Summertime, and the projects are....

...plentiful. The projects are plentiful. And that's OK, because once the rainy season comes it will be nice to have all this done. Basically we have about two more months before the rains really set in, which is enough time to finish the outdoor projects we need to before heading indoors to a nice cup of tea and a fire. 

It sounds strange, but one of the things I like best about Oregon is that there is little to no winter gardening. In California we grew our lettuces, carrots, broccoli and cauliflower in the cooler months. I used to plant onions in fall for a December/January harvest. Last year I did the same thing and the onions weren't ready until spring. So for me, that was Mother Nature's way of telling me that in winter, things rest here. Including people. Fine by me. 

For now though, the tomato and cucumber harvests have just started coming in, which means canning. With no working kitchen, this is a challenge, but luckily I have a hot plate inside and one gas burner on our outdoor barbecue, so between them I can get it done. My grandmother said "it's always good to know how to make do with what you've got" and as you probably already know, grandma was/is always right.

And we've had some other, fun projects to work on as well. Big Ag finished the garden fencing and gate leading to the vegetable garden. Eventually we will be putting a nice door on this, but are not sure of the design yet so we'll wait and see how the spirit moves us. 

I got some awesome mason jar solar lights from my son for my birthday, so we hung those, along with two lanterns I got on Amazon. They all make cheerful light at night without using any electricity, and they shut off at dawn. I won't keep them up year-round, but in summer it sure is nice to see them.

I also finished my first barn quilt here, which we'll hang on the tall side of Big Ag's shop once the shop itself is painted in a few weeks. I have a couple of smaller quilts planned for elsewhere around the property, including a compass rose for our pump house. They are so much fun to work on.

I guess if there's one upside to COVID it's that with people being home more, they are working on their homes more. Just doing their personal part of keeping America beautiful I guess. Happy to be a part of that.

The Gift of the Saturn Return

In this past month, I celebrated a milestone birthday within the maelstrom of all that's going on in the world right now. It was weird, but ultimately, also meaningful. While I'm not a believer in astrology, it's still worth noting that I'm in the middle of the one astrological observance I do give some credence to: The Saturn Return.

The Saturn Return is so named because the planet Saturn returns to the same place in its orbit around the solar system approximately every 29 years or so.  So for each person, Saturn comes back to the same spot in the solar system it was in when you were born on the cusp of your turning 30, 60 and 90 years of age, respectively. 

To astrologers, when Saturn returns to the general region of the sky it was in at your birth, it's considered an auspicious time; a time of reflection and/or upheaval, a rite of passage -- of remembering the things you came into the world to do, and of assessing the progress you've made on the road through life. It can be a turning point, when people set off in different directions than the one they had been going in.  Saturn was the god of both old age and renewal. And from birth to age 30, then 30 - 60, and finally 60 - 90, every time Saturn returns to the position it was in at your birth, it heralds a new era of your human experience beginning. 

We humans spend about a third of our life as young people, the next third as mature adults, and a last third as elders and sometimes even ancients of the tribe. Of course some live longer than 90 years of age, while others do not even make it to the end of their third and final Saturn Return. But in general, for anyone who makes it to age 60 or so, the start of the final third of life is undeniable proof they're closer to the conclusion of their journey than to the start of it.

Ghost Tree

As sobering as that is, I actually like the idea of the Saturn Return because, just like with pregnancy, life really can be divided into trimesters -- first, second and third. In pregnancy, the end of the third trimester ends in birth. In life, the end of the third trimester ends with death, or maybe with our birth into the afterlife. 

Food for thought, indeed.

Back to how this year's birthday factors into all this, there's no question that being away from friends and family during this time of starting my last third of life has been very difficult. And so I decided if I couldn't see my family, the least I could do was see the other birthday constant in my life -- the ocean.

Ghost Forest

When times are challenging, the beach always helps bring back proper perspective for me. The ocean was here before I came, and will be here after I'm gone. Everything I see there -- trees, animals, aquatic life, people -- all come to earth awhile, spend some time, and then leave, just like I will. And ultimately, even the ocean will one day end, and so will our solar system, Saturn included. 

It's good at times like this to take note of the rhythms of nature, which occur regardless of what else is going on. I saw the tide going in and out. I saw the "ghost forest," which are the remnants of a forest of trees felled by a huge tsunami 200 years ago. I saw sand crabs and starfish and otters. In short, I saw lives present and past, all as temporary as my own. The living proceed on with life's business. The remnants of the dead stand to remind us we're not here forever.

So what is life's business, exactly? I think for us, it means that if we are better and wiser people by the time we hit our second Saturn return at 58-60 years of age, then we've done OK. It's easy to judge yourself more harshly than that and to focus on all your past mistakes and wrong turns, but look at the world. To improve amidst the decay and disorder of the industrial, man-made world is no easy task. 

And so I'm starting my third Saturn cycle trying to keep it simple: Less anger, more love. Less impatience, more wisdom. Eventually, more family and more friends back in the mix again, once we're through this strange time. 

And until that happens, I will continue my walk on this earth, under the night sky where Saturn hangs along the plane of the ecliptic in a familiar place, and alongside the vast ocean which always seems to be there for me, no matter what. 

Things that cheer me up (and why they don't have to)

OK, so  let's be honest here. These are some of the toughest times most of us have ever experienced (on a collective level). If you lived through WWII, I guess you get a pass, since that was certainly extremely difficult as well (I think of my mom as a ten year-old, sitting in her family's backyard bomb shelter in Central London, hearing the buzz bombs take out every house on the block across the street from hers). 

But these times are difficult too, both because of the difficulties themselves, as well as what they've brought to the forefront of our national consciousness.

I do fear our current 2020 version of America would never survive a world war and the sacrifices something like that would demand from us. When merely wearing a mask or acknowledging an established medical emergency becomes an opportunity for individuals to express deep personal offense and outrage, I think we need to admit we're in trouble as a nation. 

But maybe we've known that for awhile already, and this is all just shining a brighter light on it.

But here's an odd thing:  During the darkest of times, if your personal situation is relatively OK it can become tempting to scold yourself for feeling bad about The State of Everything. Instead of feeling bad, you may try and insist to yourself how lucky you are -- that you have steady income, or a comfortable place to live, etc. I think that's sometimes a mistake, and trivializes some very legitimate negative feelings you may have during such a time as this. 

Every one of us is grieving losses at this point -- even if it's just the loss of companionship/friendship, celebrating milestones with others, gathering with friends and loved ones, and participating in hobbies we used to enjoy. Or just getting a hug from a someone we don't live with. 

I take great pleasure in the good things around me, but it isn't always enough lately. Sometimes I feel helpless and hopeless and can fall into a hole of depression for several days at a time, It's like a sense of sadness blooming out from my solar plexus and creating a cloud around me, changing how I see everything. 

Part of it is isolation, part is having former activities no longer an option to enjoy, and part is probably boredom.

The kitchen apocalypse has not helped any of this; as of this moment we're still down to drywall and floor only, which means the soonest we will have a working kitchen again will be the end of September, and that's optimistic. In a normal year, this is something I'd just roll with, but in a year which already feels difficult it feels a little like an additional insult to injury kind of thing. After all, if you have to live in your house almost 24/7, it's really not too much to ask to have a working kitchen, is it?

And the future looks as if it will be even tougher, with COVID cases exploding everywhere, including here in Oregon. So today I'm going to post some things that seem to chase the storm clouds away a little, and give me a little comfort during this time, without demanding anything from me. Hope you enjoy them and they brighten your spirits a bit.

Thursday Big Ag and I took a trip to the Oregon Gardens to check out their summer flowers, and snapped a couple of shots of these fields on the way. Sometimes just seeing something different makes things seem better, and the fact that 99 percent of nature has no clue or concern about COVID is kind of nice to remember.

My family makes me happy, especially my beautiful mermaid of a daughter. How can you not be happy looking at this smile? We may only speak by phone right now, but knowing the people you love are still out there is deeply comforting.

Whatever give you hope and comfort from a faith perspective is definitely something to hang on to at this particular time. I've enjoyed reading books from the Theosophical Society since I was a teenager, and digging out these old books out, dusting them off, and re-learning things I'd forgotten has been very good. 

It's also a reminder that while hoarding books is a curse and something your children will be extremely annoyed with when they have to clean out all your stuff someday, saving those books you consider essential is a gift to yourself in the future.

A new tablecloth courtesy of Amazon, and some fresh flowers from the garden make the world seem a little more OK. So does refreshing some yard furniture in some blue and green hues to match the Oregon trees and sky. 

But lastly, I think the greatest gift you can give to yourself in depression times is not to judge yourself too harshly for whatever you are feeling. If you are getting out of bed every morning, feeding yourself, and paying your electric bill, you are doing fine. All feelings during this time are OK and par for the course, so be gentle with your soul and allow it to feel whatever it happens to be feeling at the moment. 

And don't judge yourself or feel guilty about not being constantly grateful for what you do have. No one is without loss in all of this, and those losses need acknowledgement. In other words, it's OK to feel shitty sometimes, and it's OK to feel good, too. 

Solstice

Through the troubling times in this country, the one bright spot here on the homestead has been the vegetable garden. Whether it's food on your plate or in the ground, the sight of that kind of goodness always warms the heart, strengthens the spirit and reminds us that no matter what, we all must still eat. 

June has been filled with showers and summer-type thunderstorms. It has not been unusual to see pouring rain with thunder and lightning at 10 am followed by bright sunshine and blue skies by 10:30, or by bright sunshine with simultaneous rain, but it hasn't deterred (and may even have helped) all the desired growth and abundance out in the garden.

We're up to our ears in snap peas, lettuce and onions, all of which performed beautifully in the cool weather. Surprisingly though, even the tomato plants are happy and have been growing like gangbusters. I started everything from seed this year due to March being filled with COVID concerns, so I feel especially proud of this garden, as I usually rely on at least a few (and sometimes more than just a few) transplants to provide a quick turnaround from planting to eating. But not this year.

And last night we sampled the first of our potato crop. My mom told me once that there is nothing more wonderful than a freshly dug potato, cooked and served with some butter and sour cream, and she is absolutely right. Fresh potatoes have a stronger flavor, are creamier and much lighter on the palate than older potatoes are. 

So here's a little photo summary of all the green goodness.

The California Olallieberries are very happy living in Oregon. Plenty of berries on the vines. I'm thinking we could give Linn's in Cambria a run for their money!

We have more snap peas than we know what to do with.

Baby pumpkins, which haven't even blossomed yet.

Some of our tomatoes -- Roma at the rear and 4th of July in foreground. Plus the irrigation system I just finished installing. We'll use it in July and August, mainly.

Some of the onions are going to seed, but we have more than enough so that's OK. I like their cool, spiky alien-ness. 

Wildflowers in one of the beds over the septic system.

Spiderwort with blue hydrangeas in background

I planted five rhubarb plants, and two have really taken off (far right). No cutting any the first year, but 2021 is looking hopeful.

My Yuzu tree, brought from California, is doing great!

And no photo-heavy post would be complete without an image of a deer peeing in the yard.

New Times

So every morning I have breakfast in my new dining room, also known as "the garage." I'm not alone, even if Big Ag isn't up yet -- my car is there. I actually think it's been good for our relationship to have some quality time together each day, especially since I'm not driving much anymore. 

I wonder sometimes if my car sits in the garage wondering what it did to cause our relationship to sour. I'll bet most of my shoes and clothes are thinking the same thing. My car and I went from spending five days a week together to maybe a half hour every couple of weeks, which is roughly my drive time to and from the nearest grocery store. 

At the rate we're going it actually may outlive me, or at least outlive my driving years. 

Our kitchen has also moved to the garage. If I could give any advice to prospective home buyers, it would be to always buy a home with an attached garage -- preferably one large enough that it can pinch hit for a kitchen, extra living space, gym (that you'll never use), or greenhouse/potting shed, when/if necessary. 

Tomorrow I'm going to attempt to blanch a bumper crop of spinach in a big pot on the outdoor burner of our barbecue, which should be interesting since it is probably going to be raining all day. This is the best spinach harvest I've ever had, so I'm not going to let a little kitchen apocalypse get in the way of getting it all put up. I'm already dreaming of yummy winter meals when (hear oh Lord our prayer) all this disorganization, social unrest and global weirdness is in the process of healing and I can take in all the new hope, comfort and warmth from a working kitchen once again. 

It's like what I've been reminding myself most of 2020: The adaptable not only survive, but thrive. It's what I tell myself when I wake up each morning, have coffee and chat with my car, and also before I go to bed and try and fall asleep to the sound of the six industrial fans and three de-humidifiers running downstairs, which is kind of like living next to a C-17 transport plane that's warming up but never goes anywhere. 

We're all just kind of finding our way around the new times. So take some time today to let your friends and your car know you're thinking about them. I recommend a virtual coffee or happy hour for your friends and a new air freshener or a wash for your car. 

But coffee with your car works, too. 

The boys are back in town

The workers may all be in masks, but they are here, as we deal with the kitchen gutting/renovation after our flood. Craftsmen are generally a pleasure to deal with, in every situation. They're almost always pleasantly conversational, have the rockstar confidence that comes from having one great skill they've well and truly mastered, and as an added bonus, they always laugh at Big Ag's jokes, no matter how lame. I should put them on the permanent payroll just for that.

Having them around is almost like having a house full of sons again, this cadre of plumbers, electricians, general contractors and remediation specialists who are all working to save what they can in our kitchen and dining room.  They all know each other from other jobs, and are part of a group that socializes in their off hours. 

The remediation guy brought a 16 year-old boy with him yesterday -- his daughter's boyfriend -- a lanky kid who would probably be playing baseball if not for it being the Summer of COVID. Anyway, there he was, trying to impress his girlfriend's dad and make some extra spending money by folding himself into an accordian and going down into crawlspaces of all kinds of homes to check for water damage. He'll have stories of fist-size spiders, dead rats with maggots in them and who knows what else when he goes back to school, whenever that is. 

The plumber called us at 9:30 last night and told us he'd just finished a job, was still awake with plenty of energy, and was wondering if we'd like him to pop by and fix our hot water so we could have showers in the morning. He's in his late 20's, unmarried, and as an in-demand essential worker, the world is his oyster right now. 

The space formerly known as "the kitchen."

One little thing, capable of creating a whole load of havoc.

It's always fun to ask these guys about the worst they've ever seen. The plumber told us about a family who went on a long vacation and had asked an adult relative to check the house weekly. One day the relative came in and used the upstairs bathroom before they left, clogging the toilet. The toilet overflowed and kept running for the next seven days. "It would have been better if there had been a fire, probably," the plumber told us with the thoughtful pauses and colorful language all good war stories have. You could almost see the sagging and collapsed ceilings and ruined furniture in every room after he was done with his tale. 

Once they start telling me their horror stories, I always feel better. After all, there are no rats with maggots in my crawlspace, and no collapsed ceilings. But the day is young, you know? These days anything seems possible. Next month could be dead rats, or we could be fighting space aliens. It's been that kind of year.

Waterworks

Do you ever feel like, just when you have everything under control and are the master of your fate, fate pulls the rug out from under you? Of course you do, because that is a hallmark of living on planet earth. It actually makes me believe in an evil force -- a devil if you will -- because the timing of it is always just so freaking perfect. A professional spy couldn't plan sabotage any better.

So as you may recall, a few days ago I was waxing purple on the new peace I'd found amid COVID? It was lovely. And then this happened:

Yes, we have a serious leak somewhere in between the kitchen and formal dining room.  It started when I went over to that corner of the room for something and noticed the carpet was wet under my feet. Really wet. We moved the furniture, pulled up the carpet and pad, and found a soaked area about two feet by three feet.

(In a completely unrelated but kind of cool anecdote, I once had a friend with this issue who noticed the problem when mushrooms started growing out of her carpet in a little-used guest room.)

The good news? It's water, not sewage or grey water from the sink. The bad news? It's still slowly leaking, and the one plumber we've had in just said he had no idea where the leak was coming from, and just suggested a mold remediation company to clean up. Which would be great if, in fact, the leak had been stopped.

We called the insurance company (our insurance company is USAA, and can I just say we have left a phone message AND filled out a claim, and have heard nothing in 48 hours. Guess you never know who your friends really are until you need them). 

We called a second plumber, who will come on Monday morning, and in the meantime, we live with it and keep fans on it to help it stay dry. We may end up having to hire a contractor to tear into the area, bit by bit, until he finds what it is. 

And so here I am breathing and trying to stay at peace through another challenge. It's surely going to be the Murphy's Law of the next year or so...."if the COVID don't get you, the (fill in the black) will." 

In our case, the water leak will. Ah well. This too shall pass.