Early Impressions of Portland

Portland has awesome grocery stores,

with lots of great wine,

bright houses, with interesting "art".

It's the brew pub capital of the world, and there is always something to do. 

In the Hawthorne neighborhood we are calling "home", short skirts, dreadlocks and full body tattoos are common and everybody has a dog.

Downtown Portland seems the same as most big cities except for the dozens of people we saw riding bicycles.  There are the homeless pushing overloaded shopping carts, "crazy" guys on corners "preaching",  and ethnic food everywhere --

It even has nerds.  When we were sitting outside eating our authentic Greek gyros today we overheard some Russian guys talking as they waited for the light to change.  When we looked more closely we saw they were wearing badges for a Lynux conference.    Dean said, "nerds are nerds no matter where they are."

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Early Impressions of Portland

The Sights and Sounds of Relaxing

Sitting on the front deck, music playing on the computer, our first bag of books from Powell's bookstore sitting nearby, wine, bread, cheese, cucumber salad, and ice cream waiting for us inside.  Sigh.

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The Sights and Sounds of Relaxing

Waiting With Excitement and Anticipation

We're here! At the airport anyway, and as we wait I'm blogging away. How nerdy is that? Maybe not so nerdy since I had to call Abby for a quick lesson on how to connect to a free wireless. It's my first time! I suppose that's a bit sad, actually. But not as sad as the fact that when Dean and I sat down and discussed the last time we'd gone anywhere for more than a 24-hour period completely alone, which means not meeting/seeing friends, not meeting/seeing family at some point in the trip----the last time we remembered doing that was for our 25th anniversary, a whoppin' 12 years ago. Now that's sad. In one short hour we will be breaking that long-standing record and hope to never set it again. Stay tuned for exciting posts from the brew pub capital of the world.

Oh, and by the way. Dean just got around to reading my last three posts and I screwed up big time. He's truly offended that I said the cornstalk was six feet tall. It is not. It is TWELVE feet tall. I'm not sure how I got six from twelve but I stand corrected.◦

Waiting With Excitement and Anticipation

Girls Weekend

Last Friday morning Leslie, Emerson, Myra and I piled into the car and headed for a girls “Men In Skirts” weekend in Estes Park. Abby flew in to Denver, shuttled over to Loveland, and we squeeeeeezed her in the backseat between a carseat, a booster seat and two excited girls waving around juice boxes and packages of fruit snacks. I fully expected that most of the weekend I would be the one smushed into the backseat as Leslie and Abby devised creative ways to justify why they should be in the front seat, but as it turned out, I drove all weekend and they took turns squishing their bodies in back with the girls. I even offered to do my time in the backseat but they refused. At first I thought they were just crazy for not taking me up on my offer, but now I'm wondering if they thought I was too old to contort my old, wrinkly, brittle-boned body into such a tight space. Maybe they didn't want to deal with the post-backseat bruises and injuries I may have inflicted upon myself as I squeeeeezed in.......or the whining that may have would have followed ....... or telling their dad that they squashed their poor old Mom in between two carseats and they were bringing me back a bit worse for wear ..... naaaaaaaw.

I had printed a map to the cabin but otherwise I depended on my girls' keen sense of direction to get me around town. Leslie was born with an internal compass and Abby has developed a fine sense of direction during her hunts for the wild alfalfa weevil and wheat curl mite. I, on the other hand, can’t find my way out of a cardboard box. It turns out that daughters with a fine sense of direction are of absolutely no use if you don’t listen to them. A small sampling of our conversations follows:

Daughter: Turn right at the next corner, Mom.
Me: This corner?
Daughter: Yes.
Me: There’s a sign that points left to the fairgrounds . What about that sign?
Daughter: Turn right, Mom.
Me: I’m turning left.

I take the left turn, and as I am driving along a road with no exit for quite a ways, I look right and there, off in the distance, is our destination--the fairgrounds, otherwise known as "the field".

Me: Shoot. I should have turned right. Stupid sign. Why did the sign say go left?
Daughter: You should have listened to me, Mom.


Me: Which way do I go…left, straight, right?
Daughter: Turn right at the Holiday Inn, Mom.
Me: Are you sure?
Daughter: Yes, turn right at the Holiday Inn, Mom. Remember? We figured this out yesterday.
Me: I think it looks like we should go straight. I’m going straight and then I’ll turn right at the next corner.

Soon I am looking for a place to turn around.

Daughter: Big annoyed sigh…Geez, Mom, why do you ask me to tell you where to turn if you don’t listen? (the sound of eyes rolling)

At the tattoo we opted for bleachers on the field

rather than being sardined in with the bulk of humanity in the stands.

We didn’t always have the best view when the band was facing the grandstand,

and it was chillier without the body heat of the masses, but we had plenty of room for sleepy girls and we were up close and personal during the final march of the bands. However, when the final fireworks went off at the end of the show and the smoke billowed out, drifted our way completely engulfing us and we felt small particles of firecracker powder filling our lungs with each breath we tried not to take, we wondered about our choice.

The plan for Saturday was to slather on sunscreen, don our sunglasses,
watch the parade,
go to the field, listen to music, watch bands march, walk through sale tents, watch jousting, sit out on the grass, have a picnic, watch some dancing and drumming competitions and discretely gape at men walking around in kilts, all to the backdrop of the majestic Rocky Mountains.

When the predicted 59 degree day with a 30% chance of thunderstorms turned into a 44 degree day with constant mist or rain, we pulled on our gloves, hats, coats, and every extra piece of clothing we’d brought, plopped our bodies down in the “rock tent”, got comfortable and listened to pretty much every set of the three bands playing in that tent.

Now and then one of us would make a break for the beer tent and bring back a Guinness or some warm food. Emerson and Myra took the opportunity to have nice long naps but when Leslie began shivering so badly that the vibrations woke Emerson, we made a mad dash for the whiskey tasting tent . We were troopers, though, and were some of the last to leave the field. It could have been worse we told each other, teeth chattering. Even though we could see our breath, there was no snow.

Of course Sunday morning when we were preparing to leave, the sun was out, the skies were blue and you could actually see the mountains.
Emerson and Myra, ecstatic that they were free from bundles of blankets and joyful that their limbs had unthawed, were outside playing a game they’d made up. Leslie, being an involved and interested mother, walked over and apparently tried to join them. She walked back looking like the kid in gym class who is always chosen last and told me “Myra informed me that in this game only two humans are allowed to play.”

Once I was home, unpacking and reliving the weekend in my head, I realized I should have known from the moment we ran into our friends on Friday night that we were doomed to have a weekend of nasty weather. They were heading up into the Rockies to camp Friday night and hike Saturday. When was the weather bad? Saturday. When was the weather better? Sunday. When did they go home? Saturday night. My disappointment in the weather could at least be tempered with the knowledge that they were probably hiking with icicles hanging off their noses while we at least warmed ourselves with beer and music.

Dean managed to keep himself out of trouble while the girls and I were gone and FINISHED the BFD!---for this year.

I don’t have to/won’t/refuse to/will not type BFD again until next summer. The final rails are on and painted with the “guaranteed to last four years” waterproofing,
the garage has been somewhat cleaned and organized and the waterproofing tools have been put away. He even painted the outside window trim we’d replaced TWO years ago when three windows and a patio door were installed.

And, as if all that wasn't enough, our giant cornstalk spent its weekend growing even taller. It is now up to a very respectable SIX feet tall.

Jeezo peezo, holy cow! I think that calls for a trip to Portland!

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Girls Weekend

12-Step Program

My name is Dean and I am a BFD addict.  All summer my life has been controlled by chunks of wood.  I have fooled myself into believing I was in control.  I thought I could stop working on the BFD at any time.  I was positive I could be at home for one full weekend without the uncontrollable urge to sort, inspect and touch wood until the perfect board is found.  I thought I could resist planing this newly discovered perfect board on my awesome jointer/planer until it was so soft and smooth I could rub it along the beard-free portion of my face (or maybe the larger area on top of my head) with no worry of slivers.  I told myself I could stop vacuuming stray specks of sawdust from this chunk of wood any time I chose.  There was no doubt in my mind I could say no! when my friend cried out for waterproofing to bring forth the soft lustre of her grain.  I believed it when I told my wife it would be easy to stay out of the garage for one whole weekend.  I promised I would not touch one power tool this Labor Day weekend. 

I am a BFD addict. I cannot stop. Help me....

Fessing up update:  Okay, I wrote that.  But I'm absolutively, positively, no-doubt-about-it sure that's what Dean WOULD have written if he could have.  I've heard admitting you have a problem is the first step.◦

12-Step Program

Focusing on the Flash

Dean told me of a recent news story that discussed how multi-tasking can diminish a person's ability to focus.  I'm waiting to hear "it's important for me to single-task in order to maintain my finely-tuned cognitive skills" the next time I suggest to him, (eyes rolling), that he can't do more than one thing at a time because he's a man.

Actually, he could have probably used that reasoning this past weekend while we were hiking with friends.  We have been hiking with these friends for years and the hikes have always had at least two things in common:  it's always rainy or buggy and Dean and Larry always walk so slow that if we chose to, Heidi and I could easily lap them.  The guys would have us believe their leisurely pace is required in order to view, touch, analyze and discuss all the geologic and botanical wonders surrounding them.  I, however, believe it's because they really can't do more than one thing at a time.  They walk, stop, point, stop, talk ... walk, stop, point, stop, talk.

Heidi and I do our best to slow our normal-person pace and stay with them, but that always proves to be impossible.  It's like telling a geologist he is not allowed to pick up a rock and lick it.  It just can't be done.  Within a few minutes we are so far ahead of them we are required to leave signs so they know which fork in the trail we took ... a water bottle here, a granola bar there ... 

At one point we had run out of "bread crumbs" and decided we'd better stop and wait for them to catch up.  We sat by a nice stream, feet up, relaxing, and waited for them to saunter along til they found us.  When they finally did, we feigned interest and asked what they'd been talking about during their hike.  They launched into some complicated theory as to the origins of the crumbling foundations and chimneys they'd seen along the way, the correct names of trees they'd seen, and other stuff.  I don't remember since I wasn't really listening. 

After they'd finished expounding upon their highly intelligent discussions they turned to us and said, "and what have you ladies been talking about?"  Without a second's hesitation we both replied, "hot flashes." 

There are advantages to woman-made breezes while hiking.  And in case you're wondering, there was a slight rain shower on this hike.

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Focusing on the Flash