O Christmas Tree

I have worked every weekend between Thanksgiving and Christmas at our family’s Christmas tree farm since I was somewhere around 12 years old, give or take. We’re cold and we’re tired, but we don’t let our customers know that. For them, getting their tree is the kick-off to their Christmas season and a stop at Merrywood Farm is tradition. It is great to be a part of their world in this way. I have taken hundreds of family Christmas card pictures over the years and every time they tell me it’s the little black button on the top of the camera and every time I act surprised and ask, “This one?” They say cheese and I make sure it is a card-worthy picture. I have given babies their first pony ride and seen them come back as teenagers with apples for the pony they’ve outgrown. Our unofficial motto is-A tree in the trunk and a smile on their face and we take it seriously. I always wonder what happens after they get the tree home. How do they decorate it, do they curse as they try to get it straight, does it fall, do they water it, is their angel made of paper by a preschool child years ago, and is it their last real tree before they switch to an artificial tree?

You would think that this might be a cobbler’s kid goes barefoot sort of thing. Does someone who is surrounded by trees all day long, really worry about their own tree? Or, do they need to have the tree of all trees to send the message that the family tree is a big deal and they take this sort of thing seriously. It must be real and it must be beautiful. The tree is the first gift we give ourselves and to our family and it should be lovely. My mother takes that approach and she chooses several trees sometime in the summer and the final one is selected and then often taken back out and another one brought in until it is just right. There are people who line up to snag her “rejects”. Growing up, before we were tree farmers, our tree selection and decorating was full of tradition and ceremony, just different than it is now. My sister and I would wear our rubber boots and if they had holes in them we would line them with plastic bread sacks to keep our socks dry and go tree hunting. We always got a big, bushy Doug Fir while my mother coveted the Nobles. It was always too tall and my dad always said so, but quickly chose to not pick that battle. When we got it home, my dad would cut a foot off the bottom and a bit off the top while my mother made fondue. We would eat sausage and cheese and drink hot chocolate while we decorated our big, fat tree. We would unwrap our eclectic assortment of ornaments and say things like, “oh, I love this one”.  My favorite was the little boy on the sled and of course, all the ones that I made. Over the years those ornaments have been replaced with an immense collection of glass ornaments that are stunning and full of slightly more recent history and memories, but I do miss that little boy on the sled. I wonder where he is.

The first year that I was married I wanted to start my own tradition of tree selection and decorating. I had these visions of a crackling fire and a romantic, “baby its cold outside” experience. We had worked at the farm all day and carved out a window to go find our own tree and I had hoped we would look at several to make sure that it was perfect. He said, “Get whatever one you want.” This was not right. We were supposed to look at many and then go back and get the first one we saw.  We had no decorations so I begged to stop on our way home and get a tree stand, lights, and some simple ornaments. Money was tight so I thought we would just have white lights, red bows, and real popcorn strands that we strung ourselves. I bought festive eat and drink and a Christmas CD. I was very excited. While I was doing the shopping, he was off buying the new Beatles’ Trilogy album and Coors light. We got home to our little, pink ranch house and brought in the tree. It fell, so I wired it to the ceiling with an eye-bolt and some wire from the junk drawer. I quickly discovered that movie theater butter microwave popcorn is not the proper choice for popcorn garland so I strung the lights and hummed along to Little Drummer Boy. Pa Rum Pa Pum Pum. Just as I was feeling the yuletide moment, my Christmas music was replaced by the Beatles and the “crack” of a Coors light opening. I nicely or not nicely, I can’t remember which one, asked him to participate in the evening with a little compassion for my romantic vision. We ended up in an argument and while I set out to deck the halls, it was him that I wanted to deck. He grabbed the bag of popcorn, his CD, and left. I sat on the couch, tied red ribbon bows on twisty ties, and cried. My first attempt at tradition had been foiled. I wanted to roast his chestnuts on an open fire. A few days later, I received a beautiful, antique armoire as an early Christmas present. Our living room was tiny and the only spot for it was where our tree stood. I ripped down the tree, threw it outside, sat on the couch and admired my pretty present. I may or may not have had a Coors light. We were the only folks on 12^th Ave to have our tree on the curb on December 15^th. It was a beautiful tree with one strand of soggy, buttery popcorn.

For the next 8 years, our tradition was that I would choose the tree, wire it to the ceiling, decorate it myself, and then get some sort of wonderful Christmas present about 10 days before Christmas. It wasn’t perfect, but it was tradition.

So, now we’re divorced. Oh, come on, you saw that coming.

The first year that my daughters and I were on our own was very hard me. I didn’t want a tree. I didn’t want Christmas, but I knew that it wasn’t a choice. As a parent, how we feel in December does not matter. Our children’s memories of Christmas are dependent upon us and it all starts with the tree.  But, I didn’t want to look at trees and find the perfect one. I just wanted to say, “Pick anyone you want, I don’t care.” I had left all the Christmas decorations behind when I had to move and I had nothing to hang on the tree and no merriment in my soul, but I forced myself to get a tree and start a new tradition. I bought glittery ornaments in gold, deep pink, and plum. It was non-traditional, but we were going to have a beautiful tree that was for girls only. No boys allowed. I made festive snacks, hot chocolate, and I wired the tree to the ceiling. I put on Christmas music and I cursed when the lights wouldn’t work and did my best to build memories for my daughters. Of course, my children fought, spilled their hot chocolate, and switched my Halleluiah Chorus to Sponge Bob. I was annoyed that we didn’t have this Rockwell experience and then I realized that we were carrying out a tradition. Traditionally speaking, our tree picking out and putting up is never romantic, cordial, a team effort, or rated PG, but it is our tradition and that is beautiful.

I’m struggling again this year with finding the motivation to get our tree up. I spent the other weekend moving the furniture around to make room for it and even picked out the tree, but the girls will be spending this Christmas Eve and Christmas morning with their dad and his new wife, in our old house. That was the house that I spent days making perfect at Christmas time. I threw wonderful parties and people swooned over my beautiful tree. He called last night to tell me about how they decorated their tree, listening to O Holy Night and sipping the cinnamon and clove infused cider that he made. The experience that I always tried to create.  Do not take me for a fool; I know that that is not exactly how it went. I’ll bet your Wassail on it, but still. This will be the first time that I have ever spent Christmas Eve and Christmas morning alone and it makes the tree seem pointless. No Christmas party at my house, no little girls in jammies rushing to see if Santa ate the cookies, and no one to enjoy it but me on Christmas morning.

This is how I feel tonight, but I believe in tradition and I believe in the magic of the Christmas tree. I look at the empty spot just waiting for our tree and I know that it will be there and that it will be spectacular. It stands now, in the field about 100 yards from the end of the white fence. A tall balsam that without being cut and adorned with gold, pink, and purple ornaments, would just be a another tree among billions in the world. The minute I bring it in the house, it will be a Christmas tree for girls only and around it we will gather and make memories.

Sometimes we try to plan things and make them perfect and it is easy to get frustrated when they aren’t just as we would hope. By definition, a tradition is a belief, custom, or practice that is passed on from one generation to the next. I know that growing up on a tree farm, my children and my children’s children will always have a real Christmas tree and they will appreciate all that it symbolizes. I hope that, from me, they learn to be flexible. I would love for things to be just as they have always been at Christmas, but things change and we must adjust accordingly.  This Christmas Eve I will need to start a new tradition and I will. When there was no room at the inn, Joseph and Mary were flexible. It was not as they had planned, but it was beautiful none-the-less. In fact, people having been talking about that Christmas for years.

Internet Dating-An Update.

It has been about two weeks since I threw my profile up on match.com and as promised, I am providing an update. Like most people, I was very skeptical at first. It isn’t that I didn’t believe in the process, it is pretty simple. It’s like classified ads for single people, which is brilliant. I really do not understand why anyone who is even remotely interested in meeting someone doesn’t try it. If you were trying to sell your house you would advertise it. You write something flattering about it like; new roof, great neighborhood, or lots of original charm. Then you take some nice pictures that make the rooms seem spacious, the kitchen functional, and the back yard great for entertaining. Most of the time we hire professionals to do all this for us. Why? Because buying and selling a house is a big deal and you can’t expect to walk into a bar and meet someone who is in the market for just your kind of house and is pre-qualified. It doesn’t happen, but we think we can find “the one” that way. Isn’t who we spend the rest of our life with a big deal too? 

I know that if I look on realtor.com I’m not just going to find the sad houses, next to the train tracks, in need of a little TLC. I’m going to find the sweet farmhouse, the practical home in the suburbs, the cozy cabin on lake, the shiny loft downtown, and the stunner with a view. So why do we assume that anyone who is on an internet dating sight is some sort of social-retard who doesn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of finding a date out in the real world? I knew that the whole online matching had evolved, but I really did not expect to see what I saw. In the beginning, I’m sure there were mostly guys with a nose whistle courting us from their Mom’s basement, but we’ve come a long way, baby.

In two weeks, my profile was viewed 492 times and I have received 50 emails. So just over 10% made contact. I can assume that the other 90% were not interested or as like to believe, just shy. I quickly discovered why these men were on this site. Here are just a few reasons …

They are on Match.com because…

1)      They work in a male dominated industry.

2)      They have been a little busy serving our country.

3)      There were no attractive women on the top of Mt Kilimanjaro.

4)      They have been pre-occupied immunizing orphans.

5)      They put their wife through law school and she left them for someone at the firm her first week on the job. True story.

In reading the emails I discovered that many guys were quick to offer a diatribe and give me a glimpse into not only their lives, but their souls. Many were very touching and I realized that this is why I don’t go to the Humane Society because you want to give every dog a home. If you do this, you will quickly find yourself on the TV show, Animal Hoarders and need to get your carpets replaced too often. These were humans who I’m sure were house broken, but also heartbroken.

There is this feature that match.com calls your Daily 5 where they suggest five people who might be a match. They don’t know me very well and on a daily basis I deleted all five. Last week, one seemed intriguing so I clicked interested. When you do this, I discovered that they are notified. I got an email from the one who I was apparently interested in and we chatted back and forth for a while and then exchanged phone numbers. At that point, we texted until my thumbs were sore. No LOL’s. Bonus. The next evening we spoke on the phone for an hour and 44 minutes. I wanted to view his profile again, but knew that he can see every time that I do. I didn’t want to seem like a freak so I decided to see if he had a facebook page. And so the stalking began. The internet has really changed the face of stalking. Gone are the days of the drive-by or hiding in the bushes. It is fabulous. There were a ton of guys with his name so I began looking at profile pictures to see which one it could be. I found it! A gorgeous, tall, blonde who looked just like Kirk Herbstriet standing next to an old man. Kirk Herbstreit is the only reason why I watch College Game Day and I thought it was sweet that his profile picture was him with his grandpa. Attractive and sensitive. I clicked on his picture and realized that it was the facebook page of an old man who happened to have his picture taken with Kirk Herbstreit. Shoot.  I dug a little deeper and found him. I pawed through his pictures like any good cyber-stalker would do and I liked what I saw. There were pictures of him camping with his son, a video of him in Iraq, goats, chickens, postings about his successful honey harvest, and some apparently from the cock pit of an airplane. I muttered things like, “oh, how cute”, “how are you single?”, and then I may have tried to growl like a tigress but I’m pretty sure it sounded like I had phlegm in my throat.

The next afternoon it was decided that we would meet for happy hour at the Ram. There was only one problem. I looked like crap. I didn’t have time to go home so I showed up at the door step of my best friend. My suspicions were correct. She told me my outfit was not flattering which I know meant that I looked fat. She offered me a curling iron and started pulling clothes out of her closest. She got me presentable and I was off.

I walked into the Ram and began spanning the room for Mr. Wonderful. There was no one sitting alone and nobody who looked like they were as nervous as I was. And then I spotted him. The music stopped, the heavens opened, and in slow motion, a stunning man walked towards me. I sucked in my stomach and looked behind him for a nose whistler. None. It was him. We sat down and he ordered an IPA. I said something stupid like, “Oh, I love IPA”. If he had ordered a cat poop sandwich, I probably would have said, “Oh, I love cat poop sandwiches.”  We talked and talked and by, we, I mean I talked and talked. I tend to do that when I’m nervous or awake. I prattled on about the book I was reading to my children and how it took place in Newfoundland and how they talked funny there. He listened and when I finished telling him all that I knew about Newfoundland, he simply said, “Yes, I know, I have spent a lot of time there.” Well of course you have. Before I said anything else ignorant, I got up to use the restroom and ran into our waitress at which time I lost my balance and put my hand on his shoulder to keep from falling.  Hmmm, somebody’s been working out. I went in to the bathroom, checked myself out in the mirror and did a happy dance.

We went out one more time and sat for hours talking. I tried to listen better this time, because his life really was more interesting than mine. Besides its just good manners. We took turns reading Trivial Pursuit cards to one another and I seemed to get all the hard ones. I suppose if I had known the answers, they wouldn’t have been so hard. He got all his correct and when I was wrong, he told me the right answer without having to flip the card over. Whatever, smarty pants.

Yesterday we went out again. This time we were going to make dinner at his house. He had a few errands to run before and invited me to ride along. The first stop was at the local Red Cross. Of course it was. The next stop was a meeting at a high school to discuss its alternative fuel program. Well, sure. Everybody does that on a Thursday. I stood there and listened while they discussed Bio-diesel and used words with a lot of letters. I tried to follow along, but it was beyond my level of comprehension. Four quintessential high school nerds looked on and hung on his every word like he was a celebrity. They stood there all pimply faced in their safety glasses, just listening to him like he was some sort of geek-God. I stood there looking at him thinking he was pretty and he looked nice in blue. When he was finished, we ran to the car in the rain which, not surprisingly was a black Mercedes run exclusively on Bio-diesel. Of course it is.

We got to his house and I was now looking like a drowned rat. I called my mother to let her know of my plans and she said, “How do you know he’s not a serial killer?” I peered into the kitchen and he was holding a cork screw. Just opening a bottle of wine. “Really, Gretchen, he could be a psycho.” I looked around the corner again and now he was holding a large knife. Just chopping garlic. As my mother continued to fret, I pretended to listen and checked out his many books on the book shelf. No wonder he waxed me at Trivial Pursuit. I hung up with my mother and then his phone rang. I stayed in the other room to give him privacy as he spoke to his son. I sat on the bench at the grand piano in front of a large picture window. I admired Portland’s city lights and as I watched a boat go by on the river, I eves dropped. He spoke calmly and sweetly to his teen-age son while trimming the fat from the chicken and I exhaled.

During dinner I made some comment about how cute it was that the miss-fit boys seemed to admire him. He then told me that it may have been because he used to be one of them. I had a hard time imagining that this man who really does look like Kirk Herbstreit (yes ladies, you heard me right) was ever a nerd. He is now a strapping 6’2” which apparently didn’t happen until after high school while he was in the Air Force. I thought about how I had crushes on the “captain of the football team types” in school, who never gave me the time of day because I was the “play the violin, cow milking type”.

On my drive home, after doing another happy dance, I pondered this. Not everyone reaches their full potential in high school and in the end it is the nerds who rule the world and now I have the great honor of spending time with one. Generally speaking, they are the ones who own successful businesses, write best-sellers, are concert pianists, and win Oscars. I’m sure that when a cure for cancer is found, it will be by the kid who today sits alone in biology. I didn’t get asked to prom and I remember being devastated. There were times that I sat alone in the cafeteria dodging spit balls from a table of letterman jackets. I’m sure Mr. Wonderful has stories like these and had I let him get a word in edgewise, he may have shared them with me. It is such a joy to date after we’re grown up. We know who we are and what we want and our dates do too. You don’t have to ask them “What do you want to be when you grow up?” because you know. You don’t have to wonder if they will be a good father, because you can tell that they already are. We get to see the finished product and we are mature enough to recognize Mr. Wonderful when we see him. Of course, we are never too mature to do a happy dance. Wink.

On the Bright Side

With Thanksgiving approaching, I have noticed that people are busy sharing all that they are thankful for. It truly is nice to pause and show gratitude for what we have instead of focusing on what we do not. It is so easy to get caught in a negative trap and we are all guilty of it. Not just the big things, but the little annoyances that life loves to give us. If we spend our days focusing on the fact that our life is not what we would have hoped for, either on a given day or in its entirety, we lose the ability to see the greatness around us.

I was listening to a Cat Stevens CD today and the lyrics to Moonshadow were a perfect example of this. Yes, I did say CD. Do you remember those? My company car doesn’t have a port for me to listen to my iPod so I have resorted to buying CDs. A year ago, when I started my job and got my car, I remember complaining about this. How in the world can I drive all over God’s green earth without my iPod? The new, more positive me now says, “Really, you ungrateful person? This is a free car, free gas, safe, and you were complaining about what music you could listen to? Really?”

O.K., back to the lyrics that sparked this whole thing.

if I ever lose my hands
lose my plough, lose my land
oh, if I ever lose my hands
oh, well...
I won’t have to work no more
and if I ever lose my eyes
If my colours all run dry
yes, if I ever lose my eyes
oh well …
I won't have to cry no more.

if I ever lose my legs
I won't moan and I won't beg
oh if I ever lose my legs
oh well...
I won't have to walk no more
And if I ever lose my mouth
all my teeth, north and south
yes, if I ever lose my mouth
oh well...
I won't have to talk...

The obvious lesson here is that no matter how grim things might seem, there is always an upside. Of course Cat Stevens might have been on an acid trip when he wrote this, I don’t’ know. In all seriousness, in any bad, the joyful can find good.  Sometimes you have to get creative and really make a conscious effort, but in the end it is worth it. It is freeing and it makes you lighter. When I choose to be annoyingly optimistic when my world seems to be throwing large cow pies at me and then laughing at me to boot, I can’t help smiling. I won. The cow pie thrower did not preserver, I did. I will walk into a room with a shit-eatin’ grin and my friends and family will ask me why I look so happy. To them, I will say, “because I just ate shit and I am still here to tell you all about.”

                As I replayed track 5 over and over again, I thought about all the times in the past two years that I have complained or felt sorry for myself. There were many times that I felt that I had the right to be mad or sad or to gripe and so I did. I have been dealt a few bad hands, compared to some people. BUT, compared to the rest of the world, I am one of the luckiest. I don’t care how horrible you think your life is or how bad of a day you’re having; you can rest assured that 98% of the world has it worse. We forget that.

O.K., here is where I ask you to take a trip with me to Pollyanna Land, where the grass is the greenest in your own yard, all clouds have a silver lining, and everyone’s glasses are rose colored. Hold on, this might get positively strange.  Yes, that pun was intended.  I thought about all the things that I have complained about in the past couple of years or even this morning and I just simply looked on the bright side. That’s all.

1)            My children will not stop saying, “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy!” It drives me crazy.  I am grateful that I am called Mommy at all. Some people want for nothing else but that and I should never be annoyed at the sound of it.

2)            My Jeans don’t fit.  I have never known what it is like to really go hungry.

3)            Wow, that’s a deep wrinkle on my forehead.  It reminds me that I proudly take after my Dad and I have a stellar example of what a man should be like as do my daughters.

4)            Crow’s feet really?  I am lucky to have seen so many sunny days.

5)            Laugh lines. DUH!

6)            Complaints 4, 5, and 6. Botox is easily accessible. Someday soon, I can get it while I’m getting my oil changed.

7)            I can’t stand my girls fighting. I think I am going to hose them down. I am so happy that they have a sister. I know that they will have a life-long friend like I do in my own sister.

8)            My husband left me for another woman when my children were 2 and 5. I am glad that I was young enough to start again.

9)            My husband left me for another woman when my children were 2 and 5, part 2. I know that when they are with him and I am not there, they have a motherly figure to hug them should they skin their knee. That one made me throw up just a little, but now you see that it can be done.

10)          Stretch marks. I have a souvenir of the two greatest days of my life. Every day I am reminded that I gave life.

11)          I am exhausted! My girls got up in the middle of the night and wanted to sleep with me. I was forced to sleep on the edge of the bed with one foot on the ground. My children still want to be close to me. Someday they will not, but for now they do and I will embrace that.

12)          My Mother has too many opinions about my life. I am so lucky to have a mother who truly cares about me and wants me to be happy. I am not too proud to admit that she is usually right.

13)          My friends never have enough time to spend with me. I am happy that my friends have full lives and that their children have found activities that fulfill them and that they have a mother who will make sure that they are there.

14)          I never hear, “Honey, I’m Home.” I know that I will someday and when I do, it will be from someone who I actually want to be home.

15)          This CD I just spent my hard-earned money on, bites. It was a 2-disk set and with a little creativity, I have a new pair of earrings.

16)          I can’t afford to buy a house in my children’s school district on a single income. I have never slept in the rain, I do not need to lock my doors, and I have something to look forward to.

17)          I am late. Somebody cares if I am there or not. I am needed or wanted in some capacity and they cannot wait to for me to get there.

18)          My girls are at their dad’s and I miss them. I have some time to myself to catch my breath and remember what it is like to be me.

19)          It is Saturday night and I am alone. I am alone. That is nice.

20)          I am out of wine. Let’s not so over-board, something’s just suck.

21)          I have had a broken heart. I thank the ones who were not worthy of me for noticing it before I did and giving me the chance to find someone who is.

22)          I drive one million miles for my job with no interaction with co-workers. It gets lonely. I get to see amazing places in this great state, pick the radio station, be alone with my thoughts, and stop to marvel when I see something awe inspiring.

23)          My cat keeps pooping in the bath tub. She is not pooping in my bed.

24)          My children’s school is nickel and diming me to death. I don’t care how many laps you jogged. I’m broke. I must not forget that an education is not a right in very country. They are free to learn and become whomever they want. Also, their father and his new wife have agreed to pay for their college. It is the least they could do, right?

25)          I feel lost and I don’t know what direction I am supposed to be heading. Anywhere I want. Every morning I wake up, I know that I have 24 hours and how I spend them is up to me. My future is mine. My past does not define me, it teaches me. The world is my canvass just waiting to become a masterpiece. That is very cool.

Of course I don’t walk around in a Prozac comma every day. I feel, hurt, doubt, curse, wish, compare, covet, and am hugely human. I have discovered that the things that we complain about are still there whether we bitch and moan about them or not. If we spend that energy finding the bright side, it cleanses us. Try it. I dare you.

Life sometimes hands us a pile of crap. I get that. We can stand there all stinky and bitter or we can say, “Thank you, life. I appreciate the fertilizer. With it, I will grow.”

Internet Dating

This weekend I was taking a break from writing the Great American Novel, not because I had writer’s block, but because my fingers were tired. I started perusing Petfinder.com. I don’t know why because I’m not in the market for a dog and I already have a cat. One more might make me a crazy cat lady. Crazy cat lady…that gave me an idea. I had never checked out an internet dating sight. It was ironic to me that just when I’m perfectly content being single and rather like not having someone bossing me around, I find myself cruising Match.com. I tried to just be a voyeur and do a little window shopping without starting a profile, but it wouldn’t let me. I slapped together a little self-synopsis, trying to be honest and offering a true representation of myself without being too honest. For example I did not say that I like long walks on the beach because the truth is, my favorite part of the beach is the clam chowder. This might cause one to flip through my pictures to see if I’m fat. I began looking around. Over 2000 guys between 33 and 42 within 50 miles of 97013. Wow, who knew?

Within 10 minutes I got 5 “winks”. That’s apparently what you do to let someone know you are intrigued. I deleted them all. Too eager…like pouncing tigers. I glanced through all the choices like they were on a picture menu at Denny’s and when I saw the first one who looked interesting, I clicked him. Up comes a pop-up saying “NO HUNK FOR YOU! GIMME YOUR MONEY!”

“ What a racket, I’m not joining this thing.” I muttered.

So I got my card out and was now an official member of Match.com. I immediately began deleting all the guys that were obviously creepy and the ones who looked like they kept duct tape and garbage bags in their trunk.  I shopped ‘till I dropped and closed down my computer and went to sleep. The next morning I had more winks from a few “I don’t think sos” and a couple “not in your dreams” and one email.

I deleted the weirdos and  opened the email and checked him out. He was quite fetching I must say. 35, Principal at a high school, Athletic Director for the district, former college athlete, Masters Degree, river rafting guide in the summer, grew up on a 10,000 acre cattle ranch…O.K. I’m listening. You’re speaking my language BWR193. I read on and checked out his pictures…cute with a capital C and he was hilarious. After further investigation I realized that he lives in Bend. I’ve been down that road and I’m not going there again. Did I mention that he was adorable?

I got another email equally as intriguing. 38, Clinical psychologist, divorced father of 2, not that funny but taller than the first. Hometown, Bend!

Darn you, Bend. Why must you tempt me with your fresh air, outdoor concerts, snow capped mountains, and now this?

I decided to try a search a little closer to home. Within 10 miles of 97013…only 15. I found one…handsome and employed. I thought I might try out my wink button which I was excited about because I cannot wink in real life. Truly, my eyes do not close independently of one another. I took a deep breath and “winked”. Done…first one out of the way. I can do this. Just then, the horrible realization that I knew this person hit me. He was one of the dad’s from my children’s school and my sister was his child’s teacher. CRAP! How do I “unwink”? I scrambled around trying to delete it, but I couldn’t. It was out there for him to see. It was going to make PTA awkward. Not only that, I saw that he viewed me and chose not to respond. Ouch.

I tried not to let that get me down and I decided to broaden my search to people I was not likely to see in the grocery store while I had only enchiladas and toilet paper in my cart. There really were too many to choose from so I had to set some guidelines and do some weeding.

I will delete you if…

1)      There is a Pitbull in any of your pictures.

2)      You are not wearing a shirt in your profile picture. Unless of course you are participating in some type of sport that does not require a shirt such as water skiing. Even then I will wonder why you are not wearing a life jacket. Safety should be a priority.

3)      I can see that you are wearing a gold chain, unless it is an Olympic medal.

4)       You are more than twice my size.

5)      You are half my size.

6)       I find lol anywhere on your profile. I know you are not really laughing out loud and I don’t appreciate being lied to.

7)      Your online name is something like hotty439, NASCARluva, or vegan_867.

8)       Your picture is of you taking your own photo with your cell phone in the bathroom mirror. This signifies that you do not have one friend who is willing to take your picture.

9)      You have a mustache not accompanied by a beard, unless you are Tom Selleck.

10)    You appear in anyway shape or form to be playing Dungeons and Dragons in your profile picture.

O.K., guidelines in place, I began reading the menu again. I then started winking with reckless abandon. I crazily mumbled things to myself like, “ooh mommy likey” and “well, hello. I will wink at you now”. Each time I did, I tried to actually wink which was more ticking like I had Tourret’s Syndrome which was fine because they didn’t know that. They had no idea that it was noon and I hadn’t showered. I let out an evil, Hollywood style laugh every time I deleted someone who got lodged in my filter.

I got an email for someone calling himself, “flyfisherman”. That is a road I’ve travelled too and all it got me was a trout dinner and a postcard from Montana. I dug deeper to see if fly fishing was just a hobby and he was gainfully employed. Score…he had a real job. 36, father of 3-year old twins, lived outside of Portland. In one picture he was kicked back in a boat with hat and shades and the other apparently atop Mt. Everest  .We emailed back and forth and he was witty and clever and seemed to be earnest. I went over his profile with a fine tooth comb. 5’4”! I just spent the afternoon cyber-flirting with someone shorter than fifth-grader.

What is the moral of this story? There is none, except that in life we all tend to sit back and wonder why the world does not give us it’s offerings on a platter. We have all asked, Why does my phone not ring? Why do I not have my dream job? Why is the grass greener over there?  I find that I am saddened when I log onto Facebook and I don’t have any little red numbers in the left-hand corner. I am notified of nothing. I have also discovered that if in the day I share a little something with the world, like a cute thing my children said or something that made me smile or cry, I will have a little red box in the left hand corner. Someone saying, “Way to go” or “I hear ya sista” or maybe I made them genuinely LOL. So maybe there is a moral to this story. If we do not stand up and tell the world that we are here, they will not know. We cannot expect to hide under a rock and for people to find us and invite us to their party. Despite the preconceived notions I had of internet dating sites, I tried it, I am thoroughly enjoying it and I don’t feel desperate or needy. I feel discovered. I just might go out with the cute principal, the short fly fisherman, or the smokin’ hot fireman who just sent me a message while I was writing this. I will keep you posted. WINK.

an exceprt

Mia drove for an hour and a half without having to look at her directions. She listened to the radio until the static took over and she turned it off. The towns became farther and farther apart until at one point she drove for 15 minutes without any sign of civilization. The rain was torrential and the wind brutal. Her windshield wipers were on full bore and she leaned forward with her hands clenched at ten and two with the hopes of seeing the road in front of her.  A semi-truck came towards her and she braced for the giant splash that was due to come.  When she could see again, she spotted a sign that read, Wildwoode Next Left. The landscape was beautiful even on that dark, dreary day. The rolling hills hosted little farm houses set back off the road amid groves of Oak and endless rows of leafless grapevines on the South facing slopes.  At one point the road narrowed and paralleled a river. The water looked icy and the current determined. Mia stopped for a moment to let a doe pass in front of her. The deer was not in a very big hurry which was fine, because Mia really wasn’t either.  The deer paused in front of the car as though fully aware that the person staring at her was not from around these parts and then made her way to the river bank and disappeared in the tall grass. The rain let up and the morning sun warmed Mia’s face. She put her window down and breathed the smell the rain had brought.

The road became narrower yet and winded sharply staying close with the natural path of the river. Big fir trees came up one by one until they lined both sides of the road making it feel more like a path than anything. The trees blocked the view of the river and hushed its roar. The sun was now nowhere to be seen and it felt a little eerie. Mia kept her eyes peeled for Bigfoot as it seemed just the kind of place he might live and just the kind of road he might unexpectedly cross on a Saturday morning. She drove on for a few miles, dodging downed branches and the occasional squirrel. The sun began to peer through the mighty firs as they thinned and eventually they became only visible in her rearview mirror. As she rounded a tight corner she saw the first sign of Man. In front of her to her right was a freshly painted covered bridge with a barricade and to her left was a slightly more modern bridge. In the middle of the two aged bridges was the sign she had been waiting to see for two hours.

WELCOME TO THE HAMLET OF WILDEWOOD

POPULATION 300

                She passed a few small houses and then the road turned into Main Street. Downtown consisted of five or six brick store fronts on either side. The only cars in town that morning were a few trucks parked in front of Millie’s Café. There was a hardware store with a flickering sign. A couple of the letters had burned out and it now just intermittently read, RU VALUE. Next to the hardware store was Anderson General Merchandise. If it wasn’t for the sign in the window that stated that they had the coldest beer in town and Lotto, she might have thought she had arrived through a time travel portal. Next to Anderson’s was The Man Shop. She wonder if men went there to shop or does one go there to shop for a man. Either way, she might stop in on her way out. In between The Man Shop and The Saw Shop was a vacant building with a For Lease sign in the window. Across the street was Wilde Oats which appeared to be a tavern and next to it a building with a green awning that apparently was shared by an insurance agent, an attorney, and a chiropractor. In the middle of the one-block street, stood a tall cedar tree that was being undressed of its Christmas glory by an old man on a teetering ladder. He waved at Mia and she waved back.

“This is friggin’ Mayberry.” She mumbled.

                Just as quickly as she entered town, she left. More sweet cottages capped the south end of town and just beyond the last picket fence was a huge gray grain elevator complete with Purina checkers. The words Wildwoode Farmer’s Co-op had once been painted on the side, but now were faded and almost unreadable.  At the base of the industrial feeling feed mill was a small building with a front porch. There were stacks of buckets, wheel barrows, pitch forks, water troughs, green gates, a rabbit hutch, and tarped straw. The marquee out front read, “Chicks Coming Soon”.

                After she passed the feed store she spotted a small orange sign the said, “Estate Sale” with a hand-drawn arrow directing her left on to Holly road. The road seemed as though it had been paved at some point but was now overcome by pot holes that held last night’s rain. She slowly weaved her away around them until she could no longer. Holly road eventually became a gravel road and it narrowed to one lane at the base of bridge that didn’t seem as if it would withstand the weight of her car. She closed her eyes and accelerated. Safely on the other side she saw another sign for the estate sale hung on a black, iron mail box.  Mia pulled in the drive-way and winced as the blackberry vines scraped the sides of her car. At the end of the lane, stood a tired farm house. The soft, yellow paint was peeling and the front porch clung on though it looked exhausted and as if it might give way at any moment. The front door was lavender and the wooden screen door was attached by just one hinge and the screen itself, torn from the frame. The front yard was bordered by a tall picket fence with several missing pickets and an arbor that sagged from the weight of over-grown vines. The gate that had once opened to the front walk was now leaning against the fence. A large Walnut tree stood guard out front as if it was protecting the little house from the evil elements though its very presence seemed to be wreaking havoc. Its leaves and branches cluttered the yard and the roof and the massive roots buckled the walk-way from underneath. At the corner of the house stood a Camellia tree with bright green, waxy leaves and deep pink blooms the size of grapefruits. It was the only thing that appeared to be alive. Mia thought about those black and white prints with children dressed up like grown-ups where the only color is a bouquet of red roses. The hues had faded from everything: the house, the yard, the fence, and the flower beds. The Camellia tree seemed to say, “We’re here. There is life.” Camellias were so good at that. When winter seems as though it has out worn it’s welcome and spring is nowhere in sight, it will bloom to let the world know there is light at the end of the cold, wet tunnel. They always seem to hang on to their blossoms for dear life until the first Lilac blooms or the Hyacinths find their way to the surface after their winter slumber.  When it looks like spring has safely arrived, the last bloom with its brown edges will drop to the ground and the petals scatter like confetti. The tree will then wait quietly while the rest of the season’s fragile, pastel colors take center stage.

               

Rain or Shine

I was thinking about adding another addition to my fledging blog because after all, if you don’t have more than two postings it isn’t really blog. It is simply cutting and pasting a couple of stories in blog format that are read and forgotten and to tell you the truth I had immense difficulty figuring out the process of posting on those pre-fab sights. Now that I think I can do it and a few people actually read what I had written, it is time to add another story. Here in lies the problem…nothing exciting has happened in my life this week; seriously, nothing. I thought about anything that might be lying dormant in my consciousness that would be mildly entertaining, inspiring, or even worth reading. After all, if facebookers are going to make the effort to hunker down in their cubicle, hide from their boss, pretend to be filling out a TPS report, all the while secretly perusing the happenings of their 353 friends, I better make it worth their while. I also know that for the stay-at-home mom out there, their time on facebook is often a little break. It can be a momentary escape to the outside world. It is a time where their children know that crayon murals go undiscovered and mommy’s make-up is fair game. If children, jobs, and responsibilities are going to be put on the back burner for a moment, I must do due diligence and write something of interest. The problem is that the only thing that happened in this past week is that it rained. Rain. No story there. Or is there?

It is no great mystery that from rain comes good things. Green grass, abundant crops, that indescribable first-rain smell, and of course rainbows all would not be possible without rain. It is also known to be a great nemeses to many such as the bride eager for the perfect day, the farmer with hay down in the field, and the soccer mom, just to name a few. To continue with the obvious, many otherwise wonderful days have been ruined by this act of God. How can something so necessary be such a spoiler? The real question is why do we let it? Of course, when your very livelihood depends on the weather it is a different story. I am not talking about the rain that devastates a crop of tomatoes whose timely ripening mean feast or famine to the farmer or the torrential down-pour that floods the basement and ruins family heirlooms. I am also not referring to the 40 days and 40 nights kind of storm that breaks levies. We can all agree that it’s hard to find the silver lining in that cloud. I’m talking about the kind of rain we all know as Oregonians. When we plan an event, it is always considered. “What if it rains?” It doesn’t matter if its high school graduation or the 4^th of July parade, we are always fearful of rain. We watch the weather, we hope they’re right or wrong depending on the report, we pray, we tap into our inner-Native American ancestry and do the “Please Don’t Rain Dance”, and when we wake up on that important, weather dependant day, we peer outside with our fingers crossed and decide if this is going to be a good day or not.

A couple of weeks ago, a couple was getting married at my parents’ farm. The bride wanted to married on a farm in the fall. She wanted all of the fall hues that nature had to offer, hay rides, and her guests celebrating in the crisp autumn air under the harvest moon. What she got was a miserable rainy day. The forecast called for showers. On the news there were six suns for the rest of the week and one cloud with an umbrella icon on her day. The wedding she had no doubt, dreamt of for years, long before she had chosen a groom, was going to be a soggy mess. In all the years that my parents have held weddings on the farm it had never rained. There had been one bride left at the altar and one divorce (mine), but never rain. My dad had been building an implement shed to store tractors and the like and when it seemed that precipitation was inevitable, he ramped up construction. My ever-creative mother went to work with corn stalks, pumpkins, straw, and white Christmas lights and by Friday night she had created a harvest chapel that would have fulfilled any reasonable bride’s wishes. The white chairs that were once destined for the pristine backyard ceremony now wait in formation in the barn. My sister, I, and my exhausted mother all sat in those chairs sharing a bottle of wine the night before the wedding of a perfect stranger. We all understood how she must be feeling that night trying to enjoy her rehearsal dinner all the while watching the rain cascade down the windows of wherever she might be. I did not know her, but I felt for her. I wondered if I might have a favor from God coming to me, I might use it today for her.

The dreary day arrived and there was no break in the weather. It poured. The white reception tent heaved from the weight of it. When it filled, it bowed and released and then filled up again. My daughters and I were leaving for the evening though we were invited to stay. I didn’t want to go to a wedding in the rain. It didn’t sound like fun. We were invited to watch a college football game with a friend with two daughters the same age. I jumped at the chance to enjoy a cozy evening out of the weather, so we ran to our car covering our heads. There she was. The bride with an umbrella, alone, was standing by the fence, seeking the company of two wet horses, sobbing. Her hair and make-up and been done perfectly, her veil cascaded over her bulky coat, and she had a deep red Dahlia pinned behind her ear that now sagged and dripped. The three of us stopped in our tracks and went up to her. I gave her a hug and then my two daughters sensing her pain did the same. My 4 year old ran in the house and got her beloved blankie to comfort the soaking wet stranger while my 8 year old got my beloved red, rubber boots and presented them to her. They didn’t know what to do and they couldn’t change the weather regardless of how many times they sang “Rain, rain go away. Come again some other day”.

I didn’t know what to say so just simply asked her if she was O.K. at which time she began crying even harder. Her make-up then began running down her face like black streams weaving their way to her chin stopping long enough to form a drop and then ending up on her coat. Her trembling hands carefully tried to wipe it away and she answered, “Yes, I’m perfect. Everything is so beautiful! I am so touched that so many people have gone through so much to make this day special.”

I think she noticed the are-you-kidding-me-its-pouring look on my face and said, “The rain is so beautiful.”

Amazed by her positive attitude and grace I stood there and talked with her for a while. I had taken the time to curl my hair and dress my girls in warm dry clothes. I was now soaked and my children were shaking the tent poles and giggling as the water came crashing down on them. I wondered if she was faking it. How is this perfect? My grandma once told me that it is not about the wedding, it is about the marriage. I know that too well. I had a perfect wedding and a failed marriage. This girl seemed to understand that. She knew that though the rain would dampen her dress and her guests it was not going to dampen her spirits and she was not going to let it affect how she felt on this day. Storms are unavoidable in life and we can all decide if we are going to seek shelter in our grief and self-pity or embrace what each day has given us and find that silver lining.

As I drove away, with two muddy kids and smeared make-up of my own, I marveled at her attitude. I thought about the bride who showed up to be married on the farm last summer only to discover that the groom had hopped a plane to an undisclosed location. I wondered if at the moment she heard the news with her heart in her throat on that beautiful sunny day, what she would have given for only a little rain.

We arrived at my friend’s house and sloshed up to the front steps at which time two excited girls came bounding down the stairs to greet mine and they all went outside to play. They rode their bikes through standing water, laughing at the enormous splash. They rummaged through the garage and the cars until they came up with four oversized golf umbrellas and they skipped down the street and through the field twirling them. At one point they all sat down hunkered together on the wet sidewalk and positioned their umbrellas around them…an instant fort. We wondered what these newly introduced girls were talking about in there: the weather perhaps. Throughout the day they found great joy in all the activities the summer rain had to offer. The dragged each other on skate boards through a large, deep puddle and then jumped and splashed and laughed until hours later they decided they were cold. There stood four dripping kids in the laundry room smiling from ear to ear as though they had gotten away with something that would have otherwise not been allowed. We have all said, “Get out of that puddle!” or “Those are your new shoes! What are you thinking?” or have struggled to come up with a fun rainy-day activity when often the rain alone is the activity. I am always so quick to put on a movie and keep my children inside when it’s raining even though we all know that clothes dry and hot chocolate is so much better when it is earned. Perhaps our daughters were on to something and they learned to enjoy the previously considered nasty weather that day. They found the beauty in it and I hope that one day if it rains on their wedding days, they will find the beauty in that too.

Last weekend my sister and I had planned to take our horses and meet up with two friends for an early morning trail ride. Three of us being mothers and all of us living busy lives, it is nearly impossible to pull of such a feat. We had gone the day before, minus one who is not a horse owner though a life-long horse lover. The entire time we rode, we kept saying, “We need to get Mary Jeanne out here. She would love it.” So we called her certain she would say no. She works, is getting her Master’s degree, a mother of three kids in numerous activities, and like every Sunday, she was singing in church. The only way to make it happen was to meet at 7 AM the next morning. My sister made arrangements for my mother to watch her three boys, the 25 year old kid less friend, Emily grumbled at the thought of an early morning as did I, but this was going to be fun.

I woke up the next morning at 6 to the sound of rain on the roof. I got dressed and looked out my window, up the hill to my sister’s house. The barn lights were on and I could see movement in the kitchen. I hoped and assumed she was making coffee. I tucked my jeans into my boots to keep them dry and I drove up to her house. The only sound on that dark morning was the rattling of feed buckets coming from the barn from horses happy to have such an early breakfast on that damp Sunday morning. I quietly opened the front door as to not wake sleeping children. My sister was dressed and ready to go and poured me a cup of coffee. “Do you really want to ride in the rain?” I asked. We drank our coffee and contemplated the question as her boys trickled down the stairs in their pajamas one by one. Going back to bed to seemed good to me and riding in the rain sounded miserable. I called Emily and she said that she was going to go back to sleep until we made a decision. Just before 7 the sun was coming up and the rain was not letting up. Mary Jeanne called and wondered where we were. She was already there and eager to ride. We threw the horses in the trailer and we were on our way. The windshield wipers on full bore, we sang along to the Sunday morning country oldies show.

The rain stopped while we saddled the horses and as we plodded along the trail, it was no more than a gentle mist. We talked at times and at times we were silent and alone in our own thoughts. I was thinking that I was sore and I’m sure Mary Jeanne was going over her song for church in her head. Emily was worried that her beautiful new saddle was going to get water spots on it but so glad to be riding again. I’m sure my sister was worried that her horse would slip in the mud and she would have yet another vet bill. I saw cougar tracks and began surveying the landscape looking for a large cat and preparing myself for a cougar attack. At one point in the ride we all spread out a bit and went on in silence; the leather of our saddles squeaking in cadence with strides of our horses. And then it happened. About a mile left in the ride, it got eerily dark and it began to rain; hard.

When we got back we were drenched and our horses’ ears drooped and the dust on their coats had become mud. What would have seemed to be inevitable misery was not. Each one of was smiling inside and out. The quiet, peaceful ride had done wonders for all of us, for different reasons. Though the rain made us all drowned wrecks it was somehow cleansing. Had we pulled the covers over our heads at the first sound of it, we would not have had that moment.

It continued to rain throughout the morning and into the afternoon. That day our family and friends were going to The St. Josef’s Grape Stomping Festival just as we did every year. It was always fun and I looked forward to it every year. Chicken dancing in the rain did not sound like fun, however, wine or no wine. My mother insisted that it was going to be a perfect sunny afternoon. I had my doubts. She went about her business of making a peach cobbler, confident that she was right. As I drove to pick up my girls from their dad’s, I turned off my windshield wipers to see how long I could go before the rain drops took over: not long. I packed rain coats to go over their German dresses and I considered wearing my red rubber boots with mine. As we arrived at the festival, the accordion music echoed through the fields of grapes and a smaller crowd of people who were not going to let a little rain spoil their day gathered under tents enjoying it all. My clean children found the nearest puddle just as the sun came out. It was the perfect afternoon. The children danced and ate Bratwurst and embraced their German heritage, until St. Patrick’s Day when they would switch back to being Irish. Again, had we let the rain dictate our plans, we would have missed out on such memorable day.

Sometimes in life the sky is dark, the days are gloomy, and our curls are flat. We have choices during those times. We can wait for it pass and complain out it; put our lives on hold until the next sunny day or we can stand in the middle of  the rain and let it know that we welcome it and without it we would look ridiculous in our red, rubber boots. Thank you, rain. You are a good thing.

Shelter From the Storm

I grew up on a farm in Oregon that was the original homestead of my Great-Great-Grandparents. I was very involved in 4-H and had every project imaginable: dairy goats, dairy cattle, rabbits, a market steer, a market lamb, pigs, and horses. Though my sister and I would attend an occasional high school football game, we didn’t hang out at the mall like most teenagers though we lived a short distance from Portland. Our social lives revolved around our 4-H peers. We would ride horses, play kick the can, camp in the woods, make forts in the hay loft, and fish for crawdads. Not just as children, but until we left for college. I became very involved with FFA while I was in high school which took me to numerous remote, farming towns in Oregon to compete in everything, from public speaking to livestock and soil judging. My friends were from towns of 20 and from places with public boarding schools because the landscape was so vast. The rural way of life was all I knew, but I never felt sheltered from the outside world. In fact, my parents were protecting us from it without us even knowing it. I did not realize, until now, what an immense luxury it was to be brought up that way.

                I went on to study Agricultural Business and Animal Science at Oregon State University,  where I was roommates with my sister and two of our childhood friends from 4-H. My senior year I was accepted to an intercollegiate exchange program which took me to Murray State University in Kentucky where I rode for their equestrian team.  Far from home, it was still the rural lifestyle and the like-minded that I was drawn to. The friends I made were daughters of tractor salesmen or cotton farmers.  I joined a sorority while I was there and came back to Oregon State to finish my final semester.  I moved into the chapter house back at OSU and felt like a fish out of water. It was my first experience with girls who were not farm girls. I offended many of them when I put a bull’s entire reproductive tract in the fridge next to their Garden Burgers and Slim Fast shakes. I further offended more when I held a study group in the formal dining room with my Wrangler-wearing cohorts from the Reproductive Physiology of Beef Cattle class in which we spread the tract out and studied it.

                After college, I accepted a job as a commodities broker buying Corn, Wheat, Soy Beans, and Milo and trading barges in Southern Illinois. I lived across the Ohio River back in Kentucky in a town of 200 that had once been a plantation. The house I rented had at one time been slave housing. Though I enjoyed the occasional fish fry at the Baptist church and the fried apple pies brought to me by my elderly neighbors, I moved back home to the farm less than a year later at the age of 22. I took my first leap out of agricultural employment and took a job waiting tables at a country club. At 23 I met a city boy and married him.

                We bought our first house in town and for the first time in my life, I had to look before crossing the street to get my mail. When we were looking to upgrade I dragged him to several modest homes on acreage, but we ended up in a house a few blocks from downtown. We were expecting our second baby, when I found our dream house.  A large, but in need of repair house on 3 acres in a gated community just out of town. A little bit of me, a little bit of him. It was situated on a pond and surrounded by million dollar homes.  I found my creative outlet through an immense remodeling project. When the last chandelier had been hung, I begged for a fence to bring my horse there, I grew a garden but the weeds won, I planted beautiful flowers but neglected to water them, and then I started a small business to save enough money to build the fence. I brought my horse “home” and rode him once. I found very little in common with our new friends. We joined the country club and I spent my days with our two young daughters at the pool with other mothers from big houses who I could not relate to. I was no longer the girl, I had once been. At the age of 32 my husband asked me for a divorce. Not knowing what to do or where to go, I packed up my mini-van and moved back to the farm with my girls, ages 2 and 5. I left the gate that opened and closed at the presence of my car for the one that must be shut or the cows will get out.

                We moved into a modest, studio apartment above the carriage house. We had a dorm room sized fridge, no oven, no stove top and no separate rooms. What we had was shelter from the storm, a place that felt like home for all of us. I learned to make hot breakfasts in a toaster oven and to only buy groceries that we would use that week. At night when the girls would go to bed, I would read so that the TV wouldn’t wake them up. We began having dinners at the table with my parents. My girls, my mom, and I put in the garden, though she did most of the weeding. My daughters took tomatoes, potatoes, apples, rhubarb, sunflowers, and zucchini to the county fair that summer and earned $14.00 each for their entries. They even entered the scarecrow contest, but were defeated by my sister’s son who lives next door.

                My children are now almost 5 and 8 and we are still living at Merrywood Farm. My sister and her husband bought the adjoining house that had once been our Great-Grandmothers. We would ride our ponies there after school, tie them to the apple tree and have cookies and tea. Now, our ponies are buried beneath that tree and my children walk through that same pasture to my sister’s house to play with their cousins. They play kick the can in the barn that their Great-Great-Great-Grandfather built, they romp through the woods and build forts where mine once stood, they fight over the first ripe strawberry, they wear vintage aprons as dress-ups, and they have become farm girls.

                Going through a divorce has been difficult and we all worry about the impact it can have on our children. Without the opportunity to come home, it would have been so much harder on both me and my girls. It is interesting that roots that run so deep are what will rise above us in times of trial and become our shelter.  I now know that the farm is as big a part of them as it is me. Both of them will forever be able to say, “I was raised on a farm.”  

Uncharted Territory

Uncharted Territory

By Gretchen Keyser

I am a fifth-generation Oregonian and yet there is so much in this great state that I haven’t seen.  A year ago I took a job as an Animal Health Sales Representative and my days are now spent alone in a company mini-van driving to various feed stores across Oregon. I have been to towns that I cannot believe I had never been to in my 35 years of living here. With no GPS, I have spent much of travels lost and relying on my internal compass to get me to where I was going and back again. It often fails me. I had logged over 50,000 miles on my car in a period of eleven months and I was beginning to get a little road weary, when my boss called and informed me that my territory just got bigger. The North Eastern part of the state had been covered by someone living in Yakima who was no longer with the company so it now belonged to me. There were a couple of ways to look at this. One, as a divorced mother of two small children, how will be able to pull this off? I am barely managing to make it to all my accounts as it is. Or two, my employer is sending me on a much needed vacation. They are paying for my gas, lodging, and meals. I chose the second approach. Road trip!

I had remembered that my parents had friends who had a cabin in Joseph. They told me once that I could use it whenever I wanted. I had been to Joseph for the Chief Joseph Days Rodeo 15 years ago when I was the St. Paul Rodeo Queen. I didn’t do the driving nor did I pay attention to how we got there or even remember exactly where it was. I just knew that is was somewhere near La Grande which was to be my first stop on Monday morning. I made the call and the cabin was mine for the weekend. My daughters were going to be spending a long weekend with their dad so I would take them to school Thursday morning and head over the mountain to Central Oregon like a do every two weeks. Only, this time it was going to be different.  

I set out on my journey to my first stop in Madras. I made my usual stop at the rest area near Government Camp as I knew my next chance would be Warm Springs. I grabbed a cup of coffee, and was on my way.  At the point in my trip when the Portland radio stations get scratchy and I before my favorite Classic Country station comes in (AM 690 out of Prineville FYI) I was already wanting to be there. I turned off the radio and dug for a CD. It skipped, so I turned it off. As I approached the big wooden sign that said Kah-Ne-tah 21 miles, I turned left. This added more than 30 miles to my trip, but this trip was not about that. I was going to stop and smell the Juniper, look at places I had been before with new eyes, learn something, be a tourist, enjoy myself.

I crossed the cattle guard as I left HWY 26 and when I saw fresh horse evidence in the road, I continued to keep it a little slow. On the reservation, this means one thing…wild horses. A mile or so down the road I came upon a small herd about a hundred yards away. I slowed to about 30 MPH but then sped up again. I thought about stopping to take a picture, but didn’t. As I motored on, I thought to myself, “Now, a tourist from out-of-state would have taken a picture and immediately put it on facebook with a caption like “OMG I just saw wild horses on an Indian reservation in Oregon.” Their friends would click “like” and their Grandma would comment, “Have fun, be careful”.

“I am on vacation and I too will do that.” I thought or maybe even said out loud at that point. 

And so my journey officially began. A few miles down the road in Simnasho there were more wild horses. They were grazing behind the gas station, very close to the road. I pulled up next to them and rolled down my window. A big, roan stallion was the closest to me. He looked up and watched for a second, his dark, kind eyes peering through his forelock. When he had seen enough, he went back to grazing. I, on the other hand, watched him for quite a while. There are very few places in this country were wild horses can still be seen. I knew that this was special.

Over the next 14 miles, I saw three more herds and I stopped to take pictures, marveled at them, and of course posted them on facebook which is when my friends and family joined on me on my otherwise solo trip. I posted pictures as I went and they commented on memories they had of the places I visited. At times, I laughed so hard at our back and forth banter that I cried and my side ached. We began discovering Oregon Back Roads together.

That afternoon, I visited my accounts in Bend, Madras, and Prineville. I checked into the Motel 6 to save my company a little money since I did take the long way getting there on their dime. It was the nicest Motel 6 I had ever seen and only $49.99. Besides, I wasn’t going to be there long. I was off to a concert. I took myself to a Sammy Kershaw concert down the road and actually ran into a few old friends and met a few new ones. I only wish I had brought a coat. I don’t care what time of year it is, it is always cold at night in the High Desert.  As I stood there shivering, I struck up a conversation with a soft-spoken hay farmer about my age from Crane, Oregon.  Not many people know that Oregon has the last remaining public boarding school in the country.  It’s a school district covering over 7500 square miles with some students living as far away from home as 100 miles. I knew this fun-fact because I had gone to college with someone from Crane. As it turned out, he was his brother.

I had a conference call Friday morning and a few more customers to visit before I hit the road to Joseph. I was so excited about the unknown that was waiting for me. I love it when I’m somewhere in Oregon and I can say, “Hmm, never been here before.” I  Mapquested my trip. 363 miles, 6 hours and 40 minutes up hwy 97, through Maupin, to Biggs then hit 84 and go east for a long time. I stopped at friend’s house to raid his firewood pile as I had been informed that the woodstove was the only heat source at the cabin.  I let him know which way I was planning on going and apparently Mapquest lead me astray.

He said, “No, watch yer gonna wanna do, is go up 197 through Shaniko and it’ll dump ya out at Biggs.”

“Perfect”,   I said “a place I’ve never been.”

And I was off down another Oregon back road. I drove through the Redmond Starbucks for a Venti Iced Latte and with my AM station coming in loud and clear, it was Shaniko or Bust.  I passed the cut-off to the Fossil beds and reminded myself to go there someday. 80 miles and my latte sucked dry, I reached Shaniko. From what I had heard about it, it was essentially a ghost town, but this place was hopping. There were men setting up white, market tents, country music blaring from a boom box, and three ladies in lawn chairs in the middle of the street watching it all happen. As I got out of my car, people stopped to look at me for a second and then went about their business just as the slightly curious, but not surprised wild horse had done the day before in Simnasho.  The first building I came to was the mustard yellow post office. I stepped up on to the board walk and peered in at the postmaster sitting behind the counter as if he was waiting for the stage to arrive so that he had something to do. My boots clomped on the wooden sidewalk as I moseyed toward the next building with any sign of life which was a little shop at the end of the street with a table out front with some homemade offerings like those you might find at a bazaar. I went inside and browsed a bit at the turquoise jewelry, knitted scarves, knives, and t-shirts. I was most interested, however, in the pictures on the wall depicting days gone by, and the piano set at the back of the store with an old saloon mirror hung above it. They rested there, retired behind a Keep Out sign. As I made my way back to the front door, the shop owner asked me where I was from and if I was in town for the Wool Gathering.

“Canby”, I said “No, just passing through.”

“Oh you really should stay for the wool gathering” said Wanda.

She began to rattle off interesting facts about this little ghost town.

Wanda’s words as I remember them were “Shaniko was built for the sole purpose of being a terminal for wool. The wool went by train to Biggs to be sent down the Columbia River and to Salem’s or Pendleton’s woolen mills. It was the “Wool Capitol of the World” and the wool used to make the uniforms for soldiers during both World Wars was all shipped out of Shaniko. There was once nine saloons in this town, in fact, this building used to be a saloon and that is the original piano and mirror in the back…”

She went on for some time with her verbal tour and enthusiastic history lesson. I then stepped back out onto the board walk and checked out all the sights she recommended. It truly is an amazing place. It was just as if one day the town when out of business and everyone left. All but 26 people, according to Wanda. I will go back and will bring my children. This they must see.

 

I no sooner posted my photos on facebook, which had now become my modus operandi , when  a friend commented that her grandfather had gone to high school there which was followed by my aunt informing  me that my grandparents got married there.

I continued up hwy 197 through Grass Valley and Moro. Somewhere around Moro and Wasco, the first wind turbines came into view. As I drove, they would disappear behind the horizon for a mile or two and the landscape was untouched again. I would see farm houses and wooden barns that had no doubt been there for the last 100 years. I wondered what the people were doing inside and what they thought of the turbines. Did they think they were as beautiful as I did or were they saddened to see their previously, uncluttered land invaded by the hands of man?  As I got closer to Biggs, the turbines were everywhere. It really is an awe inspiring sight to see. I had to force myself to keep my eyes on the road because if I stared at their slow, steady rotation it became hypnotizing.

Evening was approaching sooner than I would have liked this September day, so I continued on towards La Grande leaving 84 just once for a quick detour through Pendleton to scope out the Pendleton Grain Growers store that I was scheduled to go see on Monday. The town was an anthill of those preparing for the Round-up’s 100^th anniversary. It was not the best day to spend in Pendleton so I put her in cruise, pointed East with the Indian summer sun setting behind me.

I left the free-way and went north through Elgin, Wallowa, and Enterprise stopping once to buy a bottle of wine for later that night. 70 miles from 84, I finally saw the first sign for Joseph; Joseph 8 miles. The town was a buzz. Cars lined the street and the lights were still on in many restaurants and pubs. I started scoping them out as I drove slowly by. I tried to get a peek at the patrons inside through their open doors.  Some had Harley’s out front, one appeared to be a sports bar, and others had large signs that read Welcome Hunters and some Welcome Cycle Oregon.  According to my directions, my cabin was three miles out of town. I thought about stopping since I hadn’t eaten all day, but decided to find the cabin first, change my clothes, and head back into town for a late dinner. That is it not how my evening turned out.

I successfully navigated my first mile out of town. I took a sharp right and several sharp lefts and the road narrowed just as it said it would. The pavement turned to gravel as I had been warned and I passed the landmarks I had been given though they were difficult to make out in the moonless night and with the blinding light of my Blackberry that held the email with my directions. I reached a fork in the road and I pulled a Robert Frost and took the one less traveled.  My directions said, cross the cattle guard and go for a couple of miles. The road is very rough and just when you think, where in the hell am I? Stay the course. The cabin is at the end of the road. The road began to get rougher and narrower and at what I thought was two miles, it became scary. I hadn’t seen a house or a drive-way for a very long time and when I would come upon house numbers they were next to locked gates virtually unnoticeable through the vegetation. I finally saw a sign of life; a small cabin on the right. I rolled down my passenger side window to get a better look and heard the hum of a generator and the bray of a chained hound dog. I would not have been surprised if I had heard the unmistakable sound of a shot gun shell being loaded into the chamber. The road Y’d again and I went straight. When I saw a sign that read Private Land Keep Out, I backed out and turned around in the first spot possible. Shaken, I went back to the first landmark that I had seen, reread my directions, turned around and tried it again. The words, “Just when you think where the hell am I? stay the course” gave me the courage to keep going. After all, that was exactly what I was saying. I passed the creepy, shot gun shack and ignored the Keep Out sign. The road again narrowed to something more indicative of a hiking trail. I navigated my way through log decks, through open, road closure gates, and around stumps. At one point, the road became so steep that my tires began spinning. I turned the wheel to the left and to the right to release my tired van from the clutches of this Chisholm Trail, but I only rolled backwards. To my left was a vertical bank that came dangerously close to my side mirror. To my right I saw only tree tops. I knew what that meant. If I left this road, it was a long way down. The problem that I faced was that there was nowhere to turn around. I had to indeed, stay the course.

When I reached the end of the road I came to a clearing and there stood a cabin about 30 feet in front of me. Well, stood is not quite the right word. There, a cabin lay in front of me. Half of it was caved in and the gaping hole was once covered in clear plastic that now hung on from just one point. It floated up and down from the wind slowly and rhythmically like the wings of a large bird taking flight and then it would whip up high above the cabin and sway back and forth like the a ghost high above me. It was at this point that I wished I had never read The Shack. My adrenaline pumping, my mouth dry, and my hands shaking, I turned around and carefully and methodically drove back to town, some two hours after I had arrived earlier that evening. When I regained cell coverage, I called to clarify the directions and I was quickly and easily directed into the cabin on a lovely, gravel road that seemed like the Autobahn after where I had been.

The flickering porch light gave me intermittent opportunities to open the lock box and eventually the front door. Clutching my phone and my bottle of wine I began sweeping the walls for a light switch where it seemed one should be. Working my way through the pitch black cabin, I found a flashlight. Dead batteries. I shook it and frantically switched it on and off again. Darkness. The stove must have a light. I ran my hands over the knobs of the stove and found a switch and turned it on. A night light that was more like a spot light came on and blinded me. When my pupils regained consciousness, I was able to find the kitchen light. My next mission…find a cork screw, glass optional. I checked the dead bolt a few times and began to explore the cabin. I was secretly hoping for a T.V. so that I didn’t have to be alone with my imagination. No T.V. I ran to my car and grabbed my lap top, wrapped myself in a blanket and logged on to facebook. I was not handling alone with as much grace as I had intended.

What’s on your mind? This is what I wrote… I made it to Joseph in 8 hours. Misunderstood my directions to the cabin. Got lost and almost stuck on a logging "road" of sorts. Might have seen Sasquatch. 2 hrs later, found cabin but not the lights. Found lights, opened wine. Feeling better. Now I here varmints. Bears, I think. I impress myself with my bravery. Wish you were here. . Any one of you, I don't care.

As comments from old friends began to pour in, I suddenly felt better. An old friend from college commented and then a childhood friend. I went from scared out of my mind to laughing like crazy in a matter of minutes. I was off on an adventure alone, but somehow felt comforted by being able to share it with others in real time.

This is how it went…

College Friend-Oh. I so wish I was locked in a random cabin with u and wine and hours of nothingness but to catch up. Miss u! Glad u are having a great adventure!!!

September 11 at 12:17am ·

Gretchen Keyser It has been too long. I wish you were hear too. How are you with bears? I'll open the wine while you shoo the bears.

September 11 at 12:23am ·

College friend- I'll shoot. But anything I kill, you must skin. I am not killing bears unless I have proof.

September 11 at 12:25am ·

Gretchen Keyser- Deal. We will make a bear skin rug, head and all. I've always wanted a bear skin rug. Let's make him smile just a bit. No need for an angry looking rug. Try to tell him a joke just before you shoot. I don't know, how 'bout "A bear walked into a bar with his arm in a sling and said, I'm lookin' for the man who shot my paw" No, that's stupid and I don't even remember how that joke goes.

September 11 at 12:40am

Childhood friend- LOL! I'd like to be in a cabin with both of you. I'm staying close to the wine though. Sounds like you've had enough to help you sleep through the night Gretchen.

September 11 at 12:49am ·

Gretchen Keyser That would be fun Sheila. Actually, I just poured my second glass. Do I post as though I've had more? Just road weary.

September 11 at 12:55am

Childhood friend- I forget how funny you are. You don't need drinks to be funny. I wish you posted your thoughts more ;)

September 11 at 1:20am ·

Uncle- Oh Gretch!! Yes it's wilderness-y out there!! Take care!

September 11 at 2:21am ·

My sister’s friend- Do you have a gun too? Be careful girlfriend! But enjoy the solitude part :)

September 11 at 7:35am ·

My Mother- Good morning! It's your mother--the spelling police, never resting...

September 11 at 8:45am ·

College friend- Haha. Today's goal, good bear joke. I'll get one!

September 11 at 8:54am ·

Friend-You are far braver then me...but thank God for wine to help calm your nerves;)

September 11 at 10:07am ·

Gretchen Keyser -O.K. Mother what did I spell wrong? Do I need to figure it out on my own and get back to you or will you just tell me so that I can quickly correct, my horrific errors and avoid any further embarrassment? Oh and can you call me, I think a bear got my phone. Either that or it is in the couch cushions.

September 11 at 10:10am ·

Gretchen Keyser -Krista...Bear joke "Why shouldn't you take a bear to the zoo?
Because they'd rather go to the movies.
Actually, now that's it light out I realize the bear is just pine cones dropping. Oops. For the record, I said shoo the bears not shoot the bears. You know clapping, stomping you feet. Maybe a broom.  We got off on this gun thing. I just wanted to clear that up for any of my PETA friends. I do want a bear skin rug still. I guess I’ll have to settle for a basket of pine cones.

September 11 at 10:29am ·

Aunt- Gretchen, you did the right thing, you opened the wine but was it bar mints you needed? Anyway just glad you made it through the night. Your adventure is making my weekend!

September 11 at 11:56am

In the light of day, I discovered that the cabin was wonderfully quaint, the view was amazing and none of it was scary at all. I went into town visited Simply Sandy’s which was, by far, the most delicious piece of eye candy that I had ever seen. It was a mix of but not limited to antiques, over-sized jewelry, candles, and eclectic folk-art. Had I not been a budget, I could have done some serious damage. I went to the farmer’s market where I listened to bluegrass music by the group Homemade Jam. Their soft, folksy sound was accompanied by the popping of kernels coming from the Kettle corn lady’s tent. She stirred and she danced. I wandered around town for a couple of hours enjoying the shops and marveling at the abundance of life-sized bronze statues. A bronze artist once explained the intense process of the art and it made these sculptures even more impressive.

 

The lady at the information booth told me that Hell’s Canyon Mule Days was going on down the road in Enterprise. I love a good mule, so I went. I missed the parade, but I caught the Pony Express race which was both entertaining and exciting. I visited with a man watching the competition from a top on a buck board wagon hitched to a team of mules. These 20 year old Belgian Mollies are owned by the Forest Service and used regularly for hauling logs and mowing in the Oregon forests, where vehicles cannot or should not go. He said that as a tax payer, Patti and Nellie belonged to me. I had no idea that we Oregonians are all mule owners.

 

 

I went into Joseph for dinner and found a restaurant called The Stubborn Mule. Fitting, I thought. I struck up a conversation with the cook and the bartender and it was decided that I should go next door and spend the rest of my evening listening to others sing Karaoke. It was also suggested that I come back for dinner on Sunday because they make the best ribs.

I went back on Sunday, but the ribs had been sold out. The cook was clocked out and the bartender was wiping tables. Early bird gets the worm in this town. As I turned to leave, a large group of people in town for Cycle Oregon came in hungry and thirsty. It was decided that they would reopen. I let them know that I had spent some time waiting tables and I was happy to help. I was given an apron and the three of us went to work. When the evening was through, they found some more ribs. When I got back to the cabin that night, I opened my to-go box and found a thank you note, ribs and a fully loaded baked potato. They were the best ribs I had ever eaten and it was one of the most fun evenings I had had in a long time. Getting a little BBQ sauce on my laptop, I shared my adventure with my friends and they all had a good laugh.

I left the next morning and worked my home stopping at all the Pendleton Grain Growers stores along the way. I made a brief stop at The Pendleton Round-up which was just getting under-way. I watched the Steer Roping through the eyes of a tourist who hadn’t ever been to a rodeo before, though I’d been to many in my life. I peeked in the Let ‘er Buck room and saw a few people having an afternoon beer and witnessed the calm before the storm that was due to arrive in the days ahead.

I pulled in my drive-way at 9 o’ clock that evening. My journey came to an end, but the anticipation of my next adventure grew. I thought about my scheduled route and began imagining the wonderful discoveries to be made between each feed store along Oregon’s back roads.