I had posted my blog.  Barely.  All the while I had been writing it, strange hesitancies and uncertainties were signaling me that all was not well in computer land.  “A virus,” I said to myself and proceeded to double-click on my handy-dandy antivirus program.  I was absolutely right, though it was the wrong thing to do.  But how could I have anticipated that my anti-virus program contained a virus?

It took a little time to determine that I was not going to be able to resuscitate the computer without professional help, so I toddled off to Mike’s Computer Repair and left it with Mike’s daughter.  Mike was out making a house call.  He touched base in the afternoon, said he could fix it, it would be XXX amount and it would be ready by ten the next morning.

The call came just as we were gearing up to go to a friend’s for dinner.  Never mind that we had houseguests and both Nyel and I wondered why in the world I had thought it would be okay to desert the homefires and leave them in the lurch.  But… there it was on the calendar and, of course, our houseguests said, “Go!  Go!  We’ll be fine!”

Home again! Home again!

Something about the looks of the house when we got to our destination didn’t sit quite right.  There was an extra car in the yard.  (Maybe another couple invited though that hadn’t been mentioned??)  But…  I boldly rang the bell, someone inside turned down a TV, our erstwhile host answered the door and gave us the blankest look I’ve ever seen.

After insisting that we “Come in! Come in!” and introducing us to his in-laws and calling his wife to help sort things out, we discovered that our dinner date was for July 17^th, not June 17^th.  Despite their gracious insistence that we stay, we extricated ourselves as quickly as possible, leaving a dozen of the girls’ finest as a consolation hostess gift.

Nyel’s comment on the drive home:  “Well, that’s never happened to me before!”  Me either. And I couldn’t help offering a silent plea that it wasn’t to be the first of many such mix-ups.  At our age, you never know!

We got home in time to tuck into fried oysters (“We have plenty!”) prepared by our long suffering friends who loved our story and were suitably reassuring about the state of our minds.  (Mostly mine since I am in charge of the social scheduling.)

Same Time Next Month? is a post from: Sydney of Oysterville

In many ways I am a late bloomer.  For instance, it’s taken me most of my 77 years to realize that I am a “people person.”  I’ve always known, of course, that I enjoy people and, in fact, am even energized by people.  But I also have a large dose of ‘shy’ in my personality (hard to believe, I know!) and until recently that has often interfered with my comfort level in certain social situations.

All that being said, I have now concluded that I’d like to be a sociologist ‘when I grow up.’  I am fascinated by the interactions among the people I meet and, most specifically, among the people I know and love.  Here in Oysterville, we live in the perfect Petri dish for making certain societal observations.

Just within the last two weeks, for instance, we have a new, full-time couple in town.  More than a year ago, they bought Polly’s house at the end of the street but have been living and working in Southern California.  Apparently, they have now retired, packed up their belongings, and have moved here on a permanent basis.  We have not yet met them, but hope the opportunity presents itself soon.

Meanwhile, their full-time status has gone a long way toward evening up the number of full-timers at the two ends of the village.  In fact, we now seem to have a big enough population that people are beginning to identify residents as living at the “north end” or at the “south end” of town.  

I don’t think there is any underlying implication to the distinction – not like saying that people live on the other side of the tracks.  (Perhaps it is fortunate that the train never made it to Oysterville, after all!)  When I become a sociologist, maybe I’ll better understand how the addition of a few people can tip the balance in the perception of a community..

Closer to home, there is the matter of our Friday Night gatherings – a time when our friends – new, old, close-by neighbors, far-away visitors – come to share some food and fellowship. There is no “agenda” or “topic of the eveing.”  People talk about whatever is on their minds at the moment – sometimes serious, sometimes silly, and sometimes not even very interesting.  That’s what makes every Friday Night an adventure,.

Over the years, some of our friends have become “regulars,” some are more like “irregulars,” and occasionally we hear about “wannabes” who we also try to make welcome.  Our intent has always to be inclusive, rather than exclusive. Very often, of course, our guests don’t know one another for, despite the limited numbers in the village, itself, our friends come from far and wide.  And, occasionally, the mix of people in our living room have little in common and don’t see eye-to-eye at all.

When I become a sociologist, I’m going to take a look at how that turn of events might be handled.  I’m already taking notes.  A few regulars have actually stopped coming over on Fridays.  Several have suggested that we conduct our Friday evenings more like the “French Salons” of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.  Others have expressed a desire to monitor our guest list.  Hmmm.  Without the benefit (yet!) of that Sociology Degree, I think I’ll just go back just four or five decades to the wisdom of Leslie Gore who famously sang, “It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to…” 

of demographics, dynamics, and friendship is a post from: Sydney of Oysterville

Fun dads lived in Oysterville.  They wore hip boots and sou’westers to work and their comings and goings were marked by the tides, not by the calendar or the clock.  They sometimes came home for breakfast about the time we were thinking about lunch.  When they weren’t “out on the beds,” they were working on their boats or sleeping or drinking coffee at the kitchen table.  And, best of all, they had time to saddle a horse for us, or dredge out a swimming hole at the high tide line and once in a while even took us kids out on the boat with them and we would have a day on the bay while ‘they did some business.’

When my own father was in Oysterville, he was ‘on vacation’ and so were his suits and ties except for Sundays if there was a service at the church.  He and my mother would take me (often with a friend or two) out to the beach where we would explore the wreck of the Solano or gather bark for burning in the fireplace or hunt for wild strawberries in the dunes.  We’d go on picnics down near my grandfather’s boathouse or go up to Fort Canby and explore the bunkers.  For those two or three vacation weeks, my dad was a ‘fun dad,’ too.

In retrospect, I think real versus fun in the dad department hinged on my mother’s often-heard admonition, “Don’t bother your father until after dinner.”  Any problems, concerns, favors-to-ask or games to play always were to be put on hold until Daddy had had an opportunity to relax and shed the cares of his day.

The magic of Oysterville, from my childish perspective of course, was that none of the dads had worries or routines or anything to do that couldn’t include the kids now and again – not even my own dad when he was here!  How I wish they were all still here so I could wish them all a Happy Father’s Day!

Real Dads versus Oysterville Dads is a post from: Sydney of Oysterville

For sure the honeysuckle is right on schedule.  I know that because I can always count on bouquets of those sweet-smelling blossoms to place in the church for our first Vespers service, usually on Father’s Day.  They don’t make the showiest of bouquets, but their fragrance seems nostalgic and old-fashioned, just like the building.  I already have a few bowls of them in the house and the scent is heavenly, especially in the evening and early morning.

On my walk-about, I noticed that the first York roses are in bloom – a little later than usual, I think,  but looking healthier than they have for several years.  For thirty or forty years they have thrived (more-or-less, but mostly less for the last decade) in one of the center garden beds.  Much to my distress, they have been gradually choked out by Shasta daisies and day lilies so Nyel moved a half dozen plants a few years back and put them in gigantic wooden tubs.  They now seem much happier, thank goodness!

I wish we could do as much for Nyel’s peonies.  He remembers peonies (he says “pee-own-ies”; I say pee- a-nies) from his grandmother’s garden in Idaho.  They were always ready to take up to the cemetery on Decoration Day.  Ours are just budding out by then and usually fall off the stems before they blossom fully.  Theresa at the Planter Box said to put ice around them during the winter months, especially if it was a warm winter.

I have to say that ‘icing the peonies’ was one of those things that quickly fell off the memory radar.  We thought a about it three or four times and that was it.  Even so, the flowers have fully bloomed, though not in time for Memorial Day.  And, sadly, the stems are so weak that the blossoms are lying on the ground.  More ice next year?  Some special kind of fertilizer?  What?

All-in-all, the garden is looking pretty good.  The tiger lilies are about to burst forth; the Oriental poppies are blooming brightly; the apples on William’s Pride need thinning.  Now, if the weather holds, we can set up the croquet court and have a picnic or two!  We’re definitely ready for summer here in Oysterville!

Mid-June Garden Report from Oysterville is a post from: Sydney of Oysterville

Meanwhile… I had spent most of my day in the ER at Ocean Beach Hospital.  Long story.  Bottom line:  the pain and swelling in my left leg is not caused by a DVT (deep vein thrombosis, alias blood clot) but by a hematoma caused (probably) by a torn muscle.  Prognosis:  it will heal on its own given time and normal use.

The diagnosis only corroborated what I thought in the first place (doncha love/hate it when that happens?) but, after ten days of increasing discomfort, I was looking for confirmation.  It was one of those series of unfortunate circumstances:  my primary care guru was out of town; the PA taking his patients was slammed; and, when told my symptoms, decided on the basis of my age (old) that I should go directly to the ER.

At Ocean Beach Hospital, the ER doctor (who I loved) thought an ultrasound was warranted but the only qualified technician was no longer with them so they arranged for a hurry-up appointment across the river at Columbia Memorial.  By that time, Nyel was through with his subbing job – in fact, school was out for the summer! – and, in the way of small communities, he had been notified that I was in the ER.  So he was on hand to drive me over for the ultrasound…

And so the day proceeded.  By the time we got home, Cyndy’s fence structure was completed and today Nyel’s “hand-made” pickets will be collected from our garage and installed.  This time, all things being equal, we’ll be around for at least part of the construction process.   It’s always comforting to watch the changes as they are taking place.  Much better than being gobsmacked by the realization that your expertise as a sidewalk superintendent wasn’t needed after all!  And way, way better than spending the day in the ER!

…one of those aggravating lost days… is a post from: Sydney of Oysterville