Our old friend, Moist Marine Air, came calling yesterday – intermittently at first, but by the time we reached the restaurant for a Mother’s Day outing, it was coming down in a steady drizzle. Windshield wiper weather, for sure!
I thought about our neighbors the Wachsmuths and how they never say the ‘R Word’ here at the beach. No matter how fast the precipitation is falling, they don’t say “rain” when they are in Oysterville. I can’t remember why exactly. It’s probably one of those “if you don’t acknowledge it, it’s not happening” sorts of things.
We had been asked by our friend Stephanie to join her Mother’s Day gathering at the 42nd Street Café in Seaview. It was an early dinner, in deference to her eighty-something-year-old mom’s early-hour dining preferences. I don’t think I can blame the time of day for my end-of-meal choice of desserts, though. I’m sure that Flip Wilson’s “Devil” made me do it.
Usually I’m not a dessert kind of gal. In fact, I don’t really care much about sweets at all. My preferences run more to the salty, greasy snacks. I remember one birthday twenty years ago or so when I was teaching at Ocean Park School, my room mother, Mary Newell, organized a birthday party with the perfect surprise gift for me. Every child in class had brought a bag of chips – their choice as to kind – and all twenty-four bags were presented to me in a huge gift-wrapped carton. I had chips every day with my lunch for weeks!
But, last evening I went for the Chocolate Rum Truffle Cheesecake. OMG! I definitely ‘got’ the chocolate and the rum. I’m not sure about the truffle or the cheesecake. All I know is that it was totally decadent and apparently drugged me sufficiently that I don’t remember if it was raining or not when we left the restaurant.
I’m not sure if avoiding the ‘R Word’ does the trick or not in the matter of weather acceptance, but I’m here to testify that ingesting a sufficient amount of dark chocolate works wonders.
being unescorted did not mean I was alone. In fact, I was surprised at how many mutual friends and acquaintances Martha and I had.
Mostly, though, we knew Martha as a faithful attendee at our house concerts – she and George, always smiling, always together, always enjoying whatever was going on. I can’t think how it happened that we first invited them. Maybe George remembers. Over the years, they became ‘regulars,’ often sitting on the blue velvet couch in the living room and always bringing a wonderful addition for our potluck supper.
Visiting our friend Stephanie in Ilwaco always makes me think that I have been transported back in time. Not back very far, mind you. Just back to the 1950s or 1960s. In those days, I lived in the San Francisco Bay Area and I was a ‘tweener’ of sorts – too young to be part of the beat generation too old to be a hippie.
There are some people who are so much a part of your everyday life, that it never occurs to you that you don’t have many facts about them. Chuck Messing is one of those kinds of guys in my world. I do know that his mother and my mother were friends, that he is a Viet Nam War veteran, and that he has five sons all of whom are in various branches of the service.
We’ve been hosting house concerts for twelve or thirteen years now – usually one a month from September through May. It goes without saying that every one of them is different. The variables are multitudinous, from the musician(s) and their performances to the particular mix of audience members and right down to the potluck dishes and the conversation afterwards.
And before the concert ever began, a guest of some friends settled herself on the couch in the library with a small volume she had spied on a nearby shelf. “I hope you don’t mind,” she said in her soft German accent, “but I’ve been looking for a copy of this book for years.” She pointed out to me that it was published in 1908 (about the time my grandmother put the library together) and it was written in “old fashioned” German. What a nice bit of serendipity! ( Carefully handwritten in front was “Cecil Espy,” my grandfather’s youngest brother, who was a college student during that time period.)
One of the most useful references I have relative to the history of Oysterville is a book called Oysterville Cemetery Sketches. It was written in 1988 by Marie Oesting and is, essentially, a collection of memories by (then) old-timers about the people buried up on Davis Hill. The illustrations are by Larry Weathers –simple line drawings of the gravestones in the pioneer section of the graveyard.
Last evening we had occasion to see Marie once more. She lives in southern California now and is known by the name ‘Roena.’ We saw her at Clatsop Community College where she was doing a one-woman performance: “Prison Reform Work Then (and now?) A Visit With Elizabeth Fry: 1780-1845.”
The journey was long, difficult and boring and, until the British Ladies Association became involved, upon arrival in the women had nothing — no money, no contacts, no prospects. The British Ladies Association taught the women to quilt so that they would have an occupation during the voyage and a product to sell or barter once they arrived.
One of the many pleasures of being a retired teacher in the same small community where you taught is watching your former students grow and flourish. Over the years, I’ve seen ‘my kids’ become teachers, nurses, software technicians, auto mechanics, school board members, moms, dads, and (gulp!) even grandparents! The other day I realized that one of my long-ago second graders has become the local Martha Stewart, though I’m not sure she’d take that comparison as a compliment.
Friends Erik and Pat Fagerland came over late yesterday afternoon – Erik to clean out our chicken coop and Pat ‘along for the ride.’ I think it’s the third voluntary coop cleanout that Erik’s done since Nyel has been listed in the crippled column. To say we are in his debt is not even close.
Though I was only two steps behind, Pat was already snapping photos by the time I approached. I chose to go inside the run with the intruder, knowing that pictures taken through that chicken wire are not always optimum. The crow considered me closely, did a few fly-bys and then settled down to pose this way and that on the chicken’s outdoor roost.
My mother, Dale Espy Little, was known for her hats. For the reception after her 2009 memorial service, I decorated our porch with all the hats that she had left behind and invited the women who had come to her “goodbye” to take one/
Last night we attended a “Thank You Reception” to officially mark our friend Kay Buesing’s retirement as founding director of the World Kite Museum and Hall of Fame. It was held (of course!) at the museum that Kay and her late husband Jim got started years ago – on a kite string, so to speak. Now, twenty-three years later, the “only American museum devoted exclusively to kites” is a mecca for kite enthusiasts world-wide, and its million dollar building and property are fully paid for. And Kay did it!
Speaking from personal experience, even if kites aren’t “your thing,” Kay’s quiet enthusiasm and her deep knowledge of ‘all things kite’ simply suck you in. Suddenly, there you are in the midst of a roomful of kids learning how to make their first-ever kite. Or maybe you are meeting a delegation of origami experts at Chico’s the night before an Asian kite festival, helping to get them fed and settled in for the weekend.
