Grace Under (High) Pressure

It's been a long, hot summer even on the Oregon Coast.  This graceful Lucifer plant doesn't seem a bit fazed.  Perhaps it is trying to set an example for my other whiny, thirsty garden dwellers.

It's MR. Jeeves to You!

I always wanted a Personal Monkey Butler.   How long I have wished for a sweet, little servant to bring me a tall glass of iced tea on a silver tray, to answer the door and alert me to guests, or even to change the television channel back in the day (you see, it is a very old wish).  When not waiting on me, he could entertain me with tricks or gossip from the next town over.

He could sit on the back of my tall armchair and watch as I hold court in the afternoon, whispering in my ear from time to time.  I would be amused and give him a treat for his efforts.

As I grow older, this fantasy has rekindled itself.  Now I picture myself at Netarts in my Adirondack chair overlooking the Bay.  My Personal Monkey Butler is fetching me a pillow, feeding Goldie and dusting the sand dollars.   Yes, a Personal Monkey Butler has definitely on my bucket list…that is, until a month ago when I got one.

Our story started when a travel-weary monkey, clad in a worn pirate suit came wandering down our lane.  He was dragging his little hobo pack behind him along the gravel road.  You see, we are the last stop on the road, in fact, the last stop on the continent.  He pushed up his false eye patch, scratched his furry head and asked if I might be able to employ him.  A dream come true, I scooped him up and took him inside.

I washed and mended his miniature pirate outfit and put a new feather in his cap.  I gave him food and water before tucking him into the top bunk in our spare room.  He nestled down on the pillows under the chenille blanket and began to snore.  I quietly tip-toed down the hall to tell Bob my wishes had been granted.

The next morning the little guy wandered into the kitchen looking for a “cup of joe.”   While brewing it, I asked him to watch closely because coffee making/serving would be one of his daily duties.  We went through a list of other responsibilities before I asked him if I could call him Jeeves.  He seemed fine with that, but preferred I call him Mr. Jeeves.  I was fine with that too; after all, a good Personal Butler Monkey demands a little respect.

The first week his probation training period went pretty well.  A few little misunderstandings are to be expected after all.  Dishes go in the dishwasher, clothes go in the clothes washer, and the garden hose is for watering the garden not the local wildlife.  He did, however, sit on my Adirondack chair and amuse me in the afternoon breeze.

Along about Day 10, when I asked Jeeves to bring us a few snacks to enjoy on the lawn, he haughtily responded, “It’s Mr.  Jeeves to you!”  as he threw down his linen napkin and stomped to his room.  Fair enough, I had forgotten to use his formal name.  He seemed much better the next day.  In fact, he was so happy that when he requested his first evening off, I couldn’t deny him.  Somehow Bob and I would fend for ourselves.

It was late that night when Mr. Jeeves returned and came weaving down the hallway only to miss his bed completely and pass out on the floor.  The next morning, he was nursing a terrible headache and helped himself to the coffee before pouring ours.  He did share all of the town gossip he learned the night before, so I forgave him.

Two days later I read in the Tillamook paper about an unruly monkey (dressed in a pirate costume) who was terrorizing the tourists at the boat ramp.  Said monkey had been allegedly sitting on a dumpster, fiercely throwing old crab bait, while laughing hysterically at the vacationers attempts to launch their fishing boats.  Mr. Jeeves denied everything but wasn’t able to furnish an alibi.

I am sad to report, things have further deteriorated.  When last seen, Mr. Jeeves had taken up residence at the Upstairs Tavern; beer in one hand, ash-laden cigarette in the other, playing video poker with his tail.  His pirate costume is disheveled, his hat lost its feather and the false eye patch is back.  He won’t come home, even when I call him Mr. Jeeves and offer to get him help or a new feather.

My dream butler has become a crazy nightmare and I am forced to get up and wait on myself.

*Note: no monkeys were harmed in the writing of this story.  The names were not changed to protect the innocent, because he is not innocent!

Coastal Navigation

“Turn at the goats.”  That was it, the complete driving directions we received when calling the Quilt and Textile Center.

“The goats?” we asked.

“Yes, the goats,” which was repeated three more times during the conversation.

Finally giving up and hanging up, my front seat navigator turned to me perplexed.  “What goats?” she asked me.  I shrugged.  In my eight years in this coastal community, I have never seen a goat.  Plenty of cows, but no goats.

It wouldn’t have been quite so frustrating if we hadn’t already…

… been traveling back and forth on the same six mile loop for over an hour looking for the Center,

…stopped at the Visitors Center which was closed on a Saturday during the busy tourist season providing no help,

…followed the attraction signs which pointed us in a different direction altogether,

…or, learned the GPS system directs to you the fairgrounds on the other side of the city.

So we abandoned our plans to see the Quilt and Textile Center and headed back home to Netarts on Hwy 101.    A mile down the road we come upon another sign to the Center and decide on one, last ditch effort to find the place.  A few blocks past the sub shop and car wash, we see the building.  Hooray!  As we turn in, off to the right there is a house with a play structure in the yard and, imagine that, a couple of goats lying down in the tall grass.  We can just barely see their ears sticking up and it's not a herd of goats or a landmark by any means.

When we finally walked in the front door we were greeted by the Center Staff who were completely unfazed as we described our journey.  Without even a hint of concern that visitors might not be able to find them, they simply stated once again, “Well, we told you to turn at the goats.”

Note:  We were the only car in the parking lot.

Snail's Pace

Some days (aka today) this little guy could beat me in a race to the finish line.  It has been one of those weeks/months with too many projects and too little relaxation.  I am worn out.

This morning when I saw this snail crossing the porch on his way to my newly-budding geraniums, my first response was to relocate him...quickly.  Instead, I sat down in the wicker rocking chair, leaned back and watched him creep along toward his pink and red destination.  His pace was slow yet straight and determined, taking advantage of the morning dew.

I was reminded of a fortune, from a long-ago cookie, which sits on my desk simply stating, "You will obtain your goal if you maintain your course."   These words have rung true in my life, yet I appear to have forgotten them during the recent flurry of activity.  The Universe apparently decided I needed a visual reminder, so along he came.

Seeing it as a sign* I slowed my own pace today and am thankful for his presence.

*I wasn't always such a firm believer in "signs."  In an earlier life chapter, I was engaged on May 18th.  Later that day, Mt. St. Helens violently erupted.  Unaware I should be paying attention to the sign, I went ahead and married the guy which ended badly.  Enough said, I now pay attention.

Question of the Day or Lifetime

"You were born with wings. 

Why prefer to crawl through life?" 

~Rumi

Arriving at my Destination

A woman in harmony with her spirit is like a river flowing.

She goes where she will without pretense

and arrives at her destination

prepared to be herself

and only herself.

  -Maya Angelou

A Fine Whine

Usually a very grateful girl, I recently found myself saying these things,

"This is horrible, the tides are all wrong today for a long afternoon walk on the beach."

or

"I didn't sleep well last night because (as I was laying in my toasty warm bed next to my sweetie at the Oregon Coast) the rain was pounding too loudly on my window."

or

"I only found two unbroken sand dollars today."

or

"The sun is shining on my computer monitor and if I move, I have to give up my view of the bay."

When I whined to my friends and relatives, they didn't have much empathy.  My co-workers had none. I am reminded that my problems are not problems at all.

Then I had a much needed talk with myself which started like this...

"Snap out of it, Miss Nancy, you indeed have a lucky life!"