Bring me to your Chef!

I am teaching 16 first and second graders which is why I am not blogging very often and why, in all likelihood, you will probably be hearing a lot of classroom anecdotes if you hear from me at all in the next months. Last week was our big Thanksgiving program at school followed by our Feast, even tho the Costa Ricans are not big fans of the pilgrims, or pil-GRAMS, as Alexa calls them with emphasis. But being an American school we pulled out all the stops and I ate three turkey dinners before the week was over. I love turkey and I am, after all, a living example of what the pilgrims were to become, twelve generations after they hit the rock. So I can never get enough turkey and can whip up a pilgrim hat with little prelude.

For the occasion and to honor my forefathers, my amiga and I wrote an original Thanksgiving play called, with great imagination, "Thanksgiving Play." I wanted to write "Thanksgiving, the musical," but Bono was busy on Broadway working on Spiderman. So we settled for something with less of a score. Like every other first and second grade classroom in America, and one or two beyond its pilgrim-loving borders, we enacted the whole story starting in England with the King as villain disallowing his subjects to pray as they please, then moving on to Holland where the children became naughty because, after all, this was the home of Amsterdam so what were they thinking anyway and they were praying freely but in Dutch, what?! In an act of linguistic desperation, the pilgrims hired the Mayflower and the ill-fated Speedwell which you may, or may not recall (I had forgotten it myself) which proved to be holier than thou and began sinking soon after they set sail.

The pilgrims limped back to Holland where their kids once again had to translate every blooming conversation their parents attempted which, incidentally, is something my own kids can relate to in our current cross-cultural living situation. When they had successfully crammed all 100 pilgrims onto the Mayflower they set sail for America again, take two. When given a replica of the Mayflower to color in class, many of my students chose to decorate the sails with brightly colored flowers - get it? - in a much-improved version of the dingy white ones which were impossible to clean and with which those plain folks grew quickly bored and which might have cheered them up on their two month voyage had they simply admitted that plain and boring was not necessarily the only pathway to heaven. There being no floating hospitals in the midst of the Atlantic, at least not in 1620, Oceanus was born at sea and he was a boy but in a brilliant stroke of artistic license coupled by a shortage of boys in our class, we cast he as a she.

Finally the pilgrims hit the rock, which is yet another brilliant stroke of artistic license by the history makers, as you surely know if you have ever been to Plymouth to see the famed Rock which sits in a cage and typically results in exclamations of disbelief and a vast sense of being both underwhelmed and somehow misled by both history books and first grade teachers everywhere even though you find yourself squinting at said stone as you are simultaneously blinded by the flash photography of busloads of Asian tourists who seem quite happy with this scheduled stop at the rock on their tour even tho the rock is really more like a pebble. But maybe the Japanese are used to things being a little smaller than previously imagined. Meanwhile, back at our story, the pilgrims hit the promised land where they see not only that they will be free to pray as they please but that they had better get started because it was November in New England and, as Rumor (brilliantly played by Bella) notes immediately, "There are no flowers here!" Which, in our play, is succeeded by similar sentimental expressions of surprise and dismay culminating in Rumor lamenting, "Who will help us?"

This is where Squanto appears to save the day by showing them how to use the very first organic fish fertilizer to plant their corn and pease (simple living somehow included adding an extra -e to every word), all of which leads to the following year when the stalwart survivors decide to forego hiring prestigious party planners from the island of Mannahatta and opt to plan their own simple and organic, yet humble, first Thanksgiving feast. In reading this part of the story in class, Camillo - a native Costa Rican who would ultimately go on to play Chief Massasoit - was supposed to say, 'I will bring my chief." Instead, with a slip of the tongue coupled by an inability to read, which is probably how most of history has evolved, Camillo said, "I will bring my chef." Which was probably a better idea anyway.

Happy Belated Thanksgiving,

K3

When trees fly...

Q: So where have I been?
A: Oregon.
Q: Doing what?
A: Building "high-quality overwintering habitat" for coho salmon which were listed as "threatened" species in 2008.
Q: What?
A: Have you heard about the ARRA? How about the Economic Stimulus Package signed by Obama in 2009? I like to think of it as the modern-day WPA and if you have driven across America lately you understand why. All across our wide nation are men and machines toiling away on highway and bridge projects being brought to you by the ARRA.

In our little neck of the woods up Canal Creek we just flew 312 massive fir trees via chinook helicopter (no relation to the fish) which strategically placed them in designed structures across the creek to build coho habitat. Functioning rather like larger, more expensive beaver dams, these structures will create "stream complexity" and deep pools where the wee ones can hang out for a year or so without being eaten or flushed out by heavy winter rains before they are ready to make the transition to bigger and better and brackish and saltier waterways.

If you have never seen a 23K lb. tree fly, believe me when i tell you that it is a sight to see. We only managed to get a portion of the 1000 trees planned for four different waterways before the rains began and the fish moved upstream but we will hopefully continue where we left off next year flying trees and spending almost a cool million ARRA dollars. I thank you, America, and you, President Obama, and the coho do too.

Here is another photo from my trip. And no, these are not coho, these are chinook. This is Andy and I celebrating our 22nd wedding anniversary by catching the first legal salmon of his life. (You will have to ask him about the others.) IN the two weeks I was there, we went to an 18-year-old birthday party, a 50th wedding anniversary, the Governor's Gold Awards in Portland, the laundromat (where I folded my clothes while eavesdropping on an interesting conversation about channel catfish in Arkansas), the pool, and Target where I erroneously got in the 10-item lane with over $300 of stuff (including a tropical-scented deodorant that I think I bought after smelling way too many because it reminded me of Costa Rica but ultimately made me walk around smelling like a bad candle) and where I instantly made several new enemies in Eugene, Oregon. Lo siento.

I got my hair cut, co-hosted our monthly writing workshop featuring my favorite pen pal and funny tween author Dale Basye and a Conversation Project for our town to help decide what Waldport wants to be when it grows up. I opened my first business checking account for my first business--Coho Consulting--and ate the best chocolate creme brulee EVER at Panache in Newport, don't miss it. We had dinner with friends at their house and at our yurt and in general had fun playing yurt without the kids around and ate so much salmon I am afraid I am now, absolutely, part fish. We saw a dead stellar sea lion on the beach, purportedly from leptospirosis, and I came upon a smaller California sea lion resting at the tide line who looked very hungry. Hopefully he will have more salmon to eat soon.

K3

Go Ask Alice

Fifteen months ago (a lifetime for some) we met Alice. That's her there on the left. Although you can't tell in the photo, Alice has no tail and was raised at Capitan Suizo, a hotel on the beach in Tamarindo. At the time we were renting a house two doors south of the hotel and now we are living in a tree house two doors north where the local gang of howlers wake us up at 530 every morning--who needs an alarm clock? Some nights they sleep in the tree over the house and have their coffee klatch directly overhead, flinging their noisy news and bits of breakfast onto the roof and pooping, well, you get the picture. When the gang moves through the 'hood, one male consistently stops to peek at us over the edge of the roof or to otherwise come closer for a chat. We finally noticed that he had no tail but was clearly a male, the dangling white cojones not leaving much room for speculation.

Last week Bella and I stopped by the hotel to check on the progress of a lora (olive ridley sea turtle) they were rehabilitating and on Friday at sunset we stood on the playa and waved goodbye to her. (I am certain she was Maude or Mildred, but that is another story blogged about earlier.) Talking to Hector, the hotel wildlife guy, I asked about the overtly friendly howler hanging around the 'hood and he informed me that our tailless socialite is none other than Alice, herself! Turns out young howlers are rather amorphous in their private parts and that Alice was a bit of a misnomer. The good news is that the local gang has accepted her-m because it also turns out that a tail is a critical component of howler attraction and so, alas, poor Alice is not considered much of a threat in the mating department. The bad news is that Alice's lack of a tail will probably preclude him from getting any. So, Alice must be content to hang around as best he can, socializing with distant relatives, and generally making a life for himself.

Pura Vida.

Con Mucho Gusto!

One of the more endearing terms used by Costa Ricans with frequency is, "Con mucho gusto," which is often shortened to simply, "Mucho gusto." Any time you try out your amateur Spanish by thanking someone with a "gracias," or really showing off with a "mucho gracias," the automatic response will be that simple phrase--Mucho gusto. It is a lovely retort and I prefer it to our standard, "you're welcome." Whether you are in a restaurant or the grocery check-out line, any time you find yourself giving a perfunctory thanks to someone they will respond, "with pleasure," or "with much pleasure."

One of the sure marks of an amateur writer these days is the use of what we were taught to call the exclamation mark or point. Fairly soon into your writing career or your MFA program you will learn to indicate all forms of excitement and horror along with all adverbs by simply choosing a better verb to denote the exact extreme emotion you are attempting to convey. (Thus, the blurb at the top of my blog.) I freely admit that I, myself, am a formerly-frequent user of the now-dreaded and tres-gauche punctuation mark I used to put at the end of almost every sentence of every email I ever wrote to denote my happiness and excitement to my friends and family. Then I had a friend tell me her husband says reading exclamation marks makes him feel like he is being yelled at. This was certainly never my intent and thankfully I have never written to him or he would have run from the room, hands over eyes, screaming with a trail of periods following behind. And then I had an editor tell me you are allowed maybe three exclamation marks per book. What? Well, admission is the first step and I trainable. So I am well on my way to being the writer formerly known by her profligate usage of the exclamation mark. Not to mention those pesky adverbs...

Now without further ado, let me put these two seemingly disparate paragraphs together with a little Memorial Day tale. On Sunday we had a brief break in the rain here on the coast where a 3-day weekend fills every road and all vacant spaces with campers and I don't mean tents. I mean enough equipment to duplicate all the comforts of home BUT you are "camping." Seeing a bit of blue open up in the heavens above was all we needed by way of encouragement and we headed for the beach which was uncharacteristically packed with people, many of whom actually thought that frolicking in near-freezing water was great holiday fun. Until they did it. We had a nice long walk to the "big stump" which is a huge redwood remnant that has been sticking up out of the sands since Andy can remember and that is something on a beach where full-length trees are tossed about like match sticks by the waves and tides and nothing stays put. Except that stump. Bella packed snacks and books and we took a stump break and the five of us generally enjoyed ourselves to the point where we even stripped down to one layer for a moment or two.

Our journey yielded not even one intact sand dollar, given the hordes combing the intertidal zone, and upon our return we sat down to put on our shoes because in spite of the fact that the weather is worse now than in the winter, we bravely marched forth in our bare feet in deference to the calendar more than anything else. As we sat collecting ourselves Isaiah began to write a B in the sand with his stick. "Look, a "B," I noted to Bella sitting next to me, "I wonder what Isaiah is going to write?" "E," I continued, I guess he is writing "be."

She laughed with the assurance of a 6-year-old, "No, he's writing Bella." (Note: Here my natural inclination is to end her sentence with the exclamation point that follows almost every sentence of a 6-year-old with all their enthusiasm for even the most mundane aspects of life, all of which, of course, are still new and exciting to them. But I have learned to slap the little finger of my left hand when it wanders too close to that now-rarely-used key which can only be touched when typing the number 1.) And sure enough, Isaiah continued to write two L's and an A. "Bella," Bella exclaimed period. But then Isaiah continued to draw another line.

"Hmmm, now what is he writing?" I asked her, "Kittel?" But just then he lifted his stick and then poked it back into the sand with a flourish and finality, to her delight.

"A Gusto Mark," she exclaimed. (Again, see note above.) We all looked at each other and at her with curiosity and laughed. A gusto mark? I have no idea where she got this name for the punctuation formerly known as an exclamation something. Did she learn it in Kindergarten, as she said? Or did she hear the teacher wrong and put her Spanish and English vocabularies together in a cheerful new Spanglish punctuation term? Either way, it is a very fitting name for the much-maligned sentence ending which has fallen from grace. But I think Bella could well be on her way to changing that. (Or her middle name is not...)

K3

PS The photo is of the very-excited Bella at her dance recital which was akin to Christmas with the counting down of days and everything.

Dear Emily,

Happy Belated Birthday. Tuesday was your big day. On that afternoon I sat in my van at the Nye Beach parking lot overlooking the endless progression of Pacific waves while Bella practiced for her ballet recital. Isaiah sat in the back seat behind me watching a movie. It was a sunny day but the wind had come up, strong, and a kite flyer struggled to hang on to his wings which threatened to abandon their tether and take him for a ride. And then, Emily, your mom and your grandparents arrived. They parked their silver sedan in the row in front of me and I watched your mom's back as she struggled to unfold herself into the elements, her fists clutching four balloons filled with helium and hope. Before I had even read the Happy Birthday messages printed on their bubblegum backgrounds, I knew it was your birthday. And I knew you weren't here.

Your mom wore a black leather jacket, its wind-driven fringe whipping her onward while those balloons pulled her closer to you. I know she would have gladly abandoned herself to the lift. Your three loved ones wrapped their arms around themselves against the weather and the missing you as they proceeded down to the hard-packed sand with I, and perhaps you, their only audience. When they reached the darker shades of sand they huddled together as your mom patiently unwrapped the desperately entwined ribbons. I wondered if it had been so when she was forced to say goodbye to you. Had she simply, helplessly let go of you, all wrapped up and twisted together with parts of herself? Or had some stranger peeled her pleading fingers from your blue skin, one by one, prying her loving warmth from you on that cold day and leaving you covered with only her fingerprints? What had happened to you, Dear Emily?

Finally your mom succeeded in her grosgrained task. She distributed your enthusiastic balloons to the helpless hands of her parents. The three of them busied themselves taking photographs of each other holding your gifts. And then they just stopped and stood there a minute. Maybe they spoke. Maybe they had already said all there ever was to say. On silent cue, they let your birthday presents go, sending them soaring to you, Emily, wherever you are. We all watched, desperately straining our eyes as your balloons ascended on an upward current--up, up, and away. We lost sight of them as they disappeared over the rooftops of houses built too close to the eroding cliff sides which the sea will shortly claim as its own, just as perhaps you were doing then with your birthday balloons.

Your mom found a stick and began to write to you in the dark brown sand, packed hard and cold by receding salty water. I knew without looking what your mom was writing--the same thing I would write were I down there with the wind whipping my face with my hair and my jacket fringe instead of wrapped in the warm cocoon of my car, watching. We bore silent witness, your grandparents and I, with your grandmother bending in to help her bereaved daughter as best she could, lengthening a letter here and there. I, in turn, kept silent pace with your mom in my head, slowly, painfully learning your name. While your mom scratched with the hard, brown stick that had once exhaled soft, green leaves, so I, too, engraved each character in my head, etching H's and A's into the pink tissues of my brain.

When at last we ceased inscribing the happiest and saddest words a mother can sing, your mom straightened her weary spine and your loved ones took their final photos of your big day. Wanting only photos of you, Emily, laughing and smiling so pretty while blowing out your candles and opening your presents, they settled for snapshots of themselves waving bye bye to balloons and inscribing sandy birthday cards with forced smiles on bewildered faces. The three of them fought the wind back to their car and I watched them climb back in more easily now, unfettered by some of their heavy burdens. They drove away, your mom clutching a dead stick with a damp and sandy end--one more thing for Emily's baby book.

I started my own car but before I left to collect my ballerina, I asked Isaiah to run like the wind down to the sea's edge and learn your name. "It says, Happy Birthday Emily," he panted upon his return, "5-11-88 to 3-5-09." So it was your 22nd birthday, Emily. You were born the year we were married and the year before Hannah, our firstborn, who just turned 21. You, Emily, did not quite make it. Today is her brother Jonah's 12th birthday. He was born three days after your tenth birthday but he has only that one date, 5-14-98, as his birth was also his death. I won't be buying any blue balloons and any messages I send will be invisibly transmitted from my heart to my heart, which holds him still. And besides, my brain is now permanently scarred. But, Emily, I might prevail upon you to share your balloons and your spirit with Jonah. I like to think of the two of you laughing and playing tag with his brother, Noah, and all of your too-many friends in the warmer, friendlier waves of your home. By now the selfish Pacific has claimed your birthday card. That is bittersweet. Like so many things in life, the words were only temporary. The message, however, is eternal.

Yours,

Jonah's mom

PS Happy Birthday Jonah. Mommy loves you. As your sister, Bella, said yesterday with a heavy sigh, "I wish he was real."

Happy Mothers Day!

Happy Mothers Day all you Moms out there in cyberspace. Good work if you can get it, as my Mom would say. Like most of you, I cleaned yesterday so I wouldn't have to do it today. Woke up with just Bella, the rest of my kids and Andy currently scattered around the country. So sweet receiving her Kindergarten gifts--a book about "My Mom and I..." with great illustrations and a cute pink teapot card that says, "Here's a card for Mother's Day, I'll try to be my best each day. But if you get upset with me, Relax and have a cup of tea." It has a tea bag inside. Decaf. I'll probably never need it. Right.

Thank goodness for teachers. Without them we would not get these lovely momentos of our kids early years. Certainly the Georgetown professors are not sitting their students down with glue sticks and markers to make gifts for their Moms. I wonder what they would produce if they did? Certainly they are good with scissors by then. Ditto for Jrs and Srs in high school. I guess by the time they reach these advanced grades the teachers figure these kids can work independently, however misguided that may be. Ahh, but the day is young yet.

By nightfall I hope to have heard from DC that Hannah can come home to visit later this month. By this afternoon I hope to see Andy and Christiana's smiling faces as they arrive home safely to sleep in OR, having woken up in RI. I am sure Micah will call from his island perch at some point. And Isaiah will be home from his sleepover at the Pankey Pit. Everyone will be back in their proper places and we can give thanks once again for the blessings of each other. Which is all I ever want from my mother's day. Altho a kitchen sink would also be nice.

K3

Lonesome Larry

It is Friday afternoon. I am lonesome. I know lonesome sounds more like a Friday night, or a Monday even, but it is one, the loneliest number, etc. Maybe I am just unsettled but there is no segue to my story from there. Waiting on news of the weather, as in whether or not Isaiah's baseball game will be rained out or not so we can travel east today over the mountains to the desert, to Sisters, to visit friends and escape this incessant spring rain. He is playing the other red team, the Siletz Indians, again, having already been beaten twice by them. How much restitution can one team make? Waiting to hear if the heater guy is coming or not. Waiting for school to get out, for the clock to strike two, for another sighting of that black bear, or that humming bird, or for, as always, some good news. Bella has her first loose tooth, which is exciting news. Now I want more. So, speaking of lonesome, while I am waiting, let me tell you a fish story. See how that worked?

In one of my past lives as a fish biologist, I managed a variety of projects including a program to save the critically endangered sockeye salmon of Redfish Lake in Idaho, the offspring of Lonesome Larry. You have probably never heard of Larry but he was a pretty famous fish in his day. In 1992 Larry was the only sockeye salmon to successfully make the journey of over 900 miles from the Pacific Ocean to Redfish Lake, a lake named for the symbolically passionate color of its water when it historically filled with some 30,000 red fish like Larry every year. Sockeye turn bright red when they are ready to spawn and develop a hooked jaw that makes them look quite fierce to other males and oh-so-desirable to the females they entice, red representing either anger or amour in the eye of the beholder.

Larry's ancestors made this journey for thousands of years, but Larry had the additional challenge of navigating past eight dams starting at sea level on the Oregon and Washington border, turning up the Snake River in Washington and on into Idaho, climbing up to the almost 7,000 foot elevation of that deliciously cool Sawtooth Mountain lake. The intended reward for his perseverance on this perilous feat of endurance was, however, conspicuously absent when Larry arrived that year, exhausted yet exhilarated.

Larry's excitement at reaching his manifest destination must have quickly turned to disappointment as there was no attractive female wagging her tail provocatively at him with whom he could co-mingle his genetic material on the gravelly bottom of that pristine lake. Larry found himself all alone in the lake. Well, not quite alone, but not with the lovely lady he had hoped to dance with. In her stead, there were some not-so-sexy scientists waiting for him in the cold, clear water, excited in their own way to see Larry. They captured him and milked his sperm, then froze and stored it in their laboratory.

Larry’s sperm lived on to become the basis for a captive breeding program for his progeny, the most endangered salmon stock in the Pacific Northwest. Each year it is carefully dispensed to artificially fertilize the eggs of the future females who manage to show up, eliminating that nasty little variable--timing. His offspring are reared in captivity instead of in the lake where they are ultimately still released with the prayer that they will successfully negotiate the dams and return some day.

As for Larry? Well, they stuffed the poor guy, mounted him, and hung him on their office wall. Not a very auspicious ending for a legend. Although I am sure he draws an admiring glance every now and again from members of a species he never intended to attract. Larry has been preserved for perpetuity. His offspring may not be so lucky. Our days of telling tales of the ones that got away might include his whole species some day. Now that would be lonesome.

K3

Hannah is 21!

Parabens a Voce Hannah! Nesta data querida!

No forgetting number 21 at the Tombs! Happy, I think, that you are still on the team. Shout out to my devoted fans, Allie and Lindsay--thanks for not letting her get 21 marks on her arm...

I traveled to DC for a pre-birthday bash amongst the somewhat faded cherry blossoms a couple weeks ago. Had fun watching Hannah do what she does--row, bike, walk, study, sleep, work, eat, not in that order. Here is Hannah with her free birthday Georgetown Cupcake of the day--Cookies and Creme--right before she keeled over and fell asleep after getting only a few short hours the night before.

Last nite on 60 minutes they had a piece on post-Loma Prieta earthquake rebuilding of the Bay Bridge. Twenty years ago we lost some of our more delicate wedding gifts to that rocker when Hannah was only 5 months old. Here they are, twenty years later, still rebuilding and fingers crossed they will complete this "quake-proof" bridge before the Hayward Fault slips again, any minute now. (Last time it slipped - 1868. Average time interval of slips - 140 years. 140th anniversary - 2008. Gulp. This is not a good time to relocate to Berkeley, thank you Stanford for rejecting Christiana...) Of course, not a good time to be living here on the Oregon Coast either. Plate tectonics are a bitch.

And all this while that the bridge building has continued, Hannah has been living her life. She was born to us naive newlyweds of only 6 months confirming her grandmother's sage warning, "The first baby can come any time, the rest take nine months." We lived in a third floor walk-up in the Sunset district, built on sand, not a great foundation for quakes. I delivered Hannah naturally, pushing all 8 pounds 7 oz. of her for an hour and a half with enough force to break my own tailbone, speaking of plate tectonics. Ouch. Afterwards the nurse and doctor both informed us that ours was the first natural birth they had ever seen. What? I had no aspirations of martyrdom. Especially around 8 cm. All those Lamaze drop-outs, who knew? Hannah paved the way, pushing that pesky coccyx aside, making me wish I still walked on all fours as I crawled around recovering, vowing "Never again," and going on to deliver six more babies who did, indeed, take nine months...

So, we cut our teeth on Hannah, our perfect first child. She was so happy and easy and made us feel like the best parents in the world. So successful. So competent. She sat on the floor and grinned at everyone and everything, content. No hurry to crawl. No rush to walk. She quietly went about her life doing great things and making no fuss about it. "Goody, goody Hannah," her grandmother called her when she potty-trained her with a pack of gum. And she was.

Happy Birthday Hannah!

Love,

Mom
XOXO

Kelly Go Bragh

Happy St. Paddy's Day-After from Bella and Isaiah down by the creek in a field of clover. Some of you might recall my posting from last year's celebration off the sea-snake-filled waters of Brasilito--if not, scroll thru the archives for a trip down memory lane. This year, Outback Jacks not being, sniff, a sweaty option, our plan was to head down by the port docks to the Salty Dawg, for the advertised corned beef dinner. Great. As we wound our way down the one lane road that follows our creek, forks in hand, Andy asked, "Should we get Uncle Buster?" So we crossed over the river and wound our way up his one-way road to his sunny perch on the hillside, pulling in amongst the rusting cars and agate-filled sinks spilling into the garden. It's a bit unkempt, you might say as the understatement of the year, navigating your way past prehistoric cobwebs. Andy roused UB from his slumber and out he came, looking like Santa in a black leather jacket, gun in hand. Gun?

"This is for Isaiah," he announced, a shiny black and chrome 22 the proferred offering. Now, I happen to be in the middle of reading Before you Know Kindness, a novel about a girl who accidentally shoots her father unaware the gun is loaded.

"Is it loaded?" I gulped. Buster extracted the rod and sure enough, 6 or 8 little bullets fell out on the seat next to Bella. Great.

"Is the safety on?" Andy asked.

"Red means it's on," Buster showed Isaiah. (Later, back home at the yurts, Andy would show the same red spot and inform Isaiah, "Red means it's off.") The gun went in the back, Bella put the bullets in the cup-holder, clearly an unadvertised innovation, and my nerves became a bit more frayed in the face of my 6-year-old with a fistful of the only kind of gold the day would bring. We headed downriver past a herd of grazing elk to the Dawg--the actual spelling as I discovered but I am getting used to these things.
*

It was a beautiful sunny evening but the wind was cool off the water and Bella was dressed for Outback Jacks, purple flip-flops and all. So we scurried to the entrance, our tastebuds ready for corned beef, only to be met inside the door by a surly waitress definitely not of the happy leprechaun variety who barked that the dining room--vastly exaggerated in nomenclature as "the garden room"--was reserved for a private party. Now, mind you, we had eaten in desperation at the Dawg a couple weeks ago which is why we knew that they serve no butter, only nasty fake stuff, and that they were hosting the annual eating of the corned beef. On that night we were seated in "the garden room" since the rest of the place is a bar/restaurant and there is a sign posted between the two rooms that says No Minors Past this Point but we had joked with the waitress as the bathrooms are located on the "other" side and Bella, as usual, had to go at least twice. She-of-the-not-so-sour-disposition told us that kids can go in there, not a problem. Now the only thing the Dawg really has going for it, especially if you like real butter, is that it has been forced to join the ranks of the non-smoking. But having filed away this little No Minors reality check and now finding my way to my ancestral corned beef blocked by the ugly stepsister of the kinder, gentler waitress, I simply said, "Okay, then we will go to the other side."

"NO kids are allowed in there," she hissed before playing her nasty trump card, "And we are out of corned beef anyway."

"Well, then why are you advertising a corned beef dinner?" I gasped incredulously, my Irish blood starting to boil at the thought of missing my annual corned beef fix.

"We've been serving it since 11," she sneered over her shoulder, clearly finished with the likes of us, the uninvited.

Now, of course this begs too many unanswered questions, not the least of which could be,"Who eats a corned beef dinner at 11 and wouldn't that be called a lunch?" You are not in that bastion of all things Irish anymore, Lassie, I told myself, meaning Costa Rica. Stunned, I remained in the warmth of the garden room entrance in deference to Bella's tropical attire, reading and re-reading the false advertisement for their corned beef dinner, while waiting for Xana to get dropped off to meet us while Andy marched past the NO Minors sign to work the crowd. The triumphant witchy waitress made a point of shooting daggered looks at me in between taking her green beer orders, pausing her scribbling only to aim a dramatic roll of her evil eyes like I didn't understand English or whatever. Once everyone converged, we left. Kelly Go Bragh.
*

There is a new little diner around the corner so Andy suggested we try that. We blew around the corner on the exhaled cloud of nicotine from the desperate Dawg patrons and entered the place which is smaller than a very small yurt, instantly greeted by the cloying smell of fryolater which clung desperately to our every hair follicle and clothing fiber. The owner is a large character in a town full of them and he was seated in a side alcove hunched over his computer, never bothering to make the effort to rotate his bulky girth around to talk to us while we guessed at the veracity of his sign which did say "open" and which appeared to be so as there was a decidedly non-Gaelic-speaking couple busily eating their fish and chips, explaining our freshly acquired scent. The six of us along with the two fish eaters commenced to guessing if he was open, wondering aloud if he had given up at 6:55 because the hours Sharpied permanently on the sign threatened that it would, indeed, flip to Closed at 7. Unable to persuade the big guy to turn from his screen where clearly his Free cell game or Facebook account were proving irresistible even in the face of 6 whole paying customers in a local economy that put the Dee in Decline, we took the rather obvious hint and left. Again. Welcome to Waldport is not the sign that greets our visitors as it would, indeed, be a stretch. What our sign does say is, Waldport, Home of the Fighting Irish. No comment.
*
We hurried back thru the cloud of smoke and into the warmth of the Silke-mobile, where I ascertained that the gun was pointing towards the back, just in case. "I want to go to Outback Jacks, floor it," I announced, the 22 our only passport. We cruised beneath the proverbial one stoplight in town which is typically blinking yellow and hit the main street of Waldport with my blood cells screaming for a salty beef fix, passing the only other Wallyworld culinary options - Grand Central Pizza, Geng Sing Chinese (sacrilege, both of them) and the notorious Flounder Inn which is a scary place to drink much less "dine" although I am sure some of my ancestors would have happily acquiesced to a liquid dinner and turned their thirsty selves right on in. Trying to set a good example for the kids in a town where parenting has become a lost art, we headed south to Yachats, quelling our hunger while enjoying the St. Patrick's Day sun sinking into the Pacific. We drove along the coast, reminiscing dreamily about a place 3000 miles further south where the party was in full flip-flop swing complete with bagpipes retrieved from Peru, an acapella-singing amiga, and plenty of smiling non-Waldportonian-type faces.
*
Pulling up to the Drift Inn we encountered a lass in a green velvet shirt and Irish plaid skirt drifting out of the inn so Andy rolled down his window to inquire as to the status. She said she thought the wait was too long for dinner and was heading for the Adobe instead. We parked and Andy went in to inspect the situation while Buster got out, crossing the street towards the ocean where he encountered a scruffy hitch hiker and proffered a smoke while we watched from the warmth and safety of our armed vehicle. "That's called sharing," Bella informed. Andy returned with the happy news that yes, there was a table in about 5 minutes and we all piled out. Heading towards the bar I noted the towel-covered Irish soda bread resting at one end and my blood began to sing along with the Irish band. Bella and I shared a stool by the soda bread while the fiddle-playing lass sang an old-country yarn. As the notes lingered in the air, Bella sighed, "That was the best song I've ever heard."
*

The whiskey flowed, the corned beef was tender, the cabbage was green, the mash had little green onions, and the soda bread was typically short but would have been better without those blasted caraway seeds. We ate, drank, tapped our feet, and were filled with good ole' Irish cheer, momentarily forgetting the cursed Luck O' The Irish I grew up hearing muttered about by me mum when faced with situations of a decidedly unlucky nature. A precocious young lad sat at the next table with his parents and little sister and as they rose to exit he informed me that they lived far away from the ocean in Talent and extricated a precious muscle shell and a rock from his jacket pocket--gifts from his day at the sea.

"You should ask Buster what kind of rock that is," I told him, pointing the way to the guy who looked like Santa. Clearly a brave lad, he marched on over.

"It's a Leverite," he returned to tell his trusting Mom who had amazingly not stopped him from talking to strangers in an area full of them.

"You will have to write that in your journal," she said.

"Buster knows his rocks," I assured.

Our Irish blood restored to its proper salinity for another year and our tropical dreams temporarily forgotten in the face of our full bellies, we all drifted back out of the inn to a perfect sliver of moon cradled over the sea.

"You could hang a pail on that," Buster noted.

"What kind of rock was that?" I asked as we drove away.

"Leverite," Buster replied knowingly.

"As in leave 'er right there where you found 'er," Andy snorted.

We all laughed. I wonder if that family from Talent will think to question the authority of a man who looked like Santa. Will they ever recognize that treasured rock for what it really is--a Blarney Stone.
*
K3

Pony Tails in Paradise

And speaking of Killer whales... The folks at Sea World have had quite a time lately with their multi-million dollar "Believe" show. In case you have been under a rock, a couple weeks ago one of their star killer whales lived up to his name. Yes, in spite of our tendency to treat top predators like tiny kittens, sometimes we receive these not-so-gentle reminders as to why on earth we named our monochromatic "friends" so unflinchingly accurately in the first place. Who has not seen the Discovery Channel footage of orcas tossing baby seals back and forth like beach balls or dogging gray whale mothers until they can swoop in and take one delicious bite out of their baby because they can? So, yes, you can believe that the star of the show got a little out of hand at the after-show party the other day as he lived up to his real name as they hustled to get damage control on the hotline, NOW, and canceled that catchy pitch: "Be part of an up-close and unforgettable adventure!" As it was, unforgettable, indeed.
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But, hey, they named the big black and white guy Tilikum (even though they call them all Shamu in the show) and the largest orca in captivity was probably rebelling against that. "I just want to be called Bobby!" he whined as as his pals taunted and trainers unwittingly called to him - "Come here Tilly!" And even though this "incident" happened in Orlando they canceled all killer whale shows throughout the land because these things can spread like the bird flu after all. It could be a trend. And what was the official Sea World quote? "He lover her," said Chuck Tompkins, SeaWorld's zoological curator (not a typo, I could not make this stuff up) after Tilly grabbed his"lover's" pony tail (okay, so some eyewitnesses say arm, some say waist, but they were Brazilian, it was probably lost in translation...) as Dawn was rubbing him and telling him what a good job he did Tilly, good boy, anthropomorhism rearing its ugly head. Perhaps she rubbed him the wrong way? So much for positive reinforcement.
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"Pony tails: killer whales; ball of yarn: ___," is the new analogy question the SAT test-makers were busily jotting down as Tilly pulled his lover underwater to love her to death in front of an adoring audience, much like he and his pals had done to another trainer in Canada almost 20 years ago, eh? Only this time Tilly looked around with his big black flipper ready to high five but it was just, gulp, him... Woops. Now, everyone knows that pony tails are irresistible to orcas. And in perfect CYA form and blame-the-victim mentality, that same loverly guy is quoted as saying, "Dawn Brancheau Should Not Have Let Hair Dangle in Front of Whale." (I am willing to bet her wetsuit was tantalizingly too short as well.) Especially a whale that was not responding to directions and behaving like "an ornery child" that day as everyone was quick to attest after the fact in equally classic "I knew it," hindsight.
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Chuck, in his infinite wisdom, also said Tilly might have been playing, and we all know how killer whales like to play. "We have no idea what was going through his head," said Chuck, but I am sure with time and therapy they will get to the bottom of that. They weren't exactly a "perfect" couple after all, I mean, his brain was four times the size of hers and he outweighed her by about 11,900 pounds and was not even of the same genus, much less species, as I recall. (King Phillip Came Over From Greater Spain...) And even though this was the THIRD time he was found at the scene of a homicide, still, Sea World insists on saying, "Who knew?" As if. (In the last incident the naked corpse formerly known as Daniel was actually draped across Tilly's shoulders like a victory wreath while he swam around whistling innocently, "What? Okay, I bit him, but he was already dead!") "I always gets blamed for everything," Tilly whined. Now lest you think they are being too easy on the big guy, they did put him in isolation for a nanosecond. They canceled the show for a week while Tilly chilled with his killer whale family, all of whom have been made to shave off their pony tails - just in case.
*
Denied a transfer to San Diego, the famous father of 13 spent his time off eating, stretching, and swimming lazily around with his homies, humming Pink's "Missundaztood" while dodging reporters and trying to ignore the hurtful headlines which insist on broadcasting his weight, a sensitive subject, like this one: "A veteran trainer, who loved whales, was killed by Tilikum, a 12,000 pound killer whale with a troubled past." Or how about this one - "Tilikum, who is an acknowledged member of the top predator species in the ocean, could face the death penalty via lethal injection for his actions." (No, I am not making any of this up either!) "Does anyone know a good lawyer?" Tilly moaned. Did you even know we have the death penalty for killer whales here in the land of the free and the brave? Where will they find a jury of his peers? Clearly, the other Sea World Shamus are biased. His new nickname? Killer, of course. And when, exactly, does your past become "troubled" - after the first, second, or third time you lover your lover? "Oh, wouldn't it be loverly?" Name that musical... "Sea World defends Serial Killer Whale." It is fairly troubling stuff. Poor Dawn, she should have stuck with sea turtles.
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K3

Maude, Myrtle, and Me

Okay. So here is something I have been thinking on for a few months now. Thanks to the crazy ocean conditions around here, two wayward sea turtles limped ashore on nearby Oregon beaches, cold and a bit disoriented, just in time for Christmas. This was not, after all, the place that smelled of their birth. Fortunately no common folk attempted to move them illegally and a bevy of highly trained and certified professionals whisked them off to the Newport aquarium where they enjoyed hearing their tropical turtle tales over the holidays while spending lots of money encouraging them to quit hibernating by heating them up, naturally, with electric blankets. Apparently, the tortugas said, they had been happily swimming north on a nice warm current when said current disappeared on them, dumping them unceremoniously in 50 degree water.
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They named the olive ridley Myrtle and the green turtle Maude, perhaps not understanding their Spanish accents but sexing them correctly anyway. They hydrated them with your average sea turtle diet - dextrose, electrolytes, and IV fluids - and once they were swimming around they added sea turtle vitamins. Chewable? I wonder. Myrtle was "plagued by buoyance problems," not a very auspicious trait for a turtle, and Maude had a fractured flipper which, again, could be tricky for a swimmer. Once their repertoire of Under the Sea stories started to loop, it was time to go.
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Using the guise of "practicing getting in and out of a small airport and handling a unique loading exercise" the US Coast Guard landed in the hinterlands of Newport and loaded the chicas into a massive C-130 airplane, the likes of which they had last used here to "Free Willy," which was not ultimately deemed a success story as you might recall since Willy swam around in the wilds of Iceland waiting for somebody, anybody, to hand feed him. But back to the girls...

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This was NOT, and I repeat, NOT, a waste of taxpayers dollars so just get that cold-hearted notion right out of your pretty heads. As you may have already guessed, "The C-130, based at the Coast Guard Air Station Sacramento, was used to ensure a stable environment, with the cabin pressure kept at sea level and the temperature in the mid-70s." So don't you worry about the cabin pressure or temperature-related effects on the gals. And, furthermore, before the journey - in case you are wondering - the chicas were "slathered with petroleum jelly to keep them hydrated. They were then cradled into custom-made, ventilated crates that had ample padding and a little bit of extra room but not so much that they could flail around and injure themselves." There is nothing worse than a flailing turtle, after all.
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But after all that holiday bonding time and with the nostalgia of the holidays and all, Myrtle and Maude had become like one of the family. Who could ever see a Christmas tree again without thinking of Maude covered in her favorite afghan, clutching an eggnog in her "good" flipper with the other all bandaged up and propped up on a pillow? And what about the tears of joy shed by Myrtle as she unwrapped her little hand-knit flipper socks and the way she struggled to get them on? Oh, my, the memories... So, the aquarium folks ultimately had a hard time saying farewell. There was not a dry eye on the tarmac as that big military plane lifted off into the fog, flying Myrtle and Maude off to SeaWorld in San Diego which they had always wanted to visit. And wasn't that a tiny piece of yarn that drifted down out of the sky as they waved their little sock-covered flippers farewell?

*

Once comfortably settled in San Diego they were to have a private behind-the-scenes tour with their little boondoggle in the sun, from whence "ideally" they will be released back into the wild, presumably with a bottle of vitamins tucked under each flipper. (The cost of caring for the sea turtles will be covered in part by a grant from the Kinsman Foundation - note to self, meet the Kinsmans...) So, sniff, Maude and Myrtle are on their way to being on their way.
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"OMG!" you are probably now wondering and rightfully so, "What the yurt has happened to Kelly with all that time on her hands to type her fingers off spinning tales of turtles, no less?" Answer: It is raining. And anyway, you have to admit, yurt makes a nice 4-letter word and there is that whole Yertle the Turtle thing I blogged about earlier. But some days I do feel exactly like Myrtle and Maude, or Maude and Myrtle if you prefer - like I was happily headed north on a warm current that suddenly dumped me into 50 degree water and now my flippers hurt and I find myself suddenly plagued by buoyancy problems. So, I am wondering, who are these Kinsmans anyway? Because I think I could fit my family very nicely in a C-130 with all of our cargo and even though the ample padding and little bit of extra room in our crates sounds dreamy, we could probably forego such a luxury and still avoid flailing around and injuring ourselves en route to the tropics.
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K3

Christiana Rocks WHS!

Feliz Cumpleanos Bella Grace!

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Bella is six! Learning to read, write, loving pink and purple, wanting to be a Kindergarten teacher when she grows up, growing up, indeed, too quickly. Not a morning person, a gal after my own heart, but off to school each morning and home at noon. She is always happy and an expert skipper and such unadulterated joy! Still remembers some of her Espanol from last year and hoping she keeps it up, even tho there is no instruction at her school. Her classroom is like a revolving door with kids coming and going often, the nature of this rural community where parenting has become a lost art. And did I mention she snores? Loudly, like her adenoids need removing, again.
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Her room is a disaster with Barbies and impossibly small and yet painful-when-stepped-on-barefoot Polly Pocket shoes and assorted miniature accessories spread everywhere. I send her in to clean and she plays for hours with entropy as her constant companion. Her clothes spill out of her hand painted drawers in various half-open yawns, or are they half-shut? She could easily fill her own yurt with her Barbie and stuffed animal collections. And this is after we have downsized more than I care to remember. I vacillate between ranting and raving my threats to give them all away and my propensity to clutch the entire collection to my chest, remembering the Christmas when Hannah got that Scuba Barbie with the chattering dolphin sidekick and Christiana her dark-haired familiar with a trained but silent sea lion. Scuba Ken joined in on the bathtime fun at some point. And now they are all growed up and saving China. Christiana can scuba dive all by herself, just like her childhood doll with the built-in wetsuit. We still have the miniature mask and snorkel - how can I possibly part with the likes of these? Ouch.
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Bella loves to snuggle and finds her way to my leg or lap wherever I land. She began in the summer of aught three and swam across the bay with me before I fully realized she was on board. She grew in utero, slowly asserting her presence as we settled into our Portugal life at Casa Mocho (House of Owls), nourished by the olives and pomegranates we picked from the trees and the pain au chocolate and fresh blood orange juice from the Intermarche market where Andy and I struggled with the language and the metric system to order Jamon y Queso, um kilo media we gestured because we couldn't speak any fraction besides a half or a whole and coming home with 2.2 pounds of ham only happens once. Bella was rocked to sleep as we walked daily on the sunny Algarve beaches after tucking the other four kids in school, digging our toes into the ochre sand backed by impossibly orange hills while old men raked for coquinas and ameijoas and the fishing boats perched precariously on nearshore waves to capture sardinhas to be grilled on sidewalks. We inhaled the incense of ancient churches and admired the beauty of the flowering almond trees, learning their legend before Bella began her own storied life. Isaiah and I flew west with the night across the stormy Atlantic while a nor'easter raged around our fragile fuselage, threatening to birth us all in the tumultuous cold sea, but landing happily in the darkness.
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Bella tread water confidently while my aging body struggled to nourish us both and keep us whole as I lay in the hospital for a month. She gave the doctors two thumbs up six weeks early to get things started, then did a belly flip in labor, deciding for us both that cutting a new bikini line would be her preferred exit strategy. She was so tiny, like 2.5 kilos of jamon, but perfect and beautiful with her almond-shaped blue eyes. She was cold in that snowy week of Valentine's Day so I stuck her under my night gown and kept her there, skin to skin, radiating the heat from our hearts beating in unison down to her perfect toes and fingers - ten of each, count them, Mimi used to instruct - while we dreamed together and woke to feed each other. When she was warm and pink enough, first passport clutched in her tiny fist, we returned to Portugal in March before even her April due date and surprised the kids in one of the most glorious afternoons of our family history. Bella met her sisters who adored her and counted her perfection by tens and beyond while their combined tears of joy fell on her soft cheeks and her brother memorized her with amazement. The hoopoes cried their delight and the wildflowers bloomed in greater profusion to welcome our Bella to the orange blossom air of her new home, the smallest Mocho in the casa.
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She is a huge blessing, our Bella Grace, the final Willa award lost, the exclamation point at the end of our family!
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Mommy loves you and Daddy does too!
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K3

Feliz Cumpleanos Christiana!

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Well, a picture is worth a thousand words... Christiana turned 18 yesterday and I am happy to report that she did not exercise her new privileges by enlisting in the armed services nor by rushing off to Rays to buy cigarettes, porn, or lottery tickets at lunchtime. She went to school instead, both high school and community college, and last night she was feted at her final home basketball game. It was Salute to Seniors Night so all the seniors are traditionally introduced to center court with their families where they are showered with balloons and flowers and candy. Christiana was the final player introduced and her friend above - Mighty Maddie - led the crowd in a rousing round of singing the birthday song with each side alternately chanting boom, rah, after each line followed by Christiana shaking it to "cha, cha, cha." Ahh, the benefits of life in a small town. She handled herself admirably. If that had been my high school and my birthday and my town focused on me, me, me, I would not be here right now to write about it. I would have died a thousand deaths.
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So, my hat is off to Christiana! I learned in the handout they produced that Christiana's nicknames are Optimism Prime and Night Hawk and have not had a chance to probe any further on either of those. Her favorite foods are sushi, ice cream, and cheesecake, which we had after the game. If she was a music artist she would be Prince and her most prized possession are her rainbow suspenders she just got a Buffalo Exchange in Portland on Saturday where everyone had an armful of tatoos and a spandex jump suit with go-go boots - everyone but Bella, Xana, and I that is. She would like to visit Malaysia and Ethiopia and she loves grocery shopping. So, that gives you a starting point in case you were wondering what to get her...
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Christiana was my first but not last candidate in the delivery room for the name I still like - Willa. So I am giving her my own private Willa Award. When Andy prevailed by naming her Christiana after the town where we lived in Jamaica I figured she would have to become a pretty good speller and she has, never one for nicknames and not shy about saying so. Our friend Peter from JA said, upon hearing the news of her birth and her name, "But it is such an ugly lickle town." So I guess she has fared better than her namesake. She arrived at 420 in the a.m., not my favorite time of day, but we induced her so who knows what hour she might have chosen left to her own devices - Miss Night Hawk. She had threatened to be huge and at 8 lb. 12 oz. was the biggest baby I pushed out so hesitate to imagine the scenario if we had not forced her to join us two weeks early. Ouch.
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Xana was a colicky baby and cried for three months until we thought we would go deaf and mad, especially after her perfect sister who made us feel like we were A+ parents. After a rough first year of sleeping mostly in her battery operated swing - and yes, thankfully that flat spot on her head did fill in like the doctor promised - she became the happiest child and is still wearing her winning smile. The day she turned one she forsake all things baby and heaven forbid you gave her a baby spoon or plate or anything of the ilk because she was done. with. that.
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Xana is sporting a few battle scars from her journey thru childhood between chicken pox and stitches but has otherwise emerged on this end in fine form. She was always a keen observer with her big brown eyes and would gaze straight into your soul, as my mother often said. She could tune into people's emotions and was known to say what others were thinking. Back now where she began, she does not necessarily feel like an Oregonian. Although she does not mind the rain, still she craves the sun. She is currently committed to eating for her blood type and a stalwart example to those of us who fall short every morning first thing with our coffee AND cream, both of which are on the list of prohibited foods. Alas. So, might as well have another donut... She wants to go to Stanford! Pray for her. She will do just fine wherever she goes, no doubt. She has always marched right on up to the ice cream counter and ordered what she wanted and slowly I learned to trust her instincts even when she was only knee high and ordering bubble gum in neon pink with unwavering confidence because she would, indeed, eat it.
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Happy Birthday Christiana Elizabeth! You go, Optimism Prime... Mommy loves you.
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K3

Happy New Year 2010!

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And Martin Luther King Day. And while I am at it, let me be the first to wish you all a Happy Valentines Day too. The new decade took off without me and I have been running to catch up ever since. This year I have decided to put my holiday greetings on my blog here and will provide you with a succinct synopsis of our lives over the past 12 months. For those of you yearning for more, more, more, you can scroll back through the other 33 posts I have written since last January when I started this new form of written regurgitation, intending to post one per week which, for you math lovers, would mean that I somehow missed about 23 weeks. Not bad for my first year.
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Well, as I sit here feeling rather chilled in our new yurt, up the river and then up the creek from the Oregon coast, my thoughts turn longingly back to last year this time, when I might have been sweating in my bikini while walking the white sands of Playa Conchal, heaving a coconut into the warm waters for Duncan to fetch every now and again. (See photo from March 18 post.) Do we miss Costa Rica? Si, you bet. We miss our amigos y amigas a few thousand miles south down the coast. (And those a few thousand miles to the east of us as well...) We miss the warm sunshine and the blue sky and the palm trees and the mot mots and the howler monkeys and the leaf cutter ants and the playa. Bella and I just read "Slowly, slowly, slowly said the sloth" and reminisced about swimming each evening before dinner as the sun descended and the air glowed orange with the bats swooping the pool and our heads. We had a great year and hope to get back there soon. Micah got a ticket to Tamarindo for his March break from Santa. Lucky boy.
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Hannah is back in the US after living the Rio life in Portuguese for 6 months - running the sands of Copacabana and sipping Caiparinhas. She returned to her second semester as a Junior at Georgetown, struggling with three advanced physics classes and whipping herself back into shape for the rapidly approaching varsity crew season.
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Christiana took on Waldport High School for her senior year with her usual aplomb and adaptation. She played her first season of volleyball and is in the midst of her second season of basketball and second semester of taking classes at the community college since her class of 61 does not merit much of an AP roster. She has been in the throes of college apps and fingers crossed for an ambitious list of choices, hoping to continue her Spanish and Portuguese studies and major in Marine Biology.
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Micah is in the fifth form at St. Georges in RI and we miss him. My birthday present from him was joining the swim team where he has made great strokes and plans to swim the bay with me again this summer. I will be lucky to see his wake. He was happy to be back on the gridiron this fall but misses CR very much, as do we all.
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Isaiah is loving the fourth grade at his new school and is looking to be a great fan of reading, yahoo. He was also happy to play football again and is currently tearing up the basketball court after all the days he spent after school in the open air gym last year with his pal, Jackson. He misses hockey and will hopefully get to play again some day.
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Bella Grace is loving Kindergarten and learning to read. She gets home at noon daily and we are going agate hunting on the beach today with our west coast UB - Uncle Buster. She is dancing ballet and learning to jump rope.
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After last year's letter, a good friend heeded Andy's siren call for employment and he is now busily engaged as the General Manager of Silke Communications in Eugene where he toils away most days and nights of the week. He spent the fall building the yurts (see archives) and is happy to be back on the left coast again.
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Me? Well, I am writing. I finished my book, for the fourth time, and am seeking an agent or a publisher if any of you know anyone in the industry. I am the new Co-Hag of a local writer's group and we host authors monthly for our workshops so I am networking and meeting interesting people and loving that. I have just dug out my old fish biology hat and will manage a restoration project for coho salmon habitat through our local watershed council.
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Andy and I are on the steering committee to get the high school moved out of the tsunami zone. With the Cascadia subduction fault about 50 miles off our coast a massive earthquake is building that will generate a tsunami of freezing cold water, inundating our town within minutes sometime between now and the next 50 years. Time to move the kids to higher ground.
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With three thin layers of high tech fabric separating us from Mother Nature we are getting to know her ways intimately. The whistles of the elk, the hooting of the owls, the winds that threaten to blow our house down, and the many sounds 70 inches of rain can make on a vinyl roof all surround us with intimacy. The ocean here is mighty and majestic to behold but not something to take lightly or turn your back on. The hills are alive and the trees and rocks pushing each other off in a constant battle of rock, paper, scissors which encourage watchfulness. We are paying attention.
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I hope this finds you all happy and healthy through the wonders of cyberspace. Give yourselves a chocolate-covered kiss from us here on the edge of the continent. Happy Aught-Ten from our yurt to yours.
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Beisos - Kelly, Andy, Hannah, Christiana, Micah, Isaiah, and Bella Grace!
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You Better Watch Out...

Yes, so we did see Santa way back when. I took the kids nostalgically to the old Meier and Frank in downtown Portland where the first four used to sit on the old guy's lap. They always had the best Santa and there was a wondrous village set up complete with a monorail the kids could ride that was suspended from the ceiling. Unfortunately, the store is now Macy's and Santa's floor is no longer. Santa has been relegated to the basement and the monorail sits resignedly on the floor, alone and stationary, the sad little so-called "monorail museum," boo hoo. But we made the best of it and Micah even posed with Santa and Bella asked for a Barbie and Isaiah requested that his whole family to be together and everyone got their wishes and they were filmed by a new crew but we have no tv so never saw it. And, as an added bonus, we watched the mounted police arrest a homeless guy out in front of the store. HE should have called for Santa...
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And then there was the Nutcracker. Bella was an angel and a bon bon but she did not get to be the "naughty" bon bon at any of the three performances and I am not sure if she should be congratulated or straighten her tights and work harder. Mostly she was just happy to be wearing makeup.
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We have five noble fir trees lining our
driveway of staggering sizes so the kids each decorated their own live tree with different colored lights. It got very frosty for the week before Santa came to eat his cookies and every morning we awoke to a winter wonderland with everything coated in a heavy load of white. No snow. By the day after Christmas we were playing on a sparkling sunny beach with the girls running in their sports bras - quite a temperature fluctuation but no complaints, especially from Hannah who was still tan from the sands of Copacabana.
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The propane heaters were finally hooked up and running on Christmas Eve, in the nick of time, and we all slept in the yurts for the first time that night. We slept in our caps reminiscent of 'twas the night before xmas' - and Santa found us! We had a little live tree under the central domed skylight, the focal point of our round room, and Bella and Isaiah made ornaments at school to decorate it. We have a 'frig and a toaster oven and a crock pot and a coffee maker and that allows us to eat pretty well. Hannah brought pastries from Brazil and we had cookies Santa left us and a wonderful Christmas morning. Everyone got a new hat. Ho! Ho! Ho!
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K3
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Sea Lions, Sea Lions, Everywhere...

"Well?" you may well be wondering and rightfully so, what happened to me after the very pregnant pause following my birthday which post was considered to be highly inappropriate according to one very special adolescent, He Who Shall Not Be Named, since it contained several questionably controversial "p" words? Well, having birthed seven babies and shredded most of my anatomical self-consciousness in the delivery room, that is not, alas, the reason for my long silence. It was more like the end of the year got away from me and the new year began before I was ready and I have been running to catch up with "aught ten" ever since. So, this is a catch-up post, better late than never.
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And here, on the beach by Heceta Head - a few miles south of where I sit happily typing in my yurt, live and online in person for the first time from my lovely life in the round since we finally have internet service to our barn even tho we have no indoor plumbing (or outdoor plumbing, so I guess we have no plumbing, to be clear...) and so you can see by that where our priorities and other things lie but I digress and will pick you back up here mid-sentence - yes, here, en masse are the missing California sea lions that once sank the piers of San Francisco with their halitosis and gas-eosis and exuberant mating behavior and blubbery bulk, the same lions of the sea which had everyone wringing their hands with frustration as they flatulated in a most uncivilized manner and openly displayed their affection for one another, causing the well-heeled urban ladies to cover their eyes with kid-gloved hands, fingers nevertheless parted with unconfessed curiosity, until the tourist dollars flowed like so much saltwater into their palms and they threw their arms around their marine mammal friends, embracing their slippery skins which recently slid out from their clutches, leaving them scratching their heads and fingering their empty wallets with wonder. (No, I don't really intend to catch you up here all in one gigantic sentence..)
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"Where did they go?" our neighbors to the bankrupt south of us yodeled in fake Austrian accents with tears matching the salinity of the waters around their shores which now lapped uninterrupted by barking except as emitted by proud pampered poodles being walked by their pooch-sitters and doing their duty with propriety in several different languages. And no, they did not call over their little shoulders in perfect imitation of their governor, "I'll be back..." Or at least not so anybody heard. But it is fun to think about and certainly something a sea lion seems capable of.
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But, anyway, not to worry your permed little heads about it any longer as here they all are, right here in Oregon, safe and sound like so many other economic refugees from the Golden State. Eureka! Perhaps they are enjoying the temperate rainforesty weather for a change, tired of all that sunscreen application, perhaps they are simply following the herring who have done the same, their little fins tired of traipsing off to Rite Aid to stock up. Nobody knows WHY, but the amazing sight we beheld on our Thanksgiving trip down the breathtaking Oregon Coast was thousands of them soaking up some, ahem, rays and catching waves en masse. They looked and sounded to be enjoying their stay and who knows, perhaps they will tarry awhile. Hopefully you can tell that those brown blobs in these photos are, in fact, the missing Californicators, as folks in these here parts have been known to call those who try to take their motto across the border with them crying Eureka! (tr. "I have found it!")
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So, we headed south along the edge stopping briefly to remember ourselves to Paul Bunyan and Babe, the big blue ox with the big blue testicles - never mind, Micah - that Andy had to pose holding up, irresistible to males of all ages. But I will leave you to your own visual imaginings on that one and keep right on moving through the last vestiges of the oldest things on earth, Sequoia Gigantia, which we stopped to admire immensely and on under the Golden Gates of the city where Hannah was born and where we began our happily wedded life together and still keep on going a bit further south to where we ate turkey and celebrated the holiday of my Mayflower ancestors, hosted by Henrietta the chicken and her lovely caretakers, our friends from our days in Costa Rica which seem like yesterday but are fading quickly into the past. Too quickly.
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And what better to do after eating all that pumpkin pie than to walk over the famed Golden Gate. So the next day we did. And I won't bore you with all the dramatic details of how our nephew was married the weekend before in Seattle but chose not to invite us to witness his nuptials because, well, that goes along with why we celebrate holidays with our friends vs. family out here on the left coast, but I might just drop a little reminder about the bitchiness of Karma because who do you think we ran into strolling under the Golden Arches but said nephew and his lovely new bride on their honeymoon. So remember fair reader, as I told him, you can run but you can't hide. And as an added bonus he got to meet Bella and Isaiah, his first cousins, for the first time even though one of them has been on the planet for over a decade now and the other for a half. His blushing bride remarked how much Bella resembles Dakota Fanning, asking, "Has anyone ever told you that before?" "Why, yes," I replied in my perfect Scarlett O'Hara imitation. But then I missed my golden opportunity to add, "And don't you think she would make a perfect flower girl?" Darn it...
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K3