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

Finally! The Big Announcement

I'll bet you thought this announcement had something to do with our 37-year anniversary and the fact that I gave Dean a trip to Portland to celebrate. No, not a trip alone to get away from me; he should be so lucky. This is a chance to get away from the BFD and visit the city he mentions, on average, once a month. "Powells Books is there", he says with reverence and awe in his voice, "and art galleries" and (sigh) "lots and lots of brew pubs". So we're off ... but not til September. We can't leave until we've conquered the wooden monstrosity.

Or maybe you thought I was going to announce we'd finished the BFD so you wouldn't have to read about it anymore. If only we were all that lucky. Sadly, that is not the announcement. However since we're on the topic of the BFD -- we were back out there again this Sunday morning in a bit of a panic. We foolishly allowed ourselves to sleep in this Sunday morning and enjoy a lazy breakfast of Dean's famous buttermilk pancakes, and my too-strong-for-anybody-else coffee. As is my habit on Sunday mornings I read the paper and drink coffee as Dean's cooking breakfast. This Sunday morning I made the mistake of reading the weather outloud to Dean. "Possible rain showers are predicted for the next five days." The guaranteed to last four years waterproofer needs 24 hours to dry so that was the end of the lazy breakfast. I hadn't even finished my last bite of pancake before Dean was hauling out the brushes and buckets and slathering on sunscreen .

There's alot of time to think while you're doing this

to touch up this

See the unpainted bit between the boards? Just not acceptable.

I was thinking of lots of things; like how if we would have taken three minutes to check the web we would have known that Fort Collins moved its farmers market from Saturday to Sunday. And yesterday Saturday when we drove there to give ourselves a break from the (surprise!) BFD, we found not tables and tables of veggies and fruits, but an empty parking lot with a sign. And if we would have know there wasn't a farmers market to rush to, maybe I could have slept in past 6:30 a.m. on a Saturday.

And I thought about the protest march we walked into heading back to our car. We were going in opposite directions both physically and ideologically. Bless their little hearts, all the blue-haired folks probably just forgot that the Medicare benefits they're currently receiving are coming to them via a government-run program. The same type of government run program they were protesting. I suppose the young ones just never think they'll get sick. And the folks that came of age in the 60s, well, I can understand how their brains may not be functioning at full capacity anymore. And then I thought about how I saw more Obama bumper stickers during the three hours I was in Fort Collins than I have in the past two years in Wyoming and my faith in humankind was restored.

I wondered whether my ankle, yes, ankle, would cramp again this Sunday morning (it did not) like it did the other night because I have found no ergonomically correct way to waterproof the deck. The tried and true cramp remedy of grabbing your toes and pulling up at the same time you are pushing down on your knee does not work when that foot is bending back and up, trying to align itself perpendicularly (is that a word?) with your lower leg. It hurts. Alot. When Dean and I rise from the deck, we do it very slowly and tend to say alot of "oh, ahhhhhh, ohhhhhhhhhhhhh, mmmmmmmmmmmm, phew, ohhhhh", and, for the first few steps appear to be walking like we have an invisible walker. The other night when my ankle cramped, the noises I made as I was walking around the far end of the BFD didn't even register with Dean. "oh ... oh ... OH, OH, oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH." Finally, as I was bent over clutching the rail, I heard a soft voice say "cramp?" and then he went back to brushing.

Dean's hopes of finishing the BFD by the end of the weekend were dashed but we did make noticable progress. Even if we would have stayed home yesterday Saturday, it got up to 95 degrees and that's too hot to apply the guaranteed to last four years waterproofer anyway. That's what he's telling himself anyway. I don't really care. I'm sick of the BFD, which, as of Sunday night has had reached this point.

I asked Dean what he thinks about during the hours we're out on the evil wooden monster and, other than wondering if he'd caught Abby's head-squeezing-energy-sucking-drooling's-better-than-swallowing-knock-you-down-flat-cold through the phone lines, (updated Monday night--turns out he did, only not as severe), the thing he'd been thinking about most was the topic that occupied most of my time on the BFD this morning; the topic that has been occupying my mind a good share of the time since I learned of it; the topic I've been waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting (Been waiting since Tuesday ... Wednesday ... Friday ... Sunday---I give up and write the post so I'm ready ... Dang that cold! ... still waiting Monday night. ...waiting ANOTHER Tuesday.....Tuesday afternoon ... still waiting ... THIS IS KILLIN' ME ...FINALLY--NOW!) to tell you; the true topic of this post. And that topic is THIS!

We are doing the happy dance. (If you're thinking "why are they doing the happy dance? The BFD isn't even finished" go back up and click on THIS!) Yes, Dean and I. I'm on my tippy toes; my arms are above my head and I am twirling, twirling, twirling around. Dean is up, on the toes of two feet, no, down, now up on one foot, on his toes, he's holding on to the back of the couch, yeeeessss, almost, on tippy toes on both feet, yes! now one arm up, next arm almost up, almost ... one foot down, back up, left arm down, back up, starting to turn, just a little, ... tipping, tipping, tipping, ... caught by the end table ... that's okay, I didn't like that lamp anyway, ... I know, it's those white athletic socks ... they slip ... Okay, that was my imagination. In reality Dean would have been wearing his sandals along with those white athletic socks and thus would not have slipped. He still wouldn't have twirled as good as me, though. We are very happy and excited for Abby and Jorge. Can you tell? We welcome Jorge to our family with open arms.

Wait ... what's that feeling? ... It's a twinge ... in my brain ... now my fingers are twitching ... starting to move ... a post ... I feel a future post coming on ... current and ... future ... sons-in-law ... crazy ... in-laws ... oh, ... it's out of my control ... the fingers ... stop ...
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Finally! The Big Announcement

HOW long?

Thirty-seven years tomorrow.

Thir ... ty ... Se ... ven years living with the same person ... tomorrow. Wow.

I have something I so much want to tell you all. Oh, how I want to tell you all... well, the five or six of you who might be reading this ... but I shouldn't ... not yet ... tomorrow? Maybe ... I hope so ... it's pretty exciting ... I'm excited anyway ... but I can't tell you ... not now ... later...

In the meantime there has been progress on the BFD which continues to occupy our spare time. There are now new rails on the narrow, smaller (smaller being a relative term) end of the deck which requires only a bunch more spindles and top rails to complete it (complete being a relative term). Of course, now that this project is almost over, our assembly line procedure has reached near perfection. If there was another BFD needing the same repairs I'm sure we could do it in half the time, or three-fourths the time, or at least a couple of days hours quicker; as if we would ever be stupid enough to do that. If this deck ever needs new planks, support beams, spindles, top rails or stairs again during my lifetime, I vote for moving.

One of the steps Dean stumbled upon to increase the efficiency, and speed up the process of this whole project, has been to waterproof the rails and spindles before he screws them on. Since that step didn't begin occurring til near the end of this project (see above near perfection), it means we had to go back and waterproof all the parts we've already installed. And, since he was tired of waterproofing the deck every year, he did some research, actually asked some questions (I know, who knew, men do know how to ask questions---if it doesn't involve directions) and purchased some super duper, guaranteed to last four years deck waterproofing stuff.

You'd think we could just slop it on those planks and be done with it, but remember, this is the guy who made us wash all the rocks from under the deck before we could put them back. So what do you think the step before waterproofing was? If your guess involved water, a special scrubbing broom and special stuff to scrub off mildew from redwood, you're right!

The dreaded mildew.

Oh, how I wish I had a picture of me scrubbing ... you'll just to trust that I scrubbed this.

As I was scrubbing with this specially designed mildew-scrubbing brush, it occurred to me that I probably didn't really need to feel guilty about not making it to the gym. I was sweating, my heart rate was nearing cardio range and I was sculpting my arms. And I didn't even have to pay a membership to do it.

This is August, and it should have been so warm that the newly scrubbed deck would have dried quickly, but no. Instead of global warming we seem to be on the edges of the next ice age.

Yes, that's frost on the roof....in mid-AUGUST!

So out came the fan, not to cool us off, but to speed the drying of the deck so we could move on to the next step. It was like hearing a prop plane warming up....for hours. I'm sure our neighbors really enjoyed the background noise as they ate dinner on their patio.

Once the required washing, scrubbing, rinsing, and sort-of-drying was completed, it was time for the rolling-on of the special guaranteed to last four years waterproofing stuff. When we started the rolling-on process the sun was still shining.

As we rolled and rolled and rolled and rolled, the sun got lower and lower and lower and the temperature got cooler and cooler and cooler. I donned a sweatshirt and Dean kept complaining about his toes being cold. I would have felt sorry for him but he'd switched out boots for sandals. I can't dress him all the time.

After an eight-hour day at work (for some of us) this process began at approximately 3:00 p.m. At about 5:30 p.m. we had a quick piece of warmed up pizza, and at 8:30 p.m., after the first coat of guaranteed to last four years waterproofing was on, we ate a boy do we deserve this guilt-free ice cream bar. Then it was back out for the final coat ... in the dark.

Note the stocking hat and sandals.

By 10:30 p.m. the prop plane/fan was turned off, the lights on the deck were back in the house, and the painting equipment was cleaned. Boy, that was fun ...

Finished (finished being a relative term).

Now all we need to do is go back out and touch up all the places we missed while we were rolling, and rolling and rolling in the cool, cool, cool air during the dark. But Dean told me that because it's our anniversary we don't have to work on the deck for Two whole days. He's a prince!

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HOW long?

Worth a Thousand Words

Yesterday after I had posted about my golfing experience, I received this timely gift in the mail from my very astute sister.


Today, in honor of the 40th anniversary of Woodstock, Dean donned his Doo Rag for our weekend deck work.


I like to think of it as his Do Rag because I have a list a mile long of things waiting for him to do once the BFD is finished. I know he'll be thrilled to do them.◦

Worth a Thousand Words

FORE!

Recently my sister grabbed her husband by his overalls, pulled him off the farm, and they came out for a long-awaited and much anticipated visit. I'd planned a few activities designed to awe and amaze them. Such as ...

a coal mine tour...

And Dave thought his combine was big!

and crawling up...





walking on...







and crawling down

Yes, it's really as high as it looks.

Independence Rock.

However, I'm convinced the activity they enjoyed most was when we allowed them

to cook for us.

Surprisingly, my sister announced that she had her own activity planned. They had brought their very own golf clubs with their very own special fuzzy golf club covers and they wanted to golf with us. Say what? ... you want to ... with us? ... at a real golf course? ... uh ... okay.

Off to the city golf course we went. Some of us went with excitement and anticipation; some of us with fear and trepidation. Shelly called ahead to make sure we didn't need special golfing shirts with collars (uh, nooooooo, this is the municipal golf course) however it turned out sharing golf clubs is frowned upon, even at the muni.



So Dean and I rented golf clubs. Our clubs didn't come with those fancy, fuzzy golf club covers. Mine did come in a dirty, scratched beautiful pink bag though, which made up for their absence.

It turns out Dean apparently has some inherent golfing ability and a nice swing. That's what I kept hearing anyway. "nice swing", "you're a natural", "you should take up golf". Whereas directed at me was, "just put that chunk of dirt and grass back in the hole and step on it", "good job...you hit the ball" after my ball hit the tree, bounced off and rolled back to me,"yeah, hit it again ... no, the person furthest hits first ... yup, you again ...again ..."



In the end I concluded it was a successful first outing since I didn't hit an antelope or any of my fellow golfers.



I used to think that Fore! meant "Watch me hit the ball because I'm really good." But now I know that Fore! really means "DUCK! a golf ball is careening through the trees from another fairway and it's going to land about a foot away from where you are getting ready to swing". I gloated a bit believing that somebody else out there was worse than me. Geez, even I kept my ball in my own fairway. But then it occurred to me that if their ball was winging its way toward us, it meant they not only could hit it further than a ten-foot grounder but they could hit it in the air. But on the bright side, I can only get better. Right?◦

FORE!