stoops, conversations and the blues

stepping ... not a stoop, though ... sigh

I was sitting out on the front porch of our rented duplex, late afternoon sun drenching the area. The space is referred to as our stoop – a drinking stoop; having heard the reference on a house-hunting TV show. I made a note in my phone to use the phrase; probably because the girls who used it were hilarious, partly because I’m slightly warped and just because I like the idea of being connected to what’s out front – not cloistered off behind fences and gates.

stoops are flat landing spots at the top of a set of outside steps

No big deal there, we all have a landing on our stairways. The cool thing about a stoop is the intended purpose, rather than the literal. Being a sort of East Coast, city-dwellers, phenomena, the steps gave people a place to sit and talk with their neighbors as they walked by … hmmm …

So, where was I going with this post? Oh yeah, when Bella (chocolate puppy) and I went to pick up the mail - which also means a walk for her - I could hear a guitar being played; some nice little blues riffs. I figured it was our neighbor; he plays and teaches lessons, we hear stuff all the time. However, as I left the house, there was a guy sitting on the decked foundation across the street. He had his amp set up and was just picking out tunes. He’s in his work clothes and the other guy continued to lay down boards. I’ve been around a lot of construction sites, many with blasting music, but it’s Memorex, not live.

Sitting on the stoop, Bella at my feet, feeling pleasantly warm, cars whizzing by and the blues being played. All I need now is that glass of something to make my stoop complete … and the conversation.

Are you sitting out front?

Missy

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road tripping: french glen and steens mountain

we took a stinkin' lot of dirt roads, but i wouldn't have it any other way The drive wasn’t long by west coast standards, a mere few of hours; which meant there was plenty of leisure (interpreted coffee time) before leaving on another road trip escapade. I can’t begin to tell you how much fun it is to pack a bag, gas up the car and set out to see what can be seen. An interesting thing I’ve discovered on these exploits, is that having lived in Oregon for the majority of my life, I’ve missed “seeing” a lot of things. You know, I think we all get into the habit of going to the same places, which is a good thing, but we forget about the “other” places that are right in our own backyards. Case in point, yesterday afternoon, when my darling man and I went to Tumalo Falls. I’ve been to Skyliner Snow Park, but never gone the few more dirt road miles to see the falls. Holy cow! Is that lame, or what? a sweet little place, no frills, but plenty of yesteryear

lent, not lint

says it all - the grotto It sticks to your clothes and shows up splendidly on black, it gets caught on the screen in the dryer and socks elaborately decorate your toes with the stuff. Yep, lint: the fuzzy, ravelings of fabric that cling to everything; like Velcro, only different. Lint actually has a purpose. By scraping it from linen it can be made into a soft, fleecy fabric. Cotton staple – lint fibers – are spun into yarn. While all of this is riveting, especially while staring at the lint in your belly-button, there’s more to Lent than its sound doppelganger. lint: fluffy, minute shreds of yarn lent: a season of preparation These two tiny words sound similar in our vernacular, but have massively different implications in our lives. We clean-up lint and toss it in the trash. Lent, however is a prepping time for us to realize we’re not great at cleaning up our own stuff. Lent was originally a season between winter and summer, now called spring. The s

pebbles

strewn pebbles Walking on the path I noticed the pebbles. I stopped and picked one up, holding it in my hand to feel it’s texture. Tiny and smooth, it felt warm from the sun. Continuing on my walk, the way was scattered with pebbles of different shapes and sizes; some flat and polished, others round and craggy with sharp edges that could cut the skin. I considered the meaning, if any. Some had been sanded to perfection by time and wear. Others recently broken and chipped were harsh, ugly to feel and look at. No matter, all were pebbles; that was fact. Missy If you have been mildly amused, challenged or inspired by what you have read, please pass on my blog to a friend, colleague, family member or even random acquaintance

Isabella Bird Miscellany

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