Oregon tidbits...

A visit to my childhood home has some elements that are always the same. But each time I can count on something new popping up, just to keep us on our toes. Both of my brothers and my mother live within a few miles of each other, and keep many of the same family customs we grew up with - woodcutting, hunting, fishing, clam digging, family dinners, spending time in the hills and on the bay and beaches. We have always been outdoor-oriented, and thanks to active knowlegable parents we know a lot about nature and self-sufficiency. Great times together, no matter how long inbetween visits.

Family dinners are full of talk of the latest adventures, much laughter and of course our favorite foods that we enjoyed as kids. This particular evening was unprecedented for an entirely different reason. All four of us "kids", unexpectedly without spouses or progeny, ended up at a spontaneous meal around the table with mom. We figured out we hadn't done that since we were all in highschool! The stories and memories were thick with fun and love, a cherished moment out of time.
Dinner was fresh clams fried to perfection, "Indian spuds" which you HAVE to eat with clams, and fresh crispy green salad with all the fixin's. Terry even shared his favorite Blue cheese dressing, good enough to eat with a fork all by itself!
Note: "Baby P" looking on, in the corner.


Another theme running through any visit home is to spot the resident elk herds and get some photos of the current bulls. It's a wonder any of them survive hunting season, but some those wiley oldsters with the huge racks of antlers manage to get through. Of course as soon as hunting season is over, they come down from the canyons and hills, to hang out with the dairy cows and tease the tourists. This bunch is part of the Kilchis herd, enjoying some green pasture just a few hundred yards off Highway 101. They can be real traffic-stoppers.


This fine old fellow was having to put up with the shannigans of a couple of spike bulls, trying out their muscles. He was pretty tolerant. It will be a different story by fall rutting season, when the young bulls are kicked out and the monarchs claim their harems. The calls of the bull elk echo through the hills like demented buglers. Makes for some exciting photography when out spotting with my family.
This is only about half of the mixed group of cows and youngin's hanging out that day. Elk are large animals, can move with amazing speed, always alert, and forever bring a thrill to our hearts when we see them. Elk and hunting are tied to our growing-up years, family traditions and the source of told and re-told great stories. Not to mention, some really prime eating - elk beats beef any day.

Part of Tillamook County history involves Native Americans. Without going into a history lesson, suffice to say that artifacts and remains still surface, often in unexpected ways. Brother Terry traps moles (subject of another post - you won't believe it), and one day as he was doing his thing, the sun spotlighted an exquisite white arrowhead right on top of a mole hill! Terry, along with the rest of us, loves finding and collecting arrowheads. He is quite knowledgable about them, and can give a great lecture in his inimitable way.
This little assortment are bird tips. Terry had them stashed in a tiny container in his pocket to share with anyone standing still long enough to get the "lecture". The white arrowhead on the lower right is the mole hill find. It is so delicate, a wonderful example of a tip used for hunting smaller birds.

The red tip in the middle is a little heavier, probably used for ducks, which were thick along the bay. The upper red tip is an almost perfect specimen. The nickle gives some scale for these little beauties.

Terry's collection is museum-worthy, and that's where they will probably end up someday. In the meantime, they are family treasures that we all get to browse and enjoy, each time we visit. Living history, right in our back yard.

You wonder what brings me home? The stories alone are worth it!

Kitty comfort...

My sister just had some foot surgery. She has to keep the foot elevated, with an ice pack. A few pain meds help out from time to time. She is being waited upon hand and "foot" (heh heh - couldn't resist that one!).

Comfort comes in many forms. Namely four. Once she was settled in, lined out with some paperwork that needed doing, snacks and drink handy, foot all propped and iced - the cats moved in. They don't call her "the cat lady" for jokes...



The cozy blanket sis had strategically placed beside her for coping with ice-induced chills is now cat territory. Even the two who don't particularly care for each other, seemed to feel she was in need of their support.

Hmmm. We had just turned on the little heater, the room was toasty.
Naw. Couldn't be. They just wanted to make her feel better. Yeah. That was it.

Family traditions...

When I was growing up, we had a fireplace. We split, toted, grumbled, hauled, stacked, cut, groused, carried, rolled, stacked, complained (not loud enough to hear), and worked (that's capital WORKED) to keep the woodpile plentiful and the fireplace crackling.
We had two things going for us: we lived in an area where wood was a way of living, and we had parents who knew what to do with it. As a family activity, the woodpile was high on the list. Every one of us kids (four of us) swore we would NEVER have a fireplace or subject OUR children to such menial labor. Mom still lives in the home where we grew up, and wood is still a high priority.

My dad was a mason. Among many, many others he built around the county during his career, he built this rather unique and very lovely fireplace in our home. The stone is Arizona flagstone. The picture of the Oregon trail scene was sandblasted into a sandstone slab. In the beginning it was a regular fireplace, but in later years a firebox insert with an air blower was put in, which heats the house quite comfortably.

Although tons of wood were cut and hauled out of the surrounding Coast Range, often woodcutting started on the waterfront. After a good winter storm, which can bring logs down out of the hills in the swollen rivers and on into the bay, Brother Terry hauls some of the humongous logs with his little boat, parks them on the landing, and tackles the cutting job with zeal.

The wood is aromatic Douglas fir, sometimes cedar, making the job even more enjoyable. This log was harvested in March, 2008. (check my older posts for that time frame, for a complete step-by-step of this beautiful wood)

After cutting rounds, he splits the wood into chunks that are loaded into the back of his truck, hauled home, and stacked to season for the summer.

By fall, wood which has been protected from the weather is ready to use. For mom, some of it needs to be a little smaller. She has done her share of splitting and stacking firewood, ever since she was a little towhead. Recently she got herself an electric splitter, to make the job more managable - but she still stacks it and hauls it to the porch in her wheelbarrow...

The splitter has become the latest popular toy in the family. It sure makes short work of this straight-grain fir.
Wood has to be in at least three sizes. Large, for the main fire. Medium "starter" wood...
and small kindling, for starting the fire. Terry has this down to an art, cutting square blocks into slices...
then hand splitting several slices at a time into kindling. It is fast, fascinating, satisfying work. And the reward is boxes and boxes of dry kindling, which makes starting the fire a pleasure. Scouts should be so lucky to have this stuff!

Some of the larger pieces are now split to half-size, making it easier for mom to tote them down to the porch stack, and to handle when loading up the firebox.

Woodcutting has long been a family job. It still is. My brothers help get the wood to mom's, where she usually does all the stacking (we still can't do it "right"!). Then every few weeks, sis-in-law Diane joins the crew to help split, and get the porch loaded for convenience.

And don't you dare think this ol' lady is going to sit back and let us do the work. As far as she is concerned, we would be hogging all the fun! Mom still loves to handle wood. 81 is NOT too old!

With each wheelbarrow load, the porch pile grows, until it is about twice this size. Good for a couple of weeks worth of warmth and comfort.

A cozy fire is our reward.

A lot of memories are tied to woodcutting, and that fireplace. It speaks HOME.

And yes, everyone of us "kids", now grown with our own families, has a fireplace or wood stove (or both), and we all still cut wood. With our families.

Only now we appreciate it more than we did as kids.

We're having a BABY!!

So what would YOU think, if your 80+ mom announced as you came through the door after not seeing her for six months, that she was going to be a mommy? Brother Chris said HIS first thought was, 'Who's the DADDY?' !! It's all Brother Terry's fault...no, this is a Hawaiian thing, not an Ozark thing.

Anyway, it's true - it's a baby. He lives in a very large pot in the corner of the dining room, where the light is lovely from the large east and south windows.

Guess what it is?

Just a little guy right now. We've been calling him "Baby P". No relation to P-Diddy. Baby P is actually about two years old. He's been tucked safely in Mama P's heart. One morning - the red heart opened - to reveal this precocious little fellow. Just a nubbin. Then a nobbin. Then a NOGGIN!! Aha!

Now he's gaining in presence. Sticking his little spiky-haired noggin right up and peeking at us while we eat breakfast. So we're thinking "baby" isn't going to stick very long...we're open to an appropriate name. Anyone?


"Pokey" was suggested, in honor of the protective two-foot long sharp pointy leaves that jab you in the hinny everytime you try to check on baby - or just get to your chair to eat at the dining room table.

Maybe "Hocus Pocus"? It's like magic, watching this baby develop. I understand the best is yet to come - flowering.

I'll be documenting the transformation...stayed tuned.

Far, far away...

Just like a whale, I've resurfaced...and on the ocean, no less. Well, the bay, anyway. Mom lives in Bay City (of course), the small town I grew up in right on Tillamook Bay in Oregon. It's grown a bit, the usual changes that come over the years. But the important things remain the same. Small town friends to chat with as you take an evening stroll, little corner grocer still has candy bars, post office has a few more boxes in the foyer. The flavor of the town is like licking your favorite icecream cone. Forever in your memory, forever looked forward to, always a treat to savor.

Mom's dining room window overlooks the town park one block down, named for my dad (former mayor, many moons ago). It has a creek running through it (not a river), which offered hours of trout fishing and exploration for kids willing and tough enough to scramble through brambles and swampy willows. Now you have to have a license. Imagine that. And no fishing allowed. But the swings are still there - newer, of course.

While we were eating lunch today (crab cakes, freshly made from crab cooked in my brother's secret formula), a big fat racoon scooted up the creek bank, shamelessly hustled across the street and returned to his crawdad search on the other side of bridge. This is "downtown", mind you.

Returning to the coast means fresh fresh FRESH seafood. Oysters right from the bay only 3 blocks away. Crab. Clams. Deepsea fish right off the boats at the docks. Indescribably delicious, tasting of sea salt, and ozone from the huge breakers pounding the beach, and "home". Mom met me at the door with pan fried oysters and succulent lingcod (which is one of the ugliest fish in the whole world, but redeems itself with unmatched flavor). We've had clam fritters, dungeness crab, petrole sole, razor clams, salmon, homecanned tuna. Next on the menu: clam chowder!
The bay is surrounded by flat farmland on the east, nestled in the arms coast range hills. Forested hills seem to echo the ocean movement, as wave after wave of misty greeny-grey ridges march to the east.


The bay has so many moods, it is never the same from one tide to the next. This view is looking west, from the highway just before turning off to enter Bay City. Mist, drizzling rain, frosty mornings - the texture of Tillamook Bay area.

I might also mention, an artist's paradise. Whether your tools are a camera or paint brush, scenes unfold with enticing calls to be recorded.

Some I just have to hold in my heart - there isn't enough wall space in the cabin to take the Oregon coast home with me....