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.

Easter and spring offer new life to the Oregon Coast

My big adventure this last week was Easter. I spent a lot of time looking at the altar and cross in this picture. Choir practice till 10:15 on Wednesday. Mass on Holy Thursday. Another Mass on Friday. And the lollapalooza of the Easter Vigil on Saturday from 7:30 until 11 p.m. At the Saturday Mass, we started outside with the lighting of the fire, then carried candles into the darkened church. We read and sang the whole story of our faith, welcomed new members into the church with baptism, and finally celebrated that Jesus has risen from the dead. We had more Masses on Sunday morning. So that’s what I have been doing. I’m a little disoriented not having another Mass to sing and play at today.

After church on Sunday, I joined friends for brunch at the Adobe in Yachats. Picture an ocean view, mimosas,I salmon and crab quiche, and a loaded buffet. Nobody could eat it all, but we tried.

Finally, I came home to my dog, who was so happy she couldn’t stop licking my face. I put on my sweats and tackled the mess in my woodshed, piling stuff up to take to the dump. What a thing to do on a holiday, huh? But my back has been acting up lately, and I finally felt able to do something besides soak in the spa and sit around with an ice pack. So now I can look out and say, “Yes, I did that.”

It was a good Easter with marvelous weather here on the coast. My biological family is back in California, but I was surrounded by loving friends and didn’t feel lonely for a minute, even though the Easter holiday is fraught with difficult memories. It was on a Holy Thursday that I found out my mom had cancer. She passed away three months later. I was at a Good Friday Mass two years ago when I got the call that it looked like my husband might be dying. He passed away early the next morning, and I missed the remaining Easter services that year. So to have everyone alive and well this year, with the sun shining, the plants and trees all beginning to bloom, and the joy of the Easter story successfully told again, I have many blessings to count.

P.S. A young friend who plays with guitar on us decided the Holy Spirit’s name is “Bob.” I like it. How about you?

Hugging the open mic in Yachats

Sometimes I think to myself that Yachats, population 688, is where all the old hippies from California have gone. Here, you still find people with long hair, long skirts, tie-dye shirts and flowers in their hair. They gather for peace rallies and palm readings, craft festivals and Celtic festivals. They also gather for open mics. (Some say open “mike.” I disagree. Deal with it.)
I had had the note on my refrigerator for six months or so before I finally headed south on Friday night. Most of my music time these days centers around church music, but the new song circle in Yachats spurred me to check out the open mic. There, I could sing anything I wanted.
I have been to so many open mics. Bars, restaurants, coffee shops with loud espresso machines, community halls. Drunks, rockers, stoners, Bob Dylan soundalikes, kids just learning to play an instrument, pros reliving their glory days. Good microphones, bad microphones, no microphones. But I’ve been missing the open mic we used to have here in South Beach and my friend and former bandmate Stacy was involved in this one, so I thought I’d give it a try.
The usual venue, the Green Salmon coffeehouse, was not available, so we met at Ona, a restaurant on the west side of the highway. When I arrived a little before 7, not late, there was no parking to be had anywhere around the building. Parking at the grocery store down the road apiece, I lugged my guitar to the restaurant, arriving just as another woman was opening the door, and walked into a noisy, steamy-windowed, orange-walled room loaded with Yachatsians clustered on a variety of chairs and sofas. Stacy beckoned me to the last empty chair, right in the front row, just in time for the festivities to begin. We could barely hear each other talk over the roar coming from this room and the bar/dining room behind us.
You’d think I wouldn’t get stage fright after 30 years of performing, but I do. I get anxious, and I start thinking I’ve had enough of the music business. Why do I keep doing this to myself? I’m too old. These are not my people. Why drive all the way down here when I’m not getting paid? Yada yada yada. I have learned not to take these thoughts seriously because as soon as I get behind the microphone, I will change my mind and want to perform every minute of every day until I die.
Our hosts started us with some guitar and mandolin with vocal harmony. Nice. Then “Rambling Ruth” played “Three Coins in the Fountain” on her violin, along with a couple of other oldies. Stacy performed with her brother and a friend. Delicious music. A brand new quartet of women got up and sang gorgeous a capella harmony about peace, love and . . . harmony.
I was number five, thirsty, and nervous as hell. I had been clutching my guitar between my knees for an hour. I had expected to plug my guitar into an amp, but there was just one microphone that nobody seemed to be using. I had pictured us at a white-tablecloth restaurant where we sat at tables and ordered food and drinks. I had thought I’d have dessert. But no, we were just packed in this hot room and told we’d have a break around 8.
The break came after number 4. I bolted to the bar and waited in line while the bartender with the braided beard served actual drinks to paying customers. He gave me a glass of ice water. Ah. That helped.
Then Stacy read a poem written by her mom, and I was up. “Sue Lick?” The MC looked around. Me. I hugged onto the mic, wanting to be heard. I started singing and playing. By the end of the first tune, some people were singing along. They laughed at my jokes, applauded, and made me feel like a star. They also quieted down for my second song, a new one. I couldn’t hear well enough to do the fancy guitar licks I had practiced, but I sang as well as I ever have. And the last song went over big. I said thank you about a hundred times and went back to my chair, feeling happy, wanting to do this forever.
Every act after that was genius. The poets, the woman who sang “Look to the Rainbow” a capella, Ian playing originals on guitar, the woman in the red velvet mini-dress and leg-warmers who fumbled through a song she just wrote on the ukulele, the guy reading from his memoir, the mayor leading us in Roger Miller’s “You Can’t Rollerskate in a Buffalo Herd.” Loved them all. Promised to come back next month.
I’m aging into an exact copy of my mom, but inside, I’m an old hippie from California, too.

New Song Circle forms in Yachats

Ever get the urge to sing or play music with other people without actually having to be a performer? Me too. I spend plenty of time with a microphone in front of my face, but it’s nice to just play and sing for the fun of it. That’s why I was happy to hear that my friend Stacey Smith was starting a new Song Circle in Yachats. She and I enjoyed a former song circle in Newport for a couple of years. We even formed a band called Just Smith with circle host Kurt Smith (not related to Stacey). We played at the Drift Inn and elsewhere until life got too complicated and we disbanded.

This was in the years when my husband Fred was suffering from Alzheimer’s Disease and the music provided much-needed relief from the burdens of living with that difficult and always fatal illness. We made new friends and made beautiful music. The love of music stayed with Fred right up to the end.
So what’s a song circle? People sit around in a circle and take turns leading songs or suggesting songs for someone else to lead. They may sing something that nobody else knows, maybe even an original song, but most of the time people suggest easy songs that everybody can join in with their voices and their instruments. Sometimes we have words and chords on handouts or in an encyclopedic songbook called Rise Up Singing. Sometimes we just listen and watch each other’s guitar-playing hands and follow along. It doesn’t have to be perfect, and if you don’t feel up to leading a song when your turn comes, you can pass. You can even just come to listen.
We had eight people for the first session, with two acoustic guitars and a violin, and we sounded pretty good. Stacey is planning to continue the song circles once a month. I’m looking forward to the next session on April 7 from 3 to 5 p.m. at the Yachats Commons, Highway 101 and West 4th Street, Room 8. If you’re in the area and feeling musical on a Sunday afternoon, come try it out.

Yachats’ 804 Trail offers both beauty and danger

For my birthday last weekend, my friend Pat offered to take me hiking on her new favorite trail, the 804 Trail in Yachats before having lunch at the Drift Inn. I’ve been there before and would never turn down a chance to walk the 804.
When we arrived at Smelt Sands Recreation Area, where one accesses the trail, the place was packed with cars and people. Pat asked a nearby ranger what was going on and found out it was the dedication of a memorial for two high school seniors from Eugene who died there in February 2011. They were goofing around on the rocks when a sneaker wave caught them and washed them into the wild surf. According to the plaque on the memorial, they could not escape the waves and died within three minutes while their classmates watched in horror.
It’s easy to see the danger. As we walked and took pictures of each other and the waves, the surf crashed against the rocks with loud booms and sprays that went up 20, maybe 30, feet in the air. With the rocks, the sea and the blue sky for background, it’s just beautiful. But it’s also dangerous. Even as loved ones in black suits honored their dead with flowers and speeches and a new monument, other young people walked on the rocks near where the waves were breaking. Signs everywhere warn about the dangers of high surf and sneaker waves, but somehow we all have this feeling it can’t happen to us. It can. Ask the families and friends of Connor Ausland and Jack Harnsongkram. Stay on the trail and don’t turn your back on the ocean.
If you use common sense, the 804 Trail is a fabulous place to walk. The trail, mostly paved and flat, winds along the rocks and through the trees and ultimately comes out at a long sandy beach. Lots of people walk it, many with dogs, and it’s a great place for taking pictures.
Why is it called “804?” This trail is thought to have started as a footpath for tribal people. Later it became County Road 804, from which the trail got its name. Local advocates spent years battling with local governments and property owners before the whole trail from the Yachats River to the beach was finally opened to the public in the late 1990s. You can access it now off Highway 101 from either Smelt Sands or from Yachats State Park. It’s easy walking, and most of it is wheelchair accessible. Bring your camera and please stay off the rocks.
Invigorated by our walk, Pat and I pigged out at the Drift Inn, a favorite local eatery. I was already stuffed with crab and avocado pizza when our waiter brought a huge bowl of marionberry cobbler topped with vanilla bean ice cream and a candle. As he and Pat sang “Happy Birthday,” I couldn’t think of anything to wish for because I had everything I wanted at that moment.
It was a great birthday, and I thank everyone for their good wishes. Even the weather was kind to me on March 9. The next day, the rain returned, but that’s okay. Another birthday survived.

Sunday Drive: Exploring Yachats River Road

Sometimes a mistake yields unexpected rewards. That’s what happened yesterday. I had expected to join a new song circle starting at the Yachats Commons. At 3:00, I showed up with a stack of music books and my guitar, my voice all warmed up. But the doors were locked, and the room was dark. I waited a little bit in the car, not understanding why no one else was here. Then I decided, since I was already in Yachats and had been meaning to explore Yachats River Road, I’d do that instead.

(By the way, for reference, it’s pronounced YA-hots. I know what you’re thinking, but that’s how they say it.)
It was a gorgeous sunny day, God’s reward for all the gray days we get here on the Oregon Coast. Just south of town, I took the steep left turn onto the river road. First thing I saw was a tile roof in all the colors of the crayon box. Cool! Soon the houses opened up into views of the river and vast emerald pastures full of cows and horses. How I envied the homeowners working in their gardens on the north side of the road with that amazing landscape to see every day.
I drove on. In the Bay Area, one can find rural roads to explore, but there are always other cars with drivers who are anxious to drive fast, riding on your bumper or passing with obscene hand gestures if you slow down to look at the scenery. Here, I had the road to myself, passing only a man and his dog along the way. Even better, the road has numerous graveled pull-outs where one can park and take pictures.
At one spot, a sign notes that the Oregon Department of Fish and Wildlife has planted the meadow beyond the trees with grasses designed to improve winter foraging for the local Roosevelt Elks. I didn’t see any elks yesterday, but I’m sure they’re around. Hunters, note: A sign near the other sign says, “No target shooting.”
The road comes to a junction at 7 miles. A right turn takes you to Keller Creek and beyond that to Cape Perpetua. A left turn, the one I took, takes you up North Yachats River Road. The pavement quickly turns to muddy gravel, and the road gets narrow, but at 9 miles is one of Oregon’s famous covered bridges, and the scenery along the way comforts the soul.
I took my time, shot lots of pictures, and then I turned back. In town, I treated myself to a chocolate chip mint ice cream cone, the scoop of green Tillamook ice cream almost as big as my head. I took it to the edge of the ocean, watching the waves and guzzling my ice cream cone as a pug in the next car stared, jealous. Heaven.
If you want to drive up Yachats River Road, look for the steep turnoff on the left just after you pass the heart of town, and head on up. There’s a place about a mile in to park and hike. If you go on to the unpaved portion, know that it’s not recommended for RVs, and I wouldn’t do it in a fancy car. My Honda Element took it just fine, but it got a new coating of mud. Definitely take a camera. For more information about Yachats’ attractions, visit http://www.yachats.org/greatoutdoors.html.

Academy Awards chase away the storms of life for a while

Outside, black clouds fling rain at the windows, my musical wind chime sings out variations of Em, and a gust knocks my twin chimney captains together. I’m sitting at a card table in the den, a space heater aimed at my legs and a pile of laundry in front of me to fold. I’m wearing black sweats coated with fur, dust and ash from cleaning out my car and the pellet stove and then emptying the clogged shop vacuum. Along the way, I discovered that if you put the hose in the wrong hole on the shop vac, it shoots out dirt in quite a dramatic fashion.
Before the laundry occupied the card table, I ate my dinner there, leftover pasta and sauteed vegetables, as the dog squinted and drooled, unable to comprehend that the no-sharing rule applies just as much in the den as it does in dining room.
I am tired. I got up at 5:30 a.m., played piano for four hours straight at church, went to lunch with friends, and then came home to a mountain of chores, including unloading 600 pounds of wood pellets, washing three loads of laundry, and walking the dog through the woods for an hour. French fry power, I thought, barely restraining myself from broadcasting my accomplishments on Facebook.
And now, my reward, the Academy Awards. Since I was a little girl in the 1950s, watching the show with my mom and dad, I don’t think I have missed even one broadcast. Mom grew up going to the movies. She rarely went to a show once we kids came around. There were no DVDs, no Netflix, no YouTube, or Tivo, but she knew all the stars and loved watching them and explaining who was who to her star-struck daughter sitting cross-legged on the floor near the TV. In the old days, Bob Hope was always the host. I didn’t enjoy his snarky brand of humor, but I loved the glamour, the gowns, and the music. I loved that we shared the show together in prime time—none of this early broadcast to accommodate the East Coast, no “Live from the Red Carpet” for hours before.
Years later, I watched the awards with my husband Fred. He, too, was older and remembered a generation before mine, but like me, he loved the movies. We would watch and comment together, sharing a giant bowl of popcorn loaded with butter and salt. As the shows stretched to three or four hours, we struggled to stay awake for the best actor and actress and best picture awards.
Things have changed so much. I watch the show alone now. Widowed almost two years ago, I get weepy when Oscar winners thank their spouses for the many years of love and support and the husband or wife in the audience is shown fighting tears. I get weepy when they show the pictures of all the people who have died in the past year, knowing that they will disappear into history and my generation will be the last one that knows them like friends.
Over the years, the jokes have gotten annoying, some of the hosts not so amusing. The musical numbers have shrunk, and the acceptance speeches have deteriorated into lists of people we’ve never heard of. But still, the Oscars have a glamour you don’t find in any of the other award shows. It’s the Super Bowl of show biz, so I watch. And this year, amid the tears, I discover I’m loving this show.
I love the new host—I know what they’re saying on Facebook. I never heard of Seth MacFarlane, but hey, he can sing and dance, and he’s handsome. His jokes aren’t any worse than any of the other hosts’. He can be the new Bob Hope, although I miss Billy Crystal’s opening numbers. I laugh out loud at the drunk sock puppets on the airplane in “Flight.” I watch in awe as Charlize Theron dances—who knew? I’m amazed that Shirley Bassey can still hit the big notes in “Goldfinger.” I tear up again when Barbara Streisand sings “The Way We Were” in honor of the late Marvin Hamlisch. Everyone is beautiful and talented, the right people are winning, and the actors feel like my friends because I have gone through so much with them in their movie roles.
For three hours and 35 minutes, as I fold laundry in front of the TV and wash dishes during the commercials, I forget about the storm, about my various aches and pains, about the wrinkles I see in the mirror, and about the work waiting to be done. It’s the Academy awards. I miss my mother, and I miss Fred, but the show goes on, and I have a front row seat.

Hiking Newport’s tsunami trail

Last week, I hiked Newport’s new tsunami interpretive trail that leads from the Hatfield Marine Science Center to what is being called “Safe Haven Hill,” a little rise that has been designated as the gathering place in case of a tsunami for people who live and work along the south shore of Yaquina Bay. It was a beautiful sunny day, and I enjoyed an easy walk along a paved path with informational signs that talked about tsunamis and let walkers know how many minutes they were from higher ground. I passed the boat launch, the RV park, and the marina, where folks were setting up tents for next weekend’s seafood and wine festival. I passed the Rogue Brewery, a bus stop shelter, sinks where two men were cleaning fish, and old concrete restrooms. I followed the signs south to the foot of the bridge and then I . . . got lost. Where was the sign to tell me where to go next? What if the tsunami came now while I was trying to figure out the map? My walk had brought me closer to the beach, not farther away.

I climbed up the steps to the bridge, climbed back down, walked under the bridge, climbed up the other side, climbed back down, drove south and parked near a hill I had climbed before, and climbed it again. There’s an old cemetery up there, but I don’t think that’s Safe Haven Hill. It’s a rugged climb, and it would be crowded with 10 people. Where would they put the hundreds, maybe thousands of people coming out of Hatfield, the Oregon Coast Aquarium, the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration complex, the marina, the RV park and the brewery, all of which would be in the path of a tsunami? Maybe it was the hill across the exit ramp, all sandy and smooth, with a no-trespassing barrier and a sign that proclaimed it the property of the Oregon Transportation Department. Folks are still working on creating a smooth trail up the hill on the north end and a gravel road on the south side.

Fortunately, the people who work in the zone have practiced this walk, and if the earth starts shaking, they will know exactly where to go. I just hope when they get up there, stranded for hours on a hill while the water goes crazy below, there’s a restroom and maybe something to drink. I don’t live in the tsunami zone, but who knows where I might be when it hits?

People are thinking a lot about tsunamis here on the Oregon Coast these days. It’s hard to miss the blue and white signs along the highway that let one know one is entering or leaving a tsunami hazard zone. Signs at our state parks alert beachgoers to carefully collect and bag debris washed up on the sand from the March 2011 tsunami in Japan, reporting anything too big to put in a bag. Mostly what we see is bits of foam rubber and the occasional plastic bottle, but we have had a massive dock arrive at Agate Beach, and about two weeks ago, a barnacle-covered fishing boat washed up on the Salishan spit near Lincoln City. So tsunamis are on our minds.

I walked the trail at 11 a.m. on a sunny day. What if the tsunami hits at night during one of our frequent storms? What if the power is out and all those lovely lights along the way are dark? I guess that’s why people practice heading to higher ground. Tee shirts available in local gift shops say “Tsunami evacuation plan: run like hell.” That’s pretty much the drill. First, during the earthquake that is likely to precede the tsunami, duck and cover. When the earth stops shaking, go immediately to higher ground. Do not stop to gather your things or wait for an official warning. If it’s a 9.0 or bigger quake close to shore, you will only have 15 to 20 minutes before the tsunami hits. You can find tsunami evacuation maps and other information at https://www.oregongeology.org/pubs/tsubrochures/NewportSouth-EvacBrochure_onscreen.pdf.

Let’s pray the tsunami never comes, but at least now I know where to start.

It’s Antique Week! Treasure-hunting in Lincoln City

As Saturday approached with nothing on the schedule, I thought I would either clean my house or catch up on paperwork in my office. As it turned out, I did neither. I woke up from a dream in which one of my antique plates got broken and said, “I want to go antiquing.” And I did.

It’s Antique Week in Lincoln City, Oregon. Once a year, the dealers put on sales, evaluate people’s keepsakes, hold special presentations such as this year’s “A.Lincoln” show, and scatter even more glass floats on the beach than are usually hidden there.

Lincoln City is always a good place for treasure hunting. In addition to an advertised 80 antique dealers, it boasts fabulous used book stores, plus the Tanger Outlets, Chinook Winds Casino and seven miles of beautiful beaches. Off I went with five dollars cash in my wallet. But I had a checkbook and a debit card. Let the shopping begin.

First stop was Robert’s Book Shop in the Nelscott section of town. Books floor to ceiling, wall to wall, piled on the floor, piled in the aisles, books everywhere. Smart shoppers come with lists, but I just wander from science to sheet music to fiction to poetry to essays, immersed in old-school publishing. No e-books here.

By the time I came out with my literary finds, I was hungry. I hit Vivian’s Restaurant and Bill’s Barbecue, one restaurant with two names. This place, located across from the outlets, has had several different owners and personalities. I think it was Italian when we first moved here. Now it’s barbecue, plus wraps, burgers, breakfasts, vegetarian fare, senior meals and more. Hearty, friendly and reasonably priced, they’re open for breakfast and lunch daily and dinner Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays.

Sated with my burger, fat fries and about a gallon of iced tea, I hit the stores. The weather was gray, with a persistent drizzle which had tourists bundling up, but hey, what’s a little refreshing moisture between stores? The photo above is from Granny’s Attic, always a good place to start. There’s a parking lot behind it on NE 15th Street. Tons of treasures here, including a corner full of non-antique guitars, keyboards, ukuleles, drums and other musical instruments that drew me like metal to a magnet.

Granny’s led to a smaller shop full of surprises. I could barely get in the door for all the merchandise crowded in there. Someone literally had to move for me to step in. There was no heat, so it was freezing. The owner, a curly haired woman about my age jammed into a corner where she barely had room to move, has been ill and unable to organize her wares. She’s going out of business. But first, for the bold shopper, bargains were to be had. I don’t have pierced ears. Surrounded by racks and racks of earrings for pierced ears, I asked if she had any for ears without holes in them. Oh, did she. She handed me several bags and a plastic box full of earrings and invited me to sort through them. I found a corner of a 1960s coffee table and and started looking. Score! I came away with five pairs of earrings for $16.00. I’d tell you more about the shop, but it’s probably closed by now. Check it out between Granny’s and the Old Oregon Tavern.

Next stop: the warm, bright Rocking Horse Mall. Downstairs is loaded with glassware, doll house paraphernalia and model trains. But the blue-painted stairs is where I scored again. I found a bowl for $6 to match the set of blue Currier and Ives dishes I’ve been collecting. And then three CDs, $5 each, including one that goes with the piano music I’ve been working on.

By then I had purchased books, sheet music, a dish, three CDs and five pairs of earrings. I didn’t need to go on to the other shops, including the massive antique mall at the north end of town. Last year, I wrote about Antique Week for a local newspaper. It felt so good to visit the stores just for fun this time, with no obligatory stops for interviews and photo ops.

On my way south, I decided to stop at the beach in Taft. Despite the weather, I had to hunt for a parking spot, ending up near Mo’s, the famous clam chowder eatery. The tide was out, with people scattered on the beach looking for clams, agates and glass floats. Across the water, sea lions dotted the Salishan spit. It was a feast for the eyes and the camera.

I saw a guy taking off his coat, ready to walk the beach in his tee shirt. Crazy. It was cold and wet, but beautiful. A perfect day to run away.

Californians Unite in Corvallis for a Cat

I wouldn’t normally drive a hundred miles to have lunch with strangers, but that’s what I did yesterday. Becky George, a California-based fan of my Childless by Marriage book who is also a writer, invited me via Facebook to meet her in Corvallis, Oregon. She was coming up from Santa Clara to meet her new hypoallergenic cat. Her what? Yes, hypoallergenic cat.
 It seems breeders have found a way to produce cats whose saliva has lower levels of the enzymes that give many of us hives, breathing problems, runny noses or itchy eyes. Charlotte is a Siberian cat, with the colors of a Siamese but with long fluffy fur. She’s sweet, funny, tiny under the fur and did not make me want to rip my eyes out and scratch them with a Brillo pad. Since Charlotte is such a special breed, Becky had to come up to Oregon to find out if they would get along. They do.
It seems Siberians are big business these days, with several breeders in Oregon, including Daisley Siberians and Forest Star Siberians. These gorgeous cats are expensive (many in the $700-900 range), and adoptions are done with great care.
I didn’t know what I was getting into when I arranged to meet Becky in Corvallis. Through a series of Facebook messages, we agreed on lunch. Then she said her mother was making lunch for us. I envisioned melting into a family gathering at Becky’s mother’s house and probably eventually watching the Super Bowl together.
Well, not exactly. My Mapquest directions led me to the top of a hill where the road dead-ended at a Christmas tree farm. A man there told me this was not the place, even though the address was right. He pointed back down the hill and said maybe they were there. At that point I was kicking myself because I did not know Becky’s mother’s name, nor did I have a phone number or email address outside of Facebook—and I don’t have a “Smart Phone.” I tried the next house over. Thank God that was it.
It turns out Becky, her mom and two of Becky’s friends were renting this guest house at Donovan Place. I was introduced to her mother Maria, just flown in from Florida, and her friends Tania and Mackenzie. The young women all work together at a company in Silicon Valley and had come up for an extended slumber party at this quaint cottage full of antiques and artwork. They introduced me to Charlotte, the kitten who inspired the trip. Charlotte went from lap to lap, jumped onto counters and windowsills, and chased a toy bird on a string and a “Robofish” in a plastic bowl, keeping us all entertained.
While Maria prepared us a fabulous Cuban lunch, a chicken stew over rice, I chatted with the girls, played with the cat and tried not to feel old. Here on the coast, retirees dominate the population. Most of my friends are my age or older. So it’s unusual for me to talk to young women in their 20s and 30s and a mother who is probably younger than me. Unusual and delightful. We know lots of the same companies and places because they live and work where I used to live and work. It was fun comparing notes and listening to them discover things like the Santa Cruz boardwalk that I have known about all my life. Talking to these smart attractive women made me feel good about the future of our world.
They were just starting to learn about Oregon. Someone had taught them the term “sun break.” When Maria asked if we had had any sun breaks all day, we all shouted “No!” When Maria showed me the view of the pine trees out their back window, I thought, big deal, trees, but to her, it was something to marvel at. The girls were amazed when I walked over to the old Singer Sewing machine cabinet, opened the lid and pulled up the antique sewing machine–which was just like the one I first learned to sew on. They had never seen one that wasn’t plasticized and computerized.
It was a wonderful afternoon of sharing and laughing. As for the Super Bowl, was there a football game yesterday? Kidding. I turned the TV on the second I got home to catch the second half.
As William Butler Yeats’ famous saying goes, “There are no strangers here; only friends you haven’t met yet.” Thank you, ladies. And Becky, may your “fur baby” Charlotte bring you many years of happiness.

A Picture-Perfect Day

When I whine about the weather here on the Oregon coast, when I whine about being lonely or feeling hopeless or never having any fun, remind me about yesterday.
It was an honest-to-goodness day off when I did not feel obligated to work on my to-do list of writing, music and household chores. I slept late, luxuriating in the warmth of the electric blanket and the baseboard heater, waking to sunlight and blue sky. We have actually had a lot of that lately, but it has been coupled with bone-aching cold. Not yesterday. I wouldn’t call it hot, but it was warm enough to sit in the sun and wonder where I hid my sunglasses. It was a day when I read in the sun, played guitar in the sun, and walked the dog in the sun before that same sun set in a sky washed with blue and orange that made the water shine like liquid gold.
In the morning, as the sun blasted through the windows, I grabbed one of the big boxes piled up in the garage and started sorting through it. This was my darkroom box, and most of the contents dated back to the mid-1980s when I was processing film and developing photos at work and at home in the bathroom. I found photo paper and chemicals purchased in 1978. Are they still good? Probably not. I threw them away. Who uses film anymore anyway? I found my timer, my dodging tools (anybody know what those are?), colored filters, red light bulbs, and the black bag in which I moved film from the canister to the developing tank. White light would spoil the pictures. Not a problem in these digital days. It was fun to find these old friends and remember those happy hours I spent in the darkroom at various newspaper jobs and at home with the radio blasting, watching pictures magically appear in the tray of developing fluid. I can still smell the ammonia stench of the fixer bath that kept the images from disappearing.
But even more fun was finding the many photos and proof sheets from that era that were also tucked in the box. There’s Fred looking young and handsome, me looking slim and young with tiny Michael at my side. There are Fred’s grandchildren Stephanie and Brandon as babies, their mother Gretchen looking so very young. There’s my mom looking pretty with black hair. Uncle Bob. Cousin Tracy. Oh my gosh, even my first husband Jim and his family. Beloved co-workers from a newspaper in San Jose. A Veteran’s Day parade downtown. Vasona Park. The Santa Cruz Boardwalk. A tree that caught my eye 30 years ago. A flower. A dog. Our first trip to the Oregon coast, back when we had no idea we’d be living here a few years later. Newspaper photos that mean absolutely nothing to me now.
I filled a big trash bag with things not worth keeping, but I saved the family pictures, even the ones where I was clearly still learning my craft. Why bother with anything that has sat in a box untouched for most of 30 years? So that on a lazy day in 2013 I can find old treasures and relive happy times of long ago with people who are no longer around. So that I can know they were real and still mine to keep.
It was a good day. Just the day before, on Saturday, clouds and fog kept us in twilight all day, and I longed to see the sun. God answered my prayers. Next time I whine, remind me of Sunday, Jan. 20. I have no photographs of that day, except for the pictures in my mind, but like the ones in that box, I hope they never fade.