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Every time I turn on the TV these days, I see people running on a track. Skinny people in tight, bright-colored outfits competing in the Olympics. They run fast, determination in their eyes, streaking toward the finish line and a medal that will make them rich and famous. The camera focuses on the runners in the front, the ones who will take home a gold, silver or bronze medal . It does not show us the people in the back, the losers, unless they fall or have prosthetic legs like that amazing guy from South Africa. Yet the people who fall behind and finish the race unheralded also trained hard, also took the hopes of their country to London, also hoped to win a gold medal.

Well, I saw it, I saw the Japanese dock that washed away in last year’s tsunami and landed on Agate Beach in Newport. I was bored and in the neighborhood. First I looked from the road, muttering, “Where is it? Where is it?” until I finally saw it in the water up near Yaquina Head. It just looked like a big brown rectangle, but since I was there, I turned into the parking lot. Whoa, has Newport ever seen such crowds in this century? The massive lot was nearly full, with hundreds of tourists walking around in shorts and flip-flops. I followed the crowd through the concrete tunnel under the road. A bearded man stood near the exit, playing the flute. The music echoed wonderfully off the walls. I looked for a tip jar, but he had only a beer can from which he soon paused to take a swig.

I joined the hundreds of people slogging across the sand toward the dock. They brought dogs of all shapes and sizes. Old people, young people, a woman with a walker, couples, college guys, tanned, tattooed bodybuilders and skinny guys with pale skin, and solos like me all had one goal: to see the dock and take its picture. It was much like when the New Carissa washed ashore near Waldport in the 1990s. It was just a boat, but everybody wanted to see it.

I never knew Agate beach was so long, but it was fun being part of the party. Finally, I joined the mobs staring at the dock. It’s just a concrete rectangle with what looks like little tires on one end. It has already been scrubbed clean of aquatic animals and plants that local scientists fear might invade our ecosystem. The dock is not terribly photogenic, which is good because I hadn’t planned this trip and didn’t bring a camera. It’s just the idea that it came all the way from Japan after the tsunami that hit 15 months ago.

Having seen it, people turned to enjoying the beach. It was a beautiful sunny day. Kids and dogs played in the water or threw frisbees on the sand. Families gathered for picnics.

On the way back, I passed what appeared to be a family from Japan, all dressed in dark clothes and wearing big straw hats. They stared at the ocean, their expressions somber. What must they be thinking and feeling, I wondered. For us it’s a party, but for the Japanese, it’s a nightmare.

When I looked back, they were taking each other’s pictures.

Near the entrance, two young rangers had just dragged a seaweed-covered garbage can off the beach. “Is it from Japan?” people kept asking them. “No, it’s American,” they replied.

People are curious. They are finding things from Japan on our local beaches a year earlier than expected. While I worry about our beaches becoming inundated with debris, for now it’s just adding to the allure of the gorgeous Oregon coast–and the possibility of finding a treasure from afar.

I didn’t take pictures of the dock, but it has been heavily covered in the local press, including News Lincoln County, where yet another photo was posted today. So take a look, and if you have time, take a walk on the beach. A contractor has been hired to demolish the Japanese dock. Although a date has not been announced, it will probably be soon.

It’s spring in South Beach, Oregon, when everything is even greener than usual. This year, we’ve had intense rain, followed by weeks of sun, and now our days alternate between sun and showers, so everything is in bloom. The Scotch Broom, bane to many allergy sufferers, turns our paths bright yellow. Salmonberries, thimbleberries and blackberries are beginning to fruit, and the robins, present year-round, are getting drunk on the juice. On our daily walks, Annie and I are enjoying mostly dry days when we can take our time to enjoy all that mother nature has to offer without getting our feet wet. For me, it’s flowers. March’s white trilliums are purple now, the rhododendrons are blooming in all shades of pink, purple, and red, and wild daisies dot the paths with white. For Annie, it’s a buffet of sweet green leaves, sword ferns, and deer droppings to smell and roll in. It’s getting harder to stay inside at the computer. Time to get outside and take a walk. 

Annie will stop at nothing to get a close look at something that smells interesting on our walks. This was a good one.

The salmonberries, cousin to the blackberry, are fruiting.

Across a ravine filled with blackberries, Scotch Broom, spruce, pines and alders, we can see the Newport Airport.

I have nothing to report on this Monday holiday, so I’ll let Annie do the talking. Enjoy.

Newport, Oregon is under construction. Drive into town on Highway 20 (itself under perpetual construction), and you’ll see to the left a massive patch of dirt and rock where a car dealership used to be. The empty space goes on for blocks. Suddenly the buildings on the next street, including Oceana Natural Foods and the Newport Recreation Center, are exposed. Last month, workers demolished the parking lot and the old buildings, leaving the big glass showroom windows for last, then started smoothing the ground for new construction. We’re getting a Walgreen’s drugstore there sometime in 2013. People who live in suburbia, like I used to, have no idea how amazing it will be to have a place to buy drugs and sundries relatively close to home. If only they’d put a gas station on my side of the bridge.

Meanwhile, both of our “big box stores” are undergoing renovations. We don’t have a mall, so everyone shops at Wally’s and Freddy’s. Walmart got a year’s head start in its effort to turn from a plain old Walmart into a Walmart “superstore.” When it’s done, we’ll be able to buy groceries as well as everything else. Meanwhile, big sections of the parking lot are blocked off for construction equipment, and the inside of the store has changed so much I don’t know where anything is. I never was much of a Wally’s shopper and it’s at the wrong end of town, but I might go there more often while Freddy’s/aka Fred Meyer, suffers through a transformation of its own.

The Newport Fred Meyer store is expanding its mezzanine area, which used to just cover a part of the ladies’ clothing area with men’s and children’s clothing. Now the mezzanine is going to be over 15,000 square feet bigger. Every week, as the locals buy their groceries and try to figure out where things are now, the area overhead expands, sort of like yesterday’s eclipse over the sun. On Friday, when I went to refill a prescription, the darkness had spread to the pharmacy. Things were shuffled around, making the waiting area a more intimate space, dim and smelling of plywood. Amid the sounds of hammers and drills, one had to yell. “Sue Lick!” “3-9-52!” “I called it in!” “You don’t have it?” “I’ll come back later!”

I needed groceries as well as drugs. Most of the food sections are the same as always, but when you get to non-edibles, such as soap and dental floss, it becomes an adventure. You never know what’s around the corner. Oh look, makeup!

Groceries purchased and stowed in the car, I returned to the pharmacy. “Sue Lick!” “3-9-52!” I held my breath as the pharmacy clerk tapped on her computer, then turned to the bins of filled prescriptions, now so close I could almost read the writing on the bottles. “Oh, thank God,” I whispered as she returned with the familiar pink pills. 

People wander around Freddy’s, wondering where the garden section went–electronics is there now–and what happened to women’s clothing–gone till August. Workers wearing green tee shirts with “Can I help you find it?” printed on the back held a staff meeting near the towels. Meanwhile, a white-haired man sat near the entrance handing out advertising circulars. He said hello to me three times, with no clue that he had just greeted me 15 minutes earlier. Amid the insanity, who could blame him?

I ought to include a photograph here, but it would look different tomorrow anyway. Right now, my beloved town is like the image on an Etch-a-Sketch. Every day it gets shaken up so we can start fresh. But some things never change. The ocean is still here, the rhodies are in bloom, the tourists have arrived in their silly shorts, and yes, it’s raining again.

Dear friends,
My husband Fred passed away yesterday after a long struggle with Alzheimer’s Disease. I have been competing in the Poem a Day challenge at Robert Lee Brewer’s Poetic Asides blog. Today’s prompt was to write a prayer poem. This is what I wrote. Fred is still my muse.

Prayer

Today I am a widow,
my husband gone from his body,
the hands that caressed me stilled,
the lips that kissed with such
tender strength left open
to let his soul escape.

Lord, as I kiss his sunken cheek
and embrace him through the sheet,
sprinkling tears across his neck,
help me to remember that this
was just a shell, and now,
like you, he is everywhere around me.

It has been three weeks since I posted here. Forgive me. Life has been nuts, and I haven’t been feeling well. But that’s no excuse.

I’m making some changes around here. My mailing address and e-mail address are changing. No, I haven’t moved. The post office somehow decided to change the numbers on a bunch of our boxes. No warning, just a sticker with a different number. When I went to tell the postmistress she had put the wrong number on my box, she informed me it was the right number. So it’s P.O. Box 755 now. If you know me, you know the rest of the address.

I have also changed Internet companies, so you can now reach me at suelick@charter.net. In switching to Charter, I also changed TV providers. So far, I really like the new service, but I’m adjusting to a new remote control and new channel guide with new channels. One perk is a local access channel. So far I’ve watched a high school band concert, a city council meeting, a local storyteller, and aging surfers reminiscing. It’s very cool to turn on the TV and see people I know.

To make way for new carpeting, I have also torn the den apart, but first I have to deal with water coming up under the carpet and mold in one corner. Blech. I’m waiting for estimates. While I had everything out of the way, I painted the room. What color? It’s white, but they call it “vanilla custard.” Annie was so helpful she ate my stir stick before I got the paint open. She was subsequently banished to the back yard until the paint dried.

Speaking of Annie, while I was doing yoga on the deck Sunday, I informed her it was time for savasana, otherwise known as the corpse pose or complete relaxation. Lying on my back relaxing, I opened one eye and caught her lying on her back with her feet in the air. Now that’s a smart dog.

More to come soon.

Busy days and then suddenly, yoga class was cancelled, I had everything ready for the writing class I was teaching that night, and . . . I had time. Glorious sun lit the coastal forest and sparkled off the pond that spills into Thiel Creek. Trees cast shadows on the road as Annie and I walked. How strange it felt to not be wearing a coat, to feel sun on my bare arms. We walked up hill and down, Annie’s tan and white paws padding beside my gray Reeboks. As we U-turned at the dead end of Cedar Street, Annie was panting. My two-year-old pup is not used to heat.

At home, she lapped water of of her bowl while I drained my glass. Then we lounged on the deck, which was finally dry after weeks of wet. As I lay back, soaking in the warm wood and blue sky, Annie snuggled against me, her head on my chest. “Ah, girl,” I said. “We’ve been through a lot, you and I, but God has blessed us with this moment.” I held onto that moment carefully, like a butterfly that had landed in the palm of my hand, soon to fly away.

Cold. Cold that bites. Cold that burns. Cold that hurts my teeth, chills my lungs, makes my nose bleed. Cold that flattens autumn’s poppies, cold that kills the farmers’ crops. Cold that swallows the fire-heat from the pellet stove so the house is never really warm. Day after day, so cold I dare not leave my dog outside for fear she will die. At night, Annie sleeps on the big chair by the living room window, waking when the pellet stove comes on, when the temperature has dropped below 55 degrees in the house. I hear her tags jingling as she comes down the hall and places her giant paws on my bed. I pet her soft fur and invite her up, but she can’t quite make the jump and she needs to go out. I indulge her every whim because I have sent her brother away, and the loss is so new to both of us.

In my robe and slippers, I lean against the doorframe as I did so many times for my old dog Sadie. Without my glasses, the lights in the inky sky look like starbursts. As Annie chases something in the dark, I move out into the colder cold. The deck is oddly dry. My feet crunch on the frozen grass and the spongy ground beneath it. Annie squats, then bounds across the lawn and rattles through the leaves piled up against the chain link fence. As I stare at the sky, she comes running toward me, flying across the deck and into the warmth of the house. I slowly follow, locking the doors, wishing my companion good night as I crawl back into bed, grateful for my electric blanket.

The cold, dry spell has lasted five days now. Tomorrow it is expected to turn to freezing rain and snow. I stay up late to watch the weather report, wondering if I can still drive to Albany to see my husband Fred in his nursing home. The reporter urges drivers to pack chains, flashlights, shovels, kitty litter, blankets and food. Snow is a worry, but the real enemy is the ice that may lie beneath it. Nothing is expected to fall until tomorrow night. Do I trust their schedule?

Meanwhile, I envy my father’s high of 54 degrees back in California, even if it is raining there. Our 30 degrees, up from 21 two night ago, is the warmest on the Oregon weather map. Being Oregonians, we are supposed to cheerfully endure the winter weather, but this California native has decided her idea of hell is cold.