Sunday at Saturday Market

Portland Saturday Market was one of the hottest attractions around when it first opened in 1974 and very much an offshoot of music festivals and counterculture of the sixties.  There was lots of tie-dye and patchouli and music, and the hottest item of all (literally) were the elephant ears, which were ever so tasty doctored up with butter and honey or jam.  I shopped there off and on, but over time I gradually stopped going altogether and as it aged, the surroundings got a little too funky, and it just drifted from my thoughts like smoke in the wind (what kind of smoke is up to your imagination).  Recently, I'd heard and read that Portland Saturday Market folks had spiffed things up a bit and had even built a new pavilion across the street in Portland Waterfront Park, so when a friend who sells at Saturday Market asked me to come down and visit on a Sunday, I realized I really did want to go down and see her and see all the changes. 

During most Portland springs, rain controls the proceedings, and such was the case when I visited.  I also wore my heavy winter coat (it was that cold) and felt a little miserable, i.e. whiny voice in head, "but I WANT it to be sunny" (as a gigantic aside, I sometimes feel a good old fashioned two-year-old tantrum would be fun to throw at times like that, but really people would stare).  Being the native Portlander I am and being made of stiffer stuff than rain, I soldiered on, forgetting about the music always there, and upon hearing that immediately put a "spring" in my step.  And then I felt started to feel even more cheerful immediately viewing this:

How can you not feel uplifted with all of that color?  With everything else changing so quickly in the world, it was a bit of comfort to find something so part of its own past still thriving now.

Bright and beautiful hand-beaded purses and wallets also caught my eye and made me want to explore further.

Along with the colorful and whimsical, there was sophistication and style as well for the yard and garden.  I loved this heron yard sculpture .... hmmm, it would also look good on my deck (hint to me, start saving those pennies).

I loved these tops and skirts, all handmade, and something stylish for work or after work or so many other events.

As I've mentioned in other posts, Portlanders love their pups, so there was a myriad of patterns in this nice fleece jacket exactly perfect for our Portland winters (and early shivery spring days).  This is just one example of the dog clothing available as there many other vendors that offered other dog clothing options as well.

While many think the pups are paramount in Portland, cats will not be denied their place in the Portland pet pecking order (OK, enough of the alliteration).  This gorgeous bengal cat also visited Saturday Market with his person (and forgive my bad thoughts, but I would have loved to kidnap this beauty and run away).

I wormed my way through all the booths on the "old side" of the market and was finally ready to cross the street to see my friend and the new pavilion:

I was impressed at how nice and open and airy it all was and also at the number of vendors there as well.  Crossing the street to see the other side has never been so much fun. 

I haven't covered all the food options available at Portland Saturday Market.  Believe me it would take a whole separate post to do that, but suffice it to say here that elephant ears are still available and made me feel like I'd come whole circle to everybody's favorite treat in 1974 and today (for an elephant ear recipe, check here http://abellamientosembellishments.blogspot.com/p/abellamiento-recipes.html.).

I wonder who makes these fabulous scarves and gloves and purses?

Those fabulous colorful products are made by my friend, Cordellia (FrostyPixie), wearing one of her creations.  I have two pairs of her beautifully knitted fingerless gloves (one black and one purple with ruffles), which are excellent for keeping my hands warm while allowing my fingers to keep on going unfettered.  Make a point of going to see her at Portland Saturday Market like I did or you can also visit her on Etsy at http://www.etsy.com/shop/FrostyPetals  You'll not only get a great product and customer service, but a chance to meet a truly creative and warm person who epitomizes the spirit of Portland Saturday Market.

So much has changed in Portland over the years that at times I almost don't recognize my city.  Change is good and to be applauded at times, but it is hard to see some of the familiar things morph or disappear.  I have to admit I approached going back to Portland Saturday Market with a little trepidation due to the past actually (fear of cliches, funkiness, same old, same old), but it turned out to be a fun adventure.  Just like Portland, the market has changed, but it has done it in a way that is true to its past and yet really looking forward and serving their customers and vendors in the best way possible, so be sure to go visit Portland Saturday Market (and FrostyPixie and Cordellia) on a Sunday, or even on a Saturday, you'll be glad you did.

 

The Tree House

A couple of years ago, my apartment building was purchased by a new owner.  There was a lot of discomfort at first amongst the residents here because of the trend in our area towards turning tenants out with 30-day notice, gutting the building, and then doing a complete renovation.  Much to the credit of the new owner(s) and management company, that did not happen.  In fact, they have bent over backwards to work with all of us, and two years almost to the day, the renovation is done and everyone is resettled without too much of a struggle. 

In my case, after chatting with our wonderful building manager, I was given a chance to take an apartment on the first floor (with a deck no less) while my former apartment on the second floor, where I had lived for six years, was renovated for a new resident.  Now, I loved my apartment on the second floor and felt some ambivalence, but once I saw these, I never looked back:

Oh yes, a real live tree canopy right outside the deck.  It reminded me of a tree house at first, but I also realized how lovely the shade from two big trees would be (shade was paramount at the time because I moved into the new apartment over the 4th of July weekend, the first days of our hottest weather), plus they provide excellent shelter for the various urban animal friends that I enjoy so much to come and visit:

As the year deepened into autumn and winter, I felt some sadness at losing my perfect tree house canopy, but have also found interest and beauty in all the tree changes:

Like I said, those changes are beautiful in their own right, but still, fickle girl that I am, this is really what I'm glad to see right now:

Those pictures mean spring is here, summer's not far behind, and maximal time can be spent in the outside tree house with my two favorite deck pals:

Of Trucks And Medical Transcription

You know, trucks are overall something we don't think a lot about.  Either parked or running up and down the roads, we generally don't pay attention to them a great deal because they're such a fixture of our lives (unless one gets in our way, THEN we pay a lot of attention).  At least that's the way I'd always thought about trucks until I started working from home and placed my desk near enough the deck window to find lots of trucks parked quite literally right underneath my nose.  And then trucks became a way to take a quick break from the typed medical word (what the heck are they delivering now!) or as a form of escapism when a doctor starts to drone (hmmm, are they delivering that for me???)

The best regular trucks are those that pack some kind of punch:

This particular truck/trailer/lifting machine (cherry picker??) was great because it was a rainy day and allowed me a nice chunk of time to take a break and watch the fun as it was parked on a narrow busy street and then said cherry picker was taken across the street to do its job. 

Some trucks are good for a cursory glance and thought about what they might be delivering and then right back to work:

Other trucks rate a slightly longer than cursory glance and thought of "hmmm, pizza, yum, maybe I should order that for dinner"?

However, these are the trucks that sent me into flights of fantasy last summer:

Notice how the sun gleams and creates a lovely halo over the top of the most heavenly trucks of all.  I mean, seriously, doesn't this send your mind into flights of fantasy? Yes? No? OK, I guess it's just me, but here are some of my flights of fantasy from last summer that I posted on Twitter (it was really hot and I might have been influenced by that ((or maybe it's really just me)):

OMG, a Haagen-Dazs truck is parked right outside my deck, what a dream!

Maybe if I hook up a fishing pole, I could cast for ice cream bars.

Nice thing about Haagen Daz ice cream trucks is that they don't play oddly irritating circus-like songs.

If I had the proper pole, I could vault over the deck railing straight to the top of the truck and leap on the unsuspecting driver and steal the goods.

Oh rats, there the ice cream truck goes.  Farewell, sweet ice cream, I'll savor the memories.

So, there you go, that's what happens when trucks and medical transcription cross paths underneath my nose and active mind.  I admit not exactly Lewis Carroll or other far superior fantasies than mine, but still entertaining enough for a quick escape.   

Gardening Is Unnatural

Yes, gardening is unnatural ... for me at least ... I believe I was standing behind the greenhouse door when the gardening gene was handed out to so many others.  As far as I can tell, both sides of the family have not only green thumbs, but green hands. My father at 82 still maintains an immaculately manicured lawn and yard worthy of a golf green. He gets very zen when on his riding lawnmower (he used a push mower until just a few years ago when his arthritis got bad), and loves it when people stop and tell him his yard is gorgeous.  My mother was a whiz with roses and gardens in general.  My parents partnered on lots of gardening projects, including large vegetable gardens, building a rock garden, creating from scratch a patio made of bricks, and many more.  And, natch, both sets of grandparents where gardening wizards.

It's not that I hate flowers or vegetables or even gardens in general, I don't want to work in them.  It started with what my dad called "garden parties." Ahh, you say, kindly ladies and Queen Elizabeth in floral dresses and big hats, drinking tea and eating petit fours, and having a lovely time chatting with like ladies. No, garden parties were my parents' euphemism for going out rain or shine and gardening all day long. They loved it. I hated it. It involved dirt and worms and hot and cold and rain. Not my cup of tea at all (and believe me there there were no petit fours involved).  I was very much fonder of reading or riding my bicycle.  My dad was simply trying to pass along some excellent life skills and a hobby that gave he and my mom long hours of pleasure, but they didn't account for children not liking gardening (or any activity) from morning to night.  Gardening gave them great pleasure, but bored my brother and I permanently to the point I've deliberately chosen to live in apartments or condos and my brother employs a yard service just so we don't have to deal with "garden parties." 

Yet, with the explosion of a quite early springtime here in Portland, and even with all my protestations of hating gardening, I've felt a familiar and familial pull toward the store gardening sections where I've spent some time looking at flowers and organizing them into plots in my mind.  I think it has little to do with a true love of gardening and more to do with the some of the pleasure and beauty I must have gained by osmosis while attending my parents' "garden parties."  And even though I'm not a master gardener like my parents, with time and understanding my parents love of gardening, I'm finally free to just enjoy the container gardens I've had on my decks over the years and finally grateful to my parents for the garden parties.  So, even though gardening is unnatural to me, flowers and beauty are not unnatural to me as you can see by this photo of my latest deck garden still under revision.

True Spring, True Love

One week ago, the real spring arrived in Portland, Oregon ...

Oh, I know it's not March 21, the actual "real spring" on the calendar, but believe me Portlanders do not pay attention to calendars when it comes to seasons.  Most seasons are more a feeling here in gradations, with a few of the obvious changes in nature and weather.  For instance, usually about mid-August, I can sometimes sniff autumn in the air, and then the next day I'll see my first leaf turning color, and winter is often just a different shade of grey in the sky, and summer arrives with rain and roses and just a touch of warmth after the 4th of July.  However, spring usually is never that subtle; it usually arrives any time between February and May with a bang.  And that's how it arrived on Tuesday, February 9.

It started out promising almost immediately.  The morning sunrise was a photographer's fantasy in pinks and purples and roses, the kind that makes you stand at your windows, coffee cup in hand, wishing you didn't have to go to work.  Usually a sky like that can dissolve into rain and grey in just a couple of hours, but not this day.  By 10 a.m., it was obvious that at the very least it was going to be a nice day, by noon everyone had jumped into the day with abandon, reveling in the steady sun and 60-degree temperature.  I wonder how many "mental health days" were phoned into work last Tuesday?  I don't know, but it seemed like everybody in Portland was out and about when I took a nice long walk.  And dogs!  Portlanders love their pups, but I also thought it seemed like every dog in Portland was out with their owner. 

There were smiles upon smiles everywhere I looked, even on the dogs.  If it weren't a truly sunny day, I almost would have thought it was Christmas day due to all the high spirits and just general goofiness.  Bump into someone at the store, not a problem, and the bumper and bumpee just laugh, throw their hands up, and remark "what a beautiful day."  Nothing more needs to be said to explain the buoyancy of spirit.  Being Portland, there were lots of bicyclists zipping around, and now "sophisticated" high schoolers were laughing and yelling and leaping on the way out of school.  Nobody mentioned any embarassment about white legs or arms sticking out of shorts and sleeveless tops; they were just too busy enjoying the sun and happiness all around them and soaking up energy from the sun. 

The very next day, our mercurical spring start returned to our long grey rainy winter, but people brought their first spring day memories out and dusted them off and talked about them for several days.  Spring will return, we'll love it unreservedly, but there's nothing else quite like our first true love, that first true day of spring in Portland.

The Good Mother

This is a picture of my mom when she was perhaps 3 or 4 years old, circa 1933-1934.  She hated having her picture taken, so she refused to smile, which is why she might not have placed high in the Sears-Roebuck Beautiful Child contest for which this picture was taken.  I'm glad to say that even though she might not have smiled for pictures, she was otherwise a funny and smart little character and imp.  She once wanted a vanilla bottle to play with during a baking session with her mother.  When refused permission (and when her mom turned her back and answered the phone), my mom dumped the whole bottle of vanilla into the cake batter, stirred it up, and scampered with the vanilla bottle in hand.  Her crime was not discovered until the cake was eaten after dinner.  I think she went to bed without her dessert, but she'd also had time to play with the much-coveted vanilla bottle.

I'm pleased to have this picture of her (and a few others) because she continued to dislike intensely to have her picture taken.  Lots of people snuck up on her over time and tried to snap candid photos, but I swear she had eyes in the back of her head and could disappear in a flash when that happened.  I often wished she hadn't hated it so or that she could have seen herself as others did.  She had wonderful sparkly brown-black eyes that glittered with life; that was the thing people always commented about.  They remembered her also for her laugh, style, parenting, open-mindedness, smarts, and great cooking (amongst so many other things).

Even without a lot of pictures, memories of my mom are so wonderfully vivid, it was a surprise to me to realize recently it's been 25 years this week since she died.  I really hadn't thought a lot about it because the truly sad part of actually losing her had been replaced by gratitude and happy memories.  There's so much more I could write about her, but instead of a whole flood of memories taking up a lot of blog space, I just wanted to leave you with an impression of her, my good mother.

Squirrely

The actual definition of squirrely is "eccentric or flighty."  I hesitated about using that as a title due to the definition, yet it's true about my enjoyment of and eccentricity about squirrels (and/or chipmunks), which started with I'm reasonably sure the Chip & Dale cartoons:

and the Beatrix Potter books

Believing that owning squirrels would be as entertaining and easy as a Chip & Dale cartoon and as delightful as a Beatrix Potter story, I entertained the idea of being a squirrel trainer at the age of five (I also thought about being a crow trainer, but that's another story), but the squirrels were not open to that notion at all, so I gave up, but never really lost my love of squirrelania:

As you might guess, people have given me squirrel things over the years. I've actually been pretty good about not letting this get out of control and just kept a few.

Even though I desired a career as a squirrel trainer early in life, I know the damage they can cause and have decided they can remain wild and not be trained by me.  However, I have enjoyed feeding them.  In fact, some of my squirrel "charges" became quite tight jacketed and sleek (meaning chunky & plump) under the fine peanut diet to which they were exposed.  Some of the squirrels even took peanuts from my fingers, at which point my friends teased me by calling me Snow White (I should look and sing so well!). 

Right now, I live in an apartment in an urban area heavily populated by bold and daring squirrels who run on the super squirrel speedway (power lines).  I thoroughly enjoy this, of course, but on occasion it is sad, such as a couple of weeks ago when one squirrel literally went up in smoke when he fell into a transformer.  There was a huge boom and cloud of grey-blue smoke.  It was startling and powerful enough that I was surprised to find the power had not cut out.  I was really rather upset the rest of the day over that squirrel's demise.

 

And that's the end of my squirrely story.  I'm glad these wild critters are a part of my urban life, a little flash of motion up a tree or on the power lines, that surprise during walks.  They're a bit of comic relief and joy that eases things up when the going gets tough in the adult world.