57th street, rose city, oregon

I’ve known for a while now about Portland being the “Rose City,” but until last week, it never meant much to me. Right now, though, I’m sitting on about 100 fat blossoms—that’s counting both the backyard and front. Sweet pale pink. Deep crimson. Yellow. Yellow with juicy peach tips. Fuschia with delicate white centers. Miami Vice electric pink. Et cetera. Due to some mystic alignment of planetary bodies, moisture levels, and soil content, they’ve reached a sort of frenzy of amazingness that I’ve never before witnessed on my plot of land. I have them stuffed in jars and old bottles in every room, as fat as your face and efusing a luscious haze that’s the exact stuff of spring fever.

Bellingham And Back

Drove up to Bellingham and spent a day aboard the Hawaiian Chieftain visiting the cook.  He has a nasty case of bronchitis procured from the mold and mildew on the ship, as well as a life-giving upset stomach from the high-strength antibiotics the doctor prescribed. But. Despite all that, I found chilling on a boat in a Northwest harbor to be basically magnificent.

There’s an ineffable stillness to living not just on the water, but in the water, especially in the early mornings and evenings.  You wake up in a cramped cubby, bang your head against the ceiling that’s only several inches away, and then scurry out of this damp, dirty-sock-smelling cave to be greeted by chill air, sunshine, and still, still water. The quietness fills you up inside. You walk to the marina bathroom for a shower, while a bald eagle sitting on a buoy gets harangued by a posse of Canadian gulls. A fish flops in the water. Coffee percolates in one of the neighboring boats. The harbor ever-so-slowly comes to life.

The ship's hold, where unpleasant odors abound.

The cook, about to fix a sweet-potato steak taco feast.

A basil plant with sea legs.

Sunset over Bellingham smokestacks.

A raucous waterfall park near downtown B-ham.

Near Mt. Vernon, WA, where farmers are hip to solar power.

Kelso—a stop on the way.

Full House Weekend

My family came and stayed with me this weekend. Dad. Mom. Sister. Nephew Patrick. They're pretty fabulous. I spent about a week beforehand cleaning my house, the deep clean—eradicating dust bunnies from vents and wiping three-year’s worth of greasy palm prints from the walls around the light switches.

Upon their arrival, the house was instantly packed, and much relaxing ensued. We sat on my stoop in the sunshine, we ate wood fired pizza, we went for a drive out to Sauvie Island and then a quiet bird-watching walk, we read aloud from The Celery Stalks At Midnight, we drank much of both wine and coffee, and we toured the city neighborhood by neighborhood pondering the roses and wisteria vines.

Now that everyone’s gone, my place seems pretty vacant. Nothing but empty rooms with a few cat-hair tumbleweeds rolling through. I mean, I’m a big girl, but there’s a sadness left over in the space of a newly empty house, you know?

Me and moms at the gelato spot with little man Patrick.

Portland to the end of the line

"The sun was ablaze in the west and the horses shied, and where is that happiness which they write about in the newspapers? I ran and ran through whirlwind and gloom, ripping doors off hinges."—Venedikt Erofeev

A Pirate’s Life For Me

Drove up to Anacortes this weekend and saw Lance off on his summer job as cook aboard a tall ship called the Hawaiian Chieftain. It was only a few hours north but the rain was falling down in icy sheets just like Portland January. We got soaked standing on the docks watching the boat sail slowly into port. I took one peek at the soggy kitchen, cramped quarters, and surly crew and thought to myself, that job ain’t gonna be easy. But then again, there’s the allure of the pirate life to think of. Plus, the ocean.