deo volente

I don't know Latin.  I've never been religious. Translated, deo volente  means "god willing," as in god willing, you'll see a rainbow in the falls at sundown the week surrounding the solstice.  The clouds weren't quite right to see that tonight, but I was there to see it if it were.

Multnomah Falls, the second most visited place in Oregon - 2nd to Spirit Mountain Casino

I was also at Coopey Falls, probably one of those gorge waterfalls you haven't seen unless you have a connection to the Franciscan Sisters of the Eucharist or have visited their 5 acres and Italianate 1916 house at Bridal Veil abutting the private falls.  Coopey Falls was named after the homesteader who first owned the land.  The Sisters are about the eighth property owners, and I am here to tell you now that if I hadn't been in utero in 1975 when they purchased it for 60K, it's exactly the sort of villa I should be situated in.  Can you believe it had been vacant (and in considerable disrepair) for eight years prior?

The House at Bridal Veil

Your rare glimpse of Coopey Falls, complete with me imagining I'm the caretaker

I like my job.  Jobs, to be more precise, but this one in particular I keep because of the fun factor.  I log my efficient hard and fast work hours in a small office like any good worker bee, and I do this for the days I get to spend out in the field with the old folk, variously visiting places and people of interest. The less obvious perk of this specific job happens to be ongoing exposure to the kind of old person I don't  want to be.  Look me up when we're truly aged to find out how this benefited me or not!
Today I had the fortune to traverse the Columbia River Gorge with historian and Professor Emeritus Charlie W. I had a great photo of him standing atop Cape Horn that didn't make the download, so just imagine a spry 85 -year-old gentleman who smiles impishly and often, speaks intelligently and with humor and catalogs facts like nobody's business; the sort who kisses your hand when he greets you and says goodbye.
With Charlie as our guide, we completed a very full day rife with history and facts and information that for the most part never reaches my nether memory regions. What I like about his narratives are what I call hidden gems, the things that I probably should know as a life-long Oregonian but for some reason I don't.  The Sandy River was originally named Quicksand River.  No joke. Lewis and Clark named Rooster Rock something shorter, more phallic and less agreeable to the Ladies of Crown Point who eventually renamed it Chanticleer Point, the French for Rooster.  In Charlie's words, our pornographic rock is uncircumcised and better than Hawaii's rock at Molokaii.   The London Plane trees you see planted throughout downtown Portland are cousins of the sycamore; they are planted there and in cities (and at North Bonneville) because they purportedly withstand pollution better than most trees.  Incidentally, I must have visited North Bonneville dam several times over as a young Girl Scout, and I wonder how they have managed to keep their bright orange carpet all these years without upgrading to something more forgiving of all their visitor foot traffic.  River rocks have water in the middle, so if you want to build a fireplace with them be prepared to x-ray each one for water content so you know it is dry and won't explode when heated.  Such was done for the hearth at Skamania Lodge.  BPA brought Woody Guthrie out here in the early days of publicizing the development of the Columbia River Basin for electric power; they gave him hotel stays and a car and he wrote 17 songs plus Roll on Columbia in fulfillment of his month-long job.  We sang it on the way home - Charlie had the lyrics for us.

Evening dessert in the garden; that fellow is Fred, a gentleman who comes out often on trips, served in two wars, and brings me copies of fictional stories laced with historic anecdotes that he has written inspired by the places we go on trips

The tidbits go on and on.
It's a good job.  What's not to love?

Flora on old Hwy 30 at Multnomah Falls...

Almost like you're trekking down the Alps and there's a Mediterranean hideaway...

first published June 2011

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hunt.peck. stretch. spark. gather.

For about five years running I have ushered in summer with a ritual list-making.  I do this with my daughters. We sit down together and each make a list of things we want to do over the next 2.5 months, including things we know we will do, things we hope to do and things in the category of wildest dreaming too.  They get posted in the kitchen as a sort of summer play list that stays in view.  As a relentless list-maker, nostalgist and keeper, of course I have all these lists still.  Alongside each other, they carry commonalities and annual habits both discovered and intentional.  But they also pay homage to the fabric of our essential selves.  My lists always feature a good amount of activities involving harvest, being outside and driving long distances.  Huh.  Things that needn't have singularly seasonal appeal.

We don't have these kind of written narrative to-do lists this year.  Perhaps it is because only two of three of us get any kind of dedicated time together/desire any kind of dedicated time together. Perhaps it is because we plowed head-on into the season with a pretty full roster of places to be and people to see.  Perhaps it is because a new kind of list was festering. A list of verbs.  Mine dawned and grew up from three words to five in the strawberry field. And it appears to be less of a checklist than a workout regime of verbs.   They are all applicable to everything I (ought to) do all the time, but in this format they make a little imperative of what should come out of the next few months.

How now?  A progress report on some thoughts and strategies:

Hunt.  Well, the field is wide open there.  People hunting, home hunting, general prospecting. :)
Peck.   Gotta peck at what I hunt.
Stretch.  Unconditionally loving those things that are hard to love is my playing field here.
Spark.  Re-ignition. Closely connected to the next word, as the ingredients for sparking are often the result of gathering.  But this one is for my oldest daughter too.  Must help her spark, sneak people into her life to bring up her own spark.  Hard to do. Harder remotely.
Gather.  Most easily practiced, most easily attained.  28.5 pounds of strawberries, crowded living room slumbers, open door dinners, kid care co-ops to get work hours in, impromptu evening jam-making.....

I like my list.  I am sure I could chase it with a handful more.  But out there on the solstice staining my hands with fresh Oregon strawberry juice, this list stuck with some sweetness.

first published June 2011