Friday, April 8, 2011

Back in the 50's when these cars came out, my step dad brought one home. He drove it right up to the front porch and called for Mom.
When she saw it she was not impressed. She wanted a car large enough for them to take her parents (my grandparents). She was afraid dad would buy this nutty little car.
It had the engine in the back. It drove two small wheels that were set about 24" apart. The front two wheels had a wider stance, as you can see in the picture.
It was called an Isetta I believe and came from Europe.
No that is not my mom in the lifted photo!


We have a peasky neighbor.

He is 8 or 9 and comes over several times a week to get candy and cookies.

He comes in saying he wants to visit, but it is the sweets he wants. Miriam will ask him how old he is and where he goes to school and whether he likes school and where he lives and then rotate them all back again. I let the kid suffer.

So today he came over as she was making cookies. She has done this pretty well for a long time, but now it just is not working well. She fussed for a couple hours and then baked two or three cookies on a pizza pan. She gave two to the kid and said she did not want to make any more.

The dough was in a stainless steel serving pan, maybe 6 by 10 and 3 1/2 inches high. She was putting plastic wrap over the top of the dough when I last saw it.

Now it is gone. The kid may have taken it, but he is a pain, not a thief, though he likes to wander and wonder about what we have, but that 6 or 7 pounds of cooky dough has disappeared. It is here somewhere, but not in the refrigerator or the freezers (either of them) or the cupboards or the pantry.

When we need cookies I need to make the dough and then let her portion it onto the pans. That should make her feel good about what she did, but be a bit more on quality and quanity control.

The recipe she uses has a half batch and a full. I know she sometimes puts in ingredients, one from column 1 and one from column 2, so the results are not consistent.

Another reminder that the good old days are changing.

Thursday, April 7, 2011


Today a friend came to visit. We did that for a while.

Then I said: “I am looking for a partnership that would eventually end up in ownership.”

“There is too much dirt here, more than I can ever take care of. I will need to sell it one day, maybe fairly soon, and I am making you this offer.”

Yes, he said, he was very interested. His european born wife already has said she liked our little house. “American houses are so BIGGG,” she added. He has said how much he liked the garden space, the trees, the orchard and the possibilities.

He is a good guy the son of good people (my grandma would say he “came from good stock”). He is an avid gardner and a friend I could trust. His world view is so close to mine.

I have lived in this place a long time. I built it in 1976, 35 years ago. I was 39. It is the only house I have ever owned. My parents gave me the lot so “Dave could build a house for his girls.” My mom loved my girls, and wanted to help me and us.

She helped more than she could know.

Yet, an event like what happened today is both a celebration and a sad day.

I think you can understand.

A good picture like the top one could bring forth all sorts of stories and tales!
One of the buildings in the Birds of Prey Center was donated by a wealthy falconer from the Bedouin tradition.
This is a group of plastic men in the display tent.
I still don't know what kind of a bird that is, but it is "cute."

Wednesday, April 6, 2011

quiet home

Everyone is home, though the little red car is not yet.

On her way back to pick up her husband, the "Check Engine" light came on on Arline's rental car. She called the rental company and they said to park it and they would be right up with a wrecker and get the car (they were about 20 miles away). It was done, Arline met her husband who was coming back from a hiking trip with two of his sons and they made it home.

Today Dea left, with her fab teen sons, for SanFrancisco. She text me this evening to say she was home.

It was a great busy time, filled with good talk, lots of laughter and good food. I will cherish the memory.

At one point, Dea was in the kitchen and she let out a shriek. My AD wife, precious as she is, had put a stack of ice cream dishes back in the cupboard with the clean dishes. Of course the milk soured and it was odoriferous. Oh well.

After everyone was gone, Miriam and I went out to Lowe's and bought the sheetrock to cover the ceiling and walls in the new closet. Tomorrow is scheduled to have a high temp of 46, so it would a good day to work inside.

Monday, April 4, 2011

Before the I84 was bludgeoned down the columbia gorge, this point was part of the trip. Trucks drove within a few hundred feet, on an incredible narrow highway. The view up the columbia (east) is still stunning.

surprise guests

Dea, daughter 3, drove up from SF to visit.

She brought her two teen sons, Griff and Josh. All was good. Then the front door opened and in walked Arline, daughter 1, from Washington. She missed her sister and when she learned of the visit, here she was!

But her good car was in California with her husband who was on a business combined with back packing trip, so she drove the ancient red Toyota Corolla. It was a basic car to begin with and time has not improved it. But she arrived without any problems. She brought her son Ben, and a friend Doris.

So, we extended the kitchen table into the living space, cooked piles of food and had a great feast.

But Arline, Ben and Doris had to get back to work so she left Sunday afternoon.

A couple of hours later Dea got a text message that they were staying overnight in a town 100 miles down the road. Hmm.

Later texts and conversations, revealed that the tranny had gone out of their car and she was stranded. She got towed back to the closest town (Baker City), and was waiting for her husband and youngest son, who were scheduled to drive through today.

I called: "Is there anything I can do?" "No, all is in control!."

All will end well, (except for the little red car).