Of Shoes and Ships and Ceiling-Wax

As a child did you ever dream of sailing to far away lands? Did you ever fill a lazy afternoon imagining yourself rounding Cape Horn with supplies bound for Alaska, fishing off the coast of Maine, or Captain of a Caribbean pirate ship ? I did, I suppose most children do.
A block or so from Grandma Brumbaugh's house in Marysville there was an old fishing boat. Long past the day when its keel felt the cool touch of Puget Sound, it sailed a field of blackberry and broom.
I would dream as I walked by that my hand was upon the wheel, wind in my hair not a single cloud on a blue horizon. I can still smell it, the musky scent of rotting wood and yesterdays rainwater pooled upon the deck. Even as an adult I thrill at the sight of these forgotten hulks. Less common now, they are victims of time and tide, yet ready to sail in my memory.
Here are a few salty haunts I have collected.

The schooner Wawona at the Center for Wooden Boats in Seattle May 1985
When restoration efforts proved too expensive she was dismantled in March 2009.

Great Uncle Gene Sapp’s fishing boat on his farm in Sequim, Washington July 1990.

The Tugboat Mary D. Hume near the Rouge River Bridge in Gold Beach, Oregon June 2005.
I think every child needs a boat to sail away on so this mommy built one of plywood, Velcro and pipe insulation.
Darren & Morgan sailing the fields of King Rd. May 1995

Many Ugly Owls Mocking Me

My daughter loves owls. Not the kind you find in the barns, or that infamous spotted owl, but the species that probably haunts the memory of anyone who grew up in the seventies. You know the kind I’m talking about, kitschy owls made of ceramic, plastic and wood. They were usually found hanging around macramé plant hangers or staring back at you from the front of grandma’s fridge. That’s where I found these.

My grandmother’s collection of owls was destined for the trash until I decided to revamp them into a fun gift for my seventies loving girl.
Adding lines from songs, I gave them each a tune to sing like... “Who Let the Dogs Out”, Who Are You? Who who, who, Who”, and my personal favorite… “Who Ya Gonna Call? GhostBusters!” Then I shipped them ( seven and counting) off to Florida.

The other day I was wandering the second hand store when I realized I was being mocked by feathered knick knacks. Suddenly they were everywhere.

Within a matter of ten minutes I saw more owls than I care to count. There were cookie Jar owls,

Note holder owls, salt and pepper owls...

Just plain no explaining why anyone would ever own them UGLY owls.

Stop it I say, enough I cry. The next thing you will tell me is that orange velvet rockers are coming back in style. Now that’s just crazy!

Ya Wild Kingdom

Join us now for a rare look inside the mysterious world of the always exotic and sometimes dangerous YaYa. Mama Mama looks on as the sister Yaya’s take part in a mysterious game. Notice the smaller but more aggressive Ya as she pummels her helpless sister.

Sensing the upper hand the aggressor gives a growl of victory.

With a sudden rush of adrenaline the underdog composes herself and rallies.

Giving her own much louder cry, she catches her sister off guard.

The game complete, the sisters grow tired, the embracing begins.

I’ve Traveled That Way Before

A few days back I decided a ride to Port Townsend sounded like a fun way to spend a Saturday. Despite the Hood Canal Bridge being closed which meant a much longer trip, and although we had driven this way many times before, I was optimistic. “It will be fun taking the slow route through Belfair, Union, Hoodsport, Liliwaup, Brinnon and such. I told myself relax, slow down and see what the road will bring.
We stopped for lunch at the Chimacum Café, burger for him French dip for moi.

Here’s one of my favorite PT places to eat just because of their sign.

I had to take pictures of the boats while hubby patiently waited.

I’ve just started trying to take photos from the Harley while moving. It’s a bit challenging holding on to gloves camera and case. While capturing the cows I caught both of us repeated in mirror, how fun!

How many times have we driven by the Center Cemetery, never stopping?

The graves were framed in concrete. I wonder if these use to be foundations of buildings.
One even had what looked like a step where a door may have stood.
Some of the graves were hidden, caressed by tree and fern.

The saddest testament to a soul lost to time. Who was this precious one?

On the way home we stopped to take a picture of one my favorite sign on 101 North.

If you ever ride the slow road to Port Angeles, Sequim or Port Townsend, watch for this great “Haunt”. What fun loving person decided to use Neon for such a utilitarian sign?

First Jobs

My first job was waitress at Marv’s Café in my home town.
Check out the personal jukeboxes. I wonder how many quarters I blew dancing to “Rose Colored Glasses” while I mopped the floors. There was a wonderful neon sign on the ceiling of a crescent moon and stars and an ice cream center for making old-fashioned shakes and sundaes. I bought my first guitar with my saved tips and was asked out by my Ol-man in the corner booth.
Today my youngest was hired at the local Dairy Queen. He’ll be serving fries, making shakes and saving his $ for something fun I'm sure. Congrats son! May your first job memories be great ones.

Welcome back!

The events of the past couple of months seemed to put the brakes on this caravan gal as life took a detour down bumpy roads. When my daughter set out on new adventures of her own, and my boys and I approached the end of the Home Schooling path, I took time on the wayside to remember, rejoice, and cry just a little.
I also mark the passing of my sweet Grandma Elana. The trip home to lay her next to grandpa was also a milestone of memory and tears.
So to get myself back up and running I will start with a bit of whimsy.

Favorite Haunts
A “haunt” is a place I like because it has a lingering spirit of Americana. It speaks of the past in a way that evokes a memory of childhood or a feeling of wonder. It could be a diner, an old house or even an abandoned signpost. But what ever it is it says “pull over, pause, take my picture, before I disappear from the landscape forever.”

Automotive Haunt...
Mobile Gas Station on Pacific Highway South, Lynnwood WA.
No petrol sold here, just memories of the dinging bell and a free window wash.

Take Cake

Tradition is a curious thing. Why do we go out of our way to re-enact events from our past superimposing them upon the present? We make the same cookies every December or return like swallows to a favorite location. We find comfort and build memory with traditions and we love to capture it on film for posterity.
A couple of weeks ago I spent some time picking out an Anniversary cake for Shelby and Josh.This got me thinking about a messy tradition based upon my first birthday cake. Here I am enjoying my first birthday by destroying my baby size cake.








I decided when Shelby came along that I would continue the tradition.




Again when Darren turned One he was given permission to smear to his hearts desire. I was much more practical by then and opted for the hi-chair method.
Finally when Morgan reached the appointed age he too was granted his own heart shaped pastry. The cake pans are stored away now. They wait for the day when possibly one of my three will find joy in the act of cleaning frosting from their own children’s hair. Here’s to traditions! Big or small, they are great signs along the road.

Linen Memory

There is something magical about an old “linen” postcard. They are tiny windows on a past that exists only in our mind's eye. I suppose some would call them kitsch because their simple drawings and un-realistic colors are more than a little sentimental. But I choose to honor the creators of these bits of whimsy. I appreciate their commitment to the idea that the reality of a subject sometimes is not as important as the feeling or mood left after the viewing. They take me back to the blue perfume blowing off my first moonlit lake, the icy chill of red and green light on grandma’s aluminum Christmas tree, the sweet pink melody in a bag of cotton candy.

I found this Linen PC from 1943 a few days ago and brought it home to live with the photo I took of this lighthouse on the Washington Coast.

I can’t seem to find the matching photo in the jumble of my life, so I have enclose another. This is the Point Pinos Light near Monterey California on Thanksgiving Day 2006. Followed by the vintage linen I purchased off e-Bay. Which do you prefer?

Putts On Hogs

I married a biker. This came as a surprise to those who knew me back in high school. I was the quiet girl, the opera singer and on the lookout for a cowboy. But life is full of U-turns. I traded in my Stetson dreams for a bandana and the open road.
For anyone who has never hung around bikers of the Harley variety, the lifestyle and lingo can be a bit confusing. For instance, I am the Ol-Lady. Even back in 79’ at 18 years of age that was my official title. My husband is of course my Ol-Man. The bike is referred to as a Hog a sled, or a scooter. When it is running badly the ol-man sometimes calls it a Pig. Bikes that are run down, rusty or generally un-cared for are Rats.
Here is our 1979 Lowrider.

A "Putt" is the biker’s main goal, to be “In the Wind”. The road is the prize and miles are the key. If you’re the kind of rider that likes to spend a lot of time in a bar or standing around looking pretty in your leathers then some may call you a sidewalk commando.

Here we see our Hog dressed for a long Run. Note the helmets stowed for use in states with helmet laws. My Ya Ya’s will appreciate the bright Orange T-Shirt with customary Harley emblem. In the background you can also see the ramp for easy storage of the bike on the porch, except for winter when the sled lives in the living room of course.

Any self respecting biker has a wardrobe. Here’s mine in the summer of 1980

Biker Nuptials with a ride off into the sunset.

Clocks

If you’re like me you have a lot of clocks in your life, clocks tangible and those that are purely internal. They are representations of our very existence wrought out in metal glass or plastic, tools we cherish, ignore or curse at.
One of my internal clocks wakes me nearly every morning around 8:30. I don’t know how it does that. I have tried to shut it off but the program is embedded.
I also have a nagging internal clock. It’s the kind of clock that has a habit of going off when you least expect it. I’m strolling down the sidewalk and I catch the reflection of a middle aged woman wearing my clothes, or I cross a bridge I have crossed a hundred times and I feel suddenly overwhelmed by the water passing underneath, that’s when I hear it ringing loudest. I could hear it ticking now if I pause to listen but that usually makes me melancholy.

Here is my grandmother’s wristwatch given to her on her wedding day. I use to wear it daily but have given up watches for a season.

My kitchen has a vintage Westclox. It makes a warm humming sound but still keeps perfect time.

I was given this wind up alarm by a friend. I leave it stopped at five minutes before two. That’s just enough time to grab a snack before General Hospital.
I even have a broken clock from my daughter. Its battered face reminds me that no matter how run down I feel, I have another clock, an Eternal Clock that never runs out of time.

Homebody Meets Caravan

I’ve always been a homebody, desiring at a young age to have log cabin high on a hill. I also have an unhealthy attachment to belongings when sentiment is involved. I guess that may be one of the reasons for my growing collection of all things vintage.
From time to time I do get restless. I dream of far away places, roadside attractions full of history, adventure and yes, more vintage stuff to buy. That is why I love the word Caravan. A caravan can bring up thoughts of merchants in a string of camels carrying spices from the orient or gypsy feet dangling from the back of a brightly colored wagon. But there is another, probably less know definition of the word, chiefly British: a house on wheels; a trailer.
How wonderful! Finally I can be a homebody nestled in my caravan full of vintage memories, antenna up and rubber down ready to see the world.
Gosh, I got to get me one of those Spartans, a Shasta, a Pathfinder or even an Airstream.
My first excursion? Maybe The Shady Dell in Bisbee Az.