Stepping Into Another World

     Over many years, I've met countless creative types in our amazing community. As a writer, I get to ask such people lots of questions when they agree to an interview. It's the coolest job ever and constantly inspiring.

     There are creative people in any category you can think of and many you'd not. This community is a rich beehive of activity by artists of all stripes - from fine arts requiring brushes, charcoal or pencils, to others requiring bare hands and a few simple tools, to still others using computers and sophisticated instruments. There are whole categories of art: fiber, metal, paper, wood and clay to music, film and writing, with subcategories within each.  All require passion - and there's lots of that going around here. Inspiration is everywhere in our environment and among the people who live here. When I stop to think about it, everyone I know has some degree of passion about creating something, be it to eat, use or savor with the eyes and heart. Some are very talented, indeed.

Ingredients

      Everyone who creates is constantly looking for ideas and materials, be they physical ones you can touch or emotional ones that touch you. I've written about people who take physical materials - tin cans, used tires, phone books, old clothes, etc. and turned them in to art or new items for everyday use. This week, I met a fellow who does that with used horseshoes.

    He's not the only one to use horseshoes, including used ones, for other purposes. Many a horseshoe is soldered together to spell out names of ranches, or hold jackets, hats, toilet paper or wine bottles.

An elk heading towards Main Street...

     Bud Thomas uses old horseshoes to make life-size animals, from squirrels and owls to elk and rearing horses, plus salmon, herons, wasp nests, trees, turtles, eagles, dogs -- whatever nature inspires.
     His studio is in Philomath, in the very spot where he was a self-employed auto mechanic for many years. What started as something to keep him oblivious to winter until he could get back on his horse and ride trails into wilderness caught the eyes of others and soon he quit is day job.



     Bud generously shared some of his time with me to explain his process and show me some of his current work. Like most artists, he doesn't like to show a work in progress, just as writers are loathe

to show their first drafts. I respect that so you won't see some of the pieces I fell in love with, such as the heron in the sandblaster with his work gloves resting on her legs (I swear she blinked when he opened the blaster box), or the salmon whose eyes show curiosity and just a touch of temper.
  Thanks to local farriers, he rarely runs out of shoes. It's amazing the sizes and thicknesses in his many barrels of them. Their initial cleaning is in a cement mixer, then comes the process of sensing what they will become - and how.

     There is obviously a lot of hard physical work involved in this form of art, not to mention standing on a cement floor while doing so.  A problem-solver at heart, his work space is filled with clever methods he's come up with to save energy - both his and other forms (electric, propane, etc.) and tools he's designed to ease the process. They involve everything from old filing cabinets to scraps of pipe to a split oak log and more. There's not a step in the entire process that he hasn't tinkered with as much as the shoes themselves.

  
     You can see Bud's work on the internet, and it's a good place to start, but if you live near Philomath, it's worth the trip to stop by his studio. If he's not there, you don't have to go in, some of his animals are displayed outside, on Main Street, until they get adopted. (Since it's now one-way, heading west, you'll catch sight of an animal, such as the elk above, on your right between the first two traffic lights.)
     I can guarantee you'll be inspired.

New Year Questions

     The first day of the year is a big day of wonder: what will the year bring? What can we do to make good things happen? What will we have no control over? There will be good and bad, and some things we can't even imagine today.
     As we walked through one of our favorite spots in one of the beautiful forests that surround us, we couldn't help but wonder aloud just how much longer it will be there. So many of the areas around it have been clear-cut and this has some stunningly beautiful huge, trees. Each could be worth a fortune. Some of them may be almost too big to fit any of the remaining mills. What a wonderful "shame" that would be.
 

Photo by neighbor and walking buddy, Joan Martelli

     We've watched, heartbroken, as so many forests have been clear-cut in our neighborhood in the last 10 to 15 years. Of course, trees do come back and healthy ones are stretching above the weeds now in most of those cuts. Still, it will take decades for them to have the mix of varied and natural undergrowth, what loggers consider "trash" trees  (madrone, maples, oaks, etc.) and all the wildflowers and berries that magically appear after time and support unseen wildlife. Those forests have given us so many wonderful hikes and lessons in seasons, flora and fauna. News of bear and bobcat sitings ripple through the neighborhood occasionally, as do complaints about people showing up to shoot their guns without permission, or ride motorized vehicles where they're not allowed, especially during dry, hot months when fire-danger is high. Coyote choruses are heard regularly and nothing compares to stepping outside in the still of night to listen to owls visiting from one woods to another. Most everyone who lives out here enjoys walks in the forests (even the clear-cuts when necessary) as much as we do. I joke that it's been the best health insurance we could ever invest in since it's so beautiful and inspiring you want to climb the wooded hills every day. It's no joke, though. It's true.
     May we all have many more new years to enjoy the forests. As we do, I often wonder what the beautiful trees we used to enjoy--but were cut and carried off--ever became: walls? furniture? cabinets? beds?  I hope they're bringing as much comfort and pleasure in their new stations in life as they did when we knew them. Our house is built of wood, as are our furniture, cabinets, fence posts, etc. and we use wood as heat. We also have lots of books and, as a writer, I go through reams of paper. It's good to remind myself that we're living in, surrounded and warmed by what was once part of a forest that brought others joy, lessons and health at one time too.

Seeing Ourselves Through the Eyes of Others

     We live in a community rich with opportunities to meet people from other countries. They are always interesting, no matter their background or station in life. I learn a surprising amount about us as U.S. citizens just through their questions about our culture and language. I also learn about myself by comparing their challenges to my own. It can be very humbling. Some of these visitors are college or language students, others are professors, researchers or professionals in various disciplines, still others are immigrants with little education but are willing to work hard. Many are parents sharing the experience of a new country with their children. Most arrived by plane or bus, often with multiple connections. Still others walked through deserts or came to our country in tiny boats, risking their lives.

How Do You Say...?
     Kids are like little sponges soaking up language and culture with  enviable speed and agility. When I'm in countries where I don't know the language, I find myself envying small children  who speak and comprehend far better than I. Oh, to have their open minds and no fear of making a fool of myself.  It's puzzling that our education system doesn't require foreign languages in kindergarten and primary grades when our brains are most receptive to learning them.
     We don't consider how difficult the English language is until we have to explain it to speakers of other languages. So many everyday sayings ("That really threw me for a loop," or, "He won hands down," for example) are tricky to explain. Or why words that are spelled differently and have different meanings sound the same (their/there/they're, would/wood, cents/sense/scents, etc.). Or, why does English have so many silent letters in words (pneumonia, bright, could, etc.)?

     In this era of increasing isolationism, led by some politicians and political candidates, I am reminded how surprising and revealing encounters with certain foreigners have been in my own life. More than once, I've had to rethink my attitude.
     Once was when I met someone from a country I tended to view negatively for political reasons. While I still have negative views about the politics of that country, I learned a lot from her in long conversations over coffee or on walks. Probably without realizing it,she taught me to see her country's citizens as individuals who don't always agree with their governments, just as we don't ours. We may still disagree on certain things, but we both learned from each other. In other instances, I've met people from places I've never visited and probably never will. Still, learning about everyday lives and traditions and tasting some of their foods reveals a richness that gives depth to the name of the place every time I hear it now.

  Stranger in a Strange Land
     When I was young, I had the good fortune to live and work in a few other countries. It taught me how one's senses are heightened in such situations and foreigners notice things that  locals often take for granted. When I meet foreigners now I have a greater appreciation for how exhausting it is to be somewhere where a different language is spoken. You are constantly trying to understand or search for the correct words and, initially, translate everything in your head. It's such a relief when you can finally understand without having to go through the translating step. I was often struck by how kind people were to me when I was the foreigner and how patient they were when I was learning their language. Eventually, I realized how they were correcting my errors without being obvious., or making me feel like a fool.
     Everyday experiences like shopping for food in stores that don't carry what you're used to preparing, or getting places without your own car or knowing the language well enough to find your way or ask for help can be overwhelming. Finding an apartment or house is all the more difficult, yet critical. The kindness of just one stranger who helps in a seemingly small way (to them), such as giving directions or explaining how to prepare an unfamiliar food, can impact one's perception of an entire place. Subtle discrimination can have equally profound effects.

     Travel abroad exposes us to negative experiences, as well. We can find ourselves very much in the minority, the seemingly stupid one because we don't speak the language, or we may face prejudice because of what we look like or the place we represent in the eyes of someone who doesn't know much about our country, except from negative headlines. Or, someone judges you by the negative experience they've had with others "like you." I've been in that situation too. It's extremely uncomfortable, both frustrating and instructive. Sometimes you can change someone's attitude, if they will talk with you. Others you can't.

     You don't have to travel elsewhere to get that jolt of fresh perspective. We can get it by opening our doors and minds to new people and experiences, be they people from other countries or states, or even people we with work with or live near, but don't know yet.
     Just in writing this, I realize  I still have much to learn about foreigners in my own community, and even some neighbors. And now I know just who I'm going to challenge myself to get to know better.
    
    
     

Facing Accumulations

     Over the Thanksgiving weekend I started what I thought would be a fairly quick project: clearing some of the blackberries inching towards the road and our driveway. In recent months they were not just blocking the view of the road, the tangled wall of accumulated vines was creating a downright claustrophobic, almost forbidding entrance: a narrow cave of green walls.
     The thing is, once you start such a project, where does it end? In truth, it doesn't. Once blackberries get started, only Mother Nature can tame them and even she gets frustrated with the little buggers.

     At the same time I began hacking into the  enormous accumulation of vines, my youngest sister was 1400 miles away at our mother's  home in Colorado, delving into a houseful of "stuff" accumulated over four generations. Our 90-year-old Mom is planning to move from the house she grew up in to a nearby retirement center. Between childhood and moving back into that house, she lived in four other countries and three states, accumulating many things along the way. She, my sister, and later our other sister, spent days going through drawers, closets, cupboards--entire rooms--of things that seemed important to keep, at least at one time, by someone in the family.

It's hard to throw away electrical items (vacuums, radios, kitchen appliances) that at one time could be fixed. Alas, those days are gone but the habit of saving for repair is a hard one to break. 'Surely we'll find someone to do it,' is a persistent voice. It's even harder to dispose of items that have sentimental value, but you have no room for and rarely see anyway, except in fits of cleaning out every year or three.
      "After I'm gone, someone will have to clean all that stuff out of the basement," Mom has joked for years. Her mother had said the exact same thing. We chuckled, in the smug comfort that the next generation would have to do it. Well, she's not gone, it's time to do it and she gets to help.

     So, as I clipped long- neglected vines three times my height, my family burrowed into decades of family

Bundled blackberries

history.  The vines stretched high into trees; I yanked them down, folded them, thick end first, into 8-12-inch pieces (Yes, it requires thick gloves.Very thick gloves.), then wrapped them with the supple tendril at the end and tossed them in piles. My sisters and Mom yanked open stuck drawers and doors, pulling out long-forgotten items, deciding what to do and forming their piles. My piles were to compost or burn, theirs were to keep, sell, donate or send to the landfill. What would Mom want to take with her? Who in the family would like to have this?  While they were indoors and I was outdoors in the cold (actually good having several layers of clothing when dealing with nasty thorns), I think their job was more exhausting. Studies have shown that the more decisions we have to make in a day, even simple ones, the more our mental and physical strength is zapped.

One side done, the other awaits.

 

It seemed the more berry vines I cut back, the more I discovered behind them , but I did make progress and it's satisfying to see the road now - at least on one side of the drive. The other side awaits...

 
 
       My sister returned to her home in California, understandably exhausted and feeling both accomplishment at what got done and the momentum she leaves behind for the others, but frustration that she didn't get as much done as she'd intended. I hope in a few days she can look back and realize she broke through a wall of sorts - the kind created by the mental block of where to start, what to do with all of the stuff we've poked through over the decades, able then to walk away and say, "later." How do you sort and dispose of the little things that mark lives and time, people and events, feelings and relationships? There's so much history in that house, meaningful to only our family. Bits of it will disperse into the homes of other family members, bringing memories of times and people with them. Others will go into the homes of strangers. But, soon enough, they'll be gone through again as each family moves.

     Like the blackberry vines that never give up, their roots traveling unseen, underground, the "stuff" in our lives vine through numerous homes and generations, each with a memory, each with a story we want to remember.

Thanksgiving...Thank$taking?

     Oh my, I'm getting grumpy and cynical as I age. Or, the world really is changing.
     It's bad enough that Christmas arrives in stores before all the new school supplies have been snapped up by eager students and their harried parents. Then Black Friday proved such a success that it bled into Thanksgiving itself.  Is shopping really that important? Are the sales really that good? What "stuff" is so valuable that a holiday is ruined for employees and their families and has become a headache for employers?  According to some intrepid reporters, some prices actually go up on these sale days. How many eager shoppers notice that?
     What does it say about us as humans that on the one day of the year set aside for us to pause and take stock of all we have to be grateful for, we are encouraged to buy, buy, buy. (More to be grateful for!)
     What does it say about our country that a growing number are, out of pride-stomping necessity, on the receiving side of free community meals (and not just on Thanksgiving).  Some probably go there when they get off work since their pay barely covers rent and utilities. While the rich get richer and the working poor get left cashiering all those valuable bargains, the rest are blessed with the opportunity to feel good about donating or serving food to the hungry. It's a noble thing to do, but far nobler is to do so in January or February when folks are really desperate and fresh food is more scarce. Newspapers aren't there to photograph those warm-and-fuzzy scenes. We all need to spend equal effort on electing people who truly care and can't be bought by the vested interests who ever so quietly make sure the rules and regulations tilt in their favor.
     You could say the real turkeys weren't on Thanksgiving tables, they're in board rooms and back rooms every day where decisions are made about where to produce goods, wages and benefits, healthcare costs and, in essence, who gets a shot at a decent life and opportunities for their families.
     Here's to all the businesses who shuttered their doors on Thanksgiving and allowed their employees a well-deserved day off. A paid holiday, just like those at the top. That would be showing true gratitude to those who make wealth possible, albeit for fewer and fewer among us.

Vintage? Already?

     A piece of history hangs on our kitchen wall, and still serves us daily. It's not a cooking utensil, though modern versions of it are used to find recipes, definitions and substitutions for ingredients or how-to instructions for certain culinary techniques.

      Yes, I'm talking about a phone. “Smart” phone being the latter, where you can call up any information you need in the kitchen, including photos of what a dish should look like.

     

Our not-so-smart (but extremely dependable) phone is a wall-mounted rotary dial model that has been there since we built the house, about 35 years. How did it become “vintage” so soon? It harbors no recipes. Those are in books on my kitchen counters You can tell my favorites by the condition of its cover, or the splattered pages within and notes scribbled in the margins telling when it was first prepared, our impressions and suggestions for improvements. (Bet you can't do that on your smarty-pants phone.) If the phone is used during cooking it's to call a neighbor to ask to borrow a missing ingredient, or the fire department if things get out of hand.

Living in a Bowl

      Because we live in a “bowl” surrounded by forested hills, cell phone reception is extremely spotty. I've never gotten reception on my little flip-open cell phone (another borderline vintage item), so it's used just when away from our house. Visitors with more sophisticated phones rarely get reception here either. To get it you must climb one of the surrounding hills and find a clearing – not impossible, but enough trouble to thwart spontaneity.

      Phones in our house are used for just one thing: talking to another person. No camera or photos, no recording, no maps, movies, music or Wikipedia. No Pinterest or FaceBook. Just one-on-one conversations. (Well, unless you call the customer “service” department of some company and get put on terminal hold, usually with horrible music intended to soothe your increasing irritation. But that's another topic..). 

Our phone cooperative had announced it would discontinue rotary-dial service after a given date, but that date has passed and it still works so I hope they've changed their minds. While I sometimes dial with one of our touch-pad phones when I'm in a hurry, then pick up the rotary one to hear better, I will miss the occasional finger-dial when I'm of a mood. There's something calming--almost meditative--about waiting for the dial to settle back in its home position so you can dial the next number. It's akin to taking deep breaths and becoming present in the moment when you stop at a stoplight.   

Privacy

      A home phone is about as close as you can get to a phone booth these days. Remember those? Cell phones wiped them out alarmingly fast. In fact, that's why I had to get a cell phone. I knew where all the pay phones were in town and used them when I needed to get in touch with someone when I was there, but they've all disappeared. The only pay phone remaining is at our public library, but it's had an “Out of Service” sign on it for ages. I'm sure it will disappear any day, as well. Like the Maytag Man, the telephone repair guy must have gotten bored and left town. Where did they go? Is there still a place in the world where things are built to last and to be repaired instead of replaced? If so, I'd like to go there.

      The way some people carry on cell-phone conversations in public, they seem to think they're inside the privacy of the old-fashioned phone booth, or their own homes. They seem as unaware of everyone else as they are their phone constantly tracks their movements. Tracking can be a good thing when you're lost, but unnerving on a routine basis. Does it give people pause who cheat on a spouse or frequent businesses or places they don't want others to know about?

The Good 'ol Simpler Days

      When I was growing up everyone had just three-digit phone numbers, not the ten digits of today. We also had an operator who had to “place” your long-distance calls, or who you dialed in the event of an emergency. It was a small town and the operators knew everyone, of course. They may well have know you had an emergency before you dialed, having smelled the smoke.

      Once, almost a decade after having graduated from high school and moving away, I was making a long-distance call from my grandmother's house in our small town and when I gave the operator the number she said, “Chris, is that you?” She knew it was my grandmother's house and recognized my voice. We had worked together when I was in high school and it was a nice surprise to catch up with her. 

     More recently, when I was with my Mom in that same house and she needed an ambulance early one morning, when I dialed 911 and gave the house number, the emergency operator said, “That's Cathy's house!” She was right and I knew when she said someone would be there immediately, they would be. My Mom had a standing hair appointment later that morning but before I could call to cancel, the hairdresser called me to see what had happened. She'd already heard about the ambulance visit.

      Some of my childhood friends who lived in the country were on party lines where the number of rings determined which house the call was intended for. Naturally, not everyone respected the privacy of others and would sometimes listen in on conversations not intended for them. But then, rare are secrets in a small town anyway.

Homemade Cell Phone

      Being able to use the phone outside can be a problem if you don't have a cell phone, or they don't work

in your area. Spring through fall, we're outside early in the morning, mainly working in the garden. But, there have been times when we also needed to be able to answer calls from businesses my husband contracted with, or people I worked with, especially when coordinating our farmers' market. We had an exterior ringer at one time (as did our nearest neighbor, prompting some confusion) but it had given up the ghost. Our cordless phone didn't work very far from the house, so we fashioned a really long extension cord for our old table-top rotary dial phone and put it inside a metal bowl near the garden fence to ensure we'd hear it ring. It worked like a charm.

Pluses and Minuses

      No question but today's smart phones are handy – sometimes life-saving. For example, they can be more helpful than a paper map when you're traveling and can talk you through a new city or neighborhood and help you find restaurants, hotels and businesses. The ability to take photos or record sounds is truly amazing, as is being able to access important information or trivia in seconds. They also store your most often-used numbers, which makes dialing much easier. You can't do that on a rotary dial phone, but then remembering numbers is a good skill to have, especially when using a phone other than your own.

     A drawback to the proliferation of cell phones and the countless games and apps they hold is fewer people make eye-contact in public. One person--or both--has eyes on the little device. Hence, fewer people converse with each other; they're busy with what or whomever is inside the little device. It can be a comfort for extremely shy people to avoid conversations with strangers at parties by thumbing busily through their phones, but they'll never have a chance for surprisingly memorable conversations that way. Sadly, it's impossible to drive, bike or even walk through a campus, especially between classes, without paying rapt attention since most students are lost into the world of the little screen in their hands. Some step into the street without even looking, trusting someone else is paying attention. Heaven forbid the driver or biker isn't...

Time to Upgrade

     A little research reveals that the rotary dial phone was patented in 1892, though not commonly used until the early 1900s. The touch tone phone was introduced at the 1962 World's Fair. Plastic dials replaced metal ones in the 1950s.

     After over a century, it's time, I guess, for phones to be upgraded, and they are with amazing speed. Soon enough our rotary dial phone will no longer be supported by the phone company - and I'll miss it.

Pantries Instead of Silos

     It's November already. Where did the year go? I know that's the perennial question, but this year, in particular, it felt like much of it was spent worrying about drought and fires, especially living where we're surrounded by forests and tall, dry grassy areas. But now, after some soul-quenching rains, fire season is officially over. Even Smokey Bear has trundled off from his post at the Forest Service's fire danger gauge. Let's hope he has a longer hibernation this winter.

     We squeaked by but many north-westerners weren't so fortunate. Nor were many farmers. Fire wasn't their problem (here, at least), but drought certainly was.
The Year's Biggest Farmers' Market

     That was brought home to me in conversations with farmers at a unique annual event where locals can buy bulk quantities of grains, beans, meats and storage vegetables directly from growers, called Fill Your Pantry. It's a great way for farmers to distribute their crops and not have to store them over the winter, selling them little by little at winter farmers' markets, holiday events or local grocers. The idea originated here among small farmers and food activists and has become a cherished fall tradition for locavores and farmers alike. The idea has been adopted in several other communities, as well. SNAP (food stamp) benefits are accepted here, as well they should be.  I helped organize the first event and a few thereafter and am gratified to see that others have continued the tradition. Grain and bean farmers, especially, depend on it as a major distribution venue shortly after harvest. Silos to store grains are very expensive. For many, the earnings from this event cover the debt incurred to plant those crops. 
A Crop of Lessons

     The first event was pure pandemonium since we had no idea how many would show up and were overwhelmed by the crowd. It was held at a farm and a few die-hards biked from town to collect bulk purchases – proof that we live in a unique community. Most vendors were blind-sided by such response, but customers were forgiving and patient as bags were filled and were weighed out and volunteers hauled garden carts full of purchases to customers' cars. It was exhausting, but invigorating, too. We'd struck a nerve. Buying local wasn't just a fad. People really did want quality food from people they knew and were willing to support it. Valuable lessons were learned by vendors (like having measured amounts already packaged!), customers and organizers.
    The success was a powerful message to young farmers wondering if farming really worth the hard work and marginal pay. Yep, they discovered, it is. At least for those who want to build a strong local food system. 
     Thanks to this and other markets and events, people got to know their farmers. When one suffered an accident while repairing his old tractor, coming a fraction of an inch from losing an eye, customers rallied to help with medical expenses (he and his wife, like most young farmers, had no health insurance. “Obama-Care” was yet to appear.) They're still selling at Fill Your Pantries because it's their best market of the year.
The Stories You Don't Hear

     Conversations with farmers, especially those growing dry-land crops like grains and beans, revealed a starker story than one might expect with all the wonderful food on display. Farmers were hit by more than drought. An excruciatingly long dock-workers strike earlier this year meant products shipped elsewhere sat on the docks or missed the window of opportunity altogether. One farm family, who grows both grass seed for export and organic grains for local markets came very close to losing their farm because of effects the strike and drought. Export crops couldn't get out so contracts were lost, and grain yields were way down for lack of moisture (but the quality was very high, as can happen in stressed plants). Oddly, though, grain farmers across the country are getting very low prices for their crops this year. Huh? Someone in the world food chain has a finger on the scales of availability and prices – another force over which farmers have no control. The best way for farmers and consumers to have control is through local events like FYP. Unfortunately, not every farmer and community can do that in this global market.

     We rarely pay attention to the stories behind our food until the price jumps or plummets, and aren't aware that farmers are often “eating” price differences themselves in order to stay competitive, or just to survive. There are many, many stories out there that we all should hear in order to understand the “plumbing” that is our food system, be it global or local. Even locavores rely on both. Next time you're at a farmers' market or somewhere where you have an opportunity to talk with a farmer, ask some questions, she and he would likely appreciate your interest and you might be surprised at what you learn. Your food will likely taste a bit different after that conversation - probably even better. You'll certainly appreciate it more.