Expanding My View

May 19th, 2012
Wilho Saari in Concert

     I wasn’t quite prepared for what I saw last night at the Columbia Pacific Heritage Museum.  It was the opening of “Working With Tradition: Folk Artists of Washington State.”  The exhibition includes fourteen illustrated information panels sent from the Washington State Historical Society– a traveling show to which local museums add their own artifacts and examples of their area’s “folk art.”
     Each of the panels featured a Washington State artist working in what I would characterize as an “ethnic tradition.”  Folk art, yes, but basically from other cultures and brought to our state from the rich traditions of other countries.  A much different look at folk art than what I expected.
      According to the exhibit’s introductory information, the term “folk art” came into use in the early 1950s and originally described objects such as weather vanes and cigar store Indians.  Perhaps I was stuck in that era – or at least overly influenced by several visits to the American Folk Art Museum in New York years ago.  I think my expectations were of those sorts of things that are now termed “antique folk art” – items never intended to be ‘art for art’s sake’ at the time of their creation, often made to serve a specific purpose in the lives of everyday people.   In my mind weathervanes andold store signs, carousel horses and scrimshaw, duck decoys and, yes, cigar store Indians and weathervanes were what folk art was all about.
     From my limited viewpoint, then, thank goodness for the artifacts from the CPHM collection that rounded out the exhibit!  There were the colorful models of Seaview cottages made by Dr. Robert Blancher and by Ruth Mustola.  There was the tiny model of the gone-but-not-forgotten Loomis mansion by Gil Diaz and the model of the North Beach ferry – that particular ferry before my time, but bringing back nostalgic memories all the same.
     I loved Otto Oja’s wood sculptures and Theodore Lugnut’s knot decorated frames.  And how about that intricately fashioned bouquet of hair, much like the ones still hanging in the Red House in Oysterville done by my great-grandmother!  And then, the colorful beaded costumes that were of unknown origin and given by unnamed donors.  Talk about “folk art!”  Perfect!
     Best of all, of course, was the display about Wilho Saari and his kantele music.  It was a thrill to realize that our Naselle neighbor was one of the featured folk artists in the traveling exhibit but the extra bonus to us last night, of course, was that Mr. Saari was there in person giving a kantele concert.
     He not only played – and for one number, sang! – but he told about this national instrument of Finland and shared stories of his family’s long association with it, from the time of his great-grandmother back in the ‘old country.’.  When Mr. Saari was a child, seven-plus decades ago, his father was probably the only kantele player in the Northwest, he told us.  Now, thanks in large measure to the teaching of Wilho Saari, himself, there are many more kantele musicians in this region.  Last night, however, I knew I was hearing the best – living folk art right here on the peninsula.  Fabulous!

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Priorities and a Sense of Place

May 18th, 2012
Memorial Installation, Long Beach

     Behind the police station in Long Beach, in the area that was all too briefly the Friday Market, a new and interesting memorial is being placed.  It will involve a semicircle of flags, the central one in the arc a “ginormous” one, according to the city worker who spoke to me.  Each of the concrete supports will house a floodlight and be faced with a bronze plaque honoring one of our services – army, navy, air force, marines, coastguard, plus one for the POWs. The flags will surround a concrete patio with a huge bell.
     I don’t know the story behind the memorial yet.  There has not been an article about it in the paper.  So, I was more than curious and, I have to admit, I had some uncharitable thoughts – like “what about Verna Oller’s swimming pool?”
     I talked to a few people about that and, as I suspected, I was looking at apples (mom and apple pie, more likely) and asking about oranges (or, maybe by now, lemons).  The city of Long Beach is still vigorously exploring the pool possibilities but, so far, the sticking points continue to be on-going maintenance, liability insurance and other operating costs – expenses that Verna specified could not come out of the four and a half million dollars she left to the city.  It’s a BIG problem.
     Meanwhile, the memorial behind the police station was a straight-ahead project – apparently affordable and doable in short order. And, very probably, it will be enormously popular.  After all, Long Beach is the city that boasts “Loyalty Days: Since 1950, the longest consecutively running loyalty celebration in the nation.”
     My thoughts also flew to what creates a town’s character.  Is it significant that Long Beach never voted funds for a library but might have more go-carts per capita than any other town in the Northwest?  And what single image comes to mind when I think of other towns here on the Peninsula?
     In Seaview, it’s tree-lined streets with their charming Victorian cottages.  In Ocean Park, it’s clam guns at Jack’s Country Store and easy beach access.  In Nahcotta, it’s the piles of oyster shells near a dock crowded with oyster dredges.  In Oysterville, it’s the quiet bayside vistas and the “time stood still” feeling.
     I wonder what comes to mind for other people.  How personal is a sense of place and how does a place determine its priorities?  Thoughts to ponder…

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Cock-a-doodle… Stew!

May 17th, 2012

     Yesterday was the Big Day for our six-week-old chickens.  They are pretty well feathered out now and the weather has warmed up, so yesterday was Moving Day.  Farmer Nyel transferred them from their big cardboard box (with heat lamp) in our back room to their newly refurbished coop outside.  In excited anticipation, one of the Silver Laced Wyandottes gave a hoarse and incomplete – but very distinctive – cock-a-doodle-doo!
     Somehow, the fact that this young hen has turned out to be a rooster is all my fault!  I knew from the day his comb began to show, which was very early indeed, that all was not well in our makeshift henhouse.  I mentioned it several times and, wouldn’t you know, I am getting the blame.  I have repeatedly expressed my concern about several other “hens” and I am sure I’ll be credited with their ‘transformation’ as well!
     So far, Sir Wyandotte is quite docile – even wimpy in my opinion.  When I tried to take his photograph yesterday afternoon, he cleverly managed to surround himself with his coop-mates most of the time.  He didn’t seem ready to strut his stuff quite yet – probably waiting until he has his crowing perfected.
     We are actually hoping that he continues his understated ways.  Our friend Larry Holland, far more experienced in the ways of chickens than we are, maintains that a flock is happier and more manageable with a rooster in charge.  Maybe.  But every rooster we’ve ever had has eventually turned mean – mean to the hens and mean to the humans.  So, if that is the case again, it will be the stewpot for Mr. Wyandotte! 

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Cow Parsnip: A Sure Sign of Summer

May 16th, 2012

     Our lower meadow will soon be a mass of Cow Parsnip.  The large white flowers are just coming on – a sure sign that summer is just over the horizon.  In the days when I was a schoolgirl and came north each June from California, the stands of Cow Parsnip along the road as we neared Oysterville always told me that we were “almost to Granny’s.”
     I’m not sure why we call it “Cow Parsnip.”  Most self-respecting cows steer clear of it.  Somehow they must know (probably by the smell) that eating it will make their milk have an unpleasant taste.  It often grows often along roadways or in “disturbed areas.”   (Disturbed by grazing cattle?)  It is invasive, but should not be confused with its cousin, Giant Hogweed, which is much larger and is on the Washington State List of Noxious Weeds.
     Cow Parsnip’s botanical name is Heracleum maximum – the “heraculeum” coming from Hercules and referring to the very large size of all parts of the plant.  It is also said that Hercules used the plants for medicinal purposes.  I don’t know how that can be verified, but I have read that many Native American groups did use the plant for both medicine and food.
     Perhaps the most common use was to make poultices to be applied to bruises or sores. Another handy use for
this 
time of year was made from an infusion of the flowers (which have an unpleasant odor) and was rubbed on the body to repel flies and mosquitoes.
     But the plant, which is related to parsnips and carrots, is also edible – if properly prepared. By peeling the outer skins from the young stalks and leaf stems the strong flavor is avoided, yielding a celery-like vegetable with a sweetish flavor.  The stems, which are hollow were dried to make drinking straws for the old or infirm and, apparently also – my favorite – to make flutes for children!  As if all that were not enough, a yellow dye can be made from the roots.
     The downside is that the juices of all parts of Cow Parsnip contain a photo-toxin that can act on contact with skin in combination with exposure to sunlight and can cause anything from a mild rash to a blistering, severe dermatitis, depending on the sensitivity of the individual.  Sounds a lot like the poison oak I grew up with in the San Francisco Bay Area.
     With Cow Parsnip, though, if the sun doesn’t hit it, there is no reaction.  That must explain why I’ve gathered the big stalks for dried flower arrangements and never had a twinge.  Bless the frequent cloud cover of Oysterville!

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In the Eye of the Beholder

May 15th, 2012

The H.A. Espys, 1904

     My grandmother’s letters to her children (written almost one hundred years ago) are sprinkled with comments like:  Be sure not to sit up late.  With all the afternoon at your disposal you should always be in bed by 9:30 and Be careful of your health.  You must not neglect Grippe and develop pneumonia.
     It is those kind of remarks that give me a picture of day-to-day concerns and thoughts of the era in which my mother and her siblings grew up.   Those gentle admonitions and bits of advice offer an intimate look at family relationships of the last century.  It’s the kind of ‘history’ I most enjoy and why I based my Dear Medora book, on the correspondence between my grandmother and her oldest daughter.
     I was, therefore, a bit taken aback a few years ago when an acquaintance who had just read the book asked me, “Did you know your grandmother?”
    “Yes, very well,” I responded.  “She didn’t die until I was in college.”
     “Was she always so bossy?”
     “Bossy?!  Not at all.  She was a gentle sort of person.  I would never consider her bossy,” I said.
     “Oh,” was the response, “she always seemed to be telling Medora what to do – not to forget her umbrella or to spend more time studying or…”
     I’m afraid I became rather snappish at that point.  “I guess I just call that good parenting,” I said.
     Variations on that conversation have come up since, most recently after my “Author! Author!” presentation on Mother’s Day.  A few of the audience members and I talked about the differences in how children are brought up today.  One person referred to today’s parenting-style-of-choice as “The Discovery Method” as compared to “The Guidance Method” of past years.
     Perhaps each has its merits.  The discussion led, of course, to whether or not children need boundaries or just a safety net and how we perceive the role of adults in our fast-moving society.  It was one of those never-ending sorts of discussions and I’m sure it will come up again.  (And, I might add – Dear Medora may not be on any best seller lists, but I consider it a total success as long it continues to provoke such thoughts.)

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No Other Explanation

May 14th, 2012

     When you share your home with a ghost, Things Happen.  We, of course, know that Mrs. Crouch is always nearby.  She manifests herself in various ways – usually playful, seldom mean.  She causes doors to open or shut, a single sock to go missing in the laundry, or an icy draft to occur where logic tells us it cannot be.  She’s been in the house since 1892 – a full decade longer than the Espys, and we feel as though she is part of the family.
     Mrs. Sarah Crouch was the wife of Oysterville’s Baptist preacher (who turned out not to be a preacher at all.)  They lived here in the ‘parsonage’ for about a year.  The household included their baby girl as well as the young brother and the mother of Reverend Josiah Crouch.  The pastor was outgoing and personable – “had an eye for the women,” Tommy Nelson said – and Sarah was shy.  She didn’t get out much.
     Unhappily for her, she did agree to go with her husband on a church call up the Willapa River.  In some unknown manner, their boat tipped over.  The preacher managed to swim ashore with the baby but Mrs. Crouch drowned.  There were marks on her neck… There was an investigation…  There was a warrant out for the pastor’s arrest.  He quickly skedaddled… with another man’s wife.
     My mother’s explanation for why Mrs. Crouch is still hanging around this house was that she was happy here in Oysterville.  I hope that’s so.  My explanation, though, is that she is still craving the attention that Josiah never gave her.  She’s a bit passive aggressive and certainly an “all about me” kind of gal.  Take yesterday, for instance…
       My “Mother’s Day Author! Author!” event was scheduled to begin at 4:00.  It was to open with a short DVD – a set-up for the Dear Medora reading to follow – and my friend Betsy had offered to be the techie person.  We had done a run-through a week or so ago and there were a few glitches that took time to iron out so yesterday Betsy arrived with all the necessary equipment at 2:30.  There was plenty of time to set up the projector, the screen, and the speakers, and to get everything plugged in and connected to her laptop.
     Insert disk.  Play!  But it was not to be.  One unexplained thing after another happened.  When people began to arrive Betsy was still turning everything off, physically disconnecting, rebooting.  When one problem was “fixed” something else went wrong.  Usually the difficulty was that everything stopped dead-in-the-water (so to speak) at second number two, according to the counter in the corner of the screen.  There was no Plan B.
     Nevertheless, at the appointed time, we began.  Betsy, intrepid to the end, pushed the play button and voilá!  The picture came up, the music came on (and stayed on past second-number-two) and it all worked perfectly.  Obviously, Mrs. Crouch had been on the rampage but had finally decided to let Dear Medora take center stage after all.  There was no other explanation.

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What you see… the willing suspension of disbelief

May 13th, 2012

     Son Charlie sent me some photographs taken during a rehearsal for “Measure for Measure.”  Had I not known they were of my only son-and-heir, and had I not known the circumstances under which they were done, I think I would have been truly mystified.  And intrigued.
     From now through October, Charlie is working at the Theatricum Botanicum, a repertory theater in Los Angeles.  He has small parts in two plays – the aforementioned “Measure for Measure” and “A Midsummer’s Night Dream.”  The director of “Measure” has set it in San Francisco in the sixties, during the time of the flower children and peace marches and general unrest concerning our nation’s role in Viet Nam.
     It’s a time I well remember, as does Charlie.  We were living in the East Bay (Castro Valley) then and had a number of friends in San Francisco.  Some even lived in the Haight Ashbury district and we were often on the edge of the protests and in the thick of the folk singing.  I didn’t burn my bra or wrap myself in a flag, but I was definitely a sympathizer.
     San Francisco 1968 is a background that’s apparently a good fit for the plot of “Measure for Measure.”  (I have to confess that I have not seen or read the play for a long time.)  In addition to his part as Barnardine, Charlie appears in the crowd scenes as a Viet Nam veteran.  He is in a wheelchair and to change his appearance from the Barnardine character, he wears a beard.  He is also carrying a sign which is why he sent the photograph.  (He had made it and I was curious.)
     Even though I know I’m looking at Charlie, it’s hard for me to wrap my head around that fact.  What a difference a little make-up, a beard and a few costume pieces make.   He tells me that he leads the singing and at some point in the scene he cries.  That caused a problem in the first dress rehearsal – his tears dissolved the mustache stick-um and he said trying to keep it in place with as little notice as possible made him feel like he was in a bad Lucille Ball comedy.  But, that’s what rehearsals are all about – finding the right glue!
     As I look at this picture, it’s as though I’m seeing someone familiar but I can’t quite place him.  I wonder how I’ll feel when I see the play in June.  One thing is certain – I won’t miss him.  He will certainly stand out, wheelchair or no wheelchair, in the crowd.  That’s my boy!

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Oysterville Perfection!

May 12th, 2012

     I was told last night that it’s supposed to get up to 80° today.  Don’t I wish!  The ‘report’ was given by Mark at our Friday night gathering and was met by moans and groans from everyone but me.  “Too hot!” they all said.  “Perfect!” say I.
     But I’m a bit of a doubting Thomas when it comes to weather on the Northwest Coast.  To me, eighty usually feels like sixty-five or seventy.  It’s the wind, I think.  People talk a lot about the wind chill factor in the winter when the temperatures are already low.  If the thermometer reads 30° and the wind is blowing at twenty-miles-per (which is fairly normal here in winter) it feels like it’s 17° out.  I agree totally.  But no one talks “wind chill” in summer.
     It seems logical to me that since we always have that ‘nice’ marine breeze blowing, 80° will never feel like 80° no matter how many people put on their shorts and sun-block.  Not like the eighty degrees of my warm-and-toasty California childhood.  If the temperature reaches Mark’s forecast today, I say it will feel like a very pleasant seventy-something.
     However, it seems I’m totally wrong about all that.  According to my ‘extensive online research,’ if it’s eighty degrees with a twenty-mile-an-hour wind, it will feel like eighty-three.  Go figure!
     Nevertheless, we are ready!  Nyel brought  the summertime accouterments out of hiding yesterday – the lawn chairs, the yard art, the cannon.  The Jean Maries are out in full force.  The lilacs are in bloom and the honeysuckle is coming on.  The garden looks nice, smells nice and, all things being equal, it’s going to feel nice.  We plan to eat outside and maybe even have a snooze in the sun.  Oysterville perfection!
     In the back of my mind, my father gets full credit.  He loved the sunshine and planned this garden so it would be at its best on May 12th.  Were he still with us, he would be 103 today.  Happy Birthday, Dad!

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Way More Fun!

May 11th, 2012

     We went calling the other evening – down the road a couple of miles to Betsy and Mark’s place.  They have two new fuzzy little ducklings and we went to make their acquaintance.  I’ve never actually seen that proverbial barrel of monkeys, but I can’t imagine that they’d be any more fun!
     These little darlings are called Swedish Blacks and right now they are black and yellow.  When their feathers come in, they’ll be black and white.  Their legs are toothpick skinny, their feet are about five times too big, and their wings (which they flap frequently) are so small as to be non-existent.  But mostly, they are busy.  Very busy.
     Usually, they live in the shower which is lined with newspaper to make clean-up even easier.  (Ducks are prize poopers which is definitely a consideration of adoption.)  They have a paint tray full of water in there and they happily paddle (and poop) when left to their own devices.  Until they get the hang of it, baby ducklings can drown Betsy told me, so the paint tray is perfect.  They can always touch bottom.
     When we arrived, they were outside in a little makeshift pen, waddling and quacking and having a great time.  We got to transfer them to a wading pool and, as long as there we lifeguards were present, they could practice swimming in water way over their heads.  They are just learning to dive and to swim under water.  So cute.  But sort of exhausting to watch.  They have not yet learned the fine art of placidly floating on the surface, looking serene and purposeful.  Right now they are all about busy.
     After being towel-dried, the ducklings were taken inside where Betsy quacked up and down the hallway and the two little ducks dutifully followed.  Bonding practice.  It was hysterical – and not altogether a perfect demonstration of obedience.  But, after all, they were only four or five days old.  I wanted to tell them “The Story About Ping” – Kurt Weise’s cautionary tale about the little duckling that would not mind.  But I didn’t think they were old enough to get it.
     As much as we adore our little chicks – who actually are more at the gawky teenaged stage now – I have to say that ducks are way more fun.   And, they eat slugs!!  But, it’s the trade-off – poop or slugs?  Definitely on my “Things to Ponder” list.  Oh, and did I mention that this is a “pair” – a male and a female?  Maybe by the time they are ready to hatch a family, we will have reached the fowl decision.

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and speaking of P.G. Wodehouse…

May 10th, 2012
H. A. Espy

       I just love P.G. Wodehouse.  In times of stress or when I want to be completely distracted from serious thinking, I turn to him.  He’s funny – often outrageous – his characters are impossible and his plots outlandish.  Plus, he often makes me think – usually about nonsensical things, but that’s a welcome change for a deep thinker such as myself.
     My favorites, of course, are any of his books about Jeeves or Bertie Wooster or Blandings Castle.  Right now I’m reading Lord Emsworth and Others and find, as usual words to ponder.  Take, for instance, some of his remarks concerning moustaches:
     Where, I’ve often asked myself, are the great sweeping moustaches of our boyhood,..  questions one of the characters.  The answer:…in the remoter rural districts you will still find these curious growths flourishing.
     Well, I can’t speak for current times in rural England, but here in our own “remoter rural district” I know of one or two remarkable mustaches.  Immediately, Lance Wright comes to mind.  Although I haven’t seen him since a Rodeo Breakfast almost a year ago, at that time his mustache was fabulous.  And, at the high school, there is Michael Cline whose facial décor is truly a most luxuriant “mustachio.”  Wodehouse would have been proud.
     When I was a child, mustaches and other facial hair among adult males were not popular.  None of the fathers of my friends had beards or mustaches, nor did my own dad until he was well into his seventies.  I’m not sure why he changed his grooming habits of a lifetime but, when he did we all thought his trim beard made him look very distinguished.
     My uncle Willard, too, was clean-shaven during my childhood but had a luxuriant mustache in later life.  One of his fans (if you can call an outspoken critic “a fan”) wrote him a downright nasty letter accusing him of harboring vermin and germs and all manner of grotesque items in his mustache.  She even went so far as to say that she wouldn’t read any of his books until she saw evidence that he had shaved!
     The other night on Jeopardy, the answer and question involved a certain type of beard.  I knew what it was immediately – a Van Dyke!  My grandfather, H. A. Espy, had a Van Dyke and it was the subject of many family stories – mostly about how everyone in the family was kept waiting for something-or-other to begin “while Papa trimmed his whisters.”
     When he was in his eighties and “it was time,” his four (still living) children made the difficult decision to place Papa in a nursing home.  The nearest facility was in Vancouver and after getting him settled, they stayed overnight in town so they could visit him again before returning to Oysterville.
     In the morning they were horrified to find that he had been shaved.  Never in all their lives (and they were in their 50s and 60s) had they seen Papa without his Van Dyke.  They immediately checked him out of ‘the home,’ brought him back to Oysterville, arranged for in-home care, and felt a whole lot better when his Van Dyke grew back.
     As for Wodehouse, himself – he was clean-shaven for most of his ninety-four years except for a short time in mid-life when he did sport a rather small mustache.  Perhaps it was the model for the one he complains about in the story I’m reading:  He’ll have to let it grow or shave it off… He can’t go on sitting on the fence like this.  Either a man has a mustache or he has not.  There can be no middle course. 

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