Sunday, October 01, 2006
Sunday, 10/1. This morning I headed west in the car on Lombard meaning to treat my pooches to our favorite walk next to the airport, starting next to the intersection of 33rd N.E and N. E. Marine Drive. I had forgotten that to get to 33rd N.E., one must go first to Columbia Avenue. Realizing that there had been an odd smell in the car, I drove on to the Space Age gas station on Martin Luther King and Columbia, and purchased gas and oil for the car--the engine being 2 quarts low on oil. Dangerous! I'll have to pay more attention to my car.
Arriving at the parking lot below 33rd N. E., Tiger was as usual ready to bolt from the car in undisciplined enthusiasm. It's a guiet area, so I didn't fret too much. Zeno, the "good child" started with the leash, but soon enough he was free on the path! Emerging from the underpass, a more lovely scene couldn't be found anywhere. The low morning sun threw backlight on wildflowers of every color, the blues of bachelor buttons, white of Queen Ann's lace, yellow of Scott's broom glowing against the bleached yellow backdrop of grasses. The sky a pale blue with threads of white clouds stretching from side to side. I took some deep breaths of cool fall air, as we settled into the rhythm of our morning walk. Tiger was a bundle of action, bounding around on either side of the path, sometimes burrowing her head into a hole as if she could catch something.
Across the meadow, on the other side of Marine Drive, I notice the gay sign for Tyee Yacht Club, sporting an anchor painted white, with a chain soldered into an undulating wave pattern. Further along in our walk, the homey aroma of baking bread drifted over from Marine, from the Sextant Bar and Grill. Perhaps baking dinner rolls for later in the day. Now Tiger is on the path ahead of me, and another far less savory aroma drifts in my direction. Yes! She has rolled in a nasty smell again! Damn! I plan to dunk her (head first, preferably!) as soon as we reach the Columbia. Soon after this, a pretty young woman with an Rhodesian Razorback dog passes us.
Soon we are drawing even with the airport's control tower, California grasses as tall as I am line either side of our path. There is a large Canadian thistle among the grasses, and I step through the grasses to get closer. Canadian thistles are another of our famous noxious plants in the Northwest. At home, we are obliged to remove them from our yards, but this noble plant freely beckoned me as I freely walked. The blackish seeds, tinged with a little of the purble of the flower petals, still stuck to the pod. Perhaps the dew from the surrounding grasses caused these seeds to clump up, instead of lightly blowing away, as thistle seeds usually do. One new lavender colored thistle flower is still blooming.
After allowing Zeno and Tiger a good splash and play in the Columbia (Broughton Beach,) we headed back up the beach to start the trek back to the car. Sunlight splashing on the sand catches tiny pieces of the glassy sand as we walk. When we reach the top of the beach, the same young woman with the Rhodesian Razorback who had passed me earlier, greets me, with a little panic in her voice. "You haven't seen any car keys have you?" She has lost her keys somewhere here on the beach. Also, she has an appointment for a job interview at 11:00 a.m. Asking for a description, I tell her I'll help look for the keys. A single Volvo key with black plastic head, also with lock release device, atached to a ring.
We head back along the beach. She knows about where she headed down to the sand, so we start there. She walks quickly down to the west along the beach. I walk more slowly down to the water. I decide to make close switchbacks for a methodical search. It's my first switch back, approaching the path above the sand, looking a little ahead--there in the sand is a key on ring with release device also. I call to this sweet young blonde-haired lady--and she comes running back--she can't believe I've found the keys. We walk back to the cross-walk together. To keep her appointment she must run ahead. As she runs ahead, I watch thinking that here is the energy and will-power of youth.
I am reminded of a line from an old hymn: " . . . how can I keep from singing?"
Arriving at the parking lot below 33rd N. E., Tiger was as usual ready to bolt from the car in undisciplined enthusiasm. It's a guiet area, so I didn't fret too much. Zeno, the "good child" started with the leash, but soon enough he was free on the path! Emerging from the underpass, a more lovely scene couldn't be found anywhere. The low morning sun threw backlight on wildflowers of every color, the blues of bachelor buttons, white of Queen Ann's lace, yellow of Scott's broom glowing against the bleached yellow backdrop of grasses. The sky a pale blue with threads of white clouds stretching from side to side. I took some deep breaths of cool fall air, as we settled into the rhythm of our morning walk. Tiger was a bundle of action, bounding around on either side of the path, sometimes burrowing her head into a hole as if she could catch something.
Across the meadow, on the other side of Marine Drive, I notice the gay sign for Tyee Yacht Club, sporting an anchor painted white, with a chain soldered into an undulating wave pattern. Further along in our walk, the homey aroma of baking bread drifted over from Marine, from the Sextant Bar and Grill. Perhaps baking dinner rolls for later in the day. Now Tiger is on the path ahead of me, and another far less savory aroma drifts in my direction. Yes! She has rolled in a nasty smell again! Damn! I plan to dunk her (head first, preferably!) as soon as we reach the Columbia. Soon after this, a pretty young woman with an Rhodesian Razorback dog passes us.
Soon we are drawing even with the airport's control tower, California grasses as tall as I am line either side of our path. There is a large Canadian thistle among the grasses, and I step through the grasses to get closer. Canadian thistles are another of our famous noxious plants in the Northwest. At home, we are obliged to remove them from our yards, but this noble plant freely beckoned me as I freely walked. The blackish seeds, tinged with a little of the purble of the flower petals, still stuck to the pod. Perhaps the dew from the surrounding grasses caused these seeds to clump up, instead of lightly blowing away, as thistle seeds usually do. One new lavender colored thistle flower is still blooming.
After allowing Zeno and Tiger a good splash and play in the Columbia (Broughton Beach,) we headed back up the beach to start the trek back to the car. Sunlight splashing on the sand catches tiny pieces of the glassy sand as we walk. When we reach the top of the beach, the same young woman with the Rhodesian Razorback who had passed me earlier, greets me, with a little panic in her voice. "You haven't seen any car keys have you?" She has lost her keys somewhere here on the beach. Also, she has an appointment for a job interview at 11:00 a.m. Asking for a description, I tell her I'll help look for the keys. A single Volvo key with black plastic head, also with lock release device, atached to a ring.
We head back along the beach. She knows about where she headed down to the sand, so we start there. She walks quickly down to the west along the beach. I walk more slowly down to the water. I decide to make close switchbacks for a methodical search. It's my first switch back, approaching the path above the sand, looking a little ahead--there in the sand is a key on ring with release device also. I call to this sweet young blonde-haired lady--and she comes running back--she can't believe I've found the keys. We walk back to the cross-walk together. To keep her appointment she must run ahead. As she runs ahead, I watch thinking that here is the energy and will-power of youth.
I am reminded of a line from an old hymn: " . . . how can I keep from singing?"
Monday, September 18, 2006
Monday. A few impressions from this a.m.:
Left the driveway bundled in knit hat & black fleece. It's truly N.W. fall now. Rain falls lightly--puddles on blacktop reflect grey skies. Zeno pulls to the north side of the street--the hazlenut tree next sweet elderly neighbor's drive a draw for him. Approaching the hazelnut tree, the round green leaves have a sheen of moisture, and there, by the cluster of grey hazel stems, a small fir tree has sequestered itself, as if trying to pass itself off as an understory fern.
We crossed from Ainsworth to Simpson on the unfinished road at 46th. I wondered at myself, taking this road in wet weather--the steep uphill part of the road is plain dirt, but I'm drawn to take it anyway. As we enter on the gravel, the rain becomes heavier. I enjoy this path because it feels as if I've come to the deep dark forest, right here in N.E. Portland! I find the steep dirt part of the path has not become slippery . . . yet?
I believe there is construction activity going on at Killingsworth street, just south of us. The loud banging & sudden "whop!, clop! boom!" coming regularly from that direction, added to her fear of rain, have frightened Tiger, and she slinks along, pulling at her leash.
On my way back east on Simpson, a lovely young African-American woman strides briskly out from the side street. Dressed in black slacks & jacket, she turns west on Simpson, after we exchange quiet greetings. Approaching 55th, there is a large Black Walnut tree. One gigantic tree composed of three trunks--is this the growth habit of Black Walnuts? Walking north on 55th, a neighbor has put piles of apples and pears out on her front yard with a sign--FREE APPLES AND PEARS! This is a land of plenty--at least, plenty of fruit!
Left the driveway bundled in knit hat & black fleece. It's truly N.W. fall now. Rain falls lightly--puddles on blacktop reflect grey skies. Zeno pulls to the north side of the street--the hazlenut tree next sweet elderly neighbor's drive a draw for him. Approaching the hazelnut tree, the round green leaves have a sheen of moisture, and there, by the cluster of grey hazel stems, a small fir tree has sequestered itself, as if trying to pass itself off as an understory fern.
We crossed from Ainsworth to Simpson on the unfinished road at 46th. I wondered at myself, taking this road in wet weather--the steep uphill part of the road is plain dirt, but I'm drawn to take it anyway. As we enter on the gravel, the rain becomes heavier. I enjoy this path because it feels as if I've come to the deep dark forest, right here in N.E. Portland! I find the steep dirt part of the path has not become slippery . . . yet?
I believe there is construction activity going on at Killingsworth street, just south of us. The loud banging & sudden "whop!, clop! boom!" coming regularly from that direction, added to her fear of rain, have frightened Tiger, and she slinks along, pulling at her leash.
On my way back east on Simpson, a lovely young African-American woman strides briskly out from the side street. Dressed in black slacks & jacket, she turns west on Simpson, after we exchange quiet greetings. Approaching 55th, there is a large Black Walnut tree. One gigantic tree composed of three trunks--is this the growth habit of Black Walnuts? Walking north on 55th, a neighbor has put piles of apples and pears out on her front yard with a sign--FREE APPLES AND PEARS! This is a land of plenty--at least, plenty of fruit!
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
Wednesday. There are patches of blue among white and grey puffy clouds--the air is cool. The familiar shapes of trees down Ainsworth seem to take a muted, distant tone while the sun hides. The dogs sniff eagerly at familiar places.
Just after we cross 55th, I am startled by a punching burst of sound from a passing car. I see that it's a dog, probably as big as Zeno, scrabbling madly at the windows of the car (a sedan) in excitement at seeing my dogs. How can that person stand to drive her car with such mad activity taking place?
Just after we cross 55th, I am startled by a punching burst of sound from a passing car. I see that it's a dog, probably as big as Zeno, scrabbling madly at the windows of the car (a sedan) in excitement at seeing my dogs. How can that person stand to drive her car with such mad activity taking place?
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
Teusday. This morning we set out for Rocky Butte, in the VW, looking for a change of scene. It is only one or two miles from home, also close to grocery shopping I'll do later. On the way, I pull in to Kim's Market on Fremont and 73rd. The young man behind the counter directs me to the cooler, where I find bottled water. He is tall and lean, looking about the same age as my 19 year old son. With a large bottle of water to sustain us, we drive on out Fremont, taking a left on Rocky Butte Road.
Rocky Butte is a cinder cone, part of the large Boring Lava Fields upon which the city of Portland, Oregon rests. You can read more about Rocky Butte and other cinder cones and shield volcanoes of this area at, http://vulcan.wr.usgs.gov/Volcanoes/Oregon/BoringLavaField/VisitVolcano/rocky_butte.html. I love walking here, for the view and rest I receive at the summit of the Butte. I park the VW just past the campus of Portland Bible College. The dogs are eager to go, and Tiger practically bursts out of the car. With dogs leashed and car locked, we begin.
I quickly find that I'm over-dressed, and pull off the thick wool sweater which had kept me warm at home. Tall maples, fir, and other evergreen trees shade us as we walk. The road winds completely around the Butte. We parked on the northeast side, and as we walk south, the noise of I-84 traffic below grows louder. How lucky I am, taking this relaxed stroll on a quiet road as people rush from place to place on the freeway below. I've seen two joggers so far, and no cars. On the bank of the road above me, a carpet of Ivy leaves reflect the sunlight. Looking across the street, there is another climbing vine on the trees there, what can it be, with it's pale green bursts of seeds hanging off of tendrils?
Reaching the summit, I lead the dogs into the grandly named "Joseph Wood Hill Memorial Park." This little park, which I would guess is no more than 1/2 acre in size, surrounds the summit with stone walls topped with old fashioned lamps. It's an especially lovely place to visit at sunrise or sunset, as the lamps are glowing yellow, and the whole sky is painted with colors. You can watch the sun in it's course to or from the horizon. Red volcanic cinder dust line the pathways in the park.
Today there is haze in the air, especially to the east, and only the outline of Mt Hood is visible. I take the dogs to the north side of the park, my favorite viewpoint. The sky is clearer to the north, and the somber grey of Mt. St. Helen's flanks are clear. The Columbia river winds along in shades of green and white. Jets follow the path of the river as they ready to land at Portland Int. Airport. After a few minutes, one begins to descend slowly from the east.
After our descent back down Rocky Butte Road, and just before the dogs and I return to the car, I notice again the odd climbing vine I'd seen earlier, with it's masses of silvery green seeds. Two trees I can see are completely blanketed with this vine, and it drapes thickly between them, as well. It takes a bit of internet searching, but I finally identify this plant as "Old Man's Beard," (so named for the silvery seeds) a noxious weed of Oregon. You may read more about this pest at, http://www.oregon.gov/ODA/PLANT/WEEDS/profile_oldmansbeard.shtml. Just one of these creepers may produce more than 100,000 seeds per year!
Rocky Butte is a cinder cone, part of the large Boring Lava Fields upon which the city of Portland, Oregon rests. You can read more about Rocky Butte and other cinder cones and shield volcanoes of this area at, http://vulcan.wr.usgs.gov/Volcanoes/Oregon/BoringLavaField/VisitVolcano/rocky_butte.html. I love walking here, for the view and rest I receive at the summit of the Butte. I park the VW just past the campus of Portland Bible College. The dogs are eager to go, and Tiger practically bursts out of the car. With dogs leashed and car locked, we begin.
I quickly find that I'm over-dressed, and pull off the thick wool sweater which had kept me warm at home. Tall maples, fir, and other evergreen trees shade us as we walk. The road winds completely around the Butte. We parked on the northeast side, and as we walk south, the noise of I-84 traffic below grows louder. How lucky I am, taking this relaxed stroll on a quiet road as people rush from place to place on the freeway below. I've seen two joggers so far, and no cars. On the bank of the road above me, a carpet of Ivy leaves reflect the sunlight. Looking across the street, there is another climbing vine on the trees there, what can it be, with it's pale green bursts of seeds hanging off of tendrils?
Reaching the summit, I lead the dogs into the grandly named "Joseph Wood Hill Memorial Park." This little park, which I would guess is no more than 1/2 acre in size, surrounds the summit with stone walls topped with old fashioned lamps. It's an especially lovely place to visit at sunrise or sunset, as the lamps are glowing yellow, and the whole sky is painted with colors. You can watch the sun in it's course to or from the horizon. Red volcanic cinder dust line the pathways in the park.
Today there is haze in the air, especially to the east, and only the outline of Mt Hood is visible. I take the dogs to the north side of the park, my favorite viewpoint. The sky is clearer to the north, and the somber grey of Mt. St. Helen's flanks are clear. The Columbia river winds along in shades of green and white. Jets follow the path of the river as they ready to land at Portland Int. Airport. After a few minutes, one begins to descend slowly from the east.
After our descent back down Rocky Butte Road, and just before the dogs and I return to the car, I notice again the odd climbing vine I'd seen earlier, with it's masses of silvery green seeds. Two trees I can see are completely blanketed with this vine, and it drapes thickly between them, as well. It takes a bit of internet searching, but I finally identify this plant as "Old Man's Beard," (so named for the silvery seeds) a noxious weed of Oregon. You may read more about this pest at, http://www.oregon.gov/ODA/PLANT/WEEDS/profile_oldmansbeard.shtml. Just one of these creepers may produce more than 100,000 seeds per year!
Monday, September 11, 2006
Monday, 8am. As I cut up plums for the oatmeal this morning, the back yard is lit with patches of bright sun. After most of an hour has melted into morning activities, Tiger approaches with prancing, whining, a little playfull cavorting that says, "enough, mom--let's go!" As we head out of the driveway, Tiger pulls to the east, but I nudge her to the west. Zeno seems pretty spry this morning, walking with an easy slow gait.
Gazing down Ainsworth, there is the three quarter moon, like a white sail in the sky, and just to it's right a great maple tree, bedecked with it's reddish orange seeds, stands alongside her--a sturdy, regal companion. A golden SUV passes the three of us, and the cool sweet morning air is colored briefly with a sour smell of exaust. All of the colors are so bright this morning. There is a tree whose name I need to learn, with little orange berries, next to the maple. Soon I am walking past my neighbor's pear tree. The pears are large, and must be ripening quickly, with our dry and cooling fall weather. So many fruits lie on the ground.
Zeno is walking so easily with us that I continue down to where Ainsworth curves north to 42nd. Next to a fence are some lovely low plants whose one orange seed are held in a casing resembling a little orange lantern. After we cross 42nd, the dogs and I are on "sidewalk" territory again. Ten thousand sparkling lights rest in a neighbor's grey-green carpet of grass. I turn back so I can slowly walk past this wondrous sight of dew-drops once more. Each little drop contains every rainbow color. As I savor this quiet beauty, the owner approaches slowly down his driveway, waiting for me to pass. What hidden beauties could this older person reveal, if we were to sit quietly next each other on the grass? Our lives are brief, and some have likened them to the blazing drops of dew, so quickly extinquished by the morning's approaching heat.
I was so lucky to have become acquainted with one of my mom's true and lasting friends (since heady college days in the thirties.) Some time after my mom passed away last summer, this friend dropped some lines of the Bard lightly into a telephone conversation:
Fear no more the heat o' the sun,
Nor the furious Winter rages
Thou thy earthly work hast done
Home art gone and ta'en thy wages . . .
--William Shakespeare, Cymbelline
At the off-leash area, Zeno & I stroll a little, and Tiger charges off to play other canines.
Gazing down Ainsworth, there is the three quarter moon, like a white sail in the sky, and just to it's right a great maple tree, bedecked with it's reddish orange seeds, stands alongside her--a sturdy, regal companion. A golden SUV passes the three of us, and the cool sweet morning air is colored briefly with a sour smell of exaust. All of the colors are so bright this morning. There is a tree whose name I need to learn, with little orange berries, next to the maple. Soon I am walking past my neighbor's pear tree. The pears are large, and must be ripening quickly, with our dry and cooling fall weather. So many fruits lie on the ground.
Zeno is walking so easily with us that I continue down to where Ainsworth curves north to 42nd. Next to a fence are some lovely low plants whose one orange seed are held in a casing resembling a little orange lantern. After we cross 42nd, the dogs and I are on "sidewalk" territory again. Ten thousand sparkling lights rest in a neighbor's grey-green carpet of grass. I turn back so I can slowly walk past this wondrous sight of dew-drops once more. Each little drop contains every rainbow color. As I savor this quiet beauty, the owner approaches slowly down his driveway, waiting for me to pass. What hidden beauties could this older person reveal, if we were to sit quietly next each other on the grass? Our lives are brief, and some have likened them to the blazing drops of dew, so quickly extinquished by the morning's approaching heat.
I was so lucky to have become acquainted with one of my mom's true and lasting friends (since heady college days in the thirties.) Some time after my mom passed away last summer, this friend dropped some lines of the Bard lightly into a telephone conversation:
Fear no more the heat o' the sun,
Nor the furious Winter rages
Thou thy earthly work hast done
Home art gone and ta'en thy wages . . .
--William Shakespeare, Cymbelline
At the off-leash area, Zeno & I stroll a little, and Tiger charges off to play other canines.
Friday, September 08, 2006
Friday. With a manual examination yesterday, Dr. Hoberg ruled out a cruciate ligament tear in Zeno's right leg. That was good news. It could have been an arthritic flare up, a small re-injury to the original tear in the left leg--also, the possibility of a small TIA was not entirely ruled out. The dog is in his later years.
As we walk west on Ainsworth, I'm struck again by the rustic beauty of our area. There are no sidewalks--the dogs and I walk along right in the road. You can hear the occasional rumble of jets taking off from the airport and the low hum of traffic from the old Portland Highway nearby. For me, the highway sounds have become white noise, and I'm kept constant company by the calls of birds, which are so plentiful around here. Our little Pittbull/Basenji girl Tiger though, has not settled well with some of the noises coming from the airport. (I'll include a picture of our little canine freak of nature with this post.*) A neighbor has explained to me that what I thought were fireworks going off in the early morning, are actually blanks being fired to scare birds off of the runways. It's frightening to Tiger, who is scared of many things, especially rain. Her fear of cameras means there are very few images in our files which include her face. My daughter caught this image at our old home in Seattle (with Zeno and my mom behind her.)
One of our neighbors seems to have a small nursery concern, as there are potted plants just past the parking area, and a green house (perhaps they run a nursery somewhere else.) There is some kind of pine tree in the yard with a conical shape, and a color that blends chartreuse with gold. We venture all the way down to 46th today, as Zeno's gait is steady, and he's keeping up well. There, a dirt road leads south to Simpson. Tall trees shade the way. The leaves and bark seem to be those of cherry trees, yet I hadn't thought cherry trees could grow that tall. Just before the we leave this shady path, there is one last giant tree, with a large crop of dried fruit lying all about the silvery-grey trunk. I pick one up out of curiosity. Why not taste it? Yes, sweet, hard and black, the flavor seems unmistakebly that of cherry.
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