Day Two in Oregon

Sunday in Portland started at the Byways Cafe, a well noted but homespun cafe with a specialty in breakfast.  Well, actually we started at Starbucks less than a block away as our day started, as always, earlier than most.  Well, most customers.  As we walked by Byways we saw a young man at the counter.  We decided the prep work was being done and potatoes were boiling.

Once seated at Byways, we were enchanted.  Clearly Byways has been around a long, long time and little has changed.  Black and white checkered linoleum floor.  A lunch counter with low red leather covered stools.  We sat in a booth and admired the travel memorabilia displayed in glass cases, wooden framed and hanging on the wall.  Salt and peppers, little figurines, state named items.  Above the window and the back bar were several license plates, not especially old.  The place evidenced wear and care (the care based on the cleanliness).

Rog had biscuit (a very LARGE one) and gravy (butter and good sausage evident in abundance and flavor).  I had cinnamon challah French bread, pecan butter, maple syrup (the real stuff!), 2 slices of bacon, and one egg.  Everything was great.  Oh, yes, Roger also had home fries, while good not up to the standard of the rest of the fare.

From there we headed to the Columbia River Valley.  Upon landing we knew we were not in familiar territory -- lots of hills and evergreens, not many deciduous trees.  Heading north and east only magnified that impression.  Everything indicated a temperate rain forest environment.  Moss, ferns, lichens, mushrooms growing in profusion on any surface not moving.  Tree trunks and branches.  Stones, walkways.  The trees were incredibly tall, reaching ever upward for what rays of sun the day provided.  Clouds hung low on hill tops and in valleys.  When the sun would reflect off these wisps, they would glow, the vista ever changing, depending on the winds and whims of weather.  The lushness of plant life was impressive.  Wild berries, huge flowers.

Our first stop was an overlook of the Columbia River.  I can only hope my pictures do it justice.  In the distance we could see a fortress or churchlike building.  It seemed perfect for the fantasy setting.  Little did I know it was our next stop!

Vista House, grand and glorious views.  From there we stopped at three or four water falls.  Each required a short walk (from half to three quarters of a mile) which allowed us to truly experience the rain forest.  The falls were awe-inspiring.  Again, I hope the pictures tell an accurate story. 

The last falls was the highest and maybe even the best but it was also the one that everyone stopped to see and it required the least amount of walking.  It was far too crowded to really enjoy.  As we ended our drive on Historic Highway 30, we were both satiated and expectant.

Our next stop was the Columbia River Power House and Fishery.  We were able to view salmon and sturgeon making their way up the fish ladder and to learn about how the fish are bred and maintained.  Hard to believe someone sits for hour after hour counting the fish as they move through.

Next stop, Hood River, an attractive city located on a hillside nestled in the beauty and grandeur of the region.  I pulled out our Frommer's to find a suitable place to have lunch.  We chose Double Mountain Brew Pub.  We parked four blocks uphill from it.  Perhaps not the best plan on our part.

The pub itself was small with a larger outside seating area.  Modern in look.  We ordered a taster sampler of their beer and a Margherita pizza because the menu indicated a brick oven fired to 700 degrees was used resulting in charring that added to the flavor.

The beer was uniformly good but two stood out -- their IPA and a cherry infused beer served in a wine glass.  The IPA was hearty and had the grapefruit aroma and flavor I've come to expect from a good IPA.  The cherry had a fruity cherry flavor, light carbonation and a pleasant sourness.  The pizza?  It was excellent!  Not what we had in New York City which is our standard measure but a very fine pizza with a wonderfully thin crunchy, tasty crust, a thin layer of tomato sauce, mozzarella strewn on top - not too much or too little.  The basil was fresh and put on at the very last.  That pizza totally disappeared!  Had we the time, we would have enjoyed exploring this quaint city by the river.  As it was, we trudged four blocks uphill, stomachs full, to our car.

Next stop, Mt. Hood.  Our chances of seeing this moutain top were pretty slim as it had been raining off and on all day with occasional bursts of sunlight.  The drive, however, took us through a fruitful, literally, valley.  We saw fields of cabbage, vineyards, and orchards of peach trees (bare of their harvest), and pear trees bending under the weight of fruit ready for picking. 

Unfortunately, the closer we came to Mt. Hood, the less we could see, the rainier it was and the colder.  At one point I did see patches of snow on a mountain not far from us.  On the mountain itself, we couldn't see anything.  The sky hung low and gray, the wind picked up, the air filled with moisture, and we were COLD!  The lodge was worth the visit though.  It exuded history and revealed the labor of men and boys down on their luck during the Depression.  That my dad was one such young man back then and stationed nearby in Klamath Falls made it all the more touching to me.

After Mt. Hood, we hightailed it for Astoria, the northern most city in Oregon on the coast.  The western side of Oregon is much different in terrain and look from what we saw in the Columbia Valley.  A kind of variation on a theme.  We managed to arrive in Astoria a little after 7:00 pm, check into our hotel and then head for a bit to eat, a questionable activity at that hour on Sunday.

We found a nice restaurant on Main Street, had potato soup and salad and went home to bed but not until after we had identified a breakfast place, The Blue Sorcerer, where I sit now writing.  We also saw enough of the city to know it has antique stores of interest, a theater that looks restored, an old hotel with a wonderful neon light.  All in all, with the ocean within calling distance, the river opening onto it like a multi-lane highway parallel to the road, the town presents as a river town for tourist and merchants alike.

Vacation in September

September 19, 2010

Sitting in Starbucks in Portland, Oregon.  Sky?  Overcast.  Air?  Cool and damp.  It's early.  7:10 am and we're waiting to eat breakfast at Byways Cafe, a place I learned about on the Food Network.  Probably Triple D.  While we did a lot yesterday, to me vacation starts today.

Yesterday we caught our plane to Minneapolis-St. Paul.  it wasn't raining when we left for the airport but it sure was when we left the ground!  From Detroit to the Twin Cities, we were enveloped in clouds and buffeted by turbulence.  Not my favorite thing, flying, and certainly not when it's bumpy!  Thank goodness the three and a half hour flight from there to Portland was smooth.  We arrived on time.  1:00, their time; 4:00, ours.

First stop - The Japanese Garden.  The world was dripping but it clearly didn't stop people from jogging, biking, getting married, or strolling the gardens.  So, we joined them.

It was a wet wonderland.  Ferns, moss, groomed trees, giant evergreens, water features, rock gardens, Asian architecture and statues.  Everything glistened with moisture and yet conveyed serenity.  A small, perfect gem in the city.

Our next stop was The Alibi, an establishment serving food and beverages since the 1800's at this location but in a Polynesian decor since 1947.  From the outside we were first impressed by the wonderful neon sign.  The surrounding area, however, led me to underestimate what we would find inside.

You enter through a drumlike foyer that opens almost immediately to the bar.  It took time for our eyes to adjust to the darkness which proved a benefit as that way we could focus on bits and pieces at a time.  What improved vision revealed was a wealth of Tiki decor, clean and stylish -- at least from the point of view of a couple of Tiki lovers.

Roger ordered his Singapore Sling, which was on the menu and was probably the closest he's had since he started his search for the genuine thing.  We hadn't planned on dining there but jalapeno jack mac and cheese for $2.95, lasagne for the same, and homemade beef barley soup for $1.95 proved to be too tempting to pass up.  We left well satisfied.

Next we headed to White Eagle, a brew pub, for good beer and surprisingly, bluegrass entertainment.  A great IPA and a wonderful back bar plus enthusiastic music made this a good stop.  A block away was Widmer's, a much larger establishment that, while perhaps older, felt newer.  Another sampling of brews, all great.

From there we headed for where we had intended to eat all along, Podnah's, another Triple D discovery.  Podnah's was small, nestled in a neighborhood setting.  Neither of us needed more to eat but when in BBQ land...  The pulled pork sandwiches were moist, meaty, tender, and had a spicey kick.  Adding the red BBQ sauce helped but my mouth continued to burn a while after we left which is not a bad thing if you like hot and spicey.  Roger also ordered potato salad and pinto beans.  I had black-eyed pea salad.  In our defense, I want to report that we did not drink all the beer or eat all the food we ordered on this day's foray.  Wasteful, yes; but, not waist full.

Our last stop was Doc George's Jazz Cafe, a tasteful establishment with all the tables displaying "Reserved" cards, a very good sign.  Of course, we neither needed food nor drink but as we saddled up to the bar, we ordered decaf for me and O'Doule's for Rog.  We also ordered bread pudding to share as our dessert.  A trio of guitar, bass, and drums started playing at 7:30 (10:30 pm our time).  We stayed for two songs and headed to our hotel.

After a bit of lost time, literally, we found our motel and crashed in a lumpy bed for the night.

September Musings

The other night Rog and I went to PJ's to  listen to free music prior to heading to Vinology for supper and jazz.  The PJ's band was straight out of the late 60's/early 70's.  As I sat there I was tranported back to the heady days of underage drinking, dancing with hopeful young men, and Sporty's, the local hangout for Eastern students.  Back then carding was a joke and I rarely had to buy more than the first drink.  Meeting guys was as easy as accepting an invitation to dance on the crowded floor to such classics as Proud Mary or Light My Fire.  My drink of choice was a Tom Collins -- tall, cool, and almost like lemonade.  It all washed over me as we sat and moved to the rhythm of the music.  Those were good times, best remembered than experienced.  I don't miss the insecurity, the doubts and questions, the foolishness, the risks, the uncertainty that accompanied all that.  Here and now is ever so much better.  And yet... the memories are welcome.

When we got to Vinology, I felt the contrast of settings and music.  One was time and age-specific; the other was both ageless and timeless.  The pianist played jazz standards, familiar tunes we've learned to loved over the decades, familiar to those of our age as well as to those older and younger.  And then, for the length of one song, a bridge was built between PJ's and Vinology, a song not considered a part of the American songbook but one that was of our era.  Alfie.  The theme song of the movie by the same name, a movie Rog and I saw when we first started dating more than 40 years ago.  Mellow, haunting, the song tied our past to our present reminding us of who we were and who we are and that while so much has changed the core remains the same.

That brings me to yesterday and today.  Yesterday the weather turned decidedly brisk and fallish.   The first football game of the new season was played and won.  The town turned alive with students, present and past.   As I walked this morning, I thrilled to the promise fall has always meant for me.  I know this is in part because as an educator, fall meant new students, a new opportunity to get it right, to teach better, to make a difference.  There was excitement in that.  The excitement and expectation is still there for me, just not in educational terms.  I'm looking forward instead to the joy of experiencing fall fully.  Whether sitting on the deck sipping coffee as the sun rises listening to the morning song birds or travelling to savor the fall colors, knowing we can do one, the other, or both whenever we choose is a freedom we've not experienced before.  I am very much looking forward to taking advantage of those opportunities.

And this weekend marks the beginning of my favorite four months of the year.  Food and family are the reason.  I love cooking in the fall.  During the summer, I avoid the kitchen, spending most of my time in the yard or on the road.  In the fall, I can't wait to make the first stew or soup.  At some point my attention will turn to making holiday cookies which I'll freeze and eventually mail to family for Christmas.  The aromas that waft through the house mean home and family to me.  The whole process warms me, inside and out.  And of course, there are the family get-togethers ahead.  Seeing loved ones, perhaps not seen for several weeks or months, is always a joy.  Whether visiitng my mother in October, Thanksgiving with extended family is some part of the country, or joining our son and his wife for some part of the Christmas holiday, these are special loving times.  I  gather for safekeeping the laughter, love, and memories of these times to warm me during the frigid months of January, Febriary, and  March.

And so, I sit here, smiling as I think of the days ahead, looking forward to each and every one.

Gently Raging

Got up this morning at six to go workout.  Yet again.  I've been at it the better part of eight weeks now.  That I'm working with a personal trainer and paying big bucks for the privilege assures that I am sticking to it. Unfortunately, it doesn't get easier.  Well, it would but she's on to me and just when it seems I've got the hang of whatever exercise I'm doing, she adds a variation making it just a bit more challenging.  I remember well answering her question about how I felt after our very first session,  "Great!  You didn't make me sweat or cry and that's good!"  While I haven't yet cried, believe me, I'm sweating now!

This morning she asked me if I could tell any differences in myself and my body since beginning this self-imposed torture (my descriptive phrase, not hers).  Yes.  Yes, I can.  Things that used to jiggle a lot seem to be jiggling a bit less.  A tummy that used to remind me of being three months pregnant seems to be lying a lot flatter with less effort on my part.  I feel more confident performing some of the exercises she runs me through.  Less wobbly on the balances; better form.  That kind of thing.  And the weights, though not all that heavy in the first place -- two and three pounds -- seem lighter to me even though I'm doing more repetitions.

So why am I putting myself through this expensive, self-imposed regimen?  Age and conceit.  I am reminded of the phrase from a poem,  "Do not go gently into that good night.  Rage, rage, against the dying of the light."  At least that's how I remember it going.  And that's what I'm doing; I'm not going into my sixties gently and I refuse to allow age to slow me down or become an excuse for gaining weight and losing my shape.  I'm raging in my own age appropriate way.

Life: An Improvisation

The other night I went out to listen to jazz at a local restaurant.  I went solo as my husband was out of town.  I sat with a fellow jazz lover we have gotten to know over the years since we have been so often in the same place at the same time and we clearly all enjoy jazz.  He's slightly older than me and has never been married.

As we sat and listened to the quartet play what I will call contemporary jazz, we managed to carry on something of a conversation.  He shared the joys and tribuations of searching for companionship via the internet.  That, the music, and the book I'm currently reading, THE ART OF CHOOSING by Sheena Iyengar, got me to thinking about patterns, both in music and in life and why some of us follow one pattern and some another.    Why some marry once, others multiple times and still others not at all.  Why some live far from where they were raised and some never leave their hometown, the place of their birth.  Why some take a job and stay in it a lifetime while others either move up the hierarchy or switch professions.   Why some women work and others choose to stay at home.  We are not given a guidebook upon birth, and when we finally set out on our own, we certainly have no hard copy set of directions telling us what to do.  Our parents, family, community, and culture provide, kind of by osmosis, a point of view, a perspective, a set of criteria for making choices that most of us either don't recognize as such or acknowledge exists.    We think we are in charge, we make the decisions, we choose.

So where does music come in, jazz in particular?  Improvisation.  Music is, if nothing else, a set of patterns of notes and rhythm.  There is an endless variety possible.  In jazz, there are standards and those standards are recognizable but the musician can then improvise, impose origniality on a known tune.  A good example is "Somewhere Over the Rainbow".  We have numerous recordings of this song by various artists and each takes this lovely tune and makes it their own by improvising.  In some cases the tune is still recognizable because the set pattern is still present in some form or another.  Yet in a few cases, improvisation becomes something apart from its origins.  And then there are the artists who explore their own limits, compose their own songs.  Some will have a recognizable pattern within the new tune and others, frarnkly, I question whether there is any pattern at all, which perhaps becomes a pattern by default.

It occurred to me as I listeneed to the contemporary jazz quartet whose music was all new to me and as I lintened to my acquaintance recount his life story, that living is something like jazz.  There is a pattern for us to flollow set for us by tradition and culture as practiced by our parents and our community.  Some of us are very comfortable with things just the way they are prescribed and thus our lives reflect clearly the pattern we inherited.  Others of us deviate from the pattern.  We improvise.  Each of us improvises to the extent we are comfortable.  Some of us improvise to the point that our origins are not recognizable.  So guidebook or no, set of directions or no, each of us finds a way of living, chooses a way of life that fits us.  Some of us marry, make a home, have children, and establish a career.  Others of us do variations on that theme.  The question I still have, however, is what determines who will and who won't improvise and what determines to what extent.  That I'll have to give more consideration.

Reflections While Walking

Last evening I went for a brisk walk after having met with a friend for dinner.  My walk took me through my neighborhood, down a busy road heading to downtown.  I turned toward the river well before hitting Main Street which took me to a canopied dirt road with homes only on one side and the forest and river on the other.  It was dusk and the locusts were singing loudly.  As I got into a rhythm, my mind wandered from the here and now and visited the distant past.  When I was a little girl I'd spend many weedend evenings at my grandmother's home in the foothills of the Ozarks.  Her home was located on the top of a hill overlooking a small town.  Well, more a village really.  Anyway, it was a peaceful time in a peaceful place.  I'd lie in bed next to an open window peering into the darkness while listening to a symphony of nature's making.  Locust song, whip-o-wills, bobwhites, an occasional distant dog barking.  Nature even provided a light show, hundred of fireflies blinking in the black of night.  It was the late fifties and my little piece of the world seemed safe and logical.

As my walk neared its end, the here and now intruded on my memories.  I thought about what I understood about myself and the world back then and what I understand about both now.  The truth is, I didn't really understand anything back then.  I simply accepted what was offered me.  Expectations for me, whether specified by word or deed, were clear and prescribed.  They permeated my existence -- in the literature I read, the school texts I studied, the TV shows I watched, the family life I enjoyed.  My future, though not yet clear, had limits.  I could be a nurse, secretary, or teacher.  I most assuredly would be a mother. 

This evening on this walk, I am still bombarded by sounds; most, however, are not natural but rather man-made.  There are fireflies but few in number.  The world I inhabit at sixty-one is less safe and illogical.  The life I have lived thus far exceeded the expectations prescribed back when I was a child of the fifties.  As I grew through the sixties and seventies, both our nation and I dealt with unrest and growing pains, some of which had always been festering below the surface.  Things are more complex, less predictable, more diverse, and depending on your point of view, more interesting or not.  Certainly there are more open conflicts of belief, lifestyle, and expectations. 

I find myself wondering about how my life would have been had I not challenged the limits prescribed for me or more interestingly, had I challenged them more.  I regret the loss of the certainty and the feeling of safety that comes from innocence and naivete, but I cherish the confidence that comes of pushing the limits to some extent and with some success.  I'd like to think I've still time to challenge expectations even more.

Ideal Conditions

I've noticed over the years that under certain conditions even the most onerous task can be enjoyable.  For instance, when my folks gave me a new car for graduation from college, I must have washed and waxed that baby at least twenty times in the first month!  The scrubbing and polishing were caresses and let's face it, that's not work.  Cooking can be a chore but on a crisp, clear fall day when the trees are hues of red and gold, making chili is pure joy.  Baking can be hot and sweaty work but when it's blowing snow outside, making cinnamon rolls is a comfort and the resulting aromas and tastes, heavenly.  When I was a kid weeding the garden was a form of hell, but now I find that on early mornings when most of the world is still in bed, I enjoy spending time in my lush flower garden pulling weeds to the accompaniment of a birdsong symphony.  The difference between drudgery and enjoyment seems to be a matter of time, conditions, and attitude.

Well, almost.  Today is cleaning day and short of hiring the job out, thre are really no ideal circumstances under which this task becomes a joy, but there are a few items that help me approach the task with less resentment if not enthusiasm.  First, I check the weather forecast before determining when to clean house.  I prefer rainy days like today, dark and gloomy, thunder booming and rain pouring.  Next, I select CDs for background music.  Today I chose Rod Stewart's Every Picture Tells a Story, Reba's Read My Mind, Tim McGraw's All I Want, the Best of the Righteous Brothers, and Jose Feliiano's Light My Fire.  I work best to music with a strong beat attached to strong memories. 

Then comes my standard routine.  Get all cleaning supplies, vacuum cleaner and attachments, dust cloths and rags and start with the master bedroom.  I start there and clean from one end of the house to the other, ending with the kitchen. 

Most importantly (and supported by the previously mentioned items), I adjust my attitude.  I choose to see the items I'm cleaning as my history, memories, and sources of pride.  For example, the tool chest in the bedroom came from West Bend.  My secretary's husband found it for me and refinished it.  Dusting it, I remember her and the good times we had.  The apothecary chest I use for socks, underwear, and other items we bought in Kentucky while on one of our first trips as a married couple.  As I clean it, I think of our love of antiques and how it has evolved over the years.  The seaman's chest in the living room is a more recent acquisition but it represents years of looking for just the right chest to serve as our coffee table.  Then there are the various pictures on the walls.  Each was done by a friend, our son, myself, or are posters representing our travels.  Again, memories to linger over.  And my pots, representing what I feel are the best of my production over the years, each an example of a stage in my development as a potter and reminding me of where I was in life when I made it.  It takes me a while to clean the whole house given this approach but I don't feel pressed to complete the task in a day and there's no reason for guilt if it takes longer.

So as you can see, cleaing house for me is a total experience, a trip down memory lane.  It's a necessity I do once a month now that I'm retired and one I'll give up the moment I win the lottery.  After all, no matter the conditions or the attitude, it's still a chore.