Al Gore was right!

Must be global warming.

How else can I explain the fact that we spent 4 days in Omaha over Christmas and never saw it snow? And that on Christmas Day, we received an emailed photo from our neighbor of Woodhaven covered in freshly fallen fluffy? And that this morning we woke up to more glorious white stuff gently wafting to cover our grass, poppies, driveway, and grapevines? Who wudda thought that the Portland, Oregon metro would have a white Christmas and Omaha wouldn’t? I’m resting easy knowing that Al Gore really did deserve his noble medal.

I have to admit, I was disappointed when it looked like we wouldn’t be able to return from Omaha with tales of weather disasters. Seems to be our thing. One of our all-time favorite quotes was something a dear friend said upon tales of our Kauai Weather Disaster Trip 2006: You either have a great trip or a great story. Rob and I cling to that philosophy during our travels.

The only Weather Disaster to report from Omaha Christmas 2007 was the 9 hours it took to fly home. We were supposed to travel through Denver -- and eventually did -- but we made a scenic detour to Colorado Springs first. We sat there for only a couple of hours, waiting for Denver visibility and our aircraft’s potty tanks to clear. Upon arrival in Denver, we were stunned that our delayed connecting flight was in the final stages of boarding. Somewhere in the food court between Gates A27 and A46 I came to the heartbreaking realization that no, Rob and I really couldn’t be strong competitors on “The Amazing Race.” It turns out I’m not much of a runner. Wheezing, I’m covered. Dashing through an airport at 5000ft elevation wearing the closest thing to snow boots that I own – I’m pathetic. But it was lucky that we ran and coughed and wheezed because our flight’s jetway’s doors were closed. They opened them just in time for us to get settled in for another hour wait at the gate followed by 2 hours in the de-icing line. Of course, our luggage didn’t make the transfer. Judging from the little tags and flyers, the Denver TSA killed time inspecting bags that were left behind. Gratefully, the Big Red Microwave Popcorn on the Cob souvenir that we bought for our cat sitters was not confiscated during the inspection.

Since it’s snowing this morning, Rob and I have decided it’s the perfect time to exchange our Christmas gifts to each other. A few days late, but we’ll have our White Christmas after all.

The Stroller Story

When I was about 4 years old, I spotted a truly lovely doll stroller in the toy section of the JC Penney catalog. It was navy blue with white rubber wheels and had a canopy with little fringe on it. What truly made it special, though, was it was a double seater. Not only did it have a comfy seat facing forward, it had once facing backwards. Just perfect for taking my beloved Drowsy and Emily dolls out for walks. No longer would I have to make the heart-breaking choice between them. I could take them both!

Dutifully following my military dad’s rules, I carefully entered the stroller on my Christmas list: Description, catalog name, page number, and price. I was sure Santa knew how much I wanted this stroller. And how much Drowsy and Emily would enjoy outings together. Christmas came and…no stroller. Christmas came again and…no stroller. That stroller was on my Christmas list for a good 4 or 5 years and it never came.

I eventually outgrew the need for dolls and strollers but I never outgrew my wistfulness for that gift that never came. I talked about “never getting that stroller” so often, it became a family joke. Even Rob, after just two years of marriage, grew tired of the story and bought me a doll stroller for Christmas. I was 24 and fell in love with him all over again for his kindness but…it wasn’t the right stroller. It was plastic and pink and there was only room for one doll. We kept it around as a joke for a few years but eventually it found its way to Goodwill for a little girl who would truly appreciate it.

I wasn’t sure why I never got that blue stroller, so I recently asked Dad. I could hear in his amused sigh him thinking “At 39, we’re STILL talking about that silly stroller???” But we had a good laugh as he explained that in the multiple pages of each year’s Christmas list, it wasn’t easy for Santa to figure out which toy was the most important to bring. Sounding a little apologetic, he said, “I guess we just missed the mark.” Now that I know I wasn’t being taught some eternal lesson about not always getting what you want, I think I might finally let go of The Stroller Story.


P.S. This story was recently published(!). If you want details, shoot me an email.

No, they aren't paying me to post this

When I was a kid, I often saw Mom writing letters to companies when she had a problem with one of their products. They weren’t nasty-grams; they were just friendly “thought you should know” letters. There never seemed to be any expectation of compensation or “making good.” This was evidenced by the entire family’s stunned reaction to a huge box arriving one day after Mom sent a concerned “thought you should know about the rusty safety pin I found in a container of your bay leaves” letter to McCormick. The box contained a huge wooden spice rack and a jar of every single spice McCormick made. Mom wasn’t the litigious type; McCormick was obviously grateful.

Learning at Mom’s typewriter, when I was about 8 years old I wrote my very first “thought you should know” letter to a nice puzzle company. I had spent quite a few hours proudly assembling a new 500 piece puzzle of stuffed animals and discovered there was one piece missing. I had a hobby of gluing puzzles together and hanging them on my bedroom walls, so I really wanted that missing piece. I smartly traced the missing piece onto the corner of my letter and naively asked the nice puzzle company to mail me that grand finale piece. I was filled with the warm satisfaction of consumer fightback when the company sent me a WHOLE NEW PUZZLE!! Yes, that meant I had to put it together all over again, but that was ok by me. I love puzzles.

So, over the years, I have continued in Mom’s tradition by occasionally sending companies letters – some of them nasty-grams and some of them full of praise. I mailed my most recent one shortly after Thanksgiving and did not expect the company's reaction I got just a few days ago.

Rob and I are huge Southwest Airlines fans. We became very loyal to them after we used up all our United frequent flier miles and got disillusioned by the not-quite-so-friendly-now-that-we’re-bankrupt skies. We fly Southwest probably 4 or 5 times a year, so we are pretty familiar with how they work. But, they recently made some changes to how they handle boarding procedures. A Thanksgiving trip to California provided us our first glimpse at the new way of shuffling onto the plane. We mostly liked it – a lot. But there was one part we didn’t like and didn’t quite understand. A breezy chat with a flight attendant suggested the VIPs might like some feedback, so I wrote a letter when we got home. It was mostly a “LUV what you are doing” letter with one plea to please reinstitute pre-boarding for families with small kids. I felt dutiful for having passed along my thoughts but didn’t expect any sort of response, save for perhaps a “thank you for sharing” form letter.

So it totally blew me away a couple of days ago when the phone rang and it was a very nice woman from Southwest’s Customer Relations. She said she had read my letter, that it would be reviewed with their Vice President in a weekly meeting, and that they really appreciated my taking the time to write to them. She also explained the thinking behind the change in family boarding – and heck if it didn’t make sense! I told her I was stunned to hear from her. She said that Southwest makes a point to personally address each letter it receives. I said, “Yeah, sure, I’ve heard that but I didn’t really believe it until now.” I was even more surprised when I realized afterwards that she had had to do some research to get our phone number since I hadn’t included that in the letter.

It wasn't a spice rack or a puzzle, but just being acknowledged was actually pretty cool.

Orange ya glad I didn't say Wal-Mart?

It was in both of our newspapers last week and I’m still not sure how I feel about it.

It looks like our little town is growing up. Slated to break ground next summer, it seems we will be the proud new target audience of an orangey, boxy store. Yep, you better watch out, you better not cry, you better not pout, I’m tellin’ you why: Home Depot is comin’ to town.

Part of me is sad and annoyed. I like our town the way it is, now that I’m an old-timer at 3.5 years. A big box like Home Depot can only signal the arrival of more large packages. And increased traffic. And a likely negative impact on our awesome little farm store just a few blocks up from where the orange ground will be broken. Worst, best we can tell, the Depot’s parking lot will displace one of my favorite attractions on Main Street: a small herd of longhorn cattle. Yes, just down from Albertsons and next to the road paving company, there is a herd of pointy longhorns just hanging out, reminding folks that this town was a lot more rural not so long ago.

But, on the plus side, the fact that Home Depot is interested in displacing small businesses here suggests we’re a growing, vital community. It also means that we will only be 15 minutes away instead of 30 from exchanging the inevitably wrong-sized part for all upcoming home improvement projects. And it means we will likely get a couple new fast-food joints as part of the deal. We’re hoping for Wienerschnitzel or Wendy’s. Well, honestly, we’d really love an In-n-Out Burger but since our “in” of a brother recently quit the company, our pleas for Double Doubles to move farther northward now fall on "la-la-la-can't-hear-you" ears.

As a sign of odd consumer loyalty, I know I’d be a whole lot more excited about all this if it were a Lowe’s invading the countryside. I like blue much better.

For that "Hard to Buy For" person on your list

A friend recently sent me a link to a handy little kitchen gadget. I’m really tempted to get one of these conversation starters for Rob. I especially admire Hillary's power stance. Interestingly, I can’t seem to find a version for George W. I guess when people think nutcracker, few think dub-ya.

Even more interesting: the variety of products listed towards the bottom of the page. A quick scroll of the “Customers Who Viewed This Item Also Viewed” line-up reveals these other must-haves:

• An Edge Brownie Pan – it’s supposed to be a "chewy edge lover’s dream come true," but honestly, it looks more like a large intestine to me.


• Slingshot Flying Monkey – for when you’ve really lost all your marbles.


• The Ouch Toothpick Holder – in the shape of a man for that after-dinner voodoo that you do so well.


• Personality Trait Beer Bands – a way to mark your territory and proclaim yourself a snob, tease, control freak, desperate, bed wetter, and more! As their description inspires: “Get yours today and never drink backwash again!” Any wonder why I prefer wine?


• "The Ex" Five Piece Knife Set with Unique Holder – “The whimsically unique holder features an anonymous effigy design that can be dedicated to anyone.” Anyone anonymously male, apparently.


• Kyjen Elf Hat – Oddly, the description doesn’t say anything about it being for the dogs.


• Dr. Noys Cat Squirrel -- I thought this was some redneck reference, so I had high hopes for Christmas ideas. Instead, it is sadly just a cat toy. In actuality, though, it looks like either a hairball or a bad toupee balled up in a fit of beer-placated rejection.


• Tee Time Toilet Potty Putter -- Hard to believe there are NO reviews for this gem. Frighteningly, it is "As Seen on TV." More intriguing: customers who bought this also bought a variety of wall sconces. All the better to read the green with?

My absolute favorite:

• Holy Toast Stamper -- Buy this, toast up a loaf of holy Wonder, and prepare to make millions on ebay! Man does not live on bread alone, you know.

P.S. Very interesting to see how often the lists change. Just in the time to post this, the lists of other viewed and purchased items have been updated. Guess a lot of people are checking out Hillary. And trust me -- the Potty Putter people really were also buying wall sconces. I couldn't make that up if I tried!

Pimp Daddy, RIP

A few months after we arrived in our little town, we realized there were a few folks we saw pretty regularly walking along Main Street. There was the teenager with the tall ‘80s-style blue mohawk who held court at the tables outside Burgerville. There was the lanky guy we named Clyde (real name Bruce – see February 16 post) who always wore a Confederate hat and spats over his walking shoes. And then there was Pimp Daddy.

Pimp Daddy was literally a little old man whom we saw just about weekly. He walked with purpose and a slight hunch. Rain or shine, he always sported a fedora and a well-worn tweed blazer. Typically two or three paces behind him, his equally little wife scampered to keep up with him. He obviously had places to go and people to see.

Once, while we were in Burgerville, Pimp Daddy and his wife stopped in for some coffee and chit chat. Pimp Daddy didn’t seem to know a stranger. Indeed, he even chatted with Rob for a few minutes while I stood there giddily feeling like we were in the presence of a rock star. “Rob’s talking to PIMP DADDY!!”

About a year or so ago, we realized we hadn’t seen Pimp Daddy or his wife in a while. We were understandably a bit worried, but there was no way to know what had happened. Until last week’s newspaper.

Flipping through on my way to the Letters to the Editor, I came across a pretty substantial article on the Obituary page. The photo, taken in 1977, was undeniably Pimp Daddy, recognizable even without the fedora. His real name was Marvin and he died last Sunday at 92. He was born locally in the bunkhouse of lumber company and died locally in a foster care home after suffering from dementia and complications from pneumonia. His wife Mabel is still around. And Pimp Daddy’s career? In addition to semipro baseball, boxing, and real estate brokering, Pimp Daddy was once our town’s mayor.

Of course.

Our Anniversary Trip Blew

We just got back a few hours ago from what was to be a quiet, relaxing, scenic few days on the Oregon coast in celebration of our 17th wedding anniversary. What we got instead was a heck of an adventure. We are very fortunate that we were never in any real danger and that none of our property was damaged. We also went into the situation with the vaguest hint of what we might encounter, so we had lots of food, water, flashlights, reading material, and fully charged cell phones. All came in very handy except the cell phones.

It seems to have made the national news, given a couple emails we’ve received. The wind and rain storms that hit here over the weekend appear to have been doozies. We were sort of stranded communication-wise; we are only starting to learn ourselves the extent of the damage across Oregon and Washington.

We headed to a coastal town called Cannon Beach on Saturday afternoon. We originally planned to leave on Sunday but the forecast suggested an earlier start would be smart. (A friend today mothered that, no, the forecast suggested we shouldn’t have gone in the first place. Yeah, yeah.) I called the hotel Saturday morning and asked about their preparations for the predicted hurricane-force winds:

“Oh, we’ll be fine! We’ve got lots of lanterns and candles. All the
rooms have gas fireplaces, and our kitchen is run almost entirely on gas, so there will be plenty of heat and food. Come on down!”

Heck of a sales guy, he.

So we packed up our sturdy little SUV, added chains and a cooler of provisions, and ventured over the coastal range in the rain. Somewhere around 500 feet, it turned to snow. Then it got dark. Then it got really snowy. Then a pick-up truck four cars in front of us got freaked out by the experience and slowed to 12mph. The line of headlights behind us seemed to stretch back into Portland. Frustrated idiots decided to pass at various opportunities. I got freaked out when it wasn’t clear where the road was and whether there really were any passing lanes. I regularly told Rob how grateful I was he was driving. He didn’t admit until we got to our hotel that he wasn’t much more comfortable than I was with the snowy trudge over the mountains.

Sunday started off warm and cozy. It was definitely stormy, making us feel smart for having started our trip a day early. We enjoyed lingering hot showers, not knowing they would be our last until just a few hours ago.

Somewhere on Sunday afternoon, the power went out. It was fun and novel and lasted just long enough for the hotel staff to get out all of the promised lanterns and candles, for the chef to finalize his cooking-in-the-dark contingency plans, and for the ten or so other couples staying at the hotel to let out a collective, “Awww!” when the lights came on during the candle lit Wine & Cheese Happy Hour. Naively patting ourselves on the back for “surviving” several hours of powerless vacationing, we all enjoyed a great dinner in the incandescently lit dining room.

Back in the room at about 9:30pm, we were watching the “This Just In” weather reports. Wind in our town had reached 80mph. Then the power went out again, along with the hardwire phone system. Then a cell tower apparently blew over. In a gust, we were isolated and had absolutely no way to communicate beyond our little seaside town. Not much had changed when we finally left this morning, although the newspaper – 3 days worth – was delivered, giving proof that a road back to civilization was finally open. Rumors suggested power would be back on by the end of today.

Aside from the lack of power, phones, hot water, and passable roads out, we had a fantastic time. Truly. And if we had had hot water, we could have happily hung out for several more days. The place we stayed was tremendous. All power outages should be experienced so decadently. I’m too embarrassed to tell you what we ate; I’ll just say we brought most of our provisions home with us. People read by windows and played games by candlelight. I wrote Christmas cards and watched seagulls. I discovered you can judge the strength of the wind by the behavior of the birds. Really strong winds found them hunkered down in a flock behind a grassy berm. This morning we finally saw them flying again.

Over the course of our stay, we bonded with Chuck and Phyllis and Lisa and Tom and Karen and Hahn. There’s a really good shot we’ll see them all there again next year. We shared some hearty laughs, like when Tom turned to a dimly lit woman on Monday night and asked, “So how long have you been here?” We joked that it wouldn’t be long before the question became, “What are you in for?” We also laughed about how our storm stories when we got back home might get embellished a bit. A few minutes later, Hahn was flipping through a photo album the hotel had from a previous storm that had produced a log flying through a lobby window. Oh so quietly, Hahn started taking pictures of those pictures. Brilliant! Although we don’t have a lobby log in our story, Hahn does!

By the time we were packing up this morning by lantern light (one of the few still working – the hotel had already gone through 30 packs of batteries), we were ready to be home. Our freezing cold sponge baths the past three days left us a tad gamey, and last night I resorted to reading the owner’s manual for our new oven (yes, we came THAT prepared with reading material). I was also edgy about being out of touch for so long, fearing there had been a family emergency or something terribly wrong at Woodhaven. Fortunately, after about an hour of driving, we reacquainted ourselves with the wonders of cell coverage and operational gasoline pumps. Although we had various “Are you OK?” messages, there were no emergencies. And upon arriving back at Woodhaven, aside from a grateful cat, a few squishy patches of lawn, and a rain gauge indicating 3.59 inches of rain fell while we were gone, it’s the same powered, phoned, hot-watered haven as always.

Snow Poppy!

California Poppies are my favorite flower, so Rob has been very kind to sprinkle poppy seeds all around Woodhaven. And while he does this, I do indeed refer to him as "Robby Poppy Seed." Gratefully, this has not discouraged him.

We had a disappointingly mild summer this year (see October 9 post) so I've been stunned to see a couple of our Woodhaven Poppies sticking around well past their typical expiration date.

Here it is, December 1, and it's snowing! And here is a sight I have never ever seen before:

The sounds of the season

I've been sick the past few days. Just a cold, but it is obviously the universe's way of getting me to finally stop and rest. The cat has been an ever-present nursemaid, making sure to lay on me so I don't get any silly ideas about getting off the couch or switching positions. It always amazes me how our pets often know better than we do when we need comfort and rest.

Today I finally feel chipper enough to get on the computer. Feeling in the holiday spirit -- since snow is sort of in today's forecast -- I switched on a Holiday Music station on our satellite radio. Almost immediately, Rob whined that there are really just about 20 Christmas songs and it really doesn't take very long to get SICK AND TIRED of them, despite the gobtillion versions. Did I mention he spent most of yesterday in malls getting a jump-start on our shopping?

I was enjoying the warm holiday glow until Destiny Child's version of "Little Drummer Boy" came on. It was just a tad too much pounding hip-hop beat for my delicate head and sinuses this morning. Feeling a touch fickle (or the Sudafed is finally kicking in), I decided to switch to the Hawaiian channel. In no time, I was happily swaying to Keali'l Reichel's version of "Kawaipunahele" (my spell checker has now crashed), trying my best to imagine myself surrounded by palm trees instead of balls of used Kleenex. And then, since Black Friday and Black Monday have now passed, officially hearkening us into the Christmas Season, it should come as no surprise that the next song was Sean Na'auao's "Merry Little Christmas." I guess Rob's right -- there's just no escaping the sounds of Christmas once the tacos are gone.

Happy Thanksgiving! Olé!

When I was a kid, up until about my fourth wedding anniversary, my family had tacos for Thanksgiving dinner. Yep, tacos. And no, not turkey tacos. Just regular tacos with lots of homemade guacamole and salsa and all the fixin's. Sometimes we'd go crazy and add an enchilada casserole to the mix.

Why tacos, of all blasphemous things? Well, I am an only child and my extended family was far-flung, so it was often just the three of us for Thanksgiving dinner. With only three people, a traditional Thanksgiving spread would last in left-over form well past the point of being novel. And while turkey is OK, it seemed like a whole mess of work with more time spent in the kitchen than in the family room. So one year, the three of us looked at each other and decided "Let's have something we REALLY like. Let's have tacos!"

It was actually quite fun, that first year especially, to buck the trend and have our own [Maiden Name] Family Tradition. In a weird way, it made the holiday more special because it was us, our family, being together doing something that was very uniquely us. Goofy? Weird? Just plain wrong? Sure, maybe. And honestly, that was Rob's reaction when he first got folded into my family. He's much more of a traditionalist -- and a much bigger turkey fan -- than I am so he sort of got bent out of shape when I casually explained we would be having tacos on Thanksgiving.

We tried various compromises each year but none seemed to really fit. It finally got settled after about the fourth year of married life when my parents and I were eating tacos on one end of the table, and Rob was on the other end of the table eating a little turkey dinner he had prepared himself. I looked at him, looked at the table, and realized our struggle with holiday traditions was having exactly the opposite effect we were seeking. Instead of being together, sharing a meal, sharing a tradition, being a FAMILY...a line was almost literally drawn down the table. Since that year, we have changed our tradition to be Traditional Thanksgiving Meal on Thursday and Tacos, Tacos, Tacos on Friday -- or whenever it works with travel and other plans. Truly, as I've learned, the food and day do not matter so much as the feeling of family, togetherness, and tradition - however you define it.

Here's a phrase I never thought I'd say

Some neighbors have three relatively new additions to their family. The cows -- two black ones and a brown one -- are adorable and are as yet unnamed by me. I'm waiting for their personalities to emerge before bestowing just the right monikers.

When we left Woodhaven this morning, we noticed the brown cow was wearing something. He looked mostly resigned, a touch embarrassed, and a whole lot of hopeful as we stopped our car, assessing the situation as the windshield wipers swooshed back and forth. Deciding we needed to do something to help, we drove up to the neighbors' barn. I hopped out of the car and trotted to where I spotted one of the sons, calling out:

"Excuse me! Your cow has a bucket on its face."

Fortunately, the son was right on it. I guess the green bucket was hard to miss, even from inside the house. Poor thing apparently had been rather enthusiastic about his breakfast (the cow, not the son). Assured the situation was under control, we smiled at Bucket Cow as we backed out of the driveway and resumed our morning.

Stay tuned as we await suitable names for the two black cows.

Everyone has a Thanksgiving story

It was our first Thanksgiving in our first house, so of course Rob and I wanted to step up and be the adults we hoped we were. So we invited my parents, my grandma, and a dear family friend to join us for The Holiday Meal we were mostly confident we could prepare.

Everything was going along just peachy at first, but the turkey…well, predictably, it was taking just a tad too long. I was struggling to keep everything else warm while Rob was doing a great job keeping our company distracted - if not entertained - downstairs. In a fit of impatience, I decided to spin the temperature knob on the oven up really high, assuming that would cook the bird faster. This was eerily similar to my logic in college when cooking on a gas stove for the first time. My assumption: more flame = faster cooking. I cluelessly ate blackened quesadillas for three years.

Upon spinning the knob, I heard a click. I suddenly noticed the oven’s self-cleaning latch had moved. It was now in the Lock position. I tried to switch it back, but my hasty spinning had put the oven into automatic self-cleaning mode and there was no turning back. My oven was determined to scorch itself clean. I stood there staring in the window at our dinner being held hostage by the oven. I began having visions of the turkey catching on fire, burning down the house, and ruining, just ruining, my carefully planned meal.

Calmly, so impressively calmly, I wandered downstairs to where Rob and our guests were chatting. I had to walk past them to get to the garage. As I headed to the garage door, I assured them everything was coming along just fine. When I returned carrying a screwdriver, I very nonchalantly asked, “Rob could you please come upstairs with me for a minute?” My family exchanged looks of amused confusion as Rob tried to keep up with me and the screwdriver as we ran back to the kitchen. I can’t recall exactly how I thought the screwdriver was going to help. I might have been thinking it would help pry the latch out of Lock, or perhaps I was planning to dismantle the oven door. In retrospect, a hammer would have been a more logical choice.

In whispered panic, I explained the hostage situation to Rob. He poked around the oven a little, being mostly careful not to make too many banging noises. Within just a few eternal minutes, the door opened. I’m not sure what exactly Rob did to liberate our dinner, but it didn’t involve the screwdriver.

With his work done, Rob returned downstairs. With a laugh in his voice, I heard him assure our guests that everything really was just fine...now. And screwdriver, what screwdriver?

Come dance with me!

It’s been a remarkable couple of weeks. There are lots of little details which not even I find all that fascinating. And then there are the details which are downright freaky and coincidental and make one wonder how the universe really works.

The gist of the freakiness is that a bunch of seemingly unrelated stuff converged all at once to help me realize that over the past seven years, my spirit has slowly been squashed by being on a pretty restrictive version of disability. It was a rather stunning, world-rocking admission that despite my happy facing, I had really been rather sad and angry and frustrated. For quite a while. My world seemed full of can’ts and don’ts and shouldn’ts and don’t even try its because of my back and a disability program full of contradictory rules. I tried to see the silver linings, tried to see the rainbows, tried to focus on the blessings. And that mostly worked. But damn if it isn’t true that stuff that you don’t really deal with doesn’t ever truly go away. So suddenly a few weeks ago it all seemed to bubble up to the surface, without much warning.

And then, just as I was exhausted and overwhelmed by my truth, 24 hours later, I was set free. A letter came in the mail from that pretty restrictive version of disability telling me “Sorry, you don’t qualify anymore. Bye-bye.” This would seem to be a devastating piece of news. And it was, for about two hours. And then in an instant, as if by the hand of God, my eyes opened to what it really meant. I have been given a gift. I have been set free. Suddenly, I have hope and motivation and spirit and true, honest happy again. If you look closely enough, you’ll see my heart dancing.

It is freakily like that first cortisone shot I got at the end of a horrible summer of pain several months before my first surgery. I had had no idea how much pain I was in; it crept in so slowly and it so seamlessly became a part of my being, I didn’t even notice it was there. And then for about two days following the shot (we were hoping for 4-6 months), I wasn’t in pain. The clouds of hurt and denial lifted long enough for me to really see the truth of my world. Only in its absence did I realize how much pain I had been in. And here I am again, seven years later, seeing things clearly again for the first time. This time, though, the relief is gonna last a whole lot longer than a weekend. It already has.

Our first year here, the coyotes out-numbered the kids

It’s definitely a sign of boondock living when all of your trick-or-treaters arrive by car. And when I say “all,” I mean all three.

Two princesses arrived in one chariot (disguised as a Honda Element) and a witch flew in on a car seat in her warlock’s Chevy. Barely pushing 5 at the oldest, they were all adorable as they tried to figure out what they were supposed to do once I opened the pumpkin-flanked door. They had each only had the barest of practice, Woodhaven being their second and final stop of the evening.

Having learned in prior years not to expect even a handful of hobgoblins, we stock pretty nifty treats for the tricksters who venture our way. I always buy just a little more than I probably should just in case word gets out that we have full-sized Hershey bars and bags of M&Ms. So far we only seem to be attracting more parents.

I spent a little time today dismantling my decorations. I still have to put away the witch and ghost silhouettes, the skull-covered black wreath with LED lights, and the four suspended handkerchief ghosts and accompanying black-light. I’m eagerly awaiting the year we legitimately anticipate six or more trick-or-treaters so I can really go nuts with hay bales and scarecrows and lighted lawn ornaments. The good news is the witch has a new baby sister, so in just a few years we'll be up to 4!

Happy Halloween!

In search of weirdness

According to someone in the know, the "Keep Portland Weird" bumper sticker movement started about 3 years ago. Certainly it is merely a coincidence that we moved to the Portland metro about 3 years ago. Certainly.

Thinking kitschy, not weird, yesterday we eagerly drove over to a suburb of Portland to take in the 4th Annual Giant Pumpkin Regatta. According to the news story, people in possession of truly huge pumpkins and a sense of fun and weird, scoop out said pumpkins, hop in, and attempt to paddle around a small lake. Upon hearing of such an event, how could one NOT add it to the list of "must dos"?

Unfortunately, the gourd floaters aren't marketers and their website incorrectly listed the start times. Needless to say, our hopes for pumpkin bobbin' good times were squashed when we realized we arrived well after the final heat had finished.

The day still scored one for weirdness, however, as we then spent several hours roaming an antique fair. We came home with a new piece of "garden art" we've named Norbert. He is a white cast iron pig with wings. We expect he'll get along exquisitely with Murray, the life-sized Styrofoam elk that lives in our front pasture.

Perhaps that bumpersticker wasn't such a coincidence after all.

Signs of progress

When we first moved to Woodhaven, I remember being behind a truck advertising something completely bewildering: "Mobile Meat Dressing!" Although I understood each of those three words individually, I had no idea what they meant when put together like that. Why would I put dressing on meat? Why would I need someone to come to my house to do it for me? Why was it so darn exciting as to warrant an exclamation point?

An amused local patiently explained to me that it was a truck that would come to my house and "deal with" my freshly hunted meat. After I had the thrill and excitement of stealthily tracking and killing my prey, this truck would come and do all the dirty work to make it edible. The dirty, icky, down right disgusting, thank-you-I'll-be-a-vegetarian-now work. And this, I quickly understood, was indeed very exciting not to have to do oneself.

On our way into town, if we go the "long way," we pass what looks to be a home-based business providing this vital service. Until just a few days ago, the company's sign nailed to the fence was hand-painted, faded, and very authentic looking. It didn't really grab attention well enough to be used as a landmark, so we would tell folks to look for the church across the street so as not to miss the turn.

Sadly, you can't stop progress. That old, homey, "we're too busy dressing meat to fuss with silly advertising" sign has been replaced with a bright, shiny, font-based, graphic designer inspired one. Meat dressing, custom slaughtering, pork processing -- one-stop shopping for all your carnivorous needs, proclaimed in pretty blue lettering with a border and everything.

The sign "improvement" reminds me of a classic point of Advertising 101 that I learned in my Marketing 101 class in college. The professor showed two signs advertising "Fresh Picked Strawberries" for a farm stand just up a road. One sign was handwritten with paint drips on a big piece of ply board. The other one was a very neat, precise, professionally created sign with carefully drawn strawberries decorating the corners. "Which stand would you stop at?" the professor asked. Everyone said the one with the messy sign. Why? Because it looked authentic and genuine, giving the impression the farm stand was run by farmers busy picking strawberries, not city-slicker business people busy making money. So, yes, I'm sure The Meat Guy is very pleased with his new sign and is proud that his business has grown to afford and require something so established and spiffy. Me, I miss the faded paint drips.


ADDENDUM:

After reading my post, Rob tried to correct my misunderstanding. Apparently, "mobile meat dressing" is NOT a service for hunters. Instead, it's for all your at-home slaughtering needs. You know, for the soon-to-be tri-tips, t-bones, and filets you have grazing in your pasture. He tried to go into some clarifying detail but honestly, I stopped listening after he said "Slaughter your cows." Having personally named all the neighborhood cows while also loving a good juicy steak, I try very hard to ignore the fact that those two are related in any way.

No longer snapping whippers

It really doesn't seem that long ago that I was the youngest one in the room.

For years, especially in my career, I was the young whippersnapper destined to make everyone else in the room feel old. In my Chevron days, talk would often turn to the energy crisis of the early 1970s. My much older co-workers -- indeed, they seemed ancient in my 20-something eyes -- would reminisce about how things were in an oil company back then. They knew because they were there. Inevitably, one of them would look at me and say, "You were probably in grade school then, huh?" With a smug little smirk, I would reveal no, actually, I wasn't old enough to be in school then. But I did have vague memories of sitting with my mom in the car on the "even license plate" days when we were allowed to get gasoline. At this, they would all look at me and seem to wonder when they got so old to be sharing a conference table with a mere babe. I never understood why they were so shocked. Surely they knew they were practically geriatric.

Last night we had some friends over for dinner for the first time. We knew they were a young couple. We actually have become good friends with the husband's parents, a couple whom we know are older than us but we've never bothered to do the math. Last night, it really didn't seem odd to be hanging out with this young couple. Until...

We were happily chatting along, talking about jobs and first houses and such. Then a comment came up about women astronauts. That lead to a comment about the Space Shuttle Challenger explosion, an event I remember vividly from my senior year in high school. The Challenger comment lead to the shocking realization that the young woman sitting there sipping some wine was barely a year old when that tragic event happened. Tragic still, the young man hadn't been born yet. Indeed, it was barely legal for him to be sitting there drinking his wine while my hair turned grayer by the millisecond.

To their credit, neither of these youngins smirked or looked the least bit smug as I gasped for air and wondered where my youth had gone. Instead, they both looked somewhat confused as to why I was so surprised to fully realize how old they are(n't). Which I know from experience means they also wondered how I couldn't possibly know how old I am. How surprising to be sitting on the other side of that conference table all of a sudden, give or take 15 years.

The artificially sweet taste of success

As many blog readers know, we make wine here at Woodhaven. Nothing commercial. It’s just a really fun hobby that typically produces about 150 bottles of free wine each year. Free if you ignore the costs to buy the grapes and the bottles and the crusher and the press and the carboys and the chemicals and the oak chips and the corks and the laser printing and the glue sticks. And apparently for some, the sucralose.

We recently received an email from the head of our local home winemaker’s club announcing the theme for the next meeting: “Bring your award winners!” By this, Homebrew Jim means we should bring wines we have entered in our local county fair that have won blue ribbons. Rob’s entered a number of his wines over the past three years and he’s done pretty well.

This past year, though, we got a little disillusioned by the whole experience. Some insider knowledge about how the amateur judging really works suggests that next year we’ll be finding a new contest. And by amateur, I do mean the judges and not what is being judged. It's OK; I can make these snarky comments since, well, I've been a wine judge for the past three years (and no, I don't judge Rob's wines. He's earned his patriotic display of awards all by himself). Nevertheless, Jim’s email confirms our decision to move on. I’ve got to him credit, though. He knows his judging audience and has learned to cater to their honed and truly sophisticated vinicultural tastes:

One of the real benefits of being in our group is getting feedback on wines; we benefited because several members thought our black raspberry wine was too dry for the County Fair so we sweetened it with Splenda and got a blue ribbon.

Imagine if they had used Sweet 'N Low!

Tails of niche markets

It’s not often our little town makes the Portland news. It’s got to be something REALLY big – like that terrifying 3.8 earthquake a few summers ago. Or schools closed for snow when there’s really no snow to be seen (the buses have to go far and wide and high so if one bus can’t make it, the schools close).

This morning, we made it back in the news. In all our rural glory. There was even a teaser for the story. Granted, the teaser was at 7:27 and the story didn’t air until 7:36 so it wasn’t really Breaking News. Management tends to reserve that panicky graphic for fires and bridge closures.

And what warranted a 30 second shout-out on the Portland news?

Wait for it.

Three horses outside our town are missing their tails.

Yes, amongst the cow rustling and bear hunting and deer standing, seemingly there is a tail chaser on the loose in our parts. According to the report, horse tails fetch about $700 a piece. It wasn’t clear where one goes to buy or sell such an item. I have to admit, I haven’t visited our town’s 4-booth “Farmers Market” this year; perhaps they’ve expanded their offerings.

The distraught horse lady noted that all three missing tails were ones that had black hair. This while the camera showed a white horse flicking the white remnants of its white dust broom of a tail. Making more sense...and impact, the camera then showed the back end of a black horse flicking its tail stub up and down, up and down, giving the viewers a full and undeniable view of the horse’s manhood. I believe in Portland you must be 21 or over, with cash, to peep a show like that.

My favorite part, though, was the matter-of-fact explanation of what one might use these horse tails for. Having investigated it deeply, the reporter offered two options: tail extensions for horse competitions, or satanic rituals. Yes, hair weaves for horses or devil worship. Decisions, decisions.

Thanks, Marc, for finding a photo: