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 i...

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 bet...

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 rollin...

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 ...

A weekend road trip saw me getting my “Fruit Loop” on.  Before you start to think – uh, crazy - (which is quite possible) the Fruit Loop is a 35 mile drive through the Hood River Valley.  It’s strewn with orchards and vineyards and Mt. Hood living large in the background.  It was an iconic fall day; crisp morning with a marine layer that dissolved into a pleasant afternoon, definitely a fall-lover’s daydream.  While greedily living the tour de Fruit Loop, snatching up apples, pears and snapping photos galore, my attention was captured by a strange, yet familiar contraption.  Somewhere in the recesses of my childhood mind’s eye, I saw them, plopped in an old grove of walnut trees – smudge pots! Looking much like a rendition of the Tin Man, these gadgets have a very warming purpose.  Blanketing orchards with a smoky layer of balminess (certainly a stretch of the word) to help prevent old Jack Frost from nipping the setting fruit. My much younger ...

Reflecting and allowing my soul to quiet I’ve been living the surreal…and it’s a disorienting place. Decisions we make set a course – choosing schools, picking who we hang with, jobs, marriages, blah, blah, blah.   Even small picks like what we eat and our sleep habits affect us to varying degrees.  Then, out-of-the-blue, you are smacked with the big stuff – those defining moments that wallop a punch; throwing you into that surrealistic state of not wanting to believe it’s true, that you will wake from the bewildering dream that is reality.  Fortunately, these moments are not the everyday. This past weekend my family encountered a defining moment – my brother was missing.  The details are not the important part of the experience; the responses are.  We had a desperate need which required ultimate trust.  The week prior I’d been reading about determined faith – it’s intense.  Now, I needed to live that determination.  My con...

Swifts funneling into the chimney at Chapman School, PDX Confession:  I’m a bit of a bird-nerd, but only sort of since I don’t really know much about them.  What counts is watching them, hearing their chirping-squawking noises and their flight patterns are astonishing.  How is it that they never run into each other?  I’ve never seen a bird fender bender.  During the month of September Vaux Swifts use the chimney at Chapman School as a stop-over roosting spot on their annual migration to South America.  The watching-event attracts thousands of Portlandia dwellers, including me.  When I mentioned it to one of my sisters, she replied “Who are they?”  Not a who, but a what.  Here’s a peak into my night life: Sky shows burst with glittering showers of light performing acrobatic feats against an onyx background to the ooo’s and aahh’s of the crowd below. On a waning September evening, against a dusky background a shower of grace...