Isabella Bird Miscellany

Sort of parked on the verge...at least it's mostly grass Living in Australia taught me many earth shattering things, like beets are called beetroot, but carrots are not called carrotroot.   You “ring” when you are phoning someone and to “call” is actually to stop by.    You can understand my American confusion at some of the Aussie ways and vernacular.   Fortunately, we had great friends that kept us straight on proper protocol in this once penal colony. Terminology tweaks set aside, there was the whole driving on the left side of the road.  What’s up with that?  Is it because they are on the other side of the world or just trying to be oh, so British?  I must admit, I never did relaxed when cars were careening toward me from the “wrong” lane.  Now, that we’re on the subject of cars, it is perfectly natural to park in the verge.  To be honest, I didn’t know what a “verge” was.  Oh, I knew the word as in “edge or limit” but it actually referred to the strip of grass bet

Crow's epic perch When we were road tripping this last spring, I caught what I consider to be an “epic” photo.   We were driving along California SR 1 and passed a wide spot in the road known as Westport.   There was a sweet little cemetery that had a killer (pun not intended) view of the Pacific Ocean.     We whipped over so I could snap a couple of pics.   That’s when my “this is the coolest, most epic” moment happened.   A big, wind-ruffled oily black crow landed on the cemetery sign.   O h, my stinkin’ goodness - this was absolutely beyond legendary… not to mention that I have a thing for crows and grackles! This photo has been sitting on my computer in a file labeled “April 2014” just waiting for Halloween to come around.   In the spirit of all things blustery, wild and autumn here’s a little story of the Edge Traveler… Periphery.  That’s where he chose to be.  Never quite revealing his whereabouts was better for this nomad.  Shadows and back roads were h

Mr. KC's boots Over the years, I might have blown a speaker or two.  I like music loud!  You know the head-pounding, ear-ringing decibel level that concert-worthy speakers belt out.  Given that tidbit, Friday nights we regularly find ourselves at a local fish joint that has sweet blues bands gigging on the pub side.  It’s a bit of a dive bar, but in the best of ways.  There’s nothing fancy; just a comfortable, well-worn spot serving fish and chips that are off-the-charts good and cheap drinks.  Definitely not a swill-slinging bar, but not a slam-glam either.  Halibuts is a neighborhood spot where Jennifer, the gal behind the bar, remembers what we order, even if it’s been a couple of months since our last visit. So, we’re sitting there listening to Angel Bouchet rock the blues with blasting speakers –I need to mention the place is small and has had complaints from the next door tenants about the volume and how everything was shaking and rolling on their side of the wall.  

Sweet dripping clusters Yesterday afternoon I sat staring at my notebook, pen in hand, but no thoughts.  I flipped through some previously sketched out pieces and thought, “I got nothing.”  Big sigh, looked at photos for muse clarity, and still nada, zip, zilch.  That’s it; I no longer have anything to write – right – I have words, but not sentences? Still seeking my brainchild of illumination, I decided to do what any good writer would:   make grape juice.  It just so happens, that the previous night we had picked a colossal-sized bowl full of green (I think Chardonnay) grapes from the trellis above our patio.  Those translucent chartreuse tidbits have been oozing nectar-sweet juice all over the furniture and concrete; a definite indication that they needed to come down from their loft. A couple of years ago I made the mistake of not harvesting the grapes before the downpours started.  Talk about a slippery slope of an ice rink; who knew overripe grapes could become such