The night before Christmas Eve -- last Friday -- some friends hosted a party at the Swampy Lakes ski hut. The hut is a small, three-sided log cabin with a dirt floor. Daylight sparkles through the logs, but with a tarp forming the fourth wall and a roaring fire in the stove (stove? it was a barrel on its side; this was a new experience for me; I haven't the vocabulary), we could duck inside for cozy warmth.
Our friends carried a card table and piles of food the few hundred yards from the parking lot to the hut; we ate fantastically. And drank. Stood around in the snow, laughing. Beers in hand, some of the dads built a luge run which banked around skinny lodgepole pines. Blake and a few other kids flew down the slope while the moms worried loudly. (That's too fast! They'll hit the trees! Watch his head! I'm not so sure about this!) My husband was feeling sick and stayed home, leaving me to play the agressive male role, but as the run got slicker and faster I finally pulled Blake out of it. He's so fearless he scares me.
Darkness fell around 4:30 and although someone hung a lantern, I grew uneasy. Beyond the window lurks the night.* Our little hut was an outpost of light and laughter 16 miles from home -- 16 dark and icy miles, with only trees between here and there -- and I began to worry about my husband and small daughter. So we waved goodbye to our friends, exactly as if we were leaving their house, and tramped through knee-deep snow to our car. Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas to all!
Inspiring to see all those other parents wrangling their wee children in the snow and cold. It was one of my favorite experiences of the year.
*I remember reading a poem with that line in high school. Gather around, friends! For on the window lurks the night. Something like that. Anyone recognize it?
Thursday, December 29, 2005
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
Query
If you spend an entire day vaccuming, washing floors, cleaning bathrooms, washing clothes and making beds, and while you are busy the children entertain themselves by emptying every toy box in the house -- here's the question: At the end of the day, can you consider your house clean?
*
"At first she was suspicious of the washing machine ... But little by little the machine seemed to her more carina, for it was after all only a machine, and it filled itself and emptied itself and turned around and around, and it seemed so marvelous to her that a machine could remember so much and was always there, ready and waiting to do its work. And then there was the machine for washing the dishes, and you could wash the dishes in a costume for the evening without getting a drop of water on your gloves. When the signora was away and the boys were at school, first she would put some dirty clothes in the washing machine and start that, and then she would put some dirty dishes in the other machine and start that, and then she would put a nice saltimbocca alla romana in the electric frying pan and start that, and then she would sit in the salone in front of the TV and listen to all the machines around her doing the work, and it delighted her and made her feel powerful. Then there ws the frigidario in the kitchen, making ice and keeping the butter as hard as stone, and there was the deep freeze full of lamb and beef as fresh as the day when they had been killed, and there was an electric egg beater, and a machine for squeezing the oranges, and a machine for breathing in the dust, and she would have them all going at once...."
Clementina, from The Stories of John Cheever
*
"At first she was suspicious of the washing machine ... But little by little the machine seemed to her more carina, for it was after all only a machine, and it filled itself and emptied itself and turned around and around, and it seemed so marvelous to her that a machine could remember so much and was always there, ready and waiting to do its work. And then there was the machine for washing the dishes, and you could wash the dishes in a costume for the evening without getting a drop of water on your gloves. When the signora was away and the boys were at school, first she would put some dirty clothes in the washing machine and start that, and then she would put some dirty dishes in the other machine and start that, and then she would put a nice saltimbocca alla romana in the electric frying pan and start that, and then she would sit in the salone in front of the TV and listen to all the machines around her doing the work, and it delighted her and made her feel powerful. Then there ws the frigidario in the kitchen, making ice and keeping the butter as hard as stone, and there was the deep freeze full of lamb and beef as fresh as the day when they had been killed, and there was an electric egg beater, and a machine for squeezing the oranges, and a machine for breathing in the dust, and she would have them all going at once...."
Clementina, from The Stories of John Cheever
Friday, November 04, 2005
This is where I live
In Central Oregon, one notices the smells in the air. I mean, everyone notices the smells, even someone like myself, who never notices anything. Ponderosa pines. Hot dirt. Wet earth. Rotting pine needles. Snow. The air smells clean, or maybe I mean pure; smells borne on the wind are unsullied.
*
I live in a hollow with pine trees taller than my house: ponderosas mostly, but also juniper. My neighbors have planted a few people-sized trees in their yards as well – aspen, larch, slow-growing alpine pines – but the ponderosas dominate. Ponderosas are beautiful trees. Their branches start up high, much higher than a man’s head, and their long needles grow in clumps at the end of each branch: so ponderosas don’t make a man feel crowded or trapped. They grow straight, straight, straight. They make good lumber, which is why all the trees in my neighborhood, though exceedingly tall, must be less than 60 years old.
The street I live on runs the length of the hollow and dead-ends at an unimproved park. I imagine that once upon a time, a stream ran there instead. It would have flowed from the park back through the hollow, banked sharply to the east, and then emptied into the Deschutes River. I often flow that way myself, emptying not into the river but in the children's park beside it.
"X" Street, a wide swath of asphalt, cuts down into the hollow right beside my house and intersects with the road-that-was-a-stream. This street creates a break in the trees, a sun break. In the winter I hang out in the yard on this side of my house, but in the summer I hide from it. In Central Oregon there is often a ten degree (or more) difference between sun and shade, and in the summer, two degrees of sunblock.
Because of the shading trees, my house stays cool, even in summer. In the mornings from June to September I open all my windows and doors to let in the warm breeze. It lets the neighbors in, too. I can hear the conversations of all the people walking toward the park; I hear the mountain bikers call to one another as they ride toward the trails in the Deschutes National Forest. My children listen for the dogs and other kids.
While I am surrounded by trees, I don’t live in a forest. This area was logged a generation ago, and then (because it was the edge of town for a long time) it was a dumping ground; in the last decade it has seen nearly constant housing construction. It is what they call disturbed land. The trees have grown back, and the hardiest understory plants grew back – prickly shrubs like currant and rabbitbrush and bitterbrush – and some small flowers and one or two invasive species. And, of course, we have planted grass and friendlier, thirstier flowers and shrubs.
Chipmunks and ground squirrels like ponderosas but they won't live with people -- or maybe we won't live with them? not liking burrows in our grass -- so instead we have aggressive gray squirrels. They drop pine cone discards all year long: plunk onto the grass, thunk onto the deck, and duck! They fight with the stellar jays. Quail run here, a few bunnies. The deer graze on by. Each fall I plant a few tulips just for them. Also I hear rumors of coyotes. Two years ago my son and I glimpsed one in the park; a year ago my neighbor saw one chase down a rabbit. And every few months, someone loses a cat.
*
John Daniel tells the Native American story of Payatmu, who hailed the sun rise every day. When he stopped celebrating it, the sun stopped rising.
"The point is not that we should learn the Sioux language and perform the Sun Dance, or that we should plant corn in dry places and sing it up with Zuni song rituals. We can't simply borrow another culture's religious sensibility, evolved through ages, as we borrow a coat. Nor is it crucial to believe that certain words and actions cause the sun to come up. But it is very crucial to understand the sensibility from which such words and actions flow, to understand that the continuance of life depends on the thoughts, words and acts of each of us."
Remembering the Sacred Family, an essay within The Trail Home.
*
I live in a hollow with pine trees taller than my house: ponderosas mostly, but also juniper. My neighbors have planted a few people-sized trees in their yards as well – aspen, larch, slow-growing alpine pines – but the ponderosas dominate. Ponderosas are beautiful trees. Their branches start up high, much higher than a man’s head, and their long needles grow in clumps at the end of each branch: so ponderosas don’t make a man feel crowded or trapped. They grow straight, straight, straight. They make good lumber, which is why all the trees in my neighborhood, though exceedingly tall, must be less than 60 years old.
The street I live on runs the length of the hollow and dead-ends at an unimproved park. I imagine that once upon a time, a stream ran there instead. It would have flowed from the park back through the hollow, banked sharply to the east, and then emptied into the Deschutes River. I often flow that way myself, emptying not into the river but in the children's park beside it.
"X" Street, a wide swath of asphalt, cuts down into the hollow right beside my house and intersects with the road-that-was-a-stream. This street creates a break in the trees, a sun break. In the winter I hang out in the yard on this side of my house, but in the summer I hide from it. In Central Oregon there is often a ten degree (or more) difference between sun and shade, and in the summer, two degrees of sunblock.
Because of the shading trees, my house stays cool, even in summer. In the mornings from June to September I open all my windows and doors to let in the warm breeze. It lets the neighbors in, too. I can hear the conversations of all the people walking toward the park; I hear the mountain bikers call to one another as they ride toward the trails in the Deschutes National Forest. My children listen for the dogs and other kids.
While I am surrounded by trees, I don’t live in a forest. This area was logged a generation ago, and then (because it was the edge of town for a long time) it was a dumping ground; in the last decade it has seen nearly constant housing construction. It is what they call disturbed land. The trees have grown back, and the hardiest understory plants grew back – prickly shrubs like currant and rabbitbrush and bitterbrush – and some small flowers and one or two invasive species. And, of course, we have planted grass and friendlier, thirstier flowers and shrubs.
Chipmunks and ground squirrels like ponderosas but they won't live with people -- or maybe we won't live with them? not liking burrows in our grass -- so instead we have aggressive gray squirrels. They drop pine cone discards all year long: plunk onto the grass, thunk onto the deck, and duck! They fight with the stellar jays. Quail run here, a few bunnies. The deer graze on by. Each fall I plant a few tulips just for them. Also I hear rumors of coyotes. Two years ago my son and I glimpsed one in the park; a year ago my neighbor saw one chase down a rabbit. And every few months, someone loses a cat.
*
John Daniel tells the Native American story of Payatmu, who hailed the sun rise every day. When he stopped celebrating it, the sun stopped rising.
"The point is not that we should learn the Sioux language and perform the Sun Dance, or that we should plant corn in dry places and sing it up with Zuni song rituals. We can't simply borrow another culture's religious sensibility, evolved through ages, as we borrow a coat. Nor is it crucial to believe that certain words and actions cause the sun to come up. But it is very crucial to understand the sensibility from which such words and actions flow, to understand that the continuance of life depends on the thoughts, words and acts of each of us."
Remembering the Sacred Family, an essay within The Trail Home.
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
Autumn in Central Oregon
Well, that's it for my tomatoes. They froze last night.
It's autumn in Central Oregon. My mother, who grew up in Massachusetts, derides it. She says you can't tell the difference between the seasons out here.
True, we don't have a glorious display of color like you east coasters. If you want to really see the leaves change, you have to go out of your way -- you have to drive to Shevlin Park, or over one of the mountain passes. No, to sense autumn in Central Oregon, you have to pay closer attention.
The smell is different. The quality of the sunlight changes. It's still hot in the sun, but the shadows are longer and much cooler and, of course, the days are shorter. (When my husband takes the kids outside after work, he has to bring a backpack full of warm things that he piles onto them as they walk along. By the time they come back inside, their hands are freezing.)
The squirrels turn manic in the fall. The ponderosa in the middle of our back deck grows monumental pinecones which the squirrels decimate; they pull the nuts out, dropping each "leaf" of the pinecone onto the deck, and then they pitch the rest. Ka-thump. The sound on the roof is quite scary, and if you're on the deck when one of them falls -- well, God help you. The squirrels also grow braver and one will stand on the deck, sorting through the debris, while Sasha chatters at him from the other side of the screen door. One of her few multi-word sentences is, "Where'd the squirrel go?" asked with her palms upraised and her little eyes searching the tree limbs for a sign.
The Canadian geese have been practicing their formations and calling their particular autumn call; I haven't heard the doves in awhile (have I?); and there's a bird, which I do not think is a woodpecker but which does bang its head on the trees, that is making a new and very pretty sound.
And, of course, the neighborhood is silent during the day because the children are in school.
I love this time of year.
It's autumn in Central Oregon. My mother, who grew up in Massachusetts, derides it. She says you can't tell the difference between the seasons out here.
True, we don't have a glorious display of color like you east coasters. If you want to really see the leaves change, you have to go out of your way -- you have to drive to Shevlin Park, or over one of the mountain passes. No, to sense autumn in Central Oregon, you have to pay closer attention.
The smell is different. The quality of the sunlight changes. It's still hot in the sun, but the shadows are longer and much cooler and, of course, the days are shorter. (When my husband takes the kids outside after work, he has to bring a backpack full of warm things that he piles onto them as they walk along. By the time they come back inside, their hands are freezing.)
The squirrels turn manic in the fall. The ponderosa in the middle of our back deck grows monumental pinecones which the squirrels decimate; they pull the nuts out, dropping each "leaf" of the pinecone onto the deck, and then they pitch the rest. Ka-thump. The sound on the roof is quite scary, and if you're on the deck when one of them falls -- well, God help you. The squirrels also grow braver and one will stand on the deck, sorting through the debris, while Sasha chatters at him from the other side of the screen door. One of her few multi-word sentences is, "Where'd the squirrel go?" asked with her palms upraised and her little eyes searching the tree limbs for a sign.
The Canadian geese have been practicing their formations and calling their particular autumn call; I haven't heard the doves in awhile (have I?); and there's a bird, which I do not think is a woodpecker but which does bang its head on the trees, that is making a new and very pretty sound.
And, of course, the neighborhood is silent during the day because the children are in school.
I love this time of year.
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
Blogging Mt. Washington
After the first long slog through the trees, we reached the treeline and stopped to snack.
Brother-in-law heading toward the spine before the spire.
My nephew on the first pitch up the spire. This was the only place we roped up ascending; we rappelled down. See the tiny people down below? The orange hat is me, nervously waiting my turn.
That's the loo-oo-ong scree field we "surfed" down. And the gloriously flat alpine meadow which (eventually) took us back to our cars.
Thanks to Steve for the pictures. And the belay. And for helping fit my harness. And for carrying a large part of the gear. And...
Here is my first description of the climb.
Monday, August 29, 2005
Rethinking the climb
Q: You weren't clear. Did you enjoy the climb?
A: Yes, I did. There's nothing like standing up in the air like that, particularly in the Cascades, where the peaks are far apart. It must be better than flying, which I imagine to be noisy.
Q: Did you enjoy it enough to do it again?
A: I would only climb Mt. Washington again if:
Q: How about a mountain with less exposure?
A. If my husband is feeling well enough, we'll climb Broken Top in the next few weeks. He proposed to me there one Labor Day and we try to climb it around then every year.
Q: Does it change your outlook to put yourself in mortal danger like that?
A: Absolutely. Let me tell you this. When I got back home around 8pm Saturday night, Blake was so happy to see me that he nearly burst from his high chair. So I greeted him and my husband with tremendous hugs, gave my husband the five-minute lowdown on the trip, and then -- before having dinner myself, before changing my dusty clothes, before taking care of myself in any way -- I helped my son wash his hands & face and took him to the potty.
On an ordinary day I might have resented having to care for my child in this selfless way, when I was so completely exhausted myself. Not Saturday night. That night I felt that taking care of my child was a special treat -- that taking care of him is what makes me his mother -- that three years of such minutiae has informed our bond. Our relationship was built on the way we interact during parenting moments like diaper changes, trips to the mailbox, or washing hands.
A: Yes, I did. There's nothing like standing up in the air like that, particularly in the Cascades, where the peaks are far apart. It must be better than flying, which I imagine to be noisy.
Q: Did you enjoy it enough to do it again?
A: I would only climb Mt. Washington again if:
- if I got substantially more experience with climbing gear;
- if I had under my belt at least two rock faces not at the summit of a mountain;
- and if I was accompanied by at least two climbers more experienced than me.
Q: How about a mountain with less exposure?
A. If my husband is feeling well enough, we'll climb Broken Top in the next few weeks. He proposed to me there one Labor Day and we try to climb it around then every year.
Q: Does it change your outlook to put yourself in mortal danger like that?
A: Absolutely. Let me tell you this. When I got back home around 8pm Saturday night, Blake was so happy to see me that he nearly burst from his high chair. So I greeted him and my husband with tremendous hugs, gave my husband the five-minute lowdown on the trip, and then -- before having dinner myself, before changing my dusty clothes, before taking care of myself in any way -- I helped my son wash his hands & face and took him to the potty.
On an ordinary day I might have resented having to care for my child in this selfless way, when I was so completely exhausted myself. Not Saturday night. That night I felt that taking care of my child was a special treat -- that taking care of him is what makes me his mother -- that three years of such minutiae has informed our bond. Our relationship was built on the way we interact during parenting moments like diaper changes, trips to the mailbox, or washing hands.
Sunday, August 28, 2005
Above the ponderosas
We did it. We summitted Mt. Washington. It's the most scared I have ever been in my life.
First I have to say that I climbed with the best group of men in the world. Fun, funny, and just happy to be up there -- not in a race to summit. I would never have made it anywhere near the top without their help. They were incredibly patient and generous with my dad and me, who know next to nothing about harnesses, ropes and carabiners. Also, they carried the climbing gear. Thanks, guys.
Thanks also to my wonderful husband and mother-in-law, who watched the children so that I could climb.
So we drove to Hoodoo and then turned onto a dirt road, where we found the Pacific Crest Trail. We walked along it for about an hour. It's a nice hike through an alpine forest, feet shusshing in volcanic ash. Lots of beargrass and lupine in the understory; also huckleberries and wild strawberries, which, on the way back down, Jason and I stopped to eat. (Just for fun. A dozen huckleberries wouldn't feed a mouse.)
After an hour we turned onto the trail which climbs up the mountain. It was immediately steeper and less travelled than the PCT. We stepped over blown-down tree trunks, and the soft limbs of little pine trees swiped at my face -- lodgepole pine, mountain hemlock and whitebark pine, I think Steve said. It started out steep and then got even steeper, so that I huffed and turned red and we mostly stopped talking.
And then, abruptly: Boom. The top of Mt. Washington in our faces. We stood on bare lava rock with some pumice pebbles and stunted trees and bushes. Bees, ants. My brother-in-law showed us where the glacier had cut away at the side of the mountain -- a thousand feet below us, down that slope with the boulders at the base -- and one of the guys asked when that had been. Then they all riffed on how the glacier had been there up until the Reagan administration, when it rapidly began receding; revived a bit during Clinton's years; then disappeared altogether with the election of Bush Number Two. Everyone laughed but my dad, the sole Republican among us.
Above the treeline it was an exhilarating feet-and-hands scramble over fairly loose rock to gain the spire. We were not likely to fall, but if we did, we'd have bumped and slid down a scree slope, abraded head to toe, for several hundred feet.
So then we stood on a narrow ridge and the experienced climbers planned our route. One at a time we roped up to climb about 50 feet, with Terry holding back until last to be sure we all had our gear right and -- in my case, at least -- weren't paralyzed with fear. I have been to the climbing gym a few times, enough to know that this route had excellent hand-holds and lots of them, but I was terrified. I felt that I was in the sky, anchored to earth just barely by my hands and the tips of my shoes. Clutching abrasive volcanic rock.
Above that point we slowly picked our way to the top: foothold, handhold, foothold, handhold. It was not so steep that we needed a rope but we were definitely climbing. Up in the sky. When were finally reached the summit the others were joyous, practically leaping, but I held onto the rock for dear life. I wondered how the hell I'd get down. I watched the bees and butterflies which swooped around us, a flock of starlings, a golden eagle.
So much smoke on the horizon it looked like sunset. Wildfires are burning across the northwest.
From one side of our perch we could see nearly the full extent of the fire that burned two years ago from Suttle Lake to Mt. Jefferson, plus all the beetle-killed trees interspersed in what remains. From the other side we could see the lava flow from Belknap Crater. 1500 years old and there's still nothing growing in it but lichen. It's an interesting juxtaposition.
Anyway, we got off the spire by downclimbing and roping up for one belay and a rappel. The rappel was an act of faith. I was so scared I put it immediately out of my mind, so sorry, I can't describe it. I'll post the pictures when I get them.
Rather than hiking back down that steep trail we decided to surf the scree field. It was a several hundred foot slope of volcanic ash and beautiful pumice stones (pink, green and purple; they made me think of big, sharp Fruity Pebbles). Each step set off a small avalanche of pumice stones; if I balanced right I'd slide with it. Step and slide, step and slide.
At the base of the scree field is an alpine meadow, pictures of which convinced me to attempt this climb in the first place. Yellow flowers everywhere. I was still unsteady and wanted to walk holding onto rocks, but this was a (comparatively) flat dirt trail. Two or three hours later we reached our cars.
Ten miles round trip. My whole body felt sleepy and I needed to oil my knees. I did not feel safe again until I stepped into my house.
Here's a nice picture. (The men took lots of photos but I haven't seen any yet.) No snow when we climbed, of course.
First I have to say that I climbed with the best group of men in the world. Fun, funny, and just happy to be up there -- not in a race to summit. I would never have made it anywhere near the top without their help. They were incredibly patient and generous with my dad and me, who know next to nothing about harnesses, ropes and carabiners. Also, they carried the climbing gear. Thanks, guys.
Thanks also to my wonderful husband and mother-in-law, who watched the children so that I could climb.
So we drove to Hoodoo and then turned onto a dirt road, where we found the Pacific Crest Trail. We walked along it for about an hour. It's a nice hike through an alpine forest, feet shusshing in volcanic ash. Lots of beargrass and lupine in the understory; also huckleberries and wild strawberries, which, on the way back down, Jason and I stopped to eat. (Just for fun. A dozen huckleberries wouldn't feed a mouse.)
After an hour we turned onto the trail which climbs up the mountain. It was immediately steeper and less travelled than the PCT. We stepped over blown-down tree trunks, and the soft limbs of little pine trees swiped at my face -- lodgepole pine, mountain hemlock and whitebark pine, I think Steve said. It started out steep and then got even steeper, so that I huffed and turned red and we mostly stopped talking.
And then, abruptly: Boom. The top of Mt. Washington in our faces. We stood on bare lava rock with some pumice pebbles and stunted trees and bushes. Bees, ants. My brother-in-law showed us where the glacier had cut away at the side of the mountain -- a thousand feet below us, down that slope with the boulders at the base -- and one of the guys asked when that had been. Then they all riffed on how the glacier had been there up until the Reagan administration, when it rapidly began receding; revived a bit during Clinton's years; then disappeared altogether with the election of Bush Number Two. Everyone laughed but my dad, the sole Republican among us.
Above the treeline it was an exhilarating feet-and-hands scramble over fairly loose rock to gain the spire. We were not likely to fall, but if we did, we'd have bumped and slid down a scree slope, abraded head to toe, for several hundred feet.
So then we stood on a narrow ridge and the experienced climbers planned our route. One at a time we roped up to climb about 50 feet, with Terry holding back until last to be sure we all had our gear right and -- in my case, at least -- weren't paralyzed with fear. I have been to the climbing gym a few times, enough to know that this route had excellent hand-holds and lots of them, but I was terrified. I felt that I was in the sky, anchored to earth just barely by my hands and the tips of my shoes. Clutching abrasive volcanic rock.
Above that point we slowly picked our way to the top: foothold, handhold, foothold, handhold. It was not so steep that we needed a rope but we were definitely climbing. Up in the sky. When were finally reached the summit the others were joyous, practically leaping, but I held onto the rock for dear life. I wondered how the hell I'd get down. I watched the bees and butterflies which swooped around us, a flock of starlings, a golden eagle.
So much smoke on the horizon it looked like sunset. Wildfires are burning across the northwest.
From one side of our perch we could see nearly the full extent of the fire that burned two years ago from Suttle Lake to Mt. Jefferson, plus all the beetle-killed trees interspersed in what remains. From the other side we could see the lava flow from Belknap Crater. 1500 years old and there's still nothing growing in it but lichen. It's an interesting juxtaposition.
Anyway, we got off the spire by downclimbing and roping up for one belay and a rappel. The rappel was an act of faith. I was so scared I put it immediately out of my mind, so sorry, I can't describe it. I'll post the pictures when I get them.
Rather than hiking back down that steep trail we decided to surf the scree field. It was a several hundred foot slope of volcanic ash and beautiful pumice stones (pink, green and purple; they made me think of big, sharp Fruity Pebbles). Each step set off a small avalanche of pumice stones; if I balanced right I'd slide with it. Step and slide, step and slide.
At the base of the scree field is an alpine meadow, pictures of which convinced me to attempt this climb in the first place. Yellow flowers everywhere. I was still unsteady and wanted to walk holding onto rocks, but this was a (comparatively) flat dirt trail. Two or three hours later we reached our cars.
Ten miles round trip. My whole body felt sleepy and I needed to oil my knees. I did not feel safe again until I stepped into my house.
Here's a nice picture. (The men took lots of photos but I haven't seen any yet.) No snow when we climbed, of course.
Sunday, July 10, 2005
You're turning violet, Violet
This weekend Bend hosted the Cascade Cycling Classic and the Summer Festival, and a nationally reknown Quilt Show was in nearby Sisters. So we left town.
Saturday morning I grabbed some buckets, some bags and my boy and we drove 125 miles (200 km) to a u-pick blueberry farm in the valley. (Only tiny, wild berries grow in plenty in Central Oregon: strawberries, huckleberries, serviceberries, currants. And juniper berries.) It was awesome. Blake was awesome. He's such a joy.
He talked nonstop the whole time. Sometimes he was conversing with me, but mostly he was just talking. He talked about his movie, about his daycare, about how funny it is to put a bucket on one's head. He entertained himself for about half an hour in the car with his bucket: I have a yellow head! I have a helmet on my head! I'm hiding! If Sasha were here, she couldn't find me! Then he tore the handle off and spent another 15 minutes expressing concern about his ability to pick berries if he didn't have a bucket with a handle.
The Fitchett blueberry farm is just about an acre, neat rows of old bushes dripping with ripe berries. It's bounded on one side by a blackberry thicket and on two sides by a stand of cedars. The Willamette river flows behind the cedars. It was the most fragrant place! Also quiet. When we lived in Portland I picked berries on Sauvie Island on farms that people operate for a living. The Fitchett farm is more dilettante. Pick your berries and put your money in a jar. No one was there but Blake and me.
My three-year-old son spent two hours picking berries. Imagine! Mostly he picked them and ate them, or picked them and threw them into spider webs (he is fascinated by spider webs at the moment), but I know he saved quite a few because between us we picked eight pounds (3 1/2 kg) of blueberries. Eight pounds!
*
Did you know that blueberries are filled with cheese and bananas? Blake, who squished quite a few, told me so. If you squish some you'll see that he's right.
*
Sasha spent the day with her dad. When we got home, she was perched quite happily in her high chair, eating grapes and Cheerios and yammering at her pop. The kitchen was spotless. C. said Sasha was happy as could be all day, played by herself a lot, napped for two hours. When she saw me she was pleased but, you know, no big deal. Hey Mom, glad you're back! Now Dad, as I was saying...
*
I don't mean to say that my children are perfect. Blake whined for the final half hour in the car ride there, and on the way back had a 20-minute meltdown that ceased only when I stopped in a restaurant that has a train running on a track near the ceiling. Sasha woke up from her nap just pissed, C. said. She yelled from the bike trailer on the ride to his sister's house.
But those are small things. On the whole, we all had a blast.
Saturday morning I grabbed some buckets, some bags and my boy and we drove 125 miles (200 km) to a u-pick blueberry farm in the valley. (Only tiny, wild berries grow in plenty in Central Oregon: strawberries, huckleberries, serviceberries, currants. And juniper berries.) It was awesome. Blake was awesome. He's such a joy.
He talked nonstop the whole time. Sometimes he was conversing with me, but mostly he was just talking. He talked about his movie, about his daycare, about how funny it is to put a bucket on one's head. He entertained himself for about half an hour in the car with his bucket: I have a yellow head! I have a helmet on my head! I'm hiding! If Sasha were here, she couldn't find me! Then he tore the handle off and spent another 15 minutes expressing concern about his ability to pick berries if he didn't have a bucket with a handle.
The Fitchett blueberry farm is just about an acre, neat rows of old bushes dripping with ripe berries. It's bounded on one side by a blackberry thicket and on two sides by a stand of cedars. The Willamette river flows behind the cedars. It was the most fragrant place! Also quiet. When we lived in Portland I picked berries on Sauvie Island on farms that people operate for a living. The Fitchett farm is more dilettante. Pick your berries and put your money in a jar. No one was there but Blake and me.
My three-year-old son spent two hours picking berries. Imagine! Mostly he picked them and ate them, or picked them and threw them into spider webs (he is fascinated by spider webs at the moment), but I know he saved quite a few because between us we picked eight pounds (3 1/2 kg) of blueberries. Eight pounds!
*
Did you know that blueberries are filled with cheese and bananas? Blake, who squished quite a few, told me so. If you squish some you'll see that he's right.
*
Sasha spent the day with her dad. When we got home, she was perched quite happily in her high chair, eating grapes and Cheerios and yammering at her pop. The kitchen was spotless. C. said Sasha was happy as could be all day, played by herself a lot, napped for two hours. When she saw me she was pleased but, you know, no big deal. Hey Mom, glad you're back! Now Dad, as I was saying...
*
I don't mean to say that my children are perfect. Blake whined for the final half hour in the car ride there, and on the way back had a 20-minute meltdown that ceased only when I stopped in a restaurant that has a train running on a track near the ceiling. Sasha woke up from her nap just pissed, C. said. She yelled from the bike trailer on the ride to his sister's house.
But those are small things. On the whole, we all had a blast.
Monday, June 27, 2005
Ants
While pulling weeds from one of our flower beds, I disturbed some ants. I pulled up the root of a weed, turning over the soil, and hundreds of tiny black ants swarmed. Blake came by to watch.
So many ants covered the area where the soil had turned that it seemed the ground was moving. After a moment they dissipated slightly (where did they go?) and those remaining clustered around what looked like five grains of rice. Moving furiously, they unearthed a small hole and dragged the rice into it. With the rice underground they seemed to calm down. Most of the ants left. A half dozen hung around the hole they had made, working with bits of bark dust; I thought they were probably disguising the hole.
Apparently I disturbed an ant nest and unburied their eggs. I knew ants lived in that area -- these black ants love the ponderosa trees -- but I didn't realize they had a nest there. I was just pulling some weeds.
*
Human activity in Bend is like that. I didn't realize anyone was living there. Sorry. Sorry, cougars. Sorry, owls.
*
Last summer the city widened Skyliner Road, which runs a few hundred yards south of our house. They added bike lanes, curbs and a sidewalk. I had never seen a road rebuilt before. It was fascinating. Blake and I walked up there every few days. (Once he brought his wheelbarrow along, utterly charming the construction crew.)
One evening Blake updated his dad on the road's progress, and they decided to walk up together. It was nearly finished then; the curbs and guardrail were in place, but the drain pipes were still exposed.
As they approached the road, C. heard the quail crying. He and Blake watched two adult quail dashing back and forth on the far side, clearly in a panic. Their babies were stuck in the road. They couldn't hop the curb. C. walked over -- further panicking the parents -- and lifted them up. Then he heard more cheaping and discovered more babies inside the drain. A few of those babies were alive, just barely; C. climbed into the drain and rescued those, too. He placed them near the parents.
When they returned home, Blake was full of excitement, telling me how he and daddy had rescued baby quail.
So many ants covered the area where the soil had turned that it seemed the ground was moving. After a moment they dissipated slightly (where did they go?) and those remaining clustered around what looked like five grains of rice. Moving furiously, they unearthed a small hole and dragged the rice into it. With the rice underground they seemed to calm down. Most of the ants left. A half dozen hung around the hole they had made, working with bits of bark dust; I thought they were probably disguising the hole.
Apparently I disturbed an ant nest and unburied their eggs. I knew ants lived in that area -- these black ants love the ponderosa trees -- but I didn't realize they had a nest there. I was just pulling some weeds.
*
Human activity in Bend is like that. I didn't realize anyone was living there. Sorry. Sorry, cougars. Sorry, owls.
*
Last summer the city widened Skyliner Road, which runs a few hundred yards south of our house. They added bike lanes, curbs and a sidewalk. I had never seen a road rebuilt before. It was fascinating. Blake and I walked up there every few days. (Once he brought his wheelbarrow along, utterly charming the construction crew.)
One evening Blake updated his dad on the road's progress, and they decided to walk up together. It was nearly finished then; the curbs and guardrail were in place, but the drain pipes were still exposed.
As they approached the road, C. heard the quail crying. He and Blake watched two adult quail dashing back and forth on the far side, clearly in a panic. Their babies were stuck in the road. They couldn't hop the curb. C. walked over -- further panicking the parents -- and lifted them up. Then he heard more cheaping and discovered more babies inside the drain. A few of those babies were alive, just barely; C. climbed into the drain and rescued those, too. He placed them near the parents.
When they returned home, Blake was full of excitement, telling me how he and daddy had rescued baby quail.
Friday, June 17, 2005
Bug of the Month
Our master bedroom has a long window along the north side of the house which looks directly at my neighbor's garage -- so, of course, our curtain is nearly always drawn. But in the mornings Blake climbs into bed to wake me, and then I rescue Sasha (since he wakes her when he leaves their room; or, if she is already awake, she's vocal about being left behind), and then I raise the blinds to see what the day presents us.
At this time of year it's a lovely way to wake. It's nearly always sunny in the morning, damp from sprinklers. A young, ethereal vine maple which grows beside the house casts a green shadow. At the moment this vine maple has tiny, reddish flowers growing in clusters. The bees love them.
Two different species of bees hover constantly around this tree. I find it so interesting. I had to look it up. One species is clearly a bumblebee: a fat yellow and black thing with wings so tiny it's amazing it can fly. It's cute. The other species is long and thin with three distinct body sections: classic insect. It is not cute. It's not particularly notable except in contrast to the bumblee. But I looked around for awhile and I believe this is a leaf-cutter bee, which makes its home in underground holes that it lines with pieces of leaf. The leaf-cutter bee was Bug of the Month at the Pacific Northwest Native Gardening Society in August 1996.
*
Sasha has been weaning herself. Twice today she refused to nurse. Wait, wait! How do I get her back to sleep in the night if she won't nurse?
At this time of year it's a lovely way to wake. It's nearly always sunny in the morning, damp from sprinklers. A young, ethereal vine maple which grows beside the house casts a green shadow. At the moment this vine maple has tiny, reddish flowers growing in clusters. The bees love them.
Two different species of bees hover constantly around this tree. I find it so interesting. I had to look it up. One species is clearly a bumblebee: a fat yellow and black thing with wings so tiny it's amazing it can fly. It's cute. The other species is long and thin with three distinct body sections: classic insect. It is not cute. It's not particularly notable except in contrast to the bumblee. But I looked around for awhile and I believe this is a leaf-cutter bee, which makes its home in underground holes that it lines with pieces of leaf. The leaf-cutter bee was Bug of the Month at the Pacific Northwest Native Gardening Society in August 1996.
*
Sasha has been weaning herself. Twice today she refused to nurse. Wait, wait! How do I get her back to sleep in the night if she won't nurse?
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
Frontiers part 2
I am sitting down to write before 11pm. Woo-hoo! C. is in Portland for a-night-and-a-day, and both kids (having spent 2 hours in a kiddie pool in the sun) fell asleep early. So here I am.
To elaborate on the frontier.
Oregon is obviously a frontier in LeGuin's first sense: a great rush of people came here in (as she says) a stormfront, not long ago, and utterly remade it to suit themselves -- killing or displacing the people and most of the animals who had been here, knocking down trees, re-routing streams, damming rivers, building roads and houses and towers...
But then something interesting happened. The people changed. This place changed them; they changed as they adapted to it; and so while at first they were "the people who came here," they transmuted into "the people who live here."
Now they are on the other side of the frontier. They are Oregonians. They live and breathe and raise children here; this is their everyday reality; and though it is not what it was, still they love what it is.
But today – especially in Bend – another great rush of people is coming. These new people have different ideas about what constitutes a good town, and Bend, while a great place, is not precisely what they had in mind; so they want to alter it. Also, they’ve got emotional baggage. They’re scared of certain things and try to protect themselves against them – whether they ought to still be scared, here, or not. (Hence the gated communities. Medians. Etc.) And they behave in a way that seems to be a reaction to a hurried environment – brusque, curt – that just doesn’t exist here.
So the people who live here, the people who consider themselves Bendites, find that their town – as well as the forests and desert -- are being transformed under their feet. And if they want to speak with these newcomers, they have to use words and concepts that the newcomers understand. And risk being changed themselves – or (even worse?) risk learning to see this place as the new people see it, forgetting what they originally valued, until it’s gone.
To elaborate on the frontier.
Oregon is obviously a frontier in LeGuin's first sense: a great rush of people came here in (as she says) a stormfront, not long ago, and utterly remade it to suit themselves -- killing or displacing the people and most of the animals who had been here, knocking down trees, re-routing streams, damming rivers, building roads and houses and towers...
But then something interesting happened. The people changed. This place changed them; they changed as they adapted to it; and so while at first they were "the people who came here," they transmuted into "the people who live here."
Now they are on the other side of the frontier. They are Oregonians. They live and breathe and raise children here; this is their everyday reality; and though it is not what it was, still they love what it is.
But today – especially in Bend – another great rush of people is coming. These new people have different ideas about what constitutes a good town, and Bend, while a great place, is not precisely what they had in mind; so they want to alter it. Also, they’ve got emotional baggage. They’re scared of certain things and try to protect themselves against them – whether they ought to still be scared, here, or not. (Hence the gated communities. Medians. Etc.) And they behave in a way that seems to be a reaction to a hurried environment – brusque, curt – that just doesn’t exist here.
So the people who live here, the people who consider themselves Bendites, find that their town – as well as the forests and desert -- are being transformed under their feet. And if they want to speak with these newcomers, they have to use words and concepts that the newcomers understand. And risk being changed themselves – or (even worse?) risk learning to see this place as the new people see it, forgetting what they originally valued, until it’s gone.
Monday, May 23, 2005
Frontiers
"On the Frontier" an essay by Ursula LeGuin published in "The Wave in the Mind."
This is what it's like to have grown up in Bend. LeGuin has her own pacing, but I chopped it to be blog length.
"A frontier has two sides. It is an interface, a threshold, a liminal site...
"The front side, the yang side, the side that calls itself the frontier, that's where you boldly go where no one has gone before, rushing forward like a stormfront, like a battlefront. Nothing before you is real. It is empty space ... and therefore full of dream and promise. ...And so you go there. Seeking gold, seeking land, annexing all before you, you expand your world.
"The other side of the frontier, the yin side: that's where you live. You always lived there. It's all around you, it's always been. It is the real world, the true and certain world, full of reality.
"And it is where they come...
"Coming from another world, they take yours from you, changing it, draining it, shrinking it into a property, a commodity. And as your world is meaningless to them until they change it into theirs, so as you live among them and adopt their meanings, you are in danger of losing your own meaning to yourself."
If you have to explain yourself using their words, or define yourself according to terms they understand, and forget your own words for yourself, "you are in danger of losing your own meaning to yourself."
*
The other blogging moms I read are urban -- Toronto, Philly, DC -- and they never write about trees or birds or squirrels or dogs or anything, really, but humans and the environment built by humans. Why is that?
This is what it's like to have grown up in Bend. LeGuin has her own pacing, but I chopped it to be blog length.
"A frontier has two sides. It is an interface, a threshold, a liminal site...
"The front side, the yang side, the side that calls itself the frontier, that's where you boldly go where no one has gone before, rushing forward like a stormfront, like a battlefront. Nothing before you is real. It is empty space ... and therefore full of dream and promise. ...And so you go there. Seeking gold, seeking land, annexing all before you, you expand your world.
"The other side of the frontier, the yin side: that's where you live. You always lived there. It's all around you, it's always been. It is the real world, the true and certain world, full of reality.
"And it is where they come...
"Coming from another world, they take yours from you, changing it, draining it, shrinking it into a property, a commodity. And as your world is meaningless to them until they change it into theirs, so as you live among them and adopt their meanings, you are in danger of losing your own meaning to yourself."
If you have to explain yourself using their words, or define yourself according to terms they understand, and forget your own words for yourself, "you are in danger of losing your own meaning to yourself."
*
The other blogging moms I read are urban -- Toronto, Philly, DC -- and they never write about trees or birds or squirrels or dogs or anything, really, but humans and the environment built by humans. Why is that?
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