I have edits! I have clips! I have links to videos with lyrics!
It took me almost a month to get here, learning to edit with Quicktime, easy, but losing sync once it is saved; then fighting my laptop to update a corrupted iMovie, consulting chatGPT (stupid), chatting with eight different people on tech support (clueless, but thanks for trying), and a visit to the apple store with no resolution. I finally erased my backed-up laptop and set up a ghost account for Nellie Wilson. I upgraded to the latest OS and was able to download a fresh iMovie to edit and add titles. Saving to my external drive I was able to keep Nellie Wilson as a separate partition , and go back for a “final” edit. After all that I can’t find way to change the aspect ratio and keep Grif from getting the top of his head clipped off, but decided to go ahead and post this version with song titles.
Art for a poster by Grif from one of our many little gigs and appearances around the Bay.
Edited with Comma-Blocker, professional punctuation reduction software. 😉
I guess I was waiting for the posed photo to come through, but it never did. The Polka Cowboys played Sunol, we got band photos, it was great, I had a neat outfit. I had gone to Canyon on the Friday to load gear because Art had had emergency surgery and wasn’t supposed to lift more than 15 pounds–Art made dinner, I spent that night in my Westyhaven, we carpooled in the big Tesla to the gig, then got to set up and play, break down and load, and back to Canyon for another night, because we were too tired to pull all that equipment out. It was pretty sweet tho. Sputnik was recovering from shoulder surgery too, his arm in a sling, and played drums through it. Woah. Trooper.
A great band photo to come . . .
A couple of weeks ago I heard from Grif that he had found a VHS tape from our November 1990 performance on La Val’s downstairs stage–I forget what we called Down There. During two broken strings I shirked the opportunity to tell the very long story of how I worked at La Val’s from just after they opened in 1976 through early 1979; before I was playing music, when I was breaking up with Pilmer and hence nearly homeless, and via some strange interactions out in the street around a protest over the cancellation of Tim Yohannon’s show on KALX met up with the Frank Mooreons and thereby found myself playing drums at the Mabuhay Gardens weekly Thursday night dinner shows for four months with the Outrageous Beauty Review and the Superheroes . . Thus began my music and stage career.
After playing in some funky little garage combos I met Grif on Thanksgiving of 1984 at the new home of our ex-neighbor and mutual friend. Grif had brought about a dozen LP’s for entertainment, and I pored over them with surprise and delight–oh! yes!–HP Lovecraft, the Incredible String Band, and Oh, what’s this?? Robin Hitchcock! the Comsat Angels! He played guitar and wrote songs, so we arranged for me to bring my little Yamaha traps around the corner to his place and see what’s what. We hit it off, and found a bass player, and that was Tiger Swallowtail, which became Wingfinger, until Lou left after some random couple of years.. We designed logos and cassette covers and fliers.
La Val’s kitchen is where I met Melokie, and when they opened the basement as a venue we got to wait tables and see the music events, and when there was zero business we would hang out by the backdoor and smoke Export A’s. She and I would take off after work for San Francisco and the clubs on Broadway and thereabouts, or around campus to Cloyne Court or Barrington Hall or Berkeley Square or the International Cafe to see some really great bands of the era, the Mutants, Tuxedo Moon, the Avengers, the Jars, friends of ours. And then there was Rather Ripped Records, a small record shop where live bands would play, I think the Police played there, maybe Patti Smith? And on campus where there were free shows like the time Talking Heads played to a spillover crowd in Sproul Plaza. All this before I was a Musician per se.
Meanwhile I played with other groups as well, the bluegrass-influenced Magpies around 1985, and a jazzy trio where I met Stevie and joined him in the band INCHES–which would eventually become the Cavepainters, and further down the road, the Lost Hippies.
And there was Spent- a thrash combo of 22-year-old college students, who all graduated and left town that spring after a trip to Portland to play the Satyricon, and Gilman Street. And there was Zenarchy, and the Waterdogs, and a couple other opportunities to make the drums-to-bass transition.
Around the time of this gig at La Val’s Grif and I had been playing little cafes up on College Avenue or University, and too bad, we felt like just us just wasn’t enough. I had always wanted to play bass, and it appeared to be easier to find a drummer than a bass player. So it was sometime in spring of 1991 that I took $150 cash to Guitar Center and waved it around, and ended up with a pretty neat Japanese fake-Fender Jazz bass, gig bag, strap and cord. I taught myself to play–heck I knew these songs by heart, I played drums and sang harmonies on them for five years–so I plunked it out until I felt up to speed. I think the first tune I learned was Grif’s Big Dream. Then we did get a drummer, and another name, Hoddyman Dodd, after an English counting poem–and we put out a couple of cassette tape albums.
Hoddyman Dodd, With ChrisSometimes we still had that duo vibe, tho
Somehow, another misspellable name on a marquee lead to a name change, and then we were the Ravines, with a key board player, and eventually another drummer. But that’s all written up elsewhere, perhaps.
Then there were the Silver Kittens, and that crazy year 2009 when everything broke up and the Possum Family Singers were born, and then the Lost Hippies . . . and that sad story. I could have gone on and on.
Looking back, though, this was a good show. Tight harmonies, good stage presence, catchy material. I could have told a good story in the break, or I could have mumbled inaudibly for three minutes, I dunno. Coulda been somebody, y’know. Still are, really.
Shout out to my friends John and Linda on cameras and master control.
I visited Buslab about yet another clunk heard rarely and only under odd circumstances, namely a sharp turn, or driving over the two gutters in Vikki’s driveway–they said, yeah, drive it over and we’ll take a look. Well, it’s that stripped bolt on the upgraded swaybar–again? Thought we replaced that. Okay, whatever. Funny how a scary noise can disrupt things.
I had dropped it off and walked to the nearby bakery for a cup of coffee and oooh, pumpkin cheesecake! which they put in a little box. I was carrying my book on German silent film, a pastry in a box, and a cup, and must have shoved my wallet into my back pocket. I walked back around the corner to sit under a tree and read, and at some point noted the zipper pocket in my little purse was open and—–NO WALLET! Reminiscent of the day I stepped out of my studio with my hands full, and broke my ankle, yeah. I searched all around the tree, and walked back to the bakery, scanning the sidewalk and gutters full of brown leaves for a brown leather walled tooled with a design of brown leaves.
Long story diminished, after two trips, and while Jonathan follow me out to search again where I had been sitting, my phone rang. It was my dentist’s office calling to say someone had found my wallet with an appointment card and their phone number. My van was ready, I drove off without paying, took several wrong turns before I found the address just two blocks from my starting point. My offer of an unopened box with a slice of pumpkin cheesecake accepted, we exchanged stories–she found my wallet while looking for hers, which had jumped out of her pocket to rescue mine.
I had just got back from another thrifting trip to Santa Rosa, and stopped at the Antique fair on the way back to buy a couple items of silver jewelry, and a small porcelain cow. Back home with holiday lights, waiting for the rain. Next gig, the Sunol Regional Wilderness Heritage Festival, two sets with the Polka Cowboys. It’ll be a hoot. Saturday October 18–A free event. Bring your dusty dancing shoes.
Posting on Steve’s birthday, he would be 77 today. So, we have cake! I am going to The City tomorrow to have birthday dinner with my first beau Pilmer, carrying a mid-price Bordeaux and a gluten free chocolate cake that is about to come out of the oven. He will make Beouf Bourguignon once his roommate leaves for Burning Man today. I’ll pack a stainless steel flask to decant the wine lest he has no appropriate glass container for the job. It’s my birthday dinner: his birthday was this week, the delay comes from my reluctance to hike home from Bart past twilight vs the awkward kitchen scheduling of roommates.
Saturday was the long-awaited Cotati Accordion Festival, and all kerfuffle aside it was splendid. A few people dancing to almost every tune we played, and my friends of Stony the Cat fame came and took photos. It’s so great to be onstage again, and I attribute my current relaxed demeanor to having this creative outlet. I went all out on my outfit, finally wearing the blue beaded and fringed flapper dress my niece had sent me in 2021 (which had needed some poorly placed details removed). It was spectacular. Afterward a change of costume, and a barn dance near Petaluma.
thrifted silk dustergreen room
The previous weekend we hosted the International Musical Saw Festival, and I helped set up the stage and run the sound board. It was a 180 from last year when I was so bedraggled and out of sorts, still bruised and baffled from the separation. I felt quite welcome and at home, and quite enjoyed myself.
I had Westied out to Canyon early on the Friday to sort and pack the sound system Art had set up in his music room. I spent some time in the Roofing House, now replete with rodent droppings. I swept up a bit and picked out a couple of keepsakes. It was sad, but not terribly so. I hadn’t been to Canyon since the unhappy April of the previous year, and the Petaluma parade. Nothing had changed except for the mysterious arrival of a large gold-framed mirror, almost a welcome-back gift, which I set up in the little window bay.
Art made dinner, and I spent the night in Westy in our old parking space. Saturday we drove separately down to Santa Cruz and I spent an hour in a traffic jam from bridge to beach. I got to the Saw Jam at the statue just after 2, and Art showed up right behind me. I had a yummy crepe and we played until 3 when we headed to Roaring Camp for a picnic with all the sawyers, and a sleepover in the parking lot for the (two) sound crew (us). Up at 6:30 AM, I made coffee, we got to the stage at 8 and were mostly set up by 10:00. All went well, great fun had by all, and I was home by 7 PM. It’s all good, I am looking forward to the Sunol Harvest Festival October 18, with two sets, the full band, and yet another spectacular costume. Plus, I’ll get to sing a couple or so of my songs . . .
I’m SO TIRED lately. I have a decent social life, accepting many invites, and when I get home I just want to crawl into my cozy bed with a laptop and a big mug of creamy decaf. Maybe I am over-decaffeinating. Something astrological, yes. It will pass.
My drawing practice had gone a bit fallow. Tho i recently picked up a quantity of watercolors and tombow pens at a yard sale I haven’t done much but swatch and clean them. I wish I had asked what her story was, two palettes of tube colors totaling about 75 full half-pans of expensive paint, a full set, unopened! of Arteza brush pens, among some kid’s paint boxes which I gave away. Just in the last few days I have felt pulled to my sketchbooks again. The table had been taken up with the sewing machine/ seat cover project, after two jigsaw puzzles I wanted to vet before packing them off to my sister for her birthday.
It gets too hot and bright in the afternoon to sit at the table, but when the sun drops behind the house next door I open the windows from the top down to let the heat out and I draw into the wee hours. I’m really enjoying my Derwent watercolor pencils even though I don’t use water with them. I have so many screenshots in files on my laptop, and with a podcast playing in the background I just copy, copy. There is often that pesky little threshold to get over, but I am feeling freer, faster, looser in my technique, always learning something new. Each one of these is in a different sketchbook. Some tiny, some huge.
It has been a long time . . . life is very strange lately, and I like it. I recently spent four days in Santa Rosa, visiting a human, and a dog who is enamored with me, shopping, making a pot roast, the usual. So happy to be home with my bed, my garden, my silence, my local routines.
I am seeing an acupuncturist, adjusting my diet, finally getting the diagnosis that concurs with my suspicion that my mercury fillings are the source of my tinnitus, ear infection, and leg discomfort. I am attempting to contact a recommended dentist to remove the leakiest of the three amalgam fillings that still remain. The dentist I am calling is Iranian–more’s the pity, with the war at fever pitch now.
I did a big detox, a fast, and was living on smoothies for a week. I returned to solid foods in anticipation of the Meadow Muffin, and thereupon helped kill three bottles of wine with my two invited guests on the first night. I also recall storming the stage with my Martin bass and jamming with Maaatt and another bass player for an hour that night. The next day Art and I played some of our repertoire, and Maaatt joined us to steamroll some Lost Hippies material. He takes all my vocal parts, so I can’t harmonize. If I do, he jumps the track and sings what I am singing. Ah well, just as well to be rid of it. On the Monday after, I went up on the bare stage alone, with my Martin, and sang a bunch of tunes while folks rolled wires and packed the sound gear away.
Varmint pod padmy festive new lightsat the waterfrontthe old oakMuffin L Monday AM
Art and I are getting on, as friends. We’ll play two festivals in August, the International Musical Saw Festival on the 10th, and the Cotati Accordion Festival with Greg on the 18th will pay for the gas it takes to get there. Oh yes, plus the yummy chicken BBQ lunch. I didn’t think there would be a time that I would be Okay with it again, but here we are.
There have been some odd dreams of late, as suggested by the current Jupiter/Neptune square. James had a wonderful NDE type dream of angel people who basically said, it’s all right, don’t worry. I had a dream about my studio at Howe Street. There was an actual ARTIST there (me??) taking up the full half of the two-car garage that I had 1/4 of, climbing over dog shit, furniture, paint cans and storage bins to access. An older (like me) guy, dramatic landscapes, must have been acrylics (or pastels?) because I don’t recall the smell of turps. There was a doorway, and a woodworker in the other half, so yay! Framing! and sawdust? I don’t recall that smell, either. Then we walked out to the street, which had become a road, overlooking the bridge through trees, and sparse traffic driving through knee high mist, with the City in the distance. At some point, he (me??) kissed me! Did I receive a blessing from the pastel gods?
I’m pining for those studios, sad to recall how appropriate both Howe Street and the Roofing House were for pastel dust, which I never realized. I had so much fun with my acrylics then, and just painting walls and building shelves and hanging lights and stenciling floors, all the prep work that goes into having a working space, only to be ejected, and abandoned. So frustrating. What can it all mean?
So I’m airing out my pastels, I bought some board to try, small panels that fit in a pouch I can carry about. I have a sheltered space and table in the garden to clear. There is so much junk I have been getting rid of lately, it’s groundbreaking, making space for me–even Steve’s circular saws and MAAP gas, out on the curb and snatched up in moments by someone who might actually use them. Not letting go of the jigsaw and Sawzall tho, yo.
So much time in the garden, and it’s feeling really settled. It’s all about letting things unfold, following the whim, letting the Crows be the birds in my garden, I can’t fight them. I put in two more raspberry plants, two more high bush blueberries, two thornless blackberries my neighbor had put on the street. I have cut the Insipid Pink Pearl back to three fruits, and there is more wood to take out to make room for the Pink Lady, which has its first apple this year. Every day I get out into the garden I make huge progress, with my worm box in place, and new attempts at weaving the patio chairs underway.
My first car was a 1957 Volkswagen Type II, with every possible window, safari split-windsheild, a sun roof, skylights, chrome rails inside the back corner windows intact, in pristine condition. It had been living in the desert near Tucson, sandblasted by desert winds, and rats had completely stripped the upholstery and horsehair down to the metal frame and springs. The interior paneling was pretty much gone, and shortly before I took possession, some kids had ridden through the property on motorbikes and broken half the windows. I really learned HOW to drive in this van, and got my first license at 23.
The interior ceiling had been painted for the previous owners by my cartoonist boyfriend, a cobalt sky of stars and planets and various underground comic characters of the time (1973). Those friends had some connections to, or knew of, local resources where I got nearly everything repaired and replaced for a pittance. I had the bench seat reupholstered with gray “Cadillac” upholstery for $35. I had all the broken windows (thankfully, not the windshield or the skylights) transferred from another van for $45. I found a beautiful English wool Persian-style carpet on the street, and used it to replace the interior paneling.
It was a miraculous thing. The whole creature was a frankenstein: the chassis of a 1969 van that had been rolled while navigating a sharp curve, a 1971 engine, something about 1966 from the front end. The body was found in a field, I don’t know what happened to the undercarriage that was left behind when it was transported onto this frame.
Not my van, but one just like it–Photo by John Wehrle.
My friends had some shady shade-tree mechanics work on the engine, and it never was right. Apparently the top end was not a match. I spent the spring of 1974 on unemployment and foodstamps, planning for a trip to California. My recently reunited boyfriend and I were leaving Arizona after a 3-year residence for the beautiful, affordable Bay Area, and some friends we had there.
Shortly before our departure he was in an automobile accident in a 1951 Chevrolet pickup- and was suddenly afraid to ride in my van, where there was 1/4″ of sheet metal between you and oncoming traffic. At the last minute, with the van still in the repair “shop”, he suddenly bailed, bought a plane ticket and left me, my cat, and everything I owned, in the little converted garage of a house I had already given notice on.
I spent the next three weeks parked at my friends’ adobe house beyond the edge of town. It was the best time of my life. I had my van, my cat, a bed, books, a little stove, tea, a few clothes, and access to a kitchen and indoor plumbing. There was a view of mountains, the wide desert and distant lights of town, a little vegetable garden, saguaro cactus, sagebrush, ocotillos, bats, owls, peccaries, rabbits, quail: a wildlife refuge far from the impending urban development on the horizon. I left the windows open, and would wake up to birds flitting in and out of the cab, avoiding my cat as she prowled the area.
That van never had a name. I still try to make one up. It had an AM radio, and I installed a cassette tape deck and small tuner and speakers. When it was time to go, I left in the cool of the night and listened to Taj Mahal all the way to California. We would stop on the side of the road for a nap, I would leave the windows open and my cat would come when I called. Somewhere on the road she climbed to the open sunroof and jumped ship at 65 MPH. I never went back to find her.
I pulled into Redondo Beach on the morning of July 4th, and spent the day with my brother and his not-that-soon-to-be wife. We went to see the fireworks, and I fell asleep in the car.
In Oakland I parked and lived in a driveway on Hillegass Avenue where the boyfriend had landed, until we found an apartment in Berkeley, with parking in the back. I kept the van for a while, and kept it up, but the engine was never right, and he talked me into selling it to a friend for a pittance. Said friend painted it yellow. I later heard that it broke down and was abandoned on the road, then sold for $100. That broke me.
We got a new kitten, made some friends, learned to cook. I got a bicycle, went to college, installed an amazing french intensive garden, I’ll come back with that photo– we worked in restaurants, went to see bands and danced at ashkenaz. We fought, my creative spirit stalled, I languished, rudderless. One day he threw a brass ashtray at my head that left an imprint on the wall, and I moved out.
I was morose last week, pining for my lost life as a musician, and all the peeps I will never see again. Sad, sad, blue beret. I didn’t know how deep it went, until a long phone call with E brought me near tears more than once at the memory, how hard it is to process or follow through. I have no urge to jaunt about to open mics, hang out in bars or drag myself home in the dark with gear, all alone. It does not spark joy. I have been sitting up at night in that same dark tho, playing the old toones on my reconfigured Stella Toy Bass. I remember it all, sing better than ever, even over the sketchy intonation and sometimes hitting a wall–what key was that in? and no muscle memory will save it without an intro by Ann.
I knew, the next day, that discharging emotion like that usually results in a breakthrough, and in fact is the only way through. So surprise, no surprise when I got a call out of the blue from PMav inviting me to a gallery show in San Francisco and nearby SFMOMA afterward. Looking into the gallery I am utterly shocked to see it is a show of Leonora Carrington, not so much for herself but because the gallery also represents Remedios Varo, and has had THREE solo shows of her work in the past decade or more.
Crazy coincidence, Grif had turned me on to her years ago (she had lived and died in Mexico City around the time he was there) and had used several of her images for band fliers for the Ravines. Full circle, somehow. There is also another link to Gordon Onslow Ford, who drifts in and out of my vision in odd ways, such as the book I was reading about poets that mentioned him living and painting on a houseboat owned by Alan Watts in SF Bay.
After the gallery, and an excellent Hunan lunch, we stopped in at SFMOMA, somewhat disappointing until we got into the permanent collections, and the book store, where I found they stock my favorite $3 paintbrush/pencil combo. Then off to Bart, and home by dark.
PMav asked me if I was painting, as he does, and I lapsed into my cover story: rebuilding sewing machines, the bobbin wheel adventure, constructing ski pants, that I just cleared from my work table. I have almost repopulated the watercolor layout and have empty pages open, and have got most of my vehicle paperwork cleared away, so here is hoping I will kick my own ass and start a new surge of painting, with an eye to something new and, maybe, original.
Sometimes it’s a struggle and doesn’t come naturally. It’s sad to scroll through my phone to see screenshots, ideas, other people’s work. It’s that bugaboo of originality that I beat myself up over. Ow! Stop that! There is the sense of being screw-tin-eyesed, or being graded. When I was young, drawing was a place to hide. Now it has become homework. All I want in life is to be able to goof off and get away with it. If I am painting to be judged, or to avoid being judged, what is the fun in that? I think the previous binge was a result of the practice of Bad Painting. That seemed to kick the dust off, and derail the demon at my ankles. We’ll see. . . Meanwhile, here is some old journal filler from the before times, endpapers, from Canyon, and maybe even BSPco. Horrors!
Reporting from Santa Rosa again, where we ended up in our separate rooms somewhat under the weather from the stress of several aborted projects. I am trying to up- or down-load some cajun music from V’s collection, but my laptop refuses to play nice.
Seems I’m on the screen all the time lately. I have only done a couple of drawings, I know not where they are. I have been decluttering my mounds of paper, and sorting categories in the studio. I used the fabulous new bobbin winder to transfer thread from about 2 dozen old Kenmore bobbins (from about 40 years ago?? When did I have that machine?) to the 301/featherweight, and model 66 bobbins. I was inspired to make some hotpads using the refurbished 301A and some charming quilting squares my hoarder neighbor had left out on the curb to moulder in the rain last year. I washed them and dried them in the sun and packed them away last summer. Suddenly overcome with the thrill of the smoothly-functioning machine, I tore apart and remade two hot pads from new fabric and old padding.
deer in processobverse of deerbrown bear side
Bear has a little flaw on her head. I think I will embroider her a little orange party hat.
I also got some brown wool-poly fleece on sale and copied a pair of fleece pants from REI that I have been wearing for 20-some years. They have zippers at the ankles to pull over snow boots. The new fabric made the same pattern larger, although I copied the pattern exactly. Interesting. Much seam ripping and resewing ensued, but they turned out great, for pulling on over leggings or pajamas for a quick trip out to the van, to the trash cans in the cold mornings, or just loafing about.
Meanwhile, some gear upgrades. I updated the OS on my laptop to Catalina, I think I am now living in 2016. I have been wanting to do this for forever, but I was so deeply triggered by the very word–the fact that I can do it without hyperventilating now is a testament to the last two years of work and struggle to find my center. I will miss you, Mojave, but those changing desktop photos of the Eureka Valley dune are always available. This is a life lesson. Also I found and purchased a clean iPhone 8, though I’m still using the 6 as a phone for now–so at last we have electronically achieved 2017. Somewhere back there things went sideways, or was it ever straight? So long ago, so strange, no?
And then, my vehicle is early 1983 . . . so there’s that. Ah, Emerson Street, before CCAC. Probably my best Art year, drawing at Laney College with Jean Steingart. Sorry to have left, another mistake.
After blowing out the new 30-watt speakers in the van I wired in a “pair” of mismatched (40 watt Realistic, 50 watt KLH) bookshelf speakers I had scrounged to replace the lost speakers I had for my Stanton turntable and LP setup. Days after i got those set up behind the driver and passenger seats, I found a matched pair of KLH, marked 0-100 watts at the St.V. de P. in Rohnert Park. They appeared to be priced at $6.99 each, but the clerk charged me that for the pair. Good deal! All of these are clip attachment style, so I can easily switch them out to see which ones sound the best.
possuma new phone casestoney wet feetdawn of a new year 2025
I left home not very early on Monday, November 4, because AGAIN with the bad battery, AAA, and a replacement, under warranty. In fact, the same guy, Don, came to switch it out. I hosed the van off, stopped for gas, didn’t waste time at the carwash because I was going to stop at Varmint’s for coffee and to see the new foster kitten. I made it to Van Damme by 3:30 PM. I was heading for Jughandle, but the Ranger said there was no camping there. Just lucky I pulled in. $38 + $1 for a 5 minute shower.
In the morning I had wifi but no phone signal, so I emailed my safe arrival, and regrets that I would not be in town for dinner. There was a beach, a forest, a hike, and my little sanctuary. In Eureka I stopped at a thrift store and found a perfect shirt, and texted my cousin a song about it I made up on the spot. Up the coast at 5 PM I had a guy riding my bumper, so I turned in at Humbug Mountain campground, where the nice camp host brought me a bowl of chicken and pasta in homemade tomato sauce, and I gave him one of the large pink tomatoes I had bought at a farm stand. Camp site $18, free showers, plus a snack. Only drawback, I had to sleep with an eye mask to block out the light shining through the curtain.
By Wednesday afternoon I hadn’t dawdled long enough, my cousin was not yet home. I had driven all the way to Pacific City and could not find camping, so I turned around and headed south, past Lincoln City to Beverly Beach. I hiked all around and took the first photographs of the trip. What a beautiful campground, with a big marsh in the middle, $21. More than half of it was closed for the winter, and it took some backtracking to locate the open (free?) showers.
Up the coast again, I stopped at a little antique store in Bay City where two little chairs sat on the sidewalk, $19 each and I considered I would (not) be able to put them in the van and still camp at my cousins’. I decided to risk it, and they were still there when I drove back five days later. I also bought a little graniteware pitcher for heating coffee, as well as the cashmere scarf in a thrift store in Lincoln City.
My cousin texted that they were home, so I headed up to Hammond. I spent five days there, and hiked through nearby Fort Stevens almost every day. The herd of Elk were sometimes tricky to navigate around. My cousin has vast quantities of family memorabilia, old photos and documents, and I found some surprising information and filled a memory card with files to sort through and try to remember who was who. On Veteran’s Day I drove to Astoria and wandered through thrift and antique stores, found some gift items, and brought home dinner from Mo’s for everybody.
Then I was off to my Sister’s for a few days, which turned into an extra week when a huge storm, a “bomb cyclone” came through. I spent days doing five 1000-piece jigsaw puzzles, fixing my sister’s gate, and navigating around the electrical installation that had delayed my trip since before October. One day we drove to Depoe Bay to see the king tide splashing over the sea wall, and to eat chowder.
There was still a bit of storm on my return trip down the coast, but I made good time, camping at Floras Lake, and Standish-Hickey, which was empty except for the camp host and me, and some deer. I was home Tuesday before Thanksgiving, and enjoyed the holiday curled up in bed with a nice steak.
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