I Do Not Have Crabs

This crab claw was festively decorated with lace-like barnacles festooning its otherwise scary pincher...

Note: Webster's Dictionary does not recognize the word "pincher" but growing up around crawfish and crabs, I can tell you they are exactly that, PINCHERS.

Another note: Now, I am told by the dictionary that the plural of crab in this instance should be "crab."  Apparently, one is not supposed to say, "I have crabs" or "Do you have crabs?" as it is an entirely different conversation for a different post. Good to know.

Anyway, all I was really just trying to show you something cool I found and ended up getting an English lesson.

So enjoy the fancy claw and don't tell anyone you have crabs.

It's Good to be Queen

Growing on a bluff next to the Cape Meares Lighthouse and overlooking miles of rocky coastline, the Pacific Ocean and migrating whales, this weed has found a perfect home.

Her official name, Queen Anne's Lace, seems well suited as she occupies her throne keeping a watchful eye on her kingdom and subjects far below.

Pelican Poetry

'Twas the morning before Labor Day, when all thro' the house,
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sandcastles danc'd in their heads,
And Bob in his 'kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a mid-summer's nap-
When out on the Bay there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters, and threw up the sash.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a flock of pelicans, so close and so clear,
More rapid than eagles those pelicans they came,
And I whistled, and shouted, and wished I knew them by name.

Okay, I do get extremely excited when the pelicans arrive each September.  There is nothing more fun than watching them filling up at this bountiful buffet before completing their migration to points south.  The pelicans are so awkward and gregarious as they dive for food.  Sometimes they float along with the tide and nod as they go by, giving the impression they are simply good-natured visitors who stopped by for a long holiday.

And then in November as if they heard a whistle,
Away they will all fly, like the down of a thistle:
But then I’ll exclaim, as they wing out of sight-
Happy Trails to all, and to all a good flight!



Note:  Thanks to Clement C. Moore who helped with this poem and the returning pelicans for inspiration.

The Rainmaker

It has been the driest, hottest year at the Oregon Coast.  Beach fires are banned, the rivers are low, the leaves are dry and wildfires threaten our forests.  The Earth is begging for rain.

Turns out, all that is required is to send me on vacation.  On my first day off, it started to rain.  Today is Day Three and over three inches of rain have fallen.

You are welcome!

All is not lost, I am on my third book.

Moments in Summer, Moments in Time

In our family, summer wouldn't be summer without days spent in the sand and water. While avoiding the city heat was the goal, we were actually pausing our lives to spend time together, listening and learning,  

It is this unstructured time which allows us to tell stories which otherwise would be lost. We come to know each other as individuals who had a history long before our first meeting.  We hear about experiences which shaped each of us and come to understand the unique perspectives we offer.

The sea and sand cast a magical spell, opening us to a deeper connection with those we love.

There is nothing more precious than these moments in time.  

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!