Author: Sue Fagalde Lick

writer/musician California native, Oregon resident Author of Freelancing for Newspapers, Shoes Full of Sand, Azorean Dreams, Stories Grandma Never Told, Childless by Marriage, Now Way Out of This: Loving a Partner with Alzheimer's, and the Up Beaver Creek novel series. Most recently, I have published three poetry chapbooks, Gravel Road Ahead, The Widow at the Piano: Confessions of a Distracted Catholic, and Blue Chip Stamp Guitar, plus a full-length collection Dining Al Fresco with My Dog. I have published hundreds of articles, plus essays, fiction and poetry. I'm also pretty good at singing and playing guitar and piano.

Folks get crafty on the Oregon Coast

The 17th annual Spring Arts & Crafts Festival took place Saturday and Sunday in Yachats at a former school now known as the Commons and used for just about everything.

Yachats, about 20 miles south of Newport, is the kind of place where you find people in tie-die shirts or long skirts selling everything from flavored vinegar and scented soaps to carved walking sticks and jewelry made out of shells and rocks. Walking down the aisles looking for Father’s Day and birthday presents, I saw racks made out of animal parts (including horns and feet), a ukelele made out of a tin can, and a woman spinning wool into yarn. The displays included lots of jewelry, photography, paintings, teas, chocolates, herbal remedies, crocheted items, books, glass, and wood. And oh yes, my friend Ruth whipped out her violin to play a duet of “You are My Sunshine” with the ukelele guy.

The big festivals in Yachats only happen a couple times a year. The fall event is perfect for Christmas presents. But we have weekly farmer’s markets in Yachats (Sundays, Fourth Street next to the Commons, 9 a.m. to 2 p.m.), Waldport (Wednesdays, Community Center, 10 a.m. to 4:30 p.m.), Lincoln City (Sundays, Lincoln City Cultural Center, 9 a.m. to 3 p.m.) and Newport (Saturdays at City Hall, 9 a.m. to 1 p.m.), where you can find many of the same items, plus locally grown produce and other great stuff to eat. People on the Oregon Coast are crafty, always making something out of whatever materials are at hand, especially when it’s raining outside. I wonder: Did they come here because they liked to do arts and crafts, or did they start doing arts and crafts because that’s what people do here? All I know is there’s nothing like it back in San Jose.

An Adventure at the B-E-A-C-H

As I get into the car with Annie, she lunges at me, soaking my face in kisses as I giggle and dodge her six-inch tongue. She knows we are going to the B-E-A-C-H.

South Beach State Park, two miles up the road from our house, is a vast complex with a campground, trails, a picnic area, and a wide beach that extends from Yaquina Bay’s south jetty in the north to Seal Rock in the south. Cars with license plates from all over the U.S. and Canada fill the parking lot. Young men with surfboards struggle into their wetsuits, families gather up their beach towels, buckets and snacks and troop toward the ocean, and dog owners let their pets run free.

On this day, fog coats everything in a silvery mist as Annie tugs me toward the surf. Like all beaches around here, it’s not easy getting to the actual sand. Some parks have rocks, some have long walks, and this one is steep, hard on my bad knees. But Annie helps, pulling me like a tractor.

Our feet plunge into the soft sand as I scan the horizon for loose dogs. Mine tends to fight if another dog approaches so I keep her leashed and avoid confrontations. A couple large dogs to our left, tiny dogs to the right. We go right. Annie is excited, pulling as I stumble along behind her, letting her violate all the rules of dog obedience.

The tide is way out. It feels as if we could walk forever and never reach the waves. The wet sand shines. Annie pulls hard. She loves water. “I don’t want to get wet,” I tell her. I’ve got good shoes and new jeans on. We come to a puddle. My massive dog (77.5 pounds at the vet last week) throws herself into it, moving her legs as if to swim, but it isn’t deep enough. “You goofy dog,” I laugh.

We move on. Another puddle, another dip. Suddenly the ocean is coming toward us. The tide has taken a curve and the water, looking like a lace slip, zooms toward our feet.

“Come on!” I yell. Annie and I run, but we’re not fast enough. Water and sand coat my good shoes and my new jeans. A handsome man coming from the opposite direction, also dodging the wave, laughs. “That was a surprise,” he says.

“Yeah!” I gasp, still running.

We walk on higher ground now, our eyes scanning the beach. The newspaper says people are finding lots of debris from the 2011 Japanese tsunami lately. Boats have washed up on our beaches, along with smaller items like bottles and plastic toys. But I don’t see anything today. Annie finds dried-up crab legs. Earlier in the year, she would have eaten them, but they must taste bad now because one after another she spits them out. I find only shells and rocks until, up ahead, I see something shiny and lead Annie toward it.

It’s a bottle. Captain Morgan Rum. Empty. It’s too clean to have been there more than 24 hours. I collapse on the sand with my dog, take pictures for fun with the rum bottle, read its label. Spiced rum. Best with Cola or straight, it says. I wonder who drank it, who left it here.

After a few minutes rest, we get up. I let Annie pull me up the sand toward the beach exit by the handicapped viewing area and the bridge that crosses a sea of beach grass. We’ll take the paved trail back to the car. Through the fog, I can see the upper curve of the Yaquina Bay Bridge. I hear the foghorn. I bring the bottle with me to deposit by the garbage can at the trail junction.

The trail, which threads through trees and salal, with offshoots leading to the jetty and the campground, is usually easy walking, but today it’s full of bugs. Mosquitoes swarm around my face and hands and dot Annie’s tan fur with black. People I pass on the trail swat and curse at them. One guy runs back to his car for a can of repellent. If I had mine, I’d be putting it on. An itchy bump rises on my middle finger where I’ve been bitten. In 17 years walking here, I have never seen this. But it has been a weird muggy May with days of record-breaking heat interspersed with days of light rain. Global warming? Annie wants to explore every leaf and blade of grass. I pull her along through the mosquito cloud.

In the car, sand falls from my pants and shoes onto the floor mat. Brown water drips from Annie’s wet fur onto the seat. Her golden eyes are bright with excitement, and she pants so hard it fogs up the windshield. I give her a hug and she licks my face. Oh, how we love the B-E-A-C-H.

Rindy and Marv Ross of Quarterflash rock Newport

You know how some bands from the past are so wiped out it’s embarrassing when they do their reunion concerts at the fairgrounds or perform on those late-night cable shows? You get only one or two of the original people and they can’t really sing any more. Well, that is not the case for Marv and Rindy Ross of Quarterflash and Oregon Trail Band fame. They’re better than ever, polished like a fine gem.

When my predecessor as president of Writers on the Edge scheduled them for our Nye Beach Writers Series, I didn’t know who they were. Apparently, if I had been born in Oregon, I’d know. Or maybe if I hadn’t spent the ’80s listening to country music instead of rock.

Marv and Rindy got together in high school, forming a band called Seafood Mama, and they have been playing together ever since. As Quarterflash, they had a huge hit with “Harden My Heart.” They toured with Elton John, Linda Ronstadt and “other big-haired 80s acts.” They were on MTV. They were a big deal.To their fans, Marv and Rindy, now performing as a duo, are still a big deal. Saturday’s gig, which we hosted at the Newport Senior Center to have more room, drew fans from all over Oregon and beyond, and they weren’t disappointed.

From the first note, I was enthralled. Their sound is huge, even with just two people. Marv has written most of their songs and is still writing. Rindy gives them voice. Her voice has the purest sound, dark and light, high and low. She plays saxophone and harmonica. There’s nothing decrepit about these two. They offer power, master, and perfection. They’re also nice people. I was the only one who signed up for the open mic after their performance. I was going to bag it, but Rindy said, “No, I’d like to hear your songs.” So I sang my songs. A couple other people read some poetry. And it was good.

I handled the CDs, and people were throwing 20-dollar bills at me so fast I almost couldn’t keep up. Everyone wanted to take the music home with them.

On Sunday, ten of us gathered at the senior center with Marv for a songwriting workshop. From the get-go, he sprinkled us with songwriting magic, explaining song forms, showing us how his songs and other famous songs are put together, then guiding us through the beginnings of our own songs. We couldn’t wait to start writing.

Marv will be teaching a two-day workshop June 12 and 13 at the Sitka Center in Lincoln City. Check the website for details. He will also be teaching at the Fishtrap writing workshop in Eastern Oregon in July. Marv and Rindy will perform an acoustic concert with Eddie Parente at the historic Elsinore Theatre in Salem on June 6 at 7:30 p.m. Visit their website, www.quarterflash.net, for details.

Behind the scenes, we had a little drama Saturday night. The Rosses were rocking along when I noticed a commotion in the hallway. Several men had come in the open door and were settling into the lounge. Uh-oh. We were just the renting the senior center for the night, and I was responsible if anything happened to the place. If these guys were not going to pay their $10 and join us, I needed to chase them out. I tip-toed out to confront them. I began with, “The senior center is not open. This is a private–” A tall man stopped with a gentle arm on my shoulder. “We’re here for an AA meeting. We meet here every week.” I blushed. “Oh. I’m sorry. Have a good meeting.”

Neither group knew the other was coming. I hope the music provided a helpful backdrop for the AA folks.

The Nye Beach Writers Series returns to its usual location June 21 with Joe Wilkins, whose poetry and creative nonfiction are as good as the Rosses’ music. 7 p.m., Newport Visual Arts Center, admission $6. Joe will teach a free workshop the following day at the Newport Library. Details at http://www.writersontheedge.org.

Musicians meet again in South Beach

This spring, the Rhodies are reborn, and so is our South Beach open mic

When I got the call from Sky that she and her partner Renee were bringing our South Beach open mic back to life on Mother’s Day, I tossed all other plans to be there.

For several years, a bunch of us gathered in the boxy little building known as the South Beach Community Center to sing and play for each other. It was a loving group that quickly bonded through our shared love of music. In 2007, we made a CD of our songs. But eventually people got sick and busy, and the open mics faded away.

Renee Richmond, a local woodworker and fabulous flute player, ran the open mics with her musical partners Scott Paterson and Kate Scanlon. Together they played and recorded as Sea Changes. But Scott was sick. The last time I saw Renee and Sky was at Scott’s funeral, attended by a fascinating blend of musicians, veterans, recovering alcoholics and family. They gave away pictures of us that had been taken at the open mics. I have one of me playing classical guitar stuck on my refrigerator.

Yesterday, instead of formal 15-minute sets on stage, we sat in a circle taking turns singing and playing whatever we felt moved to share. Everyone sang and played along. There were only five of us, but we hope this monthly gathering will grow into something much bigger.

The room was the same. Same striped folding chairs. Same wood floor. Same mirrors on the wall, same old kitchen, same old bulletin board. Same great acoustics. But life has thrashed all of us around a bit over the years. We’re thinner, heavier, balder, more wrinkled. My husband has been gone for three years. I have been directing choirs at church all that time and become more of a keyboard player than a guitar player. Renee has learned how to play flute and guitar as well as ever despite losing the ends of several fingers on her left hand to a woodworking accident. Sky and Renee share a last name and are wearing wedding rings now. They moved from South Beach to Beaver Creek, where they are neighbors with Randy and Debbie. Randy, whose ponytail is gone, had a heart attack a few years ago. Debbie, who has a new tattoo on her leg, has gone from struggling through easy mandolin songs to being able to play just about anything smoothly and beautifully. We all have learned new songs, changed styles, and taken new paths in our lives. And of course, Scott is gone. I could feel his spirit hovering over us, thumping his guitar and smiling with those big crooked teeth.

If you’re on or near the Oregon Coast, consider joining us on the second Sundays of the month from 5 to 7 p.m. at the South Beach Community Center. Bring your instruments and your songs. We’ll welcome you with a hug.

Where Does One Go After Z?

In April, I participated in my first A to Z blog challenge. I wrote 26 posts based on the letters of the alphabet, blogging every day but Sunday. The organizers have asked us to reflect on the experience. It was good, it was exhausting, and it took time away from my other writing, but I’m glad I did it.

Having an assignment and knowing somebody will read it gives great comfort to this old newspaper reporter who spent years cranking out stories on deadline with little question about what to write next, only worries about getting to the end of the list. Of course, with the blog challenge, I could quit any time. It was tempting. April, like every month so far this year, was fraught with challenges, including plumbing issues, the Easter music marathon, and being sicker than I’ve been in years. But I didn’t quit. Most of the time, I had written two or three posts in advance and just had to post them, but even when I got to Z with nothing written and was miserably sick, I got up and blogged.

Having to write something that fit the letter of the day sent me in directions I would not have thought of on my own. Weed whacker? Dog ears? Milk-Bones? It led me to what I think is some good writing. The challenge also brought me some new online friends. We are now following each other’s blogs and cheering each other on.

It was fascinating to see how other bloggers used the same letters. So many great ideas. One blogged about cheeses, a different kind for every letter. Another blogged about movies. Yet another wrote a short story every day. Some posted pictures, others travelogues. The challenge is over now, but I urge you to do some blog-hopping from the A to Z site and see how many ways those 26 letters can be used.

If you look to the right side of the screen, you’ll see links to my A to Z posts here at Unleashed in Oregon. On Wednesdays, I posted at Childless by Marriage and on Fridays, I took my traveling blog show to Writer Aid. If you missed any posts, they will remain archived indefinitely. And if you’re a writer looking for inspiration, try going through the alphabet.

Have fun. Annie and I are going to take a nap.

Y is for . . . Yellow

The A to Z blog challenge is almost done. I’ll be finishing tomorrow at Childless by Marriage. I have also been doing a poem-a-day challenge. Today I am combining the two with this poem about the Scotch Broom that grows wild where Annie and I take our walks. It is considered an invasive plant that should be removed, almost as ubiquitous on the Oregon coast as the wild berries that sprout up everywhere. But I like them. Here’s my poem.

Yellow

Never mind its reputation
for allergy-causing pollen
or its tendency to ravage
every patch of ground it finds
or its upended broom shape
or the way its seed pods rattle
as the wind blows them open,
scattering plants from road to ravine.

Ignore the talk at City Hall
of forming a vigilante group
to tear the unruly intruders out,
guests that no one invited,
that scatter their golden dust like laughter
and wear flowers so gaudy and bright
against the dark widow sky
that they melt the clouds and make it rain.

Stand in fields of Scotch Broom,
bury your face in yellow
and dance, dance as if you are on the sun.

*****
There’s one more day left in the A to Z blog challenge. My posts have been spread among my three blogs, Unleashed in Oregon, Childless by Marriage, and Writer Aid. See the schedule below, and visit Childless by Marriage tomorrow to find out what Z stands for.

X is for Xerox

X is even worse than Q for finding words to write about, but Xerox is one. Of course it didn’t used to be a word. It was invented as a trademark for the machines and the process that did xerography. Definition (hold on, this is pretty complicated): a process for copying graphic matter by the action of light on an electrically charged photoconductive insulating surface on which the latent image is developed with a resinous powder.” Um, what?

It’s a photocopier. Show of hands: How many remember when there was no such thing as a Xerox machine? What did people do when they couldn’t walk up to a machine, put their paper in, push a few buttons and make as many copies as they wanted in a couple minutes? Just before photocopies, teachers made dittos, those awful blue things I grew up in with elementary school. But most people didn’t have ditto machines. They used carbon paper, wrote or typed it (on a typewriter) again and again, or paid to have it printed on a printing press for which each letter or punctuation mark was set in lead type. Clearly, people didn’t find themselves nearly as buried in paper as they are now because it was hard to get a copy. The person who had the paper with the information on it had the power. And, it was pretty hard to make illegal copies of documents, art work or anything else.

Also, nobody could make copies of their faces or their butt cheeks when life got boring.

When the first copy machines were installed, people got pretty excited. I was working at the Milpitas Post when we got ours. It used that nasty slick paper on which the print smeared, and it didn’t work half the time,but it was a start. Was it a Xerox brand machine? I don’t know. Probably.

Back in the old days, nobody had their own Xerox machine. They made copies at work or at a shop like Kinkos. Starting in the 1990s, Fred and I had a series of copiers in the house. He needed one for his tax business, and I used them for my teaching and writing activities. After Fred retired and I killed the last copier, a genuine Xerox machine, I decided I didn’t really need it anyway. I can make copies with my scanner and print multiple copies with my computer, both machines that weren’t around when I was growing up.

The corpse of our old Xerox machine is still here if anyone wants to help me carry it to their house or to the dump. I’m guessing it weighs about 80 pounds. I wonder if I could take out the guts and use it to store wine or DVDs.

Xerox is a trademark, which is often used incorrectly as a noun–the machine or the copies the machine makes–or a verb–to make photocopies. Ideally we should use the name Xerox only when we’re talking about an actual Xerox brand machine and say “photocopy” the rest of the time, but hey, X words are hard to come by.

It was this or write about my collection of foot and ankle X-rays. Forgive me if I’m rambling, but I’m sick today and don’t want to quit the A to Z challenge with only three days left. If today were the W day, my word would be “wretched” for how I feel. But the alphabet goes on.

X stands for Xerox. For more information about Xerox, visit Xerox.com or Wikipedia. Only two more days left in the April A to Z blog challenge. Come back tomorrow to find out what Y stands for and stop in at Childless by Marriage on Wednesday for the grand finale with Z. Will it be zucchini, zigzag, or zippity doo dah? Even I don’t know yet.

My alphabetical posts have been spread among my three blogs as follows:

W stands for . . . Weed Whacker

As I hefted the big box onto the counter at Fred Meyer, the toddler in the shopping cart ahead of me stared at it. “What’s that?” he asked.

“It’s to trim my grass,” I said, feeling all proud and strong because I was taking charge of my own yard instead of depending on a husband or gardener.

The child pondered this for a while, then pronounced, “It’s a weed whacker!” How does this kid no more than three years old know this? I nodded. “Yes, it is.”

I paid my hundred bucks for this girl-sized appliance, electric instead of the monster gas one rusting in the shed. I could barely lift that thing. I took my new toy home and spent the next hour putting it together, with the dog supervising. It took 10 hours to charge the lithium battery, so I couldn’t use it that day. But the next morning, I couldn’t wait to attack the overgrown grass I’d missed on my first adventure with the lawnmower.

Battery charged and attached. Height adjusted. Handle placed where I wanted it. Goggles on. Ignition. Bzzzzz. It worked! I was only going to try it out, but I whacked every place that still had a blade of grass or a weed sticking up. Oh the power! I ignored the fact that my tendonitis-plagued arms soon started hurting (and now my right arm is almost unusuble) and that my back was already bothering me. Look at that grass fly. It was wet from last night’s drizzle. I could have/should have waited, but they were predicting rain, and I wasn’t going to wait several more days. When you get a dry day on the Oregon Coast, you’ve got to get outside and do the yard work. The wet grass did a number on my good shoes, and my socks are wet, but I don’t care. Look at my lawn.

I have begun to understand how people, mostly men, become obsessed with grooming their lawns. It’s instant gratification, as opposed to this writing business where you can write for years with minimal results beyond the satisfaction of having written.

If you’ve been mowing lawns for years and think I sound ridiculous, well, at 62 I’m still figuring things out.

W stands for Weed Whacker, a power-driven device that trims grass with a rapidly rotating nylon cutting cord. It sure beats the little clippers I used cutting the grass along the fence as a kid.

I’m participating in this month’s A to Z blogging challenge, and W stands for weed whacker. My alphabetical posts are distributed among my various blogs. Here is the schedule:

V Writer Aid–V is for Virus

W Unleashed in Oregon
X Unleashed in Oregon
Y Unleashed in Oregon

Z Childless by Marriage

More than 2000 other bloggers have signed up for the challenge. For more information, visit a-to-zchallenge.com You might find some great new blogs to follow. I know I will. Come back Monday to find out what X stands for.

U stands for unleashed–or is it unhinged?

Fred with Annie (tan) and her brother Chico a few years ago on the deck

U stands for unleashed, as in Unleashed in Oregon. Sometimes “unhinged” might be a better assessment. Last Monday, for example.

Exhausted from my Easter festivities, I was ready for a long, deep sleep, but no. At 2:38 a.m., Annie started barking, and she was still barking off and on five hours later. She seemed to have found a critter trapped under the deck. Whatever it was scratched her face during the night. Or else she scratched it on the lattice along the base of the deck. The intruder couldn’t be very big. I had seen a rat sneak in and out a couple times at twilight, but Annie hadn’t seemed to notice. We occasionally had squirrels. I suppose a cat or small raccoon could have gotten in there if it was determined enough. Whatever it was, Annie was still barking, and I was still awake when it was time to get up.

Sleep-deprived or not, I had a busy day that included a business meeting and providing music for a funeral, but first I crawled around on the wet grass in my bathrobe trying to see what was under the deck. I saw nothing except a muddy spot where Annie had tried to dig her way in. I thought about shooting some water through there, setting a trap, or calling the exterminators. What I wanted to do was ignore it, but if Annie was going to keep barking, I’d never get any sleep and the neighbor would eventually select a rifle from his vast collection and take care of both Annie and whatever she was barking at. Somehow, like our recent adventures with plumbing and yard work, we would handle it. Once I inspected the deck, Annie seemed satisfied for the moment and went to sleep. Now the rain has returned, and Annie is staying in her warm bed during the night. Me too. But the invader is probably still around.

When Fred and I moved to Oregon in 1996, we unleashed ourselves from our families, our home, our jobs, and everything that was familiar. Looking back, it strikes me that we were like dogs who smelled something good way up the road, chased after it and found ourselves in an unfamiliar place with no way to get back. So we started new lives here. It was indeed very good, although we missed the old lives sometimes.

Now that Fred is gone (three years ago yesterday), I am even more unleashed. No husband. No newspaper job. In theory, I’m free to go wherever I want, just like the dog when she slips out the gate and runs into the woods. But also like the dog, I don’t want to wander too far from home. I want my Milk-Bones (see M is for Milk-Bones) and my iced tea. Of course some of my family thinks I’m just unhinged.

This blog is about my adventures with Annie in our post-Silicon Valley lives. We are unleashed and running free in Oregon. Metaphorically speaking. They’ve got leash laws up here, just like most places, and my dog is too much of a wackadoodle to unhook just anywhere.

U stands for a whole lots of “un” words. Unlikely, unbelievable, unwanted, unplugged, underdog and so many more. It also stands for ugly, ubiquitous, utopia, and umbrella, something we don’t use here because it would just blow inside out. And it stands for Under the Deck, where something lives.

U is for Unleashed in Oregon, where I plan to keep blogging long after the A to Z Challenge ends next Wednesday. My alphabetical posts are distributed among my various blogs. Here is the schedule:

More than 2000 other bloggers have signed up for the challenge. For more information, visit a-to-zchallenge.com You might find some great new blogs to follow. I know I will. Visit Writer Aid tomorrow to find out what V stands for.

S is for . . . Shoes Full of Sand

Long before I wrote a book titled Shoes Full of Sand, I wrote a song by that name. It was inspired by my then-new love for Fred Lick. Our first date took place just before Christmas. Dinner and a movie. Then Fred went to Southern California for two weeks to spend the holidays with his family. After only one date, we were already in love. We agreed to meet in Monterey.

I arrived first. I remember looking for him by the carousel, walking down the steps and seeing him coming toward me. Just like in the movies, we flew into other’s arms. We spent a magical weekend at the beach, where every moment confirmed that we were meant to be together. That was 1984. We were married in May 1985 and lived in San Jose, where Fred finished out his career with the City of San Jose’s recreation department and I worked for several newspapers, ending up as editor of the Saratoga News.

In 1996, we moved to Oregon. We both wanted to live by the beach, and here we could actually afford it. We longed for those shoes full of sand.

Tomorrow is the third anniversary of Fred’s death of complications from Alzheimer’s Disease. We never suspected back in 1984 that our lives would take such a turn. As I dig my feet into Oregon’s cool gray sand, I hear “Shoes Full of Sand” playing in my head again. I recorded it for you the other day. Dressed up, arranged the perfect background, repeated it till it was perfect. Unfortunately, that computer is in the shop today with a virus, so I tried it a capella on my phone. Note the dog helping in the lower right.

I’m participating in this month’s A to Z blogging challenge. S stands for “Shoes Full of Sand.” My alphabetical posts are distributed among my various blogs. Here is the schedule:

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