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.
*
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.
*
"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.
*
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.
*
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.
*
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.
*
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...

*

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.
*
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.
*
"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.
*
K3

Christiana Rocks WHS!