Isabella Bird Miscellany

I sat down in a field to write. It had been recently mowed, the bales already removed. The stubble was coarse and golden with a few seeds scattered here and there. Eventually, birds will eat them or they'll become part of the next crop. The air was warm on my face, and I could hear crickets singing. It was bucolic and pastoral. In the distance stood the old red barn. It used to house cows and pigs, and a store of hay for the winter. Now, a few jumbled things are left inside, and the only creatures are spiders, field mice and swallows. A moss covered bird feeder swings in the gnarled apple tree. The small orchard is old , yet after all the years, it still yields fruit for the picking. This place. This farm. This field holds many memories for me. My Granny's fried potatoes and squash, Papa's big old watermelons, cows gently grazing and chickens pecking around before becoming dinner. Cast iron bath tubs were used as watering troughs. We kids used the...

I started to clean the house.  It's a weekly routine, dusting, vacuuming, the regular stuff, basically mundane. And I couldn't seem to focus, flitting from task to task like a moth searching for light. Cool, down-tempo music beat in the background.  You know, the kind of stuff you'd hear at a totally chill night club. That's where the pretty people go to sip pretty cocktails. And here I was in jeans with a hole in the knee and a baggie sweater. I sat down for a cup of Chai and picked up my notebook; abandoning the cleaning. I allowed myself to be transported by the acoustics to that vibing club. In my imagination, I walked in pulsing to the sounds. I wore a mod black slip dress, hair slightly messy with sun-kissed bare arms and legs. Several years ago I might have pulled this off. Now, as an old woman, I still have the down beat in my soul and the messy hair; my legs and arms are waiting for the sun to come kiss them. Inside, I'm a cool girl. H...

Reflecting. My uncle passed away last night. He was my one and only uncle. My mom was an only child. My dad had one sister. So, I had one uncle. Uncle Kenny was a military man. When I was young, I thought it was so cool that they got to live in Germany. I didn't even know where that was, but it was somewhere I'd never been; still haven't. Almost five years ago, my hubs and I took a road trip to where I was born. It had been scads of years since I'd been to Lakeport. However, I found where my grandparents lived - along with my uncle, aunt and cousins. I thought about the grand adventures Terry and I had. The house no longer existed, but the plot with block retaining wall and outdoor barbecue did. Returning from a jaunt overseas and to Texas, my cousins landed in the Olympia area. We'd take trips up the I5 corridor to see them. In return, they'd travel to Eugene where our grandparents had a farm. As kids, we'd play for hours in the woods and walk w...

Leaving Las Vegas, a line made famous in movies, song lyrics and billboard slogans. For me, it’s more than a catch-phrase. It pierces my heart, now more than ever. You see, previously, people were there drawing me back, but as pages are torn from the book entitled “Life,” I’m more aware of how fleeting and transient things are. Change is a given. My heart feels - each word expressed - come back, don’t be a stranger. I know they’re wondering if they’re losing all contact with the family of ones deeply loved. I wonder, too. And while I also know that’s how things happen, I don’t have to like it. So, I stare out the window of the plane, the sun bringing light and heat to the day in shades of pink and pale orange which burst against the blue sky. My thoughts are pensive, questioning, seeing only the rugged ranges with striations of soil and color veining them. As the plane climbs we soar above the clouds stacked on each other like mounds of whipped sweet cream. Contemplat...

Just over four years ago, my guy and I traveled to Lakeport, California where I was born. I hadn't been there since I was 12. As we walked and drove around, I had this weird déjà vu, I-remember-this-place thing happening. I tried to find my paternal grandparents home, but where that placed used to be no longer existed. Instead, there was an empty lot with only a block retaining wall still standing. The big cedar tree was there, strong and tall. where that place used to be is now a vacant lot a crumbling retaining wall borders the edge remnants of an old barbecue, a bird bath weeds and a few scraggly shrubs an old rose with scant petals, but many hips when I closed my eyes, it all returned the white two-story house with kitchen at the back wooden screen door that slammed as kids ran in and out potato salad and chicken fried up in a big cast iron skillet laundry hung on the whirly line in the yard at noon the firehouse siren would sound we'd r...

It was 14 degrees when I went for a walk the other morning. Three layers under my puffy, wool socks, fur lined boots, checked scarf and a knitted beanie. Oh, and omni-heat gloves, but my hands were still cold. The morning fog was clearing and tiny ice particles drifted from the frosted air, dusting everything in delicate white. Faint sunshine was marginally warmer than the shadows. Interesting, at that temperature, to experience a meager difference. Belle was oblivious, romping and sniffing in the cold, while I wandered, observing. Observing iced trees hung with pinecone ornaments and glistening leftover crab apples. They looked like candied apples to pluck. Diminutive birds fluttered from branches overhead, joyous, as one would expect. And a squirrel or two ventured out, fleet of foot. I found myself humming " Walking in a Winter Wonderland ." It's one of my favorite Christmas songs, always reminding me of my Granddaddy. Later on, we'll conspire, ...

The lights just clicked on. The ones we hung outside last Friday when the day was bright and fair. Today it’s cloudy and cold. It’s dark earlier. So, the lights just clicked on. It’s pretty. If I squint, the white fairy lights look like tiny gleaming stars. Bordering on gazing at an inky sky, dotted and specked with minute bursts of light. Two Moravian stars with multi-faceted points hang. They sway with the breeze. Moving to the wind’s breathed music. They reflect in the open window; mirror images, star duets. Santa arrives in a helicopter descent at the Old Mill. He sets up shop, elves and reindeer to join later. High fives, and shy giggles, the kids approach. Innocent, bright eyes wide open and hopeful. It’s a magical and expectant season. It’s Advent. Advent – the arrival of the awaited One – is more than my lights clicking on, the Moravian stars dancing and my grandkids’ wonder at the arrival of Santa. I love each of these experiences and the ...

Today is Thanksgiving, and I’m intensely aware of being thankful . I’ve been remembering three years ago. We were moving. Our son and his family were moving. A baby was on her way, and my full-of-life father-in-law had died. Stress levels were off the chart since we were ticking way too many stress boxes. I remember being sad and afraid, angry and crying, but also very grateful to have my kids and grandkids all living in the same town. In our fluid world, this is a rare blessing. The dust has settled – as much as it can in Central Oregon – but there’s stuff. There always is, right? While standing in line at Trader Joe’s on Sunday afternoon, I watched people. The scene was alive, buzzing and organic. Noise levels were high; the place was crammed. The bustle made me happy. And, I thought, what stories do these people have? The guy checking my groceries said he was single, had been invited to join friends for Thanksgiving, but wasn’t sure. He saw too much dram...

thanks, john derian, for your big picture book Usually if I’m writing about an artichoke it would be in relation to food, you know, dipping each triangular-ish leaf in warm butter or uber garlicky mayo. However, I think there are other enticements to an artichoke. peeling away the layers reveals the heart My life as an artichoke generates all sorts of images. They have prickly points on the end of each petal, with tough outer layers and layers underneath that are delicate. As you continue to strip off the outer leaves, you’ll eventually reach the choke … and the heart. oh thistle with a heart a flower bud that hasn’t bloomed peeling away layer after layer a picture of living, delight, anticipation in the book of things, something magical hidden under pricked leaves choke guards the heart ‘til security petals are stripped away Life is full of hard stuff, mine being no exception to the rule. A few years back times, events and s...

life in a crack We left the city yesterday, wet leaves covered sidewalks; brown and at the end of their season. It had been nice to walk neighborhoods, dart into cafes for coffee or a drink. It was grey in a melancholy sort of way, with a fresh breeze. Being reminded of traffic, activity, and people. The places we gravitate filled with the not-mainstream people. I’m intrigued with their stories and thoughts, often different from mine. Bridges and highways, buildings old and new, some dilapidated, others restored. The rush and crush continues, all covered with leaves set in grey. Written in Seaside, about Portland while in our hip, urban loft-esque industrial hotel. 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

aspen leaves look like golden coins tinkling from weathered white branches wind child, unseen, nevertheless felt; no origin or home.  wind child comes and goes, disturbing all she blows through and past,  over and under, tossed and turned.  wind child blusters and plays a mirthful game of hide and seek I stepped out the front door to a blast of wind. It wasn’t hot and it wasn’t cold, just wind gusting on an autumn afternoon. Why do we use the word fall more than autumn? Dry leaves clattered down the sidewalk, as a cloud of dirt and debris from a nearby construction site forced me to close my eyes, and I hoped Bella was doing the same. Taking a left on the next block, pine needles lay like pick-up sticks on the sidewalk and late season purple asters grew. My senses were on high alert. The wind does that; it disturbs everything. I felt it blowing hair out of my face; saw it kicking up and knocking down leaves of almost irid...

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 ...

Shaniko, a place where life still exists How do you get from point A to point B? Bus, plane, train, scooter, even our feet are a mode of transportation. What about when it comes to vacation time? Is it a matter of hurry up, rush, so you can get there all exhausted and really not ready to hit every major attraction? Me? I’m a road tripping kind of girl. When the kids were little, our family vacations always involved piling them, their stuffed animals, travel-sized games and tons of snacks into the car. We would carefully map out our stops to include restaurants with playgrounds, aka, McDonalds and our must-have on motels was a pool. be a law abiding citizen, or face the paddy wagon. i wonder if that would have worked with fighting kids? I have mixed memories of these road trips.  Mostly, I smile as I think about them, and then suddenly I'm jolted back into the reality of the “are we there yet?” question mingled with the “don’t breath on me” and I need to g...

brooding My heart is quiet and dark; brooding like the clouds hanging in this morning’s sky. Just when I think I’ll start to write happy thoughts, which seem trite given happenings in my world and in the very lives of my friends and family, I’m reminded of what my voice has to say. Injustice and sadness exist. That is a fact.  But, you know what? It takes really dark skies to see the stars. Darkness will never overwhelm light. Light, however, always lights up the dark. That is also a fact; one that I cling to desperately. There was a drought of beauty ; all was devoid, stark and barren Horizons held nothing to be desired, stripped and robbed of blossoms ripped and banned from the earth Photos, prints piled and discarded The only flowers remaining housed in vague memories How had the town reached this conclusion? Fragrance was absent No sound of buzzing bees or gossamer dragons darting in the sky Senses dulled and snuffed out to the miracles of existence Hearts...

Do you ever have those moments when you see, hear or smell something and you are instantly transported to another place and time?  It’s almost like time travel in your emotional head.  I do this quite frequently and the places I travel allow me to relive experiences. Our senses are powerful.  They are how we encounter life.  I taste a strawberry and know that early summer has arrived.  Smelling salt air tells me I’m near the beach.  Listening to a 60’s mix and I’m recalling junior high dances, hoping that whoever my “crush” was at the time would ask me to dance. On my way to work I take a roundabout which circles up and past some homes that have a desert-scape loaded with blazing wildflowers.  To me, California poppies are wild since they are scattered along roadsides and creep into neighborhood gardens.  Blue flax and orange-red Oriental poppies were in the blend. Seeing the flax and poppies was one of thos...

my forever valentine xo I'm really a romantic at heart.  Not in the traditional sense, but when it comes to this man ... I swoon every day. soft brown, bordering on hazel, specks of green and gold fill his eyes dark lashes shading, encompassing, defending his eyes dance mischievously in cheeky pleasure Laugh lines creasing the edges, well defined from teasing wit emotions spill out of his eyes, salty, wet on his cheeks concern, attention, pain … and in sources of pleasure intense passion burns my soul when his eyes gaze at me want, thirst, intent words thru a glance there’s fire in his eyes at injustice and lack of common sense flashing anger, but it’s a slow happening truth and kindness permeates his eyes looking to find the best and the right his eyes are heavy at day's end, closing for the night sleep like a child, my love, my forever Valentine I love you, my darling.  You are always in my heart. Missy If...