playing my guitar and singing for a long time. It felt good. It felt right. If you have a song that needs singing, sing it now.

Rest in peace, Catherine and Gene. May God be with your loved ones as they go on without you.

Homesickness in heaven

2012-01-30T10:45:00.000-08:00

I have lived in Oregon for 15 1/2 years now, a quarter of my life. I lived the other 44 years in California, mostly San Jose. My roots go back to the 1800s there. I love the Oregon Coast. I love its natural beauty, its attitude, its friendliness, its slower pace. The weather can be brutal, but even the snow, wind and rain are beautiful in their own way. And yet, as I watched the National Figure Skating Championships, being broadcast from San Jose over the weekend, every time the announcer said "San Jose" or I saw it written on the side of the rink, something chimed inside me. I longed for shots of the area outside the building and scanned the crowd for familiar faces. The building they were in hadn't even been built when I lived there. Downtown has changed so much I'd get lost there now, but Santa Clara Valley holds so many memories and so much of my history. I yearn for the sun-browned oak-covered hills.

I still feel "Saudade," a feeling of longing and loss that I wrote about in my latest book, Shoes Full of Sand. It's a Portuguese word, common among those who left their homeland for a new life in the United States. We only moved from California to Oregon, but the feeling is the same. Now, with my husband gone and no family here, perhaps it would make sense to move back to San Jose.

But would I trade my big quiet yard with its alders and Sitka spruce for a much smaller space surrounded by people and noise? Would I trade my open two-lane roads for freeways full of cars creeping along bumper to bumper? Would I trade the friends, the music, and the long walks with Annie for the crowded craziness of "Silicon Valley?" Would you?

Much of my family is gone now, died or moved away, but I miss those who remain in San Jose. It's time for a visit. And then I'll come back to Oregon, where on the way home from an interview, I can stop to enjoy scenes like the one above on the beach in the Taft district of Lincoln City. After days of storms, the sun had come out, and I just had to stop. Beats the freeway, doesn't it?

Lessons from the Storms

2012-01-23T10:57:00.000-08:00

What a crazy time we've had here on the Oregon Coast. Over the last week, we've been blanketed with snow, pummeled by wind, and drowned with rain. We've had power failures, trees down, closed roads and flooding. Highway 101 just north of where I live has a big chunk out of it where the land slid out from underneath it. Every trip to Newport is fraught with the worry about whether we'll be able to get back.

At one point, all the roads east were closed, along with the Yaquina Bridge where the wind threw a semi into a pickup truck. I wondered how that could possibly happen until I tried to drive home from church yesterday. I feared that any second, the wind would have its way with my car.

Meanwhile, the creeks have turned into rivers, and the rivers have turned into lakes. Today, on a rare storm-free day, people are returning to flooded houses to see what they have left. We definitely got paid back for all the clear days we had in December, and the storms aren't over. Rain and wind are expected to return tomorrow. Everybody's talking about the weather. Conversations often conclude with, "Well, that's life on the Oregon coast."

It can be a challenge living here, but we certainly appreciate our sunny days. Meanwhile, I've learned a few lessons from the crazy weather. Here are just a few:

1) If you don't buy rainboots, you'll always have wet feet. They don't have to be cute, just waterproof.
2) Don't let the gas tank or the refrigerator go empty, and stock up on toilet paper. You might not be able to drive to the store.
3) Water and electricity are not guaranteed.
4) Find that old camp stove and figure out how to work it.
5) Keep at least one old-style phone that works without electricity.
6) If the sun appears, run outside and pay homage.
7) If you won't go outside in the rain, the dog won't either.
8) The best coastal hairdo is a hat.
9) All plans are tentative.
10) Get a boat.

What have you learned with this winter's weather?

One Big Snow Cone

2012-01-16T10:33:00.000-08:00

White. Everything is white with snow that fell during the night. Unable to drink from her frozen water bowl, Annie vacuums up the snow. Her world is one giant snow cone. As I crunch along in my slippers, I look up and see blue sky with white etchings, the top of the Sitka spruce tipped with sunlight, the leafless branches of the red alders flocked with snow.

It has been a crazy-weather weekend. Just last Friday, I sat outside in the sun reading a book while Annie chewed on a branch fallen from the last wind storm. Saturday we had light rain, but the snow predictions seemed unrealistic. Sunday, I awoke to the sound of Annie barking at the hail banging on the skylights. But that soon stopped. In church, as we stood to go to Communion, I glanced out the window and saw snow falling. So beautiful and so worrisome. We all had to drive home. But by the time Mass ended, the snow was gone, everything merely wet.

The restless dog and I went walking, she just in her collar, I so bundled up I could barely move. Tiny flecks of hail fell around us, no big deal. It wasn't until we turned back onto our street that the serious hail came, half-inch balls of ice pounding on our heads, gathering on my coat and Annie's fur. "Hurry!" I urged, but the dog kept trying to dive under bushes instead of heading for the sure security of the house. When the hail stopped a few minutes later, the earth seemed to sigh as the pounding ceased.

Around 4:00, the snow finally came, thick, fluffy, some of the flakes looking like shreds of paper floating down onto deck, lawn and concrete. Staring at it made me dizzy, but I couldn't look away. Annie stood beside me at the window, amazed. Beneath the arborvitae out front, two dark-feathered birds flittered around, pecking for bugs, undaunted.

For the rest of the night, the snow came and went, but this morning, everything was covered in smooth white, untracked until Annie started eating it. Our ratty patio furniture looked perfect, its nicks and rust-stains hidden in a coat of snow. Sunlight sparkled off the white surface, making everything glow. Ah, snow. Online, I read reports of cars sliding around, danger on the roads, homeless people gathering in a shelter at the fairgrounds, but here at home, all is safe and special today.

We first saw snow here in February 1996, when Fred and I drove up from California for the annual Newport Seafood and Wine Festival. Prepared for rain, we were surprised by the biting cold and had to go buy warmer clothing. Staying at the Ester Lee in Lincoln City, we awoke to snow on the window sills and on the beach. Does it snow here on the central Oregon coast, we wondered. We needed to know because we were already planning to move here. Oh no, people told us. This never happens. Snow on the beach? Nah.

Hah. Yes, it does. It's the beach, but it's also the Northwest. Nearly every year, it gets cold enough to snow, and if the rain comes at that time, it does snow right here on the beach and all around us. It's icy, slippery, dangerous, and so pretty. Would we have moved here if we knew this? Probably. We wouldn't have believed it. Just like Annie keeps putting her tongue on that frozen water, expecting to get a drink.

I've got puppy pictures

2012-01-12T17:10:00.000-08:00

I promised pictures of my neighbor's puppies, and here they are. They will soon be leaving for new homes, but meanwhile, when they're out, I'm surrounded by squeaking puppies. So here they are with Sande, the proud grandma. Enjoy.

Happiness is a Warm Puppy

2012-01-10T11:53:00.000-08:00

Is there anything sweeter than a puppy? I don't think so. For years, my Annie has been trading barks with the dog that lives on the property behind mine. Her name is Jamie. A golden retriever-yellow Lab mix, she looks a lot like Annie, only with longer fur, and is one of the nicest dogs I have ever met. My dog is spayed, and I figured Jamie was too, so I was amazed when her owner, Sande, stopped her truck beside Annie and me on one of our walks to tell me about Jamie's puppies. Bred with a golden retriever from the next block, she had nine puppies. Sande whipped out her cell phone and showed me pictures. Shortly after birth, they looked like a clump of tan piglets.

From time to time in recent weeks, I have heard puppies squeaking from beyond the fence, but I didn't see them in person until necessity forced me to seek help from the neighbor. You see, I'm not good at asking for help. When Annie got another ear infection, requiring me to put medicine in her ears every day for a week, I tried everything to do it by myself. But I couldn't even get the stuff out before Annie fled. I chased her. I tried to corral her in the corner. I tried bribing her, but Annie did not want me messing with her ears. I can't blame her. They hurt, and the medicine stinks. The last straw came when I tried to do it in the car, figuring I could pin her in the passenger seat while she eagerly awaited a trip to the dog park. Nope. She leapt into the back seat, and I sprained my thumb trying to hold her. Not a good thing for a musician.

I took her and her bottles of gunk to the park, hoping another dog owner would help with this two-person operation, one to hold the dog, the other to dose her. The only dog owner there, someone I didn't know, saw Annie coming, leashed up her anti-social, muzzled fur factory, and left.

Okay, okay. I called Sande. She was happy to help. Her life these days revolves around dogs. Nine puppies, plus Jamie, are almost a full-time job. As Annie and I walked up her driveway, Jamie barked a greeting. Then I saw the pups in this gigantic basket on the front lawn. Oh my gosh. At six weeks, they are now the same size that Annie was when I first saw her. All tan, with wrinkled faces. Sande was holding one in her arms. We laughed as she pointed out the red toenails on one of her front paws. It was the only way to tell her apart from the others.

Sande scooped another pup out of the basket. "Would you like to hold one?"

Oh yes. It was the softest thing I have ever felt, and it felt so good as the puppy snuggled against my chest. Annie just watched, curious, not having seen dogs so small since she was little. "Would you like a baby brother or sister?" I asked. She waved her tail cautiously. I laughed. "Not happening, kiddo." But what a gift, just being able to hold it for a minute. And why would anyone want anything but a big yellow dog?

Sande held Annie and gave her treats while I gooped up her ears, and we made arrangements to do it again daily for a week. The vet visit and medications were expensive, and Annie still doesn't enjoy her daily treatments, but her ears are already visibly better and we get to see Jamie and her puppies every day before they go to their new owners next weekend.

Life could be worse. We're lucky dogs.

P.S. My hands have been pretty full, but I'll try to get a picture to share with you next time.

What's a nice girl like me doing in a place like this?

2012-01-02T12:22:00.000-08:00

If she weren't already dead, my mother would die of the shock. Her daughter is sitting in a Lincoln City bar alone, drinking beer, talking to drunk guys. I must be insane. But it's all for a story. I'm writing about jam sessions in Lincoln County. It turns out most of them are in bars.

When I pull out a notebook and camera, guys swarm. "You're a writer! Write about me. Take my picture. Have I got a story for you."

I want to seem cool, even though my music is more church than Clapton, so I order a beer. A third of the way through one glass, I feel drunk. Enjoying the glow, I sigh and settle into my chair, even though when the music starts I'm afraid I'll never hear again. I haven't heard that kind of loud since high school dances in the '60s. When the drummer hits the drum hard, I literally leave my seat. But I'm trying to be cool. A drunk guy with a bandanna and tattooed arms, comes out, says, "I'm Kerry. What's your name?" He has glazed eyes, missing teeth. I'm old enough to be his mother, but apparently it doesn't show yet. "Hi, I'm Sue." I'm relieved when he wanders away.

A long-haired guy named Mike comes over, shakes my hand, tells me he's a music teacher, but all I see is a wasted baby boomer who looks like a lost member of the Grateful Dead. When he plays his guitar, he goes into a trance, and my ears bleed. If I were home, I'd turn it off in a hurry. But I joke with the band, take their pictures and tells them I love their music. I decline their offers to let me sit in. I don't even know how to play an electric guitar.

My notes mostly say, "Loud."

On break, Mike talks to me, tells me he has twin daughters back in California. It turns out we lived in the same area, went to the same bars 40 years ago when I was learning that my ex liked to drink too much. I have almost forgotten my recent dead husband for a while, despite weeping into my dog's fur when the clock struck 12 on New Year's Eve, a mere 16 hours earlier.

Late afternoon on New Year's Day, the bar is full of men in baseball caps, just a few women.There's this young blond guy, curly hair, drunk out of his mind, barely able to sit up at the bar. A wizened old guy in a cap too big for his head, gets up and dances stiff-legged in the middle of the floor. It's getting dark, and I know I'm not going to get a lot of usable quotes here. I sip at my beer, knowing I should leave. I'm getting drunk and have a long way to drive. I still have other bars to check out, all in the interest of a story.

Three nights ago, I visited a pub in Yachats. Pouring rain, winds threatening to push my car off the bridges, but I had a story to do. Another jam, another beer, better music, more drunk people wanting me to write about them.

Now I spray my mouth with Binaca and head south to Newport to visit jams at Harpoon Hannah's and the notorious Bay Haven. I'm relieved to find that Hannah's is closed, a For Rent sign in the window. From the corner, I can hear the music coming out of the Bay Haven. Okay, I have to at least look inside. I stand in front of the wooden door with its sign that says, "No minors permitted on these premises," pray for protection, and go in. This time, the band is so into their music they don't have time to drink or hit on strangers with notebooks. Here at last is a real jam. Except for one wasted woman in the corner, everyone is here for the music. As I take my last pictures of the day, I think I might come back sometime. The music is good, the old wooden tables are inviting, and there's something about a bar that makes everything outside go away for a while.

Don't worry, Mom, I'm not going anywhere without my notebook. I'm working. Really. Next time, I'll order a diet Pepsi.

Ah, Christmas on the Oregon coast

2011-12-27T09:49:00.000-08:00

Rain and wind have returned, with a forecast of storm after storm. The Coast Guard warns of giant waves and wild surf. Only fools will walk on the beach now. Ah, at last the weather is normal. I do love sunshine, but not when it comes with freezing temperatures. Ice frightens me, forces me to keep the dog inside at night, and makes me wear so many layers of clothing it’s hard to move. This is better. Beach weather.

We have a new church choir member, a nun who started singing with us on Christmas weekend. It was raining a bit on Christmas morning. I mentioned that the weather was finally more typical for December. She looked at me with alarm. It is? Oh Sister, hold onto your rain hat.

Our choir made it through three Masses with tons of music, including songs and solos before the official service. The church glittered with white candles and white lights on the tree and white poinsettias all over the altar. The congregation was a riot of red and green with the occasional jingle bell. How glorious it felt to stand on the altar as the cantor and sing, “Born today . . .” after weeks of Advent when we sang and talked about waiting for Jesus to come.

The big Mass was at 5:30 on Christmas Eve. We struggled to fit in all the singers and guitar players in the choir loft, and we had lots of solos. As is our tradition, the choir went to Lee’s Wok in Newport for dinner. While we waited for our massive plates of fried food, we played our gift-trading game in which people pick numbers, choose a gift, then hope no one will steal it from them. With our shouting and laughter, I’m afraid we’re quite annoying to other people trying to have a peaceful dinner.

Stuffed with food all the way up to our vocal chords, a few of us returned to church for the late-night Mass, falling into bed afterward with the sound of “Gloria in excelsis deo” echoing in our heads. On Christmas morning, we rose for one more Mass before we were finally free to open presents and join our friends and families for Christmas.

I spent the afternoon with the Cramer family, friends from church who always make me feel like one of the family rather than the lonely widow who needs a place to go for Christmas. It was a beautiful time.

Do I miss Fred? So much. A few times I thought I heard his deep voice singing beside me on the piano bench. I also miss my mother and all the others who have passed away. I miss being with my family in California, but I had work to do here.

For church musicians, Christmas is not a vacation, but it is a celebration. I hope your holidays have been full of music, love, gifts and fabulous food. If they weren't as happy as you wished, I hope you can still find one good thing to hang onto as we move into the new year. May 2012 be full of blessings for us all.

P.S. My brother and sister-in-law sent me long underwear and a thick yellow afghan for Christmas. They seem to think I’m cold up here. Not anymore. It’s raining.

New Liturgy=Babel in the Pews

2011-12-19T10:41:00.000-08:00

Four weeks into using the new translation of the Catholic liturgy, we can be sure of one thing: Every time the priest says, "The Lord be with you," 50 percent of the congregation will say, "And also with you," the old response, and 50 percent will say, "And with your spirit," the new response. Both groups will say it loudly and confidently, but some will follow it up with a quiet curse. Dang, screwed it up again. We have been saying the same words for 40 years. It's going to take a while to change things.

Meanwhile, we cling to our cheat sheets. Last week, when I left the keyboard to sing in the choir, I looked down and noticed Julian, our young guitar player, with the old version of the Creed in front of him. I could see his expression becoming more and more confused as his words didn't match ours. The new Creed even starts on a different word, "I" instead of "We." Yesterday, we had a visiting singer who didn't seem to know about the cheat sheets either. Confusion on his face, too.

It's tricky for this old piano player, too. I'm used to certain cues. When Father mentions the angels singing praise, my fingers hit the keys to play the "Holy, Holy." "When he says, "Through him and with him . . . " I'm set to play the "Amen." With the changes, I'm thinking: "Now?" The end of the Mass is still a muddle. Nobody is sure when to say, "Amen," "Thanks Be to God" or "Coffee and donuts are being served in the hall."

We'll get it. Just not this year. I can't wait to see the confused looks next weekend when all those folks who only show up at Christmas discover that things have changed.

Meanwhile, the good thing is that it makes us pay attention and think about what we're saying and why we're saying it.

So, the Lord be with you. And with your spirit.

Merry Christmas to you all. Even if you don't believe Jesus is God, He was pretty cool, so celebrate.

It's Still All About Keeping Warm

2011-12-13T09:41:00.000-08:00

Annie raced out the dog door to her bowl early this morning for a drink. To her surprise, her tongue touched ice. She licked and licked, but never hit water. Luckily she has a defrosted water bowl inside.

At 6 a.m., when the restless dog woke me up, the moon was shining so bright I could see everything. Stars dotted the black sky. The deck and lawn sparkled with ice as Annie skated across to do her business. Then, happy and ready for a new day, Annie zoomed back to me, tail wagging. I could read her mind: Give me some food and then let's play. Nope, I replied, it's still dark. We're going back to bed, where it's toasty. I still have dreams to be dreamed.

In these December days, life is about keeping warm. I go through more than a 40-pound bag of wood pellets a day keeping the pellet stove burning. I keep space heaters and baseboard heaters going in the occupied rooms. I sleep under an electric blanket. I'm wearing my flannel nightgown at night and my long underwear during the day. Annie sleeps on the old couch by the pellet stove. In her crate in the laundry room, she'd turn into a pupsicle.

In the mornings it's in the 30s outside, the 40s in the laundry room, which has no ceiling, just a bare roof, and it's right around 50 in the den. The living room has made it to the low 60s, but the pellet stove is empty again, and the temperature is dropping.

I know it gets a lot colder elsewhere, but for this California-born Oregonian, it's cold! It's also oddly dry. We haven't had real rain for a couple weeks. If precipitation comes now, we could have a white Christmas. Think it can't snow at the beach? Oh yes it can. The photo is from a previous December when Annie experienced her first snow. She doesn't look happy.

Keep warm, friends.

It’s All About Staying Warm

2011-12-05T12:32:00.000-08:00

We’ve had a spectacular run of blue skies and starry nights. No rain, which is surprising for December on the Oregon coast. But it’s cold, so cold. Still frosty in the shade at noon. If there were precipitation, it would be snow. Every day, it’s a battle to stay warm. Here in the trees, we don’t have gas or central heating. Most houses have wood stacked up for winter. I have a woodshed outside the house with a diminishing supply of raggedy wood, which Annie occasionally takes to the lawn for chew toys. She has created a wonderful supply of kindling for me. After she chews it up, I put it in a bucket to use for starting fires in the woodstove in the den.

I don’t light a fire every day. I have other options, including a space heater and a persnickety pellet stove in the den, our main source of heat.

The pellet stove is annoying. It often fails to come on. If it gets too much ash, not enough pellets or is just in a bad mood, it will start up, hum for a while, then decrescendo into silence. When the power goes off, it doesn’t work at all. This time of year, it eats a 40-pound bag of pellets a day. When it works, it’s a beautiful golden source of heat. Annie and I spend a lot of time warming ourselves in front of the pellet stove, taking care not to get burnt.

I love a wood fire. But you have to tend it. If you forget it for an hour, it goes out, so I only use it when I’m feeling ambitious or when we don’t have electricity. The other night I decided to start my fire. I didn’t have my glasses on and had only a dim lamp for light. As the first sparks were starting to shoot out of the kindling, something didn’t look right in there. A piece of wood near the door looked furry. As I looked closer, I realized it wasn’t fur; it was feathers. I had a dead bird in the woodstove. It had made the incredible journey past the chimney captain, down the chimney, and down the long black stove pipe, including a bend near the ceiling. It probably died on impact. I heard no flapping or chirping.

I grabbed a paper towel and took the bird out, carefully avoiding the growing fire. Cradling the bird in the towel, I took the opportunity to look closely. Shyly, I touched it. So, so soft. Possibly a junco or a finch, it had black tail feathers, a gray chest, and a stubby beak. I felt so sorry for it. After a while, I took it outside and laid it to rest in the ivy with a little prayer.

It’s all about heat around here lately. The other morning, I plugged in a space heater in the bedroom because I just couldn’t seem to get warm. Then I went to blow-dry my hair. I had one side of my hair done when the power went out on the whole south side of the house. The circuit couldn’t take the addition of the heater. Now I know: I can either style my hair or be warm. Given the choice, I’d rather be warm.

The New Mass has begun

2011-11-27T07:05:00.000-08:00

Last night at Mass, I led the choir at Sacred Heart Church in new songs for a new Mass. For over 40 years, we Catholics have been saying the same words every Sunday. The priest said, “The Lord be with you” and we answered “And also with you.”

But now, the words have changed. We are to respond “And with your spirit.”

That is only one of many changes. The words of the Gloria, the Creed, and the Communion prayers are all different. The meaning is the same, but all over the English-speaking world, Catholics are saying different words this weekend. It’s the biggest change since the post-Vatican II overhaul in the 1960s.

Prior to Vatican II, the Mass was said in Latin, and the priest did most of the talking. The New Mass was spoken in the language of the people, and they played a much larger role, with spoken and sung responses. They held hands during the Lord’s Prayer and offered each other a sign of peace. Older people who were used to the way Mass had always been said had a hard time adjusting, and some dropped out of the church. My parents were among them.

This time, the changes are not quite as drastic, but they are profound. The church fathers have written a new translation from Latin into English which we began using this first weekend of Advent.

After Thanksgiving Mass on Thursday, parishioners took the old books out of the pews and replaced them with new ones. In the choir room, we took all the old service music out of the binders and files. Entire collections of service music are no longer allowed to be sung. We moved mountains of paper. Out with the old, in with the new.

Last night, I felt honored to be able to lead the choir for the debut of the new 2012 Mass. Some of the words are the same, but enough have changed that suddenly we have to pay attention and listen to what we’re saying. We all made mistakes. Many of the responses came out as a mix of old and new. The old words are so engrained in our minds. But I’m glad I was there.

The only “disaster” of the Saturday vigil Mass had nothing to do with the new liturgy. For some unknown reason, the ushers started taking a second collection after Communion. We didn’t have one planned. As the baskets were being passed, Father Brian stared out at the pews. “I don’t believe we have a second collection.” But it was too late. People had already put money in the baskets. Rather than take it back, they opted to give it to the local food pantry.

At the end of Mass, Fr. Brian raised his hands and said, “The Lord be with you.” Some of us, armed with cheat sheets, responded, “And with your spirit.” Others answered, as always, “And also with you.” It’s going to take a while, but the new Mass has begun.

Black Friday? Not for me

2011-11-25T10:17:00.000-08:00

If we're to believe what we see and hear in the media, everybody is shopping today. Stores opened ridiculously early and in some cases, they opened last night, so shoppers didn't even have time to digest their turkey and pumpkin pie. I know people who were almost as excited about shopping today as that crazy woman on the Target TV commercials they've been airing approximately every five minutes. But I'm not going anywhere near a store today. I hate shopping and I hate crowds. Plus there's a rumor the sun might make an appearance on the Oregon Coast. After this last week of wild storms, I don't want to get stuck in a store and miss it.

Instead I'm doing some writing and cleaning up the layers of stuff dumped all over the house. I might dig out the Christmas music, and I might start the Christmas cards. Or I might just go hang out at the dog park.

This year's Christmas cards present a dilemma. Not everyone on my list knows that my husband Fred died in April, seven months and two days ago. I hate to break the news in a Christmas card, but I know I'm going to get lots of cards addressed to "Fred and Sue" this year, and I need to explain why my cards are signed by only "Sue." What a downer. This is actually my third Christmas without Fred because he was living in a nursing home, so it's not as hard as you might think, but it's odd not being able to buy gifts for him or sign my cards with both our names. He loved Christmas so much. I know he'd be bugging me today to go get a Christmas tree. But things change and we adapt.

The other big news this year was the publication of my book, Shoes Full of Sand, in July. I like to think it honors the memories Fred and I shared of our early years in Oregon. Don't want to fight the crowds this Christmas? Buy books. Some of my favorite bookstores are closing at the end of the year because they're not selling enough books anymore. If you love books, support your local bookseller. Remember, books are easy to wrap and easy to mail, and they last forever.

Two weeks ago today, I had my second cataract surgery, so I'm typing this without glasses. My closeup vision is amazing. I see a lot of things I never noticed before. I'm still going to need glasses for distance vision, and I can't order them for a few more weeks because my vision has not stabilized yet. It's frustrating and exciting at the same time.

That's the Black Friday news from South Beach. Happy holidays to everybody.

Post-cataract: writing without glasses

2011-11-18T09:25:00.000-08:00

I’m writing this without glasses, and I can actually see what I’m writing. That’s an amazing thing for someone who has worn glasses or contact lenses full-time for 40 years. I keep raising my hand to adjust my glasses and discover they’re not there. Just before I turn out the light at night, I go to take off my glasses, and in the morning, I reach for my glasses on the nightstand. They’re not there. And I don’t need them.

I had my second cataract surgery a week ago today. It had been almost a year since the first surgery. That surgery on my multi-troubled left eye increased my distance vision but decreased my close-up vision. I still needed glasses to function. We waited a year for the cataract in the right eye to progress enough to qualify for insurance coverage. By October it was there.

I reported for surgery early on 11-11-11, which seemed like an auspicious date. The process was familiar, as were the scrubs-clad folks in the surgery department at Samaritan Pacific Community Hospital in Newport. Inevitably, I run into people I know from church, music and writing groups, all doing their day jobs. Lots of smiling faces.

They led me to the bed fully dressed, covered me with a warm blanket, put a blue bonnet over my hair, took away my glasses, hooked me up to monitors and an IV, put drops in my eye and asked me many times who I was and which eye they were doing. Dr. Haines came through and wrote his initials in blue ink under my right eyebrow.

With my right eye taped shut and wires running all over me, I signed a consent form and waited for my turn. Dr. H. does cataract surgeries all day on Fridays, one after another. Now that I couldn’t escape, several people warned me that this time I would be more aware of what was happening. I knew that technically they didn’t put us all the way to sleep, but I didn’t remember being aware of anything during my first cataract surgery, and I didn’t want to know what was happening this time either.

They were right. I was considerably more awake but sedated enough not to be afraid. I don’t remember everything, but I do remember being wrapped up like a chimichanga. I remember Dr. Haines coming in. I remember seeing bright lights and what looked like blue and red squares. Then I remember Dr. Haines telling me it was over and I had done well. Thank God I don’t remember them removing the old lens and inserting the new one.

Afterward I was up and eating a cinnamon scone in no time. My friend Pat drove me home, where I started the laundry and took a nap, then woke up and started seeing what I could see.

The bad news is that I still need glasses for distance. I’m less nearsighted but not nearly enough to drive or watch TV. But I can read, play the piano, work at the computer, and tool around the house minus specs. I haven’t been able to do that since my teens. Colors are brighter, and I can see things like little scars on my hands and dirt around the bathtub that I didn’t know were there. It’s fascinating.

I won’t be able to order my new glasses for a few weeks because it takes the eye time to adapt to the new implanted lens. That part is frustrating. Also, I have had to go without makeup for a whole week now. Talk about revelations. But when I wake up in the middle of the night and the numbers on the clock are clear, I think it’s pretty cool.

Annie the dog is confused. To her, my glasses were as much a part of me as my nose or ears. She keeps staring at me with a look that says, “What happened to your face?”

Autumn reflections in Scottsburg

2011-11-06T09:02:00.000-08:00

Driving along the Umpqua River between the coast and I-5 last weekend, I just had to stop and take pictures of the fall colors. Where I live in South Beach, recent storms have already wiped out the red and gold leaves, but here, 20 miles inland, I found a glorious multi-hued patchwork of trees reflected in the water.

This was taken at Scottburg Park, a boat launch and picnic site about 2 1/2 miles west of the tiny community of Scottburg. Founded in 1950 by Levi Scott, it was once a bustling shipping port. The advent of the railroad and bigger ports took business elsewhere, but it's a still a sweet little river town with one market, one restaurant, a bait and tackle shop and an "elk crossing" sign.

copyright 2011 Sue Fagalde Lick

The Glamorous Life of the Writer, Again

2011-11-06T08:35:00.000-08:00

So here I am in Medford, OR, wearing nothing but my bathrobe because my clothes got all wet between the exhibit hall at the Expo Center and my car. But I kept my books dry, of course. The plan was to not have any books left over, to go home with a lot more space in my car, but no, this fair was a bust. In fact, we quit two hours early, and by then a third of the authors had already packed up and left.

Wouldn’t you know I’d try the Oregon Book and Author Fair on its first year at the Expo Center? The previous venues, hotels and libraries in town, not only attracted crowds, but they were actually warm. We had been warned about the heat being inefficient in the exhibit hall, but actually it was nonexistent. It was about 50 degrees inside, colder and raining outside. The concrete-floored hall was vast and ugly.

We were arranged at long tables with dozens of authors, who gamely put out books, postcards, brochures, bookmarks, pens and candy. One guy, who writes haiku books, wore a clown hat. Another wore a sweatshirt that said, a “Ask me about my book.” One author brought a model of a spine for her book on scoliosis. Another had model wagon trains. One had balloons.

All to no avail. There were no customers, except the authors themselves. I did my part; I bought five books and a hot dog. But I did not sell a single book. Even the one lady who assured me she would buy a book failed to show up at my table.

I did trade one of my books for another woman’s book. There was a lot of that going on. And I made some good contacts, I think. This Portuguese woman promises to get me on her TV show. Another author plans to invite me to her upcoming book fair, which she promises will have a lot more going on.

My tablemate, Jim Henson—not the Muppet guy—is a delightful man, full of jokes, stories and encouragement. We made plans to meet in Newport for the open mic at Café Mundo.

It’s not all a loss, unless you’re counting dollars. Let’s see, miss a weekend of work, drive 500 miles, pay for the dog to stay in the kennel . . . no, it doesn’t pencil out. But if you think of it as a life experience, it’s not so bad. I talked to lots of people, got to see the fall colors here in Medford, and I’m still enjoying the amenities of a really great hotel: giant-screen TV, microwave popcorn, pool, spa, fitness center, hot buffet breakfast, free newspapers, a heavenly bed, and an escape from the responsibilities of home. Of course, I have to eat breakfast with strangers, and the clock radio suddenly burst into loud music at 4:10 a.m. And there was that flat tire near Roseburg, but hey, it’s an adventure. I’m writing, I’m reading, I’m swimming, I’m watching TV, I’m going out to dinner. And I have a new badge that says I’m an author.

Anybody want to buy a book? Or two or three? Christmas is coming. Visit www.suelick.com/Products.html http://www.suelick.com/Products.html--or the back of my Honda.

It's mushroom time again

2011-10-27T09:24:00.000-07:00

It's mushroom season here on the Oregon coast. Last weekend, we had the giant Yachats Mushroom Festival, which offers speakers, mushroom hikes, mushroom tasting, slide shows and more, but I think the mushrooms are even more abundant now than they were last week. All it takes is a little rain and they pop up everywhere. Did you know mushrooms are just the fruit of plants that mostly grow underground? True.

Mushroom fanatics, called mycophiles, head to the woods this time of year to collect bucket-loads of mushrooms. The fungi come in all different shapes, sizes and colors. Some of them are fabulous to eat while others are toxic. It's important to know the difference before you pick, cook and eat them. For example, King Boletes, which look like pancakes on a stick, are great to eat. Fly agaricas, those pretty red ones with white spots, can be deadly.

Even if you don't like mushrooms, they're fun to look at. On our walks, Annie and I are seeing boletes, russelas, chanterelles, amanitas, and other mushrooms. (Actually, I'm seeing them. I was looking at a new patch of mushrooms yesterday when Annie almost took my leash-holding hand off streaking after a cat.) Along the edge of one neighbor's yard, a crop of mushrooms that look just like oyster crackers appeared overnight. I just want to dig in with a spoon, but I know better. Never eat mushrooms raw and never eat them if you don't know whether they're safe. Plus my neighbor might think I'd lost my mind.

A good pocket guidebook is David Arora's All That the Rainfall Promises and More. Arora was the keynote speaker at last week's festival. His book is full of great color photos and descriptions of all kinds of mushrooms.

Around here, the Lincoln County Mycological Society meets the second Saturday of the month in Otter Rock. Call 541-765-3191 for information. You can also learn more about mushrooms through the North American Mycological Association, http://www.namyco.org/. You might also want to check out my article in last week's Oregon Coast Today, http://www.oregoncoasttoday.com/yachats-mushroom-festival.html.

This is why we moved to the Oregon Coast

2011-10-19T08:07:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was one of those days when it was easy to remember why we left Silicon Valley for the Oregon Coast. The day had its challenges (rejections, home repairs, computer woes), but it certainly had its consolations. Let me share a quick list:

The weather was spectacular, in the 70s with a sky far brighter than so-called "sky blue." More like royal blue.
A screw fell out of my glasses. Within a half hour, I was able to drive to the optometrist's office without traffic, get it fixed immediately and have a nice visit with the ladies there. Add a stop at the South Beach post office and a trip through the drive-through window at West Coast Bank and I was still home in less than an hour. That would never happen in San Jose. I'd still be sitting at a stoplight.
Annie and I went to the dog park and met a great group of friends with terrific dogs who played until their tongues were hanging out. A dog named Buddy adopted me and rested at my feet. Instead of being jealous, Annie adopted Buddy's owner.
After a great pasta dinner, I headed out for a meeting of the Oregon Coast chapter of Willamette Writers and saw the most spectacular sunset, with layers of red and yellow and white that had me fumbling for the camera on my phone.
At Willamette Writers, which branch I co-founded a few years back, I was asked to tell about my new book, Shoes Full of Sand, and welcomed to sell copies. The guest speaker, Valerie Brooks, remembered me from other WW events. They don't call Newport "the friendliest" for nothing.
Fifteen minutes after the meeting ended, I was home in my hot tub looking at a sky full of stars.

This is why we moved to Oregon.

It's Great Being a Famous Author--or Is It?

2011-10-12T16:38:00.000-07:00

This afternoon Annie and were walking on our usual route down 98th Street pondering the deer leg Annie had just pulled out of the weeds when a gray sedan came up from behind us and stopped. Through the open window a woman in a tie-dyed tee shirt called, "By any chance are you Sue Lick?"

"Why, yes, I am."

It turns out she had just finished reading my book Shoes Full of Sand and she and her husband had decided to explore the areas where I wrote about walking with our old dog Sadie. When she saw me and my yellow dog, she thought that just had to be us. Of course my picture is on the back of the book, so that's a big hint.

I was flattered that someone would read my book and want to see the areas I described and that they were excited about meeting the author.

After I introduced Annie, she said, "Don't tell me that Sadie passed away."

I sighed and said, "Okay, I won't. But she'd be about 30 years old now." Actually she wouldn't be that old, but older than most dogs get.

Well, they were all excited to meet me in person, and I was all excited to have such avid fans--especially fans who are not my friends or relatives, but later I got to thinking. What if people read my book and came to my house? What if they weren't nice people? There's a danger in being recognized and having people know where you live and what you do.

There's another complication in that whatever you say in a book is out of date even before the book is published, unless you're writing history. A memoir is a slice of life from a particular time. A lot has happened since I wrote Shoes Full of Sand. Sadie and Fred are both gone. Some of the trails we used to hike have become so overgrown you can't walk there anymore, but there's a new trail I'd love to show folks. I have published two other books, and I work as a music minister at the church now. And of course now I have Annie.

It's a real argument for writing fiction, although I'm having trouble with the 1999 novel I'm revising for the Kindle right now because my photographer heroine was still using film, which she developed in a darkroom, and her pictures were in black and white. Suddenly this once-contemporary story is a period piece.

A body can't keep up these days. But if you see a dark-haired woman with a big yellow dog walking down 98th Street aka Thiel Creek Road, yes, that would be me. We can pretend that nothing has changed.

Celebrating the Yaquina Bay Bridge

2011-10-03T10:31:00.000-07:00

Usually what locals want most from driving over the Yaquina Bay Bridge is to get over it quickly. We mutter at tourists who take their time, gawking at the ocean to the west and the bay to the east. Yeah, yeah, it’s pretty, but move along.

Some days it’s so foggy you can’t see anything on either side. Other days, it’s so windy, you’re just trying to stay in your lane. And on other more benevolent days when the sun shines, and you see hills in the distance and sailboats bobbing in the bay, you think, I’m so lucky to live here.

Yesterday, Sunday, Oct. 3, the scene on the bridge was different. The people of Newport and surrounding towns turned out en masse—and on foot—to celebrate the bridge’s 75th anniversary. Our art deco masterpiece opened in 1936, part of a chain of bridges by architect Conde McCullough that finally provided a way for people to drive the Oregon Coast without having take a ferry across the waterways.

It really is a beautiful bridge, painted a soft green, its arches swirling into the sky, its pillars artful reminders of an earlier time when life moved more slowly and nobody was tempted to use a cell phone while speeding across the bridge.

The celebration has been going on for a month, with talks, displays in the historical museums, and big banners across the bridge and in front of Newport City Hall. Two friends, Matt Love and Judy Fleagle, published new books about the bridge.

It all crescendoed in yesterday’s festivities. First, everyone was invited to walk across the bridge at noon. The Newport High School Marching Band led the way, followed by pedestrians, a fleet of 1930s-vintage vehicles, and bicycles. Some folks dressed ‘30s-style while most put on their fleece and slickers. Rain was coming. Fortunately, it held off until the bridge had been crossed.

Under the bridge, folks gathered for a community picnic, complete with hot dogs, music, vendors and speeches. What a great feeling when people come together like this. It’s one of the things I love most about living on the Oregon Coast.

My photos were shot while I was driving southbound across the bridge on the way home from church.The next time I cross the bridge, I’ll probably be looking around like a tourist. What’s the rush?

By the way, it's pronounced Ya-KWIN-na. We former Californians all have to learn that it's not Spanish. It's a native American name.

Crane flies invade South Beach

2011-09-27T09:14:00.000-07:00

I was just drifting off to sleep when I felt something whoosh past my ear. Crane fly. It had been flying around the bedroom while I was reading, but I had assumed that once it got dark, it would mind its own business. Wrong. It was doing fly-bys like a drunk hummingbird.

Suddenly awake, I swatted at it, but it was gone, and I had no idea where. I turned on the light and looked around my bedspread, my walls, even inside my nightgown. No sign of my intruder. I assumed I had either maimed it or scared it enough to make it fly away.

It was late. I was sleepy. I turned off the light, and scooted down under the covers again. Fifteen minutes later, whoosh. Again, it buzzed my ear. Again, I swatted at it.

Again, I turned on the light, looked all over my room and found nothing. It's not easy to sleep when you know something is about to buzz your head, but I dozed off anyway.

This morning, I still have not found it, but I did find three of its cousins clinging to my back door. It’s crane fly season in South Beach.

When I was a kid, we used to think these were giant mosquitoes. All it took was one to turn a classroom into a riot of shrieking children. But we didn’t see them nearly as often as we do here.

In September 1999, a year after we moved to this house, my yard was suddenly a sea of these giant mosquito look-alikes. Everywhere I stepped on my lawn, another one flew up. They clung to the walls and windows outside, and sometimes got inside. I decided it was time for some research.

That’s when I discovered these invaders were crane flies. They lay eggs in the grass, which hatch around this time of year. The bad news is that the larvae eat your lawn. The good news is that they won’t eat you. They really do look like mosquitoes, right down to what looks like a stinger hanging down, but they are not mosquitoes. They do not bite people.

Over the years, I have developed a live and let live policy with these big bugs. My lawn is no prizewinner anyway. But when they start buzzing me at night, it’s war. Look out, Mr. Crane Fly. I will find you before the lights go out tonight.

No gender confusion at the dog park

2011-09-23T12:11:00.000-07:00

Males and females are different. That has never been more obvious to me than when I have watched Annie interact with the males at the dog park. I don't know if I have mentioned here before that Annie is in love with a Dobie named Frisco. He's tall, dark and perfect, a studly unneutered dog who wags his stub of a tail and comes running when he sees Annie.

Together, Frisco and Annie run and sniff each other, and Annie does this flirtatious dance I have never seen her do anywhere else. She keeps flipping her rear end at Frisco.

Enter another male, Buddy. Buddy is an Australian cattle dog mix, a bit smaller than Frisco, about Annie's height. Suddenly the males bond and go off running while Annie tries to follow but can't quite keep up. Occasionally, Frisco takes a break to lick her rear end. Buddy takes a minute to sniff her girl parts, too. Then he goes off running with Buddy again. Clearly females are only good for one thing in their eyes.

Another females arrives. Uh-oh, I think. Surely the girls will get jealous and fight. But no, Buddy takes a shine to the new female, and Frisco sticks with Annie. Suddenly everyone's paired up. Isn't this the way of the world?

What follows is an orgy of running, peeing, licking and attempted humping. Dogs don't worry about trying to be polite. They act like animals. Watching this, it's hard to ignore the obvious roles given to males and females in nature. I wonder how this applies to people, especially as I sit next to the male dogs' male owners and feel as if I come from a different tribe. I'm grateful I put on makeup, and I actually think about how my rear end looks as I walk away, regretting the gym pants with keys and cell phone making the pockets bulge. They're probably too busy talking to each other to look anyway, but maybe . . .

Usually Annie lets me know when she's ready to leave, but this time I had to drag her out. Frisco licked her ears in farewell. She staggerd to the car and climbed onto the passenger seat, wet, stinking of urine, panting, worn out and utterly in love.

You can't argue with that.

Can Dogs Laugh? and other burning questions

2011-09-15T12:00:00.000-07:00

I spent yesterday at the beautiful Sitka Center for Art and Ecology north of Lincoln City. What a gorgeous place, all trees, grass and wood-shingled buildings, paintings and sculptures everywhere, a stunning view of the ocean, and profound quiet. I can see why creative people apply for residencies there.

I was there with 29 other fans to attend a writing workshop taught by Brian Doyle, author and editor of Portland Magazine. If you have never read his work, please look him up and read some. It will be good for your soul. His most recent book is Mink River. As he puts it, "I committed a novel." It's a masterful work but a little bit tough, especially at the beginning, so you might want to start your Doyle explorations with something else.

Meanwhile . . . Doyle kept insisting that he is not a teacher and cannot teach people to write. What he did instead was help us find story starters in our own minds and experiences. We didn't have to share what we wrote; they were for us to keep and "take for a walk" later when we went back to our computers.

One of many exercises had us asking "what if" questions. I'd like to share a few of mine and invite you to come up with your own. Let yourself be crazy. Write down whatever comes to mind.

So, can dogs laugh?

What if we all stopped wearing clothes?
If the big tree in my back yards could talk, what would it say?
What if paper was food?
What if we sang instead of talking?
What if my family all lived in one big building? Who would cook?
What if God showed up right here, right now?

It's fun. Give it a try. You don't have to answer these questions, but you might.

Visitors from another planet

2011-09-07T13:47:00.000-07:00

First-time visitors from the San Francisco Bay Area don't seem to "get" where I live. They come from a land where everything is paved and ringed with freeways, where you can find multiples of every kind of chain store and restaurant, where everything you need is within driving distance. It's a land where nature rarely intrudes on a schedule laced with work, school, driving, and social life, always connected by computers or computer-like telephones.

They get here, and I say no, we don't have a (fill in the blank). And yes, we get regular visits from garter snakes, deer, racoons and other critters. We don't have sewer hookup or gas here in South Beach. We heat the house with wood or pellet stoves. Air conditioning? Open a window. Costco is a hundred-mile round trip away--and guess what, we can live without it. Yes, cell phone reception is bad. But look at that sky. Have you ever seen a sky so blue? Or a place so quiet you can hear a gentle wind? Look at the ocean sparkling to the west.

I used to drive to the old port of Alviso or up into the east foothills, desperate to get some taste of nature. It came with sewage smells, rattlesnakes and other people's loud radios. Here, I just look out my window.

Don't you miss California, they ask. I miss California the way it used to be, when Santa Clara Valley was not yet called Silicon Valley, and it was full of farms instead of industrial parks. My history is there. I miss my family very much. Sometimes I miss the work opportunities there. But look around. This is better.

Not everyone gets it. My sister-in-law says she's not coming back. Some of my cousins are baffled because they don't know any other life. But some folks understand and move here, like we did. And they stay.
*****
[I didn't plan to plug my book, but this leads to it so nicely. Shoes Full of Sand is about our transformation into Oregonians. Available in print and ebook.]

The Writing Life II: Authors Fair

2011-08-29T10:20:00.000-07:00

Sixty authors, boodles of books, guest speakers at the Bijou Theater. Come to the Northwest Authors Fair in Lincoln City. Well, I had to go to that. Yes, I remembered that I sold only one book when I attended that same event two years ago. The year before that, I did slightly better and I got great information for a column, but I fried in the sun. This time I had a new book, Shoes Full of Sand. Folks would see that it's local and lovely and buy it for their beach bags. After all, the fair is sponsored by Bob's Beach Books, which sells "beach reads." Shoes Full of Sand, perfect.

Um, right.

Lincoln City on a summer Saturday is one big traffic jam. Highway 101 is the city's two-lane main street with no left-turn lanes or lights and limited parking. It took me an hour, and I was on time, but it was only by the grace of God that I entered the parking lot behind the store just as a family vacated a spot. Mine!

Dragging my wheeled cart of books to the plaza next to the store, I walked right into a snarl of confused writers, tables so close you couldn't walk between them, and wind so heavy people screamed every time the canopies rocked. Most of the tables were already full. I found a space on the end between the canopies so I could get sunburned and windblown at the same time. Put anything on the table and it blew off. My books were just heavy enough, but the gales threatened to tear off the covers. Despite the blue sky, it was freezing in the wind-tunnel where I sat between two fantasy writers with my utterly factual Stories Grandma Never Told, Shoes Full of Sand, and Freelancing for Newspapers. Apparently it was warm everywhere else.

We zipped up our jackets and hunkered down, waiting for crowds that never really arrived. The city was full of people, but most didn't get out of their cars. Some authors didn't sell anything. Most of us sold a few books to other authors and to the bookstore. Occasionally we stumbled up the back stairs of the bookstore for trips to the bathroom--unisex, full of new books waiting to go on the shelves--and the kitchen, where one could get coffee and cut-up vegetables. We looked at our watches a lot.

Occasionally someone would come, pick up a book, read the back cover, admire the front cover, ask if we were the author. We held our breaths, thinking "come on, buy it," trying to be as cheerful and encouraging as possible without being pushy. Usually they walked away. But sometimes . . . it's called partial reinforcement; it's why people gamble, and why we show up at book fairs.

One new twist this year was a reception at a gorgeous house in a gated community in the waterfront community called Roads End. We enjoyed stuffed mushrooms, mini-quiches, giant shrimp, and Willamette Valley wines. After our afternoon in the wind, most of us authors felt like poor relations, but it was nice. If nothing else, it got us authors together. Thanks to Bob and his crew for all their hard work.

Go buy a book at Bob's, 17th and 101, Lincoln City, Oregon. On my restroom trips, I could barely resist buying everything I saw on the shelves while waiting in line. So many authors, so many good books!

The Writing Life: Sheer Glamor

2011-08-23T14:14:00.000-07:00

When Carrie Bradshaw on Sex and the City had her book-release party, the whole city turned out. She had a new dress, new shoes, a new hairdo. People drank champagne and ate caviar. She was the queen of the world for that day.

My booksignings are not quite like that. When Stories Grandma Never Told came out, the book was introduced at the Dia de Portugal celebration at San Jose Historical Museum. We stood in a booth outside, thronged by fans all day. My aunt brought me a malasada—Portuguese donut. I probably brought my own iced tea. I had help from two reps from the publishing house, and we sold dozens of books. That was the best.

For the next signing, at a bookstore in Willow Glen, I attracted about four people, two of whom bought books. At another event in Stockton, I sold one book, to the other author sharing my table.

The first event for my new book, Shoes Full of Sand, was actually better than average. It started out rough. Everything I touched getting ready, I knocked over or spilled. As I walked out the door, juggling a box of books, my purse, and a grocery bag with tea, an apple and a box of granola bars, something dripped on my pants. I attributed it to morning dew from the rosemary bush. But there were more drips when I arrived at the shopping center in Newport.

My feet thundered over the wooden planks of this nautical-themed center with more empty shops than functioning ones. Irish folk music wafted from speakers tucked into the eaves, and the neon bookstore sign said “Open.” Passing a gift shop and a hair salon, I pushed into the bookstore, scanning the window and the nearly bare bulletin board for some sign of my appearance. Nothing.

Inside, a brown card table and a single chair awaited me. “Hi, Sue,” said Bill, the owner, rushing forward to relieve me of my box of books and postcards. “Would you like some book stands?” Yes.

I reached into my cloth grocery bag and felt wetness. My tea had leaked all over, soaking the box of granola bars and the flyer I had brought to hang up for my writing group event. Now I had a wet hand, a wet chair, and was in danger of soaking the wooden floor. I went to Bill’s “back room,” a cubbyhole full of office supplies, coffee, mini fridge and such. A package of white napkins sat on the top shelf. As I reached for one, a dozen fluttered to the floor around me. Sigh. As I picked them up, I noticed a Cheerio sitting amid the dust and dirt. Nice.

I didn’t sit down for a while. It wasn’t as if people were waiting to meet me. It was just me and Bill. The bookstore owner is in his early 70s, grizzled, skinny, missing a lower front tooth, a bit of southern in his accent. He’s a talker. His first wife was Portuguese, so he always wants to talk about that. His father died in February, and he needed to tell the whole gory story. But his stories are good, and it was something to do while I avoided my damp folding chair and waited for my fans to show up.

The bookstore used to occupy a bigger space in the same center. But sales went sour with the advent of the Internet and the crash of the economy, so Bill moved into this much smaller space. As he continued the story of his life, I eased into my folding chair.

People did come, not the people who told me they were coming, but people. The owner of the center’s Champagne Patio restaurant, a Swiss guy named Joseph, not only bought a book but invited me to come by afterward for a free lunch. He sent other people to meet me and buy books. My shrink came and bought a copy of the new book. Another woman bought Freelancing for Newspapers for her boyfriend. Tourists, friends of Bill, and strangers bought books. Eight in all. My ego was pleasantly fluffed.

The hours squeaked by. My stomach grumbled. Down to my last books, I began to worry that I might run out. But I had just enough. Bill and I toted up our sales and he wrote me a check. I did some quick math. I hated to say it, but something was wrong. He refigured and discovered he had given me 40 percent instead of 60 percent. As he wrote a new check, he said, “I can see you’re a hard woman to cheat. My first wife was like that. I don’t know if it’s the Portuguese . . .”

No, it’s math, Bill.

A couple minutes after 2, I left with my box of remaining books, my soggy bag and my overstuffed purse, passed the beauty parlor, now closed, and the gift shop and put my stuff in the car. I had an appointment at 3, so I had to decline the Champagne Patio lunch.

Instead, I stuffed down a Burger King guacamole burger and French fries while being stared at by a young woman playing with a gray cat on a leash.

I think, if I remember correctly, Carrie Bradshaw, went home with a handsome man and had sex while somebody else dealt with books and money. Burger King and soggy granola bars never entered the picture.

What is that green stuff they put in the burger anyway? It can’t be avocado.

Copyright 2011 Sue Fagalde Lick

Skygazing

2011-08-23T13:23:00.000-07:00

I lie on the grass, soaking in Oregon's August sun, wondering why I need to do anything else. I have food, I have shelter, I have clothing, I am healthy. What other animal feels the need to busy itself every waking hour working, creating, or seeking entertainment?

Annie sits next to me, her face high above mine, her tongue out, panting in the heat. Whenever I glance her way or touch her fur, she wags her tail. Whenever she dips toward my face for a lick, I laugh and dodge her long tongue. The wind waves over us, ruffling her fur, cooling my skin, scattering the leaves on the lawn.

The trees don’t feel the need to do something. They simply stand, growing, cells changing, providing homes and food for birds, squirrels and bugs. I don’t know what trees think—or if they think—but I doubt that they feel any urgency to read a book, listen to the news, check Facebook, earn money or be anything except a tree.

So why are we different? Why not just lie in the sun, letting it warm through our clothes into our skin and into our bones? Winter will come soon enough, and I will sorrow at the loss of this warmth, struggle to replace it with the pellet stove, hot baths and the electric blanket. I will curse the shortness of daylight and the length of darkness. My mood will darken with the sky.

But now, now when the sky is so blue and clear, when the wind is so gentle, when the lawn is dry and sweet-smelling, surely the creator of all this wants us to lie in the midst of it, simply being alive for a while.

When was the last time you did absolutely nothing but appreciate being alive? Try it for a little while. Turn off the radio, computer and cell phone. Just be.You have time. I promise.

The Ring Finger is Bare

2011-08-21T10:26:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I took off my wedding ring. This may not seem like a big deal, but it has been a part of my body for 26 years and four months. The jeweler made our rings snug. After all these years, mine was tight, with puffy skin above it and calluses above and below. Every day since my husband Fred died in April, I have thought about how I need to take it off. I love the ring, love the way it shines in the light, but I’m not married anymore.

Finally in the shower, when my hand was soapy, I forced the ring off. As I shoved, my finger turned red and puffy. It hurt. It would have been so easy to just push the ring back into the place where the skin is white against the tan, but I kept pushing until it finally slid over the knuckle and came off.

Now the ring sits in the guest room on the nightstand next to Fred’s. I have tried on other rings to cover the blank spot, but none fits well, so I will work on making that finger the same color as the others.

Our rings were unique, created by a Los Angeles jeweler whom we met at an art and wine festival in Cupertino, California. We had been looking at various festivals and antique shops for something different. We brought the jeweler a bag full of old gold jewelry that Fred’s mother had given us to lower the price. After looking through her designs, we came up with antiqued filigreed bands with smooth borders, one in size 7 and one in size 10.

Fred was still wearing his ring when he died. My friend slipped it off his finger. He had lost so much weight it was loose by then. I knew mine needed to come off, too. You might wonder why. I could wear it forever if I wanted to. But the ring says I'm married, and I'm not. I needed to remove it to move on.

So far no one has mentioned the absence of my ring. I am surprised at how often I touched it, turned it, fingered its rough edges. I reach for it now, and there's nothing there. My finger feels cold, as if I just took its coat off. It feels light as if it will just fly up in the air on its own.

Married twice, I have worn a wedding ring most of my adult life. Will I ever wear one again? I don’t know.

It will be four months on Tuesday since Fred died. One-third of a year. Most people have stopped coming up to say how sorry they are. Now they’re congratulating me on my new book. (Shoes Full of Sand, click here forinfo).

But I am all too aware that a piece of me is missing. And not just jewelry.

Ah, Nature

2011-08-08T17:54:00.000-07:00

Nature can be seen as the wilderness, but it can also be seen as the life we all experience.

I live in the coastal forest. It's not far from town, but I grew up in suburbia, so when I see a bear, I get excited. (see previous post). I also get excited when I'm working in my yard and a snake suddenly slithers across my path. I yelp and jump back every time, even though I know the snakes here are not dangerous. It's some kind of instinctual reaction. At least I can say the word "snake." I've got a friend who calls them "fluffies."

Today, I saw one snake, a short one, did my scream and dance, then went back to work, figuring that was my snake sighting for the day. Not so. A few minutes later, a much longer snake appeared out of nowhere. As I shrieked and backpedaled, Annie stood stunned as the snake wiggled through her legs and away under the fence. I had to sit down and take a breath after that. Then I saw a snake skin that one of my reptilian tenants had shed.

Deciding we'd had enough yard work, I leashed up the pup and we went to the nearby Beaver Creek wilderness area, a new Oregon State park that is just beautiful. It's real wilderness, winding along the creek and through the marshes. What was the first thing we saw as we set paw on the path? Another snake, this one a long garter snake with a vermillion stripe. I don't remember a more beautiful summer here, and I guess the snakes feel the same way.

Signs noted that bears and cougars had been seen around, but all we saw were bumblebees and, oddly, a rooster. Annie, who had no idea what it was, stared until I pulled her away. Still panting, she's glad to be back on the sofa now.

Annie has had a busy few days. Saturday at the dog park, she fell in love for the first time. A dog-show-worthy doberman came trotting to the gate with his owner. Both dogs started whining to get together. Once the dobie was inside, Annie made a perfect fool of herself, dancing and posing as they sniffed each other's parts. They ran together, then sniffed some more. The dobie, Frisco, was as smitten as Annie was. Cue the theme from Romeo and Juliet. Unfortunately, Frisco is an intact, purebred show dog, while Annie is a slightly overweight spayed mutt. But love is part of nature, and we can't help who we fall in love with, can we?

Barks in the Night

2011-08-02T07:28:00.000-07:00

1:30 a.m. Deep sleep for the first time in a week. Barking. Barking. Barking. As I gradually swim back to consciousness, I realize this is not just making-noise barking. There’s something out in the yard. Fresh from our recent bear sighting, I peel myself off the sheets and hurry barefoot to the door.

I can’t see Annie, but I hear her doing her fiercest I’m-going-to-kill-you bark. Oh, Lord.

It’s dark, clouds obscuring any moon or stars. I can’t see anything, but Annie is under the table at the west end of the deck. Between barks, I hear something else, something growling. “Annie," I say, "we’re not alone out here.” Bark.

I run back in to get the big flashlight and shine it around. Finally, I see something moving through the deck railing. I grab Annie and drag her into the house, then come back out to take a closer look. A raccoon stares at me, its eyes shining in the flashlight. It appears to be caught between the deck and the chain link fence of the dog pen. These days, weeds and berries have grown so thick that nothing can move in there. If it can’t get out on its own, I don’t know what to do.

I go back in, telling Annie to sleep on the sofa where she dozes most of the time. But no, she wants to share my bed. It’s like having an elephant in the bed, a panting, stinky-breathed, sharp-clawed elephant who wants to lie on top of you with its feet in your face. Pretty soon I kick her out and take another look in the backyard.

My flashlight catches the raccoon hanging off the fence, its feet clinging to the chain link, its head facing downward. Swell. I go back to bed, ordering the dog to sleep on the couch, shutting my door so I can go peacefully back to dreamland. I hear Annie pacing outside my door and decide to ignore her until daylight.

My dreams are a blend of raccoons in the yard and The Bachelorette TV show for which I just watched the three-hour finale. She chose J.P., broke Ben’s heart, walked hand in hand into the sunset.

6:30 a.m. Daylight. Cloudy and still. Annie is waiting at the door. No way am I keeping her in now. We both hurry to where we last saw the raccoon.

It’s gone. Whew. Nothing but weeds in there. Annie sniffs at the fence and deck, then jumps down to the grass and sniffs the whole yard while I go back to bed and try to sleep. No go.I'm awake.

Time for orange juice for me and Kibbles and Bits for the dog. As she does her breakfast dance, I see that she has two shallow scratches on her nose. We didn’t imagine it; the raccoon was here. For both our sakes, I hope it doesn’t come back.

Thank God it wasn’t the bear.

***

More Oregon adventures can be found in Shoes Full of Sand, my new book, available in paperback and ebook form. Click here for details.

Seeking the end of the road

2011-07-26T12:00:00.000-07:00

I always wondered what lay at the end of Thiel Creek Road, also known as 98th Street, the road I take to my house in South Beach. I had heard rumors that you could drive all the way to the city of Toledo, Oregon on it. A couple times I started out on it, but in those days I had more of a city car. When the road turned to gravel and then got so narrow I feared I would soon run out of room, I chickened out. I also kind of feared to meet the villains from “Deliverance,” if you remember that movie.

But I have a sturdy four-wheel drive now, and since I have become a widow, I am more daring. In the face of recent events, every other challenge seems pretty small.

So, one grouchy day last week, after a mid-day post office run, I turned onto 98th Street from Highway 101 and thought: Why not drive that road all the way to the end? The weather was great, and I had no reason to hurry home.

The road comes to a V just past Cedar Street. The north portion goes uphill into the sun, and the south branch goes down into the trees. I took the latter, a damp and shady road.

To my amazement, as soon as I left the paved portion, a bear ran across the road in front of me. Although I have heard many tales of bear sightings, I had never actually seen one here. This black bear was on the small side, streaking across the road and disappearing into the bushes, not far from where my dog Annie and I walk several times a week.

I stopped the car, my heart pounding. “I saw a bear! I saw a bear!” Thank God I was in my car and not on foot.

Well, that turned my bum day around. Excited by my bear sighting, I drove on.

The road was narrow and mostly gravel. I passed the deserted blue house where Annie and her siblings were born. Beyond that, the road narrowed and the trees closed in. Ferns filled the roadside among the spruce and Douglas firs.Thiel Creek gurgled through marshland. Milepost 1.

I passed another house, then a for-sale sign and a big clearing with a bulldozer parked on it. More houses were hidden among the trees, one with a white goat in the front yard, but much of the road was unoccupied. On the right (south), a vast green area opened up. The road rose higher. I could see another road heading south down below but it was blocked by a gate and one of many no-trespassing signs. Milepost 2.

Although the road was already so narrow I didn’t know what I’d do if another car came, a sign warned of a “one lane road” up ahead. Narrower, wetter, darker. Time to turn around, I thought, not wanting to chicken out again, but not wanting to get stuck either.

Suddenly the road took a big curve north and I ended up on someone’s property. Thiel Creek Road ended at the front door of a massive blue house. Definitely the end of the road. If it ever went to Toledo, it didn’t now.

The road was riddled with private property signs, but I had thought they meant the areas to the sides. On the way back, I saw a blue gate that I had missed the first time. Oops. I really was trespassing.
I turned around and bumbled along the gravel road toward home, happy in my adventure, seeing a bear and making it to the end of Thiel Creek Road.

Now I know.

Frogs in the rain

2011-07-20T10:32:00.000-07:00

I have to get over my attitude of: "They asked me, so I have to say yes." That's what I was thinking Saturday as I sat with my books in a persistent drizzle at the Jefferson Mint Festival and Frog Jump in Jefferson Oregon. Population 3,100, it's located in farm country near Salem. My pants were wet, I had a headache, and I hadn't sold any books yet.

It was the first outing with the new book, Shoes Full of Sand. I shared the booth with Elizabeth Fournier, a mortician who has published a book called All Men are Cremated Equal. No, it's not about funeral homes, although she works for one. It's a funny book about the year she went on 77 blind dates in search of a husband. Ironically, she wound up marrying another mortician whom she did not meet on a blind date. A gorgeous blonde with a deep sexy voice, Fournier also does voice work for commercials and such and teaches ballroom dancing. A fascinating woman. It turned out we both had connections with the same people in San Jose. Small world.

And it was a small town festival. The frog jump didn't actually happen until Sunday, although there were rubber frogs, plastic balloon frogs, ceramic frogs and frogs made out of yarn for sale. Sipping weak mint tea,I cruised the three rows of booths selling knickknacks, plants, tie-dye clothing, books, etc. One row was all food, elephant ears bigger than a large pizza, two foot-long corn dogs, hamburgers, nachos, ice cream, all that healthy stuff.

Kids bounced around in a castle, swung around on what looked like a bungee spider and rode a little cow train while grownups listened to country rock bands and admired classic cars parked on the grass. Yellow-haired girls with poofy skirts twirled hoola hoops while bigger girls with flower wreaths on their hair strolled and flirted with football-player boys in baseball caps. Older couples pulled their tiny dogs around and bought gifts for the grandchildren. It was all so small-town Oregon.

I didn't sell a lot of books, but I ate the most amazing Polish hot dog with sauerkraut, and now I know where Jefferson is. In the end, I broke even, and I was glad I said yes.

Dog Agility: Weave? Why?

2011-07-11T10:55:00.000-07:00

Annie and I made our annual trek last weekend to the WAG (Willamette Agility Group) dog agility trials held at Newport Intermediate School. It was a bright sunny day, and the field was full of dogs, from chihuahuas and pugs to shepherds and weimeraners. Plus one yellow lab-terrier mix who couldn't care less.

I love watching agility competitions. I'm always amazed at the connection between dog and owner. In the good teams, they barely need to communicate. The owner unleashes her dog, gestures toward the first hurdle, and the dog zooms onto the course, weaving, jumping and tunneling as if it's the most fun it ever had.

Of course some dogs aren't quite as cooperative. It takes lots of training to succeed at agility. You get the dogs who stand in the middle of the course barking, as if to say, what do you mean weave? I want to play. You get the ones who are eager to please but can't quite figure out which way to go. You also get the ones who pick this most inopportune time to relieve themselves.

My own dear Annie has no interest in agility competition. Folks have set up several agility-type obstacles at our dog park, but I can't get her to set paw on any of them. At the trials, she's the kid out in left field picking daisies and chasing bumblebees.I'll say, "Annie, watch this dog." No thanks. I look around and she's facing the other direction, watching a butterfly. So be it.

Well, La De Da

2011-07-05T10:05:00.000-07:00

A parade, pies and pups filled the streets of Yachats (pop. 749) yesterday for the annual La De Da parade. With temperatures in the high 60s and a sweet breeze, hundreds of people from all over hunkered along the sides of the roads for the annual parade that is like no other.

Instead of precision marching bands, we had the umbrella drill team with actual umbrellas, a little girl in a wagon celebrating her fourth birthday, seniors doing tai chi, a string quintet playing in the back of a pickup, dachshunds wearing hot dog buns, belly dancers, ecologists dressed as trees, fire trucks, tractors and more. Marchers tossed candy and passed out cartoons and real estate ads.

Poodles, labradoodles, spaniels, greyhounds and every other kind of dog marched or panted on the sidelines, dressed, like their owners, in red, white and blue or tie-dye.

Once the parade had made its circuit from the Yachats Commons—a former school that is now city hall, community center, concert venue and everything else—down past the Lion’s Club and around the bend to where the road overlooks the rocks and crashing surf and back, the crowd dispersed to eat barbecue at the fire department or pie at the commons and shop at booths set up all around. Then they went home to rest up for Fourth of July fireworks over the bay at dusk.

My friends and I adjourned to the Salty Dawg Saloon in nearby Waldport: great burgers, sports on the TV, sea shells embedded in the tables, and a giant photo of James Dean in the ladies’ restroom.

This does not happen in Silicon Valley.

***

I hate to advertise, but I must. My new book, Shoes Full of Sand, is out in paperback this week. If you like this blog, you’ll love this book. Click here to read about it.

I've Got That Oregon Glow

2011-06-23T17:17:00.000-07:00

Last weekend, I was in California for my niece's birthday party, held at my brother's house on the road to Yosemite. It's a starkly beautiful landscape of golden hills and oak trees. Hawks glide on the breeze and rattlesnakes rustle in the grass. Often over 100 degrees in the summer, it was pleasantly cool, only in the 80s. The sunset over the hills Saturday night was spectacular, turning the whole sky scarlet.

But I'm not used to the heat. After 15 years, I have become acclimated to the coastal climate. Delicate flower that I've become living here on the Oregon Coast, I noticed my arms starting to burn after only a half hour in the sun and slathered on the suntan lotion I bought on the way up. I already had on a hat and more clothes than anybody else.

I had thought I was doing pretty well with my tan. We have had some great sunny days in South Beach lately. I spend as much time as possible on my deck, reading, writing, playing music, and doing yoga or anything else I can transfer outside. We had sun even when it was raining in California. I thought my face and hands were browning up nicely. The rest of me, well it doesn't get exposed much, so the latent pigment hasn't shown up, but I felt pretty tan. Until I went to California.

The rest of the family has been schlepping around in shorts and tank tops for at least a month, and they are brown, brown, brown, cocoa brown, milk chocolate brown, there's-Hispanic-in-my-heritage brown, brown enough that cuts and scars show up white. When I bared my legs to wade in the pool, people shrieked, "Oh, you're so white!" Someone said, "She lives in Oregon." Someone else replied, "Oh, ha, ha, that explains it."

Fine. The cool water felt great on my hot skin. Let them burn themselves to leather. We on the Oregon Coast are short on Vitamin D but probably have healthier, less wrinkly skin because of the moisture in the air. Around here, in the land where everything on shore is green and the blue ocean sparkles nearby, I'm brown enough, and I'm proud. I'm an Oregonian now.

Monarch Sculpture Park: Turn at the Butterfly Tree

2011-06-13T12:26:00.000-07:00

Giant iron and steel sculptures along the road lured me into a fairyland of natural and manmade art where real birds perched in a stainless steel tree made of butterflies. I walked through a giant green portal that boomed as the wind blew through it and came upon the three little pigs’ houses, giant bugs made of metal scraps, a hand two stories high and a croquet set big enough for a giant.

As I wandered through the Monarch Sculpture Park, located 10 miles south of Olympia, Washington, roosters crowing vied with the bongs and clangs of gongs and musical instruments made of sheets of metal and pipes placed along the grassy paths. I wanted to look everywhere at once.

Beyond a fantasy garden filled with sculptured flowers in wild colors, plastic streamers waved from the trees in the Sacred Grove. I opened a mailbox to find pens and streamers to write my own message to hang with the others.

Opened in 1998, Monarch Sculpture Park has grown to more than 100 stone, metal, wood, ceramic and glass sculptures spread over 80 acres of forest, creeks, ponds and grasslands. The site also includes an indoor gallery and offers art workshops, retreats and residencies.

Founder and director Myrna Orsini says the object is to provide an art adventure for everyone, based on the idea that creative expression has no boundaries. Visitors of all ages can see, touch and play with inspiring, quirky and crazy works by famous artists as well as those just starting out.

The outdoor art is open to the public year-round from dawn to dusk. The gallery is open by appointment. This year’s indoor exhibit, “Censored,” features art that might be rejected by other galleries because of its political or sexual nature.

Throughout the year, residents live and work at Monarch, adding their art to the exhibit and sharing their skills with the local community through arts presentations and workshops.

Orsini, who created many of the sculptures in the park, said she was inspired by art centers in Europe where artists could create art and display their work in outdoor exhibits. She relies on donations, residency fees and volunteers to operate the park. These days, she says, she’s struggling to keep the park open and may be closing this fall, so go soon if you want to see it.

Most of the paths are accessible but they do ramble through mud and tall grass. My feet got wet, but it was worth having soggy socks. As Orsini says, the park is a bit out of the way, but when people find it, they fall in love and keep coming back.

Monarch is located at 8431 Waldrick Road SE, Tenino, WA 98589, (360) 264-2408, http://www.monarchartcenter.org/monarchartcenter.org

Help, It's Not Raining!

2011-06-05T19:38:00.000-07:00

We had some freakishly hot days on the Oregon Coast last week. Saturday got up into the 80s. We figure that was summer. Seriously.

Nobody knows how to handle these days. Bugs come out of nowhere, including crane flies and flying carpenter ants as big as hummingbirds. We don’t know what to wear because we finally have to take off our fleece jackets and our fleece vests and our fleecy Ugg boots, and let a little pale skin come out. We don’t even have any suntan lotion; thank God the Dollar Tree reopened yesterday. Our bodies do this weird thing we can’t identify until someone from somewhere else explains that it’s sweat. And my dog, poor Oregon Coast pup, is dragging around wishing she could take off her fur coat.

I remember well getting into my car in California and burning my hands on the steering wheel, walking into buildings just to feel the air conditioning, and getting a new pair of sandals every year. Around here, nobody has air conditioning. What for? All we can do is open a window. I’m used to lolling on my deck as much as possible, soaking up the sun, not hiding from it. I know it was only in the 80s. The temperature got up over 100 on a regular basis from June through September back in San Jose. Eighty was a nice day. It’s all relative. After 15 years, I’ve acclimated.

Anyway, it’s cloudy today. It dripped a couple drops of rain, and I’m hoping it will rain good and hard because it’s muggy, like Massachusetts in August, and I miss my fleece.

***

On a slightly related note, Friday turned out to be a good day to take photos on the beach. We’re working on the cover for the paperback edition of my new book, Shoes Full of Sand (already available on Kindle, hint, hint) and I decided to take some more pictures. Here’s some of what I came up with. I’m sure people thought I was nuts taking pictures of sand and my own bare feet and my shoes. But hey, it’s Shoes—Full—of—Sand. And they were.

Where the wolves howl

2011-05-25T15:50:00.000-07:00

They look like big cuddly dogs with thick white, gray or brown fur, but wolves are not like the pups in our backyards, my guide, Mary Ann Murphy told me as toured Wolf Haven International near Olympia, Washington last week. As she filled my head with wolf facts, she called me back every time I took a step toward the chain link fences where the wolves live in pairs.

Remembering how the Arctic wolves in the White Wolf Sanctuary in Tidewater, OR, charged the fence when I raised my camera, I obeyed.

It was one of the first warm days of the year, and most of the wolves napped in their enclosures. They look docile, and wolves are beautiful animals, but they make lousy pets, Mary Ann said. They cannot be house-trained, they tend to vie for power, they like to hunt, and they bite with 1500 pounds of pressure, twice that of the average dog. Most wolves taken in as pets are euthanized before their third birthday, she said.

Many of the 50 wolves at Wolf Haven are being prepared for release into the wild and are not on the tour. But that still leaves plenty of wolves to see. We saw many gray wolves, which are not necessarily gray. The largest, male grays like Jakey in the photo, range from 80 to 110 pounds. The females weigh 60 to 80 pounds. All of the wolves have longer front legs, wider feet, and narrower chests than their dog counterparts to help them run through snow.

We paused in our walk along the graveled path as the wolves began to howl. First one began, then another. Soon they were all howling. Wolves howl to locate each other, to mourn, to ward off predators, and to vocalize their social ranking. As I doggedly headed toward the nearest enclosure to get a picture of a howling wolf, Mary Ann called me back. Must stay on the tour, she said. Grumble, but it’s stressful for the wolves to have people coming through every hour.

Wolf Haven, spread across 80 acres among forests and farmland, opened in 1982. In addition to paid staff, volunteers lead tours and help with summer howl-ins and campouts, photography tours and educational seminars.

Beyond a large picnic area near the entrance lies a wolf cemetery, where rock-covered graves mark the final resting places of wolf residents who have died. Wolves only live five to eight years in the wild, but they can live 14 to 15 years in captivity. They mate for life and grieve just as humans do when their partners die. As I paused to take pictures, I could feel the spirits of those wolves howling softly around me.

I went to Washington to do an article on the Monarch Sculpture Park (very cool. See www.monarchartcenter.org). Everywhere I went, people asked if I had been to Wolf Haven yet. It wasn’t on the itinerary, but since it was on the road between Monarch and the motel, I figured why not. I’m glad I didn’t miss it.

Wolf Haven International is located at 3111 Offut LakeRoad in Tenino, Washington. Admission is $9 for adults, $7 for kids age 3-12, and $8 for seniors. The sanctuary is closed to the public on Tuesdays and during the month of February. For more information, call (360) 264-4695 or visit the web site at www.wolfhaven.org. The noise you hear in the background on the website is howling wolves. The site offers a five-minute virtual tour, information about wolves and the history of Wolf Haven, and ways to contribute. There’s also a fabulous page with pictures and songs of area birds.

Bulldozed, part 2

2011-05-18T10:30:00.000-07:00

Muddy tire tracks stretched all the way from Highway 101 east to the clearing where Annie and I had walked the other day. Now it was smooth, all the little stumps and shrubs cleared, making a nice long road straight to the edge of the canyon. We walked easily through, and I took pictures of the view spread before us. As we turned toward Cedar Street, I saw the yellow bulldozer and the red cherry-picker were still there. I heard voices. Annie had started digging in the soft dirt. Then she paused, left front paw raised, stilled by an intriguing smell. "Come on," I whispered. We were about to get caught trespassing where I assumed we were not supposed to go.

Here the mud was chunky, dotted with rocks and sticks. Skinned logs from the felled trees rose in two tall piles. As the street came into view, so did a woman, blonde with curly hair and black-framed glasses. "Did you come up the road behind the house?" she asked.

Busted. "Yes."

She smiled. "Isn't it great?"

Huh?

It turns out the clearing is not for a new house, and it's okay to walk there. The woman, whose name is Patty, said the airport owns the land and is raising money by logging it. The new walking area and open view are welcome bonuses, she said. Her house gets more light now, and the loggers took down some trees on her property that she had been wanting to get rid of. "Doesn't it smell wonderful?" she said. It smelled like Christmas.

I'm torn. I love the new trail and the view of the canyon, but I love the trees, too. I wonder what will happen next.

Bulldozed

2011-05-16T10:01:00.000-07:00

For years, a forest cupped the end of Cedar Street, one over from where I live, keeping out people, cars, and all but the smallest animals. Then one day a yellow bulldozer appeared. It snuck in from behind the houses, clearing a rough, muddy tree-stubbled road which Annie and I stumbled through, emerging at the edge of a canyon we knew was there but had never seen up close. We felt like adventurers in a distant land, dodging mice and garter snakes for the ultimate view. Then we discovered the opening curved around to the edge of the woods at the end of cedar. We snuck through the trees and emerged on the paved road, muddy and grinning at our discovery.

The next time we walked down Cedar, something didn’t look right. As we moved north, I realized I was seeing light where light had not come through before. The forest was gone. The yards of the homes on either side suddenly gaped open with a vast view of canyon, yellow-flowered Scotch broom, and signal lights from the airport a half mile south. Annie and I walked straight across a litter of fallen trees and mud to gaze across. Of course I didn’t have my camera that day.

Sunday, after a heavy shower, the rain stopped, and the sun came out just before sunset, making everything a beautiful yellow against charcoal clouds. Annie was aching for a walk. This time I brought the camera. You can guess what happened. The bulldozers were gone, nothing left but piles of felled trees and logs, mud and a half-eaten peanut buttered and jelly sandwich. We slogged through a half mile of muck to the edge of the canyon. I raised my camera for the ultimate shot, pressed on the shutter button . . .The camera beeped at me. “Battery exhausted.” Sometimes I can force out another picture or two, but not this time. It was done. We stood and admired nature for a while, breathing in the Christmas-tree scent of fallen pines, watching a barn swallow circle overhead. Maybe another day.

I suspect more houses will be built here. As much as I hate seeing trees go down, I know that somebody bulldozed part of the forest to build my house, too. Like the end of Cedar, the end of my street is surrounded by trees, but the ribbon of forest between my land and the next property seems to grow thinner all the time. Such is the way of the west.

Prayer

2011-04-24T17:25:00.001-07:00

Dear friends,
My husband Fred passed away yesterday after a long struggle with Alzheimer's Disease. I have been competing in the Poem a Day challenge at Robert Lee Brewer's Poetic Asides blog. Today's prompt was to write a prayer poem. This is what I wrote. Fred is still my muse.

Prayer

Today I am a widow,
my husband gone from his body,
the hands that caressed me stilled,
the lips that kissed with such
tender strength left open
to let his soul escape.

Lord, as I kiss his sunken cheek
and embrace him through the sheet,
sprinkling tears across his neck,
help me to remember that this
was just a shell, and now,
like you, he is everywhere around me.

What is My Dog Thinking?

2011-04-20T12:01:00.000-07:00

I’m reading a book called Merle’s Door that describes a relationship between the author and his dog which is quite different from what many of us have, especially if we live in cities or suburbia. His owner, Ted Kerasote, allows Merle to come and go, unleashed, letting him have his own independent life. The book goes deeply into the history of dogs, how their brains work and how they behave. It makes me reconsider every interaction with Annie.

For example, when I sit down on the couch and Annie leans all her weight against me, she’s asserting dominance. When I lie down and let her stand over me, I’m letting her dominate me. When she makes yawning noises or licks her lips, she’s anxious. When she grabs paper and runs past me making lots of noise, she wants me to play with her. I like to think I’m the alpha dog, but sometimes I’m not so sure.

Merle’s dog door allows him access to a world that is not fenced in. It’s a metaphorical door as well as a literal one. Annie has a door, too, but I panic if she gets outside the fence. I’m afraid she won’t come back. I’m also afraid she’ll get into a fight with another dog. I wonder what she thinks when I leave.

Sunday at the dog park, a woman with two white Scotties wearing bandanas left both gates open and Annie ran into the forest. Not that she didn’t like the dog park. She was eager to get there, even though there were no dogs around at first. Eventually, a guy came with a seven-month-old gray lab/pit mix named Shadow and a white fluff ball named Roxie, and a lady came with a full-sized black poodle who pranced instead of walking and a teacup poodle that is smaller than most cats. Annie mostly kept her distance, looking on from afar, but she wagged her tail and seemed glad to see them. Not a sign of aggression. The next day on our neighborhood walk, we met a new dog, and my sweet girl tried to kill him. Was it because she was on a leash? Was it because the dog was whining at her? Why is she mellow in the dog park and aggressive on the street? If only she could explain.

And why do I go into such a panic when she takes off? It was a pretty safe area, mid-afternoon, no cars, no wild animals, but I immediately set out to get her back on the leash. She kept me in sight but stayed out of reach, tail wagging, lips grinning, leaping over shrubs and mud patches and into the construction area at the nearby community college. When I turned away, she followed me at a distance, finally running around the outer rim of the dog park and meeting me at the car. Should I trust her more? I have been conditioned not to, fearing cars, animals, and my dog attacking something. Also, in most cities and suburbs, it’s illegal to let a dog run loose. Kerasote, who lived in the wilderness near the Grand Teton National Park, had a different arrangement with Merle. He allowed the dog to go off on adventures and return when he was ready. He trusted him to know what was dangerous and take care of himself. It seems like a much more respectful connection.

The book lingers in my mind every time I interact with Annie. She looks like Merle, but she is not Merle. All she knows is her life with me. Still, sometimes I think she may be smarter than I am. Yesterday, after I got home from Albany, I got out of the car and discovered it was warm in my driveway, not just sunny but actually warm. So I changed my clothes, grabbed the dog and her leash, and drove to Ona Beach. I had promised Annie that she could go swimming as soon as it got sunny. She had been flattening herself into every mud puddle, paddling her paws, clearly wanting to swim.

From the parking lot, I saw that one of the main paths was flooded. We could just start swimming there, but Annie dragged me away from it and toward the beach. As we moved away from the parking lot, we felt an icy wind coming off the ocean. So cold! But maybe it would be okay on the sand. No, it was freezing. Still, I was determined to get us into the water. Annie complied, charging into the river that merges with the ocean. Holding her leash, I followed, walking through ripples halfway up to my knees and then all the way up to my knees. Ice water.

Annie paddled for a minute, but that was enough. She led me out and we ran on frozen legs toward dry sand. I expected her to go back into the water, but she declined. We sat in the sand awhile, Annie leaning against me, then got up to go home. I purposely led us to the flooded path. Maybe it was deep enough for Annie to swim in. I sloshed right in, my thongs and pants already soaked, and forged ahead like a snowplow through the water, spray reaching all the way to my hips.

“Come on,” I said to Annie. She looked at me like I was crazy and skirted along the muddy edge. Once I was in, I had no dry way out wide enough for human feet, so I got wetter and colder until we reached the car, opened the door and Annie jumped in. At home, she rolled on the grass and I lay on the deck trying to get warm. I could just picture her shaking her head, thinking, What an idiot. That water is COLD.

And now she’s sleeping in front of the pellet stove while I work. Dogs are obviously smarter than people.

Duel on the Grass

2011-04-12T14:16:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I just can't help myself. It's the twelfth day of the Poem a Day Challenge, and I'm getting goofy. Here's today's true story.

Duel on the Grass

Annie ate the bumblebee,

batted it around for a while

as I screamed at her “No!

Let the bumblebee go.”

She shot me a doggy-faced smile.

She pounced on the bee,

flipped it into the air.

I bribed her with treats

and pieces of meat.

Suddenly the bee wasn’t there,

just a bit of black fur,

a sliver of wing.

“Oh God, did you eat it?”

“I plum massacre-ed it.

The tastiest part was the sting.

Annie meets her mom

2011-04-11T11:15:00.000-07:00

I always feel bad for mother dogs when their pups are given away or sold. I picture them wandering around looking for their babies, weeping over their loss. In reality, most mom dogs seem to be happy to have one less infant hanging off their teats. When we adopted Annie and Chico three years ago last week from a family that lived in our neighborhood, their mom, Roxie, trotted off with a free-at-last spring in her step.

Time has passed. My 8- and 9-pound baby dogs, half Lab, half Staffordshire bull terrier (aka pit bull), grew up. Unfortunately, Chico got a bigger dose of the pit bull and became aggressive. Combined with his ability to jump-climb a six-foot fence with ease, he became too dangerous to keep. My heart broke as I turned him in to the Salem humane society. When he wasn’t jumping fences or going after other dogs, he was the sweetest, most loving and most handsome dog in the world. I pray that he found new owners with lots of space, patience and love.

Meanwhile, Annie, the more mild-mannered of the two, has become my best friend. She’s almost 80 pounds now, but still likes to lie across my lap. That’s her favorite thing. Her second favorite thing is going for a walk.

We discovered about a year ago that her birth family had moved away, taking their dogs Roxie and Jada with them. Sad. But this weekend, we were walking toward the house at the corner of 98th and 101 when we heard barking. As we moved closer, I glimpsed two familiar dogs, one blonde like Annie, the other brindled. A man came out of the house. Annie’s original human dad! It turned out the family was visiting their in-laws.

The dogs didn’t know each other, but the man recognized Annie right away. He called his wife and kids. “Look, it’s Roxie’s pup!” Their son and their little girl grabbed onto my big dog in a happy reunion as Annie wagged her tail and licked their faces.

We compared dogs. Annie looks just like her mother, only bigger. They both have the same white stripes on their noses, the same copper eyes, and the same sleek bodies, but Roxie is pure bull terrier, as is Jada.

I saw so no sign of recognition between the dogs, but for us humans, it felt good to close the circle and see that both dogs are happy, healthy and beautiful. I’m hoping we get to visit again and again. It doesn’t always have to be good-bye forever.

Signs of Spring

2011-04-01T11:46:00.000-07:00

You can't tell it from all the rain that has been pouring on us lately, but spring is coming, even to the Oregon Coast. A few days ago on our walk through the woods, Annie and I saw the first trilliums of the year. These three-petaled flowers from the lily family start out white, then turn pink and finally go lavender before they wilt. By then, the other flowers are getting the idea.

On that first day, I only saw one trillium. Two days later, the banks along our walk were covered with them.

Another sign of spring that appeared shortly after Valentine's Day is all the Easter paraphernalia that has hit the stores. Makes it hard for people who gave up chocolate for Lent. Me, I gave up French fries. It's harder than you think.

One thing that makes me laugh every time I see it is in the window of the kite store at the corner of Hurbert and 101 in Newport. I haven't taken a picture because I'm always busy driving at that intersection, but let me try to describe it.

We see two chocolate bunnies. One appears to have had its ears eaten off. The one with ears says, "Happy Easter!" The one without responds (wait for it), "What?"

Question: how many of us eat the ears off our chocolate bunnies first?

Happy spring.

Thank you, I think

2011-03-25T09:44:00.000-07:00

At my birthday party a couple weeks ago, a friend handed me this incredibly ugly plant. It wasn't from him, he was quick to point out, but from another friend who wasn't there.

This plant was three feet tall and about five inches around, held up by a green metal stake. I thought: What use is a plant that needs its own little crutch to stand up? I already have relatives like that.

Anyway, it had two leaves and one stalk holding what might turn out to be a flower. I was told it was an amaryllis.

Where would it fit in my house? Nowhere. But of course I said, "Oh, thank you. Wow." Does this friend not know me at all? My plants are like me, short and squatty, and they have to be tough to survive. I'm glad the gifter was not there. I don't have a poker face. My mouth was saying "Oh!" (happy) while my eyes were saying "oh" (dismayed).

Could I accidentally forget it? My friend made sure it went home with me. When I tried to get it in the car, it hit the doorframe. When I got it leaned back against the seat like a passenger, my dash lit up, saying, "side airbag off." Yeek. This plant needed a car seat of its own.

I had one of these tall skinny plants before. Somebody sent a kit. You put this thing in this pseudo-dirt and water it. I did. Two leaves sprouted up. They grew and they grew and they grew like the plant in "Little Shop of Horrors". I had two ridiculously long leaves, but it never ever blossomed. The leaves kept growing until one day they got so heavy they fell over and turned brown. We said, "Oh good, it's dead," and threw the plant out.

Now I have this one. At the party, the resident cat kept sniffing the dirt (is it dirt?) and started gnawing the leaves. At home, I have to hide it where the dog won't eat it, thinking it's celery. Someplace where nobody will see it.

I have minimal luck with houseplants in general. I mean I had to ask whether this one goes outside or inside. My friend Pat mouthed "inside." Pat is the one who noticed my pot full of dead leaves, said, "Oh this needs some love," plucked off the leaves, gave it some water, and by the next week it looked like a new plant. All I do for my plants is throw water on them. I buy plant food, but it rots, forgotten under the sink.

When the leaves fell off a big plant I inherited from my mother-in-law, I had to take a picture and put it on Facebook to find out what it was and what to do. Oh that's a bla-bla-bla, people said. Water it, put it in the sun, and say a prayer. It survived. Who knew? I thought it was dead.

When people give me a plant, it's like, "Oh, that's nice." It will last a week or two longer than cut flowers. I've got an African violet dying in the pot right now. I feel so guilty.

I don't even handle cut flowers properly. Pat noticed there was no water in the vase holding my get-well flowers a while back. She shook her head and added water. Did I sprinkle in the food or preservative or whatever that powder was that came with it, she asked. No. Was I supposed to? I make her sigh a lot. I just stick my cut flowers in a vase and leave them on the table until all the petals fall off.

So, when I got this three-foot-tall strange-looking plant, the plant lovers in the crowd oohed and ahhed while I thought oh no. But maybe I was wrong. This thing is damned tall. In fact, I think it has grown another foot since I brought it home. And guess what? It bloomed. Two gorgeous red flowers appeared a few days after my birthday. They were so heavy the plant fell off the table, but it survived. In fact, I think another flower is on the way. Maybe this relationship will work out after all. Maybe this plant will live forever. And bloom . . . exactly. . . once.

Tsunami Day

2011-03-11T09:44:00.000-08:00

Whew! What a morning. I look out at the trees standing perfectly still against powder blue sky. The dog dashes in and tries to pick the Kleenex out of my bathrobe pocket. The only sound I hear is the hum of the computer. Life as usual.

An hour and a half ago, things were different.

I went to bed late, having watched horrifying scenes from Japan until midnight. An 8.9 earthquake there did plenty of damage before the subsequent tsunami sent waves way inland, wiping out everything in their path. Helicopter video showed the ocean chewing up bridges, houses, hotels, cars, and boats as if they were toys. Debris clogged the surf like sawdust. One picture that lingers in the mind showed two women waving white cloths from the second story of a blue-roofed building that was surrounded by water. Rescue appeared unlikely. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of people died as we watched the water flow across the land. Fires burned here and there, untended.

A large earthquake in the Orient can trigger tsunamis all over the western world. The Earth becomes one big dish that gets tipped on end, sloshing water over the sides. When I went to bed, warnings had been issued for Hawaii and all of the Pacific islands, Australia, New Zealand, the Philippines, Mexico, Central America and South America. There was a tsunami "watch" for the U.S. west coast, with nothing expected to hit until 1:00 this afternoon. Thirteen hours away. I went to bed.

My phone woke me up a little before 6:30 a.m. My aunt from California, whom I'm supposed to meet in Albany this afternoon, wanted to let me know that my cousin in Hawaii was safe and to tell me that the dog and I could share her hotel room if we want. She didn't know that I live above the tsunami zone, but that if the tsunami was really bad, the bridges would go down and I couldn't get in or out of my neighborhood. Anyway, it wasn't supposed to hit until after lunch. Why did she wake me up?

Out of curiosity, I turned on the radio and found my oldies station in nonstop news mode. The watch was a "warning" now, and the wave was supposed to hit at 7:15 a.m. Schools had been closed and low-lying areas evacuated. If you're in the tsunami zone, get out now, they said. The roads were crowded with people trying to get to higher ground--or to park where they could watch the waves. They were lined up at the gas stations.

I lay in bed a while, unable to get back to sleep, and decided I should get up before the waves reached South Beach. I thought about my friends who live in the pink house overlooking the ocean at Nye Beach, about the folks closer to me who are in the process of moving from their ocean-front home, about the Bayfront, the Performing Arts Center, the aquarium, and my church. I'm high enough here to be safe, but so much that I love could be turned into kindling and floating bodies in few minutes.

Fox TV broadcast pictures from beaches far north of here. The waves went out, the waves came in. It's like watching somebody mow the lawn, one commentator said. Around 7:30, the waves pulled back farther than usual and rolled in a little closer but well within the bounds of the beach. Was that it? I turned off the radio and listened to the TV. Apparently it was. For now. When I turned the radio back on, it was playing rock 'n roll again. The TV station started re-running pictures from Japan. I couldn't look at them anymore. They were too horrible.

I pray for the people in Japan. I thank God that we are safe. This time.

Here in South Beach, Annie is asleep in her chair by the window, and my trees are still standing, stretching calmly into the sky

Beware THE VOICE!

2011-03-03T13:42:00.000-08:00

Did you ever try to have a conversation with a computer that sounds human but isn’t? Last night my computer stopped connecting to Internet Explorer, something it has always done perfectly. All that advice in the manual to go to xyz website was useless because I couldn’t go to any website. Now, I didn’t know whether the problem was my computer, my Internet provider or all those American Idol voters going online simultaneously. (Actually I was trying to vote at the time).

Anyway, I called my Internet company. If it wasn’t their problem, perhaps they could tell me whose it was. That’s when I encountered THE VOICE. I’ve met her before, calling about insurance, credit cards, and other frustrations. In fact, sometimes the voice calls me. My pharmacy, for example, has THE VOICE call to tell me I have a prescription waiting. I didn’t ask for any prescriptions, but apparently she decided I needed more drugs and didn’t want me to run out. When I ask, “What prescription?” she starts over, letting me know that my prescription is ready and I can pick it up until X date. Then she thanks me for using her pharmacy and says "Good-bye" in an obscenely cheerful voice.

I also get calls from a place where I used to work, warning me about the weather. There. Far away. Where I don’t work anymore. I can’t make her stop. She’s stalking me.

You’ve probably heard THE VOICE, too. When you call for help, she comes on all sweet and smart-sounding, sort of like your first grade teacher--Miss Dalton in my case. She says hello, you say hello back, and she asks how she can help. Then, just as you start to tell your tale of woe, she interrupts with a menu of options, none of which are exactly what you’re looking for. At that point, you know she is not human, but she sounds so human you want to shake her and say, “Hey, listen to me.”

So, THE VOICE gave me all these options, and I said, “No, no, no, no,” barely restraining myself from cursing. Remember, I had already been cursing at my computer for an hour. So she reset, just like Miss Dalton would have done. I picture this woman looking like the mothers in our 1960s grammar school books, tall and pretty, dressed in a slim gray skirt, her hair a halo of reddish curls, her eyes blue and her lips very red. Like Miss Dalton. She would bend down, put a comforting hand on my shoulder and say, “All right, let’s try this. Is your question about billing or service?”

Ah, something I could answer. “Service!”

“Fine.” She gave four options, e-mail, Internet, networking and none of the above. I said, “Internet.” Then she offered, “Can’t connect at all, can’t connect intermittently,” and one other thing that didn’t apply. “No,” I said. “I can’t get into Internet Explorer.” That was not one of the options. She repeated: Can’t connect at all, can’t connect intermittently, that one other thing, and oh yes, none of the above. Well...it’s Internet, but ...

As I hesitated, she gave me the list again. Sighing, I said, “Can’t connect at all” (not with her at least). Finally, she said, “Please hold.” As I waited, I prayed that the next respondent would be human. I mean human right at that moment. Clearly THE VOICE was created using a real woman, but when and how I just don’t know. As I waited, I heard soft music and then, THE VOICE telling me how great this company was and listing all the wonderful services I ought to be using. She also suggested that I could find solutions to my own problems by going to X, Y, and Z websites.

Hello, that’s the problem!

Then I looked at my computer, and it was working again. My home page was there in all its glory. I hung up on THE VOICE.

'Zits' and 'Magnificent Bastard'

2011-02-22T15:21:00.000-08:00

There, did that title get your attention? Zits is main character of the book I just finished reading, Flight by Sherman Alexie. It's fast, it's quirky, it's fun, and it made me cry on the last page. The perfect book.

Now I'm reading Rich Hall's Magnificent Bastards, a collection of short stories that knows no boundaries. Ever wonder what a werewolf does when he's in the mood for Chinese food? Or what happens when a verbally impaired boyfriend decides to compile Google search results into love poems? These are fun stories.

************
On the personal side, my husband has made two more trips to the emergency room at Albany General. His surgery two weeks ago is not working out so well. He seems to be deteriorating quickly. I honestly don't know what will happen next. Prayers appreciated.

Never Take Winter Warmth for Granted

2011-02-18T10:25:00.000-08:00

I watched in horror as sparks shot out of the pellet stove, landing on the carpet and the sofa. These bright balls of fire are a good thing—when they stay in the stove. They mean my heat source is working, turning the cylindrical wood pellets that look like rabbit droppings into lovely orange warmth. Soon the fan will turn on, sending heat throughout the house. But today, I had to turn it off in a hurry. Better to be chilly than burn the house down.

I often stand in front of the stove, soaking it in until I have to move because my thighs feel as if they're burning. The dog lies between the sofa and the pellet stove for hours, cooking out the cold she accumulated during her night in the laundry room.

When the pellet stove is off, my house quickly chills to 60 degrees, lower if it's snowing outside. A person can survive in that temperature, but it is not comfortable. I know I'm a California-raised wuss. There are families dying in minus-zero temperatures elsewhere because they can't afford to heat their homes and government assistance has been cut. I heard on NPR about one person whose toilet water froze. That's cold. Compared to that, my pellet stove not working is merely an annoyance.

I do have baseboard heaters in the bedrooms, but two are blocked by furniture and the ones I use only heat the rooms they're in. A little wall heater hidden behind the kitchen china cabinet shoots a dusty band of heat straight across the kitchen and nowhere else. If the power goes out, I can light a fire in the woodstove in the garage-turned-den, but that only heats the den, and it requires constant maintenance. Still, it's heat. I won't die.

The pellet stove, my main source of heat, is an undependable creature. Officially, it's a pellet stove insert, shoved into what used to be the fireplace. I don't know how the former owners kept warm without it. It's black, half-moon shaped, gold-trimmed with etchings of mountains and trees on the side doors and a clear front door that lets you watch the fireworks.

A diva of appliances, it needs frequent cleaning. Otherwise, ash builds up and it refuses to work. Pellets drop from the hopper into the clay pot and sit there until the igniter is in the mood to light them on fire. It takes a while. First it hums for about 10 minutes. Then it clicks and lights the first pellets or turns off and waits for you to push the reset button and start over. Eventually you wait a month in the cold until the county's stove guy comes out to spend all day taking the stove apart and cleaning each little piece of metal while explaining how you have to do a better job of maintaining this baby. It's a lot like the hygienist warning you to floss more often.

If the stove does light, first one then another pellet, then a bunch of pellets turn red and pop up like popcorn until they're shooting like fireworks. It's beautiful, but there's no heat yet. Eventually an orange tongue of flame begins to burn in the pot. Finally the fan comes on. That's when I rush to stand in front of the stove, often with a book in one hand and a glass of iced tea in the other. But for the burning thighs, I would stay there all day. The dog spreads out below me, resting her feet on my feet.

Yesterday, the pellets were running low. I brought in a bag from the garage, cut open the top with the big red-handled kitchen scissors and started to pour. Suddenly pellets were coming down everywhere. A pellet avalanche poured out of a big hole in the side of the bag. Pellets sprayed around the hearth, the sofa, the cabinet, my feet, and all over the top of the stove. "Shit!" I said, hauling the dog out by her collar before she could start eating the pellets. They look like food to her. Then I started scooping up the pellets into an empty cottage cheese container. Of course I was dressed to go out and running late, but this couldn't wait.

As I was scooping, I noticed the sparks. Pellets had fallen through the front grill into places they didn't belong. Now they were lighting up and shooting out as I dodged and stomped, thinking any second my carpet would catch on fire. Or maybe I would catch fire. I turned the stove off. I unplugged it. It continued to roar and shoot out sparks until gradually the fan slowed, the pellets darkened, and the stove went off.

The house had not burned down, but it was full of smoke. My smoke alarms, which have new batteries, didn't make a sound. They wail like the end of the world when I cook pork chops, but they didn't do a thing when I had an actual fire creating actual smoke only a few feet away.

Sigh. Mechanical, I am not. Put the smoke alarms on the list for when Prince Charming in a tool belt shows up.

I went to my appointments, loving the warmth in my car so much I might never have come home if gas didn't cost so much. I came home and vacuumed out the pellet stove, plugged it in, turned it on, and held my breath. Pellets dropped, they lit up, the fire started, the fan came on, and, praise God, the fire stayed in the stove. As heat poured out, the dog took her place on the warm carpet.

That was Tuesday. Today it only took three tries to get the stove going, which is good because it's snowing.

But I don't trust that thing. Never take winter warmth for granted.

Update on the ongoing family crisis

2011-02-12T11:34:00.000-08:00

I don't want to burden you with my troubles. I like to keep this site light, but you may notice my occasional absence or wonder whatever happened to the husband I previously wrote about. So, briefly, here's the story.

Fred, who has Alzheimer's Disease, is having a very hard time, and subsequently, so am I. When you're together this long--27 years--and love so deeply, what hurts one hurts you both.

In the past month, Fred has been to the hospital five times. He had surgery a week ago, and was moved, unconscious, the following day to a skilled nursing facility. His condition has drastically deteriorated in the last few months. When I visited yesterday, the first day I saw him awake since the surgery, he could not speak, could not feed himself, and could not walk on his own. He has lost 25 pounds since Christmas. He has become one of those zombies who sits in his wheelchair and dozes or stares into space. The surgery, related to a failed bladder, appears to have been successful, but we don't know what will happen next. It's one day at a time. Complicating matters is the fact that Fred is in Albany, Oregon, and I'm on the coast. I'm spending an average of 3 1/2 hours per trip several days a week driving on a long, windy road.

It was only nine days ago that Fred was still able to say "I love you" to me and knew my name. It may have been the last time.

I'm signing off before I get more maudlin. Alzheimer's is a horrible disease, the sixth most common cause of death in the United States. As the boomers age, the number of people with AD is growing. For information, visit the Alzheimer's Association website at http://www.alz.org/.

Anyway, that's what's happening. Please appreciate every little thing you can do all by yourself and all the many blessings that fill every day. Thank God Fred loved his life and his glass was always not just half full but full to overflowing.

Read away the cold winter with Stephanie Kallos

2011-02-12T11:16:00.000-08:00

I have just finished reading the second of Stephanie Kallos' two novels. They are both so good I want to share them with you.

Broken for You (Atlantic Monthly Press, 2004) is a crazy, beautiful book, poetic, layered and loving. The plot wraps around Margaret, who has a brain tumor and has been living alone in a mansion full of antiques since her father dies. She rents a room to Wanda, a stage manager whose parents both left when she was little. Wanda is always searching for her parents and for Peter, the guy who dumped her. The story that unrolls is just beautiful. Among the amazing twists are Margaret's sudden plan to start breaking all the glass that fills her house and Wanda's inspired way to use the pieces.

Sing Them Home (Atlantic Monthly Press, 2009) is another masterpiece, even better than Broken for You. Kallos is a weaver, bringing together many beautiful threads to weave one warm, luxurious blanket. She tells her story from multiple points of view, her protagonists both living and dead, past and present, but it all comes together in the end. We begin with Llewellyn Jones, the mayor, who insists on going golfing despite an oncoming storm. He is killed by lightning. His death inspires the events that follow. This is not the first time the Jones family loses someone to extreme weather. Llewellyn's wife Hope disappeared and his daughter Bonnie was injured in a tornado back in 1978.

The book tells the stories of Llewellyn's nurse and lover, Viney; his daughter Larken, a lonely art professor; his son Gaelan, a weatherman and avid bodybuilder, and Bonnie, an odd duck who lives in a converted garage and collects artifacts scattered by the tornado. We also meet Blind Tom, the piano tuner, and a host of other wonderful characters. So much happens, so much love, loss, and fun. We also get a heavy dose of the Welsh culture that pervades fictional Emlyn Springs, Nebraska, without ever feeling the weight of Kallos' extensive research. This is a long book. The language is beautiful and requires concentration, and yet, at the end of 540 pages, I didn't want to let it go. The people are so real I'm sure that if I went to Nebraska, I would find them there.

Kallos has had a varied career, including years working in the theater. She includes a hilarious resume at her website, http://www.stephaniekallos.com/. Take a look and have fun.

The Dog Ate It--Again

2011-01-28T18:35:00.000-08:00

I have been silent here longer than I like. But I'm tired of being Bad News Sue. In brief, I'm sick with whatever it is that everybody else has around here. I assume I'll feel better after a few more days of misery.

Meanwhile, my husband, who has Alzheimer's and lives in a nursing home, has been having a hard time, with three trips to the hospital this month. Most of his problems center on an enlarged prostate, a damaged bladder, and what may become a permanent catheter to drain urine. His condition has declined dramatically, and the phone keeps ringing with trouble. So, phooey.

Annie, the dog who thinks she's a person, is still doing well. When she gets bored, which is often, she plays a game in which she grabs paper off the table or out of my recycle box and makes me chase her for it. I hear her whooshing past my office, then I hear paper rattling, and I know the game is on. The following poem was inspired by this game.

That's Why I'm Overdrawn

The dog ate my receipt.
I don't know how much it was.
I saw it dangling from her lips.
I chased round and round a bit,
slipped and banged my knee.
"Give it back!" I cried.
But she just stared at me,
masticating it
like a cow with her cud,
staring at me, as if to say,
"You don't share your food with me,
so I'll eat the names and prices."
And then she swallowed. Gulp.

We almost built an ark

2011-01-18T13:10:00.000-08:00

Half my yard was under water last weekend, and my garden shed was flooded, but I was one of the lucky ones; the water didn't come into the house.

The news was full of stories about muddy hills sliding into homes and roads and rivers rising over their banks. The rain came down in sheets, blown sideways by stiff winds that nipped off weak branches and pushed at trees and houses. Driving over the Yaquina Bridge at the end of a white-knuckle trip to Albany and back, I felt it beating on my car like a bully determined to throw me into the bay. It was a time to go home and stay there as rainfall records dissolved on the Oregon Coast.

It seemed as if the rain would never stop, but it did eventually slow down. By Monday, the clouds pulled back enough to reveal little patches of blue sky and a wan sun offering light if not warmth. Annie and I went walking at South Beach State Park. New lakes appeared beside the paved paths. A path that headed west near the jetty had turned into a river too wide and deep to cross. The handicap-accessible path and platform overlooking the beach were barely dog-accessible now, completely buried in sand. Wishing we had skis, we climbed over the wet sand, and I sat on the railing of the fence which barely jutted out of the sand while Annie stared out at the thrashing ocean.

It began to rain again just as we returned to the car.

Today, I drove to Yachats for yoga class. The rain was intermittant, barely more than a mist compared to what we had before. High water signs dotted the road here and there, and I saw new lakes where there used to be dry land. The ocean at high tide was all white foam and high waves crashing on soaked beaches littered with trees tossed ashore during the storm. Red cones marked mudslides along the land side of the highway.

As I type, it's raining again, dark ad twilight at 1 p.m. We still may need an ark. I admit that I thought a bit last weekend about moving to someplace drier. But I know that when the sun comes out again, such thoughts always melt away.

For some dramatic photos of the storm damage, visit http://www.newslincolncounty.com/.

Queen Sue enjoys a royal feast

2011-01-10T11:11:00.000-08:00

In December, I issued my edicts for the annual Twelfth Night festivities. There would be feasting, all would perform, and we would dress "to the nines." Ah, the thrill of power as my subjects scrambled to obey. We gathered at the Cramer castle in north Newport, where Ms. Sandy had assembled a dessert bar worth of royalty: chocolate flowing from a fountain, fudge, marshmallows, pound cake, Christmas cookies, fruits and nuts, and a liquor bar abounding with red wine, beer, lemon drops and "appletinis."

The attendees, dressed in their finest--and gaudiest,-came bearing ambrosia, pizza, French pastry, fried chicken, and more. We noshed to bursting.
Then, by order of the queen, we gathered in the drawing room for the performances. Some sang, some read poetry, young Mistress Danielle awed us with a musical theater recitation, and Ms. Orpha filled us with laughter and horror as she described in hilarious detail the creation of the French pastries whose name this royal highness can't quite spell. It seems one of Ms. Orpha's glittery fingernails disappeared in the process and any one of us might perhaps find the next bite a bit--how shall I put it?--crunchy. Quelle horrors!

Exhausted with our efforts, we retired to the dessert bar to share the royal cake which would determine the next queen or king. Usually the new royalty is the one who finds a ring in his or her slice of cake, but this year, it was a tiny rubber doll. Mr. David Cramer found the royal doll on his plate, earning the title of King David I of Newport. All hail King David.

I yielded my crown, which included flashing green lights, to my successor and settled at the piano for the last Christmas singalongs of the season. Thank God.

A good time was had by all.

Is This Fair?

2011-01-05T09:40:00.000-08:00

Fred, my husband, burst into tears when he saw me yesterday. At the time, he was in his bathroom at Timberwood Court Memory Care Community with a nurse and an aide. They were trying to reattach his catheter bag so it would be more comfortable. It wasn't working. In fact, in the past 24 hours, both the tube and the bag had broken, spilling urine all over and freaking everyone out. Meanwhile, the urologist they contacted has decided that because Fred has Alzheimer's, there's no point in examining or treating his enlarged prostate. He's supposed to suffer for what could be years because his mind is muddled?

The beginning of 2011 has not been much fun for Fred--or for me. He went to the hospital on New Year's Eve with intense pain. No one knew what was going on because he can't communicate. After a belly CT, the doctor announced that Fred's bladder was greatly enlarged with unreleased urine; it was blocked by an enlarged prostate. A catheter was installed and more than a liter of urine was drained out. Fred seemed much more comfortable, but then he started shaking like crazy and had a seizure right there in the ER at Albany General. Now the doctor sent him out for a head CT and ordered that he stay in the hospital overnight. Fred may have had other seizures in recent times; we're not sure about those, but this one happened in front of the doctor, so we're sure about this one.

He went into a long deep sleep after the seizure. Meanwhile the hospital doctor determined that because he has Alzheimer's she would not order any tests to explore the seizures. She would give him drugs and send him back to Timberwood the next day.

Once Fred woke up, he was fighting the catheter, fighting everything everyone tried to do for him, and shaking so badly he could not feed himself. He was speaking nonsense words, his speech much worse than it had been a week ago, but they discharged him, and now the urologist is declining to see him. Luckily the nurse at Timberwood is a fighter and she will get a doctor somewhere to take him in. Meanwhile Fred is in a constant state of panic and pain.

Prostate problems are common in mature men. Normally, they see a doctor, who examines them and treats them, either with surgery or medication. But not Fred; he has Alzheimer's. As for the seizures, the doctor at the hospital said they would normally order an EEG and MRI to find out what's going on, but not Fred; he has Alzheimer's.

Is this fair? Send prayers.

Wrapping up the old year

2010-12-28T11:15:00.000-08:00

Rain started last weekend and continues unabated, accompanied by winds that rattle the chimes out back and threaten to sail the hot tub cover and garden furniture all the way to the beach. Annie pokes her head through the doggie door and decides she doesn't need to go potty yet. At church Sunday, the hail pounded on the roof so loudly that Father Brian had to pause in his sermon. He looked up at the ceiling and said, "Oh, great." But that's the Oregon coast in winter.

It was a good Christmas, although I have been sick the whole time, with lots of coughing and achiness. I'm feeling better today. I am grateful for the many friends who invited me into their homes for the holiday. I was blessed with wonderful presents, receiving far more than I gave. Now it's my favorite time of year, when the pressures of Christmas are over, but we still have the lights and the leftovers and a little time off.

I have begun a list of things that happened in 2010. I thought I didn't do much this year, but when you add it up, it was quite a full 12 months. For example, I played music for more than 100 church services, attended nearly 100 yoga classes, walked Annie nearly 300 times, filled two binders with new writing and finished two books that I hope to see in print next year, I gave up my sweet dog Chico, attended three writing conferences, made two trips to California, drank more than 700 cups of Red Zinger tea, ate more than 300 muffins, joined Oregon Coast Therapy Animals, got new tires on the car and a new garage door opener, drank over a thousand glasses of iced tea, drove to Albany to see Fred at least once a week all year, ate at least 25 turkey-avocado club sandwiches at the Red Door--and yet kept off the weight I lost in 2009.

What about you? I'll bet if you start making a list, you'll find this year was more eventful than you thought. You'll also discover that even if the bad things stick out in your mind, there were good things, too. Try it.

Happy New Year!

A special Christmas gift: sight

2010-12-22T12:37:00.000-08:00

It’s three days before Christmas. The rain has stopped, replaced by blue sky and white clouds. Small branches litter the lawn, and my beloved blue hydrangea is nearly naked, its leaves blackened and shriveled from last month’s snow and blown off by recent windstorms. It’s cold and wintry, but it’s still so pretty here I could just look at the view out my window forever. One of the great blessings of living here on the Oregon coast is that we have four distinct seasons, and they are all beautiful.

Earlier this month, I had surgery on my left eye to deal with a cataract and remove a growth that had sat on the edge of my iris for ages. It went well, with some pain afterward but nothing dramatic. After two weeks of dealing with unmatched eyes--the fixed left one and the nearsighted right one-- I picked up my new glasses yesterday. I can see better than I remember ever seeing before. Last night, as I looked up at the bright moon and the trees silhouetted against the sky, I saw my first stars since the surgery. What a blessing. I felt like I could just stand around looking at things forever.

Out my window, a tiny brown bird perches at the tip of a leafless alder branch then zips across the yard and over the roof. From the next block, I hear a neighbor hammering. Across the street, another neighbor has hung out his orange slicker to dry.

Today, the day after the winter solstice, we will have slightly more daylight than we had yesterday. As dusk falls, Christmas lights will appear all around. I have lights on my little tree and around my windows. I can look out at the neighbor’s multi-colored lights wrapped around his roof and bushes. Down the road, two families have gone all out, with inflated snowmen and Santas and sheets of lights everywhere. When I make my treks down Highway 20 to visit my husband in Albany, I see lights hanging from mansions and rustic cabins, brightening the way through the rain and snow.

A sad note: My husband is not doing well this Christmas. He has had several worrisome events lately. He is pulling more and more inward as his abilities fail. Alzheimer’s is a terrible disease. Unfortunately, most of us seem to have someone in our family with this illness. They may forget you, but don’t forget them or their loved ones this holiday season.

Meanwhile, as I sit here typing, the clouds have thinned, revealing more blue sky. Two bright blue Stellar’s jays soar from my Sitka spruce to the Douglas fir next door. My dog Annie sits gazing out, eager to go for her walk.

There is so much to see!

Whatever your situation, look up. Find the blessings and be thankful. I wish you all a wonderful Christmas and a blessed new year.

When in doubt, sing

2010-12-15T08:18:00.000-08:00

Fred and I are alone in the TV room at the nursing home. I can't get the television to work—too many buttons and accessories. I have run out of stories, and no activities are scheduled for another hour. The other residents are still in the dining room finishing lunch.

Before I left home, I prayed, asking whether I should bring the dog to help me entertain my husband or my guitar to play some songs. But the message I kept getting was "neither." Now here, I know the dog would have been too disruptive during today's early lunch, and putting on a performance would have kept me from focusing on Fred. I have made this extra trip because Fred was in a bad way yesterday. He started the day hollering and hitting people, then spent the rest of the day weeping. I didn't know what I would find today, but God told me, "Just bring yourself."

So now I sat with Fred on the plasticized sofa staring at a blank TV. I stroked his age-mottled hand, rubbed his white-stubbled cheek. He was in a good mood, but I feared he might start to cry in this long silence. I took a deep breath and began to sing "Dashing through the snow . . . " Immediately this man who can't form a sentence started singing a perfect bass accompaniment to my soprano melody. We went from "Jingle Bells" to "Jingle Bell Rock" to "Santa Claus is Coming to Town." I went through every lively Christmas song I could think of. With no sheet music to rely on, I occasionally mangled the words, but it didn't matter. Our two voices connected us in a way that nothing else could. We both felt the magic.

At last an aide came to make the TV work, and we settled in to watch an old episode of "Gunsmoke." But the music lingered in the air.

On the night we met 27 years ago, I was singing. Music remains the shining thread that holds us together in spite of Alzheimer's Disease. God gave me a voice. When in doubt, I must sing.

Seeing Stars

2010-12-06T09:23:00.000-08:00

I studied the stars Thursday night, trying to memorize how they looked that night. I knew I would never see them quite the same way again. Not the stars, not the clouds, not the book I was reading or my own face in the mirror. In the morning, Dr. Haines would operate on my left eye, replacing my cloudy, cataracted lens with a new one and removing a growth on the front of my eye. After 42 years of counting on my glasses to give me 20-20 vision, I didn't know what I'd be seeing.

Melodramatic? Yes, I know people go through the cataract surgery all the time and come out happy. But this was MY EYE, and this was happening about 20 years sooner than expected.

The adventure had begun last spring when I went in expecting to get new glasses and found out my nascent cataract had advanced to the point that it was ready for surgery. I'm too young, I protested. It turns out you can get cataracts at any age, although most people are in their 70s and 80s. The doctor suggested we wait six months to see if the other eye would catch up. It hasn't yet, but the left one had to be done. While he was in there, he would remove the pterigium, a fatty growth that had been hugging up against the brown of my eye for 20 years.

Multiple doctor's appointments, a slide show at the hospital, days of eye drops, eyelid scrubs, stop wearing makeup, no food after midnight, and there I was at the hospital, IV in my hand, numbing drops in my eye, rolling into surgery, staring at the lights above me, three deep breaths . . . waking up in recovery with a humongous patch over my eye.

The scratchy-sore pain didn't start for a few hours, and the pupil stayed dilated until well into the next day, but I started getting surprising glimmers of vision. Saturday morning, I could see the clock on my nightstand without glasses. I could see farther with my "operative eye" than I could with the other. I could even see the computer sometimes without glasses. As predicted, I could also see new wrinkles on my face and dust in my house.

The eye still hurts and it's blood red in places. My vision fluctuates, and of course my other eye is still super nearsighted, so I won't be seeing 20-20 till I get new glasses in a couple weeks. I'll probably be inserting eye drops until Christmas.

In the old days, folks who had cataract surgery had to lie perfectly still for weeks, but things have changed. I asked the doctor when I could go back to yoga class. Tomorrow, he said. But no headstands. I nodded, as if I could actually do a headstand.

Annie, my dog, keeps staring at my face, apparently wondering what's up with the glasses on/glasses off business. I stare back, naked brown eyes to naked brown eyes.

As for the stars, they were a bit muted last night, but coming out of the doctor's office Friday afternoon, I saw the most beautiful sunset I ever saw. With two eyes.

Riding the rails in style

2010-11-30T15:43:00.000-08:00

Happy December! I just came back from a trip on the Coast Starlight Amtrak train from Albany, Oregon to San Jose, California. It was a rockin' rollin' ride with an endless view of snow from my cozy "roomette" in the sleeper car. Read all about it in this month's newsletter at http://www.suelick.com/Newsletter1210http://www.suelick.com/Newsletter1210.html.html.

What the dog expects

2010-11-22T14:47:00.000-08:00

Winter has arrived, no matter what the calendar says. It's raining hard here on the Oregon coast, with snow expected tonight. School kids are hoping for an extra day off while their parents are hoping the snow never comes. Friends from farther north are already sending their snow pictures on Facebook. For me, if it snows right now, when I don't have anywhere to go, that would be nice. I'll take pictures, too.

Meanwhile, I have been writing poems for the Poem a Day challenge sponsored by Robert Lee Brewer's Poetic Asides site. For the most part this has been really fun. Robert sends out a prompt each morning, and we make it into a poem. This poem is based on the prompt to write a poem about an agreement.

Pact
My dog and I have this agreement:
When I sit on her couch, she will sit on me.
She will stretch out on her back,
paws in the air, head in my lap,
so I can pet her belly forever.
Whatever else I'm doing,
my right hand must stroke her fur.
I must not move, even if she snores
or whimpers in her running dreams.
If my legs go numb, too bad.
If the telephone rings, it rings.
If night falls and I am hungry,
I cannot disturb the dog.
I must love the dog no matter what
as she snuggles in my lap.
This is our agreement.
It suits us both quite well.

Meet Sally, my new pet

2010-11-15T16:56:00.000-08:00

Living out here in the wild west, you never know what you're going to find. The other day, I was out back in my bathrobe and fuzzy slippers waiting for Annie to do her morning business when a misplaced board caught my eye. It has been lying around the back yard for a long time. I decided I would finally put it away. It was all wet and soggy from the rain. I picked it up by the corner, lifted and saw a pair of eyes staring at me.

What is that? I asked myself. It was too big to be a newt, too long to be a frog. It kind of looked like Gollum from Lord of the Rings or maybe a slimy six-inch alligator. It seemed to be saying, "Put the lid back down, put it down," so I did, anxious to hide this critter before Annie saw it.

Naturally I went inside and looked it up on the Internet. It's a salamander, an Oregon Ensatina, to be specific. Three days later, it's still here. Every time I lift the board, I find it. Salamanders tend to live their lives pretty much in the same place, so we may have an extended relationship--as long as I don't put that board away. Salamanders, who live on bugs, are nocturnal, so I have to stop lifting the board to peek.

Today I got him/her to pose for a photo. I call him/her Sally. Of course.

Fighting forces stronger than we are

2010-11-11T16:26:00.000-08:00

Walking Annie on a harness isn't working. Yesterday she dragged me down the jetty trail. When we finally got home, she trampled me running out of the car after a cat. I'm a mess of bruises today.

It was a rare sunny day, but the tides were high and I didn't want to risk the beach, so we went to Newport's south jetty. It would turn out to be an ironic choice because a tragedy was unfolding as we walked.

Annie was pulling on me from the get-go. The bright blue harness did little to deter her as she splashed through puddles that reflected the blue sky and late-afternoon clouds. As we left the road to walk the Old Jetty Trail, she pulled even harder, so hard I wished I could just let her go. I didn't know if she'd ever come back. As soon as the trail narrowed to a sandy path flanked by Scotch broom up to my shoulders, she pulled me along so hard I had no choice but to follow or let go. I outweigh her by nearly a hundred pounds, but it doesn't matter. When she pulls, her strength is at least equal to my power.

We were blinded by the sun for a long way, but I had seen police cars and an ambulance near the end of the jetty. A red Coast Guard helicopter circled overhead. I wondered what was going on, but Annie was pulling so hard we never got to the beach. Later I learned that they were looking for a man and woman who had been washed off the jetty. They had parked their bikes on the sand and walked out to the end of the jetty to see the high waves, which I've heard estimated everywhere from 20 to 40 feet high. A man at the Yaquina Bay lighthouse saw them go out. Then a huge wave engulfed them. When it receded, they were gone. That was about 1 p.m. The woman's body was found at 1:13, but at sunset, they were still looking for the man. According to news reports, they were from Portland, visiting the coast to celebrate their wedding anniversary. One minute of foolishness, and they lost their lives, as so many have here in our wild ocean.

We all do foolish things that can change—or end—our lives in a moment.

It doesn't compare to what happened to that couple, but I was engaged in my own foolishness with a dog I couldn't control.

Annie knew nothing of what was happening on the jetty. She was hearing sea lions, their barks somehow funneled from the bay down the trail so that they sounded as if they were nearby. She pulled and pulled, trying to escape the unseen enemy.

When we finally got back on the paved road, she pulled even harder, tail between her legs, trying to get away from the water. As I struggled to hold her and make progress toward where I had left the car, I started to worry because I couldn't see my car. I became more and more afraid that my silver box of a Honda, which had just been serviced and washed that morning, was gone, along with my wallet, GPS, various other electronic devices, CDs, books, and yoga gear. There I was in my old shoes with just my cell phone, keys, poop bag, used Kleenex, and my freaked-out dog. What would I do if my only vehicle was gone? Meanwhile, Annie was trying to pull me back toward the trail, and it was getting dark.

At last my car appeared far in the distance behind a pole. Thank God. I had underestimated how far we had walked. When we got to it, I opened the back and sat on the tailgate dangling my legs. Annie, feeling braver now, wanted to go exploring. Not a chance. We weren't walking another step. But our adventure was not over yet.

Back at home, as I was opening my car door, I saw the neighbor's gray tabby cat in the blackberries three feet away, staring at me. I should have just let it be. Maybe Annie wouldn't have seen it, but no. I yelled, "Get out of here, cat." He ran, and the dog saw him. I had the leash in my left hand and tried to hold her back in the car with my whole body, but she was stronger. She trampled over me and streaked across the driveway, pulling me hard to the left while I screamed, "No!" I considered letting her go, but didn't want her to hurt the neighbor's cat. In retrospect, she probably wouldn't have caught it, but at the time I felt I had no choice. I stopped her, but just barely. Afterward, there I was hanging off the edge of the driver's seat, hurting all over, my back feeling as if it had been twisted like a wad of aluminum foil. For a nanosecond, I considered getting rid of my dog. But of course, I was soon petting her and telling her I loved her again.

Clearly the harness is not working. We have tried a three-point harness, then a four-point, and a variety of collars in our effort to transform Annie into an official therapy dog. I hate to go back to the pronged collar because it's tight and rusty, and therapy dogs aren't allowed to wear them. Nor can they wear choke chains. So what do I do now?

Another person in the therapy dog group had told me about a book called My Dog Pulls by Turid Rugaas. It worked with her golden retriever. Rugaas preaches a system of rewards and training by stopping every time the dog pulls. I have already discovered that screaming "No!" "Stop!" "Don't pull!" and "Damn it!" doesn't work. In a tug of war with Annie, it's a tie at best. I have ordered the book. We're going to try a new system. Stay tuned to see how it works.

Meanwhile, we're not walking today. Blame it on the rain. I can't let 74 pounds of muscle and fur put me in the hospital. I just got back from the chiropractor, and my body needs a break. We have six months until the next therapy dog evaluation. We can do all the other requirements. We can do this. Your advice is welcome.

And dear God, please take care of those people who died on the jetty today. The waves don't kid around. You can't fight a force that is bigger than you, whether it's the sea or a stubborn dog. Please, if you want to watch the waves, do it from somewhere safe. My bruises will heal, but those people are gone.

Bask in a sea of red and gold

2010-11-01T12:28:00.000-07:00

Halloween brought lots of color to the neighborhood over the weekend. Traveling through Corvallis, I happened upon parades of little ones dressed as everything from Spiderman to Lady Gaga, but what really caught my eye were the trees along the Willamette River. Their fall colors beat anything you could buy in a store. Today as a storm turns everything wet and gray, it's nice to look back on the brightness of western Oregon's maples, alders, dogwoods and other deciduous trees that light up the sky. These photos are mine, but if you want to see more, visit Oregon Fall Foliage. This site, sponsored by Travel Lane County, offers regular updates on where to see fall colors. Go quickly. Winter is blowing the furniture around on my deck as I write.

Frogs and dogs, oh my

2010-10-26T10:14:00.000-07:00

I visited the Oregon Garden on my recent trip north. Located in Silverton, Oregon (near Salem), the gardens are a huge display of all kinds of plants beautifully arranged into types and themes, such as roses, conifers, vegetables, oaks, a sensory garden, a pet-friendly garden, and so much more. I first visited the gardens last winter when most plants wore their winter brown. This time, I saw a lot more flowers and was blessed with warm sunny weather.

The gardens are wonderful, but my favorite part was the water garden. As I approached, I heard something splash. I looked quickly, saw nothing, took another step. Splash. Again, I looked and saw nothing. Another step. Another splash. Was that the back of a frog disappearing into the muddy water?

As I proceeded, the step-splash, step-splash continued. It became a game. Could I step and see the frog before it disappeared? These frogs were too fast for me. But then up ahead on the bank, I spied a big green frog with a red head. Its colors were so bright and it stood so still that I wondered if it was real. I squatted, cranked my camera up to maximum telephoto and took a picture. No response from the frog. I moved closer and closer until it jumped into the water, its long legs stretched out behind it as it dove into the mud.

At the next pond, I saw two more frogs, darker green, bumpy and still as rocks. I let them be. I'd seen my frog. He's in the picture, but pretty hard to see. It's that green dot in the center, on the edge of the water.
*****

Annie and I have decided to delay testing for therapy dog certification. We're still adjusting to the many requirements, including the new harness. Annie has adjusted so well that she has managed to slip out of the harness three times in the last week. No matter how much I tighten the straps, she does her Houdini act and gets out. But she is pulling much less, and I'm confident we'll pass the next test with no problem.

Meanwhile, Oregon Coast Therapy Animals listened to a talk from veterinarian Dr. Charles Hurty on Saturday. Boy, did we learn a lot. Here's one important tip: When your vet suggests vaccinations, find out what type they are and whether the dog really needs them. The experts are finding that some vaccines are useless, some are dangerous and many are unnecessary because the dogs already have immunity from previous shots. So don't be afraid to ask.

You talking to me?

2010-10-18T11:46:00.000-07:00

It was a chilly morning on a school playground. A half dozen other dog owners watched. I backed up 10 feet and called Annie, fully expecting her to run full-tilt toward me, just as all the other dogs had. But, no. She decided to stay with the evaluator at the other end of the 10-foot line and pretend she couldn't hear me. Grr.

How many times have we done this trick on our walks? I release down the leash and walk away. Then I call Annie, and here she comes like a downhill freight train. But now, in the playground at Yaquina View School, surrounded by obedient golden retrievers and their owners, she did not come until I pulled the rope and reeled her in. We tried it again. No go.

Oh well. We had already flunked the practice test anyway for our evaluation as an Oregon Coast Therapy Animals Pet Partner team. Therapy dogs are not allowed to wear the pronged metal collars that Annie has used since we went to dog school two years ago. They look cruel with their metal spokes poking into the dog's neck, but they don't seem to hurt the dog and they work. Too bad. Therapy dogs cannot wear metal collars of any kind.

We tried a nylon harness. She pulled me across the pavement. We tried a leather collar. She pulled me across the pavement. We gave up and used the pronged collar. Confused and frustrated, she pulled me across the pavement.

Today I'm going to pick up a different kind of harness which I'm told will work. Please, God. I tried walking Annie with a regular collar yesterday, and it was like trying to stop a Buick. When she spotted the neighbor's cat, I thought I was a goner. I outweigh Annie by a hundred pounds, but she packs at least a hundred pounds of determination in that sleek tan body.

She can sit, stay and down with the best of them, and they say she has the right temperament for a therapy dog, but my dog needs to walk without pulling me around. And she needs to come when I call.

I got in trouble, too. I need to temper that mean-Marine voice our dog trainer taught me to use. I need to say my commands firmly enough to get results but not so firmly that I scare old people and little dogs. Hmm. Stay!

The real test is in two weeks. Will we pass? I don't know, but it's a worthy experience that will make us a better team, whether we ever become official or not. The good news is that Annie was friendly with all of the other dogs. Whew. No fights.
*****
I took Annie to Newport's Bayfront the other night to give her some experience around people and pavement. The crowds and cars made her nervous, but the sea lions down below Port Dock One terrified her. You can't explain to a dog that those monstrous critters can't come up out of the water and hurt us. We had to go home.

On the way to the car, some drunken Oregon State Beaver fans, loyal to the black and orange, saw Annie and hollered, "Look, dude, an orange dog!" I guess if you drink enough Rogue Ale, she might look orange. . .
***
Got questions about pet health? OCTA's next meeting is a Q & A with veterinarian Charles Hurty next Saturday, Oct. 23, 10 a.m. to noon in the education room at Samaritan Pacific Communities Hospital.

Dog attack spoils our fun

2010-10-12T12:08:00.000-07:00

As we got out of the car at the dog park on Sunday, I could see a brown and white dog eagerly watching us from inside the enclosure. Annie spotted her right away and seemed to want to play with her, too. The dog was jumping up and down, reminding me of Chico, the hyperactive dog I had to give away. This dog was female, about Annie's age and size, with extended nipples as if she has had a litter or two. She had a pit bull face. That didn't bother me; my dogs are half pit bull, too.

I had only gotten Annie through the first gate when this other dog, Reina, joined us in the space between the gates. The dogs sniffed each other and seemed all right. But as soon as we got inside, the dogs went nuts and started fighting. I tried to pull Annie away, but the other dog kept advancing. Suddenly I felt pain and screamed. Reina had torn a big hunk out of my black pants and left a four-inch-long scrape and bruise on my inner thigh. She was still attacking my dog. "Get your dog!" I hollered to the owners, a young couple who were just sitting on a log doing nothing.

In a minute, the dogs stopped fighting and started acting like they wanted to play. I let Annie go. They ran together a bit. Annie stopped to poop, the other dog thumped her on the butt with her paws, and they ran some more. Okay. But still, my pants, my leg . . .

Another woman arrived with a smaller white dog. Again, the jumping, the sniffing, and the attack. Reina grabbed the little guy around the throat and didn't want to let go. Again, the owners did nothing. Annie had gone off on her own, exploring other sections of the dog park, but as the other dogs started to relax, she approached them and I followed. Closer up, I could see the white dog had blood on its neck. "Hey, she drew blood," I said.

Nothing.

Another woman drove up, this time with two small dogs. I put Annie's leash back on. There was Reina, jumping at the gate again. The woman asked me if the dogs were safe. Yes and no, I said, holding my pup tightly. I pointed Reina out, showed the damage to my pants and my leg and said I was taking my dog out of there.

Which I did. The other woman left, too.

Annie and I walked around the nearby college where I peeked in all the dark windows, seeing tables, desks, a piano, boxes, long hallways. We were both kind of shaky. I could feel the cool air blowing through the hole in my pants and the red scratch beneath. I wanted to get fresh clothes and put some antibiotic ointment on the wound.
I was so angry, and I still am. Reina is a beautiful dog, but I keep thinking about Chico and how dangerous he became and how much I miss him. You can't let an aggressive dog attack other dogs and their owners. If it does, you owe them a big apology, at the least. Those two never even said they were sorry. An apology and maybe even an offer to replace my pants (which were old, but I liked them and had to throw them away) would be in order.

Whether you have a pit bull or a chihuahua, if you can't trust it 100 percent, don't let it loose in the dog park--or any other public place. Nothing horrible happened this time, but when a dog draws blood, it is not okay. Don't spoil it for those of us who just want to have fun on a Sunday afternoon.

Where There's Water . . .

2010-10-08T16:25:00.000-07:00

I should have known. Wetlands means wet feet. Annie and I visited the new Beaver Creek State Natural Area just south of Newport, OR, today. It's a beautiful state park, all new and shiny, smelling of fresh-cut wood and grass. Trails padded with grass and wood chips lead upward to great vistas and downward though the rushes toward the creek.

We headed south on a pleasant trail. When we passed an opening to the creek, I pulled Annie back, saying, "Oh no. We're not getting wet today." As the grass rose around us, I gazed at miles of waving grasses and distant hills in varying shades of purple, gray and tan. Just as I was wishing for the 10th time that I had brought my camera, the ground gave way beneath my feet. Sploosh! Annie and I were in mud up to her belly and my calves. We walked on a little ways, hoping the ground would firm up, but it didn't. Sploosh, sploosh, sploosh. We turned back.

Off the side of the trail where the ground is solid, there's a plastic dock, accessed by a plywood bridge. If Annie waded in there, she could get clean, I thought. She was thirsty, already drinking the murky water. I stepped onto the dock, felt it rocking dangerously and decided I was better off sitting down. Meanwhile, Annie leaned over the edge, drinking. I relaxed in the warm breeze. Ahh.

Suddenly, splash! My pup, who just discovered two weeks ago that she could swim and who has thrown herself into every puddle since then, jumped in. It was deep. She tried desperately to climb back onto the dock but couldn't get a grip on the plastic surface. She panicked, desperately splashing, her nails slipping off the dock. Still holding her leash, I struggled to guide her over to the shallow side, willing to jump in if I had to. Just when it looked as if she might drown, she finally paddled around the dock to the shore. She shook a few times and pulled me toward the car. She's traumatized, I thought. But then she saw another trail. She headed right for the water. "We're wet enough," I said.

And so, with NPR's "Fresh Air" providing commentary in the background, we drove home, utterly soaked. Every now and then, we turned to grin at each other. Another adventure survived.

Moral: This is a great park. You can hike, kayak, canoe, or simply enjoy wide open spaces from the many benches scattered around. Take Highway 101 to Oregon's Milepost 149 and turn east. The turnoff and the parking lot by the visitors' center are well-marked. If you don't want wet feet, watch your step. If you want to see it all, wear tall boots and carry towels. Lots of towels. Don't forget the camera.

Pelicans and swimming dogs

2010-09-27T11:48:00.000-07:00

Annie led me through an opening in the bushes at Ona Beach and we discovered a vast stretch of white sand. Looking west, we saw a shallow lake covered with birds. Most were gulls, but a half dozen pelicans stood among them, tall and long-beaked. "Annie, look!" I shouted, astonished to see these giant birds standing still. I usually see them flying in a line over the ocean or diving for fish. We moved slowly toward the water, Annie wagging her tail, me chanting, "Oh my gosh, pelicans, oh my gosh." They let us get within 10 yards before the birds rose up in a whoosh and flew toward the surf, gulls squawking, pelicans majestically flapping their wings.

The dog strained at the leash. On impulse, I let her go, the first time I have ever done that at the beach. I didn't see any other dogs or people, and I really wanted to see how well she could swim.

Oh, what a happy dog. She flew across that belly-deep water, barely touching the sand below. The lake narrowed into a river heading toward the ocean. Her eyes glowed with joy as she rousted the birds again.

As she got farther away, I called her name. She chose not to hear me. Shedding my shoes, I plunged my bare feet into the river. It felt so good, even as wetness creeped past my knees and the rolling tide made me dizzy. It had been a hard day, but Annie's joy was contagious.

She flew past me, spraying my glasses and my shirt with water. She paused to drink while I warned it was probably salty. She started toward the waves.

That's when I began to pray. Annie didn't know anything about waves, rip tides, and outgoing waves that might drown her. She scared the birds into flight again, stopped, wheeled around and ran toward a family of three just coming onto the beach. What if she jumped on them? I was too far away to do anything except shout a useless "off!" They pet her and she ran back toward me, crossed the water and bounded away in the other direction, so far I could barely see her. Her tan fur blended in with the sand.

"Annie!" I called, starting toward her. But I have been with dogs long enough to know that if you run toward them, they'll keep going, thinking this is a game. So I turned back, running across spongy quilted surf sand, through the river and toward the entrance.

Annie sped toward me, but veered off at the last minute toward Beaver Creek, beyond the river, beyond the lake, where the water was deep. I dropped my sweatshirt and shoes by a log and hurried over to find her nose plunged deep into the beach grass, butt in the air, hunting some enchanting smell. Aha. I clicked the leash on and pulled her toward the water. Now we would see.

The sand gave way beneath my toes as I walked my dog into the river. As soon as the water grew too deep to walk, Annie started to swim. It was the most beautiful, most natural thing. Her paws stroked smoothly through the green water, her chin resting on the surface, no effort at all. "You're swimming! I shouted, hugging her wet fur. She licked my cheek

When we came out, we sprawled by the log, both of us soaked and covered with sand. Sitting there on a warm fall day under a blue sky etched with white clouds, I felt young, strong and blessed. Anything seemed possible.

Our therapy dog journey begins

2010-09-20T10:59:00.000-07:00

Tension filled the meet room as new potential volunteers dipped a tentative paw into the world of Oregon Coast Therapy Animals yesterday. I suspect we were all thinking variations of the same thing: Taking our dogs to work their furry magic in places where people are sick, anxious or troubled sounds fabulous, but can we pass the stiff evaluation test, can we afford the many fees, and do we really have as much time as seems to be involved? Classes, tests, training, continuing education, meetings and visits to various facilities a couple times a week--Can we really do this?

There are lots of rules involved in taking a dog into places where animals don't usually go. They must certified as healthy, be clean from nose to tail, and behave well at all times. All of this applies to the owners as well. In addition, the owners must undergo criminal background checks, and the pet partner teams must be insured. All OCTA members must join Delta Society, which oversees a national pet partner program.

And yet, the rewards seem tremendous. I have already taken my dog to my husband's nursing home and seen residents who never talk to people talk to Annie. I have seen people who always seem to be cranky soften as they pet my dog's soft tan fur. I have felt the peace and light that a dog brings into a room. It seems worth the effort to do whatever it takes to use that power for healing and happiness.

Plus we'd get name tags, a spiffy green shirt for me, parties and new friends, and Annie gets to go for more rides. Oh, happy dog.

I was pleased to see my friends Lyn and Darrell from yoga class at the orientation. Are people who are drawn to yoga also drawn to doing good deeds with their dogs?

I came home to a restless, crazy dog who delights in grabbing paper from my recycle box and making me chase her around the house to get it back. I took her out for a walk in the rain, doubling our training exercises. She did well, giving me a look that seemed to say, "That was fun. What next?" This is not going to be an easy journey, but we'll take it one step at a time.

Discovering the dog park

2010-09-06T10:47:00.000-07:00

You can't miss it, my friend Sue said. Indeed, you can't. As I approached the construction zone next to Oregon Coast Community College, a long stretch of chain link fence gleamed in the sunlight. I parked beside the gate, let Annie out and entered South Beach's brand new dog park.

Wood chips cover the ground. Tall fir trees surround the site, adding to an aura of serenity not found many other places. To the south, cars glide in and out of the college. From the north, we could hear soft hammering sounds from the houses being built in the new Wilder subdivision. Someday, this area will be filled with homes and shops. The dog park will be moved to another location, but for now, we had lots of room to run.

And we did run. No one else was there when we arrived, which was a relief because I'm never sure how Annie will behave around other dogs. She slowly sniffed her way around the park, marked her new territory, then sprinted across the park, running one way then another. I followed, tossing tennis balls I found here and there. When our legs got tired and Annie's tongue hung a foot long, I sat on a stump and she lapped up the cool water provided in giant steel dishes.

It was so peaceful. Yes, we have a large yard of our own at home, but out there, I'm listening for the phone, watching the clock, thinking about how I should paint the shed, cut the grass, or stain the deck. Here we could just play and be free.

A car pulled up. I leashed Annie, just in case. A young woman got out, followed by a pup she said was only 12 weeks old. My dog chose to defend her new territory, so we went home. But we'll be back.

If your dog wants to play and meet other dogs, follow the Oregon Coast Community College signs just south of the Yaquina Bridge. You can't miss the dog park.

Still life poems

2010-08-30T19:23:00.000-07:00

On a peaceful August Sunday, I tried my hand at poetic still life. I'd love to read your attempts if you care to send them in the comments section. No spam or blatant obscenity, okay?

Muted Morning

Ocean hushed, red alders still.
Dogs sniffs fish-tinged air.
Mist dots my cheeks as I peer
through the gauze that binds
my dream-tattered soul,
waiting for the sleeping sun
to push back its quilt
and set the day ablaze.
***

The Seventh Day: We Rest

Smooth beach, shining.
Ocean pulls back,
slapping sand,
its tide work done.
Dog lolls on warm deck.
I lie watching swallows
in a soft blue-willow sky.
Wind chimes jingle.
August alders dance.

Copyright Sue Fagalde Lick 2010

Where everybody knows your name

2010-08-23T10:38:00.000-07:00

When I lived in San Jose, I rarely met anyone I knew outside of the expected places: work, church, groups I belonged to. When I visit now, I occasionally see people who look like I might know them from somewhere, but I'm not sure. Even if I did know them, it's unlikely that either of us will acknowledge the other's existence. That's life in a big city. With so many people, the odds are good that everyone you meet will be a stranger.

Here in Newport, Oregon, however, it's a completely different story. It didn't take long after I started attending Sacred Heart to build a new church family. I soon acquired new writing, music, and yoga friends, too, and I got to know the neighbors right away. When you share a pocket of the forest with just a handful of other families, you talk to each other.

The cool thing about living here or in any small town is that you constantly run into people you know. Yesterday, for example, I went to Rite Aid after Mass to fill a prescription. I met another member of the church choir there, stocking up on bargains for his grandkids. The lady in front of me in line works at the library, and sitting at the blood pressure machine was my neighbor, Bob. Each person had time to stop and talk.

It's always that way. If I go to lunch, the person seating me knows that I need a large iced tea, stat, and someone I know will be seated at one or more of the tables. At the grocery store, Deb the checker always asks about my dog. If I don’t know somebody, that's okay, because strangers actually talk to each other here. It's not for nothing that Newport's slogan is "The friendliest."

I like this. It makes me feel that wherever I go, I'm not alone. Of course, it also means everyone knows what I'm up to, but that's okay. For me, it's worth losing a little privacy.

Annie works a nursing home miracle

2010-08-16T10:56:00.000-07:00

There's a woman named Pauline at the memory care center where my husband Fred lives. Pauline is a tall, handsome woman with a crown of white hair, but she's quite far into Alzheimer's. She does not speak to people. She walks around the building all day long like a ghost, bent forward, eyes glazed. I have seen her walk straight into musicians and other guests who don't know to get out of the way. When she's worn out from walking, she collapses on a bed. Often, it is not her bed. We have all found her in our loved ones' rooms. If you wake her and tell her she's in the wrong room, she nods and goes back to her ghost-walk.

Yesterday, I took my dog Annie to visit. My lovely lab-terrier had never been so far from home, but she loves to go for a ride, so I didn't need to ask her twice. I didn't know how she would behave. She's young and energetic, but she did well. It's a long drive, an hour and a half each way, but she mostly kept to her side of the car. Once we got there, she remembered all of our obedience training and proved it was worth the effort.

Fred lit up when he saw her. I haven't seen that big smile in a long time. He spent the next two hours petting her. Various residents, workers and visitors stopped to touch her soft fur.

As Pauline approached in her mismatched clothes, she was muttering to herself about being chilly. It was 90 degrees outside and plenty warm inside. As she headed toward Fred's back, she suddenly saw Annie. Her whole faced changed. She came alive. She walked with purpose up to the dog, her bruised hand outstretched. "Oh, you're a pretty dog. Such a sweetheart," she said as she pet her. Then she walked on, smiling, alert for a wonderful moment.

I was so inspired I decided to find out more about therapy dogs. Annie and I are not trained, but there are dogs that come to visit nursing homes, hospitals and schools all over the country. Seeing the effect, I want to get involved. There's a group near here called Oregon Coast Therapy Animals which I plan to join. One can also find lots of information at Therapy Dogs International. Annie may be a bit too hyper to be certified, but I think it's worthwhile supporting anything that can have such a wonderful effect.

Seeing dead birds and old cars

2010-08-09T11:28:00.000-07:00

You never know what you're going to see on the road. I was driving east on Highway 20 toward Albany, Oregon Saturday when a black and white bird suddenly flew up about 20 feet then crashed onto the passing lane. Did it have a heart attack? Was it dropped by a hawk? Did it commit suicide? It went down hard and probably got run over before its heart stopped beating. Thank God I wasn't in that lane. I thought about that poor bird all day.

Did I ever mention the toilet planter in front of a yard on 20? Brown pots with lush red geraniums perch on the seat and the tank. It would certainly be easy to find that house.

The other day, I found myself following our old car. When I got close enough to read the license plate, I knew it was that gold Honda Accord Fred and I bought in 2000. Seeing it brought back all kinds of memories. I remembered places we went in that car. I remembered washing it, rubbing that "Naples gold" paint in the sun. I can see the dog fur on the tan upholstery, the cloth butterfly hanging off the mirror, the scatter of cassette tapes on the passenger seat.

I introduced my new car to my old one, as if it were a living thing.

I have seen our previous car here, too, parked at the dentist's office by the post office. When we moved to Oregon 14 years ago, we had a white Honda Accord, with blue upholstery. The right back bumper was popped out a little. Fred drove the big yellow rental truck while I followed him in the Honda with our old dog Sadie beside me and the back seat full of guitars, computers and my Chatty Cathy doll. She peed on the seat just before we landed in Lincoln City. It must have taken a year to get rid of the smell.

Maybe we should have kept those old cars; they're still going. Each car brings back memories of different eras in our lives. I know they're just cars, but I get attached. Way back when my parents traded in our green 1955 Buick Special for a Ford Fairlane, I cried. My family still teases me over that, but the back seat of that car was my second home. I can still feel the soft blanket I snuggled in back there between battles with my little brother.

The front seat of my silver Honda Element is my second home now. Inside is a jumble of CDs, yoga gear, books to sell and books to read, Kleenex, flashlights, an umbrella (I live in Oregon), chewing gum and granola bars, a guitar stand and random guitar picks, a dog blanket and a dog water bowl, and a red metal water bottle for me. Fill up the gas tank, turn the key and off I go into the world in the safety of my shell like a fast-moving turtle with tires.

I have been counting Honda Elements on my weekly drives to and from Albany. So far the record is 11. Some people think they're ugly, but I love those big boxy things and I love all the wild oranges, greens, blues and reds they come in. The Element looks a little old-fashioned, and I like that too. Before we started buying Hondas, I drove VWs. Which probably says something about me.

Meanwhile, three of our cars are rolling around Lincoln County, Oregon. There's an outdoor toilet with geraniums around Elk City and a smashed bird somewhere near Burnt Woods.

You never know what you're going to see.

Get ready for the computer geek

2010-08-05T17:24:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting with my computer guy again in the ongoing effort to make my desktop computer more functional. I have learned so much in the last couple of days. The most important thing, I'm learning, is to keep track of what happens with your computer. Think of it like a puppy or a child. Every time you put in a new program, write down where you got it and when you installed it. Every time you had anything done to your computer, make a note telling when and what they did. Every time an unusual symptom arises, write it down. Otherwise, you're helpless when the repair person says things like, when was the last time you defragged your computer, do you still have the disk for this program or when was the last time anybody cleaned out your CPU? Saying, "Uh, I don't know" makes the repairs take much longer. Quick, what programs are on your computer? Assume you can't look. When did you last back up your files?

Time to get educated and businesslike, I guess. I had about 50 icons on my computer desktop. Who knew they slowed my computer down? My actual wooden desktop doesn't mind having stuff on it. But I'm so proud of my self; I got rid of most of them.

Tuesday the guy was here until 10:30 at night. I hope he's gone much sooner today. Believe me, he's not interested in me, just the computer--and the mega-check I'll be writing him.

Moral: treat your computer well, pay attention to what you put into it, and learn the lingo. It will save you money and hours with the computer guy.

Walking with butterflies

2010-08-02T15:45:00.000-07:00

I step out of the noise of the Bayfront on a tourist-crowded summer afternoon into what looks like a greenhouse. Pink, and purple poseys and bright yellow sunflowers bloom on shelves, their perfume blending with the scent of wet soil. Signs urge visitors to step carefully on the fake-lawn carpet. As I watch, something moves past me: a butterfly. The closer I look, the more I see. Butterflies sit on flower petals, dot the ceiling and windows, and rest on the floor, their wings moving slowly. This is Butterfly Adventures, a temporary exhibit in Mariner Square in Newport, Oregon.

The brainchild of former residents Peter and Lisa Noah, the exhibit gives visitors a chance to see free-flying butterflies up close. The beautiful insects may even light on one's hair or hands if one is lucky.

Signs around the room offer interesting facts about the different types of butterflies and their life cycle from caterpiller to butterfly. Did you know that butterflies taste with their feet?

Most of the butterflies here are Monarchs, big orange and black beauties that tend to gather in the sunniest spots. A few have bent wings, damaged by some mishap. Their lives are short and could be shortened in such a space. How easy it would be to step on an unseen butterfly. I saw a little girl do just that. It's a risk operating such an exhibit, which is probably why it will only be open through the end of August. But it is sweet to sit with a butterfly for a while, closely studying each other.

Butterfly Adventures is open from 9 a.m. to 8 p.m. Tickets, available in the Mariner Square gift shop, are $5 for adults, $3 for children 3 to 11 years old. Photos are encouraged.

For more information, visit the Butterfly Adventures web site or the Monarch butterfly site.

The Secret Path

2010-07-26T09:20:00.000-07:00

I have lived in the Newport, Oregon area for 13 years. I drive down Nye Street to Sacred Heart Church several times a week, but I had never noticed the path before. I suppose it blended in with the houses and driveways and I was always too busy trying not to hit kids, cars or dogs with my Honda. Yesterday on foot, I found a magical place.

I had taken Annie with me to the church, having forgotten to turn in my time sheet again (I forget every month; maybe they should go electronic). My restless dog hadn't been away from home for a whole 48 hours, and she was delighted to jump into the car, coating the seats with her yellow fur again. She sat up tall, staring out the window, watching the world go by. At church, time sheet turned in, she leaped out and we started our walk.

First we slipped behind the church and down the steps to the baseball field next door, where three people were tossing a chartreuse tennis ball around. Annie froze, staring at the flying ball. I explained that sometimes balls are actually not being thrown for the dog. She found this puzzling.

We went on, beginning on Nye Street, then taking a series of right turns that led us down streets I had never noticed before. We passed salt-water-taffy-colored cottages with ceramic seagulls and stained-glass peace signs in the windows and turned into a tree-covered gravel road that took us to another street and another. I started to wonder how long this walk would turn out to be. I was beginning to sweat despite the foggy weather.

At last I saw Nye Street and turned back toward the church, but two blocks before the ball field, I noticed an opening on the west side of the road. A paved path. Trees. The trickle of a creek. "Annie, come on," I said.

I couldn't believe what I saw. In the middle of Newport, I had found a beautiful nature trail. Lined with conifers, alders and wild blackberries, it was a wonderful place to get away from the tourist traffic. Annie dashed from one alluring smell to another as I wondered how I could have missed this trail.

We walked and walked, finally coming out at a children's play area and a roller skate park. A sign said it was Sam Moore Park. I had heard the name but thought it was somewhere else.

We were a long way from the car now, closer to the beach than the church. We slogged uphill, at least one of us feeling tired and thirsty and noting the complaints of aging knees that had gone too far. But we will go back another time. What a gift.

Two lessons learned: Sometimes a forgotten errand can lead to nice surprises, and you can see a lot more if you get out of your car.

Step One: Set Up the Tent

2010-07-13T11:15:00.000-07:00

Thank God no one can see me, I think as I wrestle on my front lawn with a pile of poles and slippery cloth that any minute should spring upward into a dome-shaped tent. But it doesn't. I've always hated the junipers that block my view of everything, but now I am grateful. After an hour, I have nothing but a pile of parts and sore, grass-stained knees.

I've never set up a tent before. With my first husband, John Muir reincarnated, I was always the helper, the one who held stuff while he sipped a beer with one hand and put up the tent with the other. I don't know how he got it off the ground; he just did. Before I knew it, we were hammering stakes into the dirt and barbecuing rib-eyes on the roaring campfire. My specialty was washing the dishes.

Husband number two wasn't much of a camper. Motel 6 was too rustic for him. But we did try it once. Again, I don't know how the tent got up. I just remember falling off the air mattress all night and threatening to sleep in the truck if he didn't start a fire to keep us warm.

So now, husband-free, here I sit surrounded by poles, plastic-cloth and useless directions. If they wrote them in English, e.g., insert the ridiculously long black pole into the black sleeve to the left of the door, stuff it all the way through and insert the ends into the i-hooks, I might get it. But no, it's slide short tent pole TPOL-374BK through pole sleeve of corresponding color. Do the same with second tent pole TPOL-374BK. Then insert long-cross ridge pole CPOL-393GR through pole sleeve of corresponding color. Hello, all the poles are long and I have three colors of poles and two colors of sleeves. Insert ends onto pin-rings at base of tent and snap J-hooks over short tent poles. What's a pin-ring? And what J-hooks? I don't see any J-hooks. Hook them onto what anyway, the hard part of the pole or the stringy thing between the sections of pole?

Okay. I think I've got it right. I lift the whole pile of cloth and poles and realize I can't get all the poles into their holes by myself. My arms aren't long enough. As soon as I get one side, the other comes out. This is where I used to come in, I vaguely remember. I was the one who held stuff while the tent-maker went around sliding part A into part B. Zoop, zoop, zoop, dinnertime.

I look around. The neighbors are all at work. I'd be too embarrassed to ask the super-hunter across the street for fear he'd laugh at my cheap tent. The other neighbors wouldn't know any more than I do.

Sweating and weary, I let my tent fall like a deflated Mylar balloon while I run into the kitchen for a beer. That part of the camping tradition I can do.

Now I have to figure out to get the tent back into the bag.

The Numbers are In

2010-07-07T14:03:00.000-07:00

A new Pew Research Center Study shows that 20 percent or one out of five American women don't have children. A larger percentage of those with advanced degrees are childless, but that number has decreased in recent years. Why is that? Some believe women with the most education have more options for creating a family-friendly worklife. What do you think?

Below are links to three articles on the subjects to ponder.

Forbes: Childlessness is Up

NY times another view

Salon.com: Childless by Choice

Watching from afar

2010-07-05T17:44:00.000-07:00

I'm a stealth fireworks watcher. Just about every year, I watch at least one display, but I rarely pay admission and I don't join the crowds in the official seating area, even when it's free. What usually happens is this: I decide that this year I don't need to see fireworks in person. Heck, they're on every other channel on TV. However, as I start hearing popping noises outside, I start itching to go outside. As predictable as "Stars and Stripes Forever," I'm heading out the door at the last minute, thinking, I've got to see some fireworks.

I have watched fireworks from bridges, parking lots, decks, porches, and my parents' front lawn. It's not that I'm not willing to pay for a show. It's that I hate crowds, and every year I really do think that I don't mind staying home.

Last night, I really tried. I turned out all the lights, cranked up the volume on the John Philip Sousa songs and told myself I was getting a free show in the comfort of my home. But it wasn't the same, and Newport's fireworks extravaganza was about to begin. Pretty soon, I was putting on my shoes. That got the dog all excited. Unlike my previous dogs, Annie is bold when it comes to gunshots, lightning and firework, so I leashed her up. As we headed out, she sat bravely next to me on the passenger seat, her head scanning from side to side with every passing car.

A few years ago, when I was driving toward Yaquina bay, where they shoot off the fireworks here, I saw flashes above the trees and realized that if I parked at the Post Office, I could get a pretty good view. So we parked there again, merging into a row of government vehicles. I slid down in my seat lest a passing police officer grow curious about why one of the cars was occupied. But the dog wouldn’t get down. After all this time screaming "Sit!" at her, that's all she wanted to do.

At exactly 10:00, the show started. "Look, Annie!" I said. And she looked. From my scooched-down position, I couldn't see over her head. Dang tall dog. But it didn't matter anyway. Over the years, some of those trees have grown so high that they blocked most of the fireworks.

It was time to find another location. Quickly. As I drove north, my eyes were more on the fireworks than on the road. I tried a pull-off beside the road. Not bad, but too likely to get me arrested. Then I had an inspiration. Since last year, a new community college was built up the hill a few blocks south of the bridge. The road to the campus was steep. I turned there. Oooh, ooh, good view. A family was parked off to the side, sitting in folding chairs beside their van. But there wasn't enough room for us, so I kept going. If I went even higher . . . Nuts. The road turned and I lost visual contact. Quick. Turn around. Drive back down the hill. I turned into a driveway that didn't go anywhere. Nope, electrical towers in the way. A little farther. Another driveway. No, nothing. I turned into a graveled road behind some kind of industrial building. Yes!

We had a perfect view. Annie and I leaned toward the front window, soaking up the colors in the sky. Ooh. Wow. Cool. Starbursts, flowers, weeping willows, rings, spiders. Between blasts of fireworks, I glanced around nervously, rehearsing my speech. "Uh, officer . . ." But maybe they were all on the Bayfront supervising the crowds. One hoped.

Bam, bam, bam-bam-bam-bam-bam. An orgasmic burst of color marked the end of the show. We scooted down the hill and into the line of cars heading south, pitying all those folks who walked a mile and sat for hours waiting to see fireworks. Annie's eyes, sparkling in the headlights, scanned the sky for more.

Sharing My Songs

2010-07-01T19:47:00.000-07:00

This has been a week for music. It started Sunday with two Masses, followed by playing at a benefit garden tour for the local Samaritan House homeless shelter. I went in kind of grumbly. Feeling tired and stressed, I found myself thinking, "I'm too old for this stuff. Time to quit." Rick Nelson's song about playing at a garden party kept playing in my head. "If you gotta play a garden party, I wish you a lot of luck, but if memories are all I sang, I'd rather drive a truck." Etc.

But somehow the music worked its magic on me as well as my audience. By the end of the day, I decided there was nothing I'd rather do.

I'm still thinking that way after four nights of leading music at Vacation Bible School (imagine "Pharaoh, Pharoh," sung to the tune of "Louie, Louie" and a few more reverent numbers)at Sacred Heart Church, and singing Wednesday at the Toledo Street Market, above. There is nothing like music to reach inside and smooth out the kinks, to get you on your feet dancing and singing, to celebrate being alive. When you look out and see people singing along, it feels better than almost anything.

So, I'm going to keep on doing it as long as I can. I'm available for gigs. And yes, I will keep writing, too. Words and music. I can't help thinking they're connected.

The Future of Freelancing

2010-06-21T09:58:00.000-07:00

I have been traveling in Western Oregon and northern California over the last week, catapulted from home by a conference at Stanford University called the Future of Freelancing. I feared I would meet 120 young college grads who’d make me feel like a fossil, but that wasn’t the case. I found myself surrounded by mid-career freelancers and laid-off staff writers trying to figure out how to make a living in this new world of fading newspapers and growing Internet communication. As the author of a book called Freelancing for Newspapers, I feel as if I should include an addendum these days: take the advice in these pages and apply it to the Internet with a heavy dose of blogging, Twitter, Facebook and whatever comes up next.

We had enlightening talks by editors of Esquire, the New Yorker, the Washington Post, and Wired, by book publishers and publishers of Internet news sites, and by writers who have found new ways to do the old jobs. We took classes on blogging and social networking. It’s a whole new industry for those of us who grew up in the days of typewriters and carbon paper. The message overall was that the world still needs good writing, but we need to either catch up or give up. In an age where so many staff writers and editors have lost their jobs, each of us must become an entrepreneur, not only writing but creating a "brand" that draws people to what we write.

Cell phones were banned during the sessions, but many writers were busily tweeting, Facebooking, blogging and writing during the talks. I didn’t, but my fingers itched to hit the keyboard. This new media world is addictive, but we have an obligation not to abuse it or waste it on garbage. We need to think before we post.

I learned a lot, but I will be glad to head back to the Oregon Coast, where traffic is lighter, the sea cools the air, and the only voice I have to listen to most days is my dog’s.

Future posts will cover some of the wonders I saw on my trip. Meanwhile, I have limited Internet access, and I’m having trouble making my father, who doesn’t believe in computers, understand any of this.

One of my favorite moments during the class came when blogger/professor Staci Baird asked, “How may of you have Googled your ex?” Most of us raised our hands. Think about it.

Don't forget your raincoat

2010-06-09T14:10:00.000-07:00

"Does it always rain like this," a tourist asked me last week. "No," I said. I wasn't lying. Sometimes it rains sideways, sometimes it rains softly, sometimes it rains needles, sometimes it rains ice pellets . . . Okay, and sometimes it actually does not rain for a day or two. In fact, in August and September, it may not rain at all.

I feel for those folks who come to the Oregon Coast looking for sun. All those travel articles and brochures make it look as if we all frolic on the warm beach all day long. Well, not so much.

We did have sun a few days ago. I remember it. Due to the rarity of this phenomenon, I blew off work and took my dog Annie to the beach. The wet sand lay hard and crunchy, water rained down from the cliffs, and moss grew on the rocks, but it was not raining. We actually played in the water. Annie, being half Lab, will jump into any puddle, ditch or rivulet, but it's rare for me to take off my shoes and walk in the surf. And my toes did not freeze. When we got back in the car, I actually had to turn the air conditioning on to cool down.

The next morning, a wet one, I had to turn the heat back on, along with the windshield wipers and the lights. Rain is always possible here in June, but this is more than usual. One Facebook friend called it "June-vember." We had a light winter, so now we're paying with a wet spring. I just hope it's dry on Fourth of July.

Our plants are ecstatic over all this alternating sun and rain. My poppies and roses are blooming, and the lawn grows six inches a week. Whenever we get a sunny Saturday, we hear the roar of lawnmowers and weed-eaters all over Western Oregon. On the days in-between,it's more of a squoosh, squoosh, squoosh.

When you see people walking through uptown Newport wearing shorts,tank tops and goose bumps,you know they're not from around here. The natives are the ones in raincoats, long pants and boots.

But we don't want to discourage the tourists. So if they ask if it always rains like this, just smile and say, "No, it doesn't."

Balloons in the Bedroom

2010-05-27T18:06:00.000-07:00

Two balloons float near the ceiling of my bedroom. The one with pink roses says, "Happy anniversary." The other one, showing a bear holding a bunch of balloons against a blue sky, says,"Hang in there." On the dresser nearby sit an African violet plant loaded with purple blooms and two cards filled with handwritten messages from the people who sing in our choirs at Newport's Sacred Heart Church, where I'm one of the music ministers.

I am so grateful for their love and support, even though tears stream out as I read their words. On May 18, my husband Fred and I had been married 25 years, but Fred, who has Alzheimer's Disease and lives in a nursing home, didn't know who I was. I had come with our wedding photo album, hoping to share our memories, but he didn't understand that he was married to me. He looked at me with the eyes of a stranger. I can't begin to describe how much that hurt. I held my tears until I left. Driving toward home on Highway 20, I cried so hard I thought I would break.

Eventually I found some peace, and Fred did know me on Sunday. This disease is crazy, cruelly giving and taking away. Sometimes I get my love back for a little while. It will never be the way it was, but we have to treasure the moments we get. It is so precious just to sit holding hands or hugging and saying, "I love you."

I had mentioned the anniversary to my church friends, noting that my family had let the day slip by unnoted. Last night at choir practice, they surprised me with their gifts. If I seemed to not react at the time, it's because I was stunned and trying not to cry. But I went to sleep surrounded by their love, and when I woke up, it was still there. It means so much to me.

I guess sometimes the most loving family is the one you find for yourself.

It was waiting for me at the door

2010-05-24T13:09:00.000-07:00

I got home late last night from visiting my husband in Albany, and I was dog tired. It was a good visit, but it's almost 200 miles altogether, and I provided entertainment. Fred knew who I was, and there were no tears, so life was good. However, it was raining so hard on the way home that I missed my exit and had to go about 25 miles out of my way. I found myself driving through farm towns I had never heard of with nothing but fields and old barns around. I was so glad to see the signs for Corvallis, which meant I could turn west on Highway 34 and go back home to the Oregon coast.

I arrived at my door, guitar in one hand, purse, coat, music book, and melting-ice Burger King drink in the other, went to open the screen door, then stopped and stared. The biggest slug I had ever seen, about eight inches long, was plastered across the door and frame just above my head like a giant tape sealing the door shut.

It was the color of snot, same consistency, too. Slug-ugly. Unappealing though it was, I didn't want to kill it. Nor did I want to touch it with my hands or anything else I treasured. My keys, for instance, might not do the job and would be rendered forever sticky. Finally I just put the guitar down and opened the door, ducking under the slug.

After I got myself in, I went back out to look. The slug had shrunk itself down to one side of the door and was fine. Fifteen minutes later, it was gone, probably snacking on my rhododendrons.

Visits from bugs are common here. In my shower, I have had a cozy relationship with a spider for the last five days. If she stays on the ceiling, I don't mind, but when she comes down opposite my eyeballs while I'm wet and naked, I get a little nervous. I'm not into murder, but I wish she'd go somewhere else. I'm beginning to wonder how long a spider can live. She gets plenty of water, and the ants I saw a while back have disappeared, so I guess she has food. I'll continue this live-and-let-live relationship as long as I can, but you never know what's going to happen.

This morning, for instance, I went to put my soap in the rack above the bathtub and it slipped through the holes, falling directly into my glass of orange juice. "Oh no!" I said, staring at it in horror. What a way to start the day. Then, when I went to open a new can of frozen OJ, the plastic pull-off deal that seals it shut broke off in my hand. Hello, Monday!

But all is well. I just checked on the spider. She'd like to borrow a little soap and shampoo. The slug is oozing along under the hydrangeas, and I've got new orange juice chilling in the fridge.

May your week be free of slugs at the door, spiders in the shower and soap in your orange juice. And if your soap does fall into your juice, offer it to the spider or the slug. Or both.

Take a look at these tulips

2010-05-13T13:42:00.000-07:00

I just love bulbs--not the kind you screw into your lamps, the kind that grow in the ground. They hide under the soil all summer and fall. Just when you're about to go nuts with too much winter, they pop up and start blooming. You don't have to do anything. They just keep showing up.

Somebody planted tulip bulbs in my garden long before I moved to this house. I thought I dug all the bulbs out when I started my great gardening plan a couple years ago, but I guess I missed a few. Right now, I've got white tulips and some that look like rainbow sherbet. About the time they start to fade, the wild poppies will appear. Later in the year, if I'm lucky, the gladiolas will bloom. What a gift for someone who gardens about once every six months.

Some folks are more serious about tulips. The town of Woodburn, OR, about 45 minutes from Portland, hosts an annual tulip festival in April. I know, we missed it. Mark your calendars for next year. (But we're in time for the rhododendron festival, which happens May 21-23 in Florence, OR.)If you'd like to get your own tulips planted for next spring, check out The Wooden Shoe Tulip Farm, which grows tulips by the acre and takes orders online.

It rains about 80 inches a year around here, but in the spring, when the sun comes out and everything's in bloom, we look around and know we're living in paradise.

Parts of me are excellent, Part II

2010-05-10T12:23:00.000-07:00

Getting old ain't for sissies. Bette Davis said it years ago, and it's so true. Thursday I walked the dog with my eyes looking like two black marbles. I had just come from the ophthalmologist's office, where I learned that I have a cataract in my left eye. Now I knew I had the beginnings of one, but I figured I didn't have to worry about it for another 20 years. Wrong. It's bad enough to operate on right now.

The proof was in the vision test. The right eye worked fine, but when I tried to see the chart with just the left, I saw two of every blurry image. I couldn't read any line properly, even the giant E. Instead of giving me a new prescription, the technician said, "We have to see what's going on with that left eye before we can proceed." Uh-oh.

I sat in the big chair and prayed until the doctor hurried in, all tweed suit and gray hair. He was unusually quiet during the exam. Double uh-oh.

First he told me all the things I didn't have. Then he told me about the cataract. I'm not old enough, I protested. He said even babies sometimes have cataracts. Indeed, an Internet search showed it's not unusual for infants to be born with this milky coating on the lens. It comes more commonly with age—prime time for cataract surgery is late 70s and early 80s—but it can happen at any time with illness, injury, stress, or quirks of nature. I made that last one up. I was too busy panicking to listen to everything the doctor said. A real gearhead, he went on about a new lens coming from Europe that will enable patients to see both far and near. Ooh wow. Give me old reliable, please. We're talking about my eye.

The doctor advised me to wait six months. I'm getting along all right with it now. Let's see how it progresses and see if the right eye, which has a "trace" of a cataract, catches up.

Gee, I just wanted some stylish new glasses.

I cried all the way home. Now I'm trying to see the bright side. Eventually, sooner than expected, I won't need glasses after 42 years of contacts and specs. It was going to happen someday; might as well get it over with.

So, my eyes are older than I am, too. But really, most parts are younger. Look at that picture. How old do you think I am? Then think about this: I remember Bette Davis.

P.S. You can find lots of information at www.cataract.com. I'm not making that up.

Parts of me are excellent, part I

2010-05-09T13:50:00.001-07:00

Suddenly my back was killing me. It hurt to get up, to get down, to roll over, to brush my teeth, to do anything. I put up with it for a week, remembering unfondly my many sessions with chiropractors in the '80s and '90s. Back then, a doc had told me that if I walked or swam every day my muscles would get strong and I would not have so many problems. It worked for almost two decades.

I don't know whether it was moving furniture and painting my den or the last-minute rush to finish my book while sitting scrunched up at my desk for hours, but I was in pain. I made the call. After x-rays, talk and an exam, Dr. Schones, who is young enough to be my son, told me I have a disintegrating disk in my lower back. Just like millions of other baby boomers. He signed me up for three treatments a week, with ice, Ibuprofen and careful movements in-between. Nuts. I was sucked into the chiro zone again.

Folks at church got to watch me struggle up and down from the piano bench last week. We Catholics get up and down a lot. Okay, grab the bench, eeeease down slowly, carefully scootch forward, ahhh. Let us pray? They're standing. Oh no.

Just when I'd start to feel better, I'd go back to the doctor and he'd crunch my bones again. Back to the couch with the ice pack. By Friday, I had stopped screaming, "Jesus!" with every adjustment and just said, "uh." I only have to go twice this week.

I'm feeling much better. I'm doing my walks, doing a little yoga and looking forward to saying adios to the doctor, even if they did have homemade cookies on Friday.

Meanwhile, I'm sick of looking at that plaster vertebra with the squashed red disk. Dr. Schones says mine looks much older than I am.

Last week I learned of another body part that's aging too quickly, but I'll save that for next time. Meanwhile, get away from the computer and move around while you can.

Small World

2010-05-06T09:59:00.000-07:00

Newport is a small town. You expect to meet people you know everywhere. Driving into town yesterday, I passed a friend from church choir. At the grocery store, I ran into the woman who lives in the house behind mine. I also saw the crazy guy who walks up and down Highway 101 muttering to himself. A woman I met in the vegetable aisle looked so familiar. At a concert on Sunday at the Newport Performing Arts Center, I felt as if I knew everyone on stage and off from singing, writing, church or all three.

But when my wonky back flared up and I went to a new chiropractor last week, I found the most amazing connection. It wasn't so weird that his assistant, Joe, used to live in my old neighborhood in California. That happens all the time. But Dr. Paul Schones used to live in my house. That's right. My house. He spent the first nine years of his life in the house where I live now in South Beach. He started drawing on my X-ray envelope. This was the kitchen, this was the living room, this was my room . . . He did not know about the den that was added later, but otherwise he remembered it exactly as it was--and is. I only knew about the family who lived here just before us, the Fends. I had no idea the Schones were here before them.

And you know that neighbor in the grocery store? That's his aunt.

Tracing Oregon roots

2010-04-29T14:46:00.001-07:00

There was snow on the road to town yesterday. Is it not April, officially spring? Weather here has been bizarre, a few minutes of sun, then hard rain, then hail, more sun. Just when you start to get warm, black clouds darken the sky, and it rains again. That's life on the Oregon coast.

Oregon Stories is out now from Ooligan Books. I've got a piece in there. The book is based on stories submitted to the Oregon 150 website last year in honor of the state's sesquicentennial (150 years). Start bugging your local bookstores for copies, especially if you have any connection to Oregon.

I wrote about finding my great-great grandparents' unmarked graves in the Damascus, Oregon pioneer cemetery. They settled in Damascus in the 1800s. Jean came from France, where his family made chocolate candy, and Refucia Maria came from Baja California. I don't know how they got together or how they communicated, but they had lots of kids, including my great-grandfather Joe Fagalde, who ended up in San Jose California.

Joe married Luisa Gilroy, of Spanish and Scottish descent. They had three sons, the eldest of whom was Clarence, who married Clara Riffe, who was German. Their oldest son was Clarence, Jr., aka Ed, who married Elaine Avina(Portuguese) and had me and my brother Mike. So we have connections in both Oregon and California. I like to think that when Fred and I moved north, we connected the family back to our American roots. One of these days, I plan to do more digging for the whole story of the Fagalde clan.

Meanwhile, check out Oregon Stories. It's a good read.

2010-04-20T11:06:00.000-07:00

It has been three weeks since I posted here. Forgive me. Life has been nuts, and I haven't been feeling well. But that's no excuse.

I'm making some changes around here. My mailing address and e-mail address are changing. No, I haven't moved. The post office somehow decided to change the numbers on a bunch of our boxes. No warning, just a sticker with a different number. When I went to tell the postmistress she had put the wrong number on my box, she informed me it was the right number. So it's P.O. Box 755 now. If you know me, you know the rest of the address.

I have also changed Internet companies, so you can now reach me at suelick@charter.net. In switching to Charter, I also changed TV providers. So far, I really like the new service, but I'm adjusting to a new remote control and new channel guide with new channels. One perk is a local access channel. So far I've watched a high school band concert, a city council meeting, a local storyteller, and aging surfers reminiscing. It's very cool to turn on the TV and see people I know.

To make way for new carpeting, I have also torn the den apart, but first I have to deal with water coming up under the carpet and mold in one corner. Blech. I'm waiting for estimates. While I had everything out of the way, I painted the room. What color? It's white, but they call it "vanilla custard." Annie was so helpful she ate my stir stick before I got the paint open. She was subsequently banished to the back yard until the paint dried.

Speaking of Annie, while I was doing yoga on the deck Sunday, I informed her it was time for savasana, otherwise known as the corpse pose or complete relaxation. Lying on my back relaxing, I opened one eye and caught her lying on her back with her feet in the air. Now that's a smart dog.

More to come soon.

Simple gifts

2010-03-29T11:51:00.000-07:00

It's raining sideways on the Oregon Coast today. Fierce winds sailed the cover off my hot tub across the grass last night and mangled the rack on which it rests when in use. The exposed water steams and churns like an angry ocean. Deck chairs went flying like toys, and fallen branches cover the lawn. Annie the dog and I are both feeling a little put out by the weather, but we do have some things to be thankful for.

Yesterday a friend used his only day off to clean out my gutters. They were jammed with dirt, pine needles and unidentifiable smelly junk. When he couldn't reach it all by ladder, he climbed up on my mossy roof, working in the rain. I kept saying, "You don't have to do that," but he insisted. So now, the rain pours smoothly into the gutters and through the downspouts to the ground.

A few days ago, after another grueling visit to my husband in the nursing home in Albany, I received another gift. I was watching TV, all wrapped up in a blanket, with Annie on my lap, when I heard what sounded like gunshots. Now, I live out in the forest, and it's not unusual to hear one or two shots, but this was continuous. Pop, pop, pop. I jumped up, spilling Annie onto the floor. Holding her back, I stepped cautiously into the moonlight. Oh my gosh. To the southwest, I saw fireworks through the trees. Red, green and gold firebursts sparkled against the black sky, falling gently to the ground.

It was like Fourth of July, but it was March 27, and I didn't have to leave home or fight crowds. I advanced to a clearer view and stood there marveling. I assume someone was celebrating a wedding, anniversary or something else on the beach. I can't see the shore through the trees. But it felt like such a gift, like those dreams where a parade comes down your street, only it was real. Thank you, God.

Now if somebody would materialize to help me get the cover on the spa . . .

Ah, Warm Again

2010-03-16T12:16:00.000-07:00

Here in the forest, the difference between being warm and being miserable depends on the state of the pellet stove. If I run out of pellets, brrr. And if one little wire decides to short out one little fuse, I have to put on my long underwear and ski jacket just to be warm. In fact, these days it's warmer outside than in.

It happened on a Sunday, of course, and in the winter, when the area's one guy qualified to fix these things is booked solid. Turn up the thermostat. Nothing. Push the reset button. Nothing. Play with the plug. Nothing. The stove was cold and so was I. The little electric heater barely warmed a square foot right in front of it. The cold laughed at its puny efforts. I cursed. I thought about moving to a house with a real heater. I daydreamed about warm air coming through vents at the flick of a switch.

I dreaded having the stove guy out, not just for the expense and disruption of my day but for the lectures he inflicts on his customers. On and on. "Now, Sue, take a look at this. . . " I know. Just fix it.

It was the worth the lecture to have him come out this morning and fix the stove before the walls started to mold. He rearranged his schedule and gave me the "poor woman living alone" discount (not that he said so, but I can read). Now a yellow-orange flame burns hotly in the newly cleaned window as the fan pours out heat. Annie the dog and I jostle for space in front of the stove. Ahh, warm again.

Another birthday survived

2010-03-11T10:11:00.001-08:00

I did it. I made it through another birthday. For once, I didn't cry. It's all Mom's fault. She did this Queen for a Day thing where I woke up with my bed covered with gifts, went to school wearing something new, got to eat whatever I wanted and always had a family gathering with cake and more presents. She set a precedent. Now I want every birthday to be like that. As an adult, I got in the habit of taking off for the day to the coast, the woods, or a historical site. But I always knew we'd be celebrating in the evening. Except for the year my dear husband misunderstood and didn't get me a cake because he thought I was on a diet. Diets do not include your birthday. Never.

Now, however, I live up here in Oregon's coastal forest with my dog Annie. The dog does not do birthdays. She wants to play keep-away with the stick, go for walks, sleep on my lap, eat lots of "cookies" and chase invisible invaders in the dark.

I have had some lonely birthdays up here, and I thought this might be the loneliest. But no. I dragged my slightly older body to yoga class, where I proved to myself that I'm in darned good shape for my age. At the end of class, a friend asked what I was doing for my birthday. "Not much," I said. "Well, how about if we go out for dinner?" she asked. So we did. She brought her husband, and another yoga couple met us at the Noodle House on Newport's Bayfront. Great food, great conversation, a great ocean view, and they even gave me presents. No cake. But we did have these interesting cinnamon noodle rolls with a candle in the middle of the plate.

When you do yoga together, you create a bond. How can you not be friends when you stick your rear end up in the air in downward-facing dog, fall down trying to balance on one foot, and twist your arms and legs in ways they never intended to go?

Thank you, Lin, Jackson, Fran and Bill. It was great.

P.S. Don't let me drink champagne next time.

Namaste.

Did I really see that?

2010-03-01T10:06:00.000-08:00

On my long drives to and from Salem last month, I saw some amazing things. One of the wildest was a guy dressed up like the Statue of Liberty. He was advertising a tax preparation service. I had stopped at a light on Lancaster, and there he was. By the time I got my camera out, he had almost moved out of frame, but if you look closely, you'll see him all in green.

Another guy nearly caused an accident. I was just driving onto the Yaquina Bridge here in Newport on my way to church, when I saw a group coming out of the Seafood and Wine Festival. One of them, a young man, had his pants down so low his entire butt cheeks were showing. He was clutching his pants in front. I don't understand what was going on. Were his jeans severely damaged? Did he do it on a dare? Was he that drunk?

Sometimes I just see beautiful things, like a great sunset. As I came up over the hill and down into Newport, there it was. I changed course and drove straight to Yaquina Bay State Park where I snapped this shot.

Keep your eyes open, folks. There's always something to see.

A Moment

2010-02-22T16:07:00.000-08:00

Busy days and then suddenly, yoga class was cancelled, I had everything ready for the writing class I was teaching that night, and . . . I had time. Glorious sun lit the coastal forest and sparkled off the pond that spills into Thiel Creek. Trees cast shadows on the road as Annie and I walked. How strange it felt to not be wearing a coat, to feel sun on my bare arms. We walked up hill and down, Annie's tan and white paws padding beside my gray Reeboks. As we U-turned at the dead end of Cedar Street, Annie was panting. My two-year-old pup is not used to heat.

At home, she lapped water of of her bowl while I drained my glass. Then we lounged on the deck, which was finally dry after weeks of wet. As I lay back, soaking in the warm wood and blue sky, Annie snuggled against me, her head on my chest. "Ah, girl," I said. "We've been through a lot, you and I, but God has blessed us with this moment." I held onto that moment carefully, like a butterfly that had landed in the palm of my hand, soon to fly away.

A Slice of Heaven

2010-02-10T09:42:00.000-08:00

It pleasures my bloodshot eyes.

That's what I chanted as I left Salem for the wide open spaces on the road to Mt. Angel Abbey last Friday. It was a rare sunny day that brightened vast emerald fields of grass, red barns, brown cows, and baby sheep running across the fields. Clouds shot across the blue sky like flying angels.

For so long I hadn't driven anywhere except Albany to visit Fred and Salem to teach my writing classes. I hadn't run away in ages. It felt so good.

I always thought Mt. Angel was just a seminary, monastery and retreat center, but it's also a town, population approximately 3,700. Clearly the town banks on its connection to the abbey. Most of the downtown shops sport signs written in biblical lettering. The spires of St. Mary's church rise into the clouds on the road to the seminary. Buildings housing the Benedictine sisters rise up on both sides of Mt. Angel Road.

Quaint old houses gave way to trees as I turned up the mountain. I saw all these little white buildings along the side of the road. Bus stops? Prayer stations? Each enclosed a picture of Jesus on the Way of the Cross, his path from conviction to crucifixion. Soon I saw a monk in brown robes. I can see this as an arduous meditative walk. The road is steep.

Cars filled the parking lot at the end of the road. I took an elevator to the main level and entered the bookstore. A soft hymn played through speakers overhead as I browsed through the books, statues and crucifixes. Deep sigh. Peace.

Being a seminary for men, Mt. Angel made me conscious of my gender, especially when I passed a classroom full of young men who watched me go by. But I saw signs on the doors of the guest house welcoming women by name, and I was relieved to find restrooms with the familiar skirted symbol for women.

Beyond the brick buildings and the massive church, one can see forever. The whole Willamette Valley spreads out below. Past the green fields and trees, I could see a snow-capped mountain peak poking through the clouds. So beautiful.

But you see the everyday, too. As I gazed eastward, I heard someone singing. This giant Chicano seminarian came out carrying a sack of garbage. He continued to sing as he dumped it in the dumpster and went back inside. He sang in a high falsetto. I wondered how that might go over when he's a priest in his own parish, but it certainly would help in choir singing. Every choir needs a good high tenor.

I didn't have to wear a jacket that day. Amazing. So warm, so sunny, so pretty.

I always want to do whatever I see. I can't be priest, but I could be a nun at the Benedictine convent. Or I could move out there, work on the newspaper—they must have one--play some music, make quilts, grow flowers. Be warm. Attend the annual beer and sausage celebration called Wurstfest, which is happening this weekend. Plus, it's only 40 miles from Portland.

Of course when I got home, I was less eager to move, and brown is not a good color on me. But while I was at Mt. Angel, time disappeared and I wanted to stay forever.

I can't stay forever, but anyone can stay overnight or for a few days. I could take that long walk along the Stations of the Cross. See the website at www.mountangelabbey.org for information on retreats there.

From Mt. Angel, I rolled back into Salem and treated myself to lunch at Marie Callender's. Seated in the chintz and floral dining room with a huge slice of corn bread with honey butter and all the iced tea I could drink, I knew there was a God.