rose city journal

consumable gifts: specialty foods offer a taste of the city

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Thu, 12 Jan 2012 03:56:00 +0000

When trying to come up with the perfect gift for my mom and dad for Christmas, I had to face a couple of challenges:

*My parents have too much stuff, or so they tell me. I actually think they've done an admirable job of downsizing over the last few years.

*My parents expect a lot from me at Christmas. Past Christmas gifts included repairing an old Brownie photo of them, which, when blown up, turned out to be the only good photo of them together before they married. Last year, I ordered steak sandwiches from the half-century old restaurant in the town where they used to live. Hard to beat, in other words.

So the challenge every year is to give them something special, something that they'll really enjoy, and something they can actually use. I liked the idea of a gift basket, because since they live in a small town on the coast, they don't have the luxuries and niceties that we all take for granted, living in and around a larger city. In the end, I went to Wizer's in Lake Oswego and created my own gift basket. Without the basket. My parents actually have enough baskets, too.

If you haven't been to Wizer's, you're missing out. This fabulous gem of a specialty grocery store has, well, everything. At least the important stuff, including a very knowledgeable wine steward and a fabulous selection of craft soda pops. In addition to Wizer's, we also popped into Lady Di's British store for a couple of items to include a bit of Canadian influence. Lady Di's has all the good stuff especially if you're craving English shortbreads, toffee, or tea.

When you put together a gift basket, think about who you are buying for. My parents, like everyone in our family, are foodies. They both love to cook and they love to eat. However, they are somewhat limited by the options available to them on the coast. Although the central coast has a bounty of fresh seafood, you're hard-pressed to find gourmet food items.

I buy a spinach salad from New Seasons with a fantastic dressing made with champagne vinegar and I knew they'd love it, too. I'm trying to convince my parents to switch to homemade salad dressings. They're so much better than bottled dressings, and there's no waste- you just make as much as you need for the evening. So, champagne vinegar got added to the basket. For the other items in the gift basket (below), I just wandered around the stores and thought about what my parents would like the most. Putting it together was fun and watching them sift through the contents was even better. They loved the gift basket so I'm off the hook once again- until next year.

Champagne Vinaigrette
2 T Champagne vinegar
1/3 c Olive oil
1/2 t Dijon (mustard acts as an emulsifier- use more or less depending upon how thick you want the dressing to be)
1 T Chopped shallots
Salt, pepper, or other herbs to taste, if you like.
Quickly whisk all ingredients and serve. I use a small mustard bottle with a lid for a final shake-up.

Consumable Gift Basket
Champagne vinegar
Columbia Crest Cabernet Sauvignon
Gift certificate for restaurant in Seaside
Green olives hand-stuffed with garlic
HP sauce (The Canadian insisted upon this English steak sauce which supposedly puts A1 to shame. I can't really tell the difference.)
Old English hot mustard
Russian mustard (Beaverton Foods mustards are available along the coast, but they don't have all the flavors we have up here)
Sardines (Ick. Gross. Ick. However, this wasn't a basket for me, so in they went.)
Taveners Proper Sweets- English Liquorice Allsorts
Werther's (You can get Werther's everywhere, even in Waldport, but between the liquorice candy and the sardines, the basket was tipping in favor of my dad).

the saturday market

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Sat, 10 Dec 2011 21:19:00 +0000

When I was growing up in Eugene, our next door neighbor was Jim Brady. You might remember Jim. He had a booth at the Saturday Market, and later, the 5th Street Market, where he sold gorgeous handcrafted wood products for the home. He joined together different types of woods so the end effect looked like stripes. You see this kind of work everywhere now. I’ve even seen it in department stores. But in the late seventies, Jim was the pioneer, and his stunning craftsmanship was coveted by many.

Jim’s daughter was my best friend so inevitably, I was in and out of their home multiple times every day. If we stayed off the roof, and managed not to have an argument for more than a day or two (a nearly impossible task for two headstrong little girls), we got to accompany her dad to the Saturday Market.

Arriving early so Jim could set up his booth and set out his wares, we’d wander aimlessly around the grounds, watching the day unfold. The jester bounced his bells in our direction as he danced a sweet dance, surrounded by even sweeter-smelling smoke. Peanuts’ Lucy nodded and smiled as she set up her booth, ready to dispense her advice, for a price. And everywhere, the market was coming alive, as vendors unpacked and placed their goods on display, hoping for a bustling day at the Market.

In the gooey, garlicky pizza by the slice, in the sweet, sharp tang of lemons in the lemonade, and in bicycle grease and essential oils; as the day unfolded, the good smells of summer and Eugene were everywhere in the Saturday Market.

When my mother got a new Jenn-Air stove, a novelty in those days, she ruminated about the uncovered grill sitting in the middle of the kitchen countertop. Soon after, Jim showed up with a custom striped wood cover made just for my mom. It perched perfectly on top of the grill for all the years we lived in Eugene, whenever the grill wasn’t in use.

We lost touch with the Bradys when we moved to the Midwest when I was in high school. I finally reconnected with the family some years ago, when I was planning my parents’ 50th wedding anniversary. Sadly, we found, Jim had passed away in 2004. But his touch is everywhere in my parent’s kitchen, and in my kitchen, too. They have the wooden knife block and a cutting board and I have the Jenn Air grill cover. Yep, it’s mine now. I don’t have the built in stove-top grill, but it fits nicely on top of two of the burners. And it’s still in excellent condition. It’s a beautiful piece handcrafted by a wonderful man- and a wonderful neighbor.

And that’s what the Saturday Market is. It’s your neighbors. Your friends. Members of your community creating something that’s meaningful to them, and selling it at the Saturday Market because they know it will be valuable to you, too. The Market remains unique because all of the artisans and artists have to handcraft their wares, and be approved by a board. Whether you want a handmade leather cuff, a piece of thrown pottery, or a painting, you can find it at the Market. The Saturday Market also has world-class people watching. Even if you just want to window-shop and have lunch, you can hardly go wrong with choices ranging from Lebanese to Guatemalan to Polish to Southern barbecue, and gorgeous dark chocolate caramels.

The artisans at the Portland Saturday Market welcome visitors throughout the year on Saturdays and Sundays and from December 19-23 you can visit from 11-5 each day for the Festival of the Last Minute. The Eugene Saturday Market has already shut down, taking its annual hiatus until April, but the Holiday Market is open every weekend from 10-6 daily through Christmas Eve, when they shut down at 4 pm.

Portland Saturday Market
108 West Burnside, Portland, OR 97209

Eugene Holiday Market
@ the Lane County Fairgrounds, 13th & Jefferson, in Eugene, Oregon

2011 Christmas Craft Shows, Art Fairs and Holiday Bazaars in Portland

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Mon, 21 Nov 2011 20:11:00 +0000

Christmas craft shows, art fairs and bazaars offer Portland residents the chance to buy unique gifts for the holidays this year. The items you’ll find at these sales go beyond basic crafts- you’ll find everything from charming ornaments to elegant wreaths and hand-knitted scarves at Christmas craft shows in Portland. When you shop for gifts at a holiday bazaar you support local artisans and you find one-of-a-kind gifts that you won’t find in any mall. Christmas craft shows in Portland to visit this year include:

America's Largest Christmas Bazaar
November 25-27 and December 2-4
Fridays and Saturdays 10-6, Sundays 10-5
Expo Center, 2060 N Marine Drive, Portland
Child Price: $3.25 Ages 12-17
Adult Price: $7, Seniors 65 and over, $3 children under 12 free.
Parking at the Expo $8 or ride the MAX Yellow Line right to the parking lot.

Oregon College of Art and Craft (OCAC) Student and Alumni Holiday Sale
Friday, November 25th 7-9; Saturday, November 26th 10-5; Sunday, November 27th 10-4
Oregon College of Art & Craft, Jean Vollum Drawing, Painting and Photography Building
8245 SW Barnes Road, Portland
$3 admission on Friday, free Saturday and Sunday

A Gift Bag and a Pear Tree
Sunday, November 27th 10:30-5:00
Mississippi Studios
3939 N Mississippi Ave, Portland

OHSU Heart Research and Holiday Bazaar 2011
November 28th - 29th 10-5:30
Center for Health and Healing Atrium
3303 SW Bond Ave, Portland (located at the bottom of the OHSU tram)

Portland Art Collective "Open Doors" Art Show and Sale
Friday, December 2nd - 3rd 10:00-5:00
Multnomah Arts Center- Gymnasium
7688 SW Capitol Hwy, Portland

Hip Happening Bazaar
Saturday, December 3rd 11-5
Sellwood Masonic Lodge
7126 SE Milwaukie Avenue, Portland

Crafty Wonderland
December 10th - 11th 11-6
Oregon Convention Center (Hall C)
777 NE Martin Luther King Jr. Blvd., Portland

Formal Holiday Artisans Fair 2011
Sunday, December 18th 11-5
The Acadian Ballroom
1829 Northeast Alberta Street
Portland

Kringle's Kraft Bazaar
December 18 - 19, 9-4 each day
Adventist Medical Center (Lower level, in Conference Rooms A & B)
10123 SE Market Street, Portland

*Admission to Portland holiday craft shows should be free unless noted otherwise. Feel free to post information about your organization's Christmas craft show or holiday art fair in the comments section.

the end-beginning

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Thu, 29 Sep 2011 04:33:00 +0000

“Hey, you.” I looked up, and there he was. My high school sweetheart. Hanging out, like he was always hanging out, not in any kind of rush. Just hangin’. It seems like a million years ago when he was the love of my life.

And it was a sweet, sweet love.

We chatted and smiled, standing outside the convenience store while my mind whirred through a thousand images at lightning speed:

We are holding hands and laughing, leaning up against my locker.

He is picking me up and taking me to a movie, and I am in my teenaged bedroom, dithering about what to wear.

I see him, standing with a group of friends and laughing; I see him the moment he sees me.

I am reading the letter he wrote me during chemistry class for the hundredth time, because it just keeps getting better.

He gently holds my head, and runs the brush along my hair, patiently, quietly, combing out the tangles.

He is screaming at me about betrayal, and I am crying, hysterically.

I am in the back of the police car, convincing the officer not to drop me off in front of my house.

He is putting his life back together and needs me, and suddenly I don’t see him in my future.

The phone rings and I practically break my neck to answer it because I know it’s him and I’ll die if I miss his call, and-

“Hey,” I smiled, up at him. “It’s good to see you.”

The Bomber Restaurant- a Portland Tradition

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Wed, 04 May 2011 19:21:00 +0000

The most surprising thing about the iconic Bomber Restaurant isn’t the World War II B-17G Bomber in the parking lot. It isn’t the display of shells, surrounded by crayon renderings of the Easter Bunny. No, the best thing about the Bomber Restaurant is the service- and the food.

Art Lacey originally purchased the Bomber in 1947 in an attempt to draw in visitors to his gas station, originally located beneath the plane. Lacey crashed the first B-17 he purchased after trying to learn how to fly the plane using a manual. He successfully brought home the second B-17 he purchased, landing in Troutdale. With no permit to transport the bomber, he dismantled the plane and brought it piece by piece to its current location in Milwaukie. The gas station closed in 1991, but the restaurant remains open and is still run by Lacey’s descendants today.

The Bomber Restaurant has been a family-owned business since 1947. If you’re an aviation nerd (like me), or if you have kids, the diner is a no-brainer for breakfast, lunch or dinner. But even if you’ve never been to an aviation museum or flown a plane, the food is worth the trip. Standard fare like burgers is overflowing with fresh veggies. Fries are sparked up with sour cream and onion flavoring. The long-standing specials include Liver and Onions on Wednesdays, Surf and Turf Fridays and thick-cut prime rib on Saturday night. The service is attentive, polite and good-natured, with the servers casually chatting and swapping stories with customers.

The Interpretive Center, PX and Gift Shop shuts down at about 2pm each day, so make sure to arrive early if you want to do the tour. Breakfast is served until 1:45pm. Visit the website and navigate to the Restaurant page to find a printable coupon, good for $2 off your meal after 4pm. The Birthday Club Coupon offers discounts off group orders (15% off 2-6 meals or 20% for 7 or more people) and a free birthday dessert.

The Bomber Restaurant and Catering
3515 Southeast McLoughlin Boulevard
Milwaukie, OR 97222
(503) 659-9306

Weekend Trips from Portland- Waldport, Oregon

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Mon, 25 Apr 2011 18:58:00 +0000

When my parents first moved to Waldport, Oregon, I wasn’t too impressed. I wanted the bright lights of Lincoln City, the art-y district in Newport, or the sand dunes in Florence. A tiny fishing village with a population of 2,000? Er, no. Over time, Waldport won me over. The tiny town bustles in the summer season, and is lovely and quiet during the long winters, after the tourists leave. And the people are what make Waldport really special. Sparkling in the light of the chandelier, with the rain whipping the windows, we’ve enjoyed many a bowl of Cioppino, crab bisque or clam chowder and local beers, surrounded by my parent’s unique group of friends- a builder, a commercial fisherman and a photographer, to name a few.

Where to Stay in Waldport, Oregon

I wanted to focus on weekend trips to Waldport because with a three-hour drive from Portland, it’s unlikely that you’ll turn around and go back to Portland on the same day. There are several options for places to stay in Waldport. Your best bet is to find a house to rent on Bayshore (the oceanfront peninsula that rests across the bay from town) or in town. Look online and on craigslist to find these deals. The hotel on Bayshore has gone through several iterations and owners over the last couple of decades and we hear it will next be turned into a conference center. But it was never terribly impressive and not something I’d recommend to anyone. There are a couple of other motels and cottages for rent in town that have positive reviews online. If you visit one, let me know about your experience there.

Which Route to Take to Waldport from Portland? Pros and Cons of Routes 20 and 34

The drive from Portland to Waldport, which rests on the central Oregon Coast, takes about three hours. I recommend taking I-5 to Corvallis, then cutting across Corvallis to jump on one of the highways to the coast. You have a choice outside Philomath- you can take Route 20 and end up in Newport, then cruise down 101 via Seal Rock to Waldport. Or, you can take Route 34 and you’ll wind up right in Waldport.

The two roads have a couple of pros and cons. Route 34 is full of switchbacks as you cross over the pass, and the beautiful road is exhilarating to drive. You pass through tiny Alsea on the way and the general store is a must-stop for the locally made goat cheese. However, you’ll likely be without cell phone service for most of the drive. In addition, it isn’t at all uncommon to be stopped- and turned around- midway through your route due to flooding or a downed tree on Route 34. That happened to me so often in the early years (“You mean I have to drive all the way back to Philomath?!”) that for a long time, I avoided the road altogether.

Route 20 ensures you’ll have cell phone service for most of your drive, has lots of passing lanes, and even features a rest area about 20 miles outside of Philomath. The Waldport road doesn’t have a rest area. There might be a couple of working outhouses along the way but they look sketchy. Also, Route 34 doesn’t provide much in the way of passing lanes. If you get stuck behind some slowpokes, you’ll likely amble behind them for most of your drive.

Route 20 through Newport takes a few minutes longer, but the difference is negligible and the amenities (cell phone service and a rest area) might make it preferable for older travelers and families. Route 34 is just wickedly fun and wildly beautiful, so it’s a tough choice. Ideally, you’ll take one road out there, and another road home- that way you can experience both drives.

2011- Waldport's 100th Anniversary

In 2011, Waldport, Oregon celebrates its centennial. As with any town on the Oregon Coast, summer is the time to go. The 4th of July fireworks on the peninsula in the Bayshore neighborhood actually take place on July 3rd and if you go out for the week, you’ll find other fireworks displays in the neighboring towns on the days leading up to and after the Waldport fireworks. Waldport will likely have a couple of tricks up its sleeves for the town’s birthday, but really, there’s plenty of fun to be had in this tiny town (crabbing, fishing, beachcombing the vast beach, building driftwood homes) without any special reason to go.

the emergency key

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Fri, 08 Apr 2011 00:33:00 +0000

I am hanging at the local when my lovely scarlet-haired neighbor pokes her head into the restaurant. Hailing from the Deep South, Lana has a tendency to sweep into rooms and descend on people rather than affecting the boring, slinking-in entrances that I always seem to do. As usual, she’s sparkling.

Amid hello hugs and you-look-wonderfuls, I step back and take in her ensemble. “You look so cute,” I said, thinking: I have a blouse that’s similar to that.

“This is yours,” Lana said, noting my confusion. “I borrowed it from you.”

“Oh, ha,” I murmured, still puzzling: When did that transaction occur?

“You didn’t loan it to me,” she explained, checking out who was doing what in the tavern. “I used my key one day and went in and took it.”

Key, key, what key? The…You don’t mean…The emergency key?

“Lana, I gave you that key to use in case of a flood, or something,” I said, racking my brain for potential catastrophes. “A flood or a tornado or…something. An emergency.”

“It was an emergency,” she firmly explained. “I had a date and I didn’t have anything to wear.”

Emergency: A sudden, unexpected catastrophe (sometimes involving peril) that demands urgent action.

KMHD Portland Celebrates Count Basie

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Wed, 16 Mar 2011 02:00:00 +0000

KMHD Portland is one of the few remaining independent jazz stations in the country. Listen to them online (or download their app), and you won't be disappointed. This week, Count Basie is in the spotlight. Since it's public broadcasting, you won't just hear the music- you'll hear stories like I heard today, about how Basie was discovered.

My favorite show, hands down, is Lynn Darroch's Bright Moments on Friday afternoons. Lynn interviews jazz greats and plays his favorite picks and best of all, does his own spoken word, accompanied by visiting artists. Spoken word, you might scoff, I've heard that before and wasn't unduly impressed.

But Lynn Darroch's spoken word is different- it transports us back to another time and place, derived from Lynn's own memories about growing up in Portland. My only complaint? He isn't on the air enough and when he is on, he doesn't do enough of his own work.

Learn more at the website: KMHD 89.1 FM Jazz Radio in Portland.

An open letter to hotels about handicapped accessibility

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Fri, 28 Jan 2011 21:29:00 +0000

Another night in a handicapped accessible room at the Hilton and I’m still disappointed- and frustrated- at how inaccessible these “accessible” rooms really are. To wit:

Unless someone is in a wheelchair because they have a sprained ankle, it’s highly unlikely that they’ll be able to get in and out of a bathtub. Imagine that- you’ve come into the city for a relaxing weekend and arrive in your room only to find you won’t be bathing for a few days. Demo the bathtubs, and install a roll-in shower instead. The shower shouldn’t have a lip at the bottom, but should have a chair, and the shower should have a handheld sprayer, with easy to reach off and on and hot and cold knobs.

Sinks should be low enough for someone with a wheelchair to roll up and wash their hands. Toiletries and Kleenex should be at the front of the counter, within grabbing distance.

In a room with double beds, the area between the two beds should be wide enough to accommodate a wheelchair and a person standing next to the wheelchair. For all sleeping areas, easy to access bars should be alongside the bed on the wall. Even better? Install a pole from ceiling to floor about one-third of the way down from the headboard, with handgrips. This allows someone in a wheelchair to grab a handhold, lift themselves out of the chair, and pivot onto the bed. It doesn’t have to be fancy- PVC will work fine. Genius.

Beds should be low enough for someone in a wheelchair to roll up and easily get on-and off- the bed. A rubber floormat with sturdy grips is ideal next to the bed. This allows someone in a wheelchair to get their not-always-stable footing in a way that they are unable to do on your slippery carpets.

A desk chair isn’t really necessary. A desk a wheelchair can easily roll under, and a phone placed at the front of the desk works fine.

A small end table on rollers somewhere in the room gives handicapped visitors a place to easily access their cell phone, the newspaper and the television remote.

For your lobby bathrooms, your handicapped stalls are great. The towel dispenser placed 5 feet off the ground? Not so great, and not easily accessible to anyone in a wheelchair.

Dear hotel owners and operators, I don’t know if you’ve made the error of assuming that everyone in a wheelchair has someone to help them. You’ve definitely made it a requirement. I’d like to think you’ve just never tried accessing one of your handicapped rooms while in a wheelchair. Try it once. You’ll likely be flummoxed. And, you’ll probably find a dozen more ways that handicapped accessibility could be elevated in your hotel.

Beekeeper Classes in Portland

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Thu, 27 Jan 2011 20:16:00 +0000

If you've always wondered about beekeeping, and you'd like to learn more about the craft, LiveHoneyBees has come to the rescue. Throughout February and March, LiveHoneyBees will offer a series of classes designed for the urban and the suburban beekeeper.

Beekeeper Classes in Portland

The class will go on a swarm-catching adventure, and LiveHoneyBees will provide ongoing assistance as you learn how to become a beekeeper. You'll learn about hive types, site location, tools and equipment, year ‘round management, how to harvest honey—and much more.

Learn How to Become a Beekeeper

The beekeeper classes will be held in February and March in Portland. The classes consist of three Wednesdays, from 6-9 pm, catching a swarm, and 1 on 1 help for tending your bees.

1st Session Feb 16 includes hive siting, equipment and good neighbor coaching
2nd Session Mar 2 focuses on spring and summer bee tasks
3rd Session Mar 16 prepares you for fall and winter bee tasks
4th Session TBA covers swarm catching and start up support

Alternate dates also available. For more information, visit LiveHoneyBees, email Brian, master beekeeper or call 503.975.2391.

Oh…Canada. The longest kilometer part deux

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Fri, 21 Jan 2011 01:33:00 +0000

The Patriot Race is one of many challenges you’ll face when dating a Canadian. A skillful battle of wits (thrust, parry, stab and duck), the game is a true test of wills, with no boundaries or limitations. The rules of the Patriot Race are simple. No matter what aspect of the entertainment industry we’re discussing- music, art or film, suddenly, it turns out all of the superstars are from Canada:

Me: “Well, what about _________?”

“Canadian.”

“Well, I think…”

“Canadian.”

But don’t you think he…?

“Lived in Canada during his undergraduate years.”

“I’m quite sure that she…”

“Wants to be Canadian.”

Canada always thinks they’re in competition with the US. The US always forgets they’re up there.

the trip

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Thu, 02 Dec 2010 18:25:00 +0000

It would be hard to miss the look that passed over my significant other’s face, since he was looking right at me at the time…and mumbling. Mumbling about something that suspiciously sounded like a criticism of my oversized suitcase, my two tote bags and the extra plastic bag of shoes.

“What?”

“This just seems like…a lot.”

“Well, I’m going to be gone for a long time.”

“Right,” he agreed, huffing a little while dragging the bag up the sidewalk.

“Why? What are you bringing?”

“Couple of sweaters. A few t-shirts. Jeans.”

“That’s it? That’s all you’re bringing? For two weeks?”

“Yes,” he replied. “You know we can do laundry while we’re there.”

Right. Because that’s exactly what I want to do when I am traveling. Laundry.

And I don’t know if it’s men in general, or my guy in particular, but there’s a reason why we buy new clothes. And let me just point out here: I don’t really care for shopping. I hate the mall, and generally try to avoid any situation that ends up with me queuing up for long lines at cash registers, especially around the holidays.

But I love the end result.

My furtive online ordering, darting in and out of vintage stores and assorted “finds” over the years have somehow resulted in my being referred to, in some quarters, as, well, a clothes horse.

I admit it. I love pretty things. I don’t understand why things in the store, the catalog or on the web look better than what I already have in my closet. They just do.

And there’s something else about buying new clothes that any woman- and many men- can relate to. I’m not just buying a new outfit. When I shop for new clothes, I’m trying on a whole new me for size, too.
I’m imagining a whole new life for myself- in my new clothes. I don’t see the wan light of the fluorescent bulb in the dressing room at Macy’s.

I see soft candlelight, instead. No barren gray dressing room carpet or horribly unflattering mirrors are anywhere in my line of vision. Instead, I see soft sand and lightly tanned skin. Hands held across an ivory tablecloth, dotted with silver and crystal.

Khaki shorts and an ivory peasant top? I bought them for a romantic afternoon on the beach.

The glittery black jacket? Why, that’s for spur of the moment trips to New York or London.

Silver shoes? Gold heels? Also a necessity for the never-ending formal possibilities in my indistinct future.

But I got sand in my shorts. Haven’t left this time zone in more than a year. And I haven’t attended an opera or danced a waltz in more years than I can remember.

But when I’m trying on clothes, still, I can dream.

Meanwhile, the re-packing continues.

“Where are you going to wear this?” Puzzled, he holds a sequined black jacket aloft.

“That one stays,” I firmly tell him. “That one stays.”

suicide hill

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Mon, 08 Nov 2010 18:22:00 +0000

The sentinels stood in a row, facing out over the city. The last one wheeled into place, gravel dust puffs spinning into the air. The tiny rocks scattered loudly and then settled. We stood there, silently, as an eternity passed. One of us might have been thinking about the girl he’d left behind. Another, silently contemplating his dog and the chores that needed doing at home. Elbow to elbow, we stared off into the distance. Leaning forward I rested my chin on my hand.

“It’s time,” I told my faithful sentries.

“No…”replied one of them. “It’s just too dangerous. We’ll never make it.”

The others were nodding. Shying away from destiny. Ducking responsibility. Embarrassed to look me in the eye.

“Look,” I patiently explained. “We have to do this. If we don’t…we’ll always regret it. We have to try, at least.”

They looked at me, waiting. Knowing that no one would go unless I went first, I took a deep breath and dug my toe into the ground.

“Wait!” yelled a member of my patrol. “I don’t know. I just…don’t think we should do it today. We can do it tomorrow.” The group smiled, relieved, and as one, started to turn.

I stood there, mourning the loss. Of the hot, dry afternoon and of the risk I thought we’d never take. Resigning myself to the inevitable, I flipped back the pedal on my bike and started to turn too, taking one last look over my shoulder.

Suddenly, I stopped. “No,” I said, my voice strangely loud in my ears. “It has to be done today.” Of an accord, the patrol nodded. Looking around, we took a collective deep breath and turned back around.

Suicide Hill. Of all the most dangerous stunts and hills we tore down on our fifth grade bicycles, Suicide Hill was by far the scariest. By far the most dangerous. The road was so steep, cars weren’t allowed to drive down it. The top of the road was closed off by guardrail. On the other side of the guardrail, the top of the hill was bisected by a narrow path, not wide enough to park a bike. The street shot straight down from the path.

Even as an adult, I’ve driven by Suicide Hill and it still looked scary.

And there were so many other, little, deaths happening that summer, too. As a group, we were changing. Growing up. Moving away from each other. Moving on. In another year, we’d be in junior high. Some of us would be in other junior highs across town. Even the upcoming year, the last year of elementary school, loomed large on the horizon. We didn’t know it yet, but by the end of sixth grade…Very few of us would still be friends.

And none of us would ever be the same, after that year.

But for this last summer, these final days of girls and boys, we were still the gang. And I was still the leader. And Suicide Hill, well, it was just one more set of monkey bars, a big climbing tree or a homemade raft to conquer. One more in my string of conquests, and the one that would be the jewel in my daredevil crown.

We had other hills we favored for bicycling. Big Jump Hill, Cherry Drop Hill and Lemon Drop Hill all gave us a taste of what we needed. But none of them quenched the thirst we had for Suicide.

And on that day, that day of days, we’d finally talked it to death. The only way I wasn’t going to ride my bike down Suicide Hill on that day was if someone committed suicide- or murder.

It was do or die time.

We were glorious that day. After so many stops at the top of the hill, it was no wonder that the final release, that final letting go- felt wonderful. There were moments in that high-speed seconds-long ride where we came close to tumbling, head over handlebars, in what would have surely been ugly, bloody, horrific accidents.

But not on that day. On that day, we flew, on battered bicycle wings, from the top of Suicide Hill to the bottom and beyond. On that day, we were beautiful.

the old lady

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Tue, 28 Sep 2010 19:59:00 +0000

Due to a variety of circumstances, my niece moved in with my parents a few months ago. That’s not such an unusual state of affairs; for as long as I can remember, my parents have taken in kids who needed some sort of respite. For years, when we were growing up, a variety of family friends with “bad situations” at home stayed at our house, sometimes for months on end. Comforting and warm, my parents always offered our friends stability and safety without judgment- it’s a quality that I aspire to and admire.

So when my niece packed in her own bad situation and decided to move forward with her life, it was a natural that she would phone my parents for help. And it was even more natural that they would invite her to stay. In addition to the healing and warm environment provided by my parents, it was also meant to be a time of reflection for my niece. Of looking behind, and beginning to look forward towards a new life, bright and full with promise.

However. In the midst of all of these life-altering moments, self-actualization and self evaluation, something else happened this summer.

Slowly but surely.

My niece is turning into her grandparents.

It’s inevitable, really. Everyone knows that when people spend time together, they often begin taking on each others’ personality characteristics. It’s just not something you’d expect, or could prepare for really, when your 19 year-old niece begins affecting mannerisms and habits of a couple well into their 70s.

And vice versa.

The transition started slowly, communing around the television. Lying around on the couch watching Iron Chef, and commenting on the judges.

“We think she’s sleeping with the chef!” piped my niece.

“Word!” my dad’s emphatic response.

My dad’s habit of repeatedly pausing movies, movies we are all watching, in order to provide an ongoing commentary of sorts, often renders me almost convulsive with impotent frustration. In my niece, he’s finally found a staunch ally.

“You know,” (pauses movie) “I thought that young fella, Heath Ledger, was quite an actor. He really knew what he was doing. Such a shame.”

“I really liked him in Batman, Grandpa. But I’m not sure about this movie.”

(pause)

“I love his tatts."

“Me too, grandpa.”

(pause)

“Applebee’s is a fine restaurant. You know you can always count on a good meal at Applebee’s.”

“I like their cheese sticks, grandpa.”

My health-conscious niece has even changed her eating patterns to match those of my septuagenarian parents. This started with eating seconds at dinner (“to get rid of leftovers”), and quickly morphed into eating dessert a fast 15 minutes later.

“I don’t mean to do it,” explained my niece. “But then grandma says ‘Bananas Foster’ and I start feeling hungry again.”

Mornings are as likely to begin with clouds over the coast as they are with Dutch pancakes and whipped cream. Lunch is also an extraordinary affair, as my father, sandwich-maker extraordinaire, artfully builds teetering reubens garnished with mom’s peanut butter cookies (now deftly made by my niece).

An enormous lunch means yawning faces everywhere, as my parents and my niece mumble “I’m just going to lie down for a minute,” not to resurface from their bedrooms for a couple of hours, when they stumble back out onto the assorted couches, interest piqued.

Because at 2pm in the afternoon, it’s time for my niece to reassess priorities and plan accordingly for the future, as much as anyone can.

“When’s dinner?”

Oh…Canada. (alternate title: the longest kilometer)

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Tue, 14 Sep 2010 01:17:00 +0000

Being in a long distance relationship has many challenges. And when your significant other lives in another country, the challenges are magnified. Especially when that country has a different way of measuring things.

Me: “How many miles is it to the store?”

Him: “Miles?”

Me: “Well, just tell me how many minutes it will take to get there.”

Him: “Minutes?”

Even trying to decide what to wear quickly becomes a struggle, when you’re dating someone who lives in Canada.

Me: “How hot is it going to be today?”

Him: “About 25.”

Me: “Should I bring a sweater?”

Him: “No. But tomorrow the temperature’s going to drop. So you’ll want to have your toque.”

Me: “What?”

Language barriers and metric systems aside, there’s something to long distance relationships. Something sweet and not yet explored by this writer. If you're considering a long distance relationship, or think you may come across any Canadians, stay tuned for more insights.

the uneasy A

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Wed, 08 Sep 2010 00:29:00 +0000

When I was in college, one of my favorite classes at Miami University was my Political Ideologies course. We read books like There Are No Children Here and Robert Reich and held heated classroom debates about Locke and Rousseau. My professor made the class special. His easygoing nature and insightful comments left us feeling wiser and well-informed- ready to conquer the many political landscapes laid out before us.

Ah, youth.

The professor had one policy that I disagreed with, however. If you were late to class on a day when a paper was due, your paper would automatically be docked 5 points. At this point in my college career, the classes for my majors (English and Political Science) all relied on papers, and they were usually a minimum of 7 pages long. Not something to be trifled with, especially by something so small as disrespecting your professor and your other classmates.

Right?

Inevitably, I was late on the day a paper was due. It wasn’t my fault, I explained to professor in his office after class. I was a.) out of gas b.) had to work and c.) confronted with a lot of traffic and a lack of parking spaces near the building.

“Piffle,” was his understated response. “You know my policy. You knew that the paper was due today, and that a late penalty applied. And you know, Lisa, when you begin your professional career, you can’t just show up late to meetings or presentations. Punctuality is important.”

But I had never had a “real” job at that point. And I certainly had no idea that one day, I’d be racing off to work an hour early to get to a meeting on time…all the while, remembering his sage words of advice.

So I argued.

I hotly debated.

And I stomped around his office, waving my arms.

My professor watched me with a puzzled look on his face, waiting until the end of my diatribe to calmly raise a hand. “You know, Lisa…it’s still an A.”

Perhaps. But as I explained to him then- and I still believe today- it’s the principle of the thing.

And isn’t that worth fighting for?

the conspiracy theory

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Wed, 01 Sep 2010 17:49:00 +0000

A while ago I wrote about conspiracies. Laughed about them really, in a half-hearted way. Because on the whole, I think most of them are pretty silly. Hangar 18. Lake monsters. Fake moon landings. I mean, come on.

But lately, I’ve been a little more worried about information dissemination. I’m the first one to admit that I’ve looked up information on people I’m interested in. I’m amazed at how much information is available for free online. In a matter of minutes, you can find out someone’s current address, businesses they own or are employed by and of course, their criminal record. When I lived in Kentucky, I told potential suitors that if we’re going to go on date, you might as well disclose all of your speeding tickets- Because I will look you up on the clerk of courts website. And I did.

I dated someone who was pretty scrupulous about removing his name from the web. In fact, I only found one or two mentions of him online, on an association website. After I told him, I think he called them and asked that his name be removed. I’m not sure why, really. But like a friendly ghost, he prefers to hover behind the scenes, instead of accepting the inevitable Internet disclosure.

I find myself trying to be more cautious about what I say these days. I don’t know why. It’s not like anyone cares. But like that dealer in Pulp Fiction (“Cell phone! This is a Cell Phone!”), I’ve been loathe to disclose too many details over the phone- or over email.

Because although it probably sounds silly, lately, I’ve been worried that someone may be listening in. And I can’t help but wonder, in the age of information overload, if someday I’ll be sitting in a courtroom while my many transgressions, from phone calls to emails (I can’t even get into what I’ve written here) are read back to me.

Start thinking about who might be listening in and it never stops. In fact, it only gets a lot worse. I have an odd habit, when I meet someone who seems familiar, of asking them if they know me. As opposed to the more traditional “Do I know you?” And I’m loathe to expose someone that I think may know me but for some reason or another, may not want other people to know that they know me.

That’s some screwed-up logic, I know.

the answer

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Tue, 08 Jun 2010 19:09:00 +0000

I write about stuff because, well. That’s just what I’ve always done. But it doesn’t put me any closer to an answer. I don’t pretend that I have all the answers. I don’t even try to pretend that I have any of the answers.

But sometimes, on a good night, I feel like I’m a little closer to understanding. Understanding why you are the way you are. Why I’m this way. I’m not quite there… But I have a pretty good idea of what’s going on. I can work out a lot of things on my own, when I write.

I don’t have a hidden agenda when I write. I’m just myself. No tricks. No games. I don’t try to pretend that I am something that I am not. I don’t want your sympathy, your empathy or even your admiration. What I like best is when you read me, and you tell me you know exactly how I feel. You knew a girl just like that in school. You were bullied too. You know who the Circle Jerks are.

It’s that sense of community, of writers and readers, that makes blogging so much fun. And supporting each other. That’s important too. Raising people up, instead of trying to put them down. Your comments here and elsewhere have meant more to me than you’ll ever know.

Looking for answers. Writing was my salvation in school and it’s still my passion today. In fact, it’s even my career. I’ll keep writing, and I hope you’ll keep reading. And I think, after all this time, that I may be getting closer to an answer.

At least, I’d like to think so.

the dollar store

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Wed, 14 Apr 2010 04:04:00 +0000

Ever since my dad discovered the Dollar Store, things have changed at the homestead, and not always for the better.

Visiting over the holidays means dedicated kitchen duty; they’re springing for the food and booze, so I’m more than willing to stack the dishwasher and scrub the pots and pans. But it’s hard to clean anything when the sponges fall apart, the dishwashing liquid makes your hands peel and the towels are made of thinly woven polyester.

And the Dollar Store has found its way into more than just my parent’s kitchen. It’s permeated throughout the house; infiltrated their lives and the effects have been felt far and wide, by everyone visiting their home. Screwdrivers that snap when you use them, suntan lotion that leaves you red-faced and worst of all, horrible $1 CDs that showcase the worst of the worst of elevator music from the early 60’s (think Lawrence Welk on an off day).

But this isn’t some new sense of frugality, only recently discovered. Throughout the years my parents have done a number of things to save money. One year, my father cancelled the cable for the summer.

“Dad, don’t you have to pay to have to install it again later in the year?”

“Yes. But I still saved fifty dollars!”

Keep in mind, my folks live at the beach. On the beach. One might bring up the point that there are other things that they could do to save fifty bucks over the course of a summer. But one might not be invited back for the next holiday, so one stays mum about the whole thing.

And I have to admit, if only to myself, that there are other reasons, beyond stale salami and no-name Fritos, why I hate the Dollar Store. It’s coming to grips with the fact that my mother, who would never set foot in a place with “EVERYTHING IS .99!” signs screeching from the plate glass windows, doesn’t really have a say in the matter. Hasn’t been able to do the shopping for years.

It’s being honest with myself about the one thing I refuse to accept or acknowledge.

So rather than facing up to the facts, I choose instead to indulge my father and razz him mercilessly about the stacks of books of games where the crossword puzzles don’t have enough spaces for the words and the root beer tastes like fizzy chalk, while my mom giggles and nods in agreement.

It’s just easier that way.

more gifts my father gave me

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Tue, 02 Mar 2010 03:22:00 +0000

When I was growing up, I had very unique relationships with each of my parents.

My mother presided over a nonprofit auxiliary board, while my dad and I tutored kids in the city. My mom and I browsed antiques stores, while my father took me to yard sales and encouraged me to dicker about prices (75 cents for a frog with a clock in its stomach? You must be out of your mind!). My mom gave me credit cards to shop for clothes; my dad gave me his old poker sweater to wear out on weekends.

Mom and I dressed up and went to nice restaurants for lunch. My dad and I went to bars to drink pitchers of beer and study race track forms, discussing the best ways to box horses, debating the merits of a muddy track and wondering out loud if one of us finally landed on a winning combination.

My dad and I still go to thrift stores sometimes, puzzling over which vintage lamp to buy for my bedroom. My mom studies books on feng shui and told me where to place my bed for peace and prosperity (though neither has happened so far).

My dad and I are alike in other ways, too. We’re doers; we have ideas, we talk about them and then we act upon them. And we’re both frustrated by the inability of talkers to follow up or follow through. Life is too short, my dad always tells me, and I agree. Both of my parents have told me often to live my life making the people I love happy, while making the most of my time on earth. And I think I’m doing a pretty good job.

I can talk to my dad about a lot of things that happened when I was young. Sometimes I even think he hears me. Every once in a while he’ll bring up some point I made, telling me how much it meant to him. It’s surprising, because we disagreed so much when I was younger. It took a long time for each of us to build up trust. It’s taken even longer to forgive. And we’re so quick to fall back into our old patterns. The patterns I hate; the patterns that made up so much of my childhood. We’re always careful around each other lest we give in to our old resentments.

But a long time ago, I decided to forgive my parents for every real or perceived wrongdoing. I think you can only go so far in life by blaming your parents for what’s gone wrong in your life. I also believe that at some point, you have to let all of your resentments go, in order to move on and move forward. I know now that my parents are just trying to get through life the best they can, just like we’re all trying to get through it too.

There are a lot of gifts my father gave me that I want to pass along to my own children some day. I want to take them camping in a remote wood high atop a mountain, eating fish for breakfast and bathing in ice cold streams. I want to show them bear tracks and bald eagles and how to dig for the best clams on the beach. Take them on road trips through the desert in cars without air conditioning. Tell them stories, of a passionate great-grandmother who supported the IRA and an even more passionate grandpop who believed in independent thinkers, taking a stand for what you believe in, embracing opportunities for risk and loving the people around you fiercely, and with your whole heart.

Each holiday and birthday I struggle over what gifts to give my parents. I’ve had old photos of them as a young couple restored and framed, given them gift certificates to favorite restaurants and taken them to the theater.

This year, I’m going to give my father another kind of gift. I’m going to tell my dad that I believe him when he makes a promise to me that I know he may not keep. I’m going to tell him that I miss him and I love him, and that I know he’s doing his best.

Somehow, I think he’ll like it.

the call

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Tue, 23 Feb 2010 20:06:00 +0000

Up until a couple of years ago, my mom had a cell phone that rivaled the control panel on Star Trek. Big and boxy, it took up the entire top of the end table, already crowded with Kleenex boxes, hand lotion and assorted old magazines.

Last year, everything changed. My mom got a new Motorola and after a number of hang-ups, dropped calls, and forgetting to turn it on, achieved an uneasy sort of détente with the gadget. When she got her new Bluetooth earpiece, all of my careful instructions fell apart. First there were the endless explanations over the phone of how to get it set up. Then, on subsequent visits to the beach, I found the earpiece had not in fact been Bluetoothed, and finally set it up myself.

Worst of all were the phone calls.

“Hello? Hello? Is anyone there?”

“Mom, you have to put the earpiece on your ear.”

“Hello? Who is this?” In an aside, to my father: “There’s no one there.”

“Then hang up. Just hang up, Joanie.”

“I don’t know how!”

This went on for a while until finally, the Bluetooth earpiece went the way of the old magazines and the Kleenex, resting amid the clutter of the end table. “In case I need it,” my mom explains to anyone who will listen. “I need it close by.”

But my mother’s love of her newfound toy, her cute little cell phone, has not abated. She is absolutely unable to ignore her ringing phone. The result is a lot of oddly distracted or upset phone calls that usually go something like this:

“Hey! What are you doing, mom?”

Sotto voce: “I’m in the doctor’s office.”

“Um, I don’t think you’re supposed to talk on the phone in the waiting room, mom.”

“I’m not in the waiting room. I’m in the little room down the hall.”

“Mom! What is the doctor doing? Isn’t he upset that you took a call?”

“Oh, he’s just looking at my file.” Trilling at the doctor, “I’ll be off in a minute, it’s my daughter. Hmm? Ohhh, yes. He says hello.”

“Mom, just call me later.”

Since my parents love to travel and are often on the road when I call, the other phone calls tend to go something like this:

“Hey! What are you doing, mom?”

“We… No, that was your turn. No, I don’t want to go there, that’s too much like the other one.”

Dad, in the background: “Well, you liked it when we went there last time.”

Mom: “Well, I don’t want to back there today.”

Beep. Beep. Beep. “I can’t, why is this phone not ringing?”

Dad: “Did you dial the number?”

“Yes, I dialed the number.” Click, click, click. Beep. “Hello? Hello?”

“Mom…I’m still here.”

“Oh (put-upon sigh), I’m trying to call someone about the thing. I have to call you back. I have to call you back!”

“Ok. Have a nice-” Click.

afternoon.”

the cake

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Sun, 21 Feb 2010 18:46:00 +0000

I’m standing in the oversized grocery department store trying to explain my request for a cake for my parents’ wedding anniversary party to a very bored bakery clerk. Who is already aggravated because I had to have her paged to help me.

“I just want a simple sheet cake. With these photos scanned on the top.”

“That’s gonna look kinda plain. You sure you don’t want roses in the corners?”

“No roses. Just the photos and the inscription across the top.”

“How about border? We can put a border around each photo and around the edge of the cake.”

“No thank you,” I said. Grimacing at the fat frosting roses on every square inch of every cake in the joint. “I just want it to be simple.”

“It’s not gonna look very good.”

Capitulating for a minute, I agreed to some rainbow sprinkles, then quickly changed my mind. “I just… I want it to… look really nice. You know. Nothing… Nothing too gaudy,” I finally squeaked in desperation. Feeling like a tiny replica of my mom. “Classic.”

She harrumphed and harangued and finally agreed, stating she’d write “really plain” in the notes to the cake decorator. “I better take your number though, she’s probably gonna want an explanation.”

Great. Now I’m going to spend my afternoon “explaining myself” to the cake lady.

And I haven’t even got sand in my shoes yet.

the river

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Sat, 20 Feb 2010 01:48:00 +0000

Even in Oregon, especially in Oregon, I am drawn to the water.

We'd talked about going to the blues festival. But in the end, she asked me to grab two bottles of red and go to the river to dip our feet in the cool water. To just talk for a while. And that’s what we did.

Drinking, smoking and talking. while young men did flips off the dock. The old man frowning at his fishing pole and contemplating a move upstream.

Learning once again why we became friends. Admiring her great beauty. Her strength. Her many accomplishments. Her beautiful family. Planning for when we'll once again live in the same time zone. The trips we’ll take together. To Seattle (her). To the theater and the opera (me). Hiking to distant rivers (her). A booze cruise at twilight (me). We balance each other. That’s why we stick.

Later I curled up on the davenport with a handmade afghan. Much later I slept. In her daughter’s bedroom on a soft mattress with even softer pink sheets and a bed that creaks softly when I roll on to my back. Dreaming.

I Spy at the Sand Dunes

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Mon, 15 Feb 2010 19:32:00 +0000

Three little ones standing on a pedestal drinking from a fountain of spurting water, splashing and laughing too;

Lovely teen-age girls in tiny bikinis stretched out anywhere and everywhere to work on their tans, I want to give them spf 50 but I don’t;

Sweetly chubby kids pushed by morbidly obese parents into choosing the cookies and cream ice cream bars;

Single dads impatiently cake-walking their kids for the holiday and asking me oddly personal questions: Do you think that means he’s had too much to eat? Is it ok to give him this for lunch?

The perma-grin rictus of an elderly man’s death’s head, stumbling and shuffling to an empty seat by the lake;

Large sexy bald man covered with tattoos, hands baby to tattooed girlfriend, seeing me he winks hello;

Three bearded fishermen arguing in not-so hushed whispers about what pop at the concession best complements bourbon;

Me, kneeling at the bottom of the sand dunes, opening my arms as my nephews come hurdling down the hill.

More from the I Spy series.

cherry blossoms

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Mon, 15 Feb 2010 01:16:00 +0000

At the foot of the hill we have to get into the old bronco to go on. Big hulking truck with cracked leather seats, deep green and soft from years of use. Close your eyes, I tell him. But I don’t believe he won’t peek so I make him bend at the waist, placing his head in his lap. I look over to see him smiling. His face twisted with pleasure.

Driving over the crest I slowly shift to take the bend slowly. Coast into park. Tell him to look. All around us, there are cherry trees. In full bloom. Budding. He looks around the orchard in wonder. Finds me. And smiles. The old quilt is on the back seat, pushed down. A bed for campers. Lovers. Later, after walking in the stream, pants rolled up to my knees, t-shirt splashed and wet, I will push him down, too. I smile in anticipation. He knows me well and he smiles too.