All my bags are packed, I'm ready to go. Lalalalala.
It is not 1000 degrees today, the day on which we planned our big move -- scheduled the truck, turned off the wifi electric water garbage, you know. But it is a mild normal morning, the marine layer slowly lifting -- perfect for a move, But no. We are to wait another week. The Portland weather geniuses are now predicting 1002 degrees next weekend. Moving on July 4th. My one hope is that, as usual, the weather drama queens are exaggerating and it will be a normal warm July day. Whine.
Packing continues. Box after box. Kurt pulled the stepping stones from the yard -- they were not included in the sale, a gift from my sweet cousin Vali. They will find a new home in Yamhill, in the deep green beautiful yard on Balm Street. Doesn't that sound nice? Balm Street?
I am so ready to be there. I will also miss my raspberries. I've been eating half a cup a day. So yummy! I will probably not miss the naked bike ride. Tonight was the big night. We saw three naked women is all. They seemed happy to be on display. I don't care.
It has been a big week in the socio-political arena. Historic Supreme Court decisions that may have positive long term effect. I am interested in the upcoming election, pissed that John Stewart is retiring, and anxiously await the parade of idiots fronting for the Right. From Marco Rubio to Donald Trump, they frighten me. I have lived long enough to know that anything can happen. If GW was elected twice, any. thing. can. happen. My concern is that if the Democrats -- if we -- stay focused on who's zooming who, and take our eye off the ball, they will slip in unnoticed and take the world apart.
It could happen, and I'm not so sure Hillary could outrun it.
Saturday, June 27, 2015
Sunday, June 07, 2015
outta pdx
Hey, this blog is rated #9,743,500 on some scale. HA!
Movin' to the country, gonna eat a lot of peaches.
As sweet as it has been to observe life through the bay window of my 1909 house on Clinton Street, it is finally time to go. The food carts did it. Critical mass. Hipsters walking down my street, pointing at trees like its Disneyland, staring at us on the porch like we are a live primate exhibit. It isn't. We aren't. Go home. Nothing to look at here.
We put the house on the market and received a good offer. A great offer. With some back and forth, and letting the washer and dryer go with the house, (and the plants......) the realtor will be here in minutes to sign the acceptance paperwork. Nothing is certain. An inspection of this property could sink the ship, but the buyers are "motivated" and allegedly that is good. They will overlook things and there is much to overlook. But generally, the house works. As a house. Just not for us. In the waning years, cancer and ankle replacements making life different, three stories is two too many.
So, off to Yamhill, population 1049 at last count, with a decent breakfast cafe, an invisible Mexican restaurant, and Zippy's Pizza, where Wanda works. I happened into Zippy's because Kurt said they have a beautiful back bar. True enough. The woman at the bar asked where I was from and I said, "Maybe Yamhill." That got the conversation rolling, and, as it turns out, her husband's family home was on the site of our brand new house. "He lived there his whole life." They sold to a developer and built a plantation-style McMansion around the bend in a conspicuous corner of the tiny 10 house development. It seems Wanda is having a bit of trouble letting go the control of the neighborhood. "There is one thing," she said, after giving us a brief history of Yamhill, her covert manner giving up the probability of sweet gossip. "They're not allowed to park on the streets. They have a garage and a nice big driveway and I don't know why they don't use them." We are they. It begins.
So maybe she's the mayor. I don't know.
Now we are in a holding pattern. Not living here, not moving. Its hard to water the flowers. They're not mine anymore. Leaving them is like leaving babies.I hope I have a chance to teach the new girl which one is the daphne and that it needs to be pruned while it is in bloom; that the little rose in the back is a Cecil Brunner and is only really pretty for a minute, but the minute is worth all of the thorns and falling whitish petals. She needs to know that everything that comes up, comes up on purpose. Perennial. Intentional.
There is much about Clinton Street that I will miss: Clay's Smokehouse, K&F coffee, NoHo's and the sock monkey collection at Dot's. The Clinton Street Movie Store. Best in Portland. I'll miss tall bikes, naked bike riders and tattoos, dog shit bags in rainbow colors, Powell's books and Presents of Mind at Christmas and birthdays; the view out my bedroom window.
I'll tell you what I'm not going to miss: Salt and Straw and their million dollar ice cream in flavors like Poutine (cheese curds, fries and brown gravy... mmmmm), and Kimchee. Kimchee flavored ice cream. Nasty. And I won't miss the traffic flying down skinny streets at mach nine, or the entitled hipsters too cool to look up when crossing the street; or bicyclists who blow through stop signs and just won't obey the rules to death. I just want to live in the country again. With country folks. I know I know. They're mostly republican and its an election year-eve. I know I'll get my country-ass kicked for having a go-Hilary sign in my yard. If I decide on Hilary. Meh.
I am packing, finally. As i pack, I find yard-saleables. Yesterday, Saturday, we sold out.I sold all of the odd bits of shelving I won't need in the BRAND NEW HOUSE. Its like I won it on a game show. I have no idea how to hang a picture. How do you pound in the first nail? Do you use nails? There is a place for everything. I have so many little cabinets for this and that because in this house, built before we needed sixteen different kinds of soap and forty kinds of skin care and hair products, there was no room for my life. Now, I have a whole room for them, with a drawer for each thing. And two sinks in the bathroom. Two sinks and fifty drawers and a walk-in closet bigger than most bedrooms I've had. Sincerely. Much bigger. I could rent it out. Maybe I will.
Today, a goodwill run and preparing for another week of work. My commute will become a winding stroll through wine country rather than a bumper to bumper competition to get across the railroad tracks, the Ross Island Bridge, down I-5, through Tigard all the way to Sherwood. I am happy. I have loved Portland. I am ready to love Yamhill.
Movin' to the country, gonna eat a lot of peaches.
As sweet as it has been to observe life through the bay window of my 1909 house on Clinton Street, it is finally time to go. The food carts did it. Critical mass. Hipsters walking down my street, pointing at trees like its Disneyland, staring at us on the porch like we are a live primate exhibit. It isn't. We aren't. Go home. Nothing to look at here.
We put the house on the market and received a good offer. A great offer. With some back and forth, and letting the washer and dryer go with the house, (and the plants......) the realtor will be here in minutes to sign the acceptance paperwork. Nothing is certain. An inspection of this property could sink the ship, but the buyers are "motivated" and allegedly that is good. They will overlook things and there is much to overlook. But generally, the house works. As a house. Just not for us. In the waning years, cancer and ankle replacements making life different, three stories is two too many.
So, off to Yamhill, population 1049 at last count, with a decent breakfast cafe, an invisible Mexican restaurant, and Zippy's Pizza, where Wanda works. I happened into Zippy's because Kurt said they have a beautiful back bar. True enough. The woman at the bar asked where I was from and I said, "Maybe Yamhill." That got the conversation rolling, and, as it turns out, her husband's family home was on the site of our brand new house. "He lived there his whole life." They sold to a developer and built a plantation-style McMansion around the bend in a conspicuous corner of the tiny 10 house development. It seems Wanda is having a bit of trouble letting go the control of the neighborhood. "There is one thing," she said, after giving us a brief history of Yamhill, her covert manner giving up the probability of sweet gossip. "They're not allowed to park on the streets. They have a garage and a nice big driveway and I don't know why they don't use them." We are they. It begins.
So maybe she's the mayor. I don't know.
Now we are in a holding pattern. Not living here, not moving. Its hard to water the flowers. They're not mine anymore. Leaving them is like leaving babies.I hope I have a chance to teach the new girl which one is the daphne and that it needs to be pruned while it is in bloom; that the little rose in the back is a Cecil Brunner and is only really pretty for a minute, but the minute is worth all of the thorns and falling whitish petals. She needs to know that everything that comes up, comes up on purpose. Perennial. Intentional.
There is much about Clinton Street that I will miss: Clay's Smokehouse, K&F coffee, NoHo's and the sock monkey collection at Dot's. The Clinton Street Movie Store. Best in Portland. I'll miss tall bikes, naked bike riders and tattoos, dog shit bags in rainbow colors, Powell's books and Presents of Mind at Christmas and birthdays; the view out my bedroom window.
I'll tell you what I'm not going to miss: Salt and Straw and their million dollar ice cream in flavors like Poutine (cheese curds, fries and brown gravy... mmmmm), and Kimchee. Kimchee flavored ice cream. Nasty. And I won't miss the traffic flying down skinny streets at mach nine, or the entitled hipsters too cool to look up when crossing the street; or bicyclists who blow through stop signs and just won't obey the rules to death. I just want to live in the country again. With country folks. I know I know. They're mostly republican and its an election year-eve. I know I'll get my country-ass kicked for having a go-Hilary sign in my yard. If I decide on Hilary. Meh.
I am packing, finally. As i pack, I find yard-saleables. Yesterday, Saturday, we sold out.I sold all of the odd bits of shelving I won't need in the BRAND NEW HOUSE. Its like I won it on a game show. I have no idea how to hang a picture. How do you pound in the first nail? Do you use nails? There is a place for everything. I have so many little cabinets for this and that because in this house, built before we needed sixteen different kinds of soap and forty kinds of skin care and hair products, there was no room for my life. Now, I have a whole room for them, with a drawer for each thing. And two sinks in the bathroom. Two sinks and fifty drawers and a walk-in closet bigger than most bedrooms I've had. Sincerely. Much bigger. I could rent it out. Maybe I will.
Today, a goodwill run and preparing for another week of work. My commute will become a winding stroll through wine country rather than a bumper to bumper competition to get across the railroad tracks, the Ross Island Bridge, down I-5, through Tigard all the way to Sherwood. I am happy. I have loved Portland. I am ready to love Yamhill.
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