Dreams of Adventure

A friend recently asked, “What happened to your dreams of adventure?” I guess she was referring to my stationary presence here on the Oregon Coast. Yet, some adventure happens within and is less obvious than the ever roaming Westfalia. It easy for me to travel alone. Load up the van with hiking shoes, sleeping bag, camping food and water, and I head out. I know the general area I want to explore, hiking and biking trails I want to check out. I scout around for a good place to boondock at night, a mellow and welcoming coffee shop to connect with wifi, a public shower and I'm set. That's all easy stuff for me. It takes little or no interaction with others. I'm on my own agenda, exploring. On an adventure. Living with my thoughts, ideas, dreams. Just being.
My adventure these days is the adjustment to settling in a new community. It can be quite the ordeal for the introvert to form new friendships, sell my product, even seek employment as an outsider in a small town. My adventure these days is huge.
There are three knitting groups in my area that I know of. I've made it to one, twice. And I know the location of the others, I just haven't made it in the door yet. I pick up local papers announcing new and fun Happenings everywhere up and down the coast. I circle the ones that interest me, make note of the time and location. And then, when the time comes, there's always a reason for me not to go; I'm almost done knitting these gloves and I really need to finish them, it's too snotty outside, I'm not in the right mood to walk into a room full of strangers and introduce myself, or, I just don't want to spend the money.
My 18 year old son recently joined me here on the Coast. His heart crashed in Ketchikan and he really really needs to get out of town. Having been there myself, I totally understand his pain and logic. Plus, I'm his mom. “Of course you can live with me,” I tell him. We fall right into mother and son roles, except this time, I think he's a little surprised with his mother. Back in Ketchikan, I had lots of interaction with many people. That happens when you live in the community you are raised in, you just know people. Everyone. There's always someone to hike with, have dinner with, go to the movies, go out for a glass of wine after work.
After three days Shane asks, “What do you do here?”
“I warned you it was quiet here.”
“Yes, but, what do you do? Just knit all day, every day?”
“Pretty much. I also visit my aunt and uncle, walk Harley on the beach, hike on the local trails, and sometimes swim at the YMCA. I have three friends, one 60 miles north and the other two 60 miles east,” I try to explain my solo lifestyle. I don't think he had any idea I was a loner. I can't say that I really like it. I am lonely and would love to have a few friends a little closer that I could be spontaneous with, but that involves a skill I never had to develop living on an island for 30 something years; I have to learn how to make friends. Talk about adventure.
But, I'm not here for long anyway. I will be returning to Ketchikan to the people I know and a new job I will love. I may even miss this quiet place, so I'm not in a hurry to run out there and build new relationships. Or so I thought.
While here, Shane discovered an interest in Job Corps. It's an excellent program for youth starting out on their own, trying to develop a career and a place in this life. I encourage him to pursue this new focus of his. He makes numerous phone calls and is given quite the run around. We make the one hour drive to Astoria's Job Corps and are turned away at the gate because we don't have an appointment. Back to the unanswered phone calls. We learn where the main office is in Beaverton and make the hour and a half drive there only to be told to return tomorrow at 3:00 for the weekly Job Corps presentation. We do. And we learn there is a several month wait list to get in. And he has to stay in Oregon to qualify for placement in this region. And he has to not make too much money to meet criteria for acceptance.
After several sleepless nights I come to the only conclusion a supportive mother can make; I have to stay. There are good things about staying, very good things, I tell myself. I get excited about the idea. A warm sunny summer on the Coast! Farmer's Markets! Gardening! Kayaking in estuaries! Biking in Portland! Westy road trips!! Trader Joe's!!!
Then I freak out. I'm scared to death to give up what I know. A dear friend I truly love. Seeing my other son. A good job I was really really looking forward to. I tell Shane there has to be another way. He can come home with me and we'll return in October and try again. His face goes blank.
“I'm not going back there, Mom.” We sit and stare at each other. It's quiet around the house all day. I know he's right. The person I want to return to isn't there for me either. I'm creating a reality that doesn't exist. I would want what I couldn't have. I'd be miserable. He'd be miserable.
“I have a job there, Shane.”
“You could have a job here, Mom. I only need a few months and I can be in Job Corps.” We stare at each other again. I've had my eye on the job market all winter, jobs are slim. Full time jobs even slimmer.
“I will look. If I don't have one within two weeks we have to go. The job in Ketchikan I'm suppose to be taking will need time to replace me. That wouldn't be fair to them to wait too close to the season starting and I can't risk not having a job any where.”
I call my friend Dolores in Gearhart and tell her my dilemma. She tells me her co-worker just bought a cafe right here in Rockaway and is needing a waitress. She says she'll pass my need for a job onto her. Two days later I get a phone call inviting me to the cafe to meet. I come highly recommended and that's good enough for them. When can I start?
I freak out again. Is this really happening? I'm here for seven months with nothing. The moment I'm afraid to take a job and give up what I know, a job is thrown at me. The exact job I've been wanting to do. Just like that. We talk business and I ask for one day to consider it.
At home I go over the numbers. It could work. The job in Ketchikan would still be better, much better, but can I really prioritize that over my son? The son who never asks for anything is desperate for this to work. He has job applications in all over, looking for part time employment until he can be accepted into Job Corps. I already left him once, just seven months ago. Now that he really needs me how can I leave him again? I can't.
I accept the job at the cafe. Now I have to call the wonderful lady that trusted my return to run her shop. I have to accept that I no longer have a relationship with the one I love. My son Bo will have to wait. I have no idea what will happen after this summer, but for now, we are setting our roots. A new adventure has already began.

Will Knit For Love

This sabbatical thing has worked for me. I left chaos in search of peace. I roamed, wandered, explored, and relaxed. I reconnected with my need to create. I rediscovered knitting. It excites me. I found that something that keeps me going. I knit. Daily. All day some days. It helps that it's winter and raining out. My goal is to finish a project each day. And I only knit two things; hats and fingerless gloves!
I finally get the eccentric artist thing. Evon and her knives and linoleum, Ray with his pen and fish. Not that I'm comparing my skills to their level of artistry, just their of obsession for their craft. But they at least can make a living from their product. I sit in my home, knitting an average of 8 hours a day and IF I ever sell my products, I may be able to buy a bag of dog food for the boxer pacing in front of the door. Yet, I continue to knit. It's what I do. I've seen my friends whispering amongst themselves. The kind of whispering that stops when I enter the room. I think they're planning an intervention.
I'm into stripes now. Everything I've knit before is brand new again because this time I'm doing it in stripes! Separate bright, bold stripes. Soft stripes that blend together. Colors that fade in and out of each other. Stripes! Bulky knits! Worsted knits! Smooth yarn, bumpy yarn. I slide it in and out of my fingers, in love with the warmth and coosh of the fabric I've just made. I'm giving it life. Personality. Visually appealing and kinetically satisfying.
I get half way through one project and my mind is all ready wandering on to the next piece. I can't even stay committed to my current creation. My gawd! Good thing I only knit small items. There are so many options out there! Same pattern, smaller yarn, deeper stripes, whole different outcome! New images race through my mind at a pace that makes me loose track of what I'm currently knitting. I have to rip out the last two rows because my mind was writing a different pattern.
Harley's whinning at the door. The sun is shining. I put the knitting down and grab his leash. He jumps up, spinning 360's before he lands. He acts like he hasn't been out in days. Oh, maybe he hasn't. As we walk through the neighborhoood, I look at the color combinations of the houses. I make note of those I like and those I don't. I picture a hat sitting there with a yard and carport. " Hmmm. It could work. Love the green on top of the brick." I work out a brick pattern in my head. I give it a peaked top to resemble the chimney poking out the roof. We meet up with a nice lady walking her black and white collie mix. I like the way his patches create a pattern of contrast. I make another note to self. On the beach, the winter surf is rolling in new logs. The sand is littered with them. All variations of blacks, browns and beiges, some green from the newly departed trees, ripped from the shore's tree line, roots exposed, being devoured by the ocean. Layers of the beach, all before me, become the landscape for a hat.
I snap myself out of it. I've only been unemployed for five months but I fear I'll never be happy as a clock puncher again. How can I survive making hats?! I should put an ad in the personals: "Will knit for Love." Sounds pathetic. I just need to figure this out. How do you do what you love and love what you do and make the money follow? That's a lot of hats. Some people measure frivolous spending with lattes. I measure mine with hat sales. "Nice jacket! It only costs four hats!"
Time to get back to work. I pick up my number nines and look over my yarns. A swarm of reds, oranges, yellows, greens, blues, blacks, and browns flow through my brain like blood in my veins. I cast on 96 stitches and watch as the pattern emerges from my fingers. Another days work.

Wine Country

Seven days on the road, beginning and ending with the magnificent Oregon coastline. In between are the modest towns, some just settlements, existing off the traffic of highway 101 and logging, fishing, and farming. They are a hard working people who love their land. Their wealth is not measured by their possessions, but rather their pride in their chosen industry.

The winding road leads you deep into impressive redwood forest of California. The towering height and massive trunks of these giant sequoia sempervirens darken the earth below, allowing for mystical glimpses of big foots and gnomes. As quickly as you are swallowed into this fairytale land, it abruptly spits you out onto the golden rolling hills of wine country. Patches of green emerge slowly at first, increasing as you climb and fall over the hills, until you are completely saturated with vineyards, in the land of wine.

My friend Andi and I spend the next four days wandering the backroads of Russian River Valley; River Road, Dry Creek, and Bohemian Highway, discovering a new tasting opportunity around every turn. Names like C. Donatiello, Lambert Bridge, Arista, Porter Creek, Bella, and Zichichi jump out with their luring welcome signs.

Each winery is strikingly different in their landscape expression. Beautiful Japanese gardens, richly dense with manicured flower beds, herb gardens, artistic water pools and falls, olive trees, lemon trees, lime trees, rose bushes. Modern architecture, ancient design. Some grandiose, some simple. All breath taking.

It’s October. The warm air is pleasantly sweet. Leaves are rich with oranges, golds, and reds. The grapevines are exploding with fruit. Farmers are cutting free their precious harvest, preparing for the crush. The wineries are alive with activity and expectation.

By the end of the week, our vocabulary has been transformed to include descriptions of rich, savory, and sweet into our daily activities. We are quickly spoiled as we learn our personal preferences. Andi will exclaim, “It’s too much work,” and empty her glass into the dumping bucket if a sample does not agree with her delicate palate. Appreciation for a good Charles Shaw is a thing of the past.

Our evenings are spent down on the Russian River in the quaint town of Duncans Mills. Sitting around the campfire, sipping a Korbel sherry, we reminisce over the day’s tours. Night brings chilly temperatures and coyotes signing at the bright moon. Harley burrows in the safety and warmth of his sleeping bag.

We’ve only covered one wine region in Sonoma County, but I’ve decided to save the others for another trip. I am ready to head back to Oregon with a storm brewing on my tail wind. I met wonderful people, made new friends, expanded my knowledge of wine and boon-docking.

I travel back the way I came, wanting to become more familiar with the transformation of this land. Wild turkeys and a herd of elk make themselves comfortable in a farmer’s front yard along side Hwy 101. I know this 600 mile drive will be a route I frequent with the seasons, seeing something different every time, and worth every minute behind the wheel of my treasured Westfalia camper van.

Fresh Goodness

I was born in Portland, Oregon. When we lived in Salem, we had acres of corn growing behind our home. Our landlords let us pick as much as we could eat if we kept our eye on the crop.

Our neighbors, the Zelinski’s, had a large apple orchard where they hired pickers and boxed up their fruit right there. We consumed apples in every way; juice, sauce, pie, fresh picked.

Ms. Fernandez, who I really liked, had the most beautiful flower garden. When I was five, I picked all her spring blossoms on May Day and left them on her porch. I rang her door bell and ran away, just like your suppose to. Mom said it made her cry. But when she learned it was done out of love, she laughed. I think we both learned something that day.

Mrs. Utterback grew rhubarb. Her teenage son told me if I ate a stick a day, I’d learn to whistle. Only then could I play hide and seek with the big kids in the forest of corn. After about a week, I learned something then too.

My mom had a garden that she spent hours in. Everyday, she would rake, or pluck, or water, or fertilize, or pick. She could whistle and she’d whistle and hum to her garden. And it grew for her.

Every one grew something.

Then we moved to Southeast Alaska when I was six. Our basement wasn’t finished yet so we didn’t live downstairs. But it did have a huge picture window. My mom lined up as many pots and buckets on the plywood flooring as she could. She tried to recreate the garden she had to leave behind. Tomatoes, cucumbers, and zucchini grew like a jungle in that big lower window. But the harvest was minimal. The short summer season didn’t bring enough sun and heat to produce fruit. She fought with it for years; adding grow lights, trying different fertilizers, pollenating with her finger, but she could never reap what she once had in Oregon. She was in Alaska now.

Mom tried replacing her desire to grow things with the desire to catch things. She filled our freezer with salmon and halibut. Dad hunted deer and moose. It seemed to suffice but never replaced the longing for fresh from the earth vegetables and fruit that you nurtured from seed.

Now I understand that void in her life. A newbie to gardening, I first seek the shelves for herbs. Then I remember, “Wait, I have fresh rosemary right outside!” It’s a whole new way of thinking. You don’t buy apples and peaches at Safeway, you get them street side, at the plywood shelter, freshly picked, a whole basket for a dollar! And, you meet those who grew them. Onions and corn too! Cucumbers and zucchini! Berries and nectarines! Your dollars aren’t supporting a corporation, but a family. It tastes good and feels good all at once.

Even dairy is fresh. I recently bought a quart of milk with an expiration date six weeks away. That is unheard of in the far away country Alaska.

I can’t get used to the freshness of Oregon. Fresh fruits, fresh veggies, fresh dairies, lots of cattle if you’re into that. Chickens and eggs too. It’s all right here. That may seem a “duh” to many of you who don’t know any different. But, we from Alaska, know to appreciate these treats. Yes, we have fresh wild salmon, halibut, shrimp, crab, and more. But we don’t have garden fresh fruits and vegetables or sun light to keep us healthy. I’ve sure missed this. I am soaking it up like a bullhead at minus tide.

Love and Protect

Two unleashed wanna be dogs with patch work fur on their hind ends and white shadows around their eyes and muzzles leave their owner’s side to interrupt our daily walk on the beach. Harley and I are in ‘walk mode’ and try our best to avoid the collusion.

Walk mode occurs when I am not in a sociable mood or when I feel the approaching dog is not a good match for Harley. Walk mode is quite obvious. Dog is leashed, backs straight, heads forward, a stride that says, “We are on a mission!”

Play mode is unmistakable as well. You scan the beach for dogs chasing sticks or balls, tails wagging, barking like there’s a party going on. I free Harley from his leash and we have instant friendships. We tend to favor the hardy, playful, non-anxious breeds; labs and retrievers are our favorite and the beach is littered with them.

These two weathered creatures and their careless owner apparently don’t know dog language and beach etiquette. The intruders are determined to connect with Harley, sniffing and poking him at all ends. Concerned that it wouldn’t take more than one boxer slap to cause a dismemberment, I am trying my best to hold Harley back, in a sit if I can manage it. The woman that belongs to the death wishes hurries behind them with a big proud smile on her face, “They are over 100 years old!”

“Well, MINE’S NOT!” I rudely blurt out while I’m practically hanging Harley on his leash. I continue walking, dragging Harley behind me, shaking my head.

“Well he’s pretty!” she calls after me.

I’m sure Harley would’ve been fine with them. I’m the one who wasn’t and if Harley was in my mood she would’ve needed a bag to clean up the beach. I wasn’t in a bad mood, necessarily. PMS may have had something to do with it, but really, I was blown away by the woman’s stupidity. She obviously loves those two pathetic dogs yet allows them to run up to a very muscular beast that she knows nothing about.

Idiots! There are so many idiots in this world and the majority have pets and or kids. Having worked in the children’s mental health field for a number of years, I find myself very impatient with the neglectful parents and pet owners. Or those parents and pet owners that find their charge so beautiful and adoring that they believe everyone has the same strong feelings for their loved one. It’s usually those children and pets that you can’t wait to get away from because they are so ill behaved and intrusive.

When did ‘love’ become confused with ‘the freedom to do whatever the hell you please?’ MY GAWD! If you truly love your pet or child, you will teach them they are not the center of everyone’s world. Through respect for others we teach them to respect themselves.

Okay. Maybe it is PMS, but protecting our children, and many pet owners see their animals as their children, is rule number one. And we protect them not only by keeping them close, but by teaching them manners and opening their eyes to the world.

Parking Places

Please excuse me for my deliberate exuberance. Besides missing my wonderful, beautiful boys and others nearest and dearest to my heart, my life is incredible. My dad always said, “If you live right, you get good parking places.” I tell you, boys and girls, I must be living right. I left a negative and hostile work environment in search for something a little less damaging to the soul. I found it!

First, I met this incredible woman in Gearhart, Oregon who took in this stranger and her dog for a week and a half with promises of more assistance with Harley when I fly into Las Vegas to get my van. I really didn’t even have a plan.

“I’m just waiting for it to cool down a bit before I have to retrieve my van/home,” I shamefully try to explain.

“We’ll just see how it goes with the dogs. You’re welcome to stay as long as you need.” Dolores takes in the homeless and wounded. Usually it’s the four legged desperados she opens her home to, so I think Harley was my ticket in. Whatever the case, I met a beautiful human and four very charming and lucky canines: a homeless and hungry Great Dane , a horny Chihuahua in love with the Great Dane, a Monkey Terrier (I call her Monster) that came to Dolores with two broken hind legs and a sweet little old golden thing pushing three hundred years old. I’m sure it’s Dolores’ love that keeps her alive. It must be pet owners like me that shorten a dog’s life. First sign of anal seepage and it’s time to put the beast down.

So, after settling in Gearhart and working out the kinks from our previous life and the ferry trip, Harley and I jump in the truck and head south to look up my aunt and uncle. Being raised on an island in Alaska with all my distant family in Oregon, I didn’t get to spend as much time with these fine folks as one would expect when you are close. Emotionally close, that is. I drive to their home, but of course, these two are out on an adventure some place so I leave a note on torn paper adhered with duct tape to their door. The next day I get a call and I’m back down to see them. Long lovey dovey visit made short, Aunty tells me they never sold the cabin that I have so many family memories in. They moved out a year ago but because of the real estate market being what it is, they decided to hang on to it and maintain both homes. Wow. She has a home that is peopleless and I am a people that is homeless. Doesn’t get much sweeter than that, especially on the coast of Oregon with seven miles of sandy beach out my back door. Just point me to the tsunami route and I’m in heaven! They are happy as well.

I tell you, only two weeks into my sabbatical adventure and I’m getting pretty good parking places. I must be doing something right. I wish I could explain that philosophy to Harley. He keeps pissing on kids’ sand castles. I tell him, “Dude, that’s going to catch up with you!”

I know people who live like that. They don’t live by an acceptance of right and wrong, but more of a matter of what they can get away with. I feel bad for these people. They may believe they are successful in life all the while looking behind their backs. That’s no way to live. Now, I'm not claiming to be perfect, but the effort to do what is right by yourself and others is a code of ethics I can't sleep without. And the parking gods don’t miss a thing. I'm positive Dolores will have free parking where ever she goes in life.

Stepping Out

I was sitting in my truck, door open, writing a note for the door of my family's beach house in Oregon. There are no connected phone lines so we check in with torn pieces of envelope adhered to the window with duct tape.

The neighbor, an older gentleman working on the dividing fence is being pestered by the woman who lives across the street.

"I really am anti-social," she says, sitting way too close.

"You are, huh?"

"Yes!" she insists, her shoulder now touching his.

"When are you anti-social?"

"At night."

"And when at night does this anti-social behavior begin?"

"At 5:00."

He drops his hammer and grabs his knees before he falls over in disbelief and laughter.

My friend takes me to a wine bar and bistro called Yummy! in Seaside Oregon. She introduces me to the owners and they sit her at her favorite spot on the corner couch where she can watch her friends and the activity in the kitchen. I too am watching. There is a pleasant energy about the place, coworkers and patrons alike. It's clean, open, relaxing and inviting. I am comfortable here. Yummy! attracts a population that I am familiar with, folks I 'know' with out knowing.

"I could work here. This is what I'm looking for," I tell my friend.

When the tall slender woman returns with our wine my friend asks if they are still looking to hire someone.

"On the busy nights, yes. Are you interested?"

"Deb is."

The waitress leaves to get me an application.

"Wow. Just like that," I say, excited about the opportunity of being a part of an establishment like this.

Three days later, that application is still sitting on the table at home. Where is the confidence I was feeling then, after 5:00, in the company of wine and a friend. My anti-social behavior is most evident when I'm alone in my quiet zone. It's hard to step out of it at times. Intimidating, almost. I'll take a walk and discuss this behavior of mine, encourage myself to get out and participate in a climate I was once excited about. But the odds are, as much as I want to be that person who can walk up to new people with a friendly smile and make them feel warmly included, I probably won't be.

Call it introvert, shy, or anti-social, it all means the same thing; difficult, awkward, sometimes painful social interactions. But that is what this adventure of mine is all about. Stepping out of what has been my comfortable norm for the last 30 years and doing something different. Even something that I'm afraid of.

Before I left Southeast Alaska, I bought an inflatable kayak. Inflatable because I want to be able to carry it solo and store it in my van during my travels. I love the ocean the same time I fear it. I saw Jaws way too young and not being able to see that giant sea creature surface at the very spot I am presently occupying terrifies me. Because I know it can happen. No. I know it will happen. So, I practice. I take out my kayak and hugging the shoreline, I tell myself I'm not being rational. I force myself to work on this silly fear of sharing the Pacific with orcas, humpbacks, and sea lions. Every time I go out it gets a little easier. At least that's what I tell myself. It's actually not any easier, I just remind myself I didn't get eaten the last time I went out so go enjoy the beauty of it all.

I should go get that anti-social neighbor lady at 4:45 and tell her we're going out and it's going to be fun. Even if we only stay until 5:30. And then, I will turn in that application and meet new people and learn new skills and have a new job in a new atmosphere. Maybe tomorrow.