Posie Gets Cozy

A Bike Ride in the Country

After an incredibly stressful several months at work, Andy took some time off these past few weeks. As an early birthday present, I bought him a new bicycle so we could go out riding together. I have a really nice cruiser that he got for me eight or nine years ago. Now we ride in style. I love riding bikes because I can go so much further!

This is the Springwater Corridor, a former railway corridor once used to carry produce from the small farms to the city. Now it's a pedestrian/bicycle/horse path that crosses southeast Portland for about twenty miles, give or take. Yesterday we started at 122nd Avenue. That's Mt. Hood gleaming above the trees, about fifty miles away.

We rode to the old neighborhood of Ambleside in Gresham, once a vacation destination for Portlanders looking to get away for the weekend, now just a sweet little neighborhood. Here's the entrance and the darling house that faces the path. It's all private, so you can't get any closer. But, oh. It's so lovely.

The path wiles flatly through miles of brushy, blackberry-brambled urban countryside. Small farms, rickety outbuildings, chickens and sheep, and backyard ponies line the trail, along with the occasional apartment complex, busy-road crossing, and sketchy character. For the most part, it's a bucolic respite, smelling of weeds and fresh-cut grass and the gurgling creek. My favorite part is actually a short detour through the neighborhood near 158th, where a recent flood damaged the old trestle bridge. For a few blocks you must leave the path and travel the sleepy, carless road, over the creek, past the horse pasture.

I still think of my bike as my pony, as I did when I was a child, horse-crazy and filled with hopeless, stomach-aching longing, tying a string to my handlebars for "reins," riding my bike over "jumps" (painted lines) in the school parking lot behind my house. I set myself complicated obstacle courses in which I would compete (against myself), occasionally wiping out in spectacular displays: full-body abrasions and blood-curdling screams that would wake my after-dinner-napping father, who was never pleased with this. He did not like horses.

As an adult, this longing for the country life manifests itself in pasteurized, suburban-girl ways — a bike ride past some piney, running sheep (those are sheep), Thursday concerts at the farm, berries from the farmer's market, August pilgrimages to the county fair. I know nothing of the realities of the country. My mate is a city boy at heart; though always up for a field trip, he is a thoroughly social creature, delighting in close neighbors, cable TV, and the urban hustle. Our patch of property, at 50 by 100 feet, is almost too big. Well, it's quite enough. My longing is mostly fantasy, I am sure. I do know that country life isn't easy. But what I really long for is a slower life, one with less input, less output. Not easier, just quieter. Less car. More animals. More weather.

At least we have this beautiful bike path. I think there's a Sunday farmer's market at the end of it, too, in Boring.

Excellent. We'll be there.

Tulips for Jane

On Sunday, we took little highways out to the Wooden Shoe Tulip Farm for their annual tulip festival.

On Sunday morning, after a quick trip to Voodoo Doughnuts and a nice walk in Laurelhurst Park (with some amazing sitting/staying showoffiness at twenty-five yards by Clover Meadow) (just sayin), we wanted to stay out, despite the capricious weather.

Wooden Shoe is about thirty miles south of Portland. If you take the little highways, once you're out of the city you go through beautiful roly-poly countryside freckled with orchards, Shetland ponies, creeks and ponds. I love it out there. I don't think I'll ever be able to get Andy Paulson to live in the country, even the country that's only a half-hour from the city. But I like to pretend it might happen. I always pretend it might happen. Honey, did you not love living in Montana, even more than I did? You did.

It's funny, when I was taking these pictures, the light was bright and I couldn't see much on the LCD screen. I was just kind of snapping here and there, not expecting much. It was so cold that I felt like my fingers weren't working very well.

So I was amazed to see the color on these photos when I uploaded them. It was all there. All of these photos were taken within about a half-hour, and I've posted them in the order I took them. You can see how quickly the light was changing. It was literally changing minute to minute.

They look better if you click on them, and see the enlargements. Which one should I enter into the contest? Will you help me pick?

The color rolls out in long strips. It's a ripple afghan Jane would love.

Here's Clover doing her sit/stay. What a pro.

A windmill.

A tractor.

Beautiful snowy mountains (and rain streaks) far off in the distance.

Isn't it pretty there?

We brought some home. Jane, these are for you, dear.

Saturday (and Friday) in the Park

Two days in the park, and it was wonderful. Just what we needed after this long, long winter. Friday it was 70 degrees, Saturday 75. Perfect, perfect weather. We scored our favorite spot in the Rose Garden on Friday after going to Powell's, where we bought fourteen books (we really did buy fourteen books). There was a quilt in the dog's crate in the car so, with stacks of books as pillows, we read for several hours in dappled sunlight under blooming trees. I'll show you the books I got tomorrow. I already finished one of them. That was a great feeling.

Saturday we'd planned to go out to opening day on the farm with Clover Meadow, but it turned out we weren't that ambitious. Instead we just got some sandwiches and cupcakes downtown, and headed back up to the park for the day, this time with a puppy in tow.

Clover is such a good dog. It was really her first big day out, a long day, which included puppy school (she is starting to learn her [20 minute] off-leash stay, and will start off-leash training in the front yard this week), a very crowded downtown farmer's market (did you know they sell homemade organic vanilla pudding there? OMG), and close to four hours of park lounging (studded with a few long walks around the roses). She sat and watched it all, fairly quietly, nibbling and spitting out pine cones, trying very hard not to jump on anyone who came to say hi, mostly just watching the world go by on a beautiful day. She is awesome.

So is Cupcake Jones. This is the Vanilla Pearl. It is basically amazing. It is white velvet cake, with vanilla pastry cream inside, and vanilla buttercream icing. For a vanilla lover like me, it's truly the perfect cupcake.

Isn't she pretty? We had such a good day. I felt like Audrey was there with us, too.

My Signs of Spring

Camellia, leaving.

Like lilypads.

Petalwalk, with foxglove fronds.

Shy-lings.

My neighbor's tree, an umbrella of cherry-blossom froth.

And her backyard, from the sidewalk, through the fence.

Another neighbor, and a breezeway gate to a cherry-foam explosion.

Clover in clover.

My miracles, clematis.

Adding Light

Every morning I wake up and I think, "Oh yeah, I keep meaning to show somebody my candle!" And then do I show you my candle? No. I forget. No, this is not a metaphor. I really do have a candle and I am obsessed with the candle.

Mine is a blatant copy of the candles pictured at right from the Wisteria catalog. I would've ordered theirs if the one I wanted had been in stock, but I really did go running to the web site the minute I got the catalog weeks ago and it was already unavailable, I swear! So one of the things I got on my many jaunts to Michaels a few weeks ago was red puff paint (puff paint: a very underappreciated medium, if you ask me, and could be flammable, but I don't think it will get that close to the flame when it's attended) and then I found this short wide candle at Target for $7.99. And then every night I've been freehanding this design around the side. The motif repeats four times. You have to go slow, a little bit each night, to give the paint time to dry lest you smear the whole thing and wreck it and get it all over your comforter, which would be bad since it is fabric paint, meant to stay on fabric.

Anyway, I'm not quite done with it, but I want to use it on the table for Thanksgiving. I have this tablecloth and white dishes, and I think it will look really simple and pretty. This is actually my first time as a married lady having both my husband's and my family in attendance and I am a little nervous! Like, I thought that was just a myth or something — I'm not generally a nervous hostess, but maybe I am after all! I just want it to be nice for everyone. I think of pretty party-giving as a way of saying thank you, really. You just want it to be so nice for everyone so that they can have a special day, a day that's fancy and full and just . . . not like every other day. I remember, as a child, being so excited to get dressed up and go to my grandma's, or even just stay home for that special dinner. I have high hopes, but I always do. I guess that's the Hostess M.O.

Nevertheless, I don't think any of us can think about our own dinners, parties, or families without thinking about those who won't be able to get home, or who have nowhere special to go. There are so many ways to give and places to donate to help ease this. Last night as I was surrounded by bits and pieces of light-bringing Santa Lucia and her candles, I was reading the editor's letter from the January issue of Hallmark magazine, where Lisa Benenson, the editor-in-chief, writes in a very moving way about "adding your light to the sum of the light" — doing whatever it is you're able to do, even if it's small or you think it can't really matter much, to contribute to the collective effort to bring peace, health, comfort, and love to our world.

Here in Portland there are many ways to do that this season. Starting tomorrow, Loaves and Fishes has teamed up with many area grocery stores to make it easy for you to donate a meal to seniors when you do your shopping. Zupan's markets has partnered with the Sunshine Divison to accept donations for dinners this week, as well. Hands On Portland has dozens of opportunites not just to donate this holiday season but to get involved. Nationally, here are a few options for Thanksgiving charities recommended by the Fine Living channel. I know there are so many more, and so many more ways, and so many people who know better than I what the world needs — it's easy to feel overwhelmed. But I think that every flicker of light adds to the sum of the light, so even one way helps someone, somewhere. I would love to about what ways other people have found to add their lights, as well, especially around the holidays.

Well jeesh, maybe there was a metaphor up there after all. Two years of MFA school does this to you, I swear. You're like a gumball machine, spitting 'em out. [That one's a simile, but what's the diff. Can't help either one.]

To the Country for the Pumpkins

Our day at the farm started in the city, at Kornblatt's deli. The farm is only fifteen minutes up the river from Reubens and egg creams.

Hello farm. We've missed you. We've come to get our pumpkins and our warty gourds.

Warty-gourd pile-up.

Cinnamon-stick log-jam.

Baskets in the pale sunlight, with artichoke blossoms.

Chickens bobbing about, clucking. I like their muffled chatter. It's a cottony, gentle sound.

But then they came after us, pecking ambitiously.

Summer's bulbs, mottled gray against a mottled-gray sky.

Rows of vines and hills, and a waver.

Inherited good looks.

There are so many pictures to take at the farm. I fall in love with so many places I see through the lens.

Each one draws you in for a closer look. I expect that if I lift the tangle I'll see my friends from Brambly Hedge.

The dahlias are still in bloom a bit.

A farm flower-girl.

They're ready for a pumpkin party in the barn.

This is Dottie. I wish I could pet every one of the ponies on this merry-go-round. I love ponies.

I think this is Farmer Don. I'm not used to seeing him without his hat so I'm not sure, but Andy says this is him. He drove the tractor that pulls the hayride to the pumpkin patch. Ain'ty cute?

Caramel-apple hay wain.

Pumpkincredibly orange.

Beach, After All

My sis and her fam headed down to Manzanita on Friday night. By Saturday lunchtime she'd finally persuaded us to join them, so in an uncharacteristic burst of spontaneity we did, and got there just in time for a few golden rays, Tillamook ice cream, and one of the best pizzas I've ever had.

Sweet, sleepy little beach town. All roads lead to sunset.

Sunset is the best time. Everything's pink. The wind dies down. Little clusters of people and dogs face west. There is nothing to do but get the marshmallows ready.

Can there be anything better than a beach marshmallow at sunset? Maybe a beach marshmallow on horseback at sunset. But only maybe.

Uncle Andy builds a nice beach fire, I must say. I laid next to him on the blanket and stared up through the wood smoke at the stars. Galaxies bloomed as the sky darkened. Soon there was only an azure line on the horizon. The kids came and piled between us, making us feel necessary. They told us a story about two bunnies (conveniently named after the kids' own real-life bunnies, though the story-bunnies were impersonating each other, as I hear bunnies routinely do) who got out of their hutch, hopped through the woods, went to the beach, and got back home before anyone even knew they were gone. My bro-in-law Michael said he wanted to isolate one sound of the ocean from all the rest, and hear what that sounded like. I'd never thought of that before.

The next morning, someone was dressed to go back to the beach, and someone was still running around in his pajamas.

But there was breakfast first.

Then fortress-building, complete with battlements.

And one more kite-launch before heading home.

Thanks, you guys. It was marvelous. xoxo

The Oregon State Fair

I love the fair. I love it. I love everything about it. I am so happy there.

Why are cows so nice? They seem so nice. I think they're beautiful. They look like corgis to me. I'd like to feed her daisies and make her a crocheted halter.

Yes, and you girls too. I'd make halters for you girls, too. Of course I would, you pretty girls.

Hello, ponytails. You're awfully sweet as well. At the Clackamas County fair a few weeks ago I kept calling goats "lambs." Like, I'd walk up to a 4-H kid standing there with her goat and say, "I like your lamb." And then the kid would be like, "Uh . . . it's a . . . goat." And Andy would be positively screeching. Especially the second time, not five minutes later, when I did this exact same thing. "Is that your lamb?" "Uh — it's a goat." "Ohmigosh!!! I am so sorry!!!" Andy guffawing, etc. I do know the diff between lambs and goats except that apparently I don't. I'm pretty sure this is a goat. Yeah, I'm sure this is a goat.

There is a very cool horse arena at the fairgrounds. It was built in 1919 and it is really old fashioned. It reminded me of Culver, where I used to go to horse camp in the summer. I want to go to horse camp again. Or actually I would settle for being the 4-H girl I always wanted but never got to be. You 4-H and Pony Club girls are so lucky. But you know that, of course.

Here's Bill and Marsha, my new friends. They think we should take up square dancing. Bill says he's kinda new at it. He's only been dancing since 1976. I said, "Huh, that all?" Yes, says he, but everyone's real nice to newcomers and it's a lot of fun.

How sweet are they.

'Course, I was just sitting there thinking about what kind of dress I'll make for myself when I start my square-dancing lessons. Something like this, with several-dozen different fabrics in the patches?

The dress I was wearing only had a slight A-line, though it did have this little loop-de-loop pocket trim.

It was more of a jam-making dress, in my opinion. Much like the ones my grandma used to wear, though she called them "housedresses." They were always homemade by her, of tiny-print calico in usually red, navy blue, or black, with snaps all the way down the front, and trimmed in bias tape. Trimmed everywhere, trimmed hem, sleeves, neck. Two big pockets. Trimmed pockets. I SO totally get the whole housedress thing now. The perfect summer garment. The patch pockets are key. You've got to have the big pockets for all your stuff. I could've fit one of these jars in my pocket, it was that big.

I did not grow up going to county or state fairs. I've heard that the ones in Oregon are thriving, compared to other states'. Maybe it depends on the state. I wonder what other states have great fairs. I bet Iowa and Wisconsin do. If I had to guess.

I love the idea of celebrating all the parts and pieces of our home-lives and communities. Our squashes, our jams, our angel-food cakes. Our goats, our dances, our horses all braided, shiny smooth. What can I enter next year? I want to bring something. Just to be part of it all.

A pie?

Not a cake. I could never compete. If you look closely, you'll see that this is a tower of sewing supplies on a "quilted" tier. Those polka-dots? Fondant buttons. It was adorable.

I gave myself a blue ribbon for actually going on the chair-lift that takes you from one end of the fair to the other without falling off or screaming hysterically the entire time. Let me just say that it is much higher when you're sitting in it than it appears that it will be from the ground. I was gripping the side pole so hard I got a cramp in my elbow, and my other hand (holding the railing) was absolutely drenched in sweat. I was a wreck. As such, I did not trust myself to hold the camera without dropping it like a bar of soap, so Andy took these photos. I was too busy concentrating on what we were going directly over, and calculating whether, when the chair fell off the cable (as it no-doubt was just about to), it would be better to fall on top of  the slanty canopy of a food cart, the metal roof of a food cart, or a tent. I kept looking at the faces of the people riding toward us and they looked . . . so relaxed. Weren't they calculating and gripping? No.

Sigh.

If I alone must keep suspended the entire chair-lift ride through sheer force-of-will, then that is what I must do. I will do it. That's how much I love the fair.

Last Night

It was the last concert of the year at the farm last night. It seems there've been a million days between Andy's birthday, when the peonies were blooming; the Fourth of July, when the fireworks were; our anniversary, when we spent the night; and now, when the dahlias sparkle and shine.

It feels like fall is creeping in at the farm. Even Farmer Don said it was here. He said it'd been a great summer. The air smelled like basil and hay. It was hard for me to not remember last month, when Audrey was at the farm with us, lying on the blue blanket, watching the crowd. I was so glad that we'd brought her then. We thought she was hurt, but not sick. She always enjoyed being out with us, part of things. I felt so special when I was out with her because everyone always smiled at us, no matter where we went. Everyone smiles at a little corgi. It makes you feel like they're smiling at you. I miss that.

There was a man standing in a field of marigolds. I thought he was pretty damn cute.

He offered me a teensy cinnamon donut and I said, "I'll follow you anywhere, baby. Lead on."

The hayride wove us through the fields.

And the band played into the night.

Crush of Veils and Starlight

I woke up this morning thinking about Wilco, and thinking about how the encore at their show last week was really long, and was actually the best part of the show, after that teaser where you think they're gone and they make you feel that they're gone, you have to cheer them back on and I really did feel that we needed to cheer for them to come back or they wouldn't come back, how some of the songs that I know only from the CDs made so much more sense live (the ones with lots of distortion, like "Via Chicago" — when the booming and the flashing lights started each time I was overwhelmed — I felt just like that, as if I might explode — a great moment at 3:12 [from a show the day before, not ours, but it was just like that] — the saddest moment in the world somehow). As soon as Jeff Tweedy came on stage I started worrying about him, about whether he was having a good time, whether he liked us all (because I wanted him to love us all), if he felt alright that day, and I always worry about this when I see bands — I really want them to have a good time, want it to be the best show ever, but for them, not us. I'm told this is a really bizarre thing to worry about but it happens every time. With Tweedy you just feel like you want to knit him a sweater or make him chicken and biscuits, anything warm. It occurs to me that I could be happy being a Wilco groupie, just following them around the world, sitting out in the crowd at every show, feeling anxious and hopeful, letting him weave up the sadnesses and shoot them out in a rush of light and sound. "This is the highest crowd in the world," he said, softspoken, and the laughter just bubbled out of me, it felt so good to laugh. The moon rose over the trees at Edgefield, that strange, melancholy place and I just wanted to stay there, and sleep in the chair, under the pine trees on the lawn, and think about home, and summer's end.

We did wind up spending the night but in the hotel and not on the lawn. It was almost the same, with the big windows open in our room on the first floor of the manor house, that John Irving–like behemoth that used to shelter the residents of the Multnomah County Poor Farm. After the show, we wandered around all the little outbuildings — at night all the little drinking spots are lit up with millions of little lights. I didn't take pictures, just walked, but they have a slide show that really captures what it feels like there. After we went to bed, drunk people wandered past our window until 2 a.m., laughing and shouting to each other at the top of their lungs, lost in the maze of Edgefield and alcohol. This is the little pub and distillery by the golf course. It used to be a potato shed and a horse barn.

The McMenamin brothers are well-known in the Northwest for renovating historic properties and turning them into rather amazing pubs and hotels. I tend to feel the history too heavily when I'm at their places, but I'm weird about that. The history at Edgefield feels very close, especially in the morning when it's quiet, in the gardens where the poor farm residents grew kale and onions, picked apples.

I feel lucky to have gotten to see Wilco. I hardly ever see live music anymore. I forgot how it works. You have to be there to remember, maybe. I don't know if it always works, either. But it did this time so that's enough for me. Thank you thank you.

On the way home, a quick side-trip to see the view. I hope the boys in the band stopped here and saw this, you know? I worry about those boys.

On the way home, $2.50 a bu.