Tag: clam chowder

Praise the Blessings of Light, Heat, and Internet

What a luxury it is to touch a switch and make light. To turn a knob and make heat. To keep food safe in a refrigerator for days, weeks or even months. To type a question on my computer and have an immediate answer.

We forget how blessed we are, but many Oregonians got a terse reminder over the past few days as an ice storm sent temperatures plummeting into the 20s. Trees fell, transformers blew, and power lines dangled in the wind as ice coated everything, making the roads impassable, even as it etched beautiful designs on plants, puddles and windowpanes.

Some people were without power for four or five days. Schools and businesses closed. The recreation center was turned into an emergency shelter for those living with no heat or lights. Garbage pickup and mail were delayed. Government officials declared a state of emergency and begged people to stay home.

I was relatively lucky. Everything was working at my house in South Beach last weekend, but at St. Anthony’s church in Waldport, where I play piano and lead the choir on Saturdays, the lights went out just before Mass, taking the electric piano with it. We lit candles and carried on. I led with a borrowed guitar, and the people in the pews sang more boisterously than usual, perhaps feeling more confident in the dark. It was beautiful. But I kept thinking about the homemade clam chowder I had waiting for me back in South Beach and hoping I had electricity to heat it up.

I did. It was delicious. Mom’s recipe.

My power went out for a few hours during the night but returned in time for me to carry on my usual Sunday chores.

I was watching “Ugly Betty” on Netflix Monday night when the internet quit. Suddenly I didn’t know what to do with myself. I was so used to going from one screen to another—computer, tablet, TV, phone—that I didn’t know what to do with myself. I moped for a few minutes and went to bed.

I still had no Internet yesterday morning. I could not check my bank account, answer my emails, work on book promotion, or post on Facebook. I would miss my weekly poetry workshop. But I still had electricity. I could write and I did. I could play music and I did. I could bake muffins and I did. I could satisfy my craving for eggs and bacon by cooking them for lunch. I ate them with a warm pepper jelly muffin dripping with butter.

And then, while I was sitting by the fireplace reading emails after lunch, the great silence and darkness fell. No internet, no stove, no TV, no lights, no way to know who else was sitting in the dark. I went for a walk. It was 36 degrees plus wind chill but not as dark as it was in my house. On the street, everything looked the same as usual except for the ice designs in the puddles.

Back home, huddling by the fire again, I pulled my guitar over and started playing through my list of instrumentals. Coming to the ones I had written, I got an urge to look at all of my original songs. I haven’t written many songs lately, but some of these older ones were really good. I came upon a song I had never played in public because it didn’t quite work. I spent the next couple hours rewriting it, struggling to see, groaning in frustration when I couldn’t quite get it right. By dusk, the song and I were happy with each other.

I decided to wash my baking dishes while I could still see by the light from the window. As I sponged batter and jelly off the muffin pans, I planned my evening. Forget the Zoom poetry reading and open mic that had been on my calendar for weeks. I would eat a cheese or tuna sandwich for dinner, with my melting ice cream for dessert. I could call a friend or relative on the old princess phone I still keep plugged in. I could write by candlelight, do yoga, play some more music, and go to bed early.

But then, the stove clock squeaked and the lights came on. The internet soon followed. I felt teary with gratitude. I could cook real food, attend the poetry reading, watch TV, or do anything I wanted. I was so lucky. Some of my friends had been without power for four days. Some were trapped in their houses by ice and fallen trees. But here, the lights were on, and the temperature was rising. It would go up to 52 by bedtime.

The schools are still closed today. It’s going to take a while for things to get back to normal. I’m just hoping to buy groceries and make a dent in my to-do list. There’s also that song waiting for me on my piano. I need to make sense of my scrawls and scratch-outs and get comfortable singing it. The title: “Save This Moment.”

I think of the people suffering from the weather everywhere–some places have seen temperatures way below zero with many feet of snow. I think of the people living in war-torn countries where they can’t even get food or medical care, where they don’t know if their loved ones are still alive. That I can’t get on the internet or heat my tea is such a tiny inconvenience. Be grateful, friends, and treasure the moment.

How has this stormy time affected you? Have you lost trees, power, or heat? Did you have to evacuate? What has been the hardest part? What are you grateful for now that the rain is melting the ice here and things may be improving elsewhere, too?

I welcome your comments.   

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Ten Ways You Know They’re Tourists

This is the time of year when the Oregon coast is flooded with tourists. Suddenly it takes twice as long to drive through town. We have to wait for tables at our favorite restaurants. They wander the aisles at J.C. Market in groups, carrying beer and tortilla chips. I look out at the people in the pews at church, and see mostly unfamiliar faces.

Among ourselves, we curse the tourists, especially those slowing traffic with their RVs laden with bicycles, kayaks and little perfectly matched cars. But in public, we call them visitors to be polite. After all, most of us were once tourists, too, before we became born-again Oregonians. And we know, in our hearts, that we are just as clueless when we go on vacation.

How can you tell the tourists from the locals?

1) License plates from elsewhere, mostly Washington, Idaho, California, Arizona, New Mexico and British Columbia. But we get people from all the other states, too.

2) They walk around in shorts when it’s 50 degrees out—with an Oregon Coast hoodie they just purchased for $50 at a gift shop because they were freezing. OR they bundle up for the Arctic when it’s 65, which we consider warm.

3) They dawdle on the roads because they’ve never seen an ocean before or don’t know where they’re going. If from California, they drive 10-20 mph over the speed limit, not realizing cops actually do give speeding tickets here.

4) They’re not white, and they’re under 60 years old.

5) They say freeway. We don’t have one. They say mall. We don’t have one of those either.

6) They want to know where Main Street is. It’s Highway 101.

7) They mispronounce Yachats (YA-hots), Yaquina (Ya-QUIN-a), Siletz (Si-LETZ) and Willamette (Wih-LAM-ette).

8) They come in bunches, filling the whole car or the whole booth at the restaurant, and they go ga-ga over clam chowder.

9) They use a GPS when all you need to know is you’ve got the ocean on the west and the hills on the east and can’t get lost. Just follow the numbers north and south or the alphabetic tree names east and west.

10) They go IN the water at the beach.

I know there are more. Feel free to add your own tourist clues in the comments. Although they clog up our traffic, our visitors keep our economy going, so we’re glad they’re here. We like to share our beautiful home. After all, Newport’s slogan is “The friendliest.” Besides, most of the visitors will flee when the rain starts. If we had spent the winter here before selling our house in California, we would have fled, too.