In the mood...

(photo: Atelier de Campagne)

Another 'dream' picture, this one for a sun room/garden room. When I lived in Southern California, sunshine pouring in from everywhere, I knew nothing of long grey days, wet and windy days that would keep us indoors for hours.  Now, I need to pretend that the sun will come out soon, and green things can grow anywhere.

Hence, a sun room necessity for the Northwest. Ours is full of outdoor furniture and odds and ends we move around and can't bear  to throw away.  My project this winter is to clear out and keep just the things that put me in a good mood:

This is what I want:

1. Benches and tables.
2. Pots and vases.
3. Snips of Provence in bistro chairs and distressed wood.
4. Plants: cuttings, seeds, starters, full grown olive and fig trees.
5. Watering cans.
6. Dry bouquets of herbs, roses, lavender, assorted flowers.
7. Naked branches and dried grasses for assembling and displaying with some seasonal flair.
8. Easels and paint and paintbrushes for when the mood strikes me.
9. Catalogues and pictures to inspire the gardener, the painter, the naturalist.
10. And last, but not least, a cozy place to nap on, with the sun on my face.

The next stage.

It's Fall, and the rains have not arrived yet.  Everything is drying, except the morning fog over the ocean and the lake. Lights from crab boats bob through the night on the Ocean, like stars in the sky. Overhead, the sky is calm. Winds are soft whispers.

This is a false lull.
We're anticipating furious storms any day now, storms that will shut us in the house for hours and days. Newkie, our new cat, will be shocked at the violence of the winds. She'll have to become an indoor cat exclusively.



We've been on curvy and treacherous  roads since July. Literally.Metaphorically. Roads with names like Shock, Grief, Funeral, Memorial, Probate, District Attorney, Crime Unit Investigations. We are tired and worn out. We sleep poorly. Our  patterns have changed. Our foundation has shifted.

There will be a next stage.

But, as in an earthquake, the next stage is the mess you alone deal with. Everybody else will have moved on. You deal with the clean up,  the re-building, the healing.

As long as you have life, you will have stages.
Like seasons, they each bring new perspectives and new challenges.





 

Weather Affecting Disorders and other scary stuff.

I'm in the Northwest, the area of the United States  that starts in Mendocino, California and goes up to Alaska.  The Northwest is where weather starts, where Pacific storms hit the coast and then move east to bother the rest of you folks.

Sometimes, the twirling and compression zones are quite large, as the satellite pictures at the Weather Channel show. The entire Pacific Ocean gets into the act for months and months, pinning everything and everyone in place with anger and fury of biblical proportion.  And, if something is not strapped down, it will end up in Toledo, or Chicago, or...

Remember the history of Lewis and Clark, the Corps of Engineers that traversed the Mississippi and headed west to chart the new West Territory, the one that gave impetus to that historical event called the Oregon Trail?  Well, Lewis and Clark got to the mouth of the Columbia, the river that separates Oregon from Washington State,  and the group was pinned down for months by the terrible weather they encountered.  For months, they couldn't move, had to stay put at camp, chewing on rawhide, hard tack, beans and roots.  Since they couldn't move, they probably couldn't hunt, couldn't wash their clothes, couldn't take too many moonlit walks. They relied on the local native population for food and supplies for themselves and for their animals.

Well, the weather is still the same, I'm here to report. 
Last night, after a glorious sunny Wednesday, the weather changed to a Pacific storm that pounded us all night, winds and rain and branches and anything that wasn't pinned down whirled and slammed against the house, against cars. Trees fought each other, and the old ones collapsed.  

No wonder I had a headache all night!
No wonder this morning I can't think of anything else

We have these storms- 50-80 miles per hour winds and torrents of water- for a good seven months, lasting a few days at a time. After a storm, a beautiful sunny day kisses us all back to good spirits.  At the end of the rainy season, in June, the tourists will arrive and marvel at the old groves, the amazing green pastures, the spectacular clear skies, the hardiness of people and things.  They marvel and envy those of us who moved here. They won't understand this strange attachment we have to all this danger. 

Weather Watching.

From November on, we watch the weather. Actually, we watch the dunes that separate our lake from the Ocean, right here on the last picture.  On this date, a few days ago, the waves breached the dunes, tumbling furiously down into the lake.

Over a decade ago, on this very berm that is now being reshaped by the waves, the town's sewer system was destroyed.  The lake water became brakish, salty. Fish died and the lake's ability to provide  residential water supply was compromised.  That event changed the narrative around here.

We now have a new outfall for the lake.  We have a new sewer system. We even have a new plan for city growth.  Weather wise, we seem to be prepared against another breach of the same magnitude, a breach folks were told happened every century or so.

As I photographed these waves pouring into the lake, I couldn't help panic a bit.  With one heavy stroke, Nature could change the face of this town, the face of our lake, our home.  With one stroke, we could be homeless.

With one stroke, we could all be washed out to sea.

Weather Watching

This pine, and many more like it, are still standing on my property after centuries of Pacific Coast weather. If you have never heard of the Pacific Coast weather, stay tuned. I will be your eyes and ears, reporting to you live. Or, as long as I am alive.

We moved here Christmas 2002. Our family, the entire extended family, two married children and their spouses, an unmarried college student, and a then small grandchild, all roughing it in a four bedroom house barely supporting us. It felt as though we were stuck in the middle of nowhere. The local hardware store had one set of everything you needed; and a lot of things you were going to need, but didn't know it. We ended up returning to that store for lots of things, including rubber boots and buckets.

During our stay, it never stopped raining-a hard rain that came at you from everywhere, soaked you through and through in two minutes, and no type of covering was sufficient to keep you dry-, we lost power, including heat, lighting and cooking ability. The wind was hauling most of the day and all through the night. Shingles and branches and assorted debris was flying around and bumping into windows, doors, walls, roof. The Pacific was roiling and spilling over the sand dunes into the adjoining lake, threatening to smash our cottage into the abyss.

When the roads became passable, children began leaving. We drove the first set to the airport 150 miles away. The second set drove themselves back to California as well. Our youngest remained through the second week; he was rewarded by a beautiful, calm, sunny and dry week. He helped us collect the loose shingles, pile our broken branches and clean out our property.

He had been through an earthquake in 1994 when we lived in California. He knew about nature's fury; and he had developed a certain calm about it all, a certain stoicism and faith.

Every winter since, only he returns to spend Christmas with us, unafraid and untouched. The others have returned for shorter visits, under better conditions.

We know that with global warming the weather will change in many places. We all need to make adjustments and preparations.

Waiting for the Sun.

I'm sitting in this quiet spot, waiting to gather enough strength to return to my garden chores. I can sip coffee here, watch the ocean in the distance, admire the work that is slowly progressing. The trouble with having a vision is finding the perseverance to achieve that vision regardless of intervening events.

Like weather. Weather that is still too cool and too wet.

It has been so cool that my bean starts and pea starts are barely growing. I could show you; but then, you too would feel discouraged.

So, I'll continue to weed, pray and sing out loud for the sun to show its face:

The sun will come out tomorrow
Bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow
There' ll be sun.

If the ground doesn't warm up, nothing will germinate.
Now, those of you living in lush tropical areas will take gorgeous pictures of your veggies and flowers and make me feel better.

Please, please, tell the sun to spend more time on this side of the planet.

I have a major investment here.

Tomatoes after Mother's Day.

See this dark cover, with a drip watering system, surrounded by tall grass? That's the way we garden here in the Northwest, with a dark poly cover to attract sun rays and to prevent weeds from chocking the tiny seedlings. Onions, lettuces and peas do well here. I can plant them in succession and have fresh salad ingredients for months-that is if I keep picking them fast, not letting them go to seed. Eventually, though, I want those hot, juicy tomatoes the rest of the world craves during summer months.



I have had some success with tomatoes. First, I must make sure to buy the specialized kind that grow well here. I can't just go to Walmart and wheel out with whatever. I must have early-maturing or small-cherry tomatoes. Nothing bigger. Besides the mulching, thermal looking blanket, my tomatoes will also need plenty of compost. The ground is so washed out, leached, that nothing but sand loving grasses grow here.



And one more thing: I must wait until after Mother's Day to plant tomatoes. It seems that the weather gods-ancient Indian rites-and Alaska winds give us a bit of rest after the middle of May through September. I must hurry to the nursery today, pay whatever they ask, and then rush home to plant.



What did I get for Mother's Day? Tomatoes, or the promise of a sloppy bite on a sunny August afternoon, when, for a few days everything turns bright orange or red, and we sit on the deck, the ocean over our shoulders, with a colorful salad of basil, tomatoes and mozzarella.