Coastal Rabbit Hole

This weekend I fell down a kind of rabbit hole of summer with a small group of friends, as we basked in white-crested waves and sunlight and the very brightest star-scape over a black expanse of water.

We travelled westward on Friday after work and found a shangrila campsite overlooking the strand—just in time to stagger up a hillside of deep sand and watch the sun disappear. Up in our little hollow—hidden, as we were, from the rest of the beach goers—life ground to a kind of halt. Our fire crackled. Our hot dogs roasted. The real dogs curled up all tired in the sand.

I think one of the very best things about camping is that you remember about the stars. They're always a surprise for some reason. You're done cooking, and you're all staring at the fire talking and sipping, when someone looks up. "Look at the sky!" Sure enough, the pale ceiling of dusk has been replaced by a ba-jillion tiny points of light. It's just the kind of little miracle thing that city peoples like ourselves don't get to see on a daily basis.

Hidden out.

Lincoln City for Go Skate Day—scary/fun.

Back seat car buds.

Right Now

My garden is like a poem in June—like the right series of words strung together.

Maybe it's ’cause I planted everything in early summer all those years ago—so it's basically a birthday celebration? Maybe it's ’cause June has that just right combo of sun and storm? Maybe it's ’cause none of that?

Anyway, even a month from now the grass will brown, the rose blossoms gone, the truest-purple lavender stalks nothing but dried up seed shakers. It's okay. Deep summer will bring other things, like crocosmia and ripened tomatoes and such. For now, though, I'm trying to spend all my spare time (Cougs has set the example—see above) simply lounging about in sun-dappled garden shades.

Birthday Bingen-ing

June days are very long. The longest! Here in the north country, you can have two complete days in one if you want—if you have the energy. Which you def don't sometimes. But the reality is that it's very possible to navigate an entire workday, and then meet up with your friends after to drive 60 highway miles to a skatepark, where you can skate for several hours as evening sunbeams stab through purple cloud banks over rolling Tuscan-like hills in the background. Then, after final dusk, there's STILL time to head into town for late-night feasting, after which you can drive home under tiny, pale stars—pulling into town at a very respectable midnight. Tired as dogs. But accomplished-feeling, you know?

Again, you don't always have what it takes to make this kind of thing happen. But sometimes, it's the healthy thing to do. It's okay if it takes a special occasion to get there. Like, say, a special guy's birthday?

Out-of-Towners Mega Post

Hello from my desk. The parents and nephew have been visiting for the past week, and I just dropped them off curbside so they could run to catch their flight. Now it's time to reclaim my work/adult/real-life life.

For peeps who don't know, I'm a consummate Portland tour guide, and we did a crap-ton of stuff while they were in town (the below is a short list—should you decide to come visit, I shall design you a custom itinerary of your own). There were hours logged in the car; some traffic, some testy exchanges and almost-arguments, some 9-year-old empty-stomach-induced tears shed ... you know how it goes. What can I say? Your family drives you crazy—they are your closest, most fraught relationships. But for me, parting ways at the airport is always done with a heavy heart, and the house seems to echo with emptiness upon my return.

1. PSU farmers market: Parsley, potatoes, sugar snaps, and crimson piles of the sweetest, shyest strawberries you'll ever come to know.

2. Dad fixed everything: Peter Sherowski wrenched and tinkered throughout every spare moment. Thanks to him, my house works.

3. Horsetail falls hike: Drive on past the Multnomah Falls tour-bus crowds, hike up a different trail past a handful of lonesome waterfalls—one that you duck behind; the torrent of water pounding so loud, the soft mist so cool on your skin.

4. Impromptu Naked Bike Ride spectating from front yard: My dad, standing in the front yard wondering why there's 6,000 naked people riding bikes down the street in front of my house.

5. The Rose Garden at dusk: For my mom. A rose explosion in every hue. The last of the sunlight to illuminate them. The air smelling better than at any other time of day.

6. Sauvie Island beach day: Hot wind, cold cheese sandwiches, and a dip in the Columbia River as the freighters bob on by.

Favorites 6.9.14

Summer city street at night: People, dogs, drunkards. Hustle. Tears and laughter. Just, LIFE—unfolding right there in front of you on your picnic table drinking your beer.

Whole milk in your coffee: "Whole," as in, how it came out of the cow's insides. Not so thick that you can't pour a healthy amount in, but deeply rich and creamy—creating a cup that wants not for sugar nor cinnamon sprinkles.

The promise of June: The sun abides; the sky opens up and is blue in the way you would hope the sky to be. My garden looks better than it does at any other time of year in June (everything ragingly in bloom, the lawn still green, etc). And it's just the beginning.

Breaking your iPhone screen a week after you're eligible for an upgrade: Drop your phone 800 times over the course of two years and it remains serene. The second you're contractually allowed to get a new one, the old one's screen splinters into a million diamond shards against the sidewalk one afternoon. The next day, you walk into the Verizon store and get an i-5S, which is cool as F (even to someone "not into" electronics).