Elder Rich: Seattle Bound

We're pretty proud of this kid around here.

To say I'm going to miss him is quite an understatement...

Sunday Sunnyside Up

Yesterday at church, in a wonderful twist of fate slash a gigantic blessing from above, I got to sit next to my high school English teacher. In a congregation full of visiting family and friends, I chose to sit by Suzan. Anyone who knows her would have done exactly the same. She has this uncanny ability to see directly into you, past all the bull, and into your soul. You can't help but spill your guts when you're talking to her, and if you don't offer it up, she'll get it out of you no matter where you are -- at the grocery store, in line at the post office, in between the lines of the opening hymn. We started singing all good intentions and in tune, but ended up talking instead. About life. About the future.

She started out slow, asking what's new in my life and before I knew it the little thread she tugged at was pile of yarn on the floor beneath the pew. It may sound like the worst thing that to ever encounter (and if you haven't finished an English paper because you and your best friend were up late talking on the phone, it most definitely is). However, when you pack up your bags after a session with Suzan, you've got oodles of inspiration and a new Life Plan. You've got a mound of confidence three times the size of the pile of yarn she unraveled when you weren't looking, a reservoir of compliments, and enough oil in your lamp to climb the highest of mountains on the darkest of nights.

So yesterday when I told her my first math class in like forever and a day times infinity was looming large and I felt like I was going to fall and get stuck in the "U" of a parabola for eternity, she cupped my cheeks in her hands, told me I was wonderful beyond measure, and gave me the phone number of my high school math teacher.

This morning, the morn of the eve of my first math class in eleven years (which, if you do the math equals forever), I called my former math teacher. In total paranoia, I told Rose about my predicament. I guess I've been out of her classroom long enough that her contagious chuckle and New Yorker sarcasm came out the end of the phone and bit me on the ear. "This is going to be hard for you." Um. Yeah. Duh. I wanted to say it, but then I remembered how she used to deal with those kind of students. (Once she made a sign for boy who's sarcastic remarks were as endless as the number pi. She was so sick of telling him to shut up, she wrote it on a sign. I'm pretty sure she stuck it on a stick and laminated it, too. I wish I could say it worked. So does she.) Instead of complaining (or staying scared forever and a day) I'm going to take her advice, which is to take math one day at a time, one problem at a time, one number at a time. I promise not to moan incessantly. I told Rose she can keep her laminator high on its shelf.

i just adore a penthouse view

Art. Books. French doors.
A window seat. New York.
What more do you need?


Also, I love Black Eiffel's Music Mondays.
I almost always add her favorites to mine.
In addition to being a great place for new tunes, her blog
is a daily read for all things inspiration.

{image via Elle Decor}

knight out on the town

True story: This evening, after taking a wrong turn on the way to a place we've been a thousand times, we saw a knight in shining armor. Seriously. A man in a turquoise Chevy Oldsmobile in head-to-toe silver armor. He was sans trusty steed, but in armor no less. Thank goodness we took a right on State instead of a left. They say you'll find your knight in shining armor when you least expect it.

And all this time I've been looking for an man in an M3.
If only I'd known...

a cautionary tale

She knew the saying, Absence makes the heart grow fonder, but he had been out of her life for so long she wasn't sure she believed it. In fact, she was pretty sure she had forgotten about him completely. Except when she stumbled across the New York City subway map shaped like a heart. The one with Queens in the right corner. She had tucked it away somewhere only to be found by accident, like at the back of a big, deep drawer. She'd pull it out even though it would undo her a little. Even though upon the sight of it she'd realize that like Queens, he still occupied a corner of her heart.

It was all right, she supposed, that he was there and she was here. It was just fine that they were separated by miles, thousands of them. But in those rare heart-shaped map moments, she missed the days when the only thing that separated them was what lies between the two seats of his car. The one they used to sing Jingle Bells in at the top of their lungs. The one the same color as a heart.

Wait a Minute

Tonight after hot dogs and roasted marshmallows, I drove up the big hill above the valley. Miss D was in the kitchen unwrapping pina colada Starbursts. We turned on the Marvelette's. (The beginning is our favorite, so we had to press rewind a few times.) Then we sent a letter. The post script said:

Our lives are empty without you.
And we meant it.

the song of summer

Riding on the coattails of summer, I'm hanging on to every last bit of the season as a breeze blows through the open windows. Seems as though the rest of the world is doing the same: Folks asking to sit on restaurant patios for a late supper. Couples strolling down neighborhood streets under lamp post light. Kids on bikes and scooters, their feet turning over extra fast, knowing they'll be on foot as soon as school starts next week. At Sunday dinner, when given the option of bowl or cone for ice cream, Pat, Griff and I all opted for cones. There's something about an ice cream cone that says summer. (I don't doubt Grandpa would agree.) I ordered a lemonade at lunch today in somewhat of a summer homage. It won't taste as good in a few weeks. Then, on my way home from work, I saw a handsome 30-something dude long boarding his way down 6200 South in a suit and tie, the opposite way of traffic, ipod and all. I wanted to champion him for his endless summer efforts (and bravery).

Like the last glowing embers in a campfire, or the tireless firefly in a mason jar, the light of summer is slowly fading. With that realization we walked to dinner tonight and dined on wood-fired pizza with summer veggies and heirloom tomato caprese salad. We took the long way home, our steps a bit slower. Tomorrow night there's one more cookout up the canyon. The nights are already cooler and there's that feeling of to every thing turn turn turn...

a lovely sunday afternoon

These three together = happiness in a nutshell.

Two Grandma-greats. Baby Naomi is nearly 91 years younger than
Grandma Grettle (in pink) and 100 years younger than Grandma Thelma (at right).
Pretty remarkable, if I do say so myself.

Ode to Pythagoras

She said she quit math when she learned the numbers and points they were plotting didn't actually exist. She pulled her teacher aside. "Um," she whispered, "these numbers that we're learning about. They're not actual numbers." "Right," said her teacher, all matter of fact. She quit math class then and there. In the middle of the semester.

Last night I had a nightmare. About math class, which doesn't officially start for nine more days. I can't exactly quit a math class that doesn't actually exist. At least not yet.

While anxiety about equations and imaginary numbers has set in, and while discussions with fellow numerical novices make things seem grim, the comprehensible moments come, too. The moments when I remember the eventual application of all the upcoming math and physics and my overall goal. How ever far off it may seem, I know that plot point exists in reality. In these coherent moments, I recall the words of Robert Frost: The best way out is always through.

So here's to tackling math for the sake of art. And to the art in architecture. Here's to saving historic facades. Here's to the old, and to the new and to bridging the gap in between.

a flash in the pan

Something caught my eye from the street. Something red. I reached for the cord and pulled, signaling a stop. In a strange town, en route to a spot on a map, I got off track; I got lost. Not physically, though. It was the kind of lost where I felt found. Absorbed. Immersed.

Water started to pour through the cracks in the windows. It filled the hollows, the spaces where the wind used to blow through. The water rose and my feet lost their place on the ground. I floated up towards the ceiling. Up towards the sky. Waves washed up against the stars in the sky and carried them out with the tide until they became stars in the sea. Perhaps that's where they started in the first place, they were simply returning home.

I Went up to the Mountain

Yesterday afternoon we decided to get out of the heat.

Thirty minutes later we were surrounded by this -- just

one of the things I love about where we live.

*song by Patty Griffin

60 seconds

go here. try this.

{image}

Dew the Dew

I spent another weekend away from city sights and sounds. Some of us bundled up and stayed on the balcony long after dinner was over and the games were put away. We arranged the chairs in one giant circle and tilted our heads towards the August sky. It's been a long time since I've seen a meteor shower that spectacular. One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand...comet tails so long there was definitely enough time to make a wish or two. And then came the encores, their streaking siblings, lingering in the clouds of the milky way until their turn on stage, the Best in Show. Then they were gone. It was the perfect way to begin the end of summer, bundled on a balcony until one in the morning watching nature on parade.

We woke early for a short hike, made pancakes and then rallied for a day on the lake. Pat busted out his wake board skills first. It wasn't long before a boat pulled up along side us and asked if he'd demo a new toy. Little did they know he's a former Dew Tour pro. He did us proud. We skied, boarded and tubed* until we couldn't feel our arms, then packed up and headed home. There aren't many days like yesterday left in the summer.

Last night we headed up the canyon at the last minute. Windows down, we blasted the same soundtrack to our day on the lake. We drove until the road ended and got out of the car. The stars weren't as bright as they were all the way up on the mountainside, but we were far enough away from the city to catch a falling star or two and tuck them in our pockets for the ride home. Ah, endless summer. If only.

*I was instructed by the doc not to do any of the above with my back, but managed to sneak out there on a tube for a joyride, no harm done.

happy weekend

not so black and white

The painter had left hours earlier, so he wouldn't mind if I borrowed his brush. I chose a spot where sunlight still washed down the wall. I dipped the brush in the bucket once and scraped off each side on the edge of the can. I skipped the drop cloth altogether. Stepping onto the freshly refinished wood floors I reached up. With slow, even strokes I brushed on one coat, then two. It went on like butter. When it dried, it was the color of vanilla pudding, and not at all what I had imagined. I picked up the other can of paint.

* * *

Walking into the kitchen, that familiar smell hit my nose. Strange how you can be away from a place for so long only to return and feel right at home, like you never left. Light bathed the island. The marble sparkled like sunshine on water in the late afternoon. We'd both forgotten to remove our shoes at the door. I slipped my two red shoes under a bar stool as he walked towards the basket with the day-old paper. He spread it wide and began to study it like a map. I wandered over to the family recipe book which lay open on the counter. His mom had a grading system, a way to keep track of the real crowd-pleasers. "Great!" she wrote. "Good" for those that pleased all but a few, and "Fine" for the mediocre ones. Without looking up he asked what I wanted to make. I thumbed through all the main dish "Greats!" (surprised that meatloaf made the list), skipped the salads and side dishes, and went straight for desserts. Choosing one with only four ingredients, I took it over to the island and put it right on top of what he was reading. "Really?" he said. "But I thought you hated..." I pointed to his mom's writing. A few minutes later we sat at the island licking the spoons that had scraped our two bowls clean. His mom was right. For vanilla pudding, it was pretty great.

* * *

The red button on my phone flashed. It was nearly ten last night when they finally settled on a color. Parchment. Bone. Ski Slope. I had left post-its under each and locked the door on my way out. We like the third one. We'll go with it. Happy it wasn't the vanilla pudding color, I typed "Great!"

and yet

I counted the days just now. Twice. A second time because I didn't believe myself the first time, but the number was just as high. High like the bamboo in the back yard. It's nearly as tall as the house and shades the deck in the afternoon when the sun makes its sojourn over from east to west. It's windy today; I can tell by looking at the bamboo. It bows and arcs and flexes, a each stalk separating itself, creating spaces in the thicket for the sunlight to slip through.

It wasn't so long ago (but the number tells me otherwise) that we were standing in the middle of the backyard staring up at the sky. We stood stick straight and stiff like bamboo, arms like leaves, one of mine in the sky, a finger pointing towards the stars. It seemed like a right of passage. Some sort of ritual. Like when Dad cuts the bamboo down in the fall and saves a few stalks for a teepee, or the bones of a scarecrow, or to use as the gold medal-winning javelin. It was long before the bamboo had even sprouted though, and before it blew in the wind playing games with the summer sun. Long before midnight walks past the magic house and lanterns in the apple tree. Yes, long before that. And yet.

where the sky meets the earth

Hiked along the base of the Uinta's this weekend.

Absolutely beautiful.

Double Rainbows and Hot Trekkies

Hispanic waiters. Brazilian juices. Cheese ball-hoarder Matt. "E" as in Eskimo. Lunch at Eva's. The Funniest Kid in the World (Ok, now? Now?) J. Fal and Neil Young impressions. (Full on, yeah.) Uncle C behind the fridge. Bring me my milk and cookies and Jamaican eggs and bacon. Speed Scabble with Buff and Chase in P-Town.

Sure don't see these girls often enough. No siree.

wishing on a shooting star

Last night we had a delightful discussion about mountain hide-aways and screened porches. We decided that, in every possible instance, such porches must used to their utmost advantage.

I'm spending the weekend at a house made of wood with a gigantic screened porch. Nothing but mountains as far as the eye can see. It's peaceful and cool and at night it gets dark dark dark. The moonlight spills through the small squares of the screen and creates a grid on the floorboards. There is nothing better than falling asleep to the sound of aspens quaking and creaky floors, each tip toeing night owl settling into their sleeping bags one by one.

Saturday night Venus, Saturn and Mars will be unusually close to one another. We plan to watch the western sky glow with stars and planets and, according to astrologers, there's even a chance to see the Northern Lights. This is my favorite time of summer, especially in the mountains. I've been living out of a suitcase for the past month. It's well worth it for such things as screened porches and shooting stars.

why I love my brother (part I)

Because he looks up award-winning cupcake recipes. And then, he makes them. Unlike his sister (that would be moi) who looks them up and emails herself the recipe, however, the cupcakes never grace the counter. These red velvet molten lava cream cheese frosting cupcakes* were waiting when I got home today. Such deliciousness. What a guy.


*Not their actual name, but the cupcakes sort of collapsed in the oven (thank you high altitude), leaving this gaping hole just begging to be filled with cream cheese frosting. A rather brilliant solution, if you ask me.

The Oregon Coast & Portland

full album here

Last Night in Yachats