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It's Foxglove Time

John Day Fossil Beds

Having grown exceedingly weary of driving north and south on I-5 between Seattle and Eugene/Springfield,OR, Elaine and I decided to visit Central Oregon last week on our way south.

The detour was worth every minute. We especially took time to visit the John Day Fossil Beds National Monument--2 of the 3 Units. The Clarno Unit and the Painted Hills Unit. A photo of a view approaching Painted Hills is in the Blog Title now.

I will write more about the trip in my next blog--hopefully in a couple of days. I highly recommend that you take the time to visit this "secret" part of the Northwest. It's beautiful, reminiscent of the old Republic Pictures Western Movies, restful, uncrowded, and fresh.

Detour

It was before freeways. The roads between our starting point and our grandparents’ farm were 2-lane blacktop at best and unpaved single-lane country roads at worst. If Dad drove us in the summer, part of the way was closed for a “bridge out” because of spring floods. If we went at Christmas, a road was blocked by snow or a washout or mud. We never drove to the farm on the most direct route but came to “DETOUR” signs directing us to go around this block or that section or along this river to the next bridge.
“Oh, Boy!” my brothers chortled, “Another adventure!”
We kids sitting in the back seat knew then that the trip would extend an hour or two—because a detour meant we would get lost—especially after dark. Dad invariably missed a critical sign. Many times he must retrace his route miles back to the original “detour” sign and start over. He insisted the whole family stay awake and to please keep their eyes peeled for the tiny, dirty, orange signs on fence posts along the way, and to sing out if we saw one.
Always when we got to Grandpa and Grandma’s farmhouse they came out carrying lanterns; anxious to hear about the detour that had caused the delay this time. There was a hot meal for us to eat just minutes away when we got there. Always we kids fell asleep in strange beds upstairs listening to the comfortable grown-up voices down in the kitchen, telling stories and catching up on events since our last visit.

A Crow Named Sheryl (or Russell)

Here's a picture of a bold crow who started hanging around on the deck in the past week. Since she's that bold, I have made a couple of attempts to get her to come take a peanut from my hand, but haven't had any luck so far--she expects to have her peanuts tossed onto the carport roof. Once the peanuts are there she collects the first one, walks over to the second one and sets the first down right beside the second. Then she picks both of them up so they are stacked in her beak then flies off to eat them.

NOW I'M SEVENTY

♥I will:
♥Smile at flowers.
♥Drive 60 miles an hour on the freeway and watch my miles per gallon increase 15% and
always obey the speed limit, no matter how many dirty looks I get.
♥Have the best looking lawn on the block.
♥Button my shirts at the neck if I want.
♥Wear a watch cap around the house if my head is cold.

♥Call my friends “Old Timer.”
♥Laugh loudly at my own jokes.
♥Speak to strangers just to see what happens.
♥Wander around hardware stores looking at stuff for hours.
♥Shave only on occasion.
♥Read as much of the paper as I want.

♥Tell outrageous lies about myself to my granddaughters.

Some Flower Photos From Skagit Valley, WA. Click on the photo to go to Album on Picasa, then click on "slide show" to see the slide show.

Skagit Valley Tulips

Looking Down From High Places

Home Is Here

Home is Western Washington. In my working life I traveled on business many times to Southern California, the Eastern Seaboard, the South, and the Midwest, to city after city. Each time I returned, I stepped out of the terminal at Sea-Tac and took a deep breath of the crisp air and thought to myself, “Ah! It’s so good to be home.”
I was born in Southern California and spent 10 years in the Midwest, moving from town to town. My wife and I were in Germany for 2 years. But the Puget Sound area is home. It’s where E and I raised our two sons. It’s where we bought our first house. It’s where, when the company which sent me to Seattle wanted me back in Los Angeles after a year, the family took a vote and we decided to stay. It’s where every time we go to the airport or the grocery store or the mall or the park we meet friends we know.
It’s where I learned to square dance, referee soccer, and identify birds. It’s where we learned what a “fir and cedar” forest is and how it differs from a “pine forest.” It’s where our sons went to grade school, high school and college.
It’s where we’ve been the proudest and happiest to live.

Sunday Morning

A-a-h-h! Sunday morning pancakes, sun shining, Seattle Times in the driveway with news about the Mariners, the Sounders, and March Madness--and that's just the sports section.
George Cooney, our resident raccoon, came by at breakfast time, lounged around on the deck, and acted like a lazy brother-in-law (looked in the refrigerator, made a mess, then left.)
Baseball season opens today (for Phillie and Atlanta.) So all's right with the world and right now every team's record is 0 wins and 0 losses. Starting out even. The Sounders FC won again last night; in Toronto this time.
E and I had wonderful discussions about the state of the world, the economy, and the Mariners.
Now we are heading for the yard to do gardening, weeding, and trimming. I hope you have a wonderful Sunday, too!

Anniversary Bouquet

The Seattle PI and WaMu

Washington Mutual ended first. Now the Seattle PI is gone (from print.) I've lived in NW Washington since 1976. Before we paid off our mortgage, our last mortgage holder was WaMu--over time, with one acquisition after another, they were the surviving institution that held our mortgage. The first one was Pioneer Savings and Loan in 1976 with a couple of others in the intervening years. During the years we made house payments, we paid almost $50,000 in interest, which more than the price of our house when we bought it. They did not use our money wisely, did they?

Over thirty-two years ago we began subscribing to the Seattle PI. Today we had to quit because they quit. At current rates (I understand that their subscription rates are not the same as they were in 1976) we paid about $20 a month for the PI. In today's dollars, then, we have paid almost $8000 for the daily paper. It was worth it. But they did not use our money wisely either, did they?

It does not speak well about our socio-economic philosophy that two once-respected institutions fail as these two have. What does it tell about our ethics? What does it tell about our greed? What does it tell about our need for instant gratification? What does it tell about today's generations' understanding of what is and what is not important?

I don't know the answers. I wish I did.

My Brother's Duck

County Fair

Midway, rides, preserves
Garden produce, quilts
See my heels
I run to the barns
Prize pigs and draft horses
Have messages for me.

Monday, March 9

Maya, 3, at 'Bounce'

Finley, 8 mo.

Just got back from Oregon--Springfield & Eugene. Saw The Rabbit Hole at the Lord Leebrick Theater in Eugene. Saw my granddaughters in Eugene.
Well, I guess the part about spring being here was premature, huh? Got home and there was snow like January.

Great trip, fun, lots to eat and a good motel--the Village Inn Motel and Restaurant in Springfield. Just off Hwy 126.

Whoops!

I spoke too soon about spring . . it snowed all morning, though none stuck on the ground.

Spring

Doesn't the approach of spring feel good? Look good? Smell good? When the air takes on a balmy feeling and primroses vibrate in the light breeze, the imminence of the new season becomes exciting. Rain feels like a spring freshet instead of winter's gray, endless mist. Broken clouds with blue sky intervals cause one to remark on their beauty instead of hunching down for continuing squalls for the next few months. The earth begins to soften. Days grow longer--3 or 4 minutes each day. Green shoots pop up through damp soil--blue bells, crocus, tulips, daffodils--all promise color galore in just a few weeks. You can see purple on lilac buds. Sun makes dandelions magically appear in the lawn.

Spring is anticipation. Spring is youth. Spring makes summer worth the wait.

Now Rosemary is Back Too

Rosemary, an acquaintance of George's, has come back to visit us now also. She came the other night--her trick is to sit on the deck just outside the sliding glass door and stare in at us until one of us realizes she's there.

It's pretty hard to tell a male from a female raccoon unless they lie on their backs with their legs outstretched (which George sometimes does.) But Rosemary Cooney has all the characteristics of a female. She's dainty when she eats (George is a slob.) She's smaller than he is, and a little skittier. She doesn't sprawl on the deck for a rest, but lies quietly either on the deck in the shadow or on the deck rail next to the holly for a fast escape.

Neither of them moves anymore when I go onto the deck for a smoke.

George Cooney Returns

We went to Oregon near the end of last month to go to a couple of plays, see the kids, have breakfast at the Original Pancake House in Eugene.

When we came back, our friend George did not come around for three or four weeks. That was okay, in a way--George is rather like a good-for-nothing uncle who comes in every day or so, checks out the refrigerator, drinks your last beer and eats all the potato chips then leaves to go carousing for a couple days.

It was good to have him back over the weekend, though. He's the only raccoon we know of who comes in mid-morning, as though he'd stayed in bed to sleep off a rough night at the local watering hole, then comes around looking for breakfast, his eyes bleary and whiskers disheveled.

He eats a little, then has a drink of water, then lies on his back in the sun (if there is any), looking as undignified as any reprobate. If he wore a tie there would be grease and egg yolk stains on it. If he wore a bathrobe, he'd never fasten it. If he were a guy instead of a raccoon, he'd only shave every fourth or fifth day, his shirts would be wrinkled, and he'd have dirt under his fingernails.

But he's friendly and does not mind when I step out onto the deck for a smoke or to go across the street to get the mail. He'll sniff my shoe and pants legs seeing if I smell like food or if I've been eating something; holding out on him. Never says much. I reckon that's smart in today's world.