…

Peggy came to the zoo in 2009 from a conservation center in Mena, Ark. The Association of Zoos and Aquariums, which coordinates nationwide breeding programs for many of the species housed by zoos, recommended her for breeding with the kittens’ father, Cricket, because the cats are from the same subspecies. Cricket was born at the Lory Park Zoo and Owl Sanctuary in South Africa, and moved to the Oregon Zoo in winter 2011.

The zoo’s caracal habitat, which was built with the support of Portland General Electric, is part of the zoo’s Predators of the Serengeti exhibit. The caracals have access to a heated den and a spacious landscape dotted with trees, shrubs, heated rocks and grassy knolls, all of which are enriching for the feline residents.

Caracals live in the woodlands and savannas of Africa, Southwest Asia and the Arabian Peninsula. While caracals are listed in the category of “least concern” by the International Union for Conservation of Nature, hunting and habitat loss pose risks to wild populations. The caracal is listed in Appendix II of the Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species of Wild Fauna and Flora. CITES is an international treaty controlling the trade of threatened and endangered plants and animals.

So, if you want to stop by the Oregon Zoo and give Peggy a thumbs up, you can find out all you need to know at http://www.oregonzoo.org/  It’s sure a lot cheaper than going to Africa, Southwest Asia or the Arabian Peninsula. Tell her hello for me – smile.

Luv,

Sissy

Yellow Warbler captured and briefly held in a birding class the first weekend of May; photo by Marvin Kellar

…. sit high in banana tree (music music)…. oops… wrong country… no banana trees in central Harney County and that’s where the little bugger was found. This yellow warbler (Dendroica petechia), was captured in an invisible net long enough for members of a birding class to take its picture.

The class took place in the Malheur National Wildlife Refuge, which is one of the premiere sites for birds and birding in the U.S. Located in the center of the southeast quarter of the state, 30 miles south of Burns, the refuge consists of over 187,000 acres of habitat which include wetlands, riparian areas, meadows, and uplands.

The yellow warbler spends its winters in Central and South America, and doesn’t arrive in Oregon until April or May. It tends to begin heading south again in July, or August at the latest.

The photographers on this weekend trip (Marvin Kellar and Larry Rea), photographed 120 birds. You could do it too – except you are not licensed to net them – you just have to catch sight of them in the bushes – alas.

Luv,

Sissy

Reissued to honor Oregon’s 150th birthday, sales of the plates ($100 buys “Pacific Wonderland” as a permanent commemorative) support the Oregon Historical Society and the Foundation’s Oregon History Gateway Project. The plates are available through any DMV office or download the application form on DMV’s website.

The Oregon State Capitol Foundation’s program, will feature our State Capitol as “The People’s Building.” Their core values are to educate people, preserve the past, showcase individuals and events, reflect our diversity and demonstrate the worth of remembering what has gone before. Find out more at: http://www.leg.state.or.us/cap_news/Capitol_HistCenter_Newsletter.html

We’ve got something to look forward to – smile.

Luv,

Sissy

Hone sweet home for black widow spiders; photo by Bing Bingham

Doing business in a small farm town is like living and working around your extended family. Social circles are small and your reputation precedes you.

Not long ago, my wife and I decided to sell our old riding lawn mower. It was taking up space and had been sitting in our parts boneyard for a couple years. I yanked it out of the brush and dragged it to town for some TLC by our local small engine mechanic.

“Ask him to get it running,” I said to the receptionist.

“No problem,” she said, “we’ll get it back to you next week.”

Three weeks went by with no word from the shop.

“I dropped a riding mower off a while back,” I said on the phone, “I haven’t heard anything.”

“Ummmm…we’re sorry it took so long Mr. Bingham, we had a little problem,” the receptionist said, “but it’s ready to go and you can pick it up the next time you’re in town.”

A couple days later, I headed to the repair shop.

“What was the trouble?” I asked, thinking in terms of parts shipping problems, as the receptionist handed me the repair bill.

“Well,” she said reluctantly, “one of the mechanics spotted a big black widow spider hiding near the valve cover.”

“Uh oh,” I thought to myself.

The spider must have been quite a surprise for the mechanic, but they’re not unknown in our region. However, it wouldn’t be a big deal after a judicious application from a spray can of “Spider Be Dead.”

“Well, I guess he didn’t see the spider’s egg sac when he sprayed the first time,” she continued.

“Oh no,” I said, thinking something entirely different to myself.

“The egg sac hatched while they were working on other machines,” she went on, “there were baby black widows running everywhere!”

I was at a loss for words. What do you say to a person after unleashing a hoard of tiny, poisonous spiders in his work environment? Somehow, “I’m sorry,” seems lame.

“Sorry about the spiders,” I babbled lamely, as the mechanic walked by, “I had no idea.”

“We got it handled,” he said, brusquely, “just pay the bill up front.”

Horribly embarrassed, I looked at the invoice and, on the bottom, was an extra hundred bucks for fumigation fees. Quietly, I paid my bill and went home.

Two days later, when the buyers showed up to collect their mower, I didn’t mention the spiders—I felt there’d been enough conversations about Black Widows.

Bing Bingham is a writer, rancher and storyteller. He tries to keep his biting, stinging and poisonous pests to himself. For more stories, check http://bingbingham.com/blog/   

Saturday, May 19, in Lincoln City Oregon

… coming up Saturday, May 19th, in Lincoln City. You know how jealous your dog gets when he watches those uppity dog shows? Well, here’s a show any ole dog can enter. Look at these categories and then go for the Gold.

1. Tail Wag Champ – looking for fast and unique.

2. Cutest Puppy – this one explains itself.

3. Fabulous Frisbee Catcher – you throw, dog catches, most stylish catch wins. Limited distance will be provided and catch will not be judged by distance.

4. Unusual Pet Trick – anything you can get your dog to do, this one is up to your dog and his/her human.

5. Most Distinguished Elder – dogs 7 years and older get to show their age – PROUDLY.

6. Sweetest Smoocher – dog kisses you, we judge the most passionate.

7. Best Handshake – you two shake on it, we judge best obedience and form.

8. Best Dressed – any costume will do

9. Most Unique Looking – odd breeds, underbites and tails – the rarer the better.

10. Dog Human Look-a-Like Contest – costumes encouraged.

There are prizes and ribbons and the Best of Show gets a Lincoln City Weekend Package in a pet friendly lodging. Registration starts at 11 am, the show starts at noon and the fee is only $3 per dog. If you don’t have a dog, you can come and watch for a small donation (or a bag of dry dog food). Kids 12 and under get in free – all proceeds (and dog food) goes to support the Lincoln County Animal Shelter and DoveLewis Emergency Animal Hospital.

Now I tell ya, where can you have more fun than that on such a little bit of money – smile. You can find out even more about it at: http://www.oregoncoast.org/mutt-masters/

Just remember, you heard it here.

Luv,

Sissy

What you need to remember is this. They are about the size of a sheep and the color of a sheep but they don’t act like sheep. They think for themselves and act based on what they think. Look for them as you drive by fields of sheep – they are hard to spot because they blend in. When you find them, give them a wide berth. If you want to know more about guard dogs, start by visiting: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maremma_Sheepdog

You’ll find out how sheep herders used them in the Great Pyrenees Mountains. Oh, and don’t confuse them with herding dogs because they aren’t and they don’t – smile. Fascinating stuff!

Luv,

Sissy

Male Western Meadowlark mid-song; photo by Larry Rea

… its Oregon’s state bird (as well as Kansas’, Nebraska’s, North Dakotas, Wyoming’s and Montana’s). The meadowlark is the second most popular state bird after the northern cardinal (state birds for Illinois, Indiana, Kentucky, North Carolina, Ohio, Virginia and West Virginia).  The first state to even have a state bird was Kentucky (1926). Oregon didn’t get one until 1926 when school children chose it in a poll sponsored by the Audubon Society.

The meadowlark is the same family as blackbirds and orioles – you can recognize it by the bright yellow throat and a distinctive black “V” on its breast. You often hear it before – or even instead of – seeing it, and the males that do the singing.

Western meadowlarks forage on the ground and beneath the soil for insects, grain and weed seeds (though it is estimated that at least 65 – 70% of their diet consists of beetles, cutworms, caterpillars, grasshoppers, spiders, sow bugs and snails – yuk).

Meadowlarks are a protected non-game species.

There you have it – your tweet for the day.

Luv,

Sissy

The Matterhorn peak rises to nearly 10,000 feet in the Eagle Cap Wilderness of the Wallowas. Not far from Cougar Ridge a small community of buffalo enjoyed autonomy and the easy life during summers and foraged for sustenance during long cold, tough winters.  The burley critters had never known anything different. Oh, there were stories of the grass being greener in the vast prairie on the other side of Highway 82 but as far as young Willard Buffalo knew, no one had ever ventured across the dangerous barrier to investigate.

Willard nagged his father and pestered his mother about the distant Zumwalt, land of succulent bunchgrass, fescue and bluegrass. His mouth watered at the thought of gorging himself on his favorite wheatgrass.

One day the charming raptor, Rachael Hawk, rode on Willard’s back as he traversed the gulch in search of patches of fescue. They talked about life in the Wallowas. Rachael annoyed Willard with her incessant chatter about the unlimited numbers of ground squirrels and other prey roaming the eastern slopes of Zumwalt Prairie. Willard had no interest in ground squirrels. They were pesky annoyances to him. But Rachael’s mention of the grasses to be found on the high desert ignited the fires of temptation in Willard’s mind. He danced the Buffalo Four-Step as he dreamed of a day when he would muster the courage to see for himself.

“It’s not that far,” Rachael urged, “You could be there in a shadow shift or two.”

“Mom says stay away from there” Willard answered. “She says animals who can’t fly, fall off into deep canyons and never come out.”

“Those are old rabbit tales,” Rachael protested. “Trust me… I’ve flown over the terrain hundreds of times. Willard, old buddy, it’s no worse than crossing the Minam River and hiking up to Point Prominence,” the sleek hawk encouraged. “You do that without thinking, don’t you?”

“Yeah, of course…” Willard snorted. “But I don’t cross 82.”

“That’s just an imagined barrier… erected by some old long-gone childish buffalo… afraid of his own shadow… you going to stay a baby buffalo all your life?”  Rachael taunted.

“It’s easy for you… incessantly riding the air currents above the dangers of being a heavy on uncertain terrain,” Willard protested.

“Gentle rolling hills covered with waves of grain is the only scary thing you’ll find,” Rachael added speaking to Willard’s fear.

Willard didn’t say anything.

Rachael continued, “You choose to believe that stuff based on ignorance? I’m telling you what you’ll really find.”

“Yeah, but… what the herd knows… it’s what I know.” Willard said pawing the ground nervously.

“You don’t know what you’re missing!” Rachael said with a lilt in her voice and lifting herself into the air said, “Think about it.”

Willard stood for a while looking east across Cougar Ridge. The sun was sinking behind him casting his long shadow across the parched ground in front of him. Willard had seen his reflection in pools of water. His massive shadow was impressive. Big enough to defeat fear, he thought.

Willard trotted off toward a grove of trees where his community of buffalo was bedding down for the night. He settled into his accustomed place and waited for sleep.

Chapter 2

Zumwalt Prairie is what the bigs called the “high desert”. It is located in the rolling hills in the Wallowa Mountains of northeastern Oregon. The prairie’s eastern extremity ends at the edge of a cliff that descended deep into Hell’s Canyon and the Snake River below. Birds fly anywhere they like in the vast spaces above the canyon floor. But the sheer, steep grades of the gorge walls make it hard for most of the animals living on the prairie and those dwelling on the river floor to mingle. Brave coyotes did it. Mountain lions and cougars did it. And from time to time adventurous rabbits and squirrels negotiated the treacherous up-and-down trails. But most of the time prairie dwellers stay in the prairie and river dwellers stay on the canyon floor.

Thousands of ground squirrels live in a catacomb of tunnels and chambers beneath the grass-thatched tuff of Zumwalt Prairie. The hardy squirrels called the remote patch of Oregon, home. Not many bigs venture to the Zumwalt. Elizabeth Squirrel, and other wildlife living in the prairie, liked it that way. Elizabeth didn’t know much about bigs. They came to the prairie from time to time to tend the cows. And when they came, squirrels stayed out of sight as much as possible. Once Elizabeth hid behind a tuft of milkweed and watched several bigs force Sally Cow and her family into large carriers and haul them away. Elizabeth knew she’d not see Sally or any other cow for several moons… until spring returned to the Zumwalt.

Elizabeth wondered what the bigs were like up close. “They must be smart,” she said to Sally Cow one day.

“Humph!” Sally snorted, “They know how to bully cows!”

For as long as Elizabeth and Sally could remember, a large wooden structure had stood on the open plains not far from the gaping canyon to the east. Grandpa Jasper Squirrel, said that long ago the bigs had built the “barn” to store food in and to protect it during icy winter storms.

Elizabeth had wanted to know why the barn was pink and Grandpa laughed and said it was pink because the bigs didn’t have enough red paint to cover the barn so they mixed the little they had with cow’s milk. He said her uncle Rex Squirrel had fallen into a pail of the pink paint. For weeks he scampered through the grass looking like a ghost. Elizabeth had laughed.

She was glad for the barn. The bigs no longer used it. Now, it served Elizabeth and her friends as a refuge during the worst heat of summer, a temporary shelter during winter storms and a convenient refuge when squirrels, caught in the open, had to make a quick get-away from a hungry eagle, owl or hawk.

Elizabeth’s friend, Sally Cow, liked the barn too, for its shade on hot summer days. Yes, she agreed with Elizabeth that the bigs were smart. That didn’t keep her from complaining about how they bullied cows… herding them here and there for no reason and driving them here and there for no reason. Well, maybe they had a reason for moving them during the freezing months of winter on the Zumwalt. Any day now the bigs would arrive with their huge haulers, gather up Sally’s community of cows and take them away. Though she didn’t like leaving her friends, Sally was glad the bigs took her and her family to warmer pastures to the south and west away from soon coming icy winds that would freeze everything in sight on the high mountain plains.

Elizabeth and Sally were mystified that bigs occasionally took several cows away from the Zumwalt and they never saw them again. They wondered what happen to the missing cows, but could never learn. Their friends didn’t know either.

Elizabeth often rode on Sally’s back when the two explored a new gully or creek bed. Sometimes Sally protected Elizabeth from hungry predators. Slater Hawk and his buddies made a game of swooping down to snatch a distracted squirrel and would fly away before the un-suspecting animal knew what had happened. From Slater’s point of view a squirrel in the open was an easy meal… but not cows. Cows were docile enough, but too heavy to carry off and their hooves and horns could be devastating.

It seemed strange to the other squirrels living in Crescent Draw that Elizabeth Squirrel and Slater Hawk were friends. But they were. Elizabeth called him Mickey or “Mick” for short.

“You need to be careful,” teacher Serious Squirrel said to the young dray of squirrels attending Scamper School. “The rule is for someone to always be a lookout. Squirrels are hawk’s favorite food. It’s in their nature. They can’t help it,” Serious concluded brushing Elizabeth with his sizable tail.

The prospect of being stalked and snatched up by a hawk was the way of the squirrel world. That thought hovered like a shadow over every squirrel’s waking minute. It was just last week Elizabeth knew that  Drake Squirrel, was grabbed by a big hawk and taken away. Drake had forgotten to post a lookout. It was sadly obvious that he had become Slater’s dinner.

“Aren’t you afraid of being gobbled up by that hungry hawk?” Chase Squirrel asked Elizabeth one day.

“You mean, Mick?” Elizabeth asked.

“Yeah, aren’t you afraid?” Chase repeated.

“I don’t think of him as a hawk, I guess. To me he’s Mick… just Mick.”

“Well, he looks like a hawk to me… I’ll stay away when he comes around,” Chase warned.

“How about you Sally… does Mick frighten you?” Elizabeth asked moving from Sally’s shoulder onto her head between her ears.

“Nooooh, hoo, hoo,” Sally laughed softly, “Afraid? Nooooh, hoo, hoo. Mick wouldn’t hurt a bug… let alone a cow.”

“Awe, silly, he couldn’t hurt you… you’re too big,” Elizabeth said. But us squirrels… hey, he has to eat something, doesn’t he? I suppose if he got hungry enough, he’d eat anyone of us at the drop of an acorn hull.”

“Well, you can ask him… here he comes,” Sally said pointing her nose up hill and into the air.

“Not me!” Chase snapped and churning his hind legs scooted for the pink barn as fast as he could scamper.

“What’s eating him?” Mick said settling to the ground in front of Sally.

Elizabeth and Sally both laughed.

“He’s afraid you’ll eat him,” Sally said nosing the sizable hawk.

Mick laughed too, “He’s a tempting morsel… but I’ll not bother him.”

“You wouldn’t, would you? I wonder why,” Elizabeth puzzled looking at Mick’s curved beak.

“He’s your family, isn’t he?”

“Yeah, but teacher Serious warned us about you… said it’s in your nature to eat squirrels and other smaller animals… said you can’t help it… one day you’ll be hungry and gulp, I’m gone.”

“Well, you’re safe there between Sally’s horns, aren’t you? Come on down here and let’s see what happens,” Mick teased.

“You wouldn’t harm me, I know it… and I can’t figure out why you wouldn’t…” Elizabeth said, perplexed.

“Yeah, why wouldn’t you?” Sally asked, “It being your nature to eat squirrels, and all?”

“It’s a choice… Yeah, I’m tempted to gobble her up… but I choose not to. She’s my friend!” Mick said emphatically.

“Wow, wish we could get the coyotes and mountain lions to choose to be our friends,” Elizabeth said entertaining the impossible.

“That would be a big change…” Mick mused.  “But I doubt it… they are always after us hawks, too.”

“I wonder, since you choose not to eat me or my family, what do you eat?”

“That’s easy. I cheat… I eat leftovers… carrion… Don’t you ever eat leftovers?”

Sally wondered if grass was leftovers.

“Hey, I just came from the canyon… You should see the river… must be a lot of rain up stream… it’s over-flowing its banks. Want to take a look?” the big bird asked fluttering his wings and joining Elizabeth on Sally’s back.

“I like the sound it makes,” Sally said beginning a gentle stroll toward the canyon.

Chapter 3

Nancy Cummings eased her Subaru Outback to a halt 50 yards from the pink barn. She didn’t want to spook anything that might be hanging out there.

Ranchers no longer used the barn. In years gone by, during winter they used the barn to store hay for cattle and for shelter during the worst storms. In recent years ranchers moved their herds to lower altitudes during the winter months when the grasses of Zumwalt were often covered with ice and snow for long periods of time. Now, the lonely barn served as a convenient shelter for rabbits, squirrels, mice, rats and other small animals. Hawks sometimes swooped through the hayloft window in an attempt to surprise a gang of squirrels or other rodents hanging out there.

Nancy grabbed her camera and hopped out of her vehicle to inspect the barn – hoping she might get a close-up picture of a raptor resting on the rafters or finishing a meal on the dirt floor. She walked the short distance – measuring her footsteps to muffle her approach.

She brought the SLR viewfinder to her eye and peered through a shuttered window. Despite her care, the sensitive ears of the rabbits detected her approach and scooted away through a hole in the side of the barn. The telltale flap, flap of heavy wings revealed a large Swainson’s hawk which was also making its escape through the hayloft window. By spooking the rabbits, Nancy had spoiled the hawk’s hopes of getting a meal. By alerting the hawk, the rabbits had spoiled Nancy’s hope of getting a photo of the hawk. She moved quickly away from the barn thinking she might get it in early flight, but he was out of meaningful range before she could frame, focus and push the button.

She returned to her Subaru, got in and made her way north and east toward Hell’s Canyon where she hoped to be able to observe concentrations of raptors living there. Traversing the difficult terrain to get there, was made easier by a patchwork of roads and meager trails ranchers and forest service personnel had laid throughout the rugged terrain of the Wallowas. Nancy’s all-wheel-drive vehicle could have headed out in almost any direction, but the cautious researcher didn’t want to damage her Subaru. She chose to traverse the more defined roads toward the formidable canyon.

A year ago Nancy set out to investigate why raptors were so abundant here in the Wallowas, particularly, the Zumwalt. She got to know some of the ranching families of the Zumwalt prairie as she surveyed the three species of buteo hawks. Ranchers and conservationists both are dedicated to maintaining a healthy balance of interests among conservationists, ranchers and the animals that call the Wallowas home.

Nancy nursed her AWD vehicle along Buckhorn Road and onto NFD Road 780. She followed its zig-zag meanderings until it stopped at a rugged pile of rocks overlooking a dry creek bed. Buckhorn Viewpoint was not far away, but Nancy wanted to do some observing where humans where not likely to have been. She exited her vehicle, strapped on her backpack, slung her SLR over her shoulder and began the mile hike over the rugged terrain along Cook Creek bed toward Hell’s Canyon.

Her camouflage clothing, backpack and camera cover, served her purpose well. Dozens of hawks circled in the air looking for prey or simply enjoying the thermals wafting above the canyon’s rim.

About a half mile from the canyon’s rim, in the crown of a scrub pine, Nancy spotted the nest of a Ferruginous hawk. The parents were not to be seen. Nancy inched close the nest. From a rock pedestal near the tree Nancy was able to look down into the nest. There were two young hawks not yet ready to leave the nest. Nancy’s shadow caused them to open their mouths in anticipation of being fed. Nancy laughed. She was a mother and her teenage son was like that, always wanting something to eat.

Snap, snap, snap. Digital memory cards provided an unlimited number of shots. The young hawks were attractive subjects. They were in their light-phase with a similar patterning to adults, although the rufous color was a duller brown. They were lighter underneath overall and did not have the dark leg-feathering Nancy would find in adults. From the vantage point of the rock on which she stood, Nancy took dozens of pictures from every angle she could manage. Finally, she decided she had plenty of pictures for her purposes, plus she was concerned about the potential return of one or both of the parents. They are big birds and likely wouldn’t hesitate to attack what they perceived as threat to their helpless off-spring.

She continued to work her way along a ridge that followed the creek bed. Along the way she spotted and photographed a hovering Swainson’s hawk, the smallest of the buteos. This hawk was chocolate brown with a speckled breast. It had a white belly, and yellow feet. It had broad, rounded wings. Nancy could see other Swainson’s soaring high above. Their wings formed a distinct shallow “V.”

Nancy continued her trek toward the canyon. There were hundreds of birds flying, perching in trees or on the ground. Today was providing a bonanza of pictures.

Click, click… more shots of birds. Finally, Nancy reached the rim. The view of the cavernous canyon always took her breath away. She yearned to be a hawk and soar over the vast expanse enjoying the elevated ride above the river churning its way north far below.

Nancy’s mission was to get good pictures of hawk families and to gather pictorial evidence of life among the hawks. She felt satisfied that today’s picture taking would do both. But, there was more. The long throw of her 600mm lens brought distant panoramas of vast canyon within reach of her formidable camera’s sensor.

She returned to her car and began nosing her way south, occasionally, stopping to tramp a short distance to a remote canyon view and to enjoy the solitude and wonders of raw nature before retracing her steps to her faithful car to continue her meandering investigation of hawks in the Wallowas.

Chapter 4

Later that morning Willard Buffalo was grazing on a patch of bunchgrass growing near a trickling stream. Close by on a rotting log squatted Rachael Hawk finishing her breakfast.

Willard raised his burley head to look at Rachael, “Last night I dreamed about the… plains… what do you call the lush grass the other side of 82.” he said.

“Zumwalt, the prairie is Zumwalt,” Rachael answered swallowing the last morsel of trout she had caught earlier in Willow Creek.

“You been there a lot?” the gangly buffalo asked.

“All the time… I fly over it, hunt in it and often visit my friend, Mickey Hawk,” Rachael said confidently.

“Flying… I don’t know what that’s like,” Willard said tossing his head toward the east. “Among us buffalo,” they say that, if you go through the wavy grasses, you’ll fall off world and into the sky… and you never stop falling. I wouldn’t want that.”

Rachael laughter a hearty hawk laugh and said, “That’s gotta be a myth.”

“Myth? What’s that? You mean it’s a lie?”

“ Maybe not a lie but, you know… a story that’s been told so often and for so long that you don’t know if it’s true or not,” Rachael explained.

“Well that’s what they teach us at Trout River Buffalo School. They wouldn’t teach us a lie, would they?”

“Probably not… at least not knowing it’s was a lie. But…” Rachael paused not sure she should go on.

“Would they?”

“You know how you buffalo are… always stampeding.”

“Yeah, we can get going.”

“Well, suppose… a long time ago… say five hundred winters ago… Bill Buffalo got spooked one day… by a rabbit, say… and started running… and let’s say a bunch of dumb buffalo, not knowing where Bill was going, ran after him. There is this cliff over there,” Rachael said waving a wing toward the east. “Let’s say Bill charges over that cliff without looking… a bunch of your ancestors follow Bill over and you all fall and fall because the bottom is forever down. You get it? Bill and his buddies stampeded over that cliff and… walla, walla, walla… they never came back.”

“Wow, how did you know a rabbit spooked him?”

“Duh! I don’t know that it was a rabbit… I’m just saying… suppose something spooked them and a stampede got started and they ran off the cliff in to the deep canyon and never came out… wouldn’t that get a story started that would be told over and over for generations to come?”

“A story? You said a myth.”

“Myth… story… Willard, some times I wonder about you… The point is, the story’s been told and believed for so long… it’s now passed on as true from buffalo generation to buffalo generation and now, no one will cross 82.”

“I never thought of that…”

“Obviously, for a long time no buffalo has ever thought of that and now, no one has the courage to find out if it’s true or not,” Rachael paused cocking her head and eying Willard. Then she said,  “Maybe you should find out… You ever think of that?

“I told you, I’ve dreamed about the grasses on the other side of 82… but I’m afraid of falling over a cliff.”

“Shissch!” Rachel gushed.

Willard continued, “Do you think… I… someone could see the grasses and not stampede over the cliff?”

“I would have thought that stampeding was a choice… but knowing about buffalo and talking with you, I’m not so sure…. Look, I’ll go with you, if that will help.”

“I don’t know… what would Mom say?”

“Shissch, Willard, when you going to grow up?”

“Hey, I don’t do anything without telling Mom!”

“Willard! Look at yourself… bigger than dozen boulders and you still talk like a helpless, baby buffalo.”

“But, I’ve always told her.”

“Willard, there comes a time when you don’t have to tell your mom or anyone… And I think that time has come. How about it? Let’s trot over to the Zumwalt… Well, you trot, I’ll ride on your rump. How is that?”

“A little way… I’ll go a little way,” Willard said nervously pawing the ground a couple of times.

“Good!” Rachael said hopping onto Willard’s back. Making her way to his huge neck, she squawked, “No! Not that way… This way,” she said extending the tip of her right wing toward the Zumwalt.

Willard climbed the creek bank and onto a plateau that spread out toward the east. In the far distance he could see a row of trees lining the trail the bigs used to guide their rolling boulders. Willard had never seen a rolling boulder up close. When bigs were seen by anyone, his herd of buffalo always skedaddled for the tall timber of Eagle Cap Wilderness.

Willard stopped. He turned his head to look back at buffalo country.

After a minutes pause he turned around an began walking back toward his herd, “I gotta tell Mom,” he said.

“Shissch Willard!” Rachael said swaying with the motion of Willard’s rough gate. “You’re a helpless juvenile! You want to remain an invalid all your life?”

“Juvenile… invalid… those bad?” Willard asked, stopping at the bottom of the creek bank.

“Okay, okay… let’s just mosey over and tell your mom… she won’t let you go,” Rachael said with a tone of disgust and added, “Go ahead, let the day go to waste… Let those succulent Zumwalt grasses go to waste.

Willard swayed back and forth in indecision.

“Look!” Rachael snapped, “You take you time… all week… all year if you like. I’ll be off and catch some lunch, literally. You go ahead and ask mom. That’s what a full grown buffalo ought to do!” she squawked, then softened her tone continued, “I’ll be back after a while and we can play Buffalo Shuffle or something.”

“Maybe she won’t care…” Willard said hopefully.

“Yeah, right! I’ll be back,” Rachael said taking to the air and off toward the Willow Creek.

Willard watched her go then began munching his way back toward the herd.

Chapter 5

Sally Cow, walked, slowly traversing the steep up and down grades toward Imnaha. The trip was easy for Elizabeth, who rode on the Sally’s back. It was a snap for Mick too, who intermittently, spread his wings and hopped into the air to ride the easterly thermals before settling again on the cow’s back. The weight of a squirrel and a hawk weren’t a bother for Sally, but she wasn’t used to prolonged hikes up a 6-degree climb. Occasionally, she had to stop and rest.

Nestled in a shallow gulch they came across one of the wooden huts abandoned by the bigs a long time ago. Elizabeth scampered through the open door to investigate. She was surprised to find several squirrels huddled in a dark corner.

“You squirrels holding church?” she asked.

The frightened squirrels looked at one another in confusion. One crept forward and in hushed tones said, “Charles spotted a coyote out there.” He gestured in a northerly direction and added, “You better be careful.”

Then Mickey hopped onto the window ledge. At first the small dray of squirrels didn’t notice the hawk perched above them. Sally stuck her nose through the window joining Mick. Her sizable head caused Mick to lose his balance and flutter to the dusty floor in front of the squirrels.

The sight of a hawk in their midst caused the frightened squirrels to scatter out the hut door, across a bare spot in the grass and into holes in the ground.

“Some day I’ll come back and tell them about you,” Elizabeth laughed and added, “Obviously. They don’t know the Mickey Hawk I know.”

“I don’t blame them,” Mick chuckled, “I am getting hungry… I may have to leave you two and make a trip into Hell’s Canyon for a snack.”

The three friends left the hut and continued their journey.

It was late morning when they arrived at the abyss. Far below the Snake River meandered along the canyon floor on its way north to eventually join another river and on to the Pacific Ocean. None of the Zumwalt crowd had ever seen anything beyond Zumwalt, but their friend, Rusty Eagle, had told them about many rivers gathering water on their way to a gigantic ocean far to the west.

Several miles in the hazy distance, stretched the ragged, eroded eastern walls of the canyon. In the quiet stillness the adventurers could hear the sound of gushing water. The fall sun warmed the hikers. Wild buckwheat and lime green Indian Paintbrush grew in patches along the edge of the cliff. The hardy flowers struggled to make a final splendid display before ice, snow and freezing winds would shrivel life and carpet them until their reawakening in spring.

For a long while Sally stood looking at the vast gorge before her. She’d never ventured this far away from the barn before. She felt exhilarated, yet uneasy at the same time. Elizabeth crouched on Sally’s head between her ears. Mickey rested on her rump. The three friends remained silent for a long spell as if in prayer or meditation.

By now everyone was getting hungry. Elizabeth and Mickey could always find a morsel to satiate their hunger, but for Sally the lush grasses of the prairie were two hours walk back down the mountain.

“I’m off to the river to catch a taste of something. I’ll be back,” Mickey said lifting himself from Sally’s back. He flapped briskly gaining altitude before plunging toward the churning river on the canyon floor.

“Paintbrush petals sound good to me… you like paintbrush?” Elizabeth asked scurrying down Sally’s shoulder, onto the ground and off toward a tuft of paintbrush growing at the cliff’s edge.

“If I have to eat flowers, I prefer buckwheat,” Sally answered scanning the foliage for the colorful flower. She spotted what looked like a clump of buckwheat a short distance away. She began making her way toward the meal. In this remote area there were no trails. The ground was rough and uneven. Sally carefully picked her way among the large rocks toward her lunch. Her long tongue reached out in an attempt to snag a cluster of blossoms hanging on the plant. She couldn’t quite reach it… she leaned forward to get a bit closer. In doing so, the loose rocks beneath her feet gave way. She lost her balance and fell over the cliff and down several feet onto a ledge… a small plateau, beyond which was open space and the canyon floor hundreds of feet below. She emitted a mournful bellow thinking that surely she was on her way to certain death.

“Sally!” Elizabeth cried fearing the worst.

Sally lay on her side facing the abyss with her feet hanging stiff over the edge. For a long while… it seemed like forever…  she couldn’t move. A white-hot fear seized her mind and froze every muscle in her body. She had the terrifying feeling that if even one muscle let go, she would plunge to her death. Her heart beat rapidly.

“Sally!” Elizabeth shouted again, “You alright?” she asked scampering down the bank to join Sally on the ledge.

“I don’t know,” Sally whispered, “I can’t move.”

“Oh no!” Elizabeth moaned, “You broke something?”

“I don’t know… I can’t move,” Sally repeated.

“Just stay there for awhile… I’ll think of something,” Elizabeth said scanning the bank for a way out. She climbed the short distance back up to safety and crouched down so she could think and access the situation.

Sally moaned in fear. Her head lay on the ground facing the abyss. She began to tremble. She thought, that if she closed her eyes, it might be better. By closing her eyes she avoided the sight of open space and begin to gain confidence that the ground was beneath her and that she might survive after all.

Mick returned to the lookout point to find Sally in her terrible predicament. He hovered over her taking in what had happened. He fluttered onto the ledge beside Sally’s head thinking that he might at least comfort her.

“Oh, no… leave me alone for a little while,” Sally cried softly, “I need the world to be still for a while.”

Mick took flight and settled beside Elizabeth on the rim just above Sally.

“What will we do?” Elizabeth whispered.

“I don’t know,” Mick answered softly, “Just be quiet and still and wait for her…”

Elizabeth nodded. The squirrel and the hawk sat side by side anxiously waiting for their friend to recover from her fright.

The sun was sinking toward the horizon. Sally kept her eyes closed. Her thoughts were coming clearer. She decided that if she could roll over and face the cliff wall, she would feel safer and might be able to get to her feet. After that she would decide what she needed to do to get to a safe place and return to the Zumwalt. The warmth of that thought gave her courage to try. She kept her eyes closed, took a deep breath, pulled her front legs then her hind legs to her body. She was relieved that she could finally move. She took another deep breath, tensed her muscles and with a sudden swinging effort rolled over to face the wall. She was relieved that she hadn’t plunged off the precipice and into the abyss below.

“Good for you!” Mick yelled.

“Way to go!” Elizabeth called.

Now, Sally must get to her feet. The ledge was narrow, but wide enough for her to stand. She steeled her nerves. She lifted her rear up with her hind legs, and then her front legs. She was trembling. She leaned against the cliff wall to steady herself. She opened her eyes. Another blast of fear shot through her. A few feet in front of her the piece of ground on which she stood ended. She turned her head. Behind her, the bit of earth slanted up but narrowed at the top to almost nothing.

“I don’t think I can do it,” she said sadly.

“Don’t give up,” Mick said, “I’ll go for help.”

“Help?” Sally cried, “What would that be?”

“You’ll see,” Mick said hopping into the air and off to the west. He had no idea what help he could bring or where he would get it. But he had to do something for his friend, Sally Cow.

Chapter 6

Rachael had flown to a stream where she’d snatched a sizable trout from the cool water. Now, she sat on a boulder at water’s edge enjoying the final bites.

Life was good for her in the vast stretches of the Wallowa Mountains. Food was plentiful and accessible. Vast numbers of Ferruginous hawks, like herself, lived throughout the area. She had many friends among them. She liked visiting Mickey Hawk who hung out in the Zumwalt. They often hunted together and from time to time would catch thermal winds rising from the canyon and soaring high into the clear, fresh air above the Wallowas.

For the most part she and her friends had learned to avoid humans and to escape the clutches of wolves and coyotes, who were constantly on the prowl for food. They preyed on all sorts of small animals often competing with raptors for squirrels and rabbits. Hawks themselves were targets for hungry wolves and coyotes. Large raptors were difficult for them to catch and subdue but a hawk was no match.

Rachael’s skills at avoiding wolves freed her to live life pretty much the way she wanted to and she enjoyed it to the fullest. It saddened her that Willard Buffalo didn’t have the same sense of freedom. He and his herd confined themselves to a narrow patch of wilderness west of 82 and the country town of Cove and Route 203 to the west.

Rachael’s hawk friends wondered how and why she was friends with a buffalo, of all things… an eagle or meadow lark, maybe… even a sparrow… but for a hawk to be friends with a huge buffalo had them, well, ‘buffaloed.’ If they showed real interest in knowing, she told them about an incident, when she was much younger. Willard had helped her escape certain death from a pack of wolves. One of them had her left wing in his mouth and others were ready to move in for the kill, when Willard charged onto into the opening and threatened to stomp the wolves with his hooves and batter them with his massive head.

Rachael hopped to water’s edge took a refreshing drink from the crystal clear water and then lifted herself into the air and returned to find Willard pacing back and forth in the dry creek bed.

“Hey, what took you so long?” Willard asked impatiently.

“I thought by now you were securely tied to mama’s apron strings,” Rachael teased.

“Apron strings, what’s that?”

“Never mind, you want to play Buffalo Shuffle?”

“No, I’ve been waiting for you. I want to go see the Zumwalt.”

“Hey… Mom said it was okay?”

“I didn’t ask,” Willard puffed.

“Well, good for you, Master Buffalo,” Rachael cheered, “Let’s go,” she urged flapping onto Willard’s back.

Willard trotted toward the line of trees with Rachael bouncing on his rump. When they got close, Willard stopped. Rachael could sense that he was tensing up. She was afraid he would loose his nerve and want to turn back. To make matters worse, a rolling boulder came moving along the trail kicking up dust.

“Woo,” Willard yelled, “What’s that?” He began to tremble.

“It’s a happiness,” Rachael answered, “nothing to worry about. In an eye blink, it’ll be gone.”

“What’s happy about it?” Willard asked.

“Just is,” Rachael answered reassuring Willard. “We’re going to cross the trail… don’t worry… just do as I say and we’ll be happy too… got it?”

“I guess.”

“Alright, go ahead… it’s up to you… I’m along for the ride,” Rachael said digging a claw into Willard’s rump.

“Here we go,” Willard said starting a slow trot toward the 82.

Rachael was relieved when they found themselves on the eastern side of 82 and moving into the lush grass covered planes of the beautiful Zumwalt.

“Hey, get a taste of this,” Willard said taking a mouthful of wheatgrass.

“I’ll pass… you go ahead. There’s Idaho fescue out there,” Rachael said urging Willard deeper into the prairie. She was afraid that if another rolling boulder came along, Willard would bolt and dash back to the securities of Willow Creek.

Willard followed Rachael’s urging, gradually eating himself further into the inviting prairie lying before them. He appeared to be lost in the reverie of his new discovery, when he stumbled over an isolated rock hidden in the grass.

“Wait a minute,” Willard snorted jerking his head up to survey the situation, “Where’s the canyon… is that the canyon?” he asked.

“No… the canyon is a long way from here. This is the Zumwalt I’ve been telling you about… the luscious grasses of the Zumwalt… the falling stories are myths.”

“Oh jumping gophers, wait until I tell Mom… hey, look at that… there’s a hawk coming,” Willard observed looking east.

Rachael followed Willard’s gaze. Yes, it was Ferruginous hawk… It was Rachael’s friend, Mickey Hawk. Within seconds Mickey landed in front of Willard and Rachael. He was gasping for breath.

“Hey, Mick… surprise… What’s up… what’s your hurry…?“

“No time to talk!” Mickey gasped. “Sally Cow fell over the edge of the canyon rim….”

“Falling into the canyon!” Willard cried, “Mom was right… I shouldn’t have…”

Before he could finish Mickey interrupted, “No time, we’ve got to find help… a squirrel and a hawk can’t do it. She needs something big to pull her up… something big… “

“You mean something big like Willard?” Rachael asked.

“Yeah… like a buffalo… will you come try?” Mickey pleaded.

“Go to the canyon rim!” Willard shuddered, “Oh Mama.”

“Remember, it’s not a stampede… stampede is a choice. You don’t have to stampede,” Rachael encouraged. “Let’s go see…”

“It easy for you to say… with that birdie body and fluffy, puffy wings…” Willard protested, “I weigh a ton.”

“We’ll keep you from falling, won’t we Mickey?”

Mickey gave Rachael a look of disbelief, “We will?” then recovering added, “Yeah, sure… sure we will… but, let’s get going. I’ll fly ahead and tell them you’re coming.”

“Where do we find her?” Rachael asked.

“She’s at Hat View Point,” Mick said rapidly flapping his wings and streaking west toward the endangered cow and her squirrel friend.

“Okay Willard, let’s get going…” Rachael commanded agitating Willard’s back with her talons.

“I won’t go to the edge… I’ve never been anywhere away from Willow Creek… I can’t go to the edge.”

“Yes, you can! You are a great buffalo,” Rachael encouraged, “… the great buffalo. You just didn’t know it. Now, is the time to know it…” Rachael paused to measure her persuasiveness.

“You think?” Willard waffled,” then added, “No, I can’t!”

“You can save Sally… you don’t know her… but she’s like…” Rachael struggled for the right word, “She’s like your mom.”

Willard stiffened, “Like Mom?”

“Yes, like Mom and… what’s your sister’s name?”

“Wafer?” Willard crooned.

“Wafer Buffalo?” Rachael exclaimed… then recovered.  “Yes, Sally is like Wafer too. You, will save Mom Sally.”

“I’ll try… but I’m scared,” Willard confided.

“So was General Bill Buffalo before rescuing the deer from the Grande Snake Rapids.”

“I don’t see how… but… let’s go,” Willard said stamping the ground.

“How fast can you run? Not as fast as I can fly, I’ll bet.”

“Oh yeah, you ever see a buffalo stampede?” Willard challenged digging his hind legs into the turf and shooting east toward Hat View Point and the languishing cow.

Chapter 7

Nancy had taken a last photo of Hell’s Canyon from the cliffs above Cook Creek and was about to trek back to her car, when from the south an enormous bald eagle appeared. When he saw her, he abruptly changed directions and began flying directly at her at a troubling speed.

She ducked and put her hands above her head to avoid being hit. The huge bird stopped in the air above her head flapping its wings ferociously and making a squawking sound. She concluded that she must be near the eagle’s nest. She scrambled across the rocks and ran toward her auto. Before getting in, she looked back. The eagle had followed her and was now hovering over her. She quickly got into the Subaru, closed the windows, started the motor and began to negotiate the primitive trail back toward Route 83 and Joseph.

To her surprise the eagle followed her, flying just above and in front of her windshield, then, he dropped to the driver’s side window and began flying along side her. Then, he darted away to the east and then, back to her car. He repeated these movements over and over again as she inched her all-wheel-drive along the rutty service road.

Nancy wondered why the eagle was stalking her. She was now a considerable distance from the canyon’s edge where she thought there must be an eagle’s nest. It was as if the eagle was trying to tell her something.

Her vehicle crawled up the crest of another hill, when she saw the strangest sight she’d ever seen. A young adult buffalo with a ferruginous hawk riding on his back was charging along the ridge of a mountain toward the Hell’s Canyon. The sight was unusual for two reasons: she’d never seen a buffalo in the Zumwalt Prairie. As far as she knew buffalo living in the Wallowa’s never crossed 82. They confined themselves to the Eagle Cap Wilderness area. And more astonishing she’d never seen a hawk riding on the back of a buffalo.

This was a day for adventure. An eagle was at her side harassing her and before her a crazy buffalo with a bird jockey was galloping toward Hell’s Canyon as if it were a fire engine headed for a fire.

The buffalo was off in the distance now. The stalking eagle left her and began following it. She decided she would head east and follow them to see what the excitement was all about. The terrain was steep, rocky and difficult. She’d equipped her Outback with off road chassis protection. Nevertheless it was difficult.

She lost sight of the buffalo, the hawk and the stalking eagle. She wondered if she would see them again. But, she continued to pick her way toward Hell’s Canyon along the 1200-foot ridge west of and above the Imnaha River. A spectacular viewpoint was not far away. She’d been in this area many times before enjoying the expansive view of the Imnaha Rapids gushing into the Snake River and training her binoculars on wonderful arrays of raptors that inhabit that part of the Wallowas.

Even if she didn’t find the buffalo circus, she could scan the sky and foliage for birds, a little bonus side trip she thought. When she finished, she would return to Joseph.

Chapter 8

Elizabeth tried her best to think of ways to comfort Sally. But nothing she could say eased the devastating fear clouding Sally’s mind and draining the strength from her legs. She sunk again to her belly and leaned against the side of the cliff -her face turned away from the open space.

“What can the tiny body like mine do make any difference?” Elizabeth thought. She answered her own question, “Nothing.” Nevertheless, she stayed near Sally’s head and kept reminding her that Mick had gone for help and would surely return soon, and all would return to normal.

Suddenly, there was a thundering sound of hoof beats approaching, which just as quickly, stopped.  Then, came the fluttering sound of wings. It was Mickey Hawk, Rachael Hawk and Rusty Eagle. Whatever was thundering was not to be seen. The birds all settled on scrub pine branches clinging to the canyon walls near Sally’s narrow bed.

“I’m back, Sally! We’re back!” Mick shouted, “I’m back and Rachael and Rusty Eagle are here, Isn’t that great? You okay?”

Sally tried to move her head to see Mick, but the paralyzing fear prevented her from turning her head away from the canyon wall. All she could say was, “baww, bawww.”

Elizabeth Squirrel scooted up the bank to be near the birds, “I knew you’d bring help… that’s what I’ve been telling Sally,” she said and added, “You’ll figure a way to get her out, won’t you Rusty.”

“We’ll give it our best…” Rusty said projecting a positive tone, “I tried to get a big to come help but couldn’t get it to understand. Rachael brought help though, didn’t you Rachael?”

“Yeah, Rachael talked Willard into coming,” Mick said. He turned and shouted, “Hey Willard, come have a look.”

“Oh boy… you’d better let me handle this!” Rachael cautioned, “He’s a little shy… never been to Zumwalt before… never been to the edge before.”

Elizabeth, Mick and Rusty watched Rachael flit into the air and glide the 50-feet to Willard – who stood frozen in place.

“What we came for is just over the edge… you want to have a look?” Rachael asked softly.

“You lied,” Willard accused. “The world does fall away! Look at that!” Willard said his voice trembling.

“No, I didn’t lie…” Rachael retorted, “You haven’t stampeded over the edge, have you?”

“Not yet,” Willard hedged.

“And you’re not going to… Your mom would be so proud of you!” Rachael boasted, “Come over here and see Sally…”

“Awe…” Willard bellowed.

“Poor Willard,” Sally managed to say.

Sally’s voice brought Willard to attention. There was something quite different, but Sally did sound something like his mother. His mother always said “poor Willard,” when he was scared. With Rachael sitting on his back, Willard minced the few feet to the canyon’s edge and gingerly peered over. What he saw startled him. There before him was gaping canyon big enough to swallow everything in sight and a cow close to and crouched against the mountain wall.

He’d seen cows before, but never this close. In the buffalo herd, it was commonplace to view cows as not quite animals… they were puny weaklings compared to most buffalo and looked timid and anemic. They lived east from Eagle Cap Wilderness and the elder buffalo in his herd saw no reason for it to be otherwise. Old Mealy Buffalo often said, “It’s better for buffalo to stay with buffalo and for cows to stay with cows.”

Crouched with his hooves dug in at the edge of an abyss Willard was sure he’d gone too far. His insecure self bellowed at him to back away from the gaping precipice and to stampede back down the mountain ridge, across the prairie, across Route 82 and to the safety of his herd. But the wonder of seeing something so splendid for the first time, momentarily, arrested his urge to flee. And it was in that moment of vacillation that his eyes met Sally’s. Her eyes were soft wells of innocent sweetness bulging and distorted by the heart stopping terror she was experiencing. That bewildered him. A tribal voice within him said, “Cows aren’t our kind, they’re not worth knowing, let alone saving.” But there was another voice coming from Sally’s eyes. It pleaded, “I want to live, please help me.”

Sally lay crouched helpless on the narrow shelf. Her heart pounded and she gasped for breath. There didn’t seem to be enough air to sustain her. Fear that she would black out any second gripped her and she would tumble from the precarious shelf and plunge to her death on the rocks below. She tried to slow her breathing and calm her pounding heart by clinging desperately to the hope that somehow she could get up the steep embankment to safety.

Now, she became aware that an ugly buffalo was looking over the rim of the cliff was just above her. “He’s jeering,” she thought.

“Stay away from buffalos!” Hefty Bull had warned the cows in his herd ever since Sally could remember. “They’re not like us… it’s better that they stay with their own kind and that we stay with ours,” the big bull had said, “They’re malicious. They will charge at you without warning. You never know when bunches of them will break into a stampede. When they do, get out of the way!”

Suddenly, Sally became aware that the buffalo’s eyes were fixed on hers.

“What do I do?” he asked.

The others all cheered. Then, they looked one another each waiting for the other to state the plan. But no one had any idea of how the big, strong buffalo could rescue Sally from her dire situation.

Chapter 9

Nancy inched her vehicle over the rough terrain moving ever closer to the edge of the canyon. Finally, she determined that it was too dangerous to take her vehicle any further. If she were going to see what had happened to the stampeding buffalo and his jockey, she’d have to exit the car and hike the couple hundred yards or so to canyon’s edge.

As always she carried her camera. This time she also took her backpack.

A hundred yards from the canyon’s edge she spotted the buffalo peering over the rim at something below. Near the buffalo perched an eagle and two hawks. A squirrel rested on rock near by.

She paused for a moment deciding what she should do. There was nothing to fear from the two birds or the squirrel, but she wasn’t sure about the buffalo. She’d heard that they can charge a human being, or other animal for that matter, without warning. She began tip-toeing her way toward the animals. She didn’t want to spook them.

She decided she ought to make some noise to alert them of her presence and to see what they would do. She made a whistling sound a mocking bird might make. The squirrel wheeled on the rock and froze in her alert mode. The eagle flopped his wings a couple of times. One hawk remained perched on a limb of the scrub pine. All were looking in her direction.

The buffalo turned his head to see what the others were looking at. He backed away from the edge of the cliff a few steps and turned around to face the intruder.

Nancy was glad he didn’t seem to be afraid of her nor did he appear to want to attack her.

Nancy moved several steps toward the animals and birds. They made no threatening move toward her and to her surprise they didn’t withdraw. Instead they started talking to one another.

“It’s the big I tried to signal a while ago.” Rusty said waving his wing.

“Oh… by my shaggy mane … I’m going back to Eagle Cap,” Willard cried making a step away from the rim and in a direction that would avoid the big.

“You don’t have to,” Rachael said, “It doesn’t have a fire-spitting stick.”

“Yeah, if it threatened we’ll get in its face, huh, Rusty,” Mickey added.

“It may be the help we’ve been looking for,” Rusty said, “If we can get it to come see Sally… bigs can do things we can’t do.”

“We can do things bigs can’t do,” Elizabeth protested.

“Let’s not waste time on little stuff. Let’s let it know that we’re not afraid,” Rusty coached.

“I am afraid,” Willard admitted.

“But you don’t have to show it,” Rachael said, “Remember General Wild Bill Buffalo.”

“Yeah, well, if it comes any closer, I’m gone,” Willard cautioned, “Wild Bill Buffalo or not.”

Sally’s friends, all assumed non-threatening stances and waited to see what the big would do.

Elizabeth scooted to the rim and called to Sally, “Sally, there’s a big not far away.”

Nancy watched the animals and birds conversing with one another. Though she had no proof, she always suspected that they talk with one another all the time. Nancy wished she could speak squirrel or hawk or eagle or buffalo. Nevertheless, she thought that speaking to them couldn’t hurt.

“It’s okay,” she began. She took two small steps in their direction. “I’m just wondering what you are all doing here…?” She took three more steps, “Hawks and eagles eat squirrels. Don’t you know?” She stepped two more paces toward the cluster of animals and birds. “And eagles sometimes eat hawks… wow… and a buffalo hanging out with all you… let’s get serious.” Nancy raised her camera, framed the tableau and pushed the shutter. The buffalo move a few stumbling steps away from the viewing point and away from Nancy. Nancy wasn’t certain whether he was uneasy with her approach or didn’t want to stand in her way.

The squirrel and the two hawks kept scampering and fluttering to the edge of the rim and peering over only to dash away some distance giving her room to advance. The buffalo just stood there watching. It seemed clear to her by now that the animals and birds were, not only not afraid of her, but they wanted her to come closer look over and see what was disconcerting them.

“Let’s have a look,” she said aloud to herself and walked toward the rim avoiding sudden moves and keeping a cautious eye on the buffalo. She reached the edge and looked down not knowing what to expect. Of course, there was the vast open expanse of Hell’s Canyon. But there a few feet down, was Sally hugging the wall helplessly looking up for some sign of hope.

“Oh dear,” Nancy gasped, “you poor thing.” And turning to face Rusty, who sat heavily on a nearby spindly tree branch, she said, “Eagle, that’s what you were trying to tell me earlier, wasn’t it?”

Rusty and the others didn’t understand the words coming from the big, but the universal language of gesture, told him that the big grasped the situation and would, maybe, try to save Sally.

“It knows now…” Rusty said to the others and hopping into the air flapped his wings and glided down to settle in front of Sally. “The big will know what to do,” he said to her.

“What can it do?” Mickey Hawk asked settling beside Rusty, “It’s not large enough.”

“It stands like a stick,” Elizabeth Squirrel said joining the eagle and hawk on the ledge in front of Sally, “What can a stick do?”

“The big’s not much bigger than you, Rusty,” Rachael said joining the congregation of concerned friends.

“Hey, how about me?” Willard called seeing Rachael disappear from view. He wanted to go have a look but the big stood between him and the edge. “I’m here,” he called.

“Be calm… Willard. Everyone be calm,” Rusty called… “Sally doesn’t need to hear doubt right now… just stay calm.”

Sally took momentary comfort in having her friends show concern for her, but she saw no solution to her plight. She tried to keep her thoughts from entering the dark corners of her mind where hopelessness dwells. If her friends and the big couldn’t get her onto the rim, she would either starve or fall to her death on the rocks below. She wanted to say something to her friends, but the sounds stuck in her terrified throat.

Nancy was touched with the concern the animals and birds showed for the cow. The situation looked pretty hopeless to her. The cow weighs at least 400 pounds, she thought, I’d risk falling carrying 25-pounds let along trying to haul a heavy cow up that steep trail… It was a trail. If there was a handrail, the cow could make her way up the incline… How silly!… of course there is no handrail. What else could she do? She could drive the roads and find a rancher who could come help…. But even rancher wouldn’t be able to get the necessary equipment to this location in the mountains. If she got her rope, she could fashion a harness, work her way down the incline secure the harness around the cow’s rump and sides keeping her from falling as she made her way along the ledge and onto the rim.

She always carried lots of equipment in her car for all kinds of emergencies, and she was happy now that it included a long strong rope – one long enough and strong enough to create a protecting sling for bring the cow up. She wished she could get her car close enough to use as a wench.

Just then, the buffalo emitted another bellowing sound and said something to his friends below. Nancy turned to look at him. He was a fine specimen… although not fully grown, he was huge and obviously strong… strong enough to lift the cow from her ledge, if he had arms but of course, he didn’t have arms.

“My rope – it could be the buffalo’s arms,” Nancy thought. She wondered if the buffalo would cooperate with her if she had everything she needed to make a harness.

“I’ll be back!” she said to the buffalo, “I’ll be back, cow,” she called over her shoulder and headed back to her car.

“The big is leaving,” Willard called approaching the rim’s edge just above Sally and the others.

Sally moaned. The flicker of hope she’d entertained with the arrival of the big went out with Willard’s words.

“We don’t know she won’t be back,” Rusty said offering encouragement to Sally.

“Why would she? She can’t do any more than we can,” Willard concluded.

“I’ll go after her… see if I can bring her back,” Rusty said slipping off the ledge into the air and away toward Nancy’s car.

Willard suggested, “Sally, you should just get up and walk to the top, that’s what I think.”

“Willard, sometimes you talk too much,” Rachael scolded, “Rusty will find out… He’ll know what to do.”

“Yeah, let’s wait for Rusty,” Elizabeth said scurrying up the bank to see if she could spot Rusty.

Nancy had only gone to her car for the rope. Now, all she needed was the muscle to make it work. She had in mind to fashion a crude harness for the cow on one end of the rope, wrap the other end of the rope around the sizable pine tree 10 feet from the edge. Then, she would pull with all her might to take the slack out of the rope, tie it off and, finally, she would encourage the cow to get up try to walk up the narrow ramp to safety.

Rusty had followed the big to the car and back. He settled back on the ledge next to Sally and the others.

“The big has something in mind. She came back. She brought a rope with her.”

Sally emitted a soft cry.

Rachael, Mickey flew up to see. Elizabeth scampered up the bank to join the others.

“It’s worth a try,” Nancy said to the creatures knowing they had little idea what she was saying. She pantomimed the action she was about to take. She tied one end of the rope to the pine tree, gathered the rope harness end and made her way to the edge. She tossed the harness down. It landed with a thump next to Sally’s face. The sound caused Sally to jump, nearly sending her over the edge.

“I’m sorry, little cow,” Nancy said. She wrapped the slack rope around her waist, and began repelling herself down the bank to Sally’s side. She reached out to the shaking cow… petted her between the ears and rubbed her side.

The other animals made their way to spots where they could watch the big’s action. Willard had been taught to be fearful of bigs. And up until now, he was uneasy about this big. Now, it was different.

Nancy gently worked the rope harness around the cow’s side and rump. When she felt certain that the rope would do the job she grabbed the rope falling down the bank and began pulling herself back up and over the rim. Willard followed the big as she made her way to the pine tree, untied the rope and began pulling the rope as hard as she could pull so it would keep Sally from falling over the edge when the time came for her to do her part.

Suddenly Nancy stopped pulling. Beside her, now, stood a strong buffalo, who no longer was afraid of her. If only she could communicate with him enough to get him to let her fashion a harness on this end of the rope and put it on him. With care he could pull Sally to safety.

She loosened the rope and turned to Willard – holding it out as if it were a peace offering. Willard was confused. He’d wanted to help the big pull on the rope, but didn’t understand why she wanted to tie him up… He backed away prepared to run, if necessary.

Rusty flapped his wings twice and glided to Willard. “The big wants you to help,” Rusty said, “She isn’t going to bind you.”

Mickey joined Rusty in his effort to persuade Willard to assist Nancy. “Hey, Willard, you’re strong enough by yourself to save Sally,” Mickey encouraged.

“Yes, and brave enough too,” Rachael agreed, “like Wild Bill Buffalo… Let her use your strength.”

Willard quit moving away. Nancy gingerly approached him. She let him smell the rope and touch it with his nose. Moments later Nancy had placed her makeshift harness around Willard’s massive shoulders and coaxed him to face away from the rim of the canyon. She looked to the animals to see if they were ready for the big pull… the risky effort to get Sally to safety. If the rope harness failed Sally would fall….

Nancy wanted Sally to know what was coming and what she had to do… but didn’t know how to tell her.

“Sally!” Rusty called, “Willard is going to pull on the rope… it will keep you from falling. All you have to do is go with the rope.”

Sally mooed a soft moo and struggled to her feet. The snugness of the rope felt good.

Nancy patted Willard’s shoulder. She moved in front of him turned to face him and began backing away motioning him to follow.

Slowly, Willard began moving forward. The rope whipped up tufts of dust as it became taught. He kept moving.

Rusty, Mickey, Elizabeth and Rachael watched as Sally carefully began inching her way along the narrow, ascending ledge.

Chapter 10

The sun was low in the western sky when Sally set her four hooves on the solid ground near the canyon rim. She was shaking but managed to stagger 20 feet from the rim before weakly sinking to the ground.

Rusty cried his strongest eagle screech in celebration. The two hawks yelled at the top of their lungs. Elizabeth couldn’t compete in volume but she made up for it in doing a vigorous squirrel dance.

When Willard was free from his saving harness, he did the Buffalo Shuffle.

“You’re quite a group,” Nancy said collecting her belongings. “Two Ferruginous hawks, an American bald eagle, a ground squirrel and a cow. If only we humans could learn to help each other as much as you friends do, the world would be a better place.”

“Thanks Willard,” Sally said when she’d stopped trembling, “and thanks Elizabeth, Rachael, Mickey and Rusty.” She walked over to Nancy and nuzzled her side.

“You’re welcome” Nancy said stroking the Sally’s nose and then, walking to Willard and slapping his shoulders said, ”You and Willard had better get away from the canyon. You’re way out of your element.”

Nancy coiled her rope and began retracing her steps over the terrain to her car, started it and began the bouncy trip back.

The sun was nearing the western horizon.

Rusty eyed his  friends, said good-bye and took to the air headed for Rogue River Siskiyou National Forest and home. It would take him a couple of suns to get there. On his way he would stop to see other  friends.

On their way back across the Zumwalt toward the Eagle Cap Wilderness, Mikey rode on Sally’s back, Rachael rode on Willard’s rump and Elizabeth scampered along side.

“You oughta come with me to Eagle Cap,” Willard said to Sally when they entered the smooth grasses of the Zumwalt.

“You sure? Buffalo don’t like cows.” Sally answered.

“I do, and Mom will when I tell her that all those tales we’ve heard about cows are not true, “Willard said.

“Well, I can’t anyway,” Sally said, “Any day now the bigs will be coming to the prairie to load us cows into haulers and cart us away for the winter.”

“You don’t have to be penned like cattle. Come with me and you can roam free like buffalo, if you have the courage.”

“Free… “ Sally crooned.

“You don’t have to go with them… Come with me… the bigs won’t come to Eagle Cap looking for cows.”

“You should talk about courage, Willard,” Rachel said. Remember when you were afraid of your own shadow?”

“Don’t say that!” Sally said, “Willard was brave enough to leave Eagle Cap. He was there to help save my life… that’s brave.”

“What would you eat?” Elizabeth asked, “In winter the grass gets covered with ice and there’d be nothing for you to eat.”

“Ha,” Willard snapped, “How do you think we buffalo survive?”

“I never thought about that,” Elizabeth said, “Squirrels store acorns, birds have fish… how do you survive?”

“We’re smart… we break up the ice with our hooves. Beneath the ice is always plenty to eat,” Willard bragged.

“I never thought about doing that,” Sally said, “You are smart… I’d like to meet your mom… I will next summer … but this time I’ll go with my herd and tell them about buffalo… at least some are nice… and about how smart they are… getting food in the Zumwalt even in winter.”

Sally, Elizabeth and Mickey headed for the pink barn to spend the night. They said goodbye to Willard and Rachael, who made their way over the prairie, across 82 and into Eagle Cap.  Rachael rode on his rump coaching him on what to say to mom.

THE END

- M. Russel Pike ©2012 - See M. Russel Pike’s Bio

The 55-foot keelboat could be sailed, rowed or poled like a raft; photo courtesy of LewisandClarkTrail.com

…was $2,500 in 1804. In 2012, $2,500 would be $49,019.61 (one 1804 dollar equals $19.61 today). So, 33 men left St. Louis Missouri on May 21, 1804, arrived near Astoria Oregon in December 1805, left for home on March 23, 1806 and arrived back in St. Louis on September 1806, for $2,500 tax payer dollars.

Think about this. One year, 11 months and 11 days – $3.52 a day divided by 33 men = 11cent a day per person (today, $69.04 divided by 33 men = $2.09 a day per person).

Think about this. 7690 miles at the 55.5-cent 2012 government rate reimbursement = $426,795.00.

Think about this. It takes a 40 pounds of dog food a month to feed a Newfoundland dog and the expedition took one with them (named Seaman) = $705.00 (35.95 in 1804).

So, think the Lewis and Clark party were pretty frugal? I guess so. It would cost $142,000 to take a 710 a day cruise in 2012 ($200 a day) or $7241.20 in 1804 (10.20 a day in 1804) and they did it for $3.52.

Well gosh. You learned it here – smile.

Luv,

Sissy

Unidentified Willamette Valley farmer checks wall mounted seed pinning map at the Marion County Extension Office in Salem Oregon; photo by Jan Jackson

…Did you know that a farmer in the Willamette Valley (and a lot of other places too), can’t just up and plant whatever he wants to plant where ever he wants to plant it? Aha! I thought not. Here’s the scoop.

Maintaining adequate isolation distances to prevent cross-pollination by crops of the same species is crucial to preserving seed variety integrity. The distance required varies widely and is influenced by many factors – even wind direction and intensity.

Farmers manage crop isolation distance with pinning maps. In most states, these are large, wall-mounted maps housed at county Extension officers; growers and seed company representatives locate their fields on the map and mark crop locations with color-coded pins.

So now, as you drive through the countryside admiring the patches of this and the patches of that, you’ll know what all went into it.

And remembers, you learned it here – smile.

Luv,

Sissy

What did YOUR mother tell YOU about wearing make-up? How not to look like a painted lady? How not to look like a clown? How not to look like you fell face down in it?

Remember when you used to sneak lipstick to school and how you made sure you wiped it off before you got home? Well ha ha. My world-traveling travel-writer friend Marilyn caught one of my cousins in the act. Take a look at her make up job – bless Bess if she isn’t a sight!

Keep up the good work Marilyn. I never seem to get far from my hot rock so I’m happy to have you traveling the world for me.

Here’s to the rest of you, look out for Marilyn – you never know where she going to show up next. Don’t say I didn’t warn you – smile.

Luv,

Sissy

The other pig sensed a trap; photo by Bing Bingham

I think I had a mid-life crisis.

My friend Mike promised to raise three wiener pigs for me with the understanding that he could keep one for the freezer and I could have two back for breeding.

Six months later, it was time for me to pick up the pigs. My plan to load the pigs for the trip home was to offer them succulent treats from his garden like old squash, corn stalks and pepper plants. I placed the goodies inside the stock trailer and waited for the pigs to hop in so I could close the door and go home.

My idea worked great for one of the pigs. She jumped in and the only sounds you could hear from that stock trailer were the smacking, slurping and burping of that happy pig.

The other pig sensed a trap.

For three hours, I coaxed, coerced and cussed that young pig. By this time, she was wandering around Mike’s yard and refusing to look at the trailer.

Dusk was approaching, I was getting tired, cranky and thinking about inviting that silly pig to dinner—as the guest of honor.

That’s when Mike showed up.

“Are you having fun yet?” he grinned.

“Any moment now,” I replied with gritted teeth.

Our options for catching that pig were diminishing. One of us mentioned lassoing the pig with a lariat. We figured it wouldn’t work, but neither of us had a better idea.

So there we were, two middle-aged men, dashing about the yard twirling ropes over our heads and chasing a pig. Both of us were pleased that no one was watching—and laughing.

After sprinting what seemed like several miles, Mike made a desperate lunge with his rope. The pig, easily, danced sideways out of his way and within feet of me. Without thinking, I tackled the pig.

Hanging onto a running pig that outweighed me by 30 pounds was a lot like clutching a jackhammer to my chest and being dragged by a horse. The pig made a few circuits around the yard with me flapping along behind like underwear on a windy clothesline.

Just as the pig bucked me off and I lay flat on my back, I saw Mike do an impressive flying tackle. The pig must have leaped into the air, because the next I saw was that pig descending out of the sky and landing flat on my nose. I must have looked like a little kid that has his nose and mouth squashed against the schoolbus window.

Mike and the pig were laying on top of me in a tangle of legs and limbs—each of us, panting like marathon runners. My nose was squashed like a penny on a railroad track. For a while, I was content to lay there and bleed. It felt good compared to what I’d been doing moments before.

After a bit, we trussed up the pig and tossed her in the trailer. I went to Mike’s house and cleaned up. My nose felt like a cantaloupe hanging off my face all the way home.

Frankly, I’m not sure if this incident qualifies as a mid-life crisis. If not, maybe I’ll check the classifieds to see what’s available in red sports cars.

Bing Bingham is a writer, rancher and storyteller. The pig in question turned out to be one of the best sows he’s ever had. If you’d like to read other stories, check bingbingham.com/blog.

A field of meadowfoam growing along Highway 22, west of Salem Oregon; photo by Jan Jackson taken May 20, 2010.

… it’s white like snow – God Bless America (I said that just for Smothers Brothers fans – smile).  It was named meadowfoam because it looks like the foam on the ocean but I think it looks like snow. The first time you see it you go, “Whoa, wait just a minute, what’s that?”

Well, meadowfoam is a native wildlower found along waterways in Northern California, southern Oregon and Vancouver Island, Bristish Columbia.

Commercial development began in 1980 on an experimental farm in Oregon. In 2010, more than 4,000 acres were contracted for meadowfoam production.

What do they use it for? The oil can be chemically transformed into a liquid wax ester that is a substitute for sperm whale oil and jojoba oil. It can also be converted to a light colored premium grade solid wax, a sulfur polymer factice potentially valuable to the rubber industry, or used as a lubricant, detergent or plasticizer. It has also proven to be invaluable in the body care and cosmetic industries. After crushing the seed and utilizing a solvent extraction process to remove the oil, the remaining meal may be used as a feed source for beef cattle.

Now when you drive by a field that looks as white as sea foam (or snow), you can nonchalantly say,”That? Oh, that’s meadowfoam.”

You learned it here – smile.

Luv,

Sissy

Steller's Jay feeding on VanNatta Bros. Tree Farm; photo by Robert P. VanNatta

… is not as easy to capture as photographer Robert VanNatta has made it look in this stellar photo. Steller’s Jays live in conifer forests; they are on the shy side and skitter when people appear.  Since  Georg Wilhelm Steller was the first to record them in 1741, they were named him. Now, back to Robert.

Robert happens to live in a conifer forest – to be more specific, he lives on a tree farm/logging operation in Columbia County. Because the Steller’s Jays are nervous and flee quickly, here is what he went through to get this photo

First, he put his good little Pentax camera (sez he) – complete with a 400mm f/2.8 lens – on his new Gimble Tripod (see photo at http://www.vannattabros.com/12-03/gimbal4.jpg), and placed it on his kitchen table. Then he put some breadcrumbs on a stump 30 feet out the back door, set the camera on remote (and f/5 for some extra depth of field), pre-focused it on the stump and ran the ISO up to 1600 to get a good shutter speed. He opened the patio door wide enough for the lens, set the camera to continuous and took about 250 raw images.

There you have it – while others are running all over the country looking for birds to photograph – Robert figured out the easy way to do it. Thank you Robert for this photography lesson in a nutshell – sorry you had to sort through so many images to get us these good one – smile.

Luv,

Sissy

To see more of Robert’s work, visit http://www.vannattabros.com/animal14.html

Tom McCall in bigger-than-life bronze at Riverfront Park in Salem, Oregon; photo by Jan Jackson

…stands bigger than life on the banks of the Willamette River (at the south end of Salem’s Riverfront Park’s north parking lot). Created by accomplished Oregon sculptor Rip Caswell, the one-of-a-kind bronze shows McCall stepping out the the North Umpqua River in waders – a fresh caught steelhead in one hand and his fishing pole in the other. The likeness was modeled after a photo taken by Dan Callaghan of Salem.

The late Governor McCall (c.1913- 1983), best known for passing the historical environmental protection bills that continue to keep Oregon clean and green, served between 1967 and 1975. His quote: “We want you to visit our State of Excitement often. Come again and again. But for heaven’s sake, don’t move here to live. Or if you do have to move in to live, don’t tell any of your neighbors where you are going,” was heard around the world.

You’ll be hearing more about Tom McCall as the 100^th anniversary of his birth (March 22, 2013) draws near. You can get a jump on everything now, by taking a nice stroll along the path in the park. Bring your camera.

Luv,

Sissy

Garry Oak leaves at Catherine Creek; photo by Larry Rea

… You don’t have to shoot flowers to get beautiful photos. Case in point? Larry Rea’s photograph of some Garry Oak leaves – Quercus garryana sez he – leftovers from last summer. Larry claims that, though it was not the fabled burning bush, it did speak to him.

According to Larry, the Garry Oak is 1)commonly found in western Oregon’s Willamette Valley and along the Columbia River, 2) habitat for the dusky-winged butterfly and the Lewis woodpecker and 3)named after Hudson Bay Company Deputy Governor Nicholas Garry (c.1782-1856). He took this photo at Catherine Creek on March 23, 2012 while on one of his habitual nose-around-Oregon drives.

Larry said the leaf – backlit by the sun – caught his eye and began to chant, “Take my picture, take my picture; tell my story, tell my story.” So, this Dr. Doolittle of Oregon’s back roads did.

Thanks Larry – smile.

Luv,

Sissy

Going to Catherine Creek?

While staying at the park, explore nearby attractions such as the Union County Museum in the town of Union, take a drive to Eagle Creek to do some fishing or visit any of the many pioneer graveyards. Drive to the Oregon Trail Interpretive Center near Baker City, or head east to the Hells Canyon National Recreation Area and the Wallowa Whitman National Forest. The towns of Union and LaGrande offer visitors full-service shopping, restaurants, community events and emergency services. Whether you are looking for a quiet, out-of-the-way location to spend a night or a week, Catherine Creek State Park can accommodate you.

To A Mouse

Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim’rous beastie,

Oh, what a panic’s in thy breastie!

Thou need na start awa sae hasty,

Wi’ bickering brattle!

I was be laith to rin an’ chase thee,

Wi’ murd’ring pattle!

Well maybe you are more familiar with this one:

Auld Lang Syne

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

And never brought to min’?

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

And auld lang syne?

Robert Burns (1759-1796) was long dead by 1883 when George McGowan and his friend Peter Stenger established themselves in the area McGowan named Burns. Stenger wanted to name the area Stenger after his own ranch. McGowan said no way because that sounded too much like the word stinger and a town that sounded like Stingertown would be bad for business. McGowan was a great admirer of Robert Burns – so Burns it was.

Now when you go there you’ll know who it’s named for – smile.

Luv

Sissy

Burns Oregon is 136 miles (219 km) east of Bend and 130 miles (209 km) west on U.S. Route 20 at its intersection with U.S. Route 395, 186 miles (299 km) south of Pendleton. A third highway, Oregon Route 78, runs 92 miles (148 km) from Burns southeast past the Malheur National Wildlife Refuge and Steens Mountain to Burns Junction, Oregon.

Call it wood sorrel or call it sheep showers - but - eat it and you'll call it sour; photo by Marvin Kellar

… call it what you want – it’s sour sour sour! The flower books call it wood sorrel – yep – that’s what the flower books call it – that’s what Marvin Kellar calls it (Sauntering Native Oregon). It looks like giant clover, or Irish shamrock. Has little white flowers with pink veins and grows in the woods – it is beautiful actually. I know someone that calls it sheep showers. Why? Don’t ask me – I just know they do. Listen to this.

These sheep shower people also eat them or at least they did when they were little girls making play food. That’s right. They ate it. Have you ever tried eating it? It is soooooooooour.

These girls had a playhouse in an old cleaned out pig house next to the big garden that was overflowing with green sweet peas, carrots, radishes and other wonderful tasty things. But – the only things they were allowed to eat were little green onions from the garden (they made your breath stink) and sheep showers from the woods.  Did I mention that they were sour?

Tasty tasty dishes came out of that old pig house. The little girls are oldish now – but – they can still conger up the smell of onion breath and taste the of sheep shower sour.

Try eating wood sorrel.  I’ll bet you CAN eat just one – smile.

Luv

Sissy

Captain Herb Colomb, US Navy Retired, tracking down who planted the cherry trees on the Oregon State Capitol Mall; photo by Jan Jackson

… watch for them – probably end of March or beginning of April. But, that’s only part of my story. We had to bring in the U.S. Navy – well maybe not the whole U.S. Navy but it did take Captain Herb Colomb, U.S. Navy Retired, to track down who planted the cherry trees – smile.

You see, when I tried  to find out who planted the trees last year at this time, nobody knew. I did find out there are 150 of them and they were planted in 1992. But, I hit a dead end when it came to finding out who planted them.

This is how it happened. After a meeting to introduce the formation of the Oregon State Capitol History Center (watch for news about that too – smile), Capitol Foundation President Fred VanNatta said he thought he knew the guy that would know who planted the trees. Then, minutes later, who do you think walks by but the guy he’s talking about – Captain Colomb himself (also a newly-retired facility manager for the Capitol). The good captain accepted the assignment, walked to the information desk, borrowed the phone, made a few calls and bingo!!!

He found out that the 150 cherry trees (descendants of those from Japan), were planted 20 years ago by none other than the folks from the J. Frank Schmidt Nursery in Boring, Oregon.

If you are in Washington DC this spring, you might get in on the 100^th anniversary of Japan’s 1912 cherry tree gift to the USA . If you can’t make it to Washington D.C., then toddle on down to the Oregon State Capitol and see ours. An enduring symbol of friendship between the two nations, they are drop-dead beautiful.

Luv,

Sissy

Oregon Shepherd's natural wool insulation is non-toxic, fire and vermin resistant and naturally "green"; photo by Jan Jackson

RAINIER, Ore. – For proof that entrepreneurial spirit is still alive in the West, just talk to the folks at The Oregon Shepherd wool insulation factory in Rainier. Inside the building, they are making loose-fill insulation for buildings out of sheep wool.

Located near the banks of the Columbia River, the building serves as offices, showroom, raw wool storage and processing plant. From the Rainier location, finished loose-fill natural wool insulation is shipped all over the United States including Alaska and Hawaii.

The company started when sheep growers Margaret Magruder (from Clatskanie) and Joel and Kay Pynch, (from Halsey), decided to find something to do with a product that was going to waste. They came up with the idea of making loose-fill insulation and then set about inventing a way to do it.

Scoured in San Angelo Texas and processed in Rainier, Oregon, natural sheep wool insulation supports American Farmers and is fully tested; photo courtesy Oregon Shepherd

“Because no one else was doing it, we’ve had to do everything by trial and error,” Magruder said of her eclectic but functional collection of wool insulation processing equipment. “We only bought one machine new and fabricated the rest. As we realized what we needed to do, we set to work looking around for machines that we could make do it. Joel had an old cyclone machine in his barn that he turned into something we could use to dry the wool after we add the borax solution.

“Because wool is hard to chop, we did buy the chopper new. George Cornwell, our jack-of-all trades CPA and Director of Operations and Finance, took samples of wool to Pennsylvania where the machine is made to see if it was tough enough to do it. Lucky for us it was. It has been a challenge to do everything the hard way.”

The wool used for insulation has no other significant market value and might be discarded if Magruder and Pynch hadn’t developed a use for it. They purchase the fiber (called card waste), from places like Pendleton Woolen Mill’s Washougal plant, the Wool Gatherer Carding Mill in Montague California. To that they add wool they raise themselves and obtain from private sheep growers.

Margaret Magruder with a loaded tote of loose-fill insulation nearly ready for shipment; photo by Jan Jackson.

“We have sheep growers that give us wool rather than throw it away,” Magruder said. “Some sheep have wool the textile industry doesn’t want because it is colored or comes from hair sheep or has been contaminated because it comes from animals that have been raised with hair sheep. None of those things affect the insulation capacity of the wool so we can use it.

“Once we get the wool, and before we begin processing it, we send it to be washed in the scouring plant in San Angelo Texas. Once we get it back, it is sprayed with a borate solution which increases its already natural flame resistance and adds pest control. By the time it is air-dried and packed with the staples and installation netting, it is ready to ship. In fact, we have a very popular 8-by-10 foot wall-in-the-box product that is very easy to install.”

Wool is not only non-toxic and acoustically superior as a sound control material, but it uses less than one-tenth the energy it takes to manufacture fiberglass insulation or rock wool.  As a sustainable and renewable organic product, it is perfect for people concerned with the plastic, polystyrene fibers, fiberglass and mineral wool that make up the most common types of insulation.

“Our manufacturing processes consume only a small fraction of the energy required to produce traditional insulation materials,” Magruder said. “We feel good that we are utilizing something that might otherwise be discarded and managing to keep our carbon footprint miniscule.”

For more information about natural sheep wool loose-fill insulation, visit www.oregonshepherd.com

Jan Jackson©2012 – See Jan Jackson Bio

]]> http://countrytraveleronline.com/2012/03/06/oregon-shepherds-turn-sheep-wool-into-energy-efficient-insulation/feed/ 2 http://countrytraveleronline.com/2012/03/01/the-rest-of-the-story/ http://countrytraveleronline.com/2012/03/01/the-rest-of-the-story/#comments Thu, 01 Mar 2012 19:58:54 +0000 sissy http://countrytraveleronline.com/?p=5278

Resident in a farm town animal shelter; Photo by Bing Bingham

Dear Former Dog Owner:

I’m sending an open letter so you understand what happened to the little black dog you dropped off near our ranching community. I thought you ought to know the rest of the story.

I’m sure you recall that she was a little black mutt, no taller than my knees. Her coat was short and she weighed less than a big bag of dog food.

You probably hoped she’d find a good home when you dumped her along our road. Once in a great while a dumpee will get lucky and find a home—not often, though.

Ranchers have specific dogs for their needs. Stock dogs help with livestock control. Other types guard herds from predators. Both are working animals that earn their kibbles and carry their weight on the modern ranch.

Most times dumped animals find a harsh end of being run over by a vehicle. Failing that, they starve or die of disease. The end of your former dog fell somewhere in between. She found a tiny bit of kindness, but no home.

A Good Samaritan from our area coaxed her into the back of his pickup. Trying to find her owner, he stopped by our Post Office. Jumping out of the truck, your former dog disappeared behind a building. That was the last time she got near a human being.

For weeks, she hung around our tiny ranching community—eating stolen dog food when available and from garbage cans when it wasn’t. She was always a fleeting shadow disappearing around the corner.

Then she came in heat. Attracting the attention of a local unneutered Golden Retriever. They ran our entire countryside.

That’s when I first saw your little black dog.

She and the male crossed town traveled over a ridge and ended up in our sheep pens. Neither dog was interested in the sheep. Our guard donkeys tried, but failed, to kill both dogs.

We rescued the Golden Retriever, but couldn’t get our hands on your female. Then, we phoned the male’s owner and he arrived a few minutes later. He thanked us and apologized for his dog. Like neighbors do, we chatted in the driveway discussing the doings of your former little black dog.

When people adopt a dog at the pound, most often, they choose a colorful, friendly and well-socialized animal. Your dog was none of these.

She was an unpopular color, pregnant and would likely have been unadoptable with her fear and trauma issues. Euthanization, however unfair, was her probable future.

It was obvious her physical condition was deteriorating daily. We decided it was time to take matters into our hands.

Two days later, I was fixing fence when I heard running hoofbeats. I looked up and saw the Golden Retriever running for his life in front of our donkeys. He dodged several strikes as he dived under a fence.

The male was glad to be rescued again. We chained him in our yard and called our neighbor. Once in while, I’d catch glimpses of the black dog slinking through the shadows worrying about her friend. I went in the house and got our rifle.

She circled closer.

I waited for an opening and then did the deed that needed doing. It was quick and final. I didn’t like it very much, but it may have been the kindest thing that ever happened to your little black dog.

So that’s what happened to the dog you dropped off that day. I thought you ought to know.

This letter is signed with no respect for you at all—

Bing Bingham is a writer, rancher and storyteller. He hopes readers will make a copy of this letter and pass it along wherever it’s needed. If you have a comment or story to pass along, contact him at bing@bingbingham.com/blog.

Truffles oregonense; photo courtesy North America Truffling Society (www.natruffling.org)

…truffle, truffles, truffling, truffler, trufflemaster.  Did you know that a truffle is simply an underground mushroom and Oregon has white, black and brown ones? Aha! Did you know our truffles can be found in Douglas fir forests? Aha! Did you know that Oregon’s abundance of wild truffles is blessed with culinary qualities equal to those of Europe and as with French grapes, Oregon has the perfect climate for cultivation of the renowned French truffles? Aha! Did you know there is even a truffle oregonense? Aha!

Now for the gross part. Truffles rely on animals eating them (mycophagy) and distributing the spores in their scats. We all know about using pigs to hunt truffles but now there are truffle hunting dogs. The dogs are more popular than pigs because they don’t eat  truffles and dogs are easier to get in the back seat of your car.

So, if you dig around the base of a Douglas fir tree (also some other varieties) and unearth some things that look like tiny potatoes, you may have found something that sells for a lot of money on the open market.

Just how much money? I think if you have to ask, you can’t afford them – smile.

Luv,

Sissy

Portland Oregon on Christmas Day; photo by Bryan Kellar

… If you’ve only seen Portland Oregon in the sunshine, you’ve missed something special. Bryan Kellar took this cool photo from Terwilliger Boulevard.

In the foreground is a leafless tree – yep – the leaves don’t come back until March or April. In the back ground are the twin glass towers of the Oregon Convention Center – the largest convention center in the Pacific Northwest. In between, are two of Portland’s eight bridges – the first is the Hawthorne Bridge and behind that the Morrison.

I don’t think Mr. Francis Pettygrove (originally from Portland Maine) and General Asa Lovejoy (originally from Boston Massachusetts) saw anything that looked like this in 1845 when they argued over whether to name their new city Portland or Boston. They settled their dispute with a coin toss during a dinner party in Oregon City. A copper penny was tossed in the air three times – it came down tails in favor of Pettygrove’s Portland twice and heads for Lovejoy’s Boston only once.

Poor Boston doesn’t have a beautiful namesake in the Pacific Northwest. Poor Boston.

Luv,

Sissy

Billy Chinook Lake; photo by Bing Bingham

… Ten pairs of bald eagles and 10 pairs of golden eagles live in the area of Billy Chinook Lake and  you can see exhibits, displays and presentations at the Round Butte Overlook Park Visitor Center on February 25 and 26.

Located in the scenic canyon country east of the Cascades range about eight miles southwest of Madras, the lake was created in 1964 by Round Butte Dam. It’s 72 miles of shoreline and surface area of 4,000 acres, and is surrounded by mostly public lands. Fed by the Metolius, the Deschutes and the Crooked Rivers, the lake is famous for abundant kokanee (a sockeye salmon of a dwarf variety that lives in landlocked lakes in western North America) and trophy-size bull trout (a member of the salmon family which can grow to more than 20 pounds in lake environments).

The dam project generates approximately 800,000 megawatts electricity per year for residents in the Portland metropolitan area. A day-use parking fee is charged at The Cove Palisades, but admission to all Eagle Watch activities is free.

You can read a little more about the lake at http://countrytraveleronline.com/2010/07/14/nine/ Actually, its good place to soar with eagles – anytime of year.

Luv,

Sissy

Photo of Hall's Violet native taken April 18, 2010 at Rough and Ready Wayside near Cave Junction, OR. by Marvin Kellar www.saunteringoregon.com

… (Tune tune tune) “There once was a farmer who took a young miss…

In back of the barn where he gave her a…

Lecture on horses and chickens and eggs…

And told her that she had such beautiful…

Manners that suited a girl of her charms
…

A girl that he wanted to take in his…

Washing and ironing and then if she did
…

They would get married and raise lots of…

Sweet Violets, sweeter than all the roses
…

Covered all over from head to toe…

Covered all over with sweet violets.” (Tune tune tune)

Where do you think violets come from? Maybe you thought  from florists, or nurseries or other places that sell plants? No, no no.  Oregon has little native violets growing in the woods.

In fact, here is one of them: Hall’s Violet “Viola hallii” Violet Family (Violaceae) Perennial, plant 3-9″ tall, leaves divided into many segments, flowers have purple upper petals and yellow to white lower petals.  This violet blooms in the spring in rocky areas in S.W. Oregon.

Now you know what to look for.

Luv,

Sissy

Sausage makers and vendors present sell the best of their wursts – bratwurst, bockwurst, knackwurst, Oktoberfest sausage and other variations. On tap are World famous German and domestic beers, regional wines, and non-alcoholic drinks. You can buy artisan breads and cheeses, pizza, chocolates, roasted nuts and many other ethnic offerings. A selection of arts and crafts is offered for your viewing pleasure or to purchase and take home with you. And, for young and old alike, there is non-stop music and dancing on the new Festhalle ballroom quality floor.

Admission is $10.00 and includes a half-liter souvenir Bavarian glass beer mug (if you are among the first 2,000 that is). Friday is senior day (half price admission if you enter between 11 am and 5 pm) and children accompanied by an adult are free both days.

You can find out more at www.MtAngelWurstfest.com

Trust me on this one. It’s a place for families and you are missing out if you don’t go there.

Luv,

Sissy

2011   http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O56MNaI4lbY

2010  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zvq1CHFuDUE

2009  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NvjEKNvpjok

Western Skunk Cabbage, also called Swamp Lantern is found in Oregon's swamps and wet woods; photo by Marvin Kellar (www.saunteringoregon.com).

… is found in swamps and wet woods, along streams and in other wet areas of the Pacific Northwest (from Kodiak Island and Cook Inlet Alaska, south through British Columbia, Washington Oregon and Northern California).

But, before you leap out and pick a bouquet, you need to know that they stink – yep – they really stink. And yes, it is called skunk cabbage because it smells like a skunk.

The plants aren’t very useful to us but its roots are food for bears to eat after hibernating as a laxative or cathartic. The indigenous people used it as medicine for burns and injuries and for food in times of famine. Don’t you try and eat it though, because it can result in intestinal irritation and even death if consumed in large quantities.

Skunk cabbage may be be beautiful to look at as you drive Oregon’s highways and byways and hike its nature trails, but, my advice is to leave it for the bears.

There you have it – smile.

Luv,

Sissy

The Full Sources, a 768 foot cargo ship loading the 57,000 tons of Northwest wheat it will carry to South Korea; photo by Jan Jackson

.. I sat in the town of Rainier this week and watched history was being made across the river at the Port of Longview Washington.The first cargo ship pulled up to the new grain export terminal and prepared to load grain stored in one of 36 new towering silos near the docks. It is a history making moment because this 738 foot cargo ship will carry the first 57,000 ton load  of Washington-grown soft white wheat to South Korea. Of course, Rainier folks get to ship-watch all the time, but I don’t.

Charles Fox settled the city in 1851, and even though he missed seeing Lewis and Clark cruising down the river by 46 years, he saw a lot of other things like sailing ships and sternwheelers.The town, which sits on Highway 30, halfway between Portland and Astoria, was first called Eminence, then Fox’s Landing and finally Rainier (after the nearby snow capped mountain).

Think Rainier isn’t a place to ship-watch? Think again. Everything going to the Port of Longview, Port of Kalama, Port of St. Helens and Port of Portland goes right by the town. Sometimes you can watch cargo ships come in full and go out empty (bad bad) and sometimes they come in empty and go out full (good good). And, it is really fun when the Queen of the West comes in and docks for awhile and the Rose Parade fleet goes by.

It’s a ship-watching place, trust me.

Luv,

Sissy

High Desert towing; photo by Bing Bingham.

So here’s the question: What is it about a mechanical breakdown that makes an otherwise kind and gentle man turn into a loudmouthed and braying fool?

It’s happened at our place—I’m embarrassed to admit—and it may have happened at yours…

It was after 9 o’clock on a still and clear winter night deep in the high desert. The temperature hovered in the low-teens, a gazillion stars glittered in the sky.

Bud was late returning home from watering cattle. Mary knew the delay was probably no big deal—a flat tire or stuck water valve—still she went out on that freezing night to see if he was OK.

She found him at one of their far wells. The pickup battery was dead. It was obvious he’d been there a while—cold, cranky and frustrated.

“You got a chain?” were the first words out of his mouth.

His reaction was understandable: he was thinking about getting home to a warm house. However, Mary noticed he failed to say anything about being happy she’d found him on the frigid sage flats.

He needed a tow to start his pickup. She had no chain. There were no phones or help for miles. A search found nothing to attach two vehicles together—except Bud’s best catch rope.

The high desert is big country. Cowmen rely heavily on their catch rope. Stretching one between pickups ruins the rope, plus it makes a bad mood worse.

Grumbling under his breath, Bud tied the rope between the trucks. Mary let out the clutch and the rope snapped.

All signs of domestic harmony disintegrated—Bud was yelling, Mary in tears. The yelling became screaming and the crying turned to sobbing. By now the marital ruckus was disturbing local wildlife for miles in every direction.

“I’ll hold the rope and let slack out until it’s tight…start slow,” he instructed at the top of his lungs. “Whatever you do…keep going!”

Mary followed instructions to the letter. The rope didn’t break. She pulled Bud’s pickup for about six miles and knew she was in trouble when it didn’t follow her around a corner. She slammed on her brakes and ran to check.

The truck was empty and Bud was gone.

She called until her voice was hoarse—no reply.

Frustrated tears streaming, Mary thought about driving home and dealing with the aftermath when the sun came up. Then a grim thought surfaced in her roiling mind.

“Maybe he’s injured or dead,” she thought, “oh well…at least he won’t be yelling at me anymore.”

Love tested, she turned back to look for Bud. Fear of what she might find, alive or dead, twisted her stomach into a knot.

When Mary arrived at the well, Bud was leaning against the stock tank. It was tough to tell which had more divots—him or the frozen dirt road. Favoring his aches and pains, he climbed in the warm truck and didn’t say a word. They drove home quietly.

The following day Bud and Mary retrieved his dead pickup. From the tracks in the desert, Mary assumed Bud was hung up in the catch rope and dragged. To her, it looked as though he scraped along behind her truck for a couple hundred yards before he kicked loose from the tangled rope.

To this day, Mary’s not sure what happened that night. Bud has never mentioned the incident and she’s not about to bring it up.

So folks, may your breakdowns be few and the conversation quiet and loving between you and your sweetie. And, please, remember to throw a chain in your pickup.

Bing Bingham is a writer, rancher and storyteller. He thanks friend and cowboy poet Lona Burkhart for this story. If you’d like to read other stories, check his blog at http://www.bingbingham.com/

And not only that – but – if your antique or collectible sports a Superhero (like Superman, Wonder Woman, or Spider-man), sign up to have Harry appraise it. The most valuable one in Harry’s judgment, will win its owner a getaway for two in Lincoln City.

It is fun having HGTV’s former Collector Inspector in town!

The cost for the Oregon Coast Antiques and Collectibles Appraise-A-Thon at Chinook Winds Casino Resort is $10 each or 3 pieces for $25. Contact Linda at 888-244-6665 ext 2323 for an appointment. Open to the public. Those who just want to watch, enjoy and learn are welcome, even if they don’t have appraisal items.

Click here for the 2012 Antique Week Map and Schedule or contact the Lincoln City Visitor and Convention Bureau at 800-452-2151

Oh I’m just wild about Harry – and Harry’s wild about me – smile.

Luv

Sissy

Chapter 1

Fifty miles south of the mighty Columbia River, along the banks of Big Muddy Creek near Antelope, sits the Prince family ranch. Eight-year-old Larry Prince loves where he lives. He can’t imagine living anywhere else. The preacher at the little church the family attends often mentions heaven where “… we will be forever with God in a perfect world.” As far as Larry is concerned, he already lives in heaven. At least, that’s the way he looks at the hills, valleys and rivers near the family’s comfortable home. Well, almost heaven. He tolerates school because he has to. But, he’d rather be trotting along a dirt trail in Ponderosa Canyon south of the Prince Ranch or sitting on the bank of Big Muddy Creek with his fish line testing the water.

Last Sunday, while sitting on his favorite boulder, he saw a huge eagle circling high in the azure sky.

“That would be like heaven too,” he thought. “Flying like an eagle… maybe being in an airplane is like that.”

But he’d flown. At least in his imagination he could soar like an eagle… ride the thermals, look down on the rolling hills and delightful valleys of the expansive prairie far below.

Suddenly, Larry’s eye caught movement of something nearby.  The best looking jackrabbit he’d ever seen hopped into view and assumed an alert stance on a mound of dirt overlooking the creek.

Larry eased to his feet and began inching his way toward the handsome rabbit hoping he might make friends with him.

“You look like a Ringo Rabbit to me,” Larry said out loud.

Larry thought for a moment that the rabbit… that Ringo wanted to answer back… but instead the large animal jumped into the air and scampered off and disappeared into a clump of scrub juniper 50 yards to the east.

“That’s my Ringo,” Larry called, “But you watch out… someday we’ll be friends.”

Larry picked up his pole, his tackle box and started back to the ranch house. The eagle was lower now in the sky. Larry wondered what had attracted its attention. He hoped it wasn’t Ringo.  But, he had no control over that.

He turned and trotted north toward home. He knew his mother would soon be calling him in for supper.

Chapter 2

Rusty Eagle circled and glided down to settle on a sturdy limb of a scrubby oak, his giant wings folding in on themselves against his enormous body. He’d been to the Columbia River visiting friends and scouting for salmon. He was on his way to his home near the Rogue River in Southern Oregon.

From his perch, his eagle-eye spotted his friend, Ringo Rabbit, scavenging the parched ground for morsels of grass and other leafy weeds that managed to survive the arid conditions in this part of Oregon. He began his descent.

Far below, Ringo nibbled on a yellow flower.

Scarcity of food was not the only threat wild rabbits faced living near Antelope, Oregon. To survive, they also had to avoid sneaky bobcats, wolves, coyotes, eagles and other big birds that feed on rabbits. Rabbits learned to share hideouts. Hundreds of burrows dotting the landscape ensured that a rabbit was never far from sanctuary. And fortunately, the maker designed rabbit’s eyes so that they have a wide field of vision on both sides of their heads

Suddenly, Ringo froze. Above and to his left rear he spotted an eagle resting on the oak branch. Ringo had seconds to decide weather to scamper for cover or stay frozen to see what the eagle had in mind. If the eagle came for him, he would thump hard on the ground several times to warn other nearby rabbits and then scamper in a zigzag pattern for the opening of a burrow he knew to be close by

“It’s okay,” the eagle said.

Ringo turned to face it directly. It was Rusty Eagle.

“You scared me,“ the nervous rabbit said dropping his ears and taking a deep breath.

“… Knew I would!” Rusty said laughing.

“ … Haven’t seen an eagle in a couple of days. I was getting careless,” Ringo said taking two hops toward the oak on which Rusty sat.

The big eagle hopped from the branch, glided to the ground next to Ringo and asked, “What’s been happening in the lives of range rabbits?”

“Same ol’ eating, scampering, scratching, hopping, resting and sleeping,” the lanky rabbit said. He paused and added, “ … Barely escaped the slither of a slimy snake two days ago.”

“Wouldn’t know what that’s like,” Rusty said, half to himself.

“It was a huge red-tailed hawk before that…”

“Hawks are a nuisance… for sure.”

“… A creepy bobcat keeps after me… and the coyotes, and cougars…” Ringo added.

“Mercy…. “ Rusty returned.

“And I have to keep a sharp eye out for sly fox.

“Yeah,” Rusty drawled… then changed the subject, “It sure is hot… not that way in winter, I bet.”

“Nah… cold in winter… I’ve seen it freeze shut the eyes of range cattle…. forced to stay in the burrow for days on end… coldest times, food’s hard to find… nothin’ green. Ever try eating dry, yellow straw?”

You got it rough Ringo”, Rusty chuckled. “Doesn’t seem fair. Nice range of temperatures down in Rogue National. Why don’t you join me down there?” Rusty added half joking.

Ringo’s ears shot up, “How far is that?”

“See that field over there?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s about 2000 of those, that’s all.”

“You kidding!?  That’d take at least seven lifetimes of hopping… I only got one.”

“Maybe I could carry you…” Rusty grinned.

“Those claws in my back? You kidding … I’ll pass.”

“Got an idea… another possibility for you to have the easy life,” Rusty said cocking his head. This morning, when I stopped in Antelope for a quick rest on my way, I noticed a sign that said a rabbit show’s coming…”

Ringo snorted at the idea.

“No, listen… they were inviting  the hutch rabbits to compete.”

“Hutch rabbits… I’ve heard about hutch rabbits… How’d I compete with them… with their fluffy, soft coats, pink eyes and pretty noses … I’m just a range rabbit.”

“You’re a handsome ‘bit… you got nothing to loose and maybe a lot to gain… those rabbits don’t have to worry about anything. They have it pretty easy… Enter the contest. Impress ‘em and you’re set …”

“Hmmm… do you think?” Ringo mused. He’d heard about hutch rabbits from his grandpa… but had never seen one. All he knew about life was what he’d learned from living among country rabbits. He wondered what would it be like to be set.

“Some of those uppity girl rabbits are lookers,” Rusty said.

“Prettier than Sally Rabbit?”

“I doubt it… but worth noticing I’ll bet,” Rusty said. Then, stretching an enormous right wing, then left, he continued. “Listen… I gotta be headin’ out… want to make Waldo Lake before dark…”

“Hey, thanks for stopping by…”

“Glad I did,” Rusty said flapping both wings in preparation for takeoff. “But,” he added, “I’ll be back for the hutch rabbit judging… you can count on it. What-da you say?”

Ringo hopped away a few feet to avoid the dust in Rusty’s wake and called out, “I’ll think about it.”

Rusty circled and returned to hover just above Ringo. “You don’t want to make me make the trip for nothing!” he warned.

Ringo’s eyes widened. It was easy to say he would think about it to the big eagle. But promising to make himself vulnerable to uncertainty and even ridicule by entering the Hutch Rabbit contest was something else. He nervously thumped the ground several times with his fig foot. You don’t make promises to eagles lightly and then break them.

“And the blue ribbon for bravest rabbit goes to Ringo Rabbit,” Rusty shouted.

“I don’t see how… but, I promise,” Ringo yelled and swallowed hard.

With that, Rusty pumped his powerful wings, lifted himself high above Ringo and flew away to the south.

Ringo watched his friend become a speck in the sky. Then, his sharp ears picked up a familiar sound… the scratching of a twig across the ground. It was the unmistakable sound of a bobcat sneaking up on him. Ringo didn’t have to worry about predators as long as Rusty was near. But now it was different… the sober reality of being a range rabbit had returned. Ringo was lucky the bobcat had made a slight misstep. Ringo shot into action scampering a zigzag route into a nearby cluster of rabbit brush and dove into a burrow out of reach of the hungry cat.

Chapter 3

Twelve-year-old Eric Prince, named his fussy American Chinchilla rabbit, His Excellency Throckmorton Herbert Winston Roosevelt Rabbit III, Esquire. The uppity rabbit lived in a cage on the family’s back porch in an area Eric called “Hutch Manor.”

After a meal of diced carrots, His Excellency pushed the silver platter to the side, dabbed his mouth with his spotless right paw, yawned and lapsed into droopy-eyed slumber. He only tolerated the presence of the slender boy big, dressed in blue denim pants, white shirt and smartly placed baseball cap, sitting near the enclosed chamber reserved for himself and the other special hutch rabbit living at Hutch Manor.

Though pampering is all His Excellency Throckmorton Herbert Winston Roosevelt Rabbit III, Esq. had ever known, he was annoyed when the wiry big scooted from the sitting stool on which he rested, rushed to the sizable chamber, reached in and with an angel white cloth wiped the single specks off His Excellency Throckmorton Herbert Winston Roosevelt Rabbit III, Esquire’s foot. It was the same for Her Grace Eleanor Elizabeth Margaret Diana Rabbit that occupied the sumptuous hutch across the room. As far as the two purebreds were concerned bigs seemed to be their servants and the two privileged rabbits made the most of it by not ever lifting a foot or wrinkling their noses for the slightest want.

Gourmet foods, puffy comforts, gentle words, delicate touches and immaculate cleanliness were routine at Hutch Manor. On Mondays, His Excellency Throckmorton Herbert Winston Roosevelt Rabbit III, Esq. and the other Roosevelt rabbits could expect filet mignon of clover. On Tuesdays, barbequed spare lettuce; Wednesdays soufflé of spinach; Thursdays, caviar glazed celery; Fridays, mist sprinkled halibut grass and Saturdays turnip green crepes. And everyday, the refined rabbits had come to expect generous portions of biscotti of carrot.

Chapter 4

Two of the young Prince family bigs, had been working since last year’s Rabbit Breeder Association’s competition in Madras to prepare the two rabbits to compete in this year’s show. Eric’s entry was a senior American Chinchilla, while his 10-year-old sister, Lisa, groomed a junior Lionhead. Their mother, Elsie, tried to persuade the youngest family member, Larry, to participate in rabbit show but he was of another mind. He didn’t care about those kinds of things. They seemed reserved for uppity folks. He didn’t see anything special about His Excellency or Her Grace. And he wanted people to see the specialness in ordinary rabbits… the ones he saw every day during his walk down the lane that connected the county road to the ranch house. To him those rabbits were better looking than the spoiled rabbits tended by his brother and sister. In fact to him the wild rabbits looked tougher and smarter.

He could hardly wait to get off the school bus, down the lane and into the ranch house. He yelled “Hi,” to his mom as he dashed through the kitchen, grabbing a cookie on his way out the back door and across the yard to the supply shed standing next to the gray barn.

His grandpa had taught him to make rabbit traps and every summer he did. However, he had never managed to catch a rabbit.

“This time it’ll be different,” he thought as he gathered the materials he would need to construct his new trap.

He hoped to get the trap built and ready for action before he heard his mother’s voice calling him in for supper.

He grabbed a hammer, a handful of rusty nails, a stretch of bailing wire, several chunks of leftovers cedar boards, some binder twine and 10 strait pieces of the sage brush his mother used to stake tomatoes. At Grandpa’s workbench he began pounding and tying the lumber into shape. The next morning, when he didn’t have school, he planned to head for Sandy Draw, set the trap and wait for the action.

He was not quite finished when his mother’s voice interrupted his industry.

“It won’t take long in the morning,” he thought laying the hammer beside his masterpiece. He brushed his hand against his chest and dashed to the house.

Chapter 5

On the last Saturday of each month purebred and pedigreed rabbit breeders living in and around Antelope gathered at the local grange hall to show off their prizes. They compete with each other in preparation for the fierce state competition soon to take place in Madras 30 miles away (as those pesky crows fly).

Eric and Lisa were up early before anyone else to prepare their rabbits for the trip into town.

His Highness Herbert Winston Roosevelt Rabbit III Esquire and Her Grace Eleanor Elizabeth Margaret Diana Rabbit were annoyed at being aroused so early, but were soon placated by the adoring looks and delicate touches they received from the two bigs hovering over them… not to mention the generous portion of minced spinach set before them.

Soon the rest of the Prince family was up getting ready for the trip to the grange hall. The now velvet covered enamel rabbit cages were paced in the van.

“Larry, you can’t wear that,” Else said to her youngest, “Put on your corduroys.”

“Mom, I’m not going to go,” Larry responded.

“Why?” Else asked. “You always have good time. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, Mom. I just don’t want to go, this time.”

“Well, I’ll wonder… something to do with what you were doing in the shed last night?”

“Yeah, I’m making a rabbit trap and want to try it out….”

Else laughed. “That again…  well, as long as grandpa is here with you… I guess…”

“We’ll be fine…” grandpa grunted sipping his coffee.

“Thanks Mom,” Larry grinned.

The white van loaded with four Prince’s and two rabbits headed down the lane.

Larry hugged grandpa, skipped out the door and to his project.

“Need any help,” Geepa called, “just holler.”

Larry pounded the last nail and tied the final sticks into place.

Geepa inspected his grandson’s work.

“What do you think, Geepa? Think it’ll work?”

“Don’t see why not… let’s just secure this a little,” Geepa said tightening several wires and pounding five nails into place. “Where you going to put it?”

“Up Sandy Draw,” Larry answered.

“Put it in the shade near a clump of rabbit brush and watch out for rattle snakes. Don’t take any chances…. You do that?

“Yeah, Geepa… I know about rattlers. I’ll watch out,” Larry said picking up the rabbit trap and heading south and into untamed brush land.

Chapter 6

His Excellency and Her Grace didn’t like the monthly trips into town, especially when Darrell had to drive faster than normal because they got a late start. The country roads were rough. Big Muddy Road was little more than potholes and Tube Springs Road. wasn’t much better. It was not until the van reached Cold Camp Road that the people and rabbits could enjoy pavement.

Ordinarily, when they got to the grange and the competition, His Excellency and Her Grace were in their elements. They had become accustomed to setting the standard as to what champion rabbits should look like and their demeanor on the judge’s table had become legendary. The two pampered rabbits had no reason to believe that today would be any different. Well, they did look a little car sick.

Though it needed levels of repair, the grange hall in Antelope was kept immaculate and ready for any occasion… especially for the gathering of fussy rabbit breeders. Their insistence on cleanliness and tidiness was non-negotiable.

And though rules had never been put down on paper, the protocol for potluck food served to humans at the monthly event was no less stringent. Though they did their best to hide their anxiety, those who prepared and displayed dishes always worried that their offerings didn’t quite measure up to expectations. Joan Carroll brought appetizer kabobs displayed on a bright orange platter. Trudy Puckett brought cream cheese wontons neatly laid out on a silver dish and George Hacker put down a tan wicker tray containing two-dozen Italian biscuit cups.

An objective observer might have concluded that the competition over who presented the tastiest finger food with the most graceful ambience was as important as the rabbit competition… but ribbons were never given and words of judgment were never spoken. Nevertheless, if a food contest were announced, the expressions on faces and a study of eyes revealed how attendees would likely have cast their votes.

Else Prince prepared dates wrapped in bacon for this Saturday’s meeting. Her grandmother had given her a large Dithridge milk glass platter. It was the most elegant display piece of glassware she owned. It was an antique and, though Else stewed with worry over the possibility that the family prize might get damaged or broken, she continued to take her chances and use it.

Eric and Lisa weren’t the only children in attendance. Every school age child in Wasco County (probably all of Oregon) raised rabbits. “Initiation dues into becoming a grownup,” Geepa called it.

Ordinarily, you would expect a group of 8 to 13 year olds to behave like a herd of stampeding buffalo, but not so at the Rabbit Breeder Association meeting in Antelope.  There, the young ones were expected to behave like pedigreed rabbits… quiet, poised, gentle.

A mock competition of the rabbits that had gathered, would begin in about an hour. Eric and Lisa had their rabbits ready to go… so could hang out with their friends until then. The young ones didn’t care what the food looked like so long as it tasted good and there was enough of it. They began to make the rounds.

His Excellency Throckmorton Herbert Winston Roosevelt Rabbit III, Esquire wiggled his nose, picked at the alfalfa sprouts and practiced his ear poses. Her Grace napped.

Chapter 7

Ringo Rabbit was hungry. He’d left his burrow in Sandy Draw early to avoid the bigs, who might come to work in the vegetable garden.  The handy food supply laid a few hops from the gray structure where the bigs imprisoned cows and a horse. In spring and summer the vegetable garden helped supplement Ringo’s diet. He was capable of foraging for himself, but having a reliable diet of delicious foods made life a bit easier for him.

However, trips to the garden weren’t without peril. The big, who lived on this plot of ground, had a dog that roamed at will. Ringo didn’t understand why bigs imprisoned cows and horses, but let the loud vicious dog be free to growl, snarl and chase rabbits and other creatures. Ringo appreciated the dog’s help in dealing with snakes…  he had seen the lanky dog take a snake in his mouth and shake it to death. He didn’t want the dog shaking him that way, so when the dog came around Ringo scampered into the wild desert.

This morning it looked clear. The dog was somewhere else and no bigs had come to work in the garden. He consumed three carrots, a tuft of turnip greens and four spinach leaves before heading out to spend the rest of the morning grazing on patches of hay and buffalo grass.

The sun had reached its apex and had started down the other side of the sky. It was hot, very hot. Ringo decided to head for his burrow to escape the heat and take a little rabbit rest. A hundred hops or so from his home, Ringo spotted strange bush he’d never seen before.

It wasn’t there when he passed this way this morning on his way to the garden. His suspicious eyes surveyed the terrain in all directions for any sign of a big, the dog, coyote, cat, hawk or other sign of his natural enemies. The path seemed clear. Instinct told Ringo to staunch his curiosity and bypass the contraption, but he didn’t. He considered himself to be a smart rabbit, one who had experienced almost every threat confronting the rabbit populations of South Wasco County. He’d never found a situation he couldn’t handle and felt the same way about this one.

He hopped up to the bush and stopped. In its shadow lay a carrot. It was clean…no dirt anywhere and the rough skin had been scrapped off. Ringo didn’t mind carrot skin, but it wasn’t the tastiest part of his favorite vegetable.

Ringo wondered how the carrot got there, but didn’t have the experience or reasoning power to conjure a good answer and his taste buds could already taste it.

He took two hops to the carrot. He’d just taken a bite when KaaWaOMP! The sticker bush slammed around him. Frantically, Ringo searched every part of his prison for a way out. He flung himself against the sides in an attempt to escape… but it was no use. He was trapped and there was nothing he could do about it.

Chapter 8

The mood in the Prince family van on the trip home from Antelope was somber. While Darrel mentally checked the list of materials he needed to repair a portion of the fence at the eastern edge of his property, Elsie rehearsed preparation for the evening meal.

Eric sat behind his father looking out the left window at the dry patches of sagebrush that struggled to maintain life in the harsh climate. The landscape matched his feelings. While His Excellency, showed well in the morning’s judging, the ordinarily stately rabbit looked, anemic, unsteady and tentative. Harold Womack’s American Chinchilla was outstanding… in the Best of Show category. The happy rabbit had the poise of a champion. Its coat was spotless and shiny. If he hoped to compete at the November show in Madras, Eric had work to do.

Harold’s rabbit wasn’t the only competition from Antelope Eric would likely face in Madras. Monica Alpert’s American Chinchilla also had all the qualities of a champion. Monica’s rabbit would be hard to beat. Eric wasn’t sure he’d mind that. If his rabbit lost, he’d prefer to loose to Monica than to Harold or some unknown.

Lisa’s Lionhead didn’t do any better. She sat behind mother staring at the print pattern on her dress debating whether or not she should just give up.  She’d done the best she knew how. And getting her prize rabbit to show championship energy and alertness seemed to be beyond her capabilities. At the event Her Grace sat on her haunches like a lifeless beanbag. Lisa attempted to coax her prize rabbit to life but nothing she did seemed to make any difference. Her Grace remained as if in a hypnotic trance, while Sally Hampton’s Champagne d’Argent was near perfection.

The white van sped off the blacktop pavement of Cold Camp Road and onto the pothole-studded gravel of Big Muddy Road jarring the silent family from their trance.

“When they going to fix this road?” Else asked breaking the silence and looking at Darrell.

Darrell chuckled, “When I become president most likely.”

Lisa turned around to steady the hutches and calm the rabbits. Eric turned around to help. Both His Excellency and Her Grace shook with fright. Eric’s steady friendly hand seemed to help but, obviously, the sensitive rabbits did not like being shook up.

“It’ll take more people living along the Big Muddy clamoring for better roads,” Darrell continued.

“Those people don’t have rabbits, or they’d do something!” Lisa complained stroking Her Grace.

Darrell laughed again, “Rabbits don’t count.”

“I’ll bet that English Angora didn’t get his guts shook up before he came to show this morning,” Eric complained, “That’s the difference… It wasn’t fair.”

“Life’s not always fair,” Else declared.

“Life’s not over yet,” Darrell grinned. “You two get those bunnies in top shape and we’ll find a way to get them to Madras as calm as cantaloupe.”

By now the van had eased down the long lane leading from Big Muddy Road to the ranch house. It rolled to a stop near the back porch where the rabbits were kept.

Eric and Else lifted His Excellency’s carrying hutch from the van and made their way to the porch steps. Darrell and Lisa followed with Her Grace’s cage.

Suddenly, the kitchen door burst door open. Larry dashed through yelling excitedly, “Guess what I caught today?”

“I hope it wasn’t a snake,” Else said helping Eric put His Excellency on the stand near the window.

“Nope! Not a snake!” Larry snapped smugly.

“A hawk, I’ll bet,” Darrell said taking the other cage from his daughter and placing it on the stand near the other.

“Not a hawk, either,” Larry said moving across the porch and putting his hand on the makeshift hutch containing his prize catch.

Geepa leaned against the kitchen door knowing Larry was in for a difficult time.

“What’s that?” Lisa said edging toward her younger brother. “That’s not a rat?” she exclaimed stepping back.

The Darrell and Eric moved to see the excitement.

“Dad, Its a wild rabbit!” Eric yelled.

“Oh my!” Else said moving to see.

“Yeah, I caught him this morning. Geepa helped me make a trap… isn’t he a beauty?” Larry beamed.

“Mom… He can’t keep it here! It may have fleas!” Lisa pleaded.

“Yeah, or sick!” Eric cried.

“He doesn’t have fleas! And he’s not sick!” Larry protested.

“Dad, All our work.” Lisa cried, “If ours catch something from it! … all our work!”

“Let’s have a look,” Darrell said leaning over the cage and eying Larry’s catch. “How’d you get him in the cage?” he asked turning to Geepa.

“The boy was careful,” Geepa said in answer to his son’s unspoken concern. “He used gloves… looks like a fine rabbit to me,” and added with a chuckle, “ … fleas maybe but no sickness… no rabies I’ll bet.”

“Well, he can’t stay here!” Eric said stepping between the wild rabbit’s cage and the hutch mansions.

“Move that wild thing and that stick cage outside,” Lisa demanded.

“That’s a good idea… Let’s get him out of here,” Eric agreed seeing no harm in such a move.

“The coyotes will get him!” Larry protested touching his dilapidated cage.

The wild rabbit nipped at Larry’s fingers.

“Careful!” Else snapped. “He may have something.”

“What do you think, Geepa?” Darrell asked turning to his father.

Geepa paused studying everyone’s faces. “Well, Larry could let him go…”

“Geepa!” Larry protested,

“ … back to his natural surroundings…” Geepa continued. “The fun was in the catching….”

“Geepa! You helped me catch him! They got theirs… He’s mine.”

You’ve got something there,” Geepa said touching Larry on the shoulder. Turning to Darrell he continued. “I think it’ll be okay to leave him on the porch… so long as he’s in the cage…  the rabbits don’t get near each other…”

“Couldn’t we get Larry a Silver Marten… or something?” Eric suggested.

“Yeah!” Lisa agreed, “or a Belgian Hare. They kinda look like wild rabbits.”

“I don’t want another one,” Larry protested turning to admire his new friend. “His name’s Ringo.”

“Well, I don’t like it,” Lisa said walking toward the kitchen door realizing that the matter seemed to be settled.

“Yes, it’s time to get something to eat,” Else said following Lisa. “… Be ready in ten minutes,” she said over her shoulder.

“He gets near my Chinchilla and he’s outta here,” Eric warned.

“We’ll be careful,” Geepa said to Eric, “… and putting his hand on Larry’s shoulder added, “… won’t we Larry?

“Yeah,” Larry said, glad to have Geepa’s powerful support.

“We’ll make it work… I’ll check the wicker cage to make sure it’ll hold,” Darrell said examining Larry’s makeshift cage once more and added, “… Ringo… That’s a catchy name, Bud.”

Larry puffed and smiled at his father.

“I’m hungry,” Geepa said putting his arm around Eric and leading him into the kitchen.

Darrell tightened the twine securing two sticks on Ringo’s cage, then, followed the others into the kitchen.

Chapter 9

Darkness seeped into the corners of the secluded porch, the only sounds on the porch were the steady hum of the cooling box in the corner, the sound of the uppity Hutch Manor rabbits nibbling shredded carrots and Ringo’s desperate clawing at the sticks that imprisoned him.

After a while, when it became clear to Ringo that there was no immediate escape from the clumsy jail, he began pushing clusters of straw into one corner of his cage to make a comfortable place to rest for the night. He settled into place. Yes, the straw had a sweet smell and felt good, but it couldn’t take the place of the familiar burrow he’d called home for most of his life… His thoughts returned to the moments before the trap slammed around him. How could he have been so careless? When light returned to the world, he would look further for an opportunity to escape the stifling prison in which he found himself. He would return to his beloved prairie.

With sundown, the air began to cool. The rabbits huddled further into their nests.

Ringo wondered whether the rabbits across the room would speak to him and, if they did, would they be able to understand each another. He’d heard from his cousin, Bounder, about rabbits that live with bigs. “They speak High Rabbit” he said, “and we speak Country Rabbit.”

Ringo thought he might as well give it a try, “Hey,” he said breaking the silence, “You been captives long?”

There was no answer. Ringo figured the other rabbits must not understand him…. But then he heard whispering… too soft for him to make out what they were saying.

“Why do bigs keep rabbits cooped up like this?” he asked hoping to connect with the strangers and to get a better understanding of what was happening to him.

“My dear fellow,” His Excellency Throckmorton Herbert Winston Roosevelt Rabbit III, Esquire said, “There’s no fathoming the ways of bigs… One just has to leverage them when and where one can.”

The rabbit was speaking High Rabbit. Ringo wasn’t certain he and the other rabbits could communicate on a meaningful level. Nevertheless, he would try. “Does that mean, we’re stuck in prison forever?” he asked.

“It’s a matter of preference,” His Excellency intoned, “Her Grace and I dine on the most elegant cuisine a American Chinchilla could want…”

“Oh,” Ringo said, not understanding, “… what do they feed you?”

His Excellency and Her Grace laughed.

Ringo didn’t know what was funny. He felt a little foolish… but plunged on. “I eat the tender shoots of weeds, and cactus fruit from the desert.”

“Ugh,” Her Grace exuded, “Weeds! How disgusting.”

Ringo didn’t know what disgusting meant, but he could tell by the way the lady said it that she didn’t like the idea of eating weeds. “Not every weed… just tender, healthy weeds,” Ringo protested.

“An oxymoron,” His Excellency crooned with an air.

“I guess we can eat that too,” Ringo bluffed, “Yeah, and hay to get the roughage we need for healthy guts.”

“Oh my,” Her Grace gasped, “that word’s not polite … digestive system, rather.

“Whatever,” Ringo returned.

“The little big that brought you in off the prairie… that’s clear,” His Excellency droned. “It’s obvious you’ve got a lot to learn, if you’re going to leverage the bigs to your best advantage. Watch us and do what we do and you might become a prize rabbit too.”

“I just want to go back to the prairie… home,” Ringo returned.

“Silly boy,” Her Grace sang, “You have no idea what you’re saying. They treat us like royalty. We dine… eat the most delicious foods without lifting a paw and our backs are stroked with softest brushes…”

“The slightest sniffle and they come to us faster than Jack Rabbits,” His Excellency added.

“Faster than Jack Rabbits… that’s good,” Ringo chuckled and added, “But in a cage… You live in a prison. Not for me… I want to be free.”

“Ah, but aren’t you in continual danger of being devoured by a wolf, coyote or other ravenous predator? … while we are taken care of… our ever need instantly satisfied,” His Excellency observed.

“Yeah, you got something there,” Ringo conceded, “… Coyotes are always after me. But the open hillsides and the expansive valleys….” he said longingly.

“Just to think about all that dirt… those retched burrs in my coat… and snakes… oh my… make me shudder,” Her Grace observed.

“My dear chap,” His Excellency injected, “It appears you have no control over that as of today. So, you may as well learn to leverage like we do, don’t you think?

“And you might learn to like being pampered like a king,” Her Grace added. “The bigs are especially attentive to us these days… His Excellency and I are show rabbits… The bigs are entering us in a competition soon,” Her Grace paused lifting her nose in the air. ”It’s class… uppity,” she said and added, “If you are around long enough you may have the good fortune of watching the bigs get us ready.”

“Show rabbits…. Huh?” Ringo grunted sitting back on his haunches. “Rusty Eagle said something about that. He thought I ought to enter the contest…”

His Excellency and Her Grace interrupted with laughter.

“What’s so funny?” Ringo asked.

“My poor boy… You’ve no idea… PEDIGREE,” His Excellency mouthed shaping the word just so with his lips and holding the final vowel for snooty emphasis. “Purebred… you at least have to be a purebred to enter… No, my dear fellow… Be content to watch us… It’ll be an humbling experience for you… one you’ll never forget.”

“I doubt that,” Ringo protested. “ … But as you say, at this point what choice do I have?”

“To sleep now,” Her Grace said holding a paw over her mouth while yawning, “Must get our beauty sleep, you know.”

“Good night, my boy…” His Excellency said, “The bigs get up early… You’ll see.”

As the rabbits settle down, the box in the corner of the porch continued to hum its boring tune. For a long while Ringo crouched in the center of his cage pondering his fate. It was hard for him to digest what he’d heard from the aristocratic rabbits. All this was beyond the simple life he lived in the prairie. He was uneasy about what the next day would bring.

Sadly he crawled into his straw nest and waited for sleep to take him away.

Chapter 10

Larry was up early the next morning before anyone else. He wanted to talk with Ringo before the rest of the family came around. Soon everyone would be up getting ready to go to church. Church was not Larry’s favorite thing to do on Sundays. He’d rather be hiking his favorite trail down to Big Muddy Creek or tramping a familiar haunt up Cottontail Canyon.  But he respected his parents and wanted to please them. He trusted their assurances that someday the deeper meanings of words and symbols would all make sense to him.

He quietly tiptoed past his parent’s door and through the dimly lit kitchen. He stopped by the fridge to grab a carrot before easing through the back door and onto the porch. It was still chilly. His Excellency and Her Grace were huddled in their nests breathing quietly. Ringo was clawing at one corner of his hutch. It was clear he didn’t like being cooped up and wanted to return to his happy prairie.

“Hey Ringo! … Here!” Larry said quietly pushing the carrot through an open space. “It’ll be okay… you’ll like it here, when you get used to it.”

Ringo hopped to sniff at the carrot, then, turned and hopped away to a different corner and once again began biting and clawing at the cage.

“I didn’t like school at first, either, but now it’s okay… I like it.”

Ringo didn’t understand what the big was saying. It didn’t speak rabbit. It did have a carrot in its hand… a delicious smelling carrot. Ringo was hungry, but he was more scared. He clawed desperately at the cage. All he knew was the life of a range rabbit… the prairie… his home… and he wanted to go there.

“You don’t need to be afraid of me,” Larry said and moving to His Excellency’s hutch he lifted the lid, reached in and pulled the fluffy rabbit out by the scruff of the neck, sat on a stool near Ringo and began stroking the gentle rabbit. “See… how great that would feel.”

Ringo couldn’t believe his eyes…  that braggart rabbit sitting there without protest letting that big paw him. He’d never experienced anything like that. It did feel good to rub his back against the trunk of a sagebrush bush, but to wallow in the hands of an enemy was too much for Ringo. Not knowing what else to do, he threw himself against the side of the cage hoping to burst through.

Suddenly the kitchen door opened and Lisa emerged. She took one look at Larry sitting close to the range rabbit and holding His Excellency, “Eric!” she cried, “Larry’s exposing your rabbit to the range rabbit!”

Eric rushed through the door buttoning his shirt. “Larry, are you crazy … I just knew we should have put them outside last night.” He grabbed the prize from Larry and rushed him back to Hutch Manor.

“I didn’t hurt anything. Ringo’s okay… Your snotty rabbits aren’t going to get anything from Ringo.”

By now Else and Darrell had arrived.

“Dad, can’t we put that cage outside?” Eric pleaded.

Darrell moved close to Ringo’s cage for a close look at the gangly rabbit.

Lisa and Eric picked up their rabbits and transported them away from the range rabbit and into the kitchen. Else followed.

“Dad,” Larry began “Ringo’s not sick… he doesn’t have fleas… does he?”

“Well, he might,” Darrell answered. “No matter, we need to keep him away from the others. Eric and Lisa have worked too hard to let their efforts be spoiled by some bug from a wild animal…”

“He won’t stay wild… you’ll see… I’ll take care of him… I’ll brush him everyday and give him a bath,” Larry pleaded.

“Well, wildness isn’t the issue… it’s wellness… Let’s keep him away from the pedigrees a few days. He can stay in the barn where he’s safe from coyotes and others.

“It’s cold out there at night,” Larry protested.

“You think he’s not used to cold… living in the open prairie. He’ll be just fine out there. I’ll help you move him,” Darrel said lifting the wicker cage from the floor and moving out the screen door and toward the barn.

Chapter 11

Ringo spent the morning alone in the barn. He didn’t mind being alone. He was used to that, but being along in captivity left him with a vacant feeling. There were birds in and out of the barn and mice scurrying here and there. A rat came close once in an attempt to steal Ringo’s carrot but was frightened away by kick from the big rabbit’s powerful hind legs.

In early afternoon Larry brought water along with some spinach and put it in Ringo’s cage.

“I’ll brush your fur, if you promise you won’t bite me,” Larry said reaching his gloved hand through an opening in the cage and petting Ringo.

Ringo shivered, afraid of what the strange big might do to him. He clamped down with his teeth on one of the things stroking his back. He held on. The big shook Ringo’s head back and forth until Ringo was forced to let go. Ringo expected his attack on the big’s paw would cause it to leave him alone, but the big continued to stroke Ringo’s back.

It felt good. The thing had bristles that massaged this fur clear down to the skin… “ahhhh”… It was like rubbing his back against a fence post near his burrow… only this massage followed the contours of his back… “Ahhh…” Ringo repeated. This treatment must be what the pedigree rabbits were taking about… being treated like kings… whatever that word means…”

Though the stroking felt good… like nothing he’d ever experienced… his body continued to tremble. He was suspicious that the next instant something unexpected would happen… something frightening… something painful or worse.

Darrell had the vet check Ringo for viruses and other threatening bugs. He reassured Eric and Lisa that it was safe to bring Ringo back onto the porch, but Larry wanted to keep caring for Ringo in the barn. Eric and Lisa were relieved. Darrell and Else were perplexed. Geepa understood. The primitive atmosphere permeating the barn better suited Ringo and his maverick caretaker than the clinical whiteness of the back porch, where His Excellency and Her Grace held court.

Over the weeks that followed, Else kept Larry supplied with food and insisted that he keep warm. Darrell watched with wonder as his youngest son turned the straggly looking rabbit in to a sleek mustang. And he also was glad to see that the spirited rabbit didn’t loose his independence. He repeatedly warned Larry however, to be realistic about the outcome of his efforts.

“There are no categories for wild rabbits at the Madras show,” he warned. “Ringo’s a fine fellow, but he’s not a purebred and has no pedigree.”

“Why not?” Larry asked polishing Ringo’s right paw. “How come they don’t like jackrabbits?”

“It’s not that they don’t like them,” Geepa said joining in the discussion. “Purebreds are from pure strains… Pedigrees have the paper work to prove it… The wild ones are a mixture of what ever rabbit comes wandering onto the prairie.”

Portland Oregon on Christmas Day; photo by Bryan Kellar http://cascadiadaily.com/

… If you’ve only seen Portland Oregon in the sunshine, you’ve missed something special. Bryan Kellar took this cool photo from Terwilliger Boulevard.

In the foreground is a leafless tree – yep – the leaves don’t come back until March or April. In the back ground are the twin glass towers of the Oregon Convention Center – the largest convention center in the Pacific Northwest. In between, are two of Portland’s eight bridges – the first is the Hawthorne Bridge and behind that the Morrison.

I don’t think Mr. Francis Pettygrove (originally from Portland Maine) and General Asa Lovejoy (originally from Boston Massachusetts) saw anything that looked like this in 1845 when they argued over whether to name their new city Portland or Boston. They settled their dispute with a coin toss during a dinner party in Oregon City. A copper penny was tossed in the air three times – it came down tails in favor of Pettygrove’s Portland twice and heads for Lovejoy’s Boston only once.

Poor Boston doesn’t have a beautiful namesake in the Pacific Northwest. Poor Boston.

Luv,

Sissy

Photo courtesy Guinness Breweries

… like the Sea Lion Caves in Florence are the biggest in the world, The Caveman statue in Grants Pass is the biggest caveman statue in the world and the Colliding Rivers in Glide are the only rivers in the world that meet head on. But, what I didn’t know that it was the Guinness beer folks from Ireland that started the book of records itself.

Here’s what happened (per Wikipedia):

“On May 4, 1951, Sir Hugh Beaver, then the managing director of Guinness Breweries, went on a shooting party in the North Slob, by the river Slaney in County Wexford, Ireland. He became involved in an argument over which was the fastest game bird in Europe, the kochin golden plover or the grouse……”

Well, you can see where this story is going, right? Today, Guinness World Records holds its own world record as the best-selling copyrighted book series of all time – and – it is one of the most frequently stolen books from public libraries in the United States.

Who would have thought!

Luv,

Sissy

One of 50 or so remaining waste-wood burners remaining in the state, the old Beaver Lumber Co.burner sits near the town of Clatskanie; photo by Tom Nichols.

… out of the thousand or so obsolete waste-wood burners Oregon started out with, there are only about 50 left (see a photo of the one in Drain I posted April 27, 2011).

If you should be lucky enough to spot one, it would be good for you to know that these free-standing conical steel structures (ranging from 30 to 60 feet high) were used to burn waste wood in logging yards and sawdust in sawmills.  However, even though their tops were covered with a steel grill or mesh, the smoke and ash they produced into the air was too much.

Since they were legally banned in Oregon (they were taken out of use in the 1970s), we have since developed a use for wood waste as a component in various forest products such as particle board, paper and mulch as well as a burning process that produces steam to make heat and/or electricity.

The burner pictured is located near Clatskanie. To go there from Highway 30, turn north (left or right depending on the way you are going)  at the light – at the end of Nehalem Street take a left  on 5th, continue to Depot Road and take another left. Cross the tracks and turn right Clatskanie District road. You only need to go about a quarter of a mile and you will see it. For those of you who have a deeper interest in wigwam burners, visit the blog site of the new Oregon Wigwam Burners Association:

http://jaycritchley.com/2010/11/11/oregon-wigwam-burners-association-formed/

Anyway, if Oregon has 50 burners left and I have sighted two, it means I have 48 more to go – smile.

Luv,

Sissy

As Sissy reads from a book called Weird Oregon, she lingers over images of Fort Rock; photo of Sissy by Jan Jackson

… I’ve been reading in a book called Weird Oregon again (tell me a better thing to do sitting on your hot rock in the middle of winter – smile). When I came across the story about Fort Rock, I was reminded about its extreme fortness.

The rock is an isolated crescent-shaped land mass that rises nearly 350 feet above a high desert plain off State Highway 5 just west of Christmas Valley. It is nearly a mile in diameter and it looks just like a fort. I guess it started out as a lava vent in the middle of a big lake – but by the time the settlers came, it had all dried out.

The Fort Rock formation and the nearby Fort Rock Cave, are part of Oregon’s Fort Rock State Natural Area. One of the things that makes the area so famous, is that they discovered several pairs of sagebrush sandals in the cave that date back 9000 to 13000 years – made them the oldest ever found.

There is no camping available, but visitors are welcome to walk around the rock formation and use the picnic areas. If you are there at one of the right times, a park host might even take you on a little tour.

For more information, visit the Oregon Parks and Recreation Department web site www.oregonstateparks.org and find a link to the Fort Rock site. If you want to have some fun reading (especially if you too have a hot rock), get yourself a copy of Weird Oregon by Al Eufrasio and Jeff Davis; 2010, Sterling Publishing Co., Inc.)

Happy traveling and happy reading.

Luv,

Sissy

Martha Washington

… would make you think that honey bees were as American as apple pie, right? Well, guess what! This country never even had any honey bees until the Pilgrims came in the early 1600s – and we didn’t have any apples until then either (well, except the native crab apple but that doesn’t count). What a jolt.

So, where did honey bees come from? Well, even though the oldest honey bee fossils have been found in Europe, the thought is that they came from South and Southeast Asia, and the Philippines.

Now, for Martha’s recipe (provided by the estate): “One should bring a cup of mild-flavored honey to a boil in a heavy saucepan. Turn off the heat as soon as the honey starts to foam up. Stir in half a cup of fresh rose petals. Let the mixture sit for four hours. Bring to a boil again. Pour through a strainer and discard the petals.”

So, head for the rose garden, pick a few petals and make some rose-flavored honey. It is tasty tasty on toast – I think – smile.

Luv,

Sissy

Photo courtesy of www.public-domain-image.com

… So – when someone says you’re just the bee’s knees, is that a good thing or not?  It probably means, “excellent – the highest quality.” But, before you get too smug too quickly, read on.

Some say it’s merely a reference to the face that bees carry pollen back to the hive in sacs on their legs in which case there is definitely goodness to be found around a bee’s knee.

It is also sometimes said to be a corruption of ‘business’ though not much supports that definition.

What about this? In the 18^th century it was a synonym for smallness (you know – like the less polite ‘gnat’s bollock’ – smile).

Bee’s knees began to be used in early 20^th century America as a nonsense expression that denoted something that didn’t have any meaningful existence – like a ‘sky-hook’ or ‘striped paint’ or like the story in a 1906 New Zealand West Coast Times that listed cargo carried by the SS Zealandia as ‘a quantity of post holes, 3 bags of treacle and 7 cases of bee’s knees.

So, before you get too excited about being the bee’s knees, it might just be foolishness like like the cats meow or the beaver’s slappy tail.

Just trying to keep you up on things.

Luv,

Sissy

P.S. You can read a good story about honey bees earning their keep at Oregon Garden at http://countrytraveleronline.com/2012/01/10/oregon-garden-honeybees-earn-their-keep/

Mark Thompson working honeybees; photo courtesy Mark Thompson

SILVERTON, Ore. – When Oregon Garden horticulturist Jeff Para came up with the idea of adding a permanent bee colony to the Oregon Garden, Dundee beekeeper Mark Thompson made it happen. This spring will mark the third season that Thompson’s honeybees will pollinate the flowers in the 80-acre botanical garden.

In addition to pollinating the flowers, these now resident bees are a popular subject of garden-sponsored educational workshops, while producing natural Oregon Garden honey to sell in the gift shop. Though the bees reside in the Garden’s oak grove, their hives are placed far enough away from visitors to provide them a stress-free environment.

Thompson, whose day-job is owning and operating a coffee roasting business in Dundee, graduated from George Fox College with a degree in Communication Arts, Christian Education and Physical Education.

Mark Thompson and his wife tend the four solar-cooled honeybee hives in the Oak Grove at Oregon Garden in Silverton; photo courtesy of Mark Thompson.

While visiting an elderly member of his church who was recovering from a heart attack, Thompson uttered the one little word that propelled him into the bee business.

“I still can’t believe I agreed to do something I knew nothing about,” Thompson said recalling the day he yelled ‘NO’ when lifelong beekeeper Eldon Havaman said he was going to have to give up his bees.

“Eldon was not only a retired bee inspector for the State of Oregon, but had spent his life raising bees. He was so depressed about his future that when he said he was going to have to give them up, I heard myself  assuring him that he wouldn’t have to.

“I remember telling him that if he would be the brain, I would be the brawn and between the two of us we could make it happen. Keeping my fear of being stung to myself, I showed up at his place a few weeks later and donned Eldon’s old suit, veil and gloves.

“He sat on a box and told me what to do. After the first year, my focus began to mature from thinking only about what was going on inside the veil to what was going on inside the hive. By the end of the third year, I asked him if I could add a hive of my own and the fourth year I added another and then another. We worked the bees together for several years and when he died, I bought them all.”

In addition to driving the 40-plus miles from Dundee to Silverton to manage his hives, Thompson also conducts an occasional public education workshop for Oregon Garden.

Mark Thompson, owner/operator of Fair Wage Coffee, is a beekeeper for the love of bees; photo by Jan Jackson

“I love talking about the bees and I always give examples about how sophisticated and smart they are,” Thompson said. “Over the years I’ve watched them head for a field that had just been sprayed, detect something was wrong, pass the word to their fellow bees and redirect themselves to another field. They seem to have a sixth sense about what is and is not good for them. Of course, the Oregon Garden is a perfect place for them because they are secluded in the oak grove in solar cooled hives in their own spray-free garden.”

Though bees seal themselves in their hives and stay dormant during the winter, Thompson continues to check them regularly for mites and protect them from yellow jackets, mice, bears, skunks and other predators.

“They do a pretty good job of taking care of themselves, but I’m still there to help them out when they need it,” Thompson said.  “Some beekeepers don’t like solar hives but the fact that honey production as increased 30 percent since we started using them and the fact that they don’t leave, tells me the bees are happy. The program seems to be good for the garden, its good for the bees and its good for the people who visit.

For more information about the Oregon Garden Bees, call the Oregon Garden at 503-874-8100 or visit www. oregongarden.org. For more information about Mark Thompson, visit www.fairwagecoffee.com

Jan Jackson- ©2012 – See Jan Jackson Bio

An adult male snowy owl poses for the camera; photo by Marvin Kellar

… got birder cousins Marvin Kellar and Larry Rea excited enough to grab their cameras and leap into Larry’s rig and head for their favorite bird watching place – the Malheur National Wildlife Refuge near Burns Oregon (300 miles east of Portland).

Why? Well because the snowy owl lives in the Arctic and doesn’t ordinarily  show up in Oregon, the cousins wanted to see them.

Most of the owl’s hunting is done in the sit and wait style; prey may be captured on the ground, in the air.

They feed on a wide variety of small mammals such as: meadow voles and deer mice, but will take advantage of larger prey, frequently following trap lines to find food. Some of the larger mammal prey includes: hares, muskrats, marmots, squirrels, rabbits, raccoons, prairie dogs, rats, moles and other entrapped furbearers. Birds preyed upon include: ptarmigan, grouse, ducks, geese, shorebirds, pheasants, coots, grebes gulls, songbirds and other raptors (including other owl species). They are also know to eat fish and carrion. The rub is that each bird must capture roughly 7- 12 mice per day to meet its food requirement.

So, our modern-day minutemen (though they got the word from friends in the Burns area and not from a lantern in  the  tower of the Old North Church), got pictures to prove that they – Marvin and Larry – were together – at the same place and the same time – with the snowy owls.

Gosh! It’s all a miracle to me.

Luv,

Sissy

Monument to yard art photo by Bing Bingham

Most people would have described the old International Scout as a rusting hulk—not Mike.

“There’s not much wrong with it,” he said, as he helped push it off the car trailer, “the engine has been rebuilt and the running gear is in good shape.”

He continued, “The ignition switch needs to be replaced and…Oh yeah…the driver’s door is missing too.”

Shorting the ignition wires, he steered while the strong battery ground this monument to Yard Art…

…RRRrrr…RRRrrr…RRRRrrrr…..

…backwards into a parking spot in my equipment yard. Then he left the ignition wires dangling beneath the dash and popped the gearshift into granny first before he hopped out.

I didn’t give the Scout another thought.

Later that summer, weeds threatened to overrun our equipment yard. I grabbed one of our weedeater goats and chained him to the bumper of the Scout. His job was to beat back the jungle of weeds.

I recall thinking the goat will probably climb into the Scout through the missing driver’s door. But, I figured few goat pebbles wouldn’t hurt the ambiance of that rusty treasure.

Again, I didn’t give the Scout another thought—until I heard a muffled goat scream.

Poking my head out the window, I saw the goat stuck upside down—horns wedged underneath the brake and clutch peddles—on the driver’s side floor of the Scout.

When the goat realized it had gotten itself into a pickle, it struggled. Mid-wriggle, it brushed against the dangling ignition wires. They shorted out and the Scout ground forward…

…RRRrrr…RRRrrrrrrr…RRRrrrrr……

…a few feet.

That vehicle movement panicked the goat further. He struggled again. And the Scout went grinding…

…RRRrrrrr…RRRrrrr…RRRrrrrr….RRRrrrrr…….

…a few more feet out of the equipment yard toward the garden.

By the time I got out the door, the goat was in a near-constant state of panic. He was struggling furiously. The thrashing shorted out the ignition wires almost continuously and caused the Scout to grind…

…RRRrrrRRRrrrRRRrrr……RRRrrrRRRrrrRRRrrr…RRRrrrRRRrrrRRRrrr…..RRRrrrrrrr…

…through the garden.

I jumped off the porch and ran to the wild-eyed, squalling goat—still on the driver’s floor—as he was making his way through my cornstalks. My first instinct was to yank on the goat’s hind leg to get his squirming body away from those shorting wires and bring the Scout to a halt.

That didn’t work and the goat screamed louder.

I walked alongside the crawling Scout, toes scrunched, so the slowly rolling tires wouldn’t squash my feet. Then standing on tiptoes, I reached to the goat’s horns near the gearshift and rolled him out on the ground.

The screams quit, the Scout stopped and my racing heart slowed.

I turned around and the goat—completely unhurt—was peacefully nibbling at the corn as if nothing had happened. Shaking my head, I undid his chain, walked him out of the garden and rehooked him on a different vehicle.

Then I spent a couple hours dragging the Scout out of the garden, through the path of destruction and returning it to the equipment yard.

It was a week later when I called Mike. He was so busy laughing that I forgot to tell him about all the goat pebbles on the floor of the Scout.

Somehow, though, I don’t think he’ll mind.

Bing Bingham is a writer, rancher and storyteller. He’s still grumpy about his corn. If you want to see this and other stories, check http://bingbingham.com/blog/   

Sissy, pondering her year spent at the U of O in Eugene, Oregon; photo by Jan Jackson

…Did you know that I’m an Oregon Duck fan?  Interesting for an iguana to be a fan of a duck? You see, I spent the first year of my life living in a house full of U of O freshmen. It all started when Andrew Hussey went to buy groceries at the mall and on the way out to his car, he saw me in a pet store, bought  me and took me home with him (I must admit, I was a cute little thing – smile).

The reason I only spent a year there was that keeping track of me made Andrew and his buddies nuts.  They never seemed to remember to keep the door closed and I  – the insatiable traveler that I am – would go out  - and then they would have to rally the forces and track me down and bring me back inside. After a year of that, Andrew took me to Salem to live with his mom and I’m sorry to tell you that she never once left the door open.

So, coming from a long line of U of O alums, just wanted you to know that I am rooting for the Oregon Ducks to win the Rose Bowl today. If someone would just leave the door open…………….

Go Ducks, Go Ducks, Go Ducks…

Luv,

Sissy

P.S. Ducks win 45 to 38 – love those Ducks – smile.

You can read my bio at http://countrytraveleronline.com/about/

Three Sisters' mountain peaks rise from the Oregon Cascades near Bend Oregon; photo by Marvin Kellar.

… are mountains the early settlers called Faith, Hope and Charity. But alas, today the three volcanic peaks of the Cascades are just called the Three Sisters.

Each of them exceed 10,000 feet (Faith, the South Sister is 10,358 feet; Hope, the middle Sister is 10,047 feet; Charity, the North Sister is 10,085 feet). They are the third, fourth and fifth highest peaks in Oregon after Mt. Hood (11,249 feet) and Mt. Jefferson (10,497 feet).

You can see them from all of the highways between the towns of Sisters, Bend and Redmond – actually you can see them from just about anyplace around there. The three peaks have 15 named glaciers among them – nearly half of all the 35 named glaciers in Oregon.

So, the North Sister is the oldest of the three (she is still less than 170,000 years old). Oh, did I mention they are volcanic? Well, they are.

They are definitely among the most beautiful in the world – but trust me here – you should see them for yourself.

Luv,

Sissy

Sissy's goal for 2012 is to look like Isabella; photo taken from Jill Packer Quilting Arts 2012 Calendar.

…is captured in a photo. Yep, take a look at Jill Packer’s ‘Iconic Miss Isabella (Iguana).’ Yep, that’s what I’m going to look like by this time next year. Yep, that’s me – magnificently prehistoric, haughty, sumptuously textured and fascinating (those are Ms Packer’s words not mine).

Take a look at Isabella’s eyelashes made from fringed leather and the beaded embellishment bracelets she flashes on her wrist. It’s the French knots and the large and small beads that give her skin that encrusted look. Yep, that’s gonna be me.

If you want to see Isabella and 12 other stitched, painted, and embellished quilts featuring animals, look at Jill Packer’s  Quilting Arts 2012 Calendar.

Yep, now you know – hope you get more beautiful this year too – smile.

Luv,

Sissy

Photo courtesy Lincoln City Visitor and Convention Bureau

... set for Feb. 18,19 & 20. Just think of it:

100 magnificent glass floats,

100 beautiful glass crabs or sand dollars,

and 100 collector antique 
Japanese glass floats!

Occasionally, during the Finders Keepers season the Lincoln City Visitor and Convention Bureau places  extra pieces of glass art on the beaches for beachcombers to find (See? They are just kidding when they day drop – they really mean carefully placed – smile).

During the 2012 season, those dates are – write ‘em down – :

February 18 – 20, 2012
March 24 & 25, 2012
April 7 & 8, 2012

You can read more about finding your own glass float at  Finders Keepers – the Right Thing to Do in LIncoln City or visit http://www.oregoncoast.org/finders-keepers/

Maybe see you there?

Luv,

Sissy

Helping Buster celebrate his first holiday season is (from left to right), David Pike, Buster and K.C. VanNatta; photo by Jan Jackson.

…Buster (he is the one in the middle) was born out of necessity  – sort of an Oregonians way of making lemonade out of lemons. You see, when you live in Oregon, it is easy to plant a tree and watch it grow too big for the bed in which it was planted. That was the case for Buster.

About 50 years ago,someone planted an adorable little Sequoya too close to the house. Flowers and such started getting planted around it that needed fertilizing (“Oh num num,” said the tree) and watered (“Ooohhhh, love that water,” said the tree) and then the tree roots got so big they started raising the foundation of the house.

David Pike (he’s the one on the left) did the smart thing. He called in longtime expert tree farmer and logger K.C. VanNatta (he’s the one on the right). K.C. could see that the tree had to come down and since it had to go, he came up with the idea of at least getting a chain saw artist to come in and create something fun out of the stump. Well,David wanted a bear.

You can read about the chainsaw artist at http://countrytraveleronline.com/2011/11/14/chainsaw-artist-turns-tree-stump-into-art/, and you can read about the logger at http://countrytraveleronline.com/2011/02/25/romancing-the-douglas-fir/ - and of course, you’re reading about Buster, right here.

Both stories will show how  the Oregon way is to make lemonade when you are handed a lemon – smile. Luv,

Sissy

Tradition of 30-years, is a model train and village under the Christmas tree at the Oregon State Capitol; photo by Jan Jackson

….without an electric train running through a miniature village underneath a 35 foot Christmas tree? Well, you won’t have to find out because volunteer model-train enthusiasts Allen Bennett, Keizer and Don Curtis, Turner, have been bring in a train, setting up the village under the tree at the Capitol for 30-years.

Parents who enjoyed the train and village as children are now bringing their children and Bennett and Curtis’ children and grandchildren are helping them set it up.

Down by the station

Early in the morning

See the little pufferbellies

All in a row

If you aren’t yet a part of this wonderful tradition, I suggest you get started – smile.

Happy Holidays,

Luv,

Sissy

The Oregon State Seal was designed in 1857, two years before Oregon became a state; photo by Jan Jackson.

… is beautifully decked out with poinsettias. Trust me. It is a sight to behold.

The Seal of the State of Oregon, (it’s the official one), was designed by Harvey Gordon in 1857, two years before Oregon was admitted to the Union.

It consists of an outer ring with the text “State of Oregon”, “1859”. The inner circle contains an American eagle atop a shield. The shield depicts mountains, an elk, a covered wagon, and the Pacific Ocean.

In the ocean, symbolizing the end of British rule in the Oregon Country, a British man-of-war is departing and an American steamer is arriving. The elk represents the plentiful game found in the state. The second quartering shows a sheaf, a plow and a pickaxe. These symbolize mining and husbandry. The banner is inscribed

“The Union”. Thirty-three stars surrounding the shield represent the number of states upon Oregon’s entry into the union in 1859. The seal also appears on one side of Oregon’s state flag.

If you can’t go at Christmastime, just visualize all those poinsettias around it whenever you do go. You’ll find it beautiful anyway.

Happy Holidays,

Luv,

Sissy

A decorated 35-foot grand fir stands in the rotunda at the Oregon State Capitol in Salem; photo by Jan Jackson

…
Much pleasure thou can’st give me;
 O Christmas Tree! O Christmas Tree!
 Much pleasure thou can’st give me;
  How often has the Christmas tree
, Afforded me the greatest glee!
 O Christmas Tree! O Christmas Tree! 
Much pleasure thou can’st give me. – Traditional German Christmas Carol.

Want to see a really big one? Then head for the Oregon State Capitol Building and take a look at the giant decorated 35-foot grand fir that sits in the rotunda (part of a 30-year tradition).

The tree was donated by Lone Fir Farms of Gales Creek  (Tillamook County) and decorated by  volunteers retired from Local 280 of the International Brotherhood of Electrical workers. Add the school choirs that give free Christmas concerts during the lunch hour (more than 80 youth choirs between December 1 and December 23) and you have something worth attending.

They’ve been doing this about 30 years – if you haven’t gotten in on it – it is high time you did – smile.

Happy Holidays,

Luv,

The Oregon Pioneer has stood atop the Oregon Capitol Building since 1938; photo by Jan Jackson

… stands 172 feet above the ground and faces north toward the Oregon Trail (from  an Oregon Capitol Souvenir Booklet produced in 1988, by Lucy Z. Martin & Associates, Inc., Portland Oregon). He carries a single-blade ax and a tarp for shelter – both essential tools of the early pioneers.

Ulric Ellerhusen created the 16,000 pound gold pioneer in his New York studio. The 24-foot statue was transported by steamship out of Long Island via the Panama Canal to Salem. It was mounted on the Capitol in September 1938.

The entire statue is covered in paper-thin, two-inch squares of gold leaf. In 1984, the gold leaf was noticeably deteriorating, but the State of Oregon had no funds for repair. Oregon school children mounted a successful fund raising effort and collected the $40,000 needed to re-guild the statue. The Oregon Pioneer stands today as a radiant symbol of our states’ independent, pioneering spirit.

We love him.

Luv,

Sissy

Hands on cooling class in at the Culinary Center in Lincoln City; photo courtesy Lincoln City Visitors Bureau.

… and learning to cook is a fun thing to do at the beach – but beware – Culinary Center classes fill up fast. Here is what is on for January – if you want to sign up, email Chef Sharon Wiest at sharonw@lincolncity.org or call her at 541-557-1125.

Saturday, January 7            11:00 am-2:00 pm

Hands-on Braised Winter Supper           Cost: $50, meal and wine included

Instructor: Chef Sharon Wiest The art of braising…this slow-cooking method delivers rich taste and tender meats. Menu: Winter chopped salad, braised chicken thighs with sausage and fennel, biscuits, easy apple turnovers

Saturday, January 14         11:00 am-2:00 pm

Pacific Northwest Winter Demo  Cost: $50, meal and wine included

Instructor: Chef Michael Valoppi, The Lodge at Suttle Lake Menu: Jicama & Prosciutto Salad w/ Pear Vinaigrette, Hazelnut-crusted Salmon Filet with a Citrus & Pink Peppercorn Buerre Blanc, Goat Cheese Stuffed Baked Apples

Saturday, January 21         11:00 am-2:00 pm

Pacific Rim Demo    Cost: $50, meal and wine included

Instructors: Chef Sharon Wiest & Pati D’Eliseo, A Posto Personal Chef Services Take a culinary tour of Thailand, Vietnam, the Philippines, China and Singapore. Menu: Lumpia (Philippine spring roll), Thai Tom Yum soup, Singapore Noodles, Sticky Ribs with Green Papaya Salad, Vietnamese Banh Xeo (crispy crepes stuffed with shrimp, pork and bean sprouts), Sweet Sticky Rice with Mango

Saturday, January 28         11:00 am-2:00 pm

Jambalaya Cook-off Chefs from throughout Oregon will compete to see who makes the best jambalaya. Cost at the door is FREE! A token amount is charged for tastes.

Sound good? Better git ‘er done.

Luv,

Sissy

P.S. Stand by for February’s classes or visit www.oregoncoast.org/culinary

Josh Burch stocks the deli counter at Red Hills Market in Dundee with local produce (the eggs only travelled three blocks - smile); photo by Jan Jackson.

… Wow – Red Hills Market calls themselves “your neighborhood stop for local goodness” and I think they must be right.

The “Feeding your 5 senses includes:

Local color

Crispy, crusty and flaky

Stinky cheese

Swirl, sip and savor and

Harmonious conversation

Translated, that means they have house-crafted sandwiches, local and imported cheeses, breads, bakery items and “mom’s granola.” Add chef-prepared deli items and take-home meals, in-house seasoned – you grill/cook entrée’s charcuterie/wood-fire oven dishes essential pantry ingredient, local wine and craft beer, farmer direct seasonal fruits and vegetables, fresh seafood and quality meats, local roasted coffee, casual dining inside and out, a bocce court and a picnic area.

It took them seven years to develop this place but it’s only been open since May. If you are on 99W going through Dundee, hang a right (or left if you are going north) on 7^th St. (you can find their menu at www.redhillsmarket.com/)

Luv

Sissy

Deer country at night; photo by Bing Bingham

It’s a lonely feeling standing alongside the highway watching a wounded deer thrash his life out at your feet.

The holiday preparations hadn’t been bad that year, just long. My wife and I were worn out and neither of us felt like cooking dinner.

For us, the closest restaurant is twenty-five miles away. It probably says something about our state of mind when a fifty-mile round trip is easier than doing something simple in the kitchen. Nevertheless, that’s where we were.

To this day, I don’t know what happened. I’d settled comfortably into default late night desert driving—scanning the road at about 60 mph on an open highway with little or no traffic.

I didn’t see the young buck until it was about three feet in front my small car. A millisecond later—WHAMMMM!!!!—the animal’s antlers smashed into the windshield in front of my wife.

I controlled the car and the deer slid off the hood. Closing on midnight, there was no traffic in either direction.

My wife was unhurt—a little stunned by the suddenness of the accident—but remarkably calm. She busied herself by brushing the dusting of powdered glass off her coat. It looked like she’d dumped a bottle of glitter down her front.

Glancing in the rearview mirror, I could see the deer thrashing in the middle of the highway. I hopped out, grabbed it by a leg and pulled the struggling animal to the side of the road.

I’m a livestock man. I’ve seen animals in all conditions, from living to dying—I know what they look like. This deer would never walk again. Being out of his misery would be the kindest thing anyone could do for the animal.

Flailing legs which no longer worked, the deer watched me. He had no reason to understand who or what I was—or that I had caused his injuries. His eyes spoke volumes, rotating through shock, screaming pain and pleading for release.

High stress thoughts were rattling around my head like a covey of surprised quail.

At the moment, I wished the injured deer were anyone else’s problem. I indulged in self-pity about missing a late-night truck stop dinner or tasks I’d left undone at home. Then, I considered driving off and leaving the problem for some Good Samaritan.

They say a person’s moral boundaries are what they do when no one else is looking. High ground sliding out from under me, I looked again and the deer’s eyes registered unending and shattering pain. I asked myself, what sort of person would walk away from a wounded animal and pretend it didn’t exist? The answer left me squirming.

I knew what needed to be done. In my head, I inventoried my options and found myself wishing for a gun—any gun—in that holiday season. Mine were all safe at home.

I breathed deeply to calm my running adrenaline, then reached into my pocket and pulled out my trusty rancher’s pocketknife.

Slowly, carefully, like a snake charmer watching a Cobra, I looked for an opening past the animal’s weaving antlers. Then, I timed my leap and did the deed. I didn’t like it very much.

The buck deer relaxed underneath me and lay still. Hands shaking, I sat for a moment and simply breathed the night air.

My wife and I limped back home in our car. We had granola for dinner that night.

I didn’t get my holiday wish of a gun that year. But, I did get a gift of understanding about the rights and responsibilites of being human.

After putting away my granola bowl, I slipped into a deep and profound sleep. I don’t think I had any dreams that night—I’m not sure.

Bing Bingham is a writer, rancher and storyteller. He learned a lesson in the season’s reasons. For further stories, check www.bingbingham.com/blog

View of the Oregon City Bridge from the historic Canal and Locks at Willamette Falls; photo by Jan Jackson

… runs rampant between Oregon City and West Linn. The Oregon City Bridge, built in 1922 to replace an 1888 pedestrian suspension bridge, is just downstream from the 40-foot tall Willamette Falls and the Willamette Falls Locks, the oldest navigational locks in the United States.

Willamette Falls is the largest waterfall in the Pacific Northwest and the 2^nd largest in the United States behind Niagara Falls. Lewis and Clark talked about the falls in their journals on their return trip (1805-06), though they didn’t actually visit them.

In 1873, to circumvent the falls and allow passage between the lower and upper river, the Willamette Locks & Canal Company built what today is recognized as one of the only seven operating canals on the National Register and the only one west of the Rockies.

Both the bridge and the canal and locks are presently closed for repairs. Though they are actively working on the bridge, The Canal and Locks at Willamette Falls (official name) are waiting for funding. It’s a pretty darned exciting thing.

Luv,

Sissy

The word cornucopia means an abundant supply of good things of a specified kind. The horn of plenty, if you will, is the symbol of a goat’s horn overflowing with flowers, fruit and corn.

Now, for the Greek part.

When Zeus was playing with the goat Amalthea (Amaltheia), he accidentally broke off one of her horns. To atone for this, Zeus promised Amalthea that the horn would always be full of whatever fruits she desired. This became the cornucopia of the Roman goddess Copia, the personification of plenty. Other goddesses, including Fortuna and Pax, also held the cornucopia.

So, the cornucopia we had at Thanksgiving had two of the three ingredients – the fruit and the corn. Next year, it will have some flowers.

So smart, so late.

Luv,

Sissy

1) Let’s say you are n 51^st Street in Lincoln City (old town of Taft to some of you), and you see a bright bubble gum pink shop across from Mo’s. That’s Eleanor’s Undertow Café and Ice Cream Parlor and they serve 16 flavors of Umpqua ice cream (plus homemade cobbler to put it on – smile).

2) Or what about stopping at that funny little K-R Drive-In in Rice Hill where the author warns you about ordering the large one (they are wonderful but they are huge).

3) Let’s say you are traveling on Highway 30 between Astoria and Portland and you get a hankering for Marion berries and ice cream. Well that’s easy, you would pull into the Berry Patch Restaurant in Westport.

4) And, did you know there is a new ‘resurrected’ ice cream company called Mt. Hood Ice Cream Company (www.mthoodicecream.com)?

This list goes on and on so the best thing to do is find a copy of the book. From one ice cream lover to another, Gail Hoffnagel did our homework for us. Got any ice cream lovers on your gift list? Then you have just solved the problem of what to get them.

Happy lickin’,

Luv Sissy

Our good-roads Sam Hill was a wealthy and accomplished railroad executive, financial manager, and investor active in a wide range of civic groups and fraternal organizations. He is well known for building the Maryhill Mansion and Museum just on the side of the Columbia River near Goldendale Washington, the Peace Arch on the US/Canada border in Blaine, Washington and is responsible for Oregon’s beautiful scenic Columbia River Highway.

A tribute to Sam Hill the road builder may be seen at the Women’s Forum at Chanticleer Point (take Corbett Exit 22 off I-84 and then at the top of the hill, take a left (go east) on Highway 30).

It is also where you get the amazing view of Vista House and the Columbia River (see my blog about the Million Dollar Outhouse – smile)  as it pours through the gorge. Take your camera. It’s a beautiful spot.

Go there.

Luv,

Sissy

When she titled each section, she also added a fun quote.  Like on the Apartments & Accommodations section, added – “Home is the place where when you have to go there, they have to take you in.” – Robert Frost. Those are fun to read.

She gives all the details on Portland’s free and inexpensive places, but if there is a “catch” she tells you. Here are some examples:

The Artists Repertory Theater at 1515 SW Morrison St., make heavy use of physically fit volunteer ushers. The Catch? Ushers can see the show for free, but parking costs $5.

The Doug Fir Lounge at 830 E. Burnside St. is one of the best places to see live music showcased in Portland. The Catch? All shows are for those who are 21 and older.

Jeff Morris Fire Museum, Belmont Firehouse at 900 SE 35^th Ave., educates children and adults about antique fire equipment and other relics of past firefighting approaches. The Catch? While the museum is free, the hours are not consistent. Your best bet is to call ahead or check the website to plan your visit.

For everything including good eats, drinks, recreation, – even apartments and accommodations, a good place to start is the Cheap Bastard Guide to Portland Oregon (printed in the United States of America by Globe Pequot Press). And, at $14.95 (US), it makes a cheap gift Christmas gift too – smile.

Now, back to my hot rock for some more reading.

Luv,

Sissy

Children working on the undersea mural on the exterior wall of the Driftwood Public Library in Lincoln City; photo by Jan Jackson.

LINCOLN CITY, Ore. – When the Let There Be Arts folks get there thinking caps on, it usually means it’s a good time to pack up the family and head for Lincoln City. For many families, Lincoln City wins out over the other mid-coast towns because their children can participate in art opportunities hard to find anyplace else.  A case in point was the chance to help paint a giant undersea mural on the external walls of the Driftwood Public Library. For Maryland residents Mairead and Clare Alexander, it was something to write home about.

            Mairead, a newly graduated eighth- grader and Clare just out of the sixth-grade, arrived early for a mural painting briefing in the Driftwood Library parking lot.  Both girls, who come from an art-loving background in their hometown of Greenbelt, eagerly put on their cover-up shirts and began listening to how to instruction from Krista Eddy, the artist who designed and prepared the wall for the undersea creature mural. By the time the children arrived, Krista had the students’ images drawn on the walls via an overhead projector, and all of the painting was done by the students themselves.

From left, Mairead and Clare Alexander paint on the mural while visiting from Greenbelt Maryland; Photo by Jan Jackson.

            Since 2000, Let There Be Arts has partnered with Lincoln County School District to provide arts classes and artist in residency programs, support art clubs, sponsor concerts in the schools and provide materials or special guest artists for after school programs. The program began at Taft Elementary when that school received a small grant from the National Endowment for the Arts to provide after school arts for one year. The principal asked LTBA to implement and oversee the program. Local and regional artists and educators were hired to teach a variety of classes including music, movement, visual arts and drama. LTBA has continued to provide the after school arts program and has expanded it to other elementary and middle schools in Lincoln City.

Kaline Klaas, executive director since the program started, was herself an art and drama teacher for third-through twelfth-grade students. Klaas believes in the program.

Kaline Klaas, executive director Let There Be Arts in Lincoln City, Oregon; photo by Jan Jackson

“As art program after art program gets cut from the public school curriculum, we felt someone needed to step in and get these kids good art experiences to help further their education,” Klaas, said. “We call it Let There Be Arts because it is important to include all of the arts – like drama and dance and so on. For projects, such as murals, we teach art classes in the schools, select and copy student work and then project their work onto the mural surface. It is truly work created and painted by kids that you see in public places around the city.

“We have had good support from the city of Lincoln City and from private business as well,” Klaas said. “The Freed Gallery was the first to step up and do gala fundraisers for us and other groups have partnered with contributions like giving office space.

“The Driftwood Library mural was designed to accommodate about 350 children who now, like the Alexander girls, can come back anytime and see a piece of themselves still here in Lincoln City. Who knows, we may become the mural capital of the world.”

The Undersea Creature Mural at the Driftwood Library is on display 24/7, at 801 SW Highway 101, Lincoln City Oregon. For information on other Let There Be Arts projects in Lincoln City, contact Kaline Klaas
at at 503.812.7813 or
 visit www.lettherebearts.com.

- Jan Jackson© – See Jan Jackson’s Bio

Going to Lincoln City? Check out For Travelers

The turkey statistics include domesticated turkeys and not the wild ones like the photo of this one; photo by by Larry Rea.

… get a load of these 2010 figures from the U.S. Census Bureau (their projections about the things the U.S. raises/grows that we associate with the holidays). You ought to be able to find something for  dinner out of it.

242 million turkeys (each person in the U.S. eats about 13.8 pounds)

735 million pounds of cranberries

1.9 billion pounds of sweet potatoes (each person in the U.S. eats about 5.2 pounds)

931 million pounds of pumpkins

2.2 billion bushels of wheat (for pie crusts, breads and rolls etc.)

736,680 tons of green beans

But, here is what one smart turkey said about Thanksgiving dinner:

“I am a big, fat turkey, but,

You can’t have MY head.

I’ll sit with you at dinner, but,

We’ll eat a duck instead!”

There you have it.

Luv

Sissy

P.S.: You can read about another smart turkey (that ran for governor and saved his turkey friends) at http://countrytraveleronline.com/2010/10/13/rascal-rebs-run-for-governor-saves-his-turkey-friends/

Oregon's pride and joy is the vine maple in the fall; photo by Jan Jackson

…is best depicted in the native vine maple. This small tree has a short trunk with several branches turning and twisting from its base. It grows 10 – 20 foot tall. The trunks have bright, reddish green bark topped with foliage displayed in an elegant tiered pattern. Fall foliage ranges from yellow-orange to red, and the rest of the year it is a bright green. It has purple and white flowers in the spring (they are in little clusters) and young red fruit in the summer. Songbirds, game birds and large and small mammals eat the seeds.

In the past, the Native Americans used vine maple to make frames for fishing nets, snowshoes and cradle frames and they boiled the bark of the roots to make a tea for colds.

What do our woods look like in autumn? How would you compare it to driving through Vermont and New Hampshire at fall foliage time?

The fall countryside on the northeastern side of the United States is a mass of color with some green trees thrown in for contrast. The fall countryside in the Pacific Northwest is a mass of green with some colorful trees thrown in for contrast.

Should you compare the beauty of the east with the beauty of the west? No. That isn’t how it works.

Luv,

Sissy

Root wads from VanNatta Bros.Tree Farm, being unloaded at a Portland storage site near 122nd St between Sandy and Airport Way; photo by K.C. VanNatta.

Root wads provide immediate wetland, riverbank and stream stabilization, which in turn provides excellent habitat for fish (especially for juveniles), frogs, birds and other small critters.

The trees they use come from forested areas being cleared for development, or other treed areas that need trees selectively removed. They are pushed over rather than cut, thereby requiring heavy equipment and expertise.

Now, for some fun. Imagine that you are a fish – a baby fish (a juvenile as they are called). You are swimming in a creek and the water is going fast. You are swimming and swimming and you are tired and you need someplace to pull in and rest. Aha. There it is. A root wad with all its little tiny hiding places. And, what if that little fish was trying to hide from a predator (which would be anything that was omnivorous and larger than it was), where could he hide? You got it. He could swim into the tiny tendrils of a root wad.

Visualize a little frog needing to hide from – well, from whatever eats frogs. A few hops into the secret passageways of a root wad and he’s safe.

Brilliant you say? At least the fish and the frogs think so.

Luv,

Sissy

A pair of Western Painted Turtles sun themselves in their native habitat; photo by Marvin Kellar.

… There are two native turtles in Oregon, and bless their hearts, they are both in trouble. Let me tell you about them.

1)        Western Pond Turtles, need marshes, streams, rivers, ponds and lakes. They need sparse vegetation nearby for digging nests and like to bask on logs. They can live more than 30 years in the wild and may overwinter on dry land. They can be found in the Coast Range, East Cascades, Klamath Mountains, West Cascades and Willamette Valley eco regions.

2)        Western Painted Turtles, need marshy ponds, small lakes, slow moving streams and quiet off-channel portions of rivers. It prefers waters with muddy bottoms with aquatic vegetation. They nest on open ground and bask on logs in the sun. While hatchlings are only about the size of a quarter, individuals can live 20 years or more. They can be found living along the Columbia River in the Blue Mountains, and Willamette Valley eco regions, the Columbia Plateau, East Cascades and West Cascades eco regions.

So, what’s the problem? Bullfrogs. They eat anything and everything that fits in their big mouths. Bullfrogs came west in the wake of the California gold rush in the mid-1800s. They were going to farm them for food but, when the would be frog farmers found out how slowly they grow, how they only eat live food and are cannibalistic, they released them.

So, how can you help the turtles? How about starting by trying this recipe – smile.

Frog Legs

Ingredients:

8 large pairs of frog legs

1-cup buttermilk

1-cup corn flour

½ teaspoon salt

Oil for frying

1 bunch parsley, washed and dried

2 lemons, quartered

Preparation:

Prepare legs by cutting off backbone (if any remains) with a pair of poultry shears. Cut legs in two where they join. If they are fresh, parboil 3 minutes in acidulated water (1 portion lemon juice to 4 portions water), drain and pat dry. Soak for 1 hour in the buttermilk. Mix flour with seasonings in a paper bag, add legs and shake to coat. Heat oil until hot but not smoking, 375 degrees F and fry legs a few at a time until golden brown (2 or 3 minutes). Fry parsley about 1 minute, drain on paper towels and serve with the frog legs and lemon quarters.

Bon Appetit,

Luv,

Sissy

Find out more at http://www.oregonturtles.com/ 

David Hillesland sculpts a grizzly bear from the stump of a 40-year-old sequoia; photo by Jan Jackson.

SALEM, Ore. – David Pike had no choice but to remove the beautiful 40-plus-year-old giant sequoia in his yard, the aggressive roots were damaging his house and could ignore them no longer.  David did have a choice about what to do with the massive stump however, and it now supports a nearly life-size likeness of a grizzly bear with a salmon in its jaws.

Working through the tree removal service, David commissioned Oregon-born chainsaw artist David Hillesland to come to the rescue. Before they left the project, the tree removal folks prepared the stump to Hillesland’s specifications. In a few short days, the 11-foot diameter stump became a work of art.

Though chainsaws have been around for a long time (Andreas Stihl patented the first gasoline-powered one in 1929), David Hillesland didn’t start using one until 2009, when he spent 90-days apprenticing with a chain saw artist.

David Pike stands by the grizzly bear sculpted from the trunk of his 40-plus-year-old sequoia; photo by David Hillesland.

“I always appreciated art but never thought I could do it myself,” Hillesland said.  “I spent my idle hours mastering origami but became discouraged when I had mastered all of the designs and couldn’t find any new ones. Seeing my frustration, my dad bought me a set of wood chisels and soon after that, a set of exacto knives. I spent two months making small woodcarvings and when the chain saw artist saw my work, he offered to mentor me.”

Hillesland, whose favorite project is always whatever is new, maintains a presence at J & J Stump and Tree Removal Service on Highway 22 just west of Salem, Oregon. He started his business in his West Salem garage, but after one year moved to the country.

“It was pretty hard on the neighbors who had to listen to that chain saw all day, so my wife and I bought a 55-acre piece of ground on the Santiam River just outside of Lyons,” Hillesland said. “I work by appointment only so it only makes sense that I have somewhere to store the my logs and other miscellaneous wood pieces and my dump truck and other equipment I need to haul them. I spend a lot of time going to trade shows in a 100-mile radius of Portland and do about 100 commissions a year.”

Chainsaw artist/sculptor David Hillesland, breathes life in to wood one piece at a time; photo by Jan Jackson.

Though the chain saw is the first tool Hillesland uses in every project, his goal is to reduce within a couple of millimeters of his design before bringing out the chisels and smoothing finishing tools.

“Right now I’m working on an 8-foot wall hanging depicting the mythical firebird phoenix, four stump carvings, a small tiger, a 12-foot blue heron and a garden bench with a scene that shows a cabin on a lake, a canoe and deer. The heron is a hard one because I have to engineer a design that I can build strength and beauty at the same time. I also love making totems, because they are always custom and therefore each one is different,” Hillesland said.

When asked where he plans on taking his business, Hillesland says, right to the top.

“I was in the top 10percent in school, the 10 percent during my six-year banking career and that’s where I’m taking Oregon Chainsaw Sculptures, LLC., Hillesland said. “My wife and I stepped out on faith when we started this business and we haven’t looked back. I never thought I would be so blessed to have an occupation I truly love.”

To find out more about David Hillesland, call 503-910-5192 or visit www.oregonchainsawsculptures.com.

- Jan Jackson©2011 – See Jan Jackson’s Bio  

A resident mother Canada goose with her goslings; photo by Larry Rea

“My heart knows what the wild goose knows

I must go where the wild goose goes

Wild goose, brother goose, which is best

A wanderin’ fool or a heart at rest.” - Frankie Laine (1949)

What do you know about the Canada goose? Do you know not to call them Canadian geese? Canadians don’t like to be called geese you know. They are called Canada geese – get used to it.

Can you tell the difference between wild Canada geese and resident Canada geese? Unless you are an expert, probably not – however, there are a few things you can figure out by looking around.

Are the geese descending on and destroying field upon field of grass and grain? They are probably one of the 11 or so subspecies of wild Canada geese. Are the geese just walking around the golf course pooping on the grass? They are probably resident geese. Do wild Canada geese migrate until they happen to see someplace they would like to settle down and raise a family? No, and neither do resident Canada geese up and decide to migrate.

Should you be happy to see them? As handsome as they are, you need to know that one single goose poop contains the eco coliform count that equals 10 cow pies. Guess you wouldn’t think it was so neat to have cows on the golf course. Guess you better clean your hands and disinfect your shoes before you go on home.

If pretty is as pretty does, Canada geese are in trouble – smile.

There you have it.

Luv,

Sissy

Art in the country can sometimes look like cabbages; photo by Jan Jackson

… I was, driving old Highway 30 between Corbett and Troutdale and there was a field of cabbage that was as beautiful as anything I ever saw. Farmland in production is beautiful anyway, but this field of cabbage was a heart-stopper.

What does anybody know about cabbage? What about:

“So she went into the garden to cut a cabbage-leaf, to make an apple-pie; and at the same time shop. ‘What! No soap?’ So, he died, and she very imprudently married the barber.” – Samuel Foote  (If you understood that, I don’t want to hear about it – smile.)

The cabbage plant is thought to have originated in Asia Minor or the Middle East. After gaining popularity in Europe, it was planted in the U. S. in the mid-1600s (but cole slaw didn’t become popular until 1903 when bottled mayonnaise was invented).

Because cabbage requires only three months of growing time, one acre of cabbage will yield more edible vegetables than any other plant; photo by Jan Jackson

Oh, and these?

“Cabbage: a familiar kitchen-garden vegetable about as large and wise as a man’s head.” – Ambrose Bierce

“Tell ‘em how the cow ate the cabbage.” – Nola Joy Pike

“An idealist is one who upon noticing that a rose smells better than a cabbage concludes that it will also make better soup.”- Henry Louis Mencken

 “The time has come,” the walrus said, “to talk of many things: of shoes and ships – and sealing wax – of cabbages and kings.” – Lewis Carroll

“You only live once? Unless you eat Broccoli and Cabbage and that…But, we don’t have time.” – Unknown

Well, for today anyway, that’s about it for cabbages – smile.

Luv

Sissy

Vista House taken from The Women's Forum; photo by Jan Jackson

… funny, but not fair to call it that because, though Vista House was really built for a rest station, it only cost $99,148.05. Those are 1918 prices by the way – the restoration that took place between 2001 and 2006 (through a private-public partnership), cost approximately $4.5 million.

Vista House was built on Crown Point (originally called Thor’s Heights), 733 feet above the Columbia River. The tribute to  Oregon’s pioneers, a comfort station and an observatory, Vista House lies 24 miles east of Portland and about 8 miles east of Multnomah Falls. It attracts over one million visitors a year.

Vista House was inspired by German Art Nouveau architecture and designed by Edgar M. Lazarus. It is listed on the National Register of Historic Places, it sits in the Columbia Gorge National Scenic Area, it is located on the Historic Highway 30  (only one of three such roadways in the country to be designated as a National Historic Landmark ) and sits on the Natural Historic Landmark called Crown Point. Today it is operated by the Friends of Vista House in cooperation with the Oregon Parks and Recreation Department and houses the Vista House Museum Gift shop and Espresso Bar. During the winter, Vista House is open weekends and holidays (weather permitting) and though they accept donations, admission is free. For more information call 503-695-2230.

If you want to take the perfect picture, drive I-84, take the Corbett Exit (Exit 22) and make a photo stop at the Women’s Forum (Chanticleer Point). One thing I can tell you for sure, is that there is no more beautiful spot in the world.

Luv,

Sissy

The Shimanek Covered Bridge spanning Thomas Creek in Scio, boasts of being the site where an earlier bridge held a two-holed toilet; photo by Jan Jackson.

SCIO, Ore. – Oregon not only has the largest collection of covered bridges in the West, but one of the largest in the nation. Pulling them off the roadway has preserved some of the bridges. The road has been moved around a few others and a few were dismantled, moved and reconstructed someplace else. The rest remain in use over rivers and streams. All but one of Oregon’s 50 remaining covered bridges (out of 450) can be found west of the Cascades from Lake Oswego in the north to Ashland in the south (one is east of the mountains in Bend). Whether you are a historian, an artist, a photographer or just a romantic covered bridge enthusiast, there is an Oregon covered bridge out there for you.

            Covered bridge building in Oregon started in the 1850s with the pioneers and peaked in the early 1900s. Motorcoach tours have been actively touring the ones in Linn County since 1965. One of the most asked questions is why the bridges are covered and many reasons have

Larwood Bridge spanning Crabtree Creek complete with a favorite neighborhood swimming hole; photo by Jan Jackson

been offered. Some say the barn-like structures were designed to make the animals feel at home and therefore less likely to shy or stampede when being forced to cross. Other explanations included that the roofs were to keep the snow off the bridge road, to provide shelter to travelers caught in storms or to provide a place to steal kisses without being watched. Except for the Gallon House Bridge, which was used as a place to secretly pass moonshine during prohibition or the Shimanek Bridge that is said to have housed a two-seater toilet, the real reason bridges were covered was to protect the structures from premature rotting from the rain.

Tolls were collected at many of the bridges. One story goes that a particular man was continually found fording the river to keep from paying the toll. His excuse in the summer was that he was only trying to wash off the dust. In the winter he pleaded he was trying to wash off the mud. Tolls ranged from three cents to 25 cents a crossing but a farmer was exempt if he was traveling from one part of his farm to another.

Travelers on a Celestial Travel and Tour Company Tour out of Aurora Colorado pose for a group photo at the Larwood Bridge; photo by Jan Jackson.

For tour groups (or for anyone on a private drive), five or six bridges can fit nicely into a one-day itinerary. For out-of-state guests, the beauty of the diverse countryside enhances the trip. Driving through groves of hazelnuts, fields of nursery stock, cane berries and row crops are beautiful to the native and visitor alike. Many visitors have not seen hop fields, forest clear cuts, tree farms and fields of sheep guarded by anything from donkeys, llamas or guard dogs that look like sheep themselves. The small towns that can be humdrum to nearby residents, take on a charm to the out-of-state visitor. The rivers and streams are picture-worthy and hometown hospitality and homemade pie that the Lacomb Grange puts out for special groups is hard to find in the big city.

Many things have changed in the more than 45 years since the early tour groups crossed the bridges. In the 60s, the motor coaches were small enough to drive through even though passengers were encouraged to get out and walk through the bridge just for the experience. Today, tour guides have to plan routes carefully because even empty coaches are too heavy to drive across them.

How long will the remaining bridges be here? Forever I hope. Nothing can replace the wonderful sight of them spanning the creeks and rivers in the Willamette Valley farmland. And don’t forget those heavenly summer swimming holes that have formed below them. While the covered bridges add a sense of history and charm to the countryside, they also are a continuing source of tourist’s revenue for the small towns near them. A picnic lunch, a swimming hole and a reminder that the country is still a peaceful place to be, is worth a lot. Enjoy.

To find out where Oregon’s covered bridges are, visit http://www.oregon.com/covered_bridges

Jan Jackson ©2011 – See Jan Jackson’s Bio 

Photo by Bing Bingham

It’s funny how your mind works. Sometimes it can cover in a split second what normally takes minutes.

Like the other day, my friend Ron asked me to help castrate some pigs. He’d meant to get it done earlier, but the job got away from him. Now the pigs were about the size of a large suitcase and had the strength of a young high school football player.

My job, as mugger, was to help catch and hold the pig for two quick cuts.

“No sweat,” I said.

The first one was simple. We cornered and caught him. Holding that young hog was like squeezing a full five-gallon water jug to my chest while frantically jumping up and down.

Ron made two quick cuts with a sharp knife, splashed disinfectant on the offended area and the pig—wondering what’d just happened—was gone a minute and a half later. The second pig was just as easy.

The third pig was smarter. He knew something was up and refused to make our lives any easier.

Ron boxed him in a corner, but the frightened pig spied an opening and made a dive for it. The only thing between him and freedom was me. I reached down and wrapped both arms around the chest of the high-speed pig. His momentum knocked me—still gripping the pig—toes over teakettle across the pen.

Tumbling, I realized a soft landing in a straw-covered pen wouldn’t hurt. All I could do was wait until I landed. I relaxed and my mind wandered…

The first thing I thought was my father would have been proud of me for the way I grappled with the pig. It was the same wrestling hold he’d used to toss a teasing brother across the living room and ruin the family’s oak rocker.

Then I realized my father had let go of his brother in mid-flight and I had no intention of releasing that squirming pig until the job was completed.

That got me to thinking, still tumbling across the pen, about a branding I attended where one of the ropers made a wild toss at a breakaway calf. The rope accidentally caught a mugger instead.

During much good-natured kidding, the mugger laughingly said he didn’t mind being roped. However, he preferred not to be branded and castrated with the other calves.

This got me to thinking about my present position—upside down with a pig tightly clutched to my chest—the last time I’d seen Ron, he was running to my aid with a sharp knife in his hand.

I knew when I landed; the pig and I would be a hopeless tangle of limbs and legs. That led me to an important question: Did Ron know the difference between pigskin and blue jeans?

Now that, mid-tumble, focused my wandering mind.

Pig tightly clutched, I slammed my legs together, did a partial barrel roll and—almost—landed on my feet. Ron ran to my assistance and we finished the job.

I was gratified to learn that my friend understood the difference between blue jeans and pigskin.

Bing Bingham is a writer, rancher and storyteller. He appreciates friends who understand delicate matters. For more stories, check www.bingbingham.com.

Annie's pumpkin; photo by Jan Jackson

… taken from www.history.com/topics/pumpkin-facts/interactives/halloween-by-the-numbers

• 46% of American adults carve a pumpkin for Halloween.
• 120 million Americans (children and adults) dress up in costumes for Halloween.
• 11.5% of Americans dress up their pet for Halloween.
• 72% of adult Americans report handing out candy on Halloween
• 36 million children in the United States between the ages of 5 and 13, make up the prime trick-or-treat age group.
• 35 million pounds of candy corn are sold annually. That equates to nearly 9 billion pieces – enough to circle the moon nearly 21 times if laid end-to-end.
• The average American consumes 24 pounds of candy each year. That’s equal to the weight of 2,355.5 Hershey’s Kisses.
• 90% of parents admit to sneaking goodies from their kids’ Halloween trick-or-treat bags.
• 30% of kids report that they sort their candy after returning home from trick-or-treating.
• A pumpkin grown in 2010 weighed 1,810 pounds – as much as a dairy cow or roughly half the weight of a small car.
• U.S. growers produce over 1.5 billion pounds of pumpkins per year. That’s more than twice the weight of the Empire State Building.
• Top pumpkin production states are: Illinois, California, Ohio, Pennsylvania, New York and Michigan.
• Pumpkins are a member of the gourd family, which includes cucumbers, honeydew melon, cantaloupe, watermelon and zucchini.
• 50% of Americans decorate their yards for Halloween.
• Each pumpkin contains about 500 seeds.

How to Roast Pumpkin Seeds

1.  Rinse pumpkin seeds under cold water and pick out the pulp and strings. (This is easiest just after you’ve removed the seeds from the pumpkin, before the pulp has dried.)

2.  Place the pumpkin seeds in a single layer on an oiled baking sheet, stirring to coat. If you prefer, omit the oil and coat with non-stick cooking spray.

3.  Sprinkle with salt and bake at 325 degrees F until toasted, about 25 minutes, checking and stirring after 10 minutes.

4.   Let cool and store in an airtight container.

That’s it for this Halloween – smile.

Luv,

Sissy

Making jack-o’-lantern, comes from an Irish myth based on a man nicknamed Stingy Jack.

According to the story, Stingy Jack invited the Devil to have a drink with him. True to his name, Stingy Jack didn’t want to pay for his drink, so he convinced the Devil to turn himself into a coin that Jack could use to buy their drinks. Once the Devil did so, Jack decided to keep the money and put it into his pocket next to a silver cross, which prevented the Devil from changing back into his original form. Jack eventually freed the Devil, under the condition that he would not bother Jack for one year and that, should Jack die, he would not claim his soul. The next year, Jack again tricked the Devil into climbing into a tree to pick a piece of fruit. While he was up in the tree, Jack carved a sign of the cross into the tree’s bark so that the Devil could not come down until the Devil promised Jack not to bother him for ten more years.

Soon after, Jack died. As the legend goes, God would not allow such an unsavory figure into heaven. The Devil, upset by the trick Jack had played on him and keeping his word not to claim his soul, would not allow Jack into hell. He sent Jack off into the dark night with only a burning coal to light his way. Jack put the coal into a carved-out turnip and has been roaming the Earth with ever since. The Irish began to refer to this ghostly figure as “Jack of the Lantern,” and then, simply “Jack O’Lantern.”

In Ireland and Scotland, people began to make their own versions of Jack’s lanterns by carving scary faces into turnips or potatoes and placing them into windows or near doors to frighten away Stingy Jack and other wandering evil spirits. In England, large beets are used. Immigrants from these countries brought the jack o’lantern tradition with them when they came to the United States. They soon found that pumpkins, a fruit native to America, make perfect jack-o’-lanterns.

So. How’s that for a story. Thanks Rod.

Luv,

Sissy

If its time to winterize the espresso cart, Christmas can't be far away; photo by Jan Jackson.

…the goose is getting fat? Nope. The geese are flying south? Nope. How about the leaves turning color and/or beginning to fall?No,no no. It is when they start enclosing the espresso carts. Watched Multnomah Fall Lodge enclosing theirs yesterday (see photo). Now the espresso makers won’t freeze to death while they whip up those to-die-for drinks. Stand by, it also means it is only 65 days until Christmas – smile.

You heard it here.

Luv,

Sissy

1.  The name pumpkin originated from the Greek word “pepon” which means  “large melon.”

2.  “Pepon” was nasalized by the French into “pompon.”

3.  The English changed “pompom” to “pumpion.”

4.  American colonists changed “pumpion” into “pumpkin.”

Then came The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, Cinderella and:

Peter Peter Pumpkin Eater

Had a wife and couldn’t keep her

Put her in a pumpkin shell

And there he kept her very well.

So, there you have it – smile.

Luv,

Sissy

The bigs were doing something they’d never done before near their huge stone nest on the hill above Quiet Pond. For Sally Mallard Duck and her friends, the woods surrounding the pond were full of danger. Sally hoped the bigs were building a safe shelter for the menagerie of vulnerable animals that called the pond home. Predators were always looking for delicacies and, of course, duck eggs were at the head of the list. Duck families had to be on constant vigil to protect hoped-for offspring from the devouring mouths of invaders. It was a miracle that any of them managed to make it into adulthood. When she was still a baby in the eggshell, her mother had used every trick she knew to protect Sally from egg-sucking enemies. And there were a lot of them living around the pond and along the river.

The small creek that fed the pond, continued to flow into a stream and on into the Deschutes River 50 yards or so to the south. Possum slid in and out of the pond’s undergrowth like oozing mud. Ducks had to be on the lookout for them.  Badgers stumbled about like staggering lumps. Ducks had to be on the lookout for them. Raccoons crept over soft ground like dandelions floating in the air. Ducks had to be on the lookout for them. Owls swooped through the air like phantoms in the night. Even when ducks were safely hidden in their nests, they still had to keep on the lookout for owls. Weasels and snakes slithered through the thickets. Ducks had to be on the lookout for them too. Skunks announced their presence with foul odors, but ducks still had to be on the smell-out for them. Crows annoyed the air and ears of all with complaining screeching and ducks had to be on the lookout for them. Rodents bared their sharp teeth like Russian thistles. Ducks had to be on the lookout for them. Mink stood over duck eggs like miniature bears waiting for the right moment. Ducks had to be on the lookout for them. Black-billed magpies gossiped to other creatures that might be listening about where duck eggs could be found. Ducks had to be on the lookout for them. River otters swam pond waters in search of you know what. Ducks had to be on the lookout for them. Coyotes (those artful dodgers), could turn on a cloverleaf and pounce on prey like willow switches. Ducks had to be on the lookout for them. Raven and hawks were persistent as mosquitos ready to bite. Ducks had to be on the lookout for them.

As if egg eaters weren’t enough for Sally and her friends to worry about, ducks also have enemies that eat them. Sally knew that if she could make it into the air when a predator was after her, she could out-fly any of them, except maybe an eagle. They were the best flyers. Her friend, Rusty Eagle, taught her everything she knew about avoiding hungry eagles.

Chapter 2

Sally explored places not too far from home. With less than a five-minute flight to the west she could land on patches of grass that for some reason looked like green claws. She liked to crouch in the weeds near one of the fingers and watch the bigs hit white eggs with a stick. She couldn’t understand why the eggs never broke. The bigs just kept hitting them over and over again until they fell into a little hole in the ground.  A couple of times every day Sally and her friends made the short trip to green patches to watch bigs swat white eggs and tramp through wet grass to hit them again. Of course, the ducks chose times when predators would least likely be on the prowl.

They also paid visits to a huge hole in the ground the bigs were digging just up the hill from Quiet Pond. So far it was just a large hole. Huge, noisy slave-like animals grabbed dirt in their teeth and dumped it onto the backs of other angry animals that hauled the dirt away. What the bigs did with the dirt, Sally didn’t know.

Sally and her friends speculated on what the hole in the ground might become. Dillard Duck said they were building a big nest in the ground for themselves. Roger Duck disagreed. “It doesn’t look like the stone nests over there,” he said pointing his bill at the nearby structures.

Chapter 3

Day after day the excavation continued. It appeared to Sally and her friends that the bigs would never finish making whatever it was they were making.

The Quiet Pond ducks returned their attention to doing what ducks do. They spent their days swimming in the pond and nearby river enjoying being ducks.

One day Sally decided it was time to raise a family. Confident that no egg sucker would find her hideout, she laid a clutch of eggs in a secluded spot in a hollow log near the pond’s edge. It was in her nature to sit on nest incubating her beautiful eggs all day … except for short recesses when she left the nest to eat. When she was a way from the nest she hid it by covering it with twigs and grass.

One day, during an enormous rainstorm, the bigs stayed away from the hole. Sally took a short break from nesting, joined her friends and headed to the mysterious hole to have a look at the progress. The ducks laughed,  “Quack, quack, quack.”  Rain had driven the bigs indoors but it didn’t keep the ducks from doing what they wanted to do. Water rolled off them like water off a rock’s back.

“Hey look at this!” Dillard called from the edge of the hole. “It has water in it.”

Sally and the others waddled through the mud to join him. Sure enough, the hole had become a small pond.

“Do we dare?” Sally asked quacking her delight.

“Sure, if they come, we can fly away,” Roger said flapping down the bank and into the water. The others joined him and for a while they all happily entertained themselves by splashing about.

“Do you think the bigs are building a safe pond for us ducks?” Sally excitedly asked the others, “I hope so… I can bring my little ones here and won’t have to worry.”

“A safe place to swim… Wouldn’t that be the best?” Roger said.

“Yeah, no badgers, mink or coyotes,” Dillard added.

“Or skunks, snakes or hawks….” Sally quacked. “I hope so …” She stopped abruptly and scampering up the muddy bank she said, “Oh… I’ve got to get back to my eggs!” She flapped into the air and glided the short distance to pond’s edge and to her nest. She was relieved that her extended time away from the nest hadn’t endangered them.

Chapter 4

At nightfall and nesting time, Sally heard her duck friends returning from their visit to the mysterious hole in the ground. All was well. Sally settled into sleep. Then, chugging disturbed the quiet with guttural sounds from one of the big’s slave animals. It sounded angry and at first. The awful sound frightened Sally, but as night wore on, the annoying sound became routine. Of course, she wondered what the sound might be, but could come to no conclusion.

The next day, during one of her breaks from her nest Sally intended to join the other ducks at the new pond the rains had created in the big’s mysterious hole in the ground. But, halfway up the hill she was met by Dillard and the others returning to Quiet Pond.

“The bigs sucked all the water out of the hole!” Dillard said.

“Yeah, and a slave animal is spitting gray mud all over the bottom and up the sides,” Roger added.

Over the next few days the duck community speculated about what the bigs were making. They checked it out from every angle they could think of. Chuck Duck made several gliding passes over the work site. “From the air it looks like the inside shell of a giant duck egg.”

 Chapter 5

Sally’s eggs hatched. She was the proud mother of six fuzzy, cuddly ducklings. They followed her everywhere she went. It annoyed her that she and her brood weren’t free to enjoy all the fun places in and around Quiet Pond… even though she no longer had to worry about egg suckers, she now had to worry about predator weasels and swooping birds gobbling up her offspring. Sally was delighted to hear Chuck’s description of what the bigs were making. “What else could it be but a safe pond for ducks?” she thought.

During the next few days Sally’s friends reported that the bigs were adding tiny pieces of eggshells making patterns of color all around the upper edge of the bowl. Then one day they began filling the bowl with water.

“Sure enough!” Sally said excitedly to her ducklings, “They are making a safe pond for us!”

A day later she learned that the pond was full of water. Dillard reported that the bigs had placed small resting logs all around the pond and that other bigs without many feathers on were squatting or sleeping on them.

While Sally didn’t know how the naked bigs would react to her and her family, she felt she didn’t have to be afraid of them since they had obviously made a safe pond for ducks. She determined that the next day she would lead her tiny ducklings up the hill through the grassy field and into their new home.

The big day arrived. Word got around the duck community that Sally was taking her brood to the new pond and all gathered along the route to watch her do it.

“I’m not going near any skinned bigs, but I want to watch,” Roger said waddling into a spot where he would have clear view of Sally’s maiden journey.

Ducks lined the parade route. Ducks weren’t the only ones to be drawn into the dramatic event. It was like the ducks had declared this day Sally Duck day and the other animals that called Quiet Pond home joined in the festivities… even the predators suspended their natural urge to devour ducks and lined up and waited and watched.

Sally hadn’t anticipated the attention the news of her trip was getting. She spent a few extra minutes fluffing up the feathers on each of her ducklings. They didn’t yet know duck language, but their excitement was apparent by the quackery nonsense noises each made as they waddled along the parade route toward New Pond.

Chapter 6

Sally Mallard and her brood waddled over the edge of the grass and onto the flat stone space toward the water. A big stretched out on one of the nesting logs sat up as the ducks strolled by. It seemed startled, quickly got up and moved toward the stone structures with the see-through water walls along an exterior surface.

Sally had not had much experience with bigs. She didn’t know what to expect from them. She continued to act on the theory that the eggshell pond was made to be a safe haven for ducks. She moved to the edge of the pond… flapped her wings a couple of times and plopped into the sparkling water and began swimming. All six tiny ones followed… tumbling into the water like falling fruit. It was a thrill to be in such clear water where she could see the bottom of the pool and all the sides.

Scantily clad bigs lounged on every nesting spot around the pond. Sally noticed that all their large eyes were on her and her ducklings. She was proud that they seemed to admire what they saw… yet, some seemed to find the spectacle alarming and moved away. One trotted off through a water wall and disappeared. Others made a cooing sound and said things in big that Sally didn’t understand.

Before long a fully clothed big came running through the water wall carrying a stick with a pad of flat straw at one end. The big, headed straight for the edge of the pond closest to Sally. He swung the straw end of the stick toward Sally just missing her, but hitting one of her offspring. Sally was stunned… what she thought was a safe place for ducks apparently wasn’t. She called to her brood to follow her out of the pond and back through the grass toward Quiet Pond.

As she reached the community of spectators she could hear voices of bigs expressing a range of what she thought was pleasure and displeasure. Since she couldn’t speak nor understand big, she didn’t really know.

The Quiet Pond animal community was astonished at what they saw. Some thought Sally was a brave pioneer, while others accused her of being a careless mother. The predator segment of the community seemed both entertained and strangely indifferent.

Chapter 7

Sally was glad to be safely in her nest at Quiet Pond. Her duck friends gathered around to talk about what they had seen and to make suggestions. Some hoped Sally had learned a dangerous but valuable lesson. Others expressed their admiration for what she had done. Roger suggested that Dillard try it the next day. Dillard said he thought they should try it as a group. Night came and Sally’s friends left for their own nests.

Sally fell asleep thinking about the day’s events. She liked New Pond. She was sure … well … at least she still hoped the bigs created the pond as a safe pond for ducks. She was surprised and confused that the big with the stick chased her away. Well, at least the running big didn’t seem to want to hurt her or her brood. Maybe he wanted to play. She didn’t know. She fell asleep reminding herself that the predators who had watched today’s parade with curious fascination would soon return to their natural instincts. No doubt they would soon be after her and her brood.

The sun rose brightly the next morning. With six fidgety ducklings squirming under her wings, there was little hope that Sally would get more rest. She nuzzled her young ones into a line and told them to follow her. She slipped into Quiet Pond and paddled close to the shoreline looking for a suitable breakfast.

Suddenly her neighbor, Waddy Duck, skimmed into the water next to Sally. She was all excited. “Be careful!” she said, “Charley Coyote got Betty Duck’s youngest.”

“Oh my!” Sally returned eyeing her six. “Does everyone know?”

“I’m telling them… time to get into hiding!” Waddy said flapping her wings, rippling the water, gathering speed and into the air.

“Oh my!” Sally said to herself. She huddled her brood under her wings. To give herself time to think, she paddled a few strokes into the seclusion of overhanging bushes. She could return to her secret hiding place and wait until she was sure Conley and his friends had done their worst and moved or until…  well, until the next time. “That’s no life!” she said out loud. “I’ll bet Conley and the others won’t go near New Pond … I’ll bet the big who chased me just wanted to play… I’ll bet…” she repeated.

Sally struggled up the bank of Quiet Pond and started across the field toward New Pond. No other ducks could be seen. The coyote scare had sent them all into hiding.

“You children be quiet,” she quacked softly. “Not a peep you understand. We’ll fool Conley… the others too. Now, stay low and don’t make noise,” she said waddling toward New Pond. The little ones waddled after her.

By now the sun was warming the ground turning the dew into miniature clouds that helped to hide Sally and her brood from searching eyes of predators. When they arrived at New Pond, there were no bigs to be seen. Sally hopped into the water. The six little ones plopped in after her. The water was clean. Sally skirted the perimeter of the giant egg checking the colored pattern all around just below the water’s surface.

Suddenly, a large big who looked like it had been plucked almost naked, arrived at the pond’s edge. It carried a large leaf, which it tossed over a squatting place.

This big didn’t have a straw stick, but just in case, Sally swam near her ducklings and coaxed them to the opposite side of the pond.

The large big turned around to sit on the squatting place. At first it seemed shocked to see Sally and the little ones. But when the large one had settled onto the leaf, showing its teeth it said, “Blaw Goooooo.”

Sally wasn’t sure what that meant. When coyotes show their teeth, it’s not good, but the big seemed to be pleased at what it was looking at.

Another scantily feathered big appeared at water’s edge. It looked to Sally like it must be starving. It was nothing but skin and bones. It too had a multicolored leaf thrown over its shoulder. The skinny big appeared to be surprised at the sight of a mother duck and her ducklings floating the clean water of the hotel’s new swimming pool.

The skinny big said something to the large big, “Da tute …”

The other said, “La… dumber de gelbers dumber gill det geme slay.”

Sally kept an eye on the bigs to see what they might do. It appeared the bigs’ words weren’t intended to be threatening. Her ducklings swam in a circle around her. Young Delilah Duck squiggled in and out of line.

“Delilah, stay in line!” Sally quacked. She didn’t want the bigs to think that her brood would mar the neatness of New Pond or that she and her ducklings would be pests. The seven ducks dappled the still water.

Suddenly, a big appeared out of nowhere, leaped from a springing board and slammed into the middle of New Pond sending three ducklings into the trough that ran around the perimeter of the pond. Another found himself tumbling onto the stone path on one side of the pond. Such violence frightened the little ones and sent Sally into a moment of confusion. Her first impulse was to take flight to escape the onslaught, but her maternal instincts prevailed. Flapping her wings, churning her webbed feet and struggling to make sense out of what was happening to them, she frantically scrambled to the spot near pond’s edge where her four frantic offspring struggled. The big, who had jumped into the pool, churned the water with its arms and legs moving to the pond’s edge where it climbed up and out of the water, returned to the flexing board and made another plunge.

That churning was too much for Sally. She coaxed her little ones out of the pond onto the rock bank and under one of the unoccupied squatting pads. She felt somewhat safe there. She squatted on the hard surface fluffing her wings so her brood could seek seclusion from the assault on their tranquility. If her little ones could fly, she would have taken flight and led them away from the turmoil and back to Quiet Pond.

The scantily clad bigs sitting on the squatting pads looked on in amusement. “Cooo,” said one, “Aaaawe,” said another. The heavy one said, “ooo gut eeet.”

“Duffing gup da blather,” angrily shouted the one who had disturbed the water dabbing himself with a huge colorful leaf.

 Chapter 8

Sally had thought she would like the new home she found for her and her brood, but the agitation of the splashing big and the one that had chased her from New Pond with the straw paddle, caused her to have second thoughts. Dodging coyotes and owls was bad, but at least she knew what to expect and had learned how to outwit their most cunning hunting strategies.

But it was not so for her little ones. Their journey to acquire her level of skill was a long one. Though New Pond had brought her hope that this brood could thrive in comfort and safety, she knew from experience that not all of them would survive to adulthood.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the skinny big’s voice,

“Ler,” it said. The big gently tossed a yellow something at Sally. It landed a duck’s length in front of her. She’d never seen it before. It smelled good enough to eat. Sally surmised that the big intended for her to eat it. She would have investigated, but keeping the six little ones hidden preempted her from moving from under the pad.

Suddenly a big appeared at one of the water windows of the stone nest. It carried a straw paddle. It headed directly for the pad under which Sally hid.

Sally had never seen a penguin but she had heard about them. This one was mostly black. It had a white breast.

“Blod dummmm dt,” the white breasted big shouted hitting the pad above Sally a menacing blow. “Clit uddet slick.”

Sally couldn’t believe that she and her brood were any kind of a threat to the angry big. She didn’t move at first. The agitated big struck the pad again and stuck the straw paddle in her face several times forcing her to scurry out the other side. The ducklings fluttered from beneath her wings. They scattered in every direction… one dashing under the pad where the heavy big sat. The big had been lying down on the pad, but with the excitement, it sat up to watch.

“Clit uddet slick!” the penguin repeated using its paddle to intimidate the confused duck.

Sally was torn… her survival instincts demanded she flee, but the frightened, helpless peeps of her six little ones overpowered her need to escape.

“Clit uddet slick!” the penguin said once more sweeping one of the little ones off the rock bank and into the grass.

“Clatch det!” shouted the skinny big.

For a moment, Sally was fearful that all three bigs were on the offensive against her and her brood. But, she quickly saw that the upset big’s anger was not directed at her but was directed at the penguin. The penguin ignored the skinny big. It made a swipe at another of the little ones. Sally flapped her wings lifting herself into the air. She wasn’t concerned with achieving the graceful looks ducks are known for. Her objective was to divert the penguin’s attention to herself and away from her helpless chicks.

By now the heavy big had joined the fray. He had removed his leaf from the sitting pad and was thrashing the penguin with it. The penguin fought back defending himself with the straw paddle. The big that had been jumping in and out of the water from the springing board, protested the actions of the skinny and fat bigs. Other bigs rose from their resting nests and advanced on the contenders, some shouting and shoving the fat and skinny bigs while others agitated against the penguin and its protesters. The fat big lunged at the penguin and missing it plunged head first into the pool. The skinny big seeing this grabbed the penguin and pulled it off the edge of the pool and into the water. Before long all bigs at the pool’s edge had wrestled each other into the water and were they thrashing about shouting and calling each other names.

Sally and her six ducklings were left squatting at stone bank’s edge to watch the thrashing. Nothing like this had ever happened at Quiet Pond. Animals living there each knew the decorum expected of its kind. Ducks always behaved like ducks, owls were always owls, foxes foxes, coyotes coyotes and on and on. This was different. Sally was a little embarrassed for the bigs and she wasn’t sure it was good for her little ones to see such goings-on. She was tempted to leave the scene and return to Quiet Pond, but there was a certain fascination with what was happening in front of her… maybe because of her. She wasn’t completely sure. And coyotes being coyotes, she knew that unpleasant dangers awaited her in and near Quiet Pond. No, she would keep her ducklings close and watch the maelstrom unraveling before her.

By now other bigs began emerging from the stone nests. Their faces told that they had varying degrees of curiosity about what the fuss at poolside was all about. Not knowing what else to call them, one had on the finest feathers Sally had ever seen and the others were clad in a variety of garb… some almost naked and carrying colorful leaves.

The finely dressed big shouted to the penguin who was still in the water but who had ceased struggling with the large big. The penguin paddled to the pool’s edge and climbed out.

Sally was amused at the sight of the wet penguin, it was obvious to her that his black and white covering didn’t shed water like duck feathers. Instead of beading up and rolling off, the water had sunk in so that they were heavily soaked and clung to its limbs like mud did to her belly when she got into a soggy bog. To Sally, the penguin looked like a drowned rat. She had seen rats floating in Quiet Pond after they had fallen in or been washed there during heavy rains.

The other bigs followed the penguin out of the pond until all were out and gathered in a circle around the pool. The fancy dressed big waited until other bigs were quiet. Sally didn’t understand what it was saying. Nor did she understand what the penguin said in response, nor the flurry of heated conversation that followed.

However, from their language and their physical gestures toward her and her ducklings, it was clear that she and her brood were the center of their heated exchanges. It was also clear to her that there was no mutual language between the ducks and bigs. The only possibility of bridging the gulf between them was patterns of behavior satisfying to both.

Sally debated whether to stay to see the final outcome of the debate or simply to gather her offspring and waddle off into the field back to Quiet Pond. If she did that, she knew that she would never return to New Pond and that the bright hope she had of finding a safe place to live would be extinguished and she and her brood would have to go back to taking their chances living among the natural dangers of Quiet Pond.

Sally was surprised when the fancy dressed big and the penguin left the gathering and returned through the water walls of the stone nest. Some, who had gathered at pond side, lingered a while, then also disappeared into the stone nest. Most of the nearly naked bigs stayed by the pond, some beckoning to Sally and her ducklings to return to the pond.  Those who had objected, picked up their colorful leaves, drink receptacles, glittery items and went into the stone nest.

Chapter 9

Sally stayed at the edge of the rock bank for a while to make sure those who beckoned her had power to protect her. Then, keeping a duck’s eye on the water windows of the stone nest, she led the little ones back to New Pond and into the water. At nightfall she herded her brood under a flapping shelter covering a pile of the perches the bigs used to roost on at pond side. She felt safe from the prowling noses and eyes of predators. It would not protect her, if a coyote or a raccoon found her hideout, but that didn’t seem likely so near the big’s large nest. And it seemed safer to her than her nest down at Quiet Pond.

Bright and early the next morning, she took her ducklings out of their temporary nest to search of breakfast. To her surprise she found some sort of container full of cabbage, apples, the yellow sticks and other delicious food resting on the ground near one side of the rock nest. After the little family ate their fill they headed for New Pond. There were no bigs yet to be seen. Sally and her brood were swimming around the pool when bigs began to arrive. Those who came, “oooed” and “awed” over the sight of beautiful Sally Mallard Duck and her six cute ducklings frolicking in the hotel’s new swimming pool. Not all the bigs were happy at the thought of having ducks dirtying up the water where they hoped to swim. They made their displeasures known. Yet, even the most avid protester couldn’t help but admire the contagious charm of the little family. Sally thought she might win them over, if they grew attached to her little family. She began to spend time each day coaxing her little ones to execute patterned swims and mini acrobatics for the rock-nest guests. She determined to entertain the reluctant bigs and win their hearts.

Chapter 10

A few days later Sally found the penguin driving stakes into the ground on a hidden side of the rock nest. When penguin had finished doing that, it placed a wire barrier on the stakes. It was very high. She was fearful that the bigs intended to pen her and her duckling in to keep them out of the pond or worse. She’d heard that bigs sometimes hunt and eat duck. Dying in the ugly jaws of Conley Coyote would be better than being captive for the rest of her life. It would be the same for her offspring.

Sally decided she must return to Quiet Pond where she and her little ones would at least be free. She took them to the food container for a last fill of delicious food before leading her six up the slight grade past New Pond toward the open field that separated New Pond from the river and Quiet Pond. Bigs were gathered at pool side… some swimming, others lying in the sun.

Sally and her duckling’s passing drew the attention of one of the bigs. It grabbed a silver box in its hands and walked toward her. It put the silver box to one of its eyes for a few seconds. For a moment Sally was fearful that the silver box would spit fire at her or one of her ducklings. But it didn’t. She had made up her mind that nothing would stop her from returning to Quiet Pond. Other bigs joined the big holding the silver box. All sorts of sounds came from the bigs as they watched Sally lead her brood into the field toward Quiet Pond. The bigs didn’t follow.

A little way into the field Sally was startled by the sight and sound of Charley Coyote coming toward her. She could take to the air and escape his advance but her chicks couldn’t. She decided to take flight, stay low and lead Charley away. She told her ducklings to scurry back to New Pond and stay there. She waddled toward Conley, ran and took to the air intending to fly out of his reach just before reaching him. She tried but couldn’t reach sufficient altitude to avoid his leaping grab. He knocked her from the air and pounced on her ready to sink his teeth into her neck. She had seconds to prepare herself for death. Her final thoughts were the hope that her ducklings would make it back to New Pond and safety.

It happened too quickly to know what had occured but the next minute Sally found herself in the arms of a big. With one eye she could see Conley Coyote running for his life toward the river. Her other eye was looking at something white. Then, within a minute she found herself sitting on the rock bank of New Pond with her little ones surrounding her.

She looked up to see what had rescued her. She found herself looking at the penguin.

When evening came, penguin coaxed Sally and her six into the pen he had constructed next to a remote side of the rock nest. He shut the gate and said, “Det duber… gelmora dell dut glif…” and walked away.

Sally knew that she could fly over the wire barrier but her little ones couldn’t. She was uneasy about what penguin had in mind. She comforted herself with knowing that it was the penguin that rescued her from Conley Coyote.

The days that followed were filled with the fruits of Sally’s decision to claim New Pond as the home for her and her family.

As her little ones grew into young ducks they thrived in entertaining poolside guests by doing water dances and other charming quackery.

Sally was happy and safe at her new home. During the safest times of the day she was able to visit her friends down at Quiet Pond, who expressed varying degrees of bewilderment at Sally’s new life. Somehow it didn’t seem so ducky to them, but they did think she was brave.

Sally simply gave friendly quacks and returned to her home at New Pond.

M. Russell Pike ©2011 – See M.Russell Pike’s Bio

Going up - The total weight of the completed new steeple is 21,000 pounds; the copper alone weighs in at 4,500 pounds. The structure’s height is about 70 feet. When placed on top of the bell tower, the total height will be approximately 200 feet. Photo courtesy Jerry Lauzon.

Mount Angel, OR   This winter, after a severe rain storm, Fr. Philip Waibel, OSB, the pastor of St. Mary Catholic Church in Mount Angel, noticed some water damage on the ceiling in a vault under the bell tower. Investigation showed that the 100 year old steeple was leaking water down into the church. Much of the copper sheathing had loosened, allowing the wind to drive water into the structure. Water had probably been seeping for a considerable time. Significant dry-rot extended nearly the full length of the steeple structure on three of the eight sides.

Schommer & Sons was selected as the general contractor for the project. Andy McBride has been the on-site supervisor. The 60’ of the upper most part of the steeple was disconnected from the bell tower and lowered to the parking lot by a huge crane to start the needed repairs.

Repairs were far more extensive than anticipated. The steeple needed to be entirely rebuilt. The old steeple was dismantled and a new steeple consisting of glulam beams over 1” plywood was built off site by Western Wood Structures of Tualatin.

The dormers were added by the carpenters of Schommer & Sons. The entire structure was then covered with an ice and water shield and sheathed in 16 gauge copper by TT&L Sheet Metal of Beaverton.

Just as we are beneficiaries of the sacrifices and vision of our ancestors – a gift that has lasted 100 years, we are paying it forward. The estimated project budget is not to exceed $475,000.00. We know that our gift to future generations will last at least another hundred years before repairs are needed.

The total weight of the completed new steeple is 21,000 pounds; the copper alone weighs in at 4,500 pounds. The structure’s height is about 70 feet. When placed on top of the bell tower, the total height approximately 200 feet.

The original church with its steeple was begun in 1910 and dedicated in 1912. The parish will celebrate its 100^thAnniversary of the dedication of the church in June of 2012 with Archbishop John G Vlazny presiding. Jerry Lauzon, St. Mary Parish Church

Thanks for the rest of the story Jerry. I hope folks will go see it – that church is a beautiful sight to behold.

Luv Sissy

For a related story on St. Mary Church, visit http://countrytraveleronline.com/2010/07/14/another-test-story/

The Gordon House, the only Frank Lloyd Wright house in the Pacific Northwest open to the public, sits in a grove of oaks at The Oregon Garden; photo by Eric Silberg

SILVERTON, Ore. – Little did Conrad and Evelyn Gordon know that when they commissioned Frank Lloyd Wright to design a house for their Wilsonville farm, that it would end up making a wonderful contribution to the art world. Commissioned by the Gordons in 1956 and designed by Wright before he died in 1959, the house was completed in 1964 under the guidance of Taliesin Associated Architects, Wright’s architectural firm. T

The house was taken apart and moved to the The Oregon Garden in Silverton Oregon in 2001, and was reassembled and opened to the public in March 2002.  One of only 60 of its kind, the custom designedGordon House is the only Frank Lloyd Wright house open to the public in the Pacific Northwest.

            Eric Silberg, a volunteer docent since the house opened, has developed a passion it.

            “I’m sure onlookers were surprised to see the house perched on

Usonian homes are characterized by horizontal lines (shown here out of native Western red cedar), floor to ceiling windows and doors that create continuity between indoors and outdoors; photo by Jan Jackson

the back of a flatbed truck, moving four miles an hour along the 40 miles of back roads between Wilsonville and Silverton,” Silberg said. “It had to be cut into moveable sections, the pieces marked, numbered and categorized and then reconstructed like a giant jigsaw puzzle. It was built to sit along the Willamette River on the Gordon farm, but after Mrs. Gordon died and the property was sold, it was relocated to Silverton in the grove of oaks.”

Silberg, who was born in Boston and went to high school in Billings, Montana, came to Oregon and entered Linfield College on a baseball scholarship. Armed with a degree in accounting, he was working at The Oregon Garden when the Gordon House arrived.

“My first encounter with a Frank Lloyd Wright house was a visit to Fallingwater, in Mill Run Pennsylvania,” Silberg said. “My mother and I were touring historic battle sites in the Virginia and Washington DC area and ended up close enough we decided to continue on and have a look. I was inspired and when they needed docents when the Gordon House was opening, I volunteered.

Eric Silberg, volunteer docent at The Gordon House since it opened to the public in 2002; photo by Jan Jackson

“Frank Lloyd Wright had such a long career and was such an interesting man, that the big problem is limiting the information to the 40-minute tour time frame. We just do the best we can.  Some who visit the house already are Frank Lloyd Wright fans and some are new to him. Visitors come from all over the world though most are from the Pacific Northwest. We also get architecture students from the University of Oregon, motorcoach and travel group tours and the house is available to rent for small private celebrations and corporate and association group meetings. I volunteer at least a couple of times a month or whenever they need me.”

Though hated by some and celebrated by others, Frank Lloyd Wright (1867 – 1959) was a genius ahead of his time both in his professional and personal life.  An American architect, interior designer, writer and educator, he was a leader in promoting an organic architectural concept that not only used local materials but also incorporated his designs into the landscape. Refusing to build houses with rooms that were boxes beside boxes within boxes, he designed and built houses as a unified whole that appeared to grow naturally from the earth. The Gordon House is one of his Usonian houses (an abbreviation of the United States of North America), which he designed to make affordable to the common American family. They had no attics, no basements, and minimalist ornamentation and were built with carports (Wright’s own term) instead of garages.

“Whether it is the Guggenheim Museum in New York City, Taliesin West near Phoenix Arizona or any of the 60 Usonian houses, Wright’s buildings are as unique as the man was himself,” Silberg said.  “To walk into the Frank Lloyd Wright Gordon House is an experience apart from walking into any other structure. It is a work of art and you feel that the minute you step inside.”

For more information an guided tour reservations, call 503-874-6006, email gordonhouse1957@frontier.com or visit www.thegordonhouse.org.

Jan Jackson - ©2011 – See Jan Jackson Bio

From mid-October through Memorial Day, floats are only hidden above the high tide line and below the beach embankment. Also, please be aware of beach safety – never turn your turn your back on the ocean – those sneaker waves and the force of the ocean moving logs can be unsafe.

What do you do when you find one? Well, they are signed and numbered you know -so call the Visitor and Convention Bureau at 800-452-2151 or 541-996-1274 and register your float and they will then send a Certificate of Authenticity and information about the artists who crafted it for you.

And, want an insiders tip? Bring a flashlight (yes, I’m talking about doing it in the day time) to shine back and forth on the sand as you walk along. Sometimes, when the light hits on a float it will create a flash of light – and – its yours.

How fun is that? Try it and you’ll see – smile.

Luv,

Sissy.

See related story at http://countrytraveleronline.com/2010/07/14/eight/

Woodcarving – Walking Fish – Saturday October 15 – 9 am to 12 noon – $10

Woodcarving – Christmas Moose – Saturday October 15 – 1 to 4 pm – $10

Goat Soap Making – Saturday October 15 – 9:30 am to 12 noon – $30

Woodspirits in Cottonwood Bark – Saturday & Sunday October 15 & 16 – 9 am to 5 pm – $100

Glass Fusing – Saturday October 15 through Saturday October 29, – $50 (just call and tell them when you want to come – 541-994-2427)

Shell Printing with Metallic watercolors – Sunday October 16, 1 to 4 pm -$35

Anatomy for Artists (6 day course) – October 17 through 22 – 9 am – $455

Homemade Spa Treatments (2 day course) – October 18 through 19 – 1 to 4 pm – $48

So you want to build a Guitar? (4 night course) – October 19 – 22, 6 to 9 pm – $375

Photography: Unraveling the Mystery (3 day course), Oct 20 through 22, Time TBA – $300

Belly Dancing with Ireta – October 21, 22 & 23, 11 am – $10

Italian Cooking Intensive – (5 day class) October 24 through 28 – 9 am – $500

Henna body Art – Friday October 28, 4 to 7 pm – $30

Introduction to Photography – October 28, 9 am to 4 pm – $50

Beginning Woodcarving – October 29, 9 am to 4 pm – $46

Sky Hunters: Live Raptor Education – Saturday, October 19, 1 – 4 pm – $20

You can find out more about these classes and learn about some that aren’t even listed here by calling 541-996-2119 or visiting http://www.oregoncoast.org/festivals-events/#fall-learning-feast

There you have it. Now, get over to the beach and have some learning fun at the Learning Feast – smile.

Luv

Sissy

My brother volunteered my nine-year-old nephew Andy’s services for the operation.

As a rule, my wife and I don’t accept much help with livestock. This isn’t for some misguided self-reliance issue. Rather, we know our animals and they know us, working with them is much easier when there are no strangers around. Newcomers—through no fault of their own—keep ending up where they’re not needed or can’t be found where they’re most needed.

Andy’s not a bad kid; however, to say that he’s active is something of an understatment. Nevertheless, we broke our rule and signed him up for lamb sale day.

On the big day, Andy was quivering with his need to help. We temporarily relegated him to the sidelines while we gathered skittish lambs.

Andy, standing only a few inches taller than my belly button, got frustrated with his inability to see the action. He climbed up the side of the stock trailer and perched on the roof for a better view.

One of the reasons we don’t allow outsiders to help work with livestock is sheep view themselves as prey. To them, a bored boy peering at them from the roof of a stock trailer looks a lot like a cougar—for them, an unsettling affair.

The lambs discovered Andy as they entered the trailer. He’d become excited and started drumming his feet on the metal roof—it sounded like rapid-fire thunder.

The worried lambs were startled by the sudden “BANGS and BOOMS” inside the trailer. They looked up and saw what appeared to be a lamb-eating monster ready to pounce from the roof.

The lambs leaped and bounced off each other and the trailer wall, then spurted out the door in all directions.

My wife was the first to recover. She ordered Andy off the roof and explained what happened and what she wanted him to do. Then she looked at me:

“Rolling your eyes and sighing isn’t helping,” she said pointedly.

After all parties recovered, we loaded the jumpy lambs without incident and headed off to the sheep buyer. We explained to Andy that he would, once again, need to keep himself occupied while we offloaded the livestock onto the scale.

Meanwhile, Andy was bored, again.

We were preoccupied with getting the weight from the scale when the sheep buyer spotted Andy climbing around on top of the stock trailer.

“There’s another lamb,” he pointed at Andy, “wanna throw him in with the load?”

My wife and I exchanged a deep, searching look—one that conveys volumes.

“Ya know, he’s about sixty pounds, just like the rest of the load,” my wife said.

“How’s he do eating grass, will he gain weight?” the sheep buyer asked.

“Not so well,” I admitted, “if you wouldn’t mind throwing him a few greasy cheeseburgers, we’ll use him to fill out the load.”

“Don’t think I can do that,” the sheep buyer said, “besides they’d dock me for his fleece.”

“Oh, well, maybe next time,” my wife and I sighed in unison.

We picked up our check from the sheep buyer and loaded Andy in the truck. On the way home, we bought him a milk shake and greasy cheeseburger—without incident.

Bing Bingham is a writer, rancher and storyteller. He’ll buy you lunch if you’ll quit crawling around on his trailer roof when he’s loading livestock. If you have a story to pass along, contact him at http://bingbingham.com/blog/

"Thank you Annie," said the pumpkin. "Be quiet and hold still," said Annie. Photo by Jan Jackson

… by painting on it instead of carving it. You can see in the picture, how happy Annie’s pumpkin is – as it smiles and tries to hold really still for her.

Here is what to do:

1. Pick a pumpkin that is smooth
2. Give it a gentle wash
3. Give it a thin spray coat of sealer or varnish
4. Get out your acrylic paints
5. Sketch the features you want it to have
6. Paint your sketch
7. Finish with another thin spray coat of sealer or varnish

Your pumpkin will thank you for bringing it to life – smile.

Luv,

Sissy

Pizza Facts from Bauman Farms; photo by Jan Jackson

… Did you know that pizza has been around since time immemorial – in fact, foods similar to pizza have been prepared since the Neolithic age (the latter part of the stone age when stone weapons and instruments prevailed). It used to be a dish of the poor people and was not considered recipe worthy.

Here is something out of the Aeneid from the Latin poet Virgil referring to the ancient idea of bread as an edible plate:

“When the poor fare drove them to set their teeth

into the thin discs, the rest being eaten, and to break

the fateful circles of bread boldly with hands and jaws,

not sparing the quartered cakes, lulus, jokingly,

said no more than: “Ha! Are we eating the tables too?”

Lets hear it for pizza in the good ole USA – smile.

Luv,

Sissy

Fall Harvest exhibit; photo courtesy of Lincoln City Visitors and Convention Bureau.

…you think it isn’t pumpkin time at the Jennifer Sears Glass Studio? There is a new “Fall Harvest” exhibit featuring pumpkins in glass. Opens October 1 and runs through December 31, 2011. I don’t think you ought to miss it.

Jennifer L. Sears Glass Studio

4821 SW Hwy 101

Lincoln City, OR

Wednesday through Sundays 10 am – 6 pm

For more information call 541-996-2569

Tell ‘em you learned it from Sissy –  smile.

Luv,

Sissy

Bauman Farms Pumpkin Patch; photo by Jan Jackson

Where do you shop for pumpkins? At the what? With all these wonderful pumpkin patches around where you can pick the perfect fresh, round and beautifulone? A trip to a pumpkin patch makes you want a pumpkin even if you didn’t want a pumpkin.

To quote the Oregon.Com website: “There’s no mistaking that harvest-time feeling. The brisk air, the warm apple cider and the sight of children climbing over large pumpkins in a field. There’s another Oregon tradition worth exploring this year – the corn maze. So grab a jacket and the kids and head for one of these locations. You’re sure to find plenty of family fun, food and even some warm apple cider.”  Keep an eye out for patches in your area or check out websites like http://www.oregon.com/oregon_corn_mazes .

Take a ride in the country and give yourself a pumpkin patch treat. Maybe this is the year to break that ‘pumpkin from the box-store habit’ – smile.

Luv,

Sissy

Heap high the farmer’s wintry hoard!

Heap high the golden corn!

No richer gift has autumn poured

From out her lavish horn!

Let other lands, exulting, glean

The apple from the pine,

The orange from its glossy green,

The cluster from the vine.

We better love the hardy gift

Our rugged vales bestow,

To cheer us when the storm shall drift

Our harvest-fields with snow.

Through vales of grass and meads of flowers

Our ploughs their furrows made,

While one the hills the sun and showers

Of changeful April played.

We dropped the seed o’er hill and plain

Beneath the sun of May,

And frightened from our sprouting grain

The robber crows away.

All through the long, bright days of June

Its leaves grew green and fair,

And waved in hot midsummer’s noon

Its soft and yellow hair.

And now, with autumn’s moonlit eves,

Its harvest-time has come,

We pluck away the frosted leaves,

And bear the treasure home.

There, richer than the fabled gift

Apollo showered of old,

Fair hands the broken grain shall sift,

And knead its meal of gold.

Let vapid idlers loll in silk

Around their costly board;

Give us the bowl of samp and milk,

By homespun beauty poured!

Where ‘er the wide old kitchen hearth

Sends up its smoky curls,

Who will not than the kindly earth

And bless our farmer girls?

Then shame on all the proud and vain

Whose folly laughs to scorn

The blessing of our hardy grain,

Our wealth of golden corn!

Let earth withhold her goodly root,

Let mildew blight the rye,

Give to the worm the orchard’s fruit,

The wheat-field to the fly;

But let the good old crop adorn

The hills our fathers trod;

Still let us, for His golden corn,

Send up our thanks to God!

Rusty Truck Brewing at Roadhouse 101, located at 4649 Highway 101 in Lincoln City; photo courtesy Rusty Truck Brewing

LINCOLN CITY, Ore – In 2005 when Salem attorney Brian Whitehead bought the old Kodiak Bar and Grill, he was looking for something fun to do with his family that would also be good for the people in Lincoln City. He immediately renamed the bar Roadhouse 101, added good food, live blues and classic rock & roll and five years later started adding a state-of-the-arts craft brewery.

Whitehead comes from a long line of bar owners.  His grandfather operated a bar in northern Wisconsin and his grandmother grew up in a speakeasy during prohibition and made bathtub gin. Whitehead chose a more conservative path for Rusty Truck Brewing. He waited to expand until the time was right and then hired experienced brewmaster Ron Hulka to help him plan and lay it out. Rusty Truck  Brewing  held its grand opening July 8 and 9, 2011.

The project also gave the talented brewmaster, who moved to Oregon after seeing a photo of the Three Sisters mountains in Central Oregon, a chance to begin living his dream.

Some of the Rusty Truck Brewing craft beers (double click to enlarge photo) available on tap at Roadhouse 101; photo courtesy of Rusty Truck Brewing.

“I was finishing my Liberal Arts Degree (in French and English) near Chicago, and when I saw that photo of those mountains, I knew I had to relocate,” Hulka said of his move west. “I ended up in Eugene where I was introduced to the wonderful Cascade Brewers Society folks and 12 years later I moved to Lincoln City. I could see the potential for a brewery here at the Roadhouse long before Brian was ready, but it has been worth the wait.”

Hulka, a self-described beer nerd who can’t separate himself from his beer making, said his love of beer makes him very particular about the ingredients he uses. He buys only from Northwest suppliers – some as close as Silverton and Hood River. His inspiration for recipes comes to him while walking his dog on the beach. Names for the finished brews like – Fender Bender Amber Ale, Back Seat Wheat, and Procrastination Stout – come from a committee of friends and employees from Roadhouse 101.

“Ron brews a clean, tidy, simple brew and for the first time our beer sales beat liquor sales,” said Mark  Huber, sales & distribution manager for Rusty Truck Brewing. “We place our beer in kegs in bars up and down the Oregon Coast.  You can find it at the Bay Haven in Newport, Fort Hill Tavern, the Old Oregon and Hebo Inn. Bars and restaurants featuring our beer in Salem include Orupa, Duffys Tavern and Jake’s Bar and Grill. I look forward to increased sales – our  beer sells itself.”

Ron Hulka, brewmaster for Rusty Truck Brewing in Lincoln City, Oregon; photo by Jan Jackson.

To Hulka, the joy is in creating the recipes, brewing the beer and caring for the beautiful stainless steel equipment.

“Awards are one thing, but I just want people to like my beer,” Hulka said. “I had a brewing teacher that said your beer is only as good as the last batch you make which is why the challenge never gets old for me. A mentor said, if you can turn a passion into a career, it’s as good as you can get and he was right.”

More information on Roadhouse 101 and Rusty Truck Brewing, call 541-921-3671 or visit http://www.roadhouse101.com/

Jan Jackson ©2011 – See Jan Jackson’s Bio

Going to Lincoln City? Checkout For Travelers

Chef Lee Gray aka The Wild Gourmet; photo by Jan Jackson

LINCOLN CITY, Ore. – After Chef Lee Gray was given the opportunity to manage the Wine 101 wine shop last November (2010), he asked for two weeks to think about it, got into his pickup and headed out on a regular run into the Coast Range to gather wild mushrooms.
As it started to snow, ideas of what he could do with Wine 101 suddenly began to flow.  When he returned to town, he accepted the offer.

Today, Wine 101is the place to taste and buy the best local wines, dine on fresh baked bread, appetizers, salads and gourmet dinners, discover local art and listen to and/or participate in live jazz, blues or folk music. Just a bit south of D River Wayside on the east side of Highway 101, it is the place to be Thursdays through Sundays year round.

Gourmet chef, artist and musician, Lee Gray stands by one of his sculptures on display at Wine 101 in Lincoln City; photo by Jan Jackson

Though Chef Gray ‘s grandmother started teaching him to cook at the age of 5, his cooking experience really began when he was 9 and started cooking in his parents restaurant.

“My folks owned a little restaurant near Sutter Creek, California, but since neither of them could cook very well, I could see that if they were going to make it they were going to need help, “ Chef Gray said.  “I would go to the restaurant and make the special before I went home to do my school work. My first big money making venture came about the same time.

“We were walking along the wooden planks in Sutter Creek, when I saw an advertisement for frog legs in the window of a fancy laced-curtained French restaurant. I knew how to catch frogs, so I went around to the back door and asked how much they paid and how many they needed. They paid a dollar a piece and they needed a gross. I said OK, and was shocked when I went home and looked up the fact that a gross was 144. As I caught them, I put them in the freezer and when I got enough I hitchhiked them the four miles back to Sutter Creek. I made $300 to $400 that summer – a lot of money for a 9-year-old kid. Soon after that we moved to Texas.”

Not long after his move to Texas, the still young Gray read a newspaper story about a mother and daughter who survived an airplane crash but starved to death because even though there was food all around them they didn’t know what they could and couldn’t eat. The story stayed in the young boys mind. He returned to California for college, stayed on and worked in the Beverly Hills restaurants and then followed his haunts about the importance of knowing how to live off the land.

“It was the winter of 1982 that I packed up my books, came to Oregon and moved into a cave to prove that you could easily live off the land,” Chef Gray said. “In 1988, I started the Wild Gourmet Catering Company. I still harvest sea weed, mushrooms, wild greens, crawdads, crabs and mussels to serve in the restaurant and for special catering occasions.”

Singer songwriter Lee Gray hosts fellow musicians four days a week at Wine 101; photo by Jan Jackson

Mornings find Chef Gray up early enjoying a cup of coffee and watching his ducks and chickens roaming around his garden wiping out his lettuces. After that, he sometimes paints, sculpts or practices the saxophone he finally learned to play at 36.

“I always wanted to play the sax but since I was the biggest kid in band, I always got stuck playing the tuba,” said Gray, who also performs regularly with bands both along the coast and in the Portland area. “One of the things that I love about Wine Shop 101 is that four days a week I can prepare everything from appetizers to full blown dinners, promote local artists work including my own, tend the wine bar and sing, play piano, guitar and sax in the music corner along with other musicians who are after the same experience. It’s a great place for me to be in Lincoln City.”

More information is available about Wine 101 and The Wild Gourmet by calling Wine 101 at 541-996-3010 or visit http://wildgourmet.org/

Jan Jackson ©2011 - Jan Jackson’s Bio

Boogie N' Bing

Boogie N’ Bing

A writer/rancher’s daybook

Looking into a rancher’s daybook, is like reading a diary that includes things like the arrival of migrating robins, a sign of the first wildflower in spring or the number of piglets a sow bore on a given type of feed.

When you look into writer, rancher and storyteller Bing Bingham and his stock dog Boogie’s daybook, the entries are packed with stories.

Bing tells about his pack rat sniffin’ Boogie (his obsession with them makes him a hit with his neighbors) and recounts his own sometimes crazy experiences in his continually shifting environment as a rancher, firefighter and near master of everything that comes up in Central Oregon’s high dessert country.

Find stories photos and more at http://bingbingham.com/blog/   

and don’t forget to read his Coffee Shop Moments at http://countrytraveleronline.com/category/stories/coffee/

There was a collective sigh of relief from Joie’s neighbors when her pig sold at the county fair’s 4H auction.

This pig looked no different from dozens of others at the fair. This one, however, had an identity crisis—she thought she was a cow.

Pigs are smart and Blaze was no exception. She’d stay one step ahead of Joie in figuring ways to get out of her pen. Then she’d head for the fields to be with the cattle.

This wasn’t a big deal around Joie’s household. There are plenty of fields and lots of cattle for a lonely pig to find a buddy. However, the neighbors were worried about Blaze being hit with a car when she crossed the road into the next pasture.

It wasn’t like Joie and her folks hadn’t tried to keep the pig in her pen. At one point, they brought in three people on horseback, two on ATV’s and a couple more on foot to help with their range pig round-up.

No luck.

Meanwhile, their neighbors would tiptoe up and down the road, heads swiveling, watching for Joie’s little rogue. Finally, it was getting close to fair time and Joie knew she had to corral her identity-challenged pig.

Joie took about a week and gently coaxed the pig from the field into her new escape-proof pen. Blaze, however, missed her cattle so badly that she refused to eat for three days.

Joie spent hours calming Blaze and enticing her with goodies. Blaze paced stubborn circles around the pen and staring at the wall in the direction of her cow-buddies.

Finally, the time came to load Blaze for the county fair.

The family backed the stock trailer up to the pen and stood by, ready to help if things got out of hand. Joie spoke gently to the pig. Completely out of character, Blaze sauntered over to the trailer and hopped in. The resounding crash of the slamming stock trailer door echoed off the rimrock.

After the former wandering pig was safely ensconced at the fairgrounds, it was time for the showmanship competition.

During the judging, Blaze trotted around the show ring looking for a friendly cow and Joie concentrated on staying alongside her lonesome pig. Joie kept her eyes locked on the judge and aimed both barrels of her smile at him. Meanwhile, she prayed the judge wouldn’t ask her to stop the pig from scooting between the other contestants.

He didn’t.

To Joie’s surprise, she won the Master Showmanship ribbon.

As the dust settled on the county fairgrounds, Joie bade goodbye to her mixed-up pig. She collected her check and her neighbors relaxed on their drive home.

As Joie drove away from the fairgrounds, she made plans for next year’s fair pig. She decided —in fairness to her neighbors—to contact them and make the necessary apologies. Part of that would include a promise to get a pig that knew it was a pig and spend more time in training and less chasing.

Smiling to herself, she decided part of the training would include teaching the new pig to look both ways before crossing the road—just in case it got out of the pen.

To this day, no one knows if Joie’s new pig ever needed his road crossing skills.

Bing Bingham is a writer, rancher and storyteller. Sometimes he’s smarter than a pig, sometimes not. If you’re interested in more stories, check http://bingbingham.com/blog/

You see, it used to be held right in the middle of Depoe Bay on that little strip of grass between the rock wall that the cars nose into and the ocean. Then it got too big for that space (too many people came to eat that delicious salmon), so they moved it to Fogurty  Creek State Park just north of Depoe Bay. That was pretty good until they decided to move it to Depoe Bay City Park just south of the Highway 101 Bridge.
During the day they will slow roast over 2,000 pounds of salmon on alder stakes placed over a fire (just as the native Americans did 2,000 years ago), and people will come from all over the state to eat it. The chamber has scheduled live music and Indian dancing, and they’ll be selling Depoe Bay Salmon Bake t-shirts and posters.

Advance tickets, on sale now at the Depoe Bay Chamber of Commerce, are $15 for adults and $9 for children 10 and younger. Advance tickets are on sale at the Depoe Bay Chamber of Commerce office, 223 SW Hwy 101, Suite “B”;  the What Not Shop, 411 SW Hwy 101;  The Spouting Horn Restaurant, Hwy 101 just south of Bay Street;  Pacific Brass & Copper Works, 20 Bay Street, just east of the traffic light; Fuddy Duddy Fudge, 112 N Hwy 101; Depoe Bay Liquor Store, Mall 101; and in Lincoln Beach, Big Mountain Coffee Company’s The Warehouse, 3940 North Hwy 101.

Admission at the gate is $17 for adults and $10 for children. For info, contact the Depoe Bay Chamber of Commerce, 541-765-2889 or toll free at 877-485-8348.

I do recommend it – smile.

Luv,

Sissy

“We particularly deem that henceforth and in all places in our cities and markets and in the countryside that to no beer may be applied and used more parts than barley, hops and water.”

The Bavarian Purity Law of 1516, enacted by Duke Wilhelm IV, is still in force today, making it the oldest consumer protection law in the world.

All the beers from Germany, sold at the Mount Angel Oktoberfest are still brewed in accordance with Das Bayrische Reinheitgebot (Bavarian Purity Law). No wonder these beers are of such superior quality.

So, there you have it. You might want to check it out for yourself just to see if my source really knows (don’t worry Jerry, I won’t mention any names).  Only 16 more days to Oktoberfest – September 15, 16, 17 & 18 in Mt. Angel, Oregon.

Luv,

Sissy

Don't forget how to do the chicken dance - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ybWlglVM5IY

… Well I can tell you about it because Jerry Lauzon (Mt. Angel’s Mr. Oktoberfest himself – smile) told me. Here is the story:

      The granddaddy of all the German Oktoberfests happened once upon a time when a crown prince married his princess. The place was Munich, a beautiful city along the Isar River. In 1810, Princess Therese was married to the Bavarian Crown Prince Ludwig. The festival began as a wedding celebration in a meadow adjacent to Munich. As part of the wedding entertainment, a horse race was staged for 40,000 enthusiasts from all over Bavaria. The purpose of the celebration was to give thanks to the Lord for the past years crops and other blessings and to share in the joy of the occasion with the spirit of love.

Such was the success of the party that after the wedding the meadow was named the Theresien-Wiese (meadow) in honor of the princess. Even today, the meadow retains its name and is kept as a large open clearing within the heart of a city grown far beyond it. Today, the festival comes alive at the noon opening when, as the clock of St. Peter’s Church in Munich strikes 12 noon, the Burgermeister (Mayor) enters one of the beer tents, taps the first cask and during a 12 canon salute quaffs the first stein.

The Munich Oktoberfest started almost through coincidence rather than through well planned organization. It seems that in years before, there were horse races and other types of fall harvest festivals in Munich. Due to hard times the races were discontinued, until a hackney-coachman, Franz Baumgartner remembered them. Franz, who was a sergeant in the National Guard suggested to his boss, Major Andre Dall’Armi, that in honor of the wedding the horse races be reinstated. The suggestion was met with the approval of Ludwig’s father King Maximillian I of Bavaria.

Horse racing squads and individuals from all over Bavaria participated. Great oxen were roasted on a spit, tons of sausages were grilled, and since the hops had been harvested, great quantities of beer were consumed to honor this event as well. There were all sorts of entertainment on the meadow because even then, Bavarians knew that good eating, drinking and lots of enjoyment kept body and soul together. At the final banquet a toast was made in honor of the bride, and the decision was made that a festival take place the following year to commemorate the event. The Munich Oktoberfest was born and quickly became a national tradition.

Other traditions were added to it; a spectacular opening parade, scores of brass bands all dressed in their lederhosen, and stout waitresses able to carry a half dozen liter beer steins in each hand.

A visitor to Munich’s Oktoberfest today will join thousands of merrymakers on the same 20-acre ’wies’n’. Swinging and swaying in tents seating 4,000 people each, they laugh, shout, sing and consume to make the Munich Oktoberfest the greatest festival in Europe. Needless to say the Prince and Princess – who later became the King and Queen – lived happily ever after.

Mount Angel’s great Oktoberfest is not nearly as large as Munich’s. You will find the huge bustling crowds and lots of merrymaking. In most other respects the Mount Angel Oktoberfest more closely resembles a German village festival. As in the smaller vil lages, you will find a group of enthusiastic citizens, who are all volunteers, making it happen. In fact, over 7,500 volunteers make Oktoberfest in Mount Angel happen.”

Thanks Jerry, we’re all smarter now.

See you ( September in Mt. Angel – September 15, 16, 17 & 18) smile.

Luv,

Sissy

Winchester Worm was happily gorging himself on matted turnip greens and lettuce leaves, when the bare fingers of a big surrounded him and the handful of friendly dirt he was tunneling through and lifted them up. The young worm was certain he was going to be abruptly squashed or plunked into a tin can to become fish bait. He thrust his head out of the dirt into the open air to get a glimpse of the threat and came eye to eye with a monstrous longhaired big, who shrieked, “Yuck!” and moving quickly away, threw Winchester and the dirt roughly to the ground.

Squirming as fast as he could back into the dark earth and quoting his grandpa Cyrus, Winchester grunted, “Worms get no respect!”

Winchester lived with his father Chester and mother Martha, in Mrs. Grafton’s flower garden just off the parking lot at Clatsop Memorial Park south of Astoria. A community of worms thrived among the flower and vegetable beds, rotting leaves and other debris at the edge of a stand of majestic fir trees propagating the sizable park. Picnic tables located in open spaces invited visiting bigs to relax and refresh themselves during their time at the famous attraction.

Winchester and his friends often found tasty bits of food tossed to the ground by careless picnickers. From time to time he wondered why the bigs never seemed to notice worms. When they did, their reaction was usually insulting.

“How come bigs humiliate us like that… saying ‘yuck’ and ‘slimy,’ when they touch us?” Winchester asked his grandpa awhile later.

Grandpa laughed and said, “Shows you’re smart.” Then, responding to the perplexed look on Winchester’s face, he explained, “You have to know you’re being humiliated to be humiliated.”

“None of the worms I know ever feel humiliated. No matter what bigs say about them, they just keep eating dirt. How come? Why don’t they rebel?”

“You opened a can of worms with that one.”

Winchester squinted.

“Well listen!” Gee Pa said, “Most worms don’t have the brains to understand the ways of the world.”

“Ways of the world… what’s that?”

“Winchester, there’s complicated life beyond this garden… wonders beyond imagination. Keep learning and you’ll see.”

“Why don’t they teach us wonders in worm school?

“They don’t know… the simpletons just know to keep burrowing through life… eating dirt.

“Yeah… they do, don’t they?” Winchester said brightly.

“… Mechanically following an ancient and eternal compulsion…” Gee Pa continued.

“Compulsion?” Winchester said. Giving Gee Pa a perplexed look he continued, “How come you’re always using new, fancy words?”

Gee Pa ignored Winchester’s question. “…Incessantly gobbling up organic debris, digesting it and leaving behind castings… the makings of rich humus and flourishing gardens.”

“Wow, Gee Pa… all those big words… How’d you learn what they mean?”

“I’m a bookworm! And remember, you’re gonna be a bookworm too. Big words are in the leaves… keep going through those leaves… reading them and you’ll know, too.”

“I promise.”

“Good!” Gee Pa snorted emphatically.

“Bigs get all the good out of us worms making the ground fertile… That’s not fair, Gee Pa! Winchester declared.

“Who said life was fair? It’s a worms’ calling… It’s our destiny. Worms slave all their lives without question or complaining.”

“I think we should start complaining,” Winchester said setting his jaw,  “Or quit digging,” he continued, “… that would teach bigs to respect us, wouldn’t it?”

Gee Pa laughed, “Go on strike, you mean?” He laughed louder nuzzling Winchester. “Organize ourselves into a worm union… that would do it… an army of worms marching across the clod field holding up signs, ‘worms of the world, unite!’” he laughed again.

“Why not, Gee Pa?

“Winchester… it’d be just us two marching… well, maybe a couple more. The rest will just keep eating dirt… you can bet on that.”

“It’s worth a try…” Winchester said hopefully.

“Winchester… Save your wiggles… Not only are worms slaves to dirt a good bit the time, but a lot of time our lives are cut short by a heavy foot or the professional eye and quick beak of a red-chested robin.”

“Yeah, I don’t like robins,” Winchester said emphatically. “They scare me.”

“Well, you ought to be… The best thing to do to avoid Robins is to stay out of sight… a robin spots you…you’re a goner. I stay out of their way and you better too.”

“How come you’re so smart, Gee Pa?”

“Can’t be sure Winchester, but I think it’s because ever since I was knee high to a lady bug, I paid attention… like I’m helping you do. You know, our brains are bigger than the other worms… yours and mine.”

“Yeah, I see that… but none of them seem to notice,” Winchester opined. “Is that why you’ve lived so long… cause you’re smart?

“Yeah, that’s why…  but being smart isn’t fool proof. We worms still have plenty to worry about. Bigs are careless… always stepping on us. Just yesterday, Grandson Squiggle was crushed by a big foot coming down on him.”

“Does that make you sad?”

“Yes Winchester… sad… for Squiggle. He was aware like us. But the rest don’t seem to know any better.”

“They don’t know when they’re being squashed?” Winchester asked a bit confused.  “How can that be?”

“They know something is happening, sure… But they don’t know what it means… It’s just their bodies reacting to whatever. Funny thing, their brains don’t care one way or the other. You and I are different. We’re aware. We want to live. We’ve managed to survive by using our heads and paying attention.

“I pay attention.”

“Good worm… that’ll go a long way to keeping you alive. You been doing your reading… reading the leaves?

“Reading is hard, Gee Pa.”

“It’ll get easier the more you do it, Winchester… Going through book leaves you can figure out ways to survive in this hostile world.”

“Like robins? They like to eat worms. A while ago I saw one pulling Nick Night Crawler and stretching him until he was as thin as a silk thread.”

“Yeah, robins. They are the worst… They hunt for us during dew time in early morning. ‘Those early birds get us worms,’ my mother used to say. So stay underground in the tunnels until the dew in gone. Robins look for us when it rains, too. Rain fills our digging tunnels, forces us to go above ground to keep from drowning.”
“I have to learn a lot about bigs’ feet and rain and robins. Is that it Gee Pa?”

“Yeah, and Night Crawler hunters. They’re bigs that come out at night with flashlights looking for night crawlers… better not to be a night crawler, if you can help it.”

“I’ll be okay, if I just stay in the ground digging tunnels like all the rest…” Winchester said dejectedly, “That’s no fun!”

Gee Pa chuckled. “You’re not always safe there either… You need to know … Bigs dig in the ground with hard things…. cut you in two just like that.”

“That scares me, Gee Pa.”

“No need to be scared… Being scared won’t change anything. Just accept it. We’re worms and we do what we have to do.

“I see what you mean Gee Pa… We get no respect… That’s what it is, isn’t it, Gee Pa?”

“Yeah, I’m telling you… ‘We get no respect’ and if that weren’t enough, they use us for fish bait.”

I don’t get it, Gee Pa. It isn’t fair. I don’t understand why bigs treat us the way they do. We don’t hurt them. Well, we’re a little slimy, maybe… but we’re quiet. We mind our own business and keep out of sight most of the time….

“And we aerate the soil…” Gee Pa added.

“Yeah!” Winchester yelled in agreement.

Gee Pa continued, “… And through our digestion process we turn rotting vegetation and other dead stuff into humus…”

Winchester gave Gee Pa a surprised look and asked, “Is that what we do?

“Think about it … our single-minded dedication to tunneling through the ground gobbling up debris and turning it into humus goes a long way toward keeping bigs alive… keeping them supplied with food.”

“We do? Why?”

“I’ll bet you didn’t know that, when we enter a patch of untouched dirt and work it over, it ends up being a whole lot more fertile than it was before we worked our magic….”

“Wow!”

“Instead of treating us like dirt, they ought to build a monument dedicated to worms…  well, at least a statue in every community park… you know… like bigs do with bigs and horses and bears and other creatures they admire.”
“It ought to be of you, Gee Pa.”

“Awe, it’ll never happen… Most worms have never given their fate a thought. Come to think of it, all the worms I know don’t give much thought to anything. Let’s face it! They aren’t very smart. They’ve never bothered, even for a moment, to pause from their industry of transforming waste into nutritious soil and look around them and think.

“Gee Pa, you sure do know a lot about stuff.”

“Winchester, I’ve been a worm all my life and that’s a long time for a worm. I’ve seen several worm generations come and go. And I know more than most worms. Though I’ve never talked with a big, I understand them. That’s why I can tell you with certainty that we worms get no respect.”

Chapter 2

Cocky Robin danced among the branches of the coast oak tree gracing one of the shaded roads of Clatsop Memorial Park. Life for Cocky and his friends was about as good as it gets. Of course, they had to be alert for predators. Most natural predators of robins feed on robin eggs and since Cocky and his friends were grown robins, they didn’t have to worry about foxes and bobcats sucking the life out of them even before they hatched. On the other hand they did have to keep an eye out for other enemies like hawks, shrikes, owls, crows and blue jays. But several defense courses offered in Small Bird School taught them how to minimize those dangers.

Colonies of worms living in the park worked the soft ample soil of the tillable acreage throughout the park, and Cocky and his friends, Strut and Swagger, gorged themselves on worms whenever they felt slightest hunger pang.

Older robins breakfasted their fill of worms in the early morning before the dew evaporated or just after sunset, when the ground became cool and moist. Cocky and his buddies were too lazy to get up for sunrise. Most days, well after the sun was up, they fluttered to the ground looking for worms. And most of the time they had no problem eating their fill. It only took a couple of scratches with a vigorous claw to unearth a patch of helpless worms. Then, a quick peck with a beak, a back-away pull, a snap, head back, beak in the air, a gulp and at least half a worm went down the hatch into a waiting gullet to be ground into life sustaining protein.

In addition to a diet of worms, Cocky and friends were able to feast off the bits of chicken – Swagger’s favorite), and other droppings left on the ground and tables by picnicking bigs. The pesky robins took sport in pestering tourists for bigger chunks of food. The three robins learned that screeching worked to elicit tosses of food from tiny bigs, but only annoyed grownups.

To please the older bigs Cocky and his friends worked up a robin dance. For the past three months they had spent an hour a day rehearsing a three-bird hippity-hop dance. The trio formed a line, touched wings and hopped up and down to the distant rhythms sounding in the forest.  Cocky heard one big ask if what they were doing was ‘river dancing.’ Cocky wondered why the big called it river dancing. It didn’t look anything like a river to him.

Lately, they added a hilarious wing fluttering leapfrog acrobatic routine….  Strut led the way running and hopping a few steps toward the park lodge where he abruptly stopped and crouched low. Swagger followed running the twelve steps to Strut, where he leaped into the air sailing over Strut, landing the ground smoothly easing into a feather filled somersault. Swagger remained low waiting for Cocky to dive over Strut, do a somersault… several steps… a dive over Swagger… a somersault and a wait for Strut and Swagger to dive over him. And so the serpentine continued until the nearby bigs were thoroughly entertained. The entertainers learned that other bigs would soon gather to watch the bird show. Of course, the antics of the bird trio caused bigs of all ages to toss generous bits of food in their direction.

Cocky liked the bounty supplied by tourists during the spring, summer and fall, but bigs didn’t come to the park during the rainy winter months. Worms were available year around and he still liked worms best. Yes, worms were his favorite.

Chapter 3

Early one spring morning Cocky Robin awakened before the old robins. Strut and Swagger were still roosting. Later that morning Cocky and his buddies intended to spend some time imitating eagles and Cocky wanted to have plenty of energy.

“If the others see us trying to imitate eagles, they’ll laugh,” Swagger had said yesterday when Strut suggested the idea.

“We can flit over beyond L and C River and do it… that way our friends won’t see us,” Cocky said.

“Good!” Strut said, “I hate it when they laugh at us.”

“You gotta admit… robins pretending to be eagles are funny,” Cocky retorted

That was yesterday. Soon Cocky and his friends would head east to engage in their outlandish imitations. But breakfast first. He stretched his wings and yawned before fluttering to the ground next to a flowerbed. Crawling among the leaves were several delicious looking worms. Cocky hopped into place. The dull worms didn’t seem to be aware of their impending fate. Regardless, it was too late… Peck pull, peck pull, peck pull and they were gone

Hop, hop, hopping between a pair of dahlias, Cocky encountered a small piece of chicken tossed aside by a yesterday’s picnicking big. Cocky was surprised that it was still there. Gangs of birds hoping to feast on dropped food always hover around picnickers and linger for leftovers when the bigs have gone.  Cocky gobbled down an overlooked morsel and strolled on looking for more.

Yesterday’s picnickers had been sloppy leaving behind several Styrofoam cups and a clear plastic plate resting on the ground among the flowers. One of Cocky’s feet caught the edge of the plate. His weight caused the opposite side of the plate spring up hitting him in the beak. The action startled him. He hopped back. The plate fell back to the ground.  For a fraction of a second light reflected off the shinny surface of the plate showing the image of a robin.  Cocky was curious. He hopped to the plate again, but avoided stepping on its edge. Instead, he stuck his neck out over the plate, cocked his head to look at his image reflected off its surface. He could see his reflection but he could also see the ground beneath the plate.

Beneath the plate laid a juicy worm staring helplessly at him… a look of terror in its eyes.

Chapter 4

Winchester found himself crawling along a spacious tunnel just beneath the ground surface in the flowerbed and summer garden Mrs. Grafton planted and tended every year. The dirt felt moist and cool… just right for easy digging and debris feasting. Winchester liked summers. There was just enough rain to keep the ground soft and pliable but not enough to flood the worm’s habitat. Still, the unpredictable, cloudy Oregon skies could open up and douse everything with a sudden downpour. Winchester decided to break through the surface to see what the weather was like.

When he surfaced, he didn’t get a chance to notice the weather. Instead, he came eye to eye with a fat robin standing just above him looking directly down at him. A cold chill shot through his long body. He had exposed himself to certain death. All the robin had to do was extend its neck down a little, grab Winchester in his beak… gulp and it was over. Winchester was sure he’d made a fatal mistake. There wasn’t time to retreat. He closed his eyes and waited for the fatal peck.

Gee Pa’s warning flashed across his mind, “Stay below in early morning is the warning and out of sight when it’s nearly night.

Winchester heard a strange sound… “Click, click, click.” He was surprised that he hadn’t already been picked up and swallowed. He wiggled to get under a nearby clod. He didn’t know how, but maybe he could make it underground and into a tunnel to escape the robin’s beak.

“Click… click… click,” sounded the rapid succession.

Winchester knew he should be wiggling for all he was worth to get deep into the soil but he turned to see why the Robin’s deadly blows hadn’t reached him. It wasn’t for lack of trying that robin’s beak hadn’t hit home. Winchester lay as if hypnotized watching the robin’s strikes. They were aimed right at him, but an inch or so from his head they stopped abruptly, making the click sound. Something invisible was between Winchester and the robin preventing the persistent bird from striking home.

Chapter 5

Cocky Robin renewed his efforts to snare the vulnerable worm beneath him. Each peck hitting the barrier sent a mini-strike through his head. He paused, cocked a frustrated eye for a closer look. Then to himself he said, “Hey what is this? You some kind-of-super worm?” He didn’t expect the shield to say anything… and certainly not the worm… but he heard a tiny voice coming from the worm.

“Why are you trying to eat me?” Winchester asked. He could have used his unexpected safety for time to dig into the ground out of reach of the robin, but the protection gave him a chance to learn something about malicious robins. “I’ve never done anything to you!” Winchester yelled at the top of his tiny lungs.

Cocky looked surprised that the worm could talk. Not only could it talk but also the helpless worm was defiantly looking him in the eye. Cocky raised his head to face the sun and laughed at the absurdity of a worm challenging a robin. “Why do I eat worms… are you kidding?” he asked. “I’ve always eaten worms… like every other robin and I’ll eat you when you let down your guard… What is this anyway?” he asked attempting once more to snatch the wily worm… click, click. Again, the invisible barrier protecting Winchester thwarted him.

Winchester didn’t know why the robin couldn’t reach him either, but he wasn’t going to let the robin know. “You ever hear of a worm helmet?” Winchester asked

“Worm helmet? That’s absurd,” Cocky laughed

“Don’t laugh… it’s like a worm shield… only different… smaller.”

“Worm shield… Get serious,” Cocky scoffed.

“A worm shield can go on a long way… a worm helmet works a little way,” Winchester bluffed gaining courage.

“I never heard of worm shields or worm helmets,” Cocky sneered. “How’d that happen… when’d you get… where’d you get your…” He paused feeling silly. “Worm helmet?” he concluded.

“Grandpa Cyrus made it for me,” Winchester fudged

“Nah!” Cocky responded.

“Yeah, and he’s making more… and he’s making a worm shield. Soon all worms will have a worm helmet or be able to hide behind Gee Pa’s worm shield.”

“Hey, that’s no good, what will we do for food?”

“Did you ever try eating dirt?”

“Eating dirt! You kidding?”

“How about mud pie? Mud pies are a staple for worms… tasty and very nourishing.”

“Mud pie… yuck!”

“Or maybe clod cake… Putrid pudding is my favorite.”

“You’re making me sick.”

“Now that you mention it, you don’t look so well. You feeling alright?”

“I was until I met you this morning… Now my jaw hurts and I feel a bit queasy.”

“It’s you diet! I can tell you that.”

“My diet? What’s wrong with a worm diet?”

“Well it’s not healthy for worms, I can tell you that… so what makes you think it’s healthy for robins?”

“Ha… robins have lived on worms forever.”

“Did you ever stop to think how much healthier robins would be if they became vegetarian? You ever see an eagle?”

“Yeah, I’ve seen eagles… my buddies and I play eagle…” catching himself, added, “… sometimes.”

“I’ll bet that eagles are vegetarians. And look how big and strong eagles get. You’d like to grow as big and strong as an eagle, wouldn’t you?

“What’s vegetarian?

“A vegetarian robin wouldn’t eat carrion or raw meat or worms even.”

“What would we eat?”

“Hey, bigs are always throwing good stuff away. Look, I’ve seen robins eat doughnuts bigs have thrown away. Don’t you like doughnuts?

“Yeah, I like doughnuts… But I can’t stay alive on doughnuts.”

“How about raisins soaked in water? I could help you with that.”

“Raisins? Yeah, I like raisins and they’d have to be soaked in water. You’d do that for me?”

“Worms deal with water all the time. That’s easy.”
“But raisins and doughnuts. I’d get tired of that stuff in a hurry.

“Yeah, I guess… How about suet and suet mixtures…”

“Suet’s good…”

“… Say peanut butter mixtures and peanut hearts?”

“Now you’re talking… add some cut up currents and strawberries…”

“… How about Bing cherries?”

“Being a cherry? Cocky quizzed.

“Yeah, Bings. They’re the best.”

“I don’t want to be a cherry … I just want to eat ‘em.”

Winchester rolled his eyes, “You don’t have to be a cherry… just eat ‘em… that’s all.”

“Oh, yeah,” Cocky said catching on, “you know where strawberries and cherries grow, don’t you? And I’ll want pecan meats, slices of pears and maybe some cottage cheese…”

“Hey, bigs drop or throw away that stuff all the time,” Winchester added happy the big bird seemed to be taking his bait. He hastily added,  “And they’re always dropping pieces of American cheese and cooked spaghetti…”

“It’d have to be plain spaghetti… I don’t like that stuff they put in it.”

“Okay plain spaghetti and white bread and even cornbread. We’ll have you feeling better and looking like an eagle in no time.”

“You really think being a vegetarian will make me grow… like an eagle?”

“It’s worth a try… you got nothing to lose and think about it, if you don’t, you can go back to your diet of worms and maybe even eat me… If you did though, you’d loose a friend…  think about that.”

“Friends…” Cocky said hopping back a step. “I didn’t know worms could think… you’ve given me a lot to think about and a new view of worms… he stepped forward for another look at Winchester. In doing so he stepped on the edge of the plastic plate causing the opposite side to flip up and smack him in the beak.

“Whoe… wait a minute. You throwing your worm helmet at me?” He stepped back again causing the plate to roll away, this time leaving Winchester exposed.

“What’s this?” Cocky said realizing what had happened. “You’re worm helmet’s gone, huh?”

Winchester gulped, “Yeah, I guess it is… but we’re friends now, aren’t we?”

“Some friend. You lied to me.”

“I didn’t lie… I didn’t know what was happening either.”

“But you lied… you lied about robins growing into eagles, didn’t you?”

“I just did a little inventing… you’d have done the same thing, if you were a worm, wouldn’t you?”

“Yeah, but I’m not a worm?” Cocky snarled scratching the dirt near Winchester causing a clod to land on the worm’s middle.

The blow knocked the little wind out of Winchester. “Ow!” he managed to cry knowing that any second Corky would snatch him up and gobble him down.  “But I am a just a worm…” he said, “a little worm who wants to be friends with a big robin.”

“I never heard of such a thing…”

“Oh… the robin and the worm-man should be friends,” Winchester sang at the top of his tiny lungs.

“What you talkin’? … a worm singing… come on… that’s nonsense!”

“We been talking like friends haven’t we?”

“I don’t know…”

“Can’t we be friends?”

“I don’t know…” Cocky repeated hopping a couple of steps away from Winchester so he could think. This was all newness for him. He’d never thought of worms other than… well, just being food. Yet, here was a worm, who could talk robin … a worm who seemed to understand him… and still wanted to be his friend. And… can you believe it? … A worm smart enough to figure out a way for them to be friends. Cocky swiveled his head around to see if other robins were watching… or worms for that matter. He felt foolish talking with a worm… but he was and it felt good somehow. “Maybe,” he thought, “Maybe Winchester and I can be friends.” He liked the sound of Winchester. “It’s powerful… a name an eagle might choose for himself.” He eyed Winchester once more almost surprised the small worm hadn’t tried to escape into the ground.  There was no reason why he shouldn’t become a vegetarian robin. He liked all the foods Winchester mentioned. They would sustain him and, who knows, might even help him grow to be as big as an eagle… maybe. “Winchester,” he finally said looking at the worm

“You can call me Chester,” the frightened worm said relieved that he had not yet been gobbled up.

“I’m Cocky,” the changed robin said.

“You may be cocky, but you’re unique. I’ll bet you’re the only robin in Clatsop Memorial Park who’s brave enough to befriend a worm.

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Cocky said feeling a little foolish. “If I’m the only one… means you’re still hunted by robins…. Means you better skedaddle… before my buddies show up.”

“Thanks Cocky… means Grandpa Cyrus and all my friends are safe from you, too … that’s right, isn’t it?”

“From me, I guess…

“Cocky… you’re an eagle!” Winchester gushed.

Cocky laughed.

“Well, you are to me,” Winchester flattered.

“Awe,” Cocky said hanging his head, “No one’s ever called me an eagle before.”

“You’re an eagle to me…” Winchester said boldly. He paused. It occurred to him that Cocky would surely soon discover that he would never be an eagle… And when he did there’d be the cost of deception pay. Cocky would likely abandon his vegetarian diet… and… Winchester decided to cover himself… “But you don’t have to be an eagle to be special, you know… You’re special enough as you are… Look at that breast… warm, reddish-orange. Eagles don’t have red-orange breasts… red-orange is friendly…”

Cocky arched his neck to have a look.

“And look at those attractive, gray-black wings… Bet eagles would die to have wings like that,” Winchester oozed.

Cocky gave Winchester a suspicious look.

“And those kind eyes…” Winchester flattered, “Eagles have a fierce stare… frightening.”

“Like this?” Cocky said turning his head and coming close to Winchester.

“Handsome, Cocky Robin. You’re down right handsome the way you are… Cocky Robin… that’s enough.”

“You think?” Cocky said mulling Winchester’s words.

“To me it’s enough!

Cocky strutted in a circle around Winchester. Winchester watched him closely.

Cocky stopped. “I can become a vegetarian… but how about the other robins?” he said. “Worm is all they know?”

“Wow, that’s hard,” Winchester said hanging his head, “One unguarded moment and you’ve lost a friend.”

Cocky tilted his head back and forth eying the little worm. “I’ll try to help you with that,” he said.

“Your authoritarian stance. You’ve got that,” Winchester encouraged.

“Huh? What’s that?” Cocky said giving Winchester a quizzical look.

“Lifting your beak and standing tall like you do sometimes. That’ll bring the other robins around,” Winchester urged.

Cocky stretched his legs and his neck to his full height, “You’re right,” he said, there’s no reason all the robins in Clatsop Memorial Park shouldn’t become vegetarians.

“Good idea… Now you’re talking. You’re not only handsome… you’re smart,”

Winchester enthused.

Cocky looked at his shadow on the ground and hopping a few steps away said, “I’m off to play eagle, now…  when my friends get here. I’ll start working on Swagger and Strut bright and early tomorrow morning.

“The early bird,” Winchester mumbled.

Cocky stopped, “Early bird… hmmmm,” Cocky said, “That has a certain ring to it…. Better not remind me.”

Winchester gulped, “I was just calling attention to your industriousness… that’s all I meant…”

“Better keep those loaded words to yourself,” Cocky responded and added, “Better keep out of sight until I get the others trained.

“Thanks Cocky.”

“Yea, I guess. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon after I’ve made a food run on the berry patches… you better get underground. My buddies will be here any second.”

“Yeah, thanks … You’re a real friend.”

Chapter 6

During the days that followed, Cocky made vegetarians out of the birds who flocked together in and around Clatsop Memorial Park. And so it was worms and robins of the park became friends. The earthworm population of Clatsop Memorial Park thrived as never before. Winchester organized the worms into work crews… The grateful worms tirelessly tilled the soil under berry plants of all sorts into rich humus. There were clusters of blueberries, strawberries and huckleberries… all the foods necessary for vegetarian robins to thrive without resorting to a diet of earthworms to survive.

And the worms kept Mrs. Grafton’s garden loaded with the finest loam to be found anywhere. In return the stern lady protected her worm population. Like a jealous mother hen she’d shake her stick at any fishermen ready to plunge a sharp shovel into the rich soil looking for earthworms. She’d say, “Don’t you dare!” and that was it.

Among Winchester’s worm and robin friends the consensus was that Cocky seemed to be looking more and more like an eagle everyday

“Look at those thighs,” Swagger said, “like Rusty Eagle’s… wouldn’t you say?”

Cocky dismissed the idea saying that being a robin was enough.

Winchester was a worm hero at Clatsop Memorial Park… even to those who’d never before thought beyond devouring the next clod or being devoured.

Gee Pa Cyrus Worm summed it up, “Thanks to you Winchester, worms are finally getting some respect.”

R. Russell Pike © See M. Russell Pike’s Bio

A guided U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service tour of the Siletz Bay National Wildlife Refuge; photo courtesy of U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service..

The Siletz Bay National Wildlife Refuge, located on either side of Highway 101 a few miles south of Lincoln City, is a restored tidal marsh that protects the salt and  brackish marshes, tidal sloughs, mudflats and coniferous and deciduous forestland. Established in 1991, it serves as habitat for migrating shorebirds and a myriad of other wildlife and as nursery grounds for Coho and Chinook salmon, steelhead and cutthroat trout. Though the land is closed to public entry, its tide sensitive waterways are not. There-in lies the pleasure for nature loving canoe and kayak enthusiasts and young U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service (USFWS) career women like Lindsay Raber.

_{“In the early 1900s, farmers had the land drained and diked so they could use it as pastureland for dairy cows,” said Raber, one of the environmental education  interns for the U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service who teaches  educational programs about shorebirds and the Siletz Bay National Wildlife Refuge. “But, it was expensive to keep the pastureland diked and on top of that it continued to flood, so farmers donated and/or sold the land to USFWS.”} 

Relaxing in the still waterways of the Siletz Bay National Wildlife Refuge; photo courtesy U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service.

_{In 2003, This involved breaching 220 feet of dike, removing two dikes totaling 9,300 feet, filling 1,200 feet of artificial ditches and placing large woody debris in the marsh to improve habitat for anadromous fish. The project was completed through a partnership between the USFWS, Ducks Unlimited and the Confederated Tribes of the Siletz Indians. Today, red-tailed hawks, bald eagles and other raptors are back roosting at the top of snags and a variety of estuarine dependant birds including the great blue heron, great egret and many species of waterfowl can be seen foraging in the tidally influenced waters.}

         _{Lindsay, who was born and raised in Arizona, discovered her love of the outdoors early in life. She attended Northern Arizona University in Flagstaff, where she earned a degree in Parks and Recreation Management with an emphasis on outdoor education.  She interned in Boulder Colo., with the Thorne Ecological Institute and then worked in Big Bear Calif., at outdoor science camp. Before becoming the Wildlife Education Coordinator for USFWS, she worked an interpreter at the Vista House in the Columbia Gorge and then worked at Willamalane Park and Recreation District in Springfield as an afterschool program coordinator.}

Lindsay Raber, Siletz Bay Wildlife Refuge environmental educational intern for U. S. Fish & Wildlife Service; photo by Jan Jackson

         _{“Since January 2011, I’ve worked with fourth and fifth grade students throughout Lincoln and Coos Counties – both in the classroom, at Bandon Marsh National Wildlife Refuge and here at the Yaquina Bay Estuary,” Lindsay said. “We teach them about how important it is to protect the plants and wildlife and how to keep these habitats safe and litter free for all that call the areas home.  In a time when many of these kids are glued to their computers and video games, seeing the transformation that comes when they reconnect with nature is rewarding to me.}

_{“However, I also love leading small groups of adults and families on educational trips through the waterways in canoes and kayaks. Once we enter the refuge area, we alternate between stopping to talk about the refuge, the wildlife, the restoration project, the natural history of the area and the importance of estuarine habitat before paddling ahead in personal exploration. It is so beautiful in there – the sounds of the highway even disappears.”}

_{Though at present the  National Wildlife Refuge canoe trip season runs from June through September and the remaining tours are full, anyone may rent or launch their own boats from the Siletz Moorage and experience the beauty on their own. For more information on the Siletz Bay National Wildlife Refuge  and other Oregon Coast National Wildlife Refuges, visit http://www.fws.gov/oregoncoast/}

- Jan Jackson ©2011 – See Jan’s Bio

_{Going to LIncoln City? Check out For Travelers}

The beginning of the undersea mural on the outside walls of the Driftwood Library in LIncoln City, Oregon; photo by Jan Jackson

… or at least that’s what it looks like while standing in the city hall parking lot. Teams of Let There Be Arts kids (15 at a time for five mornings – local kids as well as kids from as far away as Arizona and Maryland). They gathered for painting instructions every morning (starting Monday August 1), donned paint shirts, picked up paints and brushes and headed for the two outside walls at the entrance to the covered parking lot underneath the Driftwood Public Library and City Hall. By Friday, they had the walls looking like undersea gardens.

You can see it driving by on Highway 101 (801 SW Highway 101 to be exact). If you can spare a minute or two, park and take a closer look. You won’t see any two fish alike – in fact, you won’t see any two things alike.

Going south on 101? Eyes right. Going north on 101? Eyes left. It is a beautiful thing – even if they wouldn’t let me paint. It had something to do about not having opposable thumbs.  Didn’t quite get it.

Luv,

Sissy

http://www.lettherebearts.com/programs/arts-in-schools

From David Alexander's 1,000 Places To See Before You Die Traveler's Journal; photo by Jan Jackson.

… listed in the 1,000 Places to See Before You Die Traveler’s Life List have you explored? And, if you have the 1,000 places life list, do you have the companion traveler’s journal that goes with it?

Patricia Schultz, who first published the book in 2003 (and there is an updated one out now), itemizes some hot spots along the 362 mile Oregon shoreline, the Shakespearean Festival in Ashland, the Lewis and Clark’s Trail through the Columbia Gorge, Crater Lake National Park and wine country in the Willamette Valley.

Since the book came out, David Alexander (a native Oregonian now living in Maryland), has carried his copy of 1,000 Places with him both in the US and abroad. Now, he also carries his matching journal.  His latest entry:

Oregon Shakespeare Festival, July 31, 2011

We had a long drive on Saturday from Eden, UT to Lakeview, OR and then we had to get up early on Sunday because Ashland is another 3 hours from Lakeview and we had tickets for a 10 am backstage tour. We make it for the tour and it was fun to hear about some of the details about how the backstage people (a wardrobe person gave our tour) do their jobs. I started Mark Antony’s funeral oration for Caesar as I walked across the stage of the Elizabethan Theater, but I stopped as I stepped down again and we got to go in and tour the Angus Bowmer even though it hadn’t reopened after a roof beam had cracked. We ate at the Greenleaf Inn, shopped a little, drank some Lithia water, rested and then went to the Preface for Love’s Labours’s Lost, which didn’t have its Power Point because the whole town was without electricity for an hour or two. Fortunately, it came back on before our shows at 8:30. LLL is not beloved by companies and audiences because most of the humor is dry and intellectual  (I terrified my family by showing them a DVD of a Globe Theater production which wasn’t funny at all), but a good company can find a way to make anything by the Bard brilliant. OSF did just that. The appearance by the Muscovites was especially hilarious.

Maybe its time you got started on your list?

Luv,

Sissy

Tough and intelligent but an unwanted house guest; photo by Ken Cole - USGS.

As a much younger man, the time I spent in a billiards parlor while skipping school wasn’t wasted.

My wife and I had been brawling with a packrat. He had his heart set on living in our kitchen cupboards. We felt that might not be the best place. The argument had involved all manner of traps, baits and trickery. We were holding him at bay, but the fact he was still alive attested to his being tough and intelligent—to date, the contest was a draw.

One day, my wife was at a sheep show with friends for a long weekend. After fixing dinner that evening, I tottered off to bed, anxious for some rest. Everything was fine until the middle of the night.

“CLINK….CLANK…..CLUNK,” came the sounds from the kitchen where nothing was supposed to be moving.

I sat up in bed and made unkind comments about packrat genetics.

“Maybe if I ignore him, he’ll go away,” I thought, then rolled over to go back to sleep.

“CLANG…BANG…RUSTLE, RUSTLE,” came the ruckus from the kitchen.

“Awwwwww, for crying out loud,” aren’t the exact words I used, but the spirit is there.

Once again, I flopped my head back on my pillow. Sleep had become a grim contest of wills. A half hour later, just as I was dozing off:

“BANG…BONK…RATTLE,” went the packrat, happily trashing my kitchen.

“OK, I’ve had it,” I muttered.

I stomped out of the bedroom and flipped on the kitchen lights. Then I made sure the lights in the adjacent dining room were out. Heading to the porch, I grabbed my trusty .22 caliber rifle and returned to the dining room. There, I reversed a wooden chair and plunked myself down—using the back to rest my arms and rifle.

I had created a makeshift sniper post.  The kitchen counter was well lit where the packrat was running back and forth. I sat quietly twenty feet away in the dark—rifle ready.

I knew I might not get much sleep that night, but it wouldn’t be because a packrat was driving me crazy. I quietly waited….5…10…15 minutes.

“Clink,” the packrat popped up in the corner and looked around.

Unable to see me, he must have felt safe and ran the entire length of the counter—too fast for a clean shot. Over the next hour, he skittered back and forth in a fast dash. The only time he’d pause was in places where I couldn’t shoot.

The packrat was getting braver and more confident. Finally, out in the open, he paused. It was a perfect shot, except for one minor thing:

Directly behind the rat was our near-new microwave/convection oven. If I took the shot—I could tell by the angle—the bullet would enter, and probably ruin, the appliance.

The rat stayed still.

Slowly and c-a-r-e-f-u-l-l-y, I leaned way out to the left from my perch in the dining room. When I judged the angle had changed sufficiently that the bullet would travel through the rat, riccochet off the microwave and disappear into the wall—I smiled and did the deed.

Quickly, I grabbed the dead rat and deposited him in the burn barrel. Then I cleaned the kitchen, double checking the microwave with its nice, new dent—it worked just fine.

Just for the record, my wife was thrilled that I got the rat while she was gone. But, it’s not easy getting a hug of appreciation while she’s rolling her eyes and shaking her head in disbelief at the rest of the story.

I just smiled and thought about all the times I tried to convince my mother that playing billiards while skipping school wasn’t a waste of time.

Bing Bingham ©2011 - Bing Bingham is a writer, rancher and former school skipper. The microwave in question worked for many years after that. If you have a story about a packrat war, contact him at bing@bingbingham.com.

Sissy picking out some fascinating recipes; photo by Jan Jackson

… Think about it.  It is 1804, and you are going on a little trip that could last awhile (in this case two years, four months and nine days). Since no one had gone before you, you had no real idea what you were going to be eating. Callie Smith talks about this very trip in a little book called Lewis & Clark, Adventures in Cookery, Bear Wallow Books, Publishers, Inc.

Callie says, “Imagine setting off with a keelboat and two canoes loaded with flour, salt, dried meat, tea coffee, whiskey and a few other provisions, not knowing what was around the next river bend.”

We found our copy of this book at the Butteville store a few weeks ago and it is a fun read. I’m telling you, if you want to give a dinner party your friends will remember, try some of these recipes.

Fried Squirrel

Squirrel, Flour

Grease, Salt Nutmeg

Clean and skin squirrel. Cut meat into small pieces and dredge in flour. Sprinkle with salt and nutmeg. Fry in hot grease until brown.

Beaver Tail

Beaver tail

Salt

Blister the tail with direct heat. Let cool and peal off skin. Roast or simmer tail until tender and salt to taste. Beaver tail serves as fine seasoning for a pot of beans.

Now if those tasties won’t get you through the wilderness, nothing will. Actually, if you want to find a copy of the book (and others like it) – check out http://www.bearwallowbooks.com/ and, just remember, you heard it here – smile.

Luv,

Sissy

Big Dog driving his SUV in the Butteville Store parking lot; photo by Jan Jackson

… There we were, pulling into the historic Butteville Store parking strip and lo and behold, parked along side was handsome Big Dog driving an SUV (or at least he was sitting in the drivers seat). Couldn’t figure out what his heritage was and he wasn’t talking – come to find out his owners didn’t know either – but they talked.

He was a rescue dog, about 14 years old and since he has the head of a St. Bernard they think he is a St. Bernard mix. But, since he has no color, they think he might be an albino St. Bernard mix. But, since he also looks a lot like a Great Pyrenees guard dog, they think he might be an albino St. Bernard/Great Pyrenees mix.

While the owners were inside the store enjoying a chilled glass of Chablis and a sandwich, Big Dog decided he belonged in the drivers seat – it is a better view you know. They were surprised, because he had never done it before.

Me? I love that kind of moxie.

Go Big Dog!  Go!

Luv,

Sissy

http://www.champoeg.org/attractions/historic-butteville-store.html

Cattle drive in Alvord Desert south of Steens Mountain (Harney County); photo by Marvin Kellar

… are still riding the range in some parts of Oregon and wildlife photographer Marvin Kellar (while searching for yet another illusive native wildflower) got held up by this one.

Historically, the big Oregon cattle drives occurred between 1875 and 1884, when as many as 100,000 head of Oregon cattle assembled around Baker (now called Baker City). Some 40 or so cowboys with a remuda of several hundred cow ponies would then drive them overland to Montana and Wyoming. (So, are you looking up the word remuda?)

Good luck finding your own cattle drive but when you do, have a good book with you. The going will be slow and you will need to entertain yourself while you wait – smile.

Luv,

Sissy

Jennifer L. Sears Glass Art Studio in LIncoln City, Oregon; photo by Jan Jackson

LINCOLN CITY, Ore. - It was October 1979 when Jennifer Sears got the idea that became the Jennifer Sears Glass Art Studio that for more than six years has been helping to fuel the tourism economy in Lincoln City. The idea to make glass blowing available to the average person took 26 years from the day she walked the wooded path to watch a glass blower near historic Jamestown, Virginia to the February 2005 opening of the glass blowing studio that bears her name. Jennifer died of cancer in March 2005, but she lived long enough to see her dream become a reality.

The Jennifer L. Sears Glass Art Studio offers free glassblowing demonstrations to the public, and for a fee, teaches anyone who wishes how to blow their own glass float or paperweight. Their art objects are ready for them to take home at noon the following day. It didn’t take long for the word to spread.

Darlene Chambers, Albany, Oregon, blows her own glass float at the Jennifer L. Sears Glass Art Studio; photo by Jan Jackson

“Because Jennifer’s venture was such a new idea, I was afraid no one would come when we opened,” said studio artist and manager Kelly Howard. “But by the second week, people started coming in saying that their friend had blown a glass float here and they wanted to do it too. Now we have people coming to Lincoln City from all over the United States for the sole purpose of being abled to blow their own glass. In the summer months we are so busy they have to take a number.”

Putting the studio together involved the whole of Lincoln City. It meant selecting and remodeling a suitable site, shopping for, buying and installing the state-of-the-art equipment and interviewing and hiring artists who could manage and teach glass blowing.

The studio, located in the historic Liftin Motors building at 4821 SW Highway 101, was chosen not only for its location but for its two large overhead doors on the north end of the building that make a perfect place for overflow visitors to view the glass blowing operation. The south end now holds a gallery that showcases local artists’ work and includes a small area dedicated to visitor information.

Jennifer Sears (1956-2005) with then Lincoln City Mayor Lori Hollingsworth during a promotional party held May 2004, at the Glass Art Studio; photo by Jan Jackson

Jennifer, a native Oregonian whose family was involved in the tourism industry, joined the U.S. Army as a journalist photographer hoping for an opportunity to travel. After four years stuck at Fort Sill Oklahoma, she came home, completed college and went to work traveling the world as an escort for Jan Jackson Travel.

Jennifer worked seven years in motorcoach tour operations, spent 10 years in National Group Sales for the corporate office of Shilo Inns and for three years was on the staff of Washington County Visitors and Convention Bureau. She became executive director of the Lincoln City Visitor and Convention Bureau in 2000.

Jennifer never doubted the positive effect the studio would have on tourism in Lincoln City. She would not have been at all surprised that 20,000 people came through the door the first year of operation or by the nearly 100,000 a year that come now. She would not even have raised an eyebrow over the statistics that show 40% of the people say that it was the Glass Studio that brought them to Lincoln City and 25% stayed more nights than expected.

As the number of visitors who come to Lincoln City for the sole purpose of blowing their own glass float continue to rise and major publications like the Wall Street Journal continue to give it free editorial press (more than a quarter million dollars in the first three months of 2011), tourists looking for the glass blowing experience keep pouring in.

Lincoln City can be proud of having an attraction that makes it a town like no other.

Find out more at: www.jennifersearsglassart.com

Jan Jackson ©2011 – See Jan Jackson’s Bio

Going to Lincoln City? Check out For Travelers

Butteville Store in continuous operation since 1863; photo by Jan Jackson

…  and – if you can imagine – they’ve been doing it continuously for almost 150 years. Fur trapping French Canadians, Indians, farmers and riverboat passengers all shopped there.

The store, located just a short distance from the Willamette River, has been in continuous operation since 1863. Today, a bike path connects the Champoeg State Heritage Area with the Butteville Store and if you don’t think those bikers go for their home made pie and ice cream, just think again.

They also have a great selection of Oregon history and nature books, unique locally made gifts items and food that includes sandwiches, desserts, wines, a selection of French Prairie grown and produced agriculture products and more. You can eat inside or outside.

Today, the Historic Butteville Store is open between May and October. It is an Oregon State Heritage Site operated by the Friends of Historic Champoeg. Proceeds benefit educational and interpretive programs at the Park.

It is located on Butteville Road between Portland and Salem. After you go once, you’ll go back and bring friends.

So, I say check it out at www.buttevillestore.com.

Luv,

Sissy

Chicken Dance photo courtesy of Mt. Angel Oktoberfest

… This funny dance is based on an Easter theme. It simulates the birth of the chick and the emergence of new life. It is the “official” dance of Oktoberfest.

The motions begin with the chick pecking away at the inside of its shell seeking freedom. As the shell is broken away, the newly hatched chick vigorously exercises its wings and shakes out its tail feathers. Free at last, the chick dances about in dizzying circles.

Mt. Angel Oktoberfest is coming sooner than you think (September 15, 16, 17 & 18, 2011). If you want a shot at being the Chicken Dance Champion, you better start working on it now.

Need to see it in action? http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ybWlglVM5IY

Hop to it – smile.

Luv,

Sissy

Draft horses Central Oregon style; photo by D"Bing" Bingham

Ross had decided this was the year his horses, Nip and Tuck, would learn to work as a team and pull a load together.

Norwegian Fjord Horses were bred in Norway as a dual-purpose draft and saddle animal. They aren’t as tall as the more commonly known draft horses, but they have a reputation for hard work no matter what they’re doing.

Ross and his wife were wintering on a ranch deep in the high desert. The snow was belly deep on a tall cow.

First, he put each horse in a single harness and practiced walking behind him rather than riding. As they became more comfortable with this new style of work, Ross connected their harnesses and put them through their paces as a team in a corral. Soon Nip and Tuck graduated to working together in larger circles outside the corral.

Training horses equals repetition—over and over. Ross was walking many miles behind his horses and professional cowboys, like him, are more comfortable riding a horse than, just about, anything else.

He built a wooden platform, called a stone boat, with skids that are used to haul large rocks out of farm fields. Then, he cobbled together a tall seat so he could see over the horses’ rumps.

“I admit the stone boat was a little top heavy,” he smiles.

When training draft horses, the first time they are hooked to a load is always an interesting moment. Even the most skilled horse trainer doesn’t know how a horse will react to feeling a heavy load behind him.

On the big day, Ross’ wife was holding Nip and Tuck while he hooked his brand new team to the stone boat. Neither of the horses had ever had anything like this happen to them before.

Ross spoke gently to the horses and, as usual, they started forward—until their harness lines came tight against the stone boat.

Panicked, they took off at a dead run with Ross and the stone boat streaming along behind like a pair of underwear on a windy clothesline.

To regain control, Ross circled the horses. Each time they turned around the circle, the stone boat would skitter sideways across the snow like a water skier in a tight corner.

Ross hung on—Nip and Tuck kept running at full speed.

“I was beginning to get a little worried,” Ross admits.

Nip and Tuck were strong and in good shape. Ross wasn’t sure who would wear out first, him or the horses. Each time they came around the circle, the stone boat would clear away more snow and they began to dig into the frozen dirt.

When the stone boat hit a patch of dirt, it would lean crazily toward the outside of the circle. Ross compensated by leaning to the inside, like a sailor tacking in a sailboat, to keep it from turning over.

Fortunately, not long afterwards, Nip and Tuck exhausted themselves and stopped. Slowly, gently, he let the horses catch their breath.

“I wasn’t sure who was more tired, me or them,” he says.

Most times, training working horses is best done with a series of patiently repeated commands. Other times, it’s an exciting contest of who will wear out whom.

Nip and Tuck have worked as a team with Ross for many years.

Bing Bingham is a writer, rancher and storyteller. If you have a story to pass along, contact him at www.bing@bingbingham.com.

See Bing Bingham’s Bio

Multnomah Falls Lodge in the fall; photo courtesy Multnomah Falls Lodge

MULTNOMAH FALLS, Ore. – While camped near Multnomah Falls during the Lewis and Clark Expedition of 1805-1806, Meriwether Lewis wrote about seeing streams falling from great heights becoming perfect mist collecting on the rocks below. Today, more than 200 years later, visitors from all over the world are still admiring these falls. However, an added subject of admiration today is the Multnomah Falls Lodge.

Dedicated in 1915 to preserve the beautiful spot, lumber baron and philanthropist Simon Benson donated the land for Multnomah Falls Park to the state. A short time later, the Washington Railroad and Navigation Company (forerunner of the Union Pacific Railroad) donated the property for the City of Portland to build the Lodge, which was completed in 1925. In 1939, the City of Portland transferred the operation to the US Forest Service, which contracts with Multnomah Falls Company to host the approximately 2.5 million people who visit each year.

Still Portland's playground, visitors enjoy a day in the sun at Multnomah Falls; photo by Jan Jackson

“My job is to carry on the tradition that started when the lodge was built,” said Rick Buck, president of Multnomah Falls Company. “There used to be a railway station and ticket office here and in the summer, folks from Portland would ride out on benches placed on flatbed railway cars, spend the day and take the same train back. Today, it is still Portland’s playground but the train service is long gone and visitors come in cars, motorhomes, buses and bikes.”

The lodge, started out as a seasonal place where visitors could have something to eat and hikers, who didn’t mind the cramped quarters of the five small rooms, could stay overnight.  Since 1952, the rooms and the dormitory on the top floor that once housed women employees, are now used for staff offices and storage. Only open in the summer and shuttered entirely during World War II when gas was rationed, the property didn’t become a year-round destination until 1977 when they hired Harold Buck.

“Dad had been in sales and hospitality at Crater Lake National Park prior to coming here in 1977,” Rick said. “He was and still is an innovative person with great leadership skills and when they gave him the go-ahead to take it from seasonal to year-round, he did just that. Some days there were one or two people but he kept it open. Dad will always be the figurehead who loves to put in his two-cents worth, but he is great to work with.”

Many of the people who go to Multnomah Falls to eat, enjoy the fact that although new specials are always being added to the menu, but old favorites are still offered.  The sunlit Falls Dining Room that replaced the outdoor patio, gives diners a choice between eating while they watch the falls or eating in the fireplace room in the original section of the lodge. While the old ways are honored and protected, visitors can stay up-to-date by joining the Multnomah Falls Lodge’s 8,000-plus-email club.

“We are constantly upgrading – building more bike racks, stocking our gift shop with as many locally produced items as possible, trying to keep  a good mix of local area-wide books – while keeping an eye at all times on customer service,” Rick said.

“It is a wonderful place.  I get up in the morning and go to work and by afternoon I’m pinching myself to make sure I’m really able to work here. It’s challenging and fun and I try never to take it for granted.”

More information is available at www.multnomahfallslodge.com

-Jan Jackson ©2011 – See Jan Jackson’s Bio

Sand castle builders of all ages work to build the perfect entry during the 2010 Siletz Bay Sand Castle Contest; photo courtesy of Alex Ward.

LINCOLN CITY, OR. – For the low low price of a few cans of food, the 34^th Annual Siletz Bay Sand Castle Contest is one of the best deals around. Always a place for the family, the event is one of the historic Taft areas best. On sand castle day the sand from the rocks to the ocean along 51st Street becomes a palette for party-loving residents and visitors alike and the food that goes to the food pantry helps feed local hungry families.

“This thing is a lot of fun for everyone from the Bay Area Merchants Association who put it on to the individuals and families that build the sand castles,” Alex Ward, president of BAMA said. “In addition to the fun, it helps us help our community. The food (and cash) that is donated is directed either to the backpack program for hungry kids at school or adds food on the shelves at our community food pantry. It is a way for everyone to have a lot of fun and do a lot of good at the same time.”

Sand castle builders have about four hours to work on their entry before it is judges; photo courtesy Alex Ward.

The sand castle building contest, which is by necessity planned around a negative tide, starts at a different time each year. Participants have about four hours to complete their entries before a panel of judges selects the winners.

There are themes for sculptors who like to work by theme and open categories for those who do not. This years themes include the Best Mermaid, sponsored by Eleanor’s Undertow; Best Chowder Head, sponsored by Mo’s; Best Tiki, sponsored by Tiki; and Best Traditional Sand Castle, sponsored by Siletz Bay Lodge. First and second prizes are awarded for both themed and open categories.

The official rules for the August 13, 2011 contest are as follows:

• Registration this year starts at noon at the  dock on 51st  Street.
• All participants must register at the sign-up table on the day of the event.
• There is a fee of one can or more of food or cash) per entrant, which will be donated to the Lincoln City Food Bank.
• Number received upon registration must be displayed by your entry at all times.

• If your number is not visible, your entry will not be judged.
• Age group teams must enter in the age category of the oldest team member.
  

  As much fun as building sand castles is washing off in Siletz Bay; photo courtesy Alex Ward.

• Choice of sand sculpture is up to you. Keep in mind this is a fun family-oriented event. We ask that your creations be done in respect of this tradition.
• Entries must be built using only sand, water, shells and other natural beach materials found on the beach that day. Hand tools and forms of any sort may be used in the construction process but in no way may support the final sculpture.
• NO POWER TOOLS ARE ALLOWED.
• Young children may receive limited advice from adults, however adults must refrain from telling the child what to do and physically assisting in any manner.
• If you desire, you may all enter the Family/Group Category
• Judging will take place during the afternoon. Stay with your creation until all judging is completed.
• Prizes will be awarded in the afternoon on the dock when each category has been judged. YOU MUST BE PRESENT TO WIN!
• Report all emergencies to the registration table.

“Other than the 4th of July, this is the biggest event we have in the south bay area,” Ward said. “It also shows that our sand is perfect for a fun day any day. You can find out more on our website, (http://www.taftbeach.com/official_rules.html), but remember, all you have to do is show up.”

-Jan Jackson ©2011 – See Jan Jackson

Going to Lincoln City? Check out For Travelers

When you salvage it, paint it and plant in the garden, you can call it art; photo by Jan Jackson

… Doesn’t look like there is much tread left on the tires, but the paint job is hot. This bicycle sits in a flowerbed at Heirloom Roses, located between Newberg and St. Paul.

So, my gift to you is an idea on how you can beautify your yard and make more room in your garage at the same time.

Find some old thing you haven’t had the heart to get rid of. Then give it a new coat of paint, stick it in your flowerbed and call it art. I’ve seen it done with all kinds of old things – bed frames and headboards, funky pieces of machinery, mismatched pottery dishes – you name it.

Then when your friends say, “Oh my. What is that?” You say, “Oh, that’s art.”

As far as planting a bicycle in the middle of a flowerbed goes, it is the best use of a bicycle I’ve ever seen – smile.

Luv,

Sissy

See story of the Heirloom Rose Garden at http://countrytraveleronline.com/2011/03/09/heirloom-rose-garden-is-one-of-a-kind/

Beautiful young hazelnut orchard planted with grain. Seen in the French Prairie area; photo by Jan Jackson.

… between the rows of hazelnut trees? Well why ever not!!!

Hazelnut trees (you might still be calling them filberts) are a common sight in the Willamette Valley because we grow so many of them. In fact,  99% of the hazelnuts in the United States come from the Willamette Valley (only 5% of the world’s though – Turkey is the world leader). In fact, it is because the world calls them hazelnuts that Oregon quit calling them filberts  and started calling them hazelnuts too. You see, it makes doing International business easier when everyone is calling the little nut the same thing.

When you look at a mature hazelnut orchard, you notice a clean floor underneath the trees. They shake the tree when they harvest them and vacuum the nuts off the ground. But, it takes six or seven years for the tree to start producing so planting something harvestable between the rows seems pretty smart – a lot of work – but pretty smart.

According to the Oregon Hazelnut Marketing Board, a manuscript found in China, from the year 2838 B.C., the filbert (hazelnut) took its place among the five sacred nourishments God bestowed on human beings. It was also used as a medicine and a tonic.

I see people eating them in cookies and by the handful – especially if they’ve been dipped in chocolate. Oh yum.

Look for the orchards along the freeways and highways throughout the valley. They are beautiful.

Luv,

Sissy

Donkeys at work guarding sheep on Butteville Rd; photo by Jan Jackson

… guarding away in a field of sheep off Butteville Road just east of Champoeg State Heritage area. Why do donkeys make good protectors? Take a look at the list:

1. Donkeys strongly bond to the animals they are protecting.
2. Donkeys are territorial.
3. Donkeys don’t like dogs, coyotes and other four footed animals intruding in their territory.

So, how do they protect their charges?

1. Donkeys have extremely hard hooves, and can be amazingly accurate in placing them – on the ground or in the air.
2. Donkeys have incredibly strong necks, jaws and teeth capable of lifting, crunching and flinging objects of 50 to 100 pounds.
3. Donkeys are clever enough to make their predator think they are retreating when the truth is they are positioning themselves to  deliver their projectile missiles (back feet) in the most effective way.

There is a sweet story of a sheep grower who thought she didn’t like donkeys but learned she did. Her story is But I Don’t Want a Guard Donkey and you can read it at (http://www.icelandicsheepworld.com/guarddonkeys.htm). Another set of Agri-Facts from Alberta Canada, explains how they work at http://www.icelandicsheepworld.com/guarddonkeys.htm .

The sweetly sings part of this story, is what they do when a predatory is near. You know, hee haw, hee haw, hee haw, hee haw hee haw – smile.

Luv,

Sissy

«

The newest Hand Crafted Oregon Coast Brewery to open July 8 and 9, at Roadhouse 101 in LIncoln City.

… with things like Marion berry beer? Gotta check it out.

The newest Hand Crafted Oregon Coast Brewery has it’s GRAND OPENING on July 8th & 9th. Rusty Truck Brewing Company started brewing in April 2011 and they’re ready for a big celebration! If you don’t want to miss the party, be there July 8 & 9.  If you can’t make it that weekend, you can always find it – located right behind Roadhouse 101 in Lincoln City.

A safety OK from the ODA, a shellfish license and a common screwdriver and you are ready to harvest your own wild mussels on the beach in Lincoln City; photo by Jan Jackson.

… Hold the phone!

I just talked to the famous Wild Gourmet (Chef Lee Gray), about harvesting and preparing wild mussels (see the June 28 post I called Muscling wild mussels…) . Here is what he says:

Yes – call the ODA shellfish hotline and make sure the area you want to harvest in is a safe one – 1-800-448-2474

No – don’t remove the beard – leave it on because it makes a great handle to use when you are ready to pick them up (seems smart to me too – now that I think of it).

The best way to steam them is in a ½ cup of white wine (now that seems smart to me too – smile).

You can find Chef Gray at in the Wine 101 Shop in Lincoln City (on the east side of Highway 101 just south of D River Wayside) on Thursdays11:00 AM to 8:00 PM, Fridays 11:00 AM to 8:00 PM, Saturdays 11:00 AM to 8:00 and Sundays 2 PM to 6 PM.

Just walk right up and ask him about mussels. I dare you – smile.

Luv,

Sissy

Kayak the bay, the river or the Siletz National Wildlife Refuge; photo courtesy of Siletz Moorage.

… did you know that anyone can do it? Well, I’m sure there are some regulations to renting a kayak like age and size and stuff, but it is open to the public.

Though these kayaks are always great for calm days on the Siletz River and the Bay, the most fun comes from exploring the waterways that weave in and out of the Siletz Bay National Wildlife Refuge. The refuge itself is not open to the public but the waterways are.

Also, check the tides.  When the tide is out, the refuge waterways are mud – so, the only time you can do it is high tide. It is a great place to see wildlife like otters, seals, elk, deer and various species of birds. It is just a cool thing to do.

Some things to take along? Well of course a camera, binoculars and sun screen (or rain gear – smile). Actually, if you call (541-996-3671) and talk to Larry or Belinda Ellis at Siletz Bay Moorage, they can tell you exactly what you do or do not need.

My sad story is, they don’t rent kayaks to travelin’ green iguanas, so you are going to have to go in my place.  Siletz Moorage located on the lower Siletz River just off Hwy 101, one mile south of Lincoln City, Oregon. More information on the refuge is available at http://www.fws.gov/oregoncoast/

Wouldn’t you would think they would rent to a travelin’ green iguana…? Alas.

Luv,

Sissy

Judging by a sign in the bathroom at the trivia-filled Historic Anchor Inn in Lincoln City, you can't dance just anywhere; photo by Jan Jackson

… can be found in a cool book called Weird, Wacky and Wild Oregon Trivia, written by Mark Thorburn and Lisa Wojna and published by Blue Bike Books.

It has good stuff in it like:

“According to the 2000 census, an average of 35.6 people lived in every square mile of land in Oregon in 2000 compared to the national average of 79.6 people per square mile. The most densely populated country in Oregon in Multnomah County, with 1517.6 residents per square mile. The least densely populated was Harney County, with less than one resident per square mile.”

Now, tell me. Did you know all that?

Maybe you need the book for your next party? You can find out more at www.bluebikebooks.com.

Just remember, you learned about this book right here – smile.

Luv,

Sissy

Chef Lee Gray harvests wild mussels at the west end of 15th Street in Lincoln City; photo by Jan Jackson

…Do you like shellfish? How about mussels? Did you know you can drive down to the beach at the west end of 15^th Street in  Lincoln City and harvest your own? But, let me back up a little bit.

1. First call the Oregon Department of Ag’s hotline to make sure it is OK to harvest them where you want to harvest them and that there are no health advisories out (for your safety, ODA constantly collects and tests them for toxins). The number to call is 1-800-448-2474.
2. Buy a shellfish license – available in any sporting goods store, Bi-Mart etc. The cost is about $7 for ages 14 and older; younger children don’t need one.
3. Bring a sturdy screwdriver or something similar to help you pry them off the rocks because they have to be harvested by hand.
4. Have a bucket handy that is big enough to hold your 72-mussel per-person limit.
5. Check the tide book to make sure you can work without being washed out to sea.

How to prepare wild mussels for cooking:

Scrub with a stiff brush to remove any barnacles, sand or grit. Remove their beard  by cutting it away with a sharp knife or giving it a forceful tug.  Rinse several times but do not let the mussels sit in water because fresh water kills them and you want them alive when you steam them. Once thoroughly cleaned, remove and discard any shells that are open or broken and any shells that do not close when tapped.

Mussels only need to be steamed in a small amount of liquid; discard any that do not open up during cooking.  They are now ready for your favorite recipe – smile.

Bon  appetit.

Love, Sissy

Thanks to hardworking volunteers, the Western Bluebird is making a comeback; photo courtesy of www.prescottbluebird.com

Thanks to volunteers bent on saving them, bluebirds are making a comeback. And, when I say bluebirds, I’m not talking about the large, noisy blue and gray bird we call the scrub jay, I’m talking about the small adorable Western Bluebird. Here’s the story.

Western Bluebirds don’t nest in cities and rarely nest in suburban development, because they need lots of open space with short grass that makes it easy for them to catch insects on the ground. In the past, they built their nests in holes in snags, dead and dying trees and wooden fence posts and as residential development and large-scale agriculture replaced the family farm, those places dimished.

Today, the Prescott Bluebird Recovery Project volunteer builds, erects and monitors bluebird nest boxes in Washington, Yamhill, Marion, Clackamas and Multnomah counties.

You can watch a video on them or even see them live at Champoeg State Heritage Area (www.champoeg.org) or learn how to get involved at http://www.prescottbluebird.com/

Ah, the bluebird of happiness is on its way back.

Luv,

Sissy

Recycle dock at the Historic Anchor Inn in Lincoln City, Oregon; photo by Jan Jackson.

… To be a part of the Greening of Lincoln City program and thereby earn the right to display the coveted Sea Star, lodging establishments, restaurants and other businesses strive to become more sustainable. It was a hoot to see one of the ways hotelier/restaurateur Kip Ward is doing it.

Kip’s latest funky addition to the Historic Anchor Inn, is an old boat he has added shelves to and turned into a recycle dock.  Why not!  It makes it easy for everyone to remember to do it.

You gotta keep an eye out for Sea Stars like the one the Historic Anchor Inn has erned the right to display over their front door.

Let me know if you see others I ought to know about – and Kip, that recycle dock floats my boat – smile.

Luv,

Sissy

Black tailed deer hiding in the grasses in Pacific City; photo by Jan Jackson

…If you think this is just a picture of blooming foxglove in a patch of weeds, look again at the set of velvety antlers (mid photo one-third of the way in from the left).

One of the beauties of Pacific City is that it is nestled where the woods meet the ocean. Houses blend in artfully with the surroundings and so do the deer.

Pacific City, which is famous for it’s surf-launched dory fishing, is located 2.8 miles from U.S. Route 101. Home of Cape Kiwanda State Natural Area, its shops, restaurants and beaches make it a favorite place for tourists. It is also a great place for this little black-tailed deer hiding in the grass. Well, he thinks he’s hidden anyway. We know better – smile.

Luv,

Sissy

Raider whoops it up along the banks of the Rogue River.

The Bears, roaming the coastal mountains spanning the Wild Rogue Wilderness Area, had grown accustomed to the roar of the jet boats churning up and down their precious river. But, it was annoying that the numbers of the pesky things bringing loads of bigs (humans) up and down river, were increasing.

More worrisome in recent years, was the invasion of bigs hiking the remote trails that transverse the Rogue River-Siskiyou National Forest. Bob’s Garden Trail, where it cut across the bear’s habitat and joined a dirt road that led to Bob’s Garden Mountain and beyond, was especially troublesome.

Nevertheless, the friendly, wooded slopes along Watson, Full and East creeks, remained a comfortable home to Edgar and Connie Bear, their family and the community of black bears living in this secluded area of Oregon. There was a time when the bears shared the wilderness with Rogue River Indians… but the arrival of Canadian trappers from Hudson Bay and other white men who followed, had long ago assimilated the natives.

Coal and Ebony, Edgar and Connie’s adventuresome cubs, were no longer afraid of the sound of approaching jet boats. For them the floating logs loaded with bigs were curiosities. Nevertheless,  they knew to scamper out of the nimble boat’s path and onto Rogue’s south bank to avoid being hit.

At first, Ebony was more timid than Coal. When a jet boat approached she always dashed onto the bank as fast as she could and disappeared into the thick undergrowth crowding the dense forested, mountainous slopes. Coal on the other hand, occasionally performed one or two of his dance routines for appreciative spectators. Once he made a threatening dash toward a boatload of tourists. Several of the delicate, longhaired bigs screamed and grabbed each other. Since that day, he used increasingly bolder antics to arouse fear in the vulnerable spectators.

Recently though, Ebony was growing brave enough to join Coal in his risky pranks. One day she climbed a madrone tree spanning the width of a narrow stretch of river and then dangled from a sturdy branch over the approaching jet boat loaded with captive bigs. When the boat drew near, she pumped her weight up and down so it appeared that she might fall into the boat. She and brother Coal grunted with delight when they heard the terrified screams.

Connie Bear worried that her mischievous cubs would be hit by a boat, or that their antics would anger the bigs and cause them to bring fire-spitting sticks to put a stop to the young bears’ pranks. She tried to enlist Edgar’s support in her attempts to curb the cubs’ dangerous play, but he simply grunted and said that the cubs’ tricks didn’t really bother the adventuring bigs… rather they made their trips more fun.

“Cubs will be cubs,” he said.

“And, you’ll see, trouble begets trouble,” Connie concluded.

Chapter 2

Famous Highway 101 is the main artery passing through the small Oregon coastal town of Gold Beach. Chilly winds constantly sweep the beach and most of the year force inhabitants of the tourist town to bundle up even on the sunniest of summer days.

Gold Beach High School sits on the west side of 101 near the center of town. The school’s parking lot is always full…These days most students own or have access to an automobile. It was true of John Valley who owned and maintained an old Ford 150 pickup. He and his is best friend, Russ Sparks, used the pickup to ferret from one adventurous project to another. They did everything together.

Saturdays, they could be found beach combing through piles of weathered driftwood scattered on the beach stretching two miles south from the mouth of the Rogue River. Winter storms hitting this section of the Oregon Coast delivered a continuous supply of gnarly wood down the raging river to be churned smooth by the salty ocean waves and then deposited along the city’s ample beach.

When they weren’t sleuthing for prize chunks of driftwood, they were swimming a few miles up Hunter Creek in the warm sun away from the icy winds blowing against the coast.

They also liked to take pictures and were always seeking out a prizewinner. South of Gold Beach, the treacherous cliffs of Cape Sebastian provided walls of churning water and white plumes of crashing waves as subjects for their artistic eyes.

Sometimes the two friends set up tripods above Cunniff Creek and waited for hours for hovering sea gulls to achieve a perfect formation against the deep greens of the forest background.

The pair of adventurous chums also were known for the fun loving pranks they played on fellow classmates and tolerant citizens of the rugged western town.

In eighth grade they “borrowed” one of Julie Granger’s favorite barrettes and made Julie think they were sending it skyward out over the ocean attached to one of Russ’s science project rockets. Julie and her open-mouthed classmates watched the thoughtless launch. Julie began to cry when she thought her prize was gone forever. John and Russ looked at one another and felt terrible when they realized they had gone too far this time. John quickly produced the hairpiece. To make up for their meanness, Russ bought a new barrette from his sister and gave it to Julie. It took Julie a week to forgive them.

One Halloween, in the entrance to the high school, they constructed a headless driftwood statue of Ichabod Crane riding a stick and burlap pony.

Another time at night they sneaked into the school and let loose a greased pig in the main hall. The custodial staff struggled to catch the slippery critter before students were scheduled to arrive. Conscience drove John and Russ to come to school early and join the staff in efforts to capture the illusive animal. Russ snagged the pig around the neck while John grabbed the hindquarters. The boys returned the pig to Dale Zimmer’s place three miles up Cunniff Creek and returned to school.

When they walked in the front door, Principal Phillip Clapp greeted them with suspicion, thanked them for their help and just before he sent them home to get cleaned up, said, “Next time use soap on the pig … better for all concerned.”

Chapter 3

John and Russ, were fascinated with the jet boat trips offered by Jerry’s Rogue Jets, who also owns and operates Rogue River Mail Boats. They spent many hours helping out at the jet boat docks and getting to know the jet boat pilots. At the beginning or end of seasons when their boats weren’t full, pilots let the two teenagers come along free.

There was a friendly competition among the river pilots. Most had developed and mastered a river talk loaded with interesting facts about the river and its history. Each was constantly searching for new pieces of entertaining information or stunts to add to their routines that would set them apart from the others.

For sometime, river pilot Derrick Evan’s trip was the most popular. He handled his boat with expert ease explaining every maneuver with lighthearted humor. He was known for finessing the last particle of interest out of every turn in the river… every branch and twig gracing the riverbank… every animal they might encounter along the 52-mile trip to Blossom Bar and back.

When John and Russ managed to get on a boat, they always took their cameras. A favorite spot for picture taking was Foster Rapids. There they would often see bears lurking in the woods and on occasion fishing or playing in the river. Of course there were plenty of bird-subjects. They hoped someday to get a close-up shot of the majestic, illusive eagle that often soared in the sky above the river.

One day in early spring, Lee Withers spotted a black bear cub circling the campus of Gold Beach Elementary School and the town ignited in excitement and concern. Mayor Jeff Crantz quickly ordered lockdown at the school and the fire department was called to disable the handsome animal with a stun gun and return him to the forest.

The two friends, who left school early to get in on the excitement, were delighted to be allowed to take the unconscious bear to the hills and dump him off. Russ named him “Raider.”

“He’ll be out for a couple of hours,” Frank Counts cautioned. “You better drop him off before he wakes up. Somewhere around Green Knob would be a good place. When he wakes, he’ll not be a happy bear.”

They stopped by Russ’ house to get a piece of foam to put under the lifeless bear. Though State Route 33 is paved, there are enough bumps in the road to injure or considerably bruise the chubby bear. There were even more potholes in the road, where 23 veers off toward the southeast and up into the pine, cedar and fir-covered mountains of Shasta Costa Bar.

Once they had made their cargo comfortable, John shifted his 150 into gear, nosed it north along 101 to State Highway 33, and turned east to follow the Rogue into the mountains.

The boys enjoyed their quiet ride along the beautiful river. In early summer, the Rogue was sparkling its way toward the ocean carrying a full load of water.

At one pm, John brought his pickup to a stop on a grassy patch of ground on the north shoulder of County Road 23.

Though the bear was just a cub, he weighed almost 200 pounds. The boys fashioned a drag sled from downed tree branches and took turns pulling him up the grade toward Green Knob. Their plan was to drag the bear toward the mountain crest until he showed signs of waking up, then they would simply walk away and leave the cub to overcome his bewilderment and return to his life in the wilds.

It was nearly two in the afternoon when the cub snorted and attempted to get to his feet. John lowered the sled handles and the boys moved away. Raider struggled to his feet… wobbled a couple of times and back. The boys laughed.

“Maybe we ought to get back to the truck and head for home,” John said gesturing toward the uncertain cub, “… at least get away from him. Upset big ‘uns might be nearby.”

The boys climbed over a moss-covered log to give distance and a barrier between them and the wild bear.

“How about hiking to the river?” Russ asked producing a map and gesturing northward, “… four miles down and back … take us a couple of hours… we’ve not explored this part of the woods, right?”

“It all looks pretty much the same as everywhere else to me,” John hedged, “But it is a nice day for a hike… let’s do it.”

“Don’t let that hemlock hear you say everything looks the same!” Russ chuckled, “I never get tired of looking at God’s creation. I’ll grab some grub and our cameras… you never know. Gi‘me the keys,” Russ said holding his hand out.

John watched the cub begin to explore his new habitat. It appeared the young animal was content with his new surroundings and happy enough to leave him and Russ alone.

A few minutes later, Russ returned with his backpack and John’s camera.

“What about grown up bears?” John said betraying his uneasiness.

“We leave the bears alone and they’ll leave us alone, I’ll bet ya.” Russ said

“I guess,” John returned uncertainly.

Chapter 4

The boys began forging their way through undergrowth and over the needle carpeted ground beneath the towering fir and pine. Before long they noticed that the cub was following them.

“I think he likes us,” Russ chuckled.

“So long as he doesn’t like us for lunch,” John said.

“I don’t think we have to worry. They eat mostly berries and fish and stuff like that. We’d be too tough.”

Some 40 minutes later, the boys had reached the southern bank of the Rogue. Along the way they had seen several other bears lumbering through the woods. Raider had followed them all the way and was now sitting a few yards away watching them.

The boys sat on the riverbank to rest and eat peanut butter sandwiches. Up river a hundred yards they watched two new cubs approach the river’s edge and begin milling around the base of a large madrone tree spreading its branches in all directions.

The boys watched with fascination as Raider minced his way toward the strangers. When the two Rogue bears spotted Raider, it appeared a bear confrontation was imminent.

The angry face-off was interrupted by the sound of a jet boat approaching from up stream. Within a minute or so a boatload of bigs would be passing on their return trip to homeport in Gold Beach.

John and Russ scrambled into their backpacks and extracted their cameras ready to capture whatever might follow. The two resident cubs turned away from Raider and trotted toward the madrone tree. The female bear climbed the tree and made her way out onto a large branch out over the river and waited, while other cub hid behind the madrone. Raider sat on his hindquarters and watched.

The jet boat rounded a curve in the river and gushed into the pool of water that had collected in a deep section of the waterway. At that instance the cub behind the tree jumped into the open and dashed toward the bank lifting both paws and baring his teeth. The cub in the tree locked her hind legs around the branch and let her torso swing beneath the branch with her head facing the oncoming jet boat.

The shocking sight caused everyone in the boat to scream. The rooky jet boat pilot’s natural reflexes cause him to swerve the boat to miss the bear. A boy who was standing looking at something on the starboard side of the boat almost fell into the river. His dad grabbed him at the last second.

As quickly as the jet boat had come, it was gone amid fading shrieks and groans.

John and Russ looked at each other in stunned silence. Then, they broke into abandoned laughter.

“What a hoot!” Russ said.

“Scared the liver out of those people,” John added.

Chapter 5

The female cub had returned to the ground and joined the male cub beneath the madrone tree. Raider joined the two cubs. Apparently, the excitement of scaring the bigs had taken any animosity out of the encounter between Raider and his counterparts.

“Guess we don’t have to worry about Raider fitting in,” John said.

“Drat it!” Russ hollered, “We didn’t get a shot of that!”

“Next time, we’ll be ready,” John encouraged.

“Yeah, next time.” Russ agreed. “Want to head back?”

“Suits me,” John said getting to his feet and adjusting his backpack.

“Wonder if Raider will follow us,” Russ said joining John.

The two friends began the strenuous mile-and-a-half climb back to John’s pickup. Before long it became clear that Raider had found new friends and didn’t need them. They saw several fully grown bears lurking here and there. It seemed clear that they weren’t interested in any encounter with humans.

One handsome bear stood in a shaft of sun silhouetted against the deep shadows of the dense forest behind him. Russ raised his SLR and snapped a picture of the elegant creature before he lumbered away into the darkness.

“That really was a hoot,” Russ said on their way back to Gold Beach.

“Yeah, a kick… too bad we didn’t have camcorders,” John agreed.

“I got an idea!” Russ enthused.

“Watch out!” John cautioned, “another of your hair-brained ideas… let’s have it.”

“What if we were to organize the bears to put on a show for the people as they go by in the boats?” Russ asked feeding the idea.

“Hmmm,” John mused, “a 20-second bear show on the banks of the Rogue… that’ll bring in the dough!”

“I don’t care about money… think of the fun. Those cubs already do it… I’ll bet, if we work it right, we can get the big ones to join them… making it more terrifying,” he paused then added, “Maybe teach one to juggle.”

“Are you kidding? John laughed. “Juggling bears? You’re crazier than I thought.”

“Okay, maybe not juggle, but dance… you’ve hard of dancing bears, haven’t you?”

“Tamed bears… maybe… at a circus, but wild bears in these mountains…”

“Come on, John! Remember when we trained those goats to imitate the cheerleaders at homecoming?” Russ laughed.

“Yeah, I remember,” John laughed, “And I remember how long it took to get them to do it… sync their movements… and even at best… they were pretty ragged.”

“Wasn’t it worth it? Remember how the crowd howled?”

“Yeah, and so did Mr. Clapp… howled us into two months of cleaning the toilets.”

“Awe, come on man, let’s try it…”

Chapter 6

The sun was low in the west. John fell into noncommittal silence as he drew his pickup to a halt in front of Russ’ home.

Russ sat silent for a moment looking out the passenger window at the distant ocean.

“You going to get out or are you going home with me?” John asked giving his horn a quick beep.

“The bears could to do a line dance … high kicks like the Radio City Rockettes…” Russ smiled at his good friend. “Give it some thought … that’s all…”

“Man, I gotta work this summer…” John protested… then added, “Boy … even if what you’re talking about were possible, it would take months… not to mention the danger of trying to corral a bunch of wild bears.”

“Think about it…” Russ grinned opening the passenger door and scooting out. He fetched the foam from the pickup bed, returned to driver window, “Just think about it…” He turned and bounded toward his front door.

John sat for a moment shaking his head, then, hit the foot-feed and headed home.

Chapter 7

In early spring John and Russ began working with the bears by simply showing up and hanging out in a remote section of the woods around Bob’s Garden. Every time they came to the bear’s habitat, they brought them treats. Eventually, the bears learned to trust the two invaders. The treats included wild blackberries they’d picked from vines growing on sun drenchedpatches of ground in the hills above Gold Beach and fish they bought from Larry Monford, who like to fish but not to clean and eat them.

“What you doing with all those fish,” Larry quizzed the third week into providing them fish.

“That cub we took to the mountain… he’s become a buddy bear. He likes fish,” Russ explained.

“Eats an awful lot of them,” Larry said scratching his head.

“Yeah, he’s getting to be a whopper,” John added attempting to end the conversation.

“I guess,” Larry said apparently satisfied.

The boys were determined to keep their experiment a secret. If it failed, no one would know, and if it looked like it would succeed, they wanted it to be surprise for everyone – especially those first boatloads of tourists skimming the Rogue.

John and Russ spent many hours of their days off trying to coax the bears to learn some sort of simple organized dance routine. Juggling was out of the question. While the bears eventually showed interest in the sport and were intelligent enough to master the art, the lack of opposing thumbs prevented them from gripping the ball.

Four weeks into the summer, the bears were achieving enough organized movement that John and Russ knew they were onto something. The opening of the bear show would be a spectacle to behold.

Tired of picking buckets full of berries, by mid-summer the boys enlisted Janice Yeager and Carolyn Unger into helping out. The girls obliged the first two or three times they were asked.

“I like you…,” Janice said one day, “but not enough to keep picking those tiny little berries without getting in on the profit… Who you selling them to?” Janice finally asked.

They let the girls in on their secret in an attempt to persuade them to keep helping.

“You can’t tell anyone… please!” Russ pleaded.

The girls accompanied John and Russ to the mountain to see for themselves. Delight showed on Janice and Carolyn’s faces as they watched the bears line up and move their feet up and down to the rhythmic drumbeat Russ banged out on a hollow log.

“The Three Bears!” Janice squealed with delight at the antics of the three cubs. “I’ll pick berries,” she enthused, “ but only if I can be at river’s edge, when the show begins.”

“Me too,” chimed Carolyn.

“At river’s edge hiding… you’d have to be,” John warned, “We don’t want the jet boat set to see humans… just bears.”

“No!” Janice protested, “Dressed like a bear,” she added laughing.

“I don’t know,” Russ hedged. “The spectacle is real bears doing a chorus line.”

“How about dressed as pioneers,” Carolyn suggested, “We could look like real pioneers, couldn’t we… aprons and bonnets?”

“Neck line up to here,” Jan laughed fingering her chin.

“Great idea,” John chuckled, “Ghosts out of history… I like it.”

“Yeah,” Russ agreed, “That’d be an unexpected jolt too. Let’s do it.”

Chapter 9

Every day for the next two weeks, the four circus trainers bribed the bears with berries, fish and apples. The lively cubs were, by now, quite comfortable at being handled by the gentle bigs, who kept them supplied in goodies.

They had trained the bears to take their cue from a series of whistle codes. One blast on Carolyn’s whistle cued the opening number. Two toots, three and the finale would be cued by the fourth blast on Carolyn’s whistle.

The day before their great surprise, the foursome settled on the staging area for the program. They chose a stretch of the river between Burnt Rapids and Fall Creek where the water current slowed and pooled enough to provide a place for the jet boat to linger, if the bear show were entertaining enough to hold its audience. Along this stretch of the river an open space sloped gently up from the bank to the tree line where the forest became increasingly dense… the perfect place to hide until they were ready to spring into the open space and begin the show.

Of course, there was the possibility that the boat’s pilot would fear for his customers’ safety and jet away down stream.

The four hoped for the best, but felt that, if it went well the first time, word would get around and their act had the potential of becoming a delightful attraction for tourists – as long as the bears tolerated being manipulated and the four humans maintained interest in doing it.

Before sunrise on August 29, John, Russ, Jan and Carolyn headed up the mountain to corral the bears and prepare for what Russ called their “Savage Surprise.” Jan and Carolyn rode in the cab with John. Bundled up, Russ rode in the bed. As the pickup neared Green Knob, it seemed to know how to follow the summer worn tire tracks that marked the accustomed parking spot.

The sun began to punch shafts of light through the dense trees as the foursome hiked the mile and a half to the staging area.

Expecting to get breakfast, the performing bears followed. By the time they reached their performance space the sun had eased the chill in the air.

Jerry’s Rogue Jets and Mail Boat Jets offer trips up the Rogue several times each day to three different turnaround locations up stream. That meant that midmorning boats would begin to pass the staging area on their way up stream and come by them again at varying times during the afternoon. The quartet decided to present “Savage Surprise” to first boat of the day to pass them on its way back to Gold Beach.

Until then they would continue to rehearse the bear routines in the trees out of sight of the river.

At about 10:00 they heard the first jet boat. Everyone felt a surge of excitement. It was hard for the foursome to wait the two hours for the boat’s return, but they had agreed to wait.

“Let’s put the final touches on it,” Russ said betraying his excitement as he stayed out of sight of the passing jet boat. “That one will be back in a couple of hours.”

Chapter 10

Derrick Evens squeezed the throttle, feeding fuel to the powerful 315 hp Yanmar Diesel and sending his jet boat skimming across the shallow waters of Rogue River toward the mouth of Quosatana Creek. Migrating salmon often gathered in calm pools to rest a bit before continuing their swim up the swift flowing river to spawn. Observing primal behavior of the ancient fish was one of the attraction customers would experience along the 52-mile jet boat trip from the mouth of the Rogue River to Blossom Bar and back. Derrick wanted to give his customers their money’s worth.

He reversed the thrust of the powerful jet stream of water and slowed the 32-passenger boat to a standstill. Those lucky enough to have seats near the sides leaned over the edge of the mail boat to get a close look at the large fish. Over the years adults aboard had collected bits and pieces of information about fish migrations but few had seen it in action. Children studied animal behavior in school. They knew about the migration of salmon up rivers and squealed with delight at experiencing their lessons firsthand.

“The water is cold,” Betsy Claimer said, withdrawing her left hand from the river water and wiping it on her jacket. She sat on the seat closest to the port side of the boat.

“For the salmon to survive and be comfortable the temperature of the water should be 55 degrees,” Myles Westin announced.

Everyone within earshot turned to look at the toe-headed boy sitting directly behind Betsy.

Betsy turned to look at the wise acre. “How do you know?” she asked scowling.

“Encyclopedia.alot.com,” Myles answered and added, “that’s 12.8 celsius.”

“Oh boy,” Betsy said facing front.

“Some salmon species are extinct,” Derrick said into his lapel mic. “These are the lucky ones… well… lucky until they reach the spawning waters.”

Myles yelled over the sounds of the boat’s engine, “Yeah… after they spawn, they turn red and die… but steelhead don’t. They can live for many years.”

More sightseers turned to look at the precocious youth.

Derrick laughed, “The ichthyologist is right. You will see some along the way, if the bears haven’t gobbled them up.”

“What’s a ichthyologist?” Betsy asked her dad who was sitting next to her.

“It’s someone who studies fish,” Myles said leaning forward.

“Can we move?” Betsy said to her father.

Earl Claimer laughed and said, “There’s no place to move… the boy is smart… listen and you might learn something interesting.”

“Yeah, right.”

By then Derrick had maneuvered the sizable watercraft back into the river channel and was heading up stream.

“Look over the sides you’ll see the determined critters making they way home,” Derrick said.

“They’re swimming about 14 kilometers an hour,” Myles said pointing to a large salmon swimming up stream near the boat.

Betsy poked her dad, rolled her eyes and whispered, “Probably thinks he knows how fast flowers grows, too.”

Chapter 11

The pristine river offered miles of quiet solitude as it snaked its way through the timbered slopes toward Agness. Even Myles had been quiet for miles. Everyone seemed to be hypnotized by the surrounding beauty… each sinking into his own thoughts.

Betsy wondered what it was like for young girl pioneers living in these mountains long ago. “I’ll bet their dad’s made dolls for them… out of what? Pine needles, I’ll bet… and they wore pieces of leather left over from making adult clothes… Some day I’m going to hike in those woods and see what I can find… pottery… maybe…”

Earl Claimer marveled at the untouched look of the river and the forests lining its banks.

“All of Oregon once was like this,” he thought, “I hope this jewel can remain like this forever,” knowing that unless it becomes protected as wilderness, man’s entrepreneurial drives and thirst for possessing nature would likely eat away at the paradise.

Myles counted the various birds flying overhead or resting near the river. So far he had counted 26 hawks, 9 Osprey, 6 blue heron, 14 sea gulls, a bald eagle circling high in the sky and too many small birds to count… well, certainly, he could count them… but they moved in circles so fast, he couldn’t keep track of the ones he’s counted and the ones he hadn’t.

Derrick wondered what his wife would prepare for dinner tonight, but at the same time kept his mind on carefully negotiating the large jet boat through sections of shallow water. He could tell that some of his passengers were fascinated that the boat could move through such with out scraping bottom.  Others couldn’t hide their concern.

“This boat is designed to operate in very shallow water, he said, “Would you believe, as little as three inches?”

Can you do a “crash stop?” Myles hollered.

Looks of concern came from a several riders.

Derrick laughed, “Not unless I have to! I don’t think you’d want to experience that unless we have to… But it’s good you reminded me that it’s available.”

“How about a Hamilton turn… could you do one of those?”

Derrick laughed again, “Man, you know a lot about jet boats…”

“He knows a lot about everything!” Betsy mumbled giving Myles a side glance.

“Not enough water to do that… but they’re fun… maybe I’ll do one when we get back to base,” Derrick said, then, pointing he continued, “If you look on your left, you’ll see signs of civilization. Trough the trees you get a glimpse of Agness Community Library and coming up, again on your left is Lucas Lodge where on our way back we’ll stop for lunch and some trinket buying if you are into that.”

Derrick beached the craft. “We’ll be here about one-half hour.” he said. “Some of you may want to visit the old Agness store. It’s a kick and maybe the Agness-Illahe Museum. You know Indians once thrived along this river… might find something interesting about them.”

Chapter 12

Thirty minutes later, the loaded jet boat was skimming the Rogue again headed for Illahe and points beyond. Shortly, the watercraft reached Illahe, a favorite spot for camping enthusiasts.

Campers waved to the jet boaters as they surged by.

“Watch out for fish!” a young boy with black hair yelled.

“You watch out for snakes!” Myles returned.

The black haired boy yelled something but no one in the boat could hear.

“Our Einstein is right,” Derrick called into the mic referring to Myles. “There are rattlesnakes in abundance in these rocks… we don’t have to worry about them; mosquitoes, yes, snakes, no. You might keep an eye out for bears,” Derrick cautioned with mocked concern. “We often see them playing in the woods to your right. The cubs like to tease us. That forest is part of Wild Rogue Wilderness.”

“How big is the Wild Rogue Wilderness?” Betsy asked scanning the trees for bears.

“Big! It’s largely untouched watershed,” Derrick answered.

“It is 35,818 acres to be exact,” Myles said.

Heads turned.

“You live here?” Betsy asked turning to squint at Myles.

“I live here, now,” Myles returned matter-of-factly.

“Myles!” his mother said sternly, “Don’t tease the girl. Tell her where you live.”

“I did… I’m not dead, am I? … Means I live here now, like I said.”

“No fair,” Betsy scowled.

“He lives in Portland,” Mrs. Westin said, and responding to the perplexed look on Betsy’s face, she added, “He just likes facts… He’s really harmless,” she concluded running her fingers through his hair.

“Mom!” Myles complained, pushing her hand away.

An hour later Derrick brought the boat to a standstill. Everyone looked around for the attraction. For the last two hours, the terrain was pretty much the same.

“This is as far as we go,” Derrick said cutting the powerful jet engines. A wonderful silence fell over the river. “This is called Blossom Bar. Peaceful, isn’t it? This is what animals, who live here, enjoy all the time… well, except, when we come around in our noisy boats.”

“Why can’t we go farther?” Betsy asked and before Derrick could answer she turned to Myles and said, “I’ll bet you know.”

“Actually, I don’t know exactly, but I suspect it has something to do with that steep incline you see over there. Not even this special craft can get up that.”

“Is that it?” Betsy asked turning to Derrick.

“Myles is right… mostly… and beyond the waterfall the river is studded with big boulders. We wouldn’t want to try it.”

“I’m happy with what we’ve done,” Fred Claimer said gesturing at the surroundings.

“Excellent, great, fun, beautiful,” said others.

“If we could go further what would be next?” Betsy asked looking at Myles.

“River, rocks, animals and trees,” Myles said not wanting to be without something to say.

Derrick laughed and said, “Myles is right again but there’s something else… If we could go further in a couple of miles we’d come to Marial. That’s a pioneer farm complex, listed on the National Register of Historic Places…” He broke into a big smile and added, “If anyone is interested, you could hike there and we’d pick you up here tomorrow.”

Everyone laughed.

“Seriously, if you are interested, it’s easier to get there from I-5.”

“Isn’t Zane Gray hangout around here somewhere?” Myles father asked.

“I think that’s at Wrinkle Bar,” Derrick answered.

“Yeah,” Myles injected and pointing to his topographical map… “It’s about three miles east of Marial.”

“Good grief,” Betsy said and looking at Derrick asked, “Can we go home now?”

“You’re right too,” Derrick said looking at his watch. “My watch says we need to be heading back.”

He pushed the button to crank the engine to life and the boatload of vacationers slipped into the channel and on their way back to Gold Beach.

After a while of silence, Betsy whispered to her father, “Who’s Zame Gray?”

“Zane… Zane Gray. He was a famous writer of western novels. I liked him when I was a boy… Riders of the Purple Sage,” was my favorite.”

“Not like Hannah Montana, I’ll bet,” Betsy grinned. She gave Myles a quick glance. He was looking at her. She quickly looked away returning her gaze to the wonder of the Rogue… On their way home she could watch the opposite shore.

This far from the ocean the sun was hot. Though the breeze caused by the movement of the boat was also hot, it felt good. The smells of fir, pine, madrone and wild flowers filled the air. Betsy wanted to remember the wonderful time she’d had today … even the annoying, factoid-spouting kid behind her.

Chapter 13

Russ stood on the bank looking up stream for the first sign of the returning jet boat. The bears and his friends waited in the woods for their cue.

“Here she comes!” Russ shouted pointing up stream. The loaded jet boat was coming down Clay Rapids rapidly approaching them. ”It’ll be here in a minute!” he called trotting toward the others.

Three Square Dance bears and Russ hid behind a patch of brush clustering not far from river’s bank ready for Carolyn’s signal.

Just as the jet boat entered the pooling water Carolyn whistled.

The three big bears and Russ, dressed like a black bear, moved onto the open stage and began their awkward square dance. While John called “Circle left and do sa do,” Jan and Carolyn slapped their knees to his measured beating on the hollow log.

The jet boat sped into the slower moving water.

Bill Astin who sat with his dad in the front row seat pointed and yelled, “Look! It’s bears.”

All heads looked port side… mouths dropped open followed by ohs and aahs. Two women emitted muffled screams.

Derrick couldn’t believe his eyes. He’d worked on the river for 12 years and had never seen anything like this. Apparently, one or more of his competitors had gone all out to pull off a huge upmanship. But enough of that! Paramount in his thinking now had to be the safety of his passengers. He had to quickly decide whether to speed away or pretend that this was a normal occurrence and bring the boat to a standstill and let his passengers enjoy the spectacle before them of four black bears attempting to square dance to the sound of an invisible caller. He slowed the boat to a crawl.

“One’s not a bear!” Myles shouted.

“He’s right,” Derrick said relieved that panic hadn’t entered his boat. He reversed the jet thrust to prevent his boat from entering Burnt rapids.

Fred Westin laughed at the sight.

“Allemande right,” the caller yelled as the bears changed direction bumping into one another.

More laughter came from the boaters.

“Last time I took this ride you didn’t have this,” George Cramer shouted thrusting his head back and looking up at Derrick.

Derrick was caught off-guard. ‘What shall I say?’ he asked himself. He didn’t want panic to erupt among his patrons by telling them that this was new to him as well, “I believe mail boat driver Bill Franks rounded up this act,” Derrick hedged.

By now the “bear” quartet had disappeared into the woods. Then the sound of two toots of a whistle brought three bear cubs into the opening. They began a series of acrobatic maneuvers to the delight of the children on board.

Betsy screamed with delight while involuntarily turning to look at Myles.

Myles smiled and mumbled, “Ursus americanus altifrontalis,” I think.

A dozen or more cameras pointed their lenses at the spectacle transpiring on shore.

“Aren’t they cute,” Ms. Barkley gushed.

More aahs and oohs filled the dry, friendly summer air.

Three blasts on the whistle brought more bears into an almost presentable chorus-line routine. And it was comical.

“Rogue Rockettes!” Derrick shouted into the mic.

Everyone laughed.

“The Radio City Rockettes have performed four shows a day, 28 shows a week, 365 days a year for over 40 years,” Myles rehearsed almost to himself.

“Really?” Betsy exclaimed showing genuine interest.

“Yeah,” Myles said looking into Betsy’s dark eyes.

“Hey look at that,” Rob Danielson shouted pointing to the spectacle emerging from the woods.

Carolyn’s fourth blow on the whistle signaled the “Savage Surprise” finale. The bears, wearing Indian headdresses, emerged from the woods into the performing space. Accompanying them were Russ, John, Jan and Carolyn also dressed as Indians. They wore war paint on their faces and leather moccasins on their feet. John wore a feathered chief’s headdress. Russ had a single feather sticking up from a headband circling his head. Leather straps dangled from their sleeves and shirt bottoms. Carolyn and Jan wore colorful leather vests over tan blouses and leather skirts decorated with colorful hieroglyphics.

The ensemble began circling an imaginary bonfire. When the circle was complete Russ began to chant a war dance. The humans and bears stomped and gyrated as they continued to chant a rhythmic… “Hey yah, hey yah… holum wa… ha!” and repeated it over and over again as they danced. The bears inserted loud grunts from time to time.

“Hey, are those bears dressed as Indians or Indians dressed as bears?” Warren Silverman shouted and broke into billowing laughter.

Others joined him.

Carolyn blew a final blast on her whistle and the Indians turned toward the jet boat and began a war-whooping dash toward the boat with tomahawks raised in threatening stance.

The tourists looked at one another… alarmed at what they saw. Several women screamed… Betsy grabbed her father’s arm.

“Oh boy, let’s get out of here,” Mel White shouted.

Several women screamed.

The bears stood watching bewildered.

The four Indians stopped 50 feet from the boat… turned to confer with one another… waved dismissive hands at the boat and turned to rejoin the bears.

Sighs of relief issued from the boaters.

“Sorry about the scare… I should have warned you…” Derrick mouthed into the mic.  He was glad that the Indians were retreating and that his boatload of watchers seemed to be calming down. “I guess that’s it,” he said. “Let’s get back to jetting.” He revved up the boat’s engines and engaged the jets. The boat lurched forward.

Fred Westin raised his hands above his head and began clapping in the direction of Savage Surprise. Soon everyone in the boat was clapping. Derrick maneuvered the boat into a Hamilton turn to bring the boat back for a sitting ovation for the forest performers. He then maneuvered once more into the river channel and away.

Chapter 14

“What a trip that was,” Russ said after the boat had disappeared from view. “Up for another go?”

“We’ve gone to a lot of trouble for just one 15 minutes of fame, don’t you think?” John said.

“I’m game,” Carolyn said.

“Me too,” Jan said admiring the body of bears milling around and added, “What about the bears, shouldn’t we ask them?”

“We hike over and pack in another round of food and they’ll go for it, I’ll bet.”

“You girls stay here… we’ll get it,” John said.

“No chance,” Janice rejected, “Stay here with these bears… not likely.”

“Let’s go,” Carolyn said.

Thirty minutes later the quartet was back with food for the bears and shortly after that they were ready for the next Mail Boat to come into sight. And so it went for the rest of the day… four shows in all.

­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­Chapter 15

From his vantage point hovering high above the action Rusty Eagle watched the day’s charade with amused interest. It reminded him of Toby Pig’s Greatest Show in the Forest.

“Ha, ha,” he laughed, “What if I get Toby Pig together with the Rogue River Wilderness wild bears,’’ he laughed to himself. “Wouldn’t that be another beak dropping spectacle.”

He swooped in low for a closer look at the outlandish sight of big burley bears dressed as Indians. “Wait ‘til I tell Tob, Hap and the others.”

Several pumps of his wings took him comfortably aloft heading for home

Chapter 16

Talk of the Indian Bear show dominated conversation in Derrick’s jet boat from Illahe all the way back to Gold Beach and continued into the parking lot. For sometime to come satisfied jet boat patrons would have owned bragging rights to a unique experience.

Betsy walked beside Myles on their way to family cars parked beside one another in the gravel parking lot.

“My favorite was the three cub’s tumbling,” Betsy said, “What did you like?

“I liked the chief’s headdress that man wore,” Myles said, and couldn’t resist adding, ”Though it wasn’t very authentic…” he paused. Betsy’s eyes told him that she didn’t really care about ‘authenticity’ and he continued, “… but men and bears pretending to be Indians… that was a fun.”

“I’m glad you were behind me,” Betsy said to Myles as they neared their family car.

“I didn’t mean to show off,” Myles said, “I just like facts…”

“That’s okay… I like facts too. I’m just jealous you know so many more of them than me… without even trying.”

Myles laughed. “Without trying? That’s my problem… too much trying… Mom says I got my nose in a book all the time…” he paused again and then asked, “Where you from?”

“I live in Salem,” Betsy replied.

“That’s 45 miles, depending on your starting and ending points.”

“Betz, you ready?” Mr. Claimer asked touching his absorbed daughter on the shoulder.

“Yeah… I guess,” she said reluctantly, and not knowing how to get more, said to bye to Myles.

“Bye,” he grinned, turned and hopped into the Westin family car and closed the door.

Fred Claimer studied the look on his daughter’s face, walked to Westin’s window and gave him a business card. They smiled at one another.

The parking lot empted quickly.

Chapter 17

Derrick told Jerry’s Jet Boat staff a story they found difficult to believe. He warned them, “When the other boats check in you’re going to hear more…What a hoot… I hoped their adventures went as well as mine.”

“Where’d they come from?” office manager Shelley Android asked.

“I’ll bet Bill Franks hired them,” Derrick said, “It’s a great gig… adds a lot of excitement to the trip… Doggone it… He beat me to it. Hope they’re out there again tomorrow…” With that he waved, “I’m out of here.”

Chapter 18

That evening Coal asked mother bear if they could do it again.

Connie Bear grunted, “Let those bigs keep ordering us around making fools of us? I just wish they would go away and leave us alone,” Connie concluded.

“Mom, they liked watching us…” Ebony said.

Coal added, “It gives us something to do besides hanging out in the same old terrain with the same old bushes and trees.”

Raider added, “I got in trouble when I went into town looking for some fun.”

“What do you think, Edgar?” Connie asked turning to the big bear.

“It’s an easy way to get berries and fish,” Edgar said, “I say we keep doing it as long as they’re fools enough to keep the food coming.”

And that was that.

Chapter 19

A week later after another exhausting day staging their spectacle, the troupe settled into a padded booth at the Indian Creek Café.

“A couple more times will do it for me,” Carolyn said.

“Aww come on,” Russ pleaded, “The look on their faces… unexpected… Those folks were caught in a raw improvisational NOW…”

“Yeah, and I’m exhausted,” Carolyn complained… “Two more times and I’m done.”

“Hey, we’re on to something…” Russ enthused. He laughed, “Think about it. We’ve given those river pilots a new way to compete. Derrick thought Bill Franks did it and Bill thought Derrick did it.” He laughed again, “They finally figured out who was doing it… Listen, it’s catching on… it’ll be big… the talk of Curry County… Maybe Jerry will talk dollars for next summer. How about it, John, Jan… don’t you think…?”

“Yeah man… It’s a kick…” John said and hesitated, “fun doing it, but… bears, berries, fish everyday… Man… we can’t keep that up. The mail boat people going to pick berries? I don’t think so…”

“Jan! Come on… help me out here,” Russ pleaded turning to the perky high school charmer.

“Russ, you’re such a dreamer… I gotta get my real world life back for what’s left of this summer. You ought to, too,” Jan reasoned.

“Shoot!” Russ conceded, “I guess you’re right, but we’ve put so much work into it… Don’t you think it works better than we expected? … It’s a shame to quit.”

John laughed, “Maybe that’s the time to quit… planning it, working it up … doing it… It’s like chance art… a happening…” more laughter… “It’s our very own mid summer night’s dream… that’s enough, I think. I’m ready to move on.”

Russ took a deep breath. “Okay, okay…” he said settling back in a sign of resignation. “What’s next?”

Everyone laughed.

- M Russel Pike ©2011 - See M. Russel Pike’s Bio

New student painted mural on Paulina Elementary School; photo by Dawn Camara

PAULINA, Ore. – As long as Paulina Elementary School stands, so will the bigger-than-life mural its student body painted on the south side of the building. Under the tutelage of world-renowned artist Kenneth J. Wolverton, each of the student body’s 39 kindergarten through eighth grade students helped give life to their community profile in a way the public will enjoy for generations to come.

Dawn Camara, who lives in Paulina near the ranch her great grandfather homesteaded in1913, works part-time as relief postmaster in nearby Post as well as at the school where two of her three children still attend. A ranch wife, Camara is as at home with branding and roping cattle as she is with any of her other jobs. Her involvement in the mural project was not only a labor of love for her community, but for her uncle the artist.

Students paint mural on Paulina Elementary School wall: photo by D "Bing" Bingham.

“The idea to paint the wall really started five years ago when teacher Bruce Kilander expressed his thoughts about how a mural would be a good way to make the building look more exciting,” Camara said. “But, until two years ago, when the Skyline Trail Riders Association gave us the proceeds from their local fundraiser auction, we never had the money to do it. One thing led to another and since Uncle Kenny had done projects like this for other schools, I called him to see if he would consider coming from his home in New Mexico to do this one. It was so exciting when he said yes.”

The Paulina Elementary School has a history of coming up with innovative educational experiences for its students. In the past they sponsored an on-site Art Van Go Project, hosted a month-long Artists in Residence program and brought in Oregon Museum of Science and Industry-sponsored chemistry and biology workshops.

To develop the school mural plan, the Parent Teacher Organization members appealed to the community at large to send in ideas and photos of what they wanted to see on the wall. Those ideas were sent to Wolverton to design a mural around and and the resulting scenes brought back to the school board for final approval included cattle brands from nearby ranches; images of grazing cattle; a horse and rider branding; the Paulina rodeo; area wildlife and some scenes from the area’s early pioneer days.

World-renowned artist Kenneth J. Wolverton, left, with Paulina resident (and niece) Dawn Camara; photo by D "Bing" Bingham.

“It was an amazing thing to watch,” Camara said. “On Monday morning, to give the kids a feel for what they were going to do, he gave them a chalk talk workshop in the morning and pastel workshops in the afternoon. The older kids drew a horse and the younger ones a bull. On Tuesday, after he sketched the images on the wall, he rotated the students out of class in small groups of five to eight kids at a time to start painting. The first two days, kindergarten through third graders painted the ground level background. When the younger kids were finished, the fourth and fifth graders took on more mid-range advanced work and the sixth through eighth graders finished off at the top. After the kids did their work, Uncle Kenny went back and did the highlighting and touching up. It’s a thing to behold and if anyone is traveling east of Prineville on Highway 380, I hope they will take a look at it.”

What’s next for Paulina Elementary? It is anybody’s guess. Dawn Camera pointed out that there is a lot of paint left over, they still have some bare walls left and they haven’t ruled anything out.

For more information about Paulina Elementary School, call 1-541-477-3182. More information about artist Ken Wolverton is available at www.kewolve.com

- Jan Jackson

The Echo Ball - an 86,000 mosaic tile work of art....

…You wouldn’t have thought the ugly old rusty looking ball that used to hold the acids Boise Cascade used to “cook” wood chips into pulp, could look like it does now, but it does. And, you wouldn’t think that the now beautifully tiled Eco Earth Ball, was ever the ugly acid ball, but it was.

Former mayor Roger Gertenrich, spearheaded the project that prompted a group of volunteers to transform the eyesore into a work of educational art. They dedicated it in June 2003.

The project, which local artists and students created out of more than 86,000 tiles, took six years to complete. The sculpture is owned by the city of Salem.

Eco Earth, which sits near the Carousel in River Front Park, is a ten-minute walk from downtown Salem. It’s truly a work of art.

Luv,

Sissy

Roaring River running into Crabtree Creek taken from Larwood Bridge Wayside Park; photo by Jan Jackson

…. runs into  Crabtree Creek. Think that’s ho-hum? Well, it isn’t. In fact, a river flowing into a creek is such a U.S. geography oddity that was featured in Ripley’s Believe It or Not.

This particular Roaring River (there are many) starts just above the Roaring River Fish Hatchery which sits about a mile upriver from where the River runs into the creek. In fact, it is this same fish hatchery where the first sturgeon named Herman was stolen in the middle of the night – never to be seen again – except maybe for secretly appearing from time to time on someone’s dinner plate (Herman III is now viewable at Bonneyville Fish Hatchery under much tighter security).

Where the Roaring River runs into Crabtree Creek, is also the site of the Larwood Covered Bridge and the Larwood Wayside park. It is a great place to – among other things – play in the water.

It’s about six miles up Fish Hatchery Road off of Highway 226 out of Crabtree. Have fun.

Luv,

Sissy

http://www.oregon.com/covered_bridges/larwood

Oregon crawfish ready for the table; photo by Jan Jackson

… Remember this Hank Williams song about Louisiana crawfish? OK, he says by-oh instead of by-you but, you know what he means.

Good-bye Joe, me gotta go, me oh my oh
Me gotta go pole the pirogue down the bayou
My Yvonne, the sweetest one, me oh my oh
Son of a gun, we’ll have big fun on the bayou

(Chorus)
Jambalaya and a crawfish pie and file’ gumbo
‘Cause tonight I’m gonna see my ma cher amio
Pick guitar, fill fruit jar and be gay-o
Son of a gun, we’ll have big fun on the bayou

Why doesn’t someone write a song about Oregon crawfish? We have tons of them in our creeks, rivers and lakes and they are free for the taking. Whether you put them in a pie or just boil ‘em – num num.

If you go crawfish fishin’ and have a good crawfish boil when you are done, call me and I’ll come over – smile.

Luv,

Sissy

Alex in the Iris; photo by Jan Jackson

…You can see the iris fields from I-5, if you are driving south to Salem from Portland. In business since 1925, Schreiner’s is the nation’s largest retail grower of iris. What you see along I-5 is but part of their 200 acres. If you drive in to the display gardens on Quinby Road, you can see 500 named iris varieties close up.

See them in bloom, learn how to grow them,  shop in the gift shop, buy cut flowers, order the ones you want to plant in your yard. It makes for a wonderful visit.

You’ll thank me for bringing it up – smile.

Luv,

Sissy

From Portland, take I-5 south to the Brooks exit 263. Go west on Brooklake Road, turn left on River Road for 1 mile, then turn left on Quinaby Road.

From Salem, and points South, take I-5 north to the Brooks exit 263. Go west on Brooklake Road, turn left on River Road for 1 mile, then turn left on Quinaby Road.

http://www.schreinersgardens.com/?gclid=CMWFps75l6kCFQZDgwod-lCqvQ

Uncle Ped; photo courtesy of Marilyn McFarlane

… and my friend Marilyn went to the Rose Festival City Fair and sent me this picture of Uncle Ped. How he got hooked up with A Walk On The Wild Side, I have no idea.  But sure enough, there he was. Since Walk On The Wild Side tries to educate people about exotic animals and since he is one pretty smart iguana, I guess it is no surprise that  they picked him. I tried to call him, but I don’t think he has a cell phone.

A Walk On The Wild Side, located in Canby Oregon, is the most diverse exotic animal refuge of its kind in the State of Oregon. They house unwanted exotic species and educate the public about responsible animal ownership. That’s why they were at the Portland Rose Festival City Fair.

You can read about the fun Marilyn had at http://lightheartedtravel.wordpress.com/; you can read about A Walk On The Wild Side at http://www.wildsideoregon.org/.

And, if you go there and see Uncle Ped, tell him Sissy says hi – smile.

Luv

Sissy

Ken Wolverton, coyboy turned artist; photo by Bing Bingham.

Some people change their lives in bits and pieces. Others do it after a horse has tried to stomp out their liver.

Ken remembers when he realized there was something special about a pencil.

“I was about 4 years old,” he said, “when my cousin would work on her drawings at our house.”

He was fascinated and sat for hours watching her sketch horses.

“It was the first time I realized there was a magic line on the end of pencil,” he says, “and you could do anything with it.”

Ken was nearing his teens when he started getting into trouble. His buddies were showing him the ways of the streets. By age 11, he was sliding the slippery slope to delinquency.

His parents sent him to his older cowboy brother who was working on the edge of nowhere in the Oregon high desert. He took to desert cowboy life like a range horse to running.

Years later, as a young man he adopted a 5-year-old Palomino stud, named Wasco, from the Warm Springs Indian Reservation. After gelding, he began training the horse.

“We got along great,” he said, “the horse was gentle as could be.”

That summer Ken was called away to the hayfields of Burns. It was a summer of eating, sleeping and work—16 hour days, 6-7 days a week. His time for relaxation was measured in minutes and stolen catnaps.

That fall, after receiving his final paycheck, he headed home. He wanted to see his horse and continue training.

To this day, five decades later, Ken still isn’t sure what changed Wasco.

He grabbed his saddle and bridle, then headed to the corrals. Wasco stood quietly during the process. When the cinch was tight, Ken climbed on his horse.

As Ken’s right foot lifted off the ground, so did Wasco. The horse bucked as hard as any horse could. Ken fought to stay in the saddle, but lost the battle—seven  times in a row.

On the final time, as Ken was, once again, cartwheeling off Wasco and lofting through the air, “I was still determined I might get back on the horse one more time.”

Ken landed flat on his back in the corral and Wasco stepped square in his chest.

“I was terrified when I got off the ground, my legs were shaking one end to the other,” Ken says, “I couldn’t get near that horse.”

Wasco was frightened and mad too. He was prancing, snorting and blowing snot in all directions. He looked at Ken as if to say, “OK big boy, if you think that hurt, try it again….”

“I think when that horse stepped on me, he must have pushed some brains into my head,” Ken says, “at that point, I knew I was going to be an artist and would never cowboy again.”

Ken limped out of the corral and never went back.

For 45 years, Ken Wolverton made a living as an artist. He’s done over 200 murals around the world and lived in places most people only dream about.

“I guess getting bucked off did something to me,” he says, “I haven’t drawn a western scene since I was a teenager.”

This year, Ken Wolverton came home to the Oregon high desert, in the country where he cowboyed. He’d been asked to help the kids from Paulina School, a tiny ranching community, paint a western mural on the front of their building. For him, painting Western scenes, getting reqcquainted with old friends and visiting relatives, this was a journey through his past.

However, if you travel this remote highway. Take a careful look at the mural: In one corner there’s a cowboy riding a pretty Palomino and the horse is bucking—for that cowboy, it signifies the beginning of a career in art.

For cowboy/artist Ken Wolverton, this was a trip home in more than one way.

-Bing Bingham ©2011 – See Bing Bingham’s Bio

Bing Bingham is a writer, rancher and storyteller. If you have a story to pass along contact him at www.bing@bingbingham.com. -

Historic Anchor Inn's inviting dining and lounging area; photo by Jan Jackson

…or Lincoln City’s place that isn’t like any other place, is serving dinners again on Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights. You could always enjoy Kip Ward’s cooking at breakfast, but now you can have dinner too.

Ward, who ran a restaurant and deli when he first came to Lincoln City years ago, bought and spent the last five years restoring the Historic Anchor Inn.  If you are into antiques, this is your place, because it’s like dining and sleeping in an antique mall. And, don’t think Ward went out and bought antiques to furnish the place. The Inn gave him a place to put the antiques he already had.

Anyway, the good news is, now you can stay there and eat dinner too. And something else, bring your camera because unless your friends can see the pictures, they won’t believe you when you get back home and try to tell them about it.

Yep, been there a bunch of times and going back.

Luv,

Sissy

See all about it at www.historicanchorinn.com

Fresh Oregon strawberries; photo by Jan Jackson

… from the world’s largest shortcake? Attend the 102^nd Lebanon Strawberry Festival between 1 and 5 pm on Saturday, June 5^th.

Can’t make the festival but want the cake? Then here’s the recipe:

Strawberry shortcake

514 cups of sugar

224 cups of shortening

192 cups of eggs

992 cups of flour

576 teaspoons of salt

2048 teaspoons of baking powder

448 cups of milk

18 cups of vanilla.

Yield – 15,000

You only want shortcake for six? Oh dear. Then maybe you could  divide by 15,000 and then times by eight (it is good to have a little extra – smile).

Let me know when it’s ready.

Luv,

Sissy

All the details are at: http://www.lebanonstrawberryfestival.info/index.html

Multnomah Falls mid-week in May; photo by Jan Jackson

…While there is a lot of controversy over which falls is the tallest, Multnomah Falls has my vote for beauty. Fed by rain, snowmelt and underground springs on Larch Mountain, Multnomah Falls is drop-dead gorgeous.

Want to see basalt rock formations exposed by Ice Age floods in a beautiful setting? Head for the Columbia River Gorge and stop by Multnomah Falls.

Want to hike while you see it (and hear it)? Take the ¼ mile hike to the historic Benson Bridge or the longer 1.1 mile hike to the top.

Want a panorama view from a nice warm dining room? Eat in the Lodge.

Want to eat a hot dog or an ice cream cone while sitting on a rock? Order from the snack bar.

Want to see it draped in ice and snow, fall color or spring blossoms? Pick a winter, spring or fall.

Want to see it when the entire world is there? Arrive on any summer weekend.

It is one of the most beautiful places in the world, sez I. See you there.

Luv,

Sissy

http://www.multnomahfallslodge.com/

… You can’t (or shouldn’t) judge a book by its cover and you can’t (or shouldn’t) judge the town of Warrendale by the sign on Highway I-84 (between Multnomah Falls and Bonneville Dam).

You won’t believe what I now know about the town.

Frank Warren, had a fish cannery there in the late 1800s and early 1900s, and the town was named for him.

In 1912, Frank and his wife Anna celebrated their 40th wedding anniversary by spending three months in Europe.  They decided to buy first class tickets (the only Oregonians who did so) and sail home on the TITANIC.

After the boat hit the iceberg and started taking on water, Frank helped Anna get into a life boat.  That was the last she saw of him. He didn’t make it.

She tells her story to the Oregonian and you can read it at  - http://www.encyclopedia-titanica.org/portland-woman-describes-wreck.html

Now, we both know some secrets about Warrendale – smile.

Luv,

Sissy

Keeping the flock out; photo by Jan Jackson

… It’s never to late to try something new and I learned something new at the 76^th annual Linn County Lamb and Wool Fair. The fair folks living in Scio, a town of about 700 residents, came up with a clever ‘put-a-flock-of-sheep-in-someone’s-yard’ fund-raising idea.

But – not to worry. For a mere $10, the victim could call a shepherd or shepherdess to remove it. Better yet, for another mere $10, they could rent a herd dog to keep their yard sheep-free (for at least three days).

It took some doing, but we got close enough to one flock to get a picture. Pretty spiffy looking animals I would say – smile.

Luv,

Sissy

http://www.lambfair.org/?file=kop1.php

Herman III at Bonneville Fish Hatchery, Columbia River Gorge; photo by Jan Jackson

… I know where a 70-year-old, 11 foot-long, 500 hundred pound one is though I don’t recommend trying to catch him. He lives at the Bonneville Fish Hatchery in the Columbia Gorge and his name is Herman III.

Some interesting things about sturgeon:

• They can grow to almost 20 feet long, weigh over 1000 pounds and live for more  than 100 years.

• They live in and out of the river and the ocean, but they can’t navigate fish ladders (like salmon do).

• Fossil records show that sturgeon have existed more than 175 million years and have changed very little since that time.

• Two of the most popular fishing areas are in the Astoria area near where the Columbia River meets the Pacific Ocean and the ten mile stretch between Multnomah Falls and Bonneville Dam.

Caviar anyone – smile?

Luv,

Sissy

http://www.oregon.com/columbia_gorge_attractions/bonneville_hatchery

Darlene Chambers of Albany, making her own float at the Jennifer L. Sears Glass Art Studio in Lincoln City; photo by Jan Jackson

… If you haven’t found one on the beach yet, make one at the Jennifer L. Sears Glass Art Studio. You can also make a paperweight or a bowl if you prefer, but there is something about making your own hand crafted float that is hard to beat.

This is how it works. Arrive sometime between 10 am and 6 pm on Wednesday through Sunday (if they are busy, you can wait or they will give you a specific time to come back). When it is your turn, one of the artists in residence will take you by the hand and walk you through every aspect of blowing your own unique and beautiful object – from picking your colors to watching it get the official Lincoln City stamp.

From there, your float (or whatever) will go into cool down and 24 hours later you will pick it up (or have it shipped). So, if you are not one of the lucky beach combers to find a Finders Keepers one on the beach (October through Memorial Day each year), or if you want additional ones, high-tail it to 4821 SW Highway 101, (in old town Taft in Lincoln City) and set to making one. You can call them at 541-996-2569 or visit

http://www.oregoncoast.org/foundry/index.php

Luv,

Sissy

The Portland Spirit sailing up the Willamette toward Oregon City; photo by Jan Jackson

… looks like a phantom, does it not? Well it isn’t. It is a cool way to have lunch or dinner and sail the Willamette River at the same time.

You’ve seen Spirit ships in other places? Spirit of Boston, Spirit of Philadelphia, Spirit of Washington DC? You don’t have to go that far. Dining while being spirited under the bridges in  downtown Portland – being able to see  how things look from the river – its good for visitors and natives alike.

The next time  you are thinking of going out to lunch or dinner in beautiful downtown Portland, try it. It’s a kick.Oh, and something else.  You could think about taking me with you – smile.

Luv,

Sissy.

www.portlandspirit.com/

Mutton buster coming out of the chute; photo by Jan Jackson

… and hopefully, the kids have some dare devil in them.

Can you imagine riding bareback on a sheep that wishes you weren’t there?

The child sits on the back of the sheep, the rodeo gate opens and they come tearing out. The kid that manages to hold on and stay on the leaping fleecy thing the longest, gets the prize.

In the beginning, they used to hold the Mutton Bustin’ between events but, now they are so popular that they are the event.

Want to try it?  Well, to compete, you have to be under six, weigh less than 60 pounds and wear a helmet.

You go first – smile.

Luv,

Sissy

The Willamette Queen sailing the Willamette River near Salem; photo by Jan Jackson.

… when you can see the Willamette Queen paddling about. Reminiscent of the early river days when sternwheeler traffic was commercial and commonplace, the Willamette Queen only carries tourists.

The Queen, built in Newport Oregon in 1990 (it was called The Newport Belle), was meant to give tours on Yaquina Bay. However, the bulky twin paddle wheeler did not do well in strong coastal winds, so it was sold and brought inland.

If you are in or around Salem, check their schedule at www.willamettequeen.com. Oh, and one more thing. Happy sailing.

Luv,

Sissy

Riding along Astoria's waterfront is for everyone; photo by Jan Jackson

… This is the year to keep an eye on Astoria, because it is turning 200 years old and when you turn 200, you need watching.  Since this is only the second 200-year celebration Oregon has had (the first one was in 2005 when we celebrated the arrival of Lewis and Clark), and since it may be awhile before we have another one, you won’t want to miss it.

UPCOMING EVENTS

You can find out more at http://www.astoria200.org/

Luv,

Sissy

During its 7-day cruise, the Queen of the West docks in Rainier, Oregon, where it offers passengers an optional motor coach tour to Mt. St. Helens; photo by Jan Jackson

… leaves Portland, cruises to Astoria and then comes back to sail through the Columbia River Gorge to the twin cities of Lewiston, Idaho and Clarkston, Washington. In case you think Lewiston and Clarkston have traces of Lewis and Clark in their names, you would be right.

The 230-foot Queen, has just come out of a multi-million dollar renovation that gave it larger staterooms, new carpet and a new library. The first overnight passenger paddle wheeler to be built and operated in the west in 80 years, was designed to showcase the forested riverbanks and small towns of the Pacific Northwest.

It is a might spiffy way to enjoy the Columbia and Snake Rivers. Yes, yes, indeed it is.

Luv,

Sissy

http://www.americancruiselines.com/schedules.php?act=schedule&dest_id=47

PHOENIX, OREGON was named after the Phoenix Insurance Company of Hartford, Connecticut, not the Arizona town.

NASHVILLE OREGON was named after an early settler, not the home of the Grand Ole Opry.

ST. LOUIS, OREGON was named after a log church that was built by settlers in 1845. Like St. Louis, Missouri, the parish was christened after the 13^th-century French king, Louis IX.

MT. VERNON, OREGON  was not named for George Washington’s Virginia plantation but in honor of a prized black stallion owned by an early settler.

MADRAS, OREGON was not named for the city in India, but for the cotton fabric that comes from the Chennai region around the city. The cloth was sold in a local store in 1903.

I think that’s a hoot – smile.

Luv,

Sissy

Because their status is now considered stable, Darlingtonia californica (also called the cobra lilies), were displayed for the first time; photo by Jan Jackson

GLIDE, Ore. – Though the Glide Wildflower Show is pushing 50, the volunteers who run it today are as hot for botany as the ones who started it. The event that began in 1965 with a one-woman collection, continues today with a veritable army of volunteers who collect, identify, label, arrange and interpret the public display. Because the weather and seasons are never the same, the 600 plus species on display each year are different too. Open to school groups and photographers, the show attracts wildflower enthusiasts from all over the world.

Jeannie Moore, a native Oregonian who moved to Douglas County following World War II, is one of the original people still volunteering for the show. Just days before the annual event, she and dozens of others like her, travel the southwestern part of Oregon in search of specimens. Once gathered, they then spend long hours preparing them for public display. In between directing the activities involved with identifying and displaying the plants, Moore talked about the show’s origins.

OSU Botanist Dan Luoma, further identifies a moss in preparation for the opening day of the 2011 Glide Wildflower Show; photo by Jan Jackson

“We owned the Steamboat Inn fishing lodge, and when I could get out of the kitchen and walk in the woods along the North Umpqua River, I did it,” Moore said of her beginning interest in wildflowers. “A friend joined me one day and as we walked, she calmly identified five different kinds of violets.  Right then and there, I realized there were things along those trails that I was not seeing and I began to look closer. One thing led to another and nearly 50 years later, I’m still here working with them.”

By Moore’s account, the show started in 1965 as a fund-raising effort for the Glide

Jeanne Moore, current Council Chair of the Glide Wildflower Show, prepares native plants for display; photo by Jan Jackson.

Community Club, when  Reggie Miller (North Umpqua Garden Club member), collected 71 specimens around her home on Buckhorn Road, arranged them in vases and labeled them with botanical and common names. The benefit was held in the newly opened Idleyld Lodge, and 35 people came.  The next year it was held in here in the Glide Community Hall with 91 specimens. By the third year, volunteers helped gather and feature 191 varieties and the guest list zoomed to 400 people. Proceeds from the event cover show expenses,  while profits from the food concession fund scholarships for local Glide High School students. The show continues to thrill newcomers and returning visitors alike.

And as a reminder from the late Reggie Miller, “Wildflowers are often abundant, but

For more information, visit www.glidewildflowershow.org.

- Jan Jackson ©2011 – See Jan Jackson’s Bio

Charlotte Laport and Alex Hussey pose in one of the smaller Lord & Schryver garden areas at Deepwood Historic Estate; photo by Jan Jackson.

… is a perfect place to take photos of your favorite people.  The gardens that draw tourists, history buffs and of course gardeners, and are full of wonderful nooks and crannies, mossy steps and stylish staircases that make perfect places to pose your subjects. In fact, you are only a few steps from the creek and there are some great posing places there too.

Throughout their 40 years of practice, the Northwest’s first female landscape architecture firm Lord & Schryver,  designed more than 250 domestic, civic and institutional landscapes throughout the Northwest. Among them in the vicinity of Salem are areas around Bush Barn Art Center and Bush House Museum, Historic Deepwood Estate, Pringle Park, and their home garden on Mission Street SE.

Designed  during the 1930’s, the Deepwood gardens are living testaments to Edith Schryver’s maxim:

“Order is beauty and beauty is order. But, too much neatness with out careless grace does not produce charm.”

This place has beauty  AND charm – smile.

Luv,

Sissy

www.historicdeepwoodestate.org/historic/estate/salem_oregon/C4?

Bingham's stock dogs perched on his ATV; photo by Ellen Morris Bishop

Sometimes, when the tectonic plates of the rural/urban divide bump into each other—a teachable moment occurs.

Our moment came when my wife and I agreed to host a class of Portland city kids from the Oregon Museum of Science and Industry’s [OMSI] Camp Hancock at our ranch. To their counselor’s credit, she was using our ranch as a visual aide showing the youngsters how the meat on their table isn’t hatched in a plastic wrapper at their local grocery store.

On the big day, a half dozen large passenger vans and a couple camp pickups arrived at our gate. At that moment, the population of our tiny ranching community doubled when 45 sixth graders—plus adult chaperones—hopped out.

The van-bound children spotted our stock dogs and ran in that direction. The dogs, intimidated by the charging horde, were doing their best to hide behind my wife on the back of her ATV.

“Maybe we should move a little slower,” my wife announced in a voice pitched to carry across rimrock canyons, “these dogs have never seen this many people in our driveway.”

The kids slowed and the dogs relaxed—a little bit.

During a general tour, we got the usual  big city kid type questions:

“How many animals do you have?”

“Do they all have names?”

“Can we pet them?”

Patiently, we explained the animals are livestock and have absolutely no interest in being cuddled by children.

Possibly the best comment came during the sheep shearing demonstration. One of the girls spotted an ear tag on a ram and exclaimed loudly:

“Oh look, that one still has its price tag!”

We did our best at not laughing, then explained how it’s important for a rancher to keep track of family groups and their genetics.

However, one of the chaperones, a former sheep rancher from Tasmania, got frustrated with snide remarks and giggles as a wriggling ram produced a few pebbles of manure for everyone to see.

“Is there any one of you who doesn’t do that?” he said.

An embarrassed silence descended like a air-born desert dust over the kids.

We moved the tour across the barnyard. Then my wife fielded the question we’d wondered if someone would ask:

“How can you stand to kill your animals for meat?” someone asked.

My wife, without batting an eye, said, “You kill a carrot when you eat it, don’t you?”

Once again, silence reigned as the youngsters processed this information—then, one by one, light bulbs of understanding began going on over their heads as they worked through the details.

By mid-afternoon, kids, adults, livestock, and stockdogs, were wearing out. The youngsters loaded into the vans and returned to Camp Hancock in a cloud of dust. The population of our tiny ranching community dropped back to normal.

As the vans disappeared down the road, our dogs relaxed and fell asleep in the shade. Worn out from the encounter, my wife and I tottered to the house and took a nap in our chairs. For us, it was quite a day, but maybe something good happened. Some of those children will have a better idea how food ends up on their plate.

Perhaps that information will help them all have their own teachable moments.

Bing Bingham is a writer, rancher and storyteller. If you have a story to pass along, contact him at www.bing@bingbingham.com.

Vernon Herrick, owner of Herrick Farms in Springfield, not only donated the plants that Oregon State Grange members used to help teach children where their food comes from but helped the kids plant them; photo by Jan Jackson.

… give Ag Fest  a blue ribbon for coming up with such a good way to find out how virtually everything you wear and eat starts on a farm.

For two full days, Oregon farmers, bee keepers, sheep growers, organizations like the Grange and the Farm Bureau, producers of all kinds (members of Oregon Dairy Women and the like), all converge on the Oregon State Fairgrounds and invite entire families to take part.

Kids are digging potatoes, eating ice cream cones (it’s made from milk you know), and planting seeds, tomatoes and marigolds (just to name a few things). They  pet baby chicks, spin wool by hand and race miniature pedal tractors around a track.  The booths are crammed and the passageways between the booths are crowded with people of ALL ages ALL learning things they didn’t know.

If you don’t have a year-in-advance calendar, buy one and put this event on it – smile. Last weekend of April, sure as shootin’. Check it out at www.oragfest.com.

Luv,

Sissy

A thank you to remember; photo by Jan Jackson

… Right in the middle of this small historic town of 200 people (located between Roseburg and Reedsport), is Tomaselli’s Pastry Mill & Cafe. Entering the restaurant, you come face-to-face with an aggressive bank of pastries. The first thing out of your lips is, “Oh my.”

You continue on in, find a table and pick up a menu. You order a sensible breakfast  (oh come on, homemade corn beef hash and two eggs over easy is sensible). Not for one minute do you forget about the bakery.

As you get ready to leave, you realize that one of your party has sneaked over to the  pastry counter and is buying something. He shares. It’s to-die-for.

But, everything turns out OK, because as you leave the premise, there it is – right on the wall by the door. A thank you for not dieting. Those are my kind of people.

Luv,

Sissy

Wall of Water public fountain at Oregon State Capitol Park in Salem; photo by Morris Pike.

…now that’s a thought. Actually, for the past three years it has been Oregon’s most used park.

I didn’t know until the Statesman Journal (thanks Dennis Thompson Jr.),  that the 25 acres of greenery, fountains, trees, statuary and the five big buildings that form the Capitol Mall, became an urban state park in January 2008. And, unlike most state parks, it has wide-open access 24-hours a day, 365 days a year.

So, if you work for the state and someone says,”Oh, where do you work?” The answer is, at the Capitol State Park in Salem.

Just in case you heard it here first, you’re welcome – smile.

Luv,

Sissy

Obsolete wigwam waste-wood burner in Drain, Oregon; photo by Jan Jackson

… out of the thousand or so obsolete waste-wood burners Oregon started out with, there are only about 50 left.

If you should be lucky enough to spot one, it would be good for you to know that these free-standing conical steel structures (ranging from 30 to 60 feet high) were used to burn waste wood in logging yards and sawdust in sawmills.  However, even though their tops were covered with a steel grill or mesh, the smoke and ash they produced into the air was too much.

Since they were legally banned in Oregon (they were taken out of use in the 1970s), we have since developed a use for wood waste as a component in various forest products such as particle board, paper and mulch as well as a burning process that produces steam to make heat and/or electricity.

The burner pictured is located between Drain and I-5 (take Exit 162) near the town of Drain. For those of you who have a deeper interest in wigwam burners, visit the blog site of the new Oregon Wigwam Burners Association:

http://jaycritchley.com/2010/11/11/oregon-wigwam-burners-association-formed/

If there are 50 left in Oregon, then I have one down and 49 to go. Where oh where are the rest of them? Let me know and I’ll shoot ‘em – smile.

Luv,

Sissy

Colliding Rivers, in Glide Oregon, is the only place in the world where two rivers meet head on; photo by Marvin Kellar.

… and you can see it big as life in the photo on the right.  The photographer was standing on the highway bridge looking down at the swift, deep waters of the North Umpqua River where it funnels into a water chute and meet the rapids of sparkling Little River head-on.

The viewpoint includes a newly constructed rest area and comfort station, plus several interpretive panels about the area. Located just off Highway #138 at Glide, 18 miles east of Roseburg and across the street from Colliding Rivers Visitors Center.

The only place in the world. If you don’t see it in Glide Oregon (population 1600 or so), you aren’t going to see it.

Luv,

Sissy

Dandelions growing at Colliding Rivers Viewpoint in Glide Oregon; photo by Jan Jackson

… too many dandelions in your lawn? Well maybe it’s time to make dandelion wine from the blossoms, or coffee from the roots, or tea from the leaves, or… or… or – smile.

Historians say the dandelion came over on the Mayflower because of their beauty and because they have so many uses (yes, on purpose). Get this – gardeners used to weed out the grass to make room for them.

So dear gardener, before you reach for the Round-up®, you might want to read The Ten Things You Might Not Know About Dandelions at:

http://www.mofga.org/Default.aspx?tabid=756

Or, skip right to the wine recipes at:

http://winemaking.jackkeller.net/dandelio.asp

Oh and something else. The name dandelion comes from the Old French dentdelion, literally, “tooth of the lion,” referring to the sharply indented leaves of the plant. The earliest recorded instance of the word occurs in an herbal written in 1373, but we find an instance of dandelion used in a proper name (Willelmus Dawndelyon) in a document dated 1363.

So, that’s it.

Luv,

Sissy

Willamette Valley Fruit company, located in farmland between Salem and Silverton Oregon; photo courtesy Willamette Valley Fruit Company.

Local pies from local fruit

SALEM, Ore. – Berry pie lovers who are looking for fresh, should grab a slice from Willamette Valley Fruit Company. Grown by local farmers within an eight mile radius of the processing plant and harvested at night by local farmers, the fruit is on its way to the freezer by morning.

Willamette Valley Fruit Company, was started in 1999 by two area farmers bent on being able to control the quality of their own product. Operations began in a shed in the back of one of their homes. Today, the company is a year-round operation that ships fresh frozen cane berries to wholesalers, small food distributors and retail stores all over the world. WVFC also has an onsite state-of-the-art kitchen where pies (among other sweet things) are made.

Pie manager comes up through the ranks

Marlene Gunderson-Teuscher, who manages the company’s pie operation, has been with the company since shortly after it started. A native Oregonian whose mother taught her how to bake, cook, stock the salad bar and wash dishes at an early age, found her food industry background a perfect fit for working at Willamette Valley Fruit Company.

Working together in the pie-baking kitchen, workers can make as many as 1500 to 1600 pies a day; photo by Jan Jackson.

“I was looking for part-time work 11-years ago and fell into this job,” Marlene said. “When I started, we were working in a house. I was boxing 60 pies a day two days a week. Today, I oversee crews of 20, on one to three shifts who make as many as 1500 to 1600 pies a shift.”

Upon entering the company store, the first thing a visitor sees is the viewing window that looks into the pie-baking kitchen. A crew of cross-trained workers, many of whom have been with the company 10 years, are busy doing what they do best – assembling pies. Each person in the assembly line, completes a single task starting with making the pie dough to the final hand-fluted edges that signals the pie is ready for the freezer/oven.

“We don’t stockpile, so customers get fresh product,” Marlene said. “We are right across the driveway from our own berry source and we do our own local deliveries so we are able to keep an eye on the freezer and only replace what is going out. Large distributor quantities are made to order.”

Marlene Gunderson-Teuscher, manages the pie operation for Willamette Valley Fruit Company; photo by Jan Jackson.

The plant, which operates 24-7 June through September and as needed the rest of the year, is not open to the public. However, by making advanced reservations, groups can tour the pie kitchen.

Lunches and tours

“We host one or two tours a week,” said Deborah Moen, a longtime manager. “We host a variety of groups from retirement homes and groups like the Red Hat Society to school field trips. And, with our kid-friendly viewing window and outdoor playground equipment, a lot of mothers find it a great place to shop.

“We’ve grown slowly and even though we have our own u-pick fields about a block away, we are still looking forward to adding u-pick fields across the street and  perhaps a CSA (Community Supported Agriculture) Program.”

Summer events include live entertainment,  barbecues, sprinkler days and outdoor movie nights. The annual Harvest Festival takes center stage in fall and is packed with activities from our corn maze to our pumpkin patch.

“This time of year, it’s simply a great place to shop, have lunch and a big piece of Marionberry pie,” Deborah said.

For more information, visit www.wvfco.com

-Jan Jackson ©2011 – See Jan Jackson’s Bio

Mt. Hood looms on the horizon as an ocean going vessel sits in dry dock in the Willamette River; photo by Jan Jackson

.. Not exactly as easy as going in for a lube job, you can still sail a ship up (or down) the Columbia River, hang a right (or left) into the Willamette River and put in for repairs. If you haven’t seen the big ships in the Port of Portland’s dry dock at Swan Island, check out the tours and events offered by Portland’s Working Waterfront Coalition – things about ships and barges and the like.

They have a lot of amazing things to tell you about.

Luv,

Sissy

<http://www.workingwaterfrontportland.org/events_tours.shtml>.

A black bear sleeps at the Washington Park Zoo in Portland, Oregon; photo by Jan jackson

… though I don’t think it looks it. The zoo has certainly come a long way  from its humble beginnings in the back of a drugstore on Third & Morrison Streets in downtown Portland. My, my. Fast forward. Can’t  you just see a zoo in the back of Rite-Aid today?

I don’t think the sleeping black bear in this photo has a clue that he is sleeping in place of  historic significance. You see, it was here, in 1887, that Portland park keeper Charles Meyers constructed the zoo’s first sunken, barless cage in the world to house grizzly and Alaskan bears.

There you have it – smile.

Luv,

Sissy

Chapter 1

For a long time, Toby Pig had been nurturing a dream of escaping his pigpen.  He first wanted to run wild for a while and after that, get the animals of Klamath National Forest near Ashland Oregon, together for a festival. Well maybe not a festival. That’s too uppity. But a parade or a circus would work…  a spectacle. And, not one organized and run by bigs (that’s what his animal friends called humans).  No, this show would be produced, written and directed by animals…well actually, he would do it all himself.  The others could be in it, but the production would have his hoof prints all over it.

Once he got running wild out of his system, which didn’t take long, he turned his attention to his spectacle. He would call it, Toby’s Greatest Show in the Forest.

He’d shared his idea with no one except his friends Richard Raven and Happy Dog. Happy Dog disagreed with him.

“No, not a spectacle,” the frisky dog said. “It should be a ‘play-like’… well, an ‘act-like’! Bigs tell stories about themselves… our production ought to let animals tell stories about themselves.”

“My production!” Toby corrected, “It’s my spectacle.”

“And birds… don’t forget birds,” Richard Raven said, “They have stories too.”

“It’s a spectacle!” Toby insisted, “Toby’s Greatest Show in the Forest. It will dazzles the eyes.”

That was last week.

Chapter 2

As the mid-afternoon sun warmed the thatch covering of the Old Globe Theater, Toby Pig trotted past the ticket booth with Richard Raven riding on his back.

It was clear to Toby, that a company of bigs was in the midst of presenting, what the precocious, domesticated pig called a spectacle.

Bold letters on a billboard in front of the Old Globe Theater read, “Two Gentlemen of Verona.” Spurts of laughter coming from the large wooden structure meant that the show was in progress.

“Fly up there and have a look… see if you can spot Happy Dog,” Toby said to Richard. “Bigs won’t let a live pig in the seeing room… well a ham maybe… but not a real live pig like me. But you… you can fly to the rafters and see what’s going on.”

“Why?” Richard asked shifting his weight and smoothing his shinny feathers. “What’s Happy Dog doing in there?”

“He got himself a part in the human show,” Toby said. “I asked him to learn secrets I might use in Toby’s Greatest Show in the Forest.”

“Greatest Show… that’s beyond me,” Richard said pecking at a pesky bug crawling on his back.

“Stick around and you’ll see…” Toby said confidently. “I gotta know… get going before you miss him.”

“You domesticates confuse me… I don’t get it, but… got nothing better to do,” Richard said hopping from Toby’s back and taking to the air.

“He plays Crab,” Toby yelled watching Richard disappear above the thatched roof on the famous theatre structure.

The sleek raven settled on one of the large wooden support beams of the “tiring house.” A matinee of the famous play was in progress. Richard could see the act-likes walking about a platform waving their arms and yelling at one another.

Richard was uncomfortable with his assignment. He knew nothing about acting and less about the strange ritual bigs endured telling their ancient stories. His discomfort was compounded by the fact that Hap was a domesticated animal, which meant he spent a lot of time learning the habits and ways of humans, while wild birds like him avoided close contact  as much as possible. Nevertheless, Richard had agreed to watch the action and tell Toby what he saw.

Chapter 3

A stir of music rose from the stage. Richard saw an actor dressed in weird plumage, leading a dog into the performing area. It was Hap. Richard almost let out a caw… but caught himself just in time. The performers came to a spot on the platform near the bigs watching in the audience, and stopped. Hap, with a solemn look on his face, sat down on his haunches and looked at the spectators.

The weeping actor spent several moments looking back and forth at Hap, then the spectators. The audience laughed — and continued to laugh. Finally, the actor spoke, “Nah, ‘t will be this hour ere I have done weeping…” More laughter.

Richard didn’t understand most of the words, but he wondered why the actor was weeping. Since Hap had such a sour look on his face, he thought Hap must also be wondering why the actor was weeping.

The weeping actor continued, “… I think Crab my dog, be the sourest-natured dog that lives,” (laughter from the audience), “… my mother weeping,” (laughter), “… my father wailing,” (laughter), “… my sister crying,” (laughter), “… our maid howling,” (laughter), “… our cat wringing her hands,” (laughter), “… and all our house in a great perplexity,” (laughter). The actor pausing for more laughter and looking at Hap said, “… yet did not this cruel-hearted cur shed one tear,” (laughter), “… he is a stone,” (laughter), “… a very pebble stone, and has no more pity in him than a dog.” Uproarious laughter.

Richard had seen enough to give Toby his report. He waited for another flurry of laughter, flapped his huge wings and took flight into the damp coolness of the nearby woods where Toby Pig sat contemplating the opening number of the Toby’s Greatest Show in the Klamath National Forest.

Chapter 4

“I know what I know,” Toby Pig squealed nose to nose with Happy Dog. “I know a thing or two… two plus two’s four… You can’t just sit there like a stone… is that what you said Richard? … Isn’t it?”

“Yeah, like a stone,” Richard agreed. “That’s what the act-like big said… A stone… a very pebble.”

“Well, we’re putting on a spectacle… not… what do you call it… a play?” Toby said. “So don’t tell me what will work and what won’t.”

“Yeah, and your great-grandfather were “The Learned Pigs” I suppose,” Happy Dog goaded pulling away from Toby’s sizable snout. “Since you know so much about it, tell me why I went to all the trouble to be Crab in the big’s play? You think being a sour-faced dog was fun?”

Richard laughed, “You sure didn’t look like you were having fun to me… You didn’t’ look like your happy self,” and turning to Toby added,  “You should have heard the master big’s words … He said Crab was ‘the sourest-faced dog that lives’.”

“I wasn’t myself… I was acting,” Happy Dog informed.

“Well, if acting like a stone is what acting is, then acting isn’t what I need in Toby’s Greatest Show in Klamath National Forest,” Toby said emphatically and chided, “How about being a spectacular, dancing dog? Yes… That’s more like it,” Toby enthused, “or better yet, get your pack of friends to do it with you. It could be a whole line of dancing dogs.”

He paused giving himself time to think and then rising in excitement added, “But not just dancing dogs… learned pigs solving riddles,” Toby puffed. “Come to think of it” he continued, “I do come from a whole line of learned pigs… and a learned pig can pull it off… Toby Pig’s Greatest Show in the Forest,” he bragged poking Happy and nudging Richard’s bill once more. “Think of it… a muscled brown bear balancing delicately on a vine, stretched tight high between those hemlocks over there,” Toby concluded pointing to a stand of evergreen trees nearby.

“Yeah sure, and a spindly legged weightlifting crane pressing weights with it’s beak hard enough to snap a pine post into splinters!” Happy said, “That’d bring in spectators, wouldn’t it?”

“Why not?” Toby challenged. “Or a chorus of rainbow-tailed peacocks preening against a forest green backdrop… dazzling the eyes.”

Happy, cocked his head and paused to give Toby’s visual time to sink in. “That would be something to see,” he said warming to the idea of Toby’s spectacle. “We’ll need a band though, won’t we?” Happy asked wagging his tail. “The bigs always have them in their shows.”

“Yeah… a band… an orchestra with singers… and that’s MY idea…” Toby chided. “You ever hear Delilah Mockingbird run an arpeggio… both ways?… I’ll sign her, for sure.”

“How about the Magpie sisters? Ever hear them sing?” Richard asked finally catching on and warming to the idea of an animal/bird extravaganza? “Or a crow family quartet? You know, Jess, Jimmy, George and Jack, The Jay brothers?”

Toby scoffed sarcastically, “Yeah sure… a bunch of crows cavorting among the leaves and caterwauling against the sky… that would bring them in.”

“Okay… mockingbirds then,” Richard conceded and added hopefully, “and maybe, Charles and Silvia Canary… wouldn’t that work?”

Toby squealed in delight. “I thought you said I was crazy… writing, producing and directing the greatest show on earth,” He gloated and without waiting for Richard’s response added, “You stick to cawing and I’ll take care of the artistry.”

“Well, you can’t do it all… Can you?” Happy protested coming to Richard’s defense, “You’ll need a talent scout.”

“I do the casting but I’ll need someone to hold the script,” Toby conceded.

“That’s the stage manager’s job,” Hap informed and added, “Hey, what about coaching the acting?… I know about that.”

“You know about being a sour-faced dog…  and if that’s acting, my spectacle doesn’t need it. It doesn’t need a sour-faced anything,” Toby grunted.

“I’m not a sour-faced dog… I was acting like a sour-faced dog. There’s a difference.” After seeing Toby’s scowl, he added, “That’s what the part called for…” he went on hopefully, “I can act like any kind of dog you want. How about a grinning, acrobatic dog that dances on his hind legs, while balancing a ball on his nose?”

” That’s more like a spectacle,” Toby said mulling the idea.

“And I’ll bet I can get the woodpeckers to add drumming accompaniment to the dances.” Happy said hopefully.

“I’ll get the orchestra and conduct it,” Toby said, “I’m thinking… I can’t leave anything to chance… the wolves have to howl like French horns at just the right instant and with the right intonation.”

“Well… okay then… do it all yourself… we thought we could help,” Happy said wagging his tail and motioning for Richard to join him. “I’m off to look over the part of a dog who becomes emperor of a tiny village… there’s drama there, wouldn’t you say? Or maybe I’ll just go annoy the ducks down in Rogue River… do a little barking, you know.”

“I’m not much for barking,” Richard said hopping into flight and hovering above his two friends, “But I will go get Rusty Eagle. He’ll get a kick out of this.”

“Rusty Eagle?… hummmm… a whole bunch of eagles… wings fully spread… impressive… spectacular. Okay then, but come back tomorrow morning!” Toby called after his friends. “Rehearsals start promptly at sunrise.”

Chapter 5

The next morning, as the yellow sun peeked over the green hills, Toby Pig stood in place atop a big stump. Happy Dog sat on his haunches on one side and Rusty Eagle stood on the other. Richard Raven perched watching not far away atop a scrubby alder. Beyond him, was a flock of noisy warblers and a bit farther yet a group of brightly colored kingfishers. Several ospreys hovered in the air nearby watching and waiting for a chance to do their hop-up number.

A hubbub of excitement filled the air around the large assortment of animals and birds milled around the grassy meadow awaiting instructions.

“Impressive!” Rusty Eagle said and asked, “How’d you get the word out?”

“Word of mouth… my mouth to Mazy Magpie’s ears and voila… everyone knew,” Toby bragged.

“What did you tell her?” Rusty quizzed. “Must have been powerful words to get this turnout.”

Toby emitted an oink. “You’ll laugh…” he said, then continued,  “I said, ‘Rusty Eagle says there’ll be a giant spectacle at sunrise… everyone will be there! Don’t miss it!”

“Oh, I get credit for this, do I?” Rusty asked not totally pleased.

“You think they would bother to come for Toby Pig?  Nah… But Rusty Eagle!”

“Well since it’s my credibility you’re messing with now, it better be good,” Rusty cautioned.

“My fine feathered friend, it’s “Toby’s Greatest Show in the Forest,” Toby enthused. “It’s spectacle, Rusty. It’s a parade. Who can pass up a parade?”

“Has it ever been done?”  Rusty asked.

“Bigs do it all the time,” Toby replied, “It’s time we animals did it, right Happy?”

“Yeah, it is,” Happy replied, “And they tell their stories too. I think we should tell our stories… like a coyote blowing the helpless pig’s house down. That has conflict… it’s dramatic.”

“No! The sourest-faced dog that lives…’ That’s not funny… I’ll have none of that… It’s spectacle… that’s what we are going to do,” Toby rejected.

“Why not both?” Rusty asked. “If my reputation is at stake, we’d better do it all,” Rusty affirmed. “You know Toby, it’s pretty amazing persuading the domesticates and the wilds to gather like this?  Pretty amazing. Congratulations!”

There was a moment of silence while everyone watched Toby puff up with pride. .

Then, Rusty said, “So Happy where do you begin? What’s your story?”

“Wait a minute,” Toby cried, “I’m producer, director, talent scout and playwright,” he protested.

Rusty laughed, “That would be a spectacle in itself to watch you pull all those jobs off at once. Mr. producer, writer, director performer and crew, you’re going to need a lot of help from a lot of your friends to make it work.”

“Yeah, Toby,” Happy agreed. “Richard and I want to help too… I can coach the acting.”

Chapter 6

Rusty laughed and surveying the menagerie of animals with his wing said, “Antelopes, eagles, bears, coyotes, deer, dippers, herons, kingfishers, mountain lions, osprey, falcons, raccoons, warblers, waterfowl of all sorts, even wild horses. Where are you going to begin? Whose story are you going to tell first?”

“I think we should start with a big who puts on a set of wings and tries to fly to the sun,” Richard said chuckling at the notion that bigs could fly.

“No!… no bigs!” Toby said emphatically.  After a slight pause he added, “A big flying into the sun would be a spectacle, though.”

“How about a classy dog that risks his life by rushing into a burning hut to rescue his big master?” Hap suggested.

“No!” Toby grunted, “I mean how are you going to show that?” He paused to take in the image before saying, “But… that would be a spectacle.”

“How about a story about an eagle who likes to soar with hang-gliders?” Rusty said.

“Hang-glider? That must be how the bigs fly into the sun!” Richard observed.

“A hang-glider and an eagle soaring together… that would be spectacular…” Toby noted and asked, “You want to do that, Rusty?”

“Sure, I can soar or find a powerful eagle who can…” Rusty said taking to the idea. He paused and chuckled before asking, “Who’s going to get a big brave enough to hang-glide with me?”

“Hap, you can do that, can’t you?” Toby noted.  “Maybe get your master to do it… if he can’t, maybe get someone with a hang-glider to do it?”

“So you are going to let bigs be a part of Toby’s Greatest Show in the Forest after all?” Hap teased.

“If you can get your master to find a hang-glider, I might,” Toby conceded.

“And you’re asking us to help?” Hap jabbed.

“Alright,” Toby conceded, “for that one number. Listen, I’m going to start with the five pig number.” He turned toward the gathered birds and animals, lifted his megaphone and shouted, “Which one of you is Wee-wee-wee-all-the-way-home?”

A hush fell over the animals. They eyed one another with perplexed looks. It was clear that they didn’t know who Wee-wee-wee-all-the-way-home was.

Happy said, “Without a script they don’t know what to do. You have to give them scripts.”

Rusty, shuffling his weight and ruffling his feathers suggested, “Why don’t you appoint one managing coach from each group and tell them what you want. The coaches can take it from there…”

“Maybe so…” Toby interrupted.

“And listen,” Rusty continued. “Richard Raven can coach the birds with their stories, Happy Dog can coach the domesticated animals with their stories and I’ll coach the wild animals with their stories. That way you, Toby, can concern yourself with the Tableau Vivant.”

“The what?” Toby, Happy and Richard said together.

“Tableau Vivant… the arrangement, the order and so forth… the overall picture… the big story!”

“Oh,” Toby said still not totally understanding.

“Cows… mine can be about a big who traded a cow for some beans,” Happy enthused.

“Mine about an ugly duck,” Richard said, “and a raven rapping at a door… evermore.”

“Good!” Rusty said, “now, go find a leader from each group and bring them here for instructions… don’t you think, Toby?”

“Yeah, bring them here so I can give them their scripts,” Toby said confidently. “Get going.”

Richard and Rusty took to the air and Happy jumped to the ground and scampered toward the open meadow.

Chapter 7

Toby found a cool spot out of the sun where he could lie down and think.  He didn’t know where he was going to get scripts… “They’ll have to improvise,” he concluded. “How to begin?” he thought.

Rusty hadn’t mentioned peacocks, but there were some in the crowd of  birds. The splendor of spread tails leading the parade, appealed to him. They would be instructed to emit a blood-curdling scream a regular intervals. ‘That’s dramatic,” Toby said to himself.

The screams of the peacocks would segue into the gobble gobble of turkeys strutting like kings to the regular drum beat of woodpeckers pounding hollow trees in the nearby forest. Then would come a regiment of raccoons (looking like gangsters). “More story,” Toby thought. “Maybe that will satisfy Happy.”

All the while, warblers, canaries, mockingbirds and other melodious singers would fill the air with an orchestrated background of sounds. Next, maybe the wild horses or coyotes… Toby’s eyes drooped and his mind fragmented as he faded into sleep.

Chapter 8

The next day all the elements of  Toby’s Greatest Show in The Forest were in place in the woods just south of Ashland. When the humans living in the southern sector of the town heard the noises created by the animals and birds, they quickly spread the word  to other bigs and groups of them gathered along a road not far from the staging area and parade route to observe what was happening.

Toby found it painful to swallow his pride and admit that Happy was right. His spectacle, was indeed, going to be better with the addition of dramatic stories improvised by several of the animal and bird groups. His friends were right, too. He did need help… lots of it.

Chapter 9

Deloris Dove took on the task of inspecting what everyone was wearing. Happy Dog tried to get her to add dramatic touches to costumes, but, for the menagerie of birds and animals, the costumes they were born with were perfect. Deloris complained that she didn’t have enough to do, but in the end she was content to be a part of the spectacle.

Perry Peregrine Falcon led an orchestra and chorus of singing birds and bellowing animals. The trombone roar of the mountain lions was particularly impressive sending shudders down the spines of the antelope causing them to emit percussive snorts. The tuba growl of the bears provided a counter-melody to the lion’s roar, while deer added a syncopated bleat to the jazzy movements of a line of cows doing the Jersey shuffle. The howl of dozens of coyotes rose like the mournful taunt of French horns above the prevailing body of sounds.

Muscled Brown Bear did a tight vine-walk between two tall hemlock trees. The bigs cleared the way under the stretched rope for fear the big bear might fall. But he didn’t.

Other bears presented a tableau of four bears seated at a table eating soup. A group of Billy goats, led by Oscar Goat, challenged Wilma Deer as she tried to cross the bridge and pass to the other side. Ricky Raccoon tried to hold up Wilber Wild Horse. That encounter served as comic relief.

Geraldine Golden Eagle tried to pass herself off as the Little Red Hen. That too was comical. Gloria Dipper lost her slipper on her way home from a ball and Jack Coyote tried to disguise himself as a fox so he could raid Ellie Bald Eagle’s nest. That was comical too. It only took one side-ways glance from Ellie to send Jack scurrying for cover.

That day the woods near the small Oregon town were filled with all the sights and sounds you would expect from Toby’s Greatest Show in the Forest. The festivities lasted for most of one day.

It was indeed a spectacle for the bigs living in Ashland. They’d only seen such convocations of animals and birds in zoos and circus settings (where wild and domesticated animals and birds are trained to interact). A couple of town leaders suggested the animal bird show be added as an option for Shakespearean Festival attendees. Wiser voices prevailed however, claiming that the wonderful spectacle/drama should be left to the animals and birds.

“It’s a ripping success!” Rusty Eagle said, when the forest quieted down and the sun had disappeared beneath the treetops to the west. “Thanks Toby, for thinking it up and pulling it off. It was a great day.”

“I thought it was a success too,” Richard said, “It was a hoot.”

Happy Dog emitted an approving bark and added, “Let’s do it again next year… what do you say, Toby?”

“Yeah, I liked it,” Toby said. “With your help… I couldn’t have done it without your help. Maybe next time we’ll call it ‘The Greatest Ashland Animal and Bird Show in the Forest.”

- M. Russell Pike  ©2011 – See M. Russell Pike’s bio

Native Oregon bumblebee; photo by Larry D. Rea

… they are getting scarce. But, you can try and photograph them like this one from Larry Rea (man, this nature photographer  knows both his birds and his bees – smile). Larry says it is so cold the bees aren’t really out yet but in the best interest of every blooming thing in Oregon, they will be.

So, in the words of my poetic self:

“Bumblebees buzzing by

Faster than the butterfly,

Through the balmy summer sky

Help the flowers multiply.”

You heard it here.

Luv,

Sissy

Teri Gilbert and Zebra I are ready to travel anywhere in ...Oregon; photo by Jan Jackson

…and one call to TEC Tours & Travel will get you on board.

Teri Gilbert, who has been in the retail travel business more than 30 years, owns and operates the 15-passenger Zebra I that’s available for small group tours throughout the state of Oregon. The small coach is stocked with beverages, snacks, zebra-print lap robes and umbrellas (just in case it you know whats). Her ability to outguess your every need is unique.

Teri’s new office makes it all the easier for you to book your air, cruise, train or any other vacation package you’ve thought about.

You can find her published Oregon tours at www.tectours.com and she is just a phone call away for help to get anywhere in the world. Visit her at 3700 River Rd N, Suite 6 in Keizer, email Teri@tectours.com or call her at 503-390-8232 or 888-841-1240.

Renee Stoops, environmental horticulturist and director of the Sustainable Plant Research and Outreach Center, stands along the off-road nature trail that loops around the upper wetlands; photo by Jan Jackson

SILVERTON, Ore. – The Oregon Garden is not just another pretty place. Home to more than one-hundred bird species, a variety of wild animals, a small but highly skilled team of horticultural professionals and a dedicated group of educational partners, the project showcases some of the best things Oregonians hold dear. It is a place with many one-of-a-kind collections of trees, plants, blossoms, birds, animals and people.

The original two-fold project, which broke ground in 1997, was to create a place to further treat Silverton’s wastewater and showcase Oregon’s nursery industry. The 80-acres of diverse gardens have done that. However, the best part and most important water feature in the Garden is found by following the footprints of the self guided ‘off-road’ nature trail that loops around the upper wetlands.

The trail in question, is a sweet path that follows the water that comes from Silverton’s wastewater treatment plant where it is piped  into the wetland at the top of the hill. From there, it trickles down through a series of 15 ponds and  collects in two underground storage tanks where it is used for irrigation throughout the Garden. The four-acre area, which has been planted with native plants that can tolerate water-saturated soils containing very little oxygen, is habitat for a diverse array of birds, insects, amphibians and mammals. It is a unique and beautiful place.

The nature trail through the wetlands is home to a maze of plant life; photo by Jan Jackson

“Developing the wetlands from where the water enters the garden through the maze of plant life, has been a rewarding experience,” Renee Stoops, environmental horticulturist and director of the Sustainable Plant Research and Outreach Center  (SPROut) said. “The process removes the nitrogen and phosphorous from the water, cools it and returns it to Brush Creek. In addition to getting the clean water back into the watershed, the wetlands also serve as a powerful example of the important role Oregon’s nurseries can play in contributing to sustainable landscapes.”

Stoops, who received an undergraduate degree in biology and geology from Brown University and a masters degree in plant science and horticulture from the University of Rhode Island, came west in 1999 and started working for a landscape company that  planted some of the garden’s first areas. She joined the Garden staff as the wetland specialist in 2000, and in 2003, while continuing to manage the wetlands, started developing SPROut.

Wetland photo courtesy Oregon Garden

“We are more of a botanical display garden with rich ecosystem diversity than a than a formal garden focused on color,” Stoops said. “As we developed the wetlands, the SPROut program grew out of a desire to share and promote the possibilities of plant- based solutions and that is what I spend most of my time working on today.

“Some may have wanted the garden to be blossom driven, but I feel that its real niche value will be in the ecology, education, demonstration, research, wildlife and water of the site. The Garden’s support comes from memberships, private donors and endowments and the Oregon Garden Resort and thanks to the members, the donors and the many volunteers, we are growing a wonderful place.”

For more information on the SPROut and all of our projects, conferences, courses and resource offerings state-wide, visit www.SPROutOregon.org. For more information on memberships, volunteer opportunities, dining, lodging, concerts and other special events call 503-874-8100 (toll free 877-674-2733), or visit www.oregongarden.org

-Jan Jackson ©2011 – See Jan Jackson’s Bio

Remnants found in a once productive flax mill near Canby, Oregon; photo by Jan Jackson.

… but his time farmers are growing it for food (ok, some grow it for fiber but the newest trend is for food). Flax was introduced in Oregon in the mid-to late 1800s, had a heyday supplying fiber to the military during World War II but petered out in the 1960s when cheap cotton and synthetic materials became the rage.

Flax, probably best known as the source of linen fabric and linseed oil, was also used for such unglamorous products as ropes, twines, thread,nets, fishing tackle, mops, rugs, toweling and defense materials.

Today, flax is seen as a rich source of omega-3 fatty acids and the seeds can be used in bread and cereal or as high protein animal feed. Start looking for the beautiful blue flowers that are replacing the green fields of grass seed you see now.

Haven’t tried flax seeds? Sprinkle some on your next fresh green salad. You’ll say, “Oh Sissy. That’s delicious. Thank you, thank you, thank you – smile.”

Luv,

Sissy

Adelman's Peony Paradise is free-and-open-to-the-public May 1 - June 14, 2011; photo courtesy Carol Adelman.

… for the first time ever. If you are a peony lover, join the open-to-the-public part of the convention for their flower show at the Holiday Inn Wilsonville on Saturday, May 28 (1 – 5 pm) and/or Sunday, May 29 (9 am to 4 pm).

If you can’t make the show, a visit to Adelman’s Peony Gardens (5690 Brooklake Rd., NE, Salem, OR) is in order. The peony nursery, fields and display gardens are open to the public May 1 – June 15, from 9 am to 6 pm daily.

You can find out more at http://peonyparadise.com/.

Trust me. It’s a beautiful sight to behold – smile.

Luv,

Sissy

The moral of this story is, even if the shoe doesn't fit, your mother will make you wear it anyway; photo by Jan Jackson

… This mom has been taking her son’s  photo in this same wooden shoe since he was a baby.  Each year she comes back and takes another one so she can see how much he has grown. You can see how the shoe fits now – smile.

Just want to point out what a fun thing this is to do.

Keep that camera rollin’.

Luv,

Sissy

www.woodenshoe.com.

Shimanek Covered Bridge is Linn County's youngest, longest, reddest and the only one that used to have a two-hole toilet in it; photo by Jan Jackson

… and it doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that it is Linn County’s longest (130 feet), reddest or newest (1927). This bridge is the only one that can boast of having had a two-hole toilet in it. Maybe its pretty white trimmed louvered windows were for privacy – smile?

The bridge is the 5^th one that sits on the site because earlier ones kept washing away. The first one was built somewhere around 1861, the second in 1921, the third in 1927, the fourth in 1962 and the current one in 1966. The bridge sits at the bottom of the hill near the town of Scio, where the Shimanek  family used to farm.

County: Linn, Stream: Thomas Creek, 
Latitude: 44°42’56.2″N, 
Longitude: 122°48’15.5″W, Truss Type: Howe,
 Bridge Length:  130(ft), 
Year Built: 1966, 
World Guide Number: 37-22-03

Location: 
From Interstate 5, exit 238 and travel east to Jefferson. Just east of the arch bridge over the Santiam River, turn right on South Main Street and continue until the street becomes Jefferson-Scio Drive. Continue east into Scio and turn left onto Highway 226. Follow Highway 226 two miles east and turn left (north) onto Richardson Gap Road.

It’s a beauty.

Luv,

Sissy

Azalea

Wrong guess: Southern Oregon Coast near a park that displays a lot of lights and painted “glow-in-the-dark” crustaceans.

Fact: Azalea is an unincorporated community in Douglas County, about 10 miles northeast of Glendale on Interstate 5.

Twickenham

Wrong guess: One of a trio of grain-loading ports (Tweedle Dee, Tweedle Dum and Twickerham) on  Columbia River east of the Dalles.

Fact: Twickerham, is located on Wheeler County’s John Day River about 20 miles south of Fossil.

Izee

Wrong guess: Home of the famous Lint Festival – an annual event well-known for good family fun.

Fact: A ghost town in Grant County (between Dayville and Paulina) so oddly named because a local stockman used the letters IZ for his cattle brand.

Benedict

Wrong guess: Home of the well known dish known as “Eggs Benedict.”

Fact: Saint Benedict is the name of the post office at Mount Angel Abbey in Marion County.

Hope you scored better than I did – smile.

Luv Sissy

Cherry blossom time at Oregon State Capitol; photo by Morris Pike.

…If you are in the area, you need to beat feet to the Oregon State Capitol and see the cherry blossoms in bloom. All 150 trees (planted in 1992) are  knock-your-socks-off gorgeous right now.

Bring your camera – it’s an awesome sight to behold!

Luv,

Sissy

Smidge with Smidglet; photo by D. "Bing" Bingham

All too often, the decision on a ranch for which livestock go and those that stay is a matter of dollars and cents. Once in a while, an animal’s lease on life is a matter of willpower.

In a magnificent example of Darwinian Evolution, one of our meat goat does managed to break her own neck in a feeding trough, which had been safe for thousands of feedings.

“Uh oh,” I said to my wife, “what are we going to do with her kid?”

“Beats me,” she sighed, “she’s too old for a bottle and too young to wean, we’ll see how much she wants to live.”

The surviving kid was small—no bigger than a smidgen. Soon the name, ‘Smidge,’ stuck.

Each time we checked on her, she was full of energy, climbing around the rocks in our barnyard.

Her stomach enzymes were working well enough that she could nibble at grain. Then, she’d sneak up behind an unwary doe with an exposed udder and grab a quick snack. By the time the doe realized the nursing kid wasn’t her own, Smidge was off and stalking another involuntary donor.

Unlike her own mother, the Smidge was smart, tough and adaptable—best of all—she wanted to live.

She was so small, that she could sneak through any fence and snitch a bite to eat. My wife and I were slowly losing control of our ranch to a smart and tiny goat.

Our grass was growing and spring turnout time approached. This is when lactating livestock need as much nutrition as possible.

However, we live in rough country. Our livestock guard dogs protect our sheep and goats from coyotes and the occasional cougar—as long as the herd sticks together. If an inattentive animal wanders away, they become lunch for a predator.

For the Smidge, who had already survived more than her share, turnout would be a test.

The first day, she was running happily with the flock. That night she returned to the barnyard with the rest.

We breathed a sigh of relief.

The next day, same thing. Smidge returned with the rest of the flock, fat, full and happy. Day after day, this tiny goat successfully negiotated her way through our high desert predators.

Finally, one day I was out fixing fence and I watched our flock drift by.

There was the Smidge, hovering around the main bunch. When a danger signal was called, whether by goat, sheep or livestock guard dog, Smidge would hightail it to the center of the flock and hide underneath the belly of the older, more experienced animals. She wouldn’t come out until the ‘all-clear’ signal was given and the flock relaxed.

The tiny goat wanted to live.

The Smidge survived her first summer out in the fields by being smart. Same thing for her second year. While she’s no longer small enough to dart under the bellies of the other goats when danger approaches, she’s always quietly in the middle of the flock, the safest place to be.

Late last winter, the Smidge had her first kid—a Smidglet—a healthy, strong doeling. The Smidge is a very attentive mother and we have high hopes for the little goat—and her kid—that wanted to live.

Bing Bingham is a writer, rancher and storyteller. If you have a story to pass along, contact him at www.bingbingham.com/blog.

- D. “Bing” Bingham’s © 2011 – See Bing Binghams Bio

Cover photo of the 2011/2012 Oregon Blue Book ; photo courtesy bluebook.state.or.us

… 1911 was the first year the Oregon Blue Book came out and that means it turns 100 this year. I have the 50th edition (2009/2010 and have already pre-ordered the commemorative 2011 one. The Oregon Blue Book is not only a valuable resource but an Oregon tradition.

Take a look at what’s in it:

Almanac – state symbols, Olympians, state maps, and much more.

Notable Oregonians – biographical sketches of notable people with ties to the state.

Economy – analysis of Oregon’s economy including employment, income, and revenue.

Scenic images and exhibits – Scenic Oregon tour, Capitol tour, woman suffrage centennial, Blue Book centennial, and five other colorful exhibits.

Capital – a description of Oregon’s capital city, Salem.

State buildings – addresses, maps, and construction dates for major state buildings.

This year’s even has stuff on the Centennial Farm program – wahoo! You can pick one up at the Capitol, you can buy one in a bookstore or order one online from the website below.

http://bluebook.state.or.us/misc/order/order.htm

Don’t say I didn’t tell ya about it – smile.

Luv,

Sissy

Fresh from the Canby Asparagus Farm, is a plate of deep fried onions, zucchini and asparagus; photo by Jan Jackson.

… Well it was  highly prized in ancient Rome, Egypt, Greece and Europe, but in Oregon you can find it growing wild along the roadsides and in the every man’s garden (in fact, about 35 or so farmers grow it commercially). Forget that asparagus is a member of the Lily family, that it is related to onions and garlic and that female stalks are plumper than the male stalks. It is important to remember however, that size isn’t as important as color. The greener (or whiter) stalks are the most tender.

As farmers markets start opening up,  start looking for is deep-fried asparagus. If  you can’t wait for the markets, try this:

Ingredients

• 1 bunch fresh asparagus, trimmed and cut to desired size
• 1/2 cup canola oil for frying
• 1 egg
• 1 cup  crushed plain or seasoned bread crumbs

Directions

• Bring about 2 inches of water to boil in a saucepan. Add the asparagus, and cook for about 3 minutes. Drain, and pat dry.
• Heat enough oil to cover the bottom of a large heavy skillet over medium to medium-high heat. Whisk the egg in a small bowl, and place the bread crumbs in a separate bowl.
• Dip the asparagus pieces into the egg, and then coat with bread crumbs. Fry in the hot oil until golden. Turn frequently for even cooking. If they are browning too quickly, reduce the heat a little. Drain on a paper towel-lined plate before serving.

You’ll thank me for this – smile.

Luv,

Sissy

Learn from Backyard Chickens 101 at Small Farm Trade Fair April 13 - 16 in Madras; photo by Jan Jackson... and it's the Small Farm Trade Fair at the Jefferson County Fairgrounds in Madras, Oregon. This is one of those events that begs for a camera and paper for note taking.

… and it’s taking place at the Jefferson County Fairgrounds. Where else can you learn how to feed a horse, take care of your backyard chickens or play games with your pony? Dancing Cow Farms will be there with heritage breeds of poultry and livestock, there is the 2nd annual Jethro Tull Draft Horse & Mule Plowing Competition  and the old time music can’t be beat.

Visit the website to see the schedule so you’ll know which day has what, then pack up the family (or just wander in by yourself) and head for Madras sometime between April 13 – 16, 2011.

You can get the details at 1-800-876-2392 or 541-549-2064 or by visiting  http://smallfarmersjournal.com/

It’s not every day you get a chance like this – I say, take it.

Luv,

Sissy

Steve Einhorn and Kate Power of The Ukulaliens® fame; photo courtesy Lincoln City Visitors Bureau website.

… Can you imagine going to the beach for a couple of days and coming back a virtuoso? Well, here’s your chance – and what’s more, you save yourself the time it takes to travel the 2500 + miles to get to Hawaii (you knew I’m sure, that the ukulele was based on the Portuguese instrument called the machete and was first made about 1879 in Hawaii).

Steve Einhorn & Kate Power created a guide called The Ukalaliens® which is a method for the uke-curious that uses a simple number system and the elements of music.

It’s a walk-in class held from 3PM-4PM on April 9 & 10, 2011 at the Lincoln City Cultural Center. Cost: $10 per person. Ukuleles will be provided, unless you would like to bring your own.

You can find out more at 503-331-1994 or by visiting www.oregoncoast.org. (And, if you want to find out more about the Ukulaliens, go to http://www.qualityfolk.com/)

If you think you want to do it, I would get right on it. And, start getting used to being a hit at parties ’cause once you are a virtuoso, the old wallflower days are going to be over – smile. You heard it from me – right away, right now, right here – smile.

Luv,

Sissy

Lan Su Chinese Garden in old town Portlland; photo by Jan Jackson.

… is one of the most authentic Chinese gardens outside of China.

It started in 1985, when Portland went looking for the perfect sister city and picked Suzhou, Jiangsu Province (China’s second largest).  Suzhou, often called the Venice of the East or the Venice of China, is known for stone bridges, pagodas and meticulously designed gardens.

Once everyone got to know everyone, the Portland delegation, enlisted more than 65 Chinese workers to come here and construct Portland’s garden buildings and pathways (and by the way, we went there later and helped them make a rose garden – smile).

The Garden, which officially opened in 2000,  is a one block square that provides a haven for residents and visitors in the middle of old town Portland. It gives a magnificent window through which to see authentic Chinese culture, history and a way of thinking. Translated, Lan means orchid, Su means awakening and Yuan means garden.

You can find out more at http://www.portlandchinesegarden.org/.

Oh, and did I mention that visiting the Garden is soothing for your soul? Well, it is.

Luv

Sissy

Making jelly from Oregon wine, is quick and easy; photo by Jan Jackson

… how about trying it on your toast? If you think Oregon wine taste good by the glass, how about trying this:

Wine Jelly (good with red or white)

Ingredients

• 3 1/2 cups wine
• 1/2 cup fresh lemon juice
• 1 (2 ounce) package dry pectin
• 4 1/2 cups white sugar

Directions

• Combine wine, lemon juice, and pectin in a large saucepot. Bring to a boil, stirring frequently. Add sugar, stirring until dissolved. Return to a rolling boil. Boil hard 1 minute, stirring constantly. Remove from heat. Skim foam off top, if necessary.
• Ladle hot jelly into hot, sterilized jars, leaving 1/2 inch headspace. Tighten 2 piece lids. Process for 5 minutes in boiling water bath.

Try some of that with crackers and cream cheese. Oh so tasty – smile.

Luv,

Sissy

Tulip Fest March 25 - May 1, 2011, at the Wooden Shoe Tulip Farm in Woodburn, Oregon; photo by Jan Jackson

Friday, March 30 through Sunday, April 30

Daily activities at the Tulip Farm

• Tulip & Daffodil Fields
• Tulip & Daffodil Display Gardens
• Children’s Play Area
• Tulip Café
• Dutch Sausage and hamburgers
• Gift Shop
• Tulip Market

Weekend activities at the Tulip Farm

Same as weekdays plus:

• Crafters Market Place
• Pony Rides ($5 – under 80 lbs)
• Wine Tasting with Hauer of the Dauen Winery
• Authentic Mexican Food
• Wooden Shoe Making
• Steam tractors
• Entertainment
• Rescue Birds

On Site Events -

•  April 7th – Easter Egg Hunt -10am and noon in the Wooden Shoe Gardens
  •   Ages: 0-2, 3-4, 5-6, 7-8 & 9-11

• April 8th – Easter Service 7am
  • In the tulip fields

• Tulip Garden Party
  • April 28th Saturday Noon-8 pm
  • April 29th  Sunday Noon-6 pm

Red the story behind the Fest at http://countrytraveleronline.com/2011/01/08/wooden-shoe-tulips-from-roadside-stand-to-festival/ or go to their site at www.woodenshoe.com.

At any rate, don’t miss all the fun and beauty – smile.

Luv,

Sissy

One of many cruise ships that bring tourists to Astoria; photo by Jan Jackson.

… when Captain Robert Gray sailed into the area in his merchant ship in 1792 (or maybe even Sir Frances Drake before that), or when Lewis and Clark paddled into the area in canoes in 1805. You can also bet the big cruise ships weren’t bringing in thousands of tourists every week during the summer of 1811 when John Jacob Astor established the Hudson Bay Fur Company there.

Astoria is still a place of discovery though – trust me. They’ve re-invented themselves of late and there is lots going on. The best thing to do is visit http://www.oldoregon.com/. I recommend it.

Luv,

Sissy

The Pink Barn on Crow Creek Road in Enterprise, Oregon; photo by Jan Jackson

… you’ll love it. Seems the farmer didn’t have the money to buy all the red paint he needed, so he stretched what he did have with milk. Sound crazy? Aha. Read on.

Today, you can buy Real Milk Paint – made from 100% organic material (http://www.realmilkpaint.com/). They claim it doesn’t have the harmful fumes that non-organic paint has and that its safe for the environment.  Sound crazy? Aha. Read on.

Martha Stewart has a recipe for mixing your own milk paint – you know –mix the juice of a lemon with 1 quart skim milk in a large bowl etc. – ( http://www.marthastewart.com/goodthings/milk-paint-recipe ).

Now, if you are ready to drive to Enterprise Oregon and enjoy the old pink barn (circa 1915) yourself, take Crow Creek Road from Eggleson Corner and at the Junction with Zumwalt Road, bear left to stay on Crow Creek. Continue on approximately 8.5 miles on gravel road and there it will be on your left.

Who knows, you might just want to go home an repaint your own barn (or someone else’s). Bring your camera – smile.

Luv,

Sissy

The Post General Store, located at the geological center of Oregon; photo by Jan Jackson

… and I do mean a post and I do mean the middle. Every state in the United States has a marked geographical center and Oregon’s center in 24 miles southeast of Prineville in an unincorporated town called Post.

Some say Post got it’s name from the post marking the center – BUT – according to the ultimate authority on place names, that is not so. Lewis A. McArthur & Lewis I. McArthur, in Oregon Geographic Names, Seventh Edition, says: “Post was named for the postmaster, Walter H. Post. The office was established June 6, 1889.”

Post lies along Oregon Route 380 southest of Prineville at 44.1623540°N 120.4900050°W.

It’s a nice drive – smile.

Luv,

Sissy

Lewis and Clark exhibit at Mission San Juan Capistrano; photo by jan Jackson

…I was visiting Mission San Juan Capistrano, when to my surprise, I looked up and saw Meriwether Lewis standing right there next to me. Since Lewis and Clark didn’t get further south than where the whale washed up in Cannon Beach (Oregon), I said, “Mr. Lewis, what on earth are you doing here?”

Well of course he didn’t answer because he turned out to be made of cardboard. However, I did find out what he was doing there. His likeness was part of an old bi-centennial traveling exhibit called Lewis and Clark Exhibition Across America. The cool thing was, that it was set up so kids could become members of the Corps of Discovery, and in doing so, try on uniforms and costumes, make a fort, work on an interactive journal, and spin the Wheel of Misery to find out if they survived their journey.

Better yet, you can see it yourself at http://www.lewisandclarkexhibit.org/index_flash.html

Luv

Sissy

Lincoln City's 51st Street is home to a charming collection of Craftsman style cottages; photos by Jan Jackson

LINCOLN CITY, Ore. – When the 1920’s vintage Craftsman-style tourist cabins were built along Lincoln City’s 51^st Street in historic old town Taft, the little structures were part of a world-wide Arts & Craft Movement. Today, their presence is seldom noticed by visitors hurrying to the four-block long collection of shops and restaurants between Highway 101 and the Pacific Ocean.

In a 2001 urban renewal document called Taft: The Transformation of a Waterfront Community to a Resort Town, Steve M. Wyatt  sheds some light on these dozen or so sweet little buildings. Long admired by architectural buffs, this long ago street of dreams is also a treat for the casual visitor.

Influenced by the English Arts and Crafts movement, the wide unenclosed eave overhang cottage design came from two California architect brothers Charles Sumner Greene and Henry Mather Greene. The Greenes, who practiced in Pasadena from 1893 to 1914,

Decorative in their own way with matching roof and porch lines, the Craftsman-style cottage was a radically departure from early 1900 design.

began to be featured nationally in such magazines as the Western Architect, The Architect, House Beautiful, Good Housekeeping, Architectural Record, Country Life in America and Ladies’ Home Journal. As a result, a flood of pattern books appeared offering plans for Craftsman bungalows; some even offered completely pre-cut packages of lumber and detailing to be assembled by local labor.

A Field Guide to American Houses, by Virginia & Lee McAlester, defines the Craftsman style as having a low-pitched, gabled roof (occasionally hipped) with wide, unenclosed eave overhangs; roof rafters usually exposed;  decorative (false) beams or braces commonly added under gables; and porches, either full-or partial-width. Though modifications and additions have been added to the cabins along 51^st Street, the features are still easy to see.

Of the collection on 51^st Street, one of the twelve is among the 10% of

Twelve 1920 vintage Craftsman-style cottages dot both sides of 51st Street in Lincoln City between Highway 101 and the Pacific Ocean. The cottages, built in the early 1900s, are examples of the work of architect brothers Charles Sumner Greene and Henry Mather Greene.

Craftsman cottages that have hipped roofs and matching porches while the remaining have the more standard gabled roofline. Classed with Frank Lloyd Wright, who was designing during the same period, elegantly simplified buildings had a profound influence on the beginnings of modernism both here and in Europe.

As these  vintage cottages are passed down through the family, rented out or bought and sold to use for homes, studios and commercial shops, their presence brings us back to earlier days. The next time you leave the highway and rush west along 51^st Street, I hope you take a little time to admire the old as well as the new.