Wednesday, November 29, 2017

Journal

“A Hurried Journal”

Kay pushes tree over near Mt. Hood
            GRANDVIEW, WA – I fully intended to maintain a journal during our five-month stay up here. “Intended” being the operative word. The longest journal I’ve ever kept was four days. That was during a canoe trip with my three brothers. I kept a record of everything, because I was pretty sure we were going to die. I wanted Mom to know my side of the story.


At the 75% eclipse point
Since Kay and I are starting our drive back home on Monday morning, I decided to ask Curt and Rhonda to come over for coffeee, so we could come up with a list of some of the stuff that took place during our stay. Four heads are better than one at remembering things differently.

            We participated in three stellar events while here. Remember the total eclipse of the sun? We would’ve had to drive 160 miles into Oregon to get the full 100 percent eclipse. Traffic jams in Oregon kept us from doing that, so we stayed at home and witnessed a 97 percent eclipse.

            I don’t know how much of my sister Sue’s family showed up for the spectacle, but it was a bunch. At the last minute, we decided to welcome the eclipse by finding stuff to eat. You get family together for over ten minutes and they're going to want something to eat. All we had among us were three loaves, two cans of tuna and a block of cheese. We ended up with a bunch of sandwiches. Magically, chips and cookies appeared. I'm still not sure where the pie and cake came from. The meal turned out to be more of a religious experience than the eclipse.

            One August night we sat out on the driveway to witness a meteor shower. You can see the Leonid shower tonight if you wish. I haven’t been out to see it, because the one we witnessed back in August was such a bomb. We were supposed to see from 20 to 30 meteors an hour. We saw ONE. At least three of us did.

            We might’ve missed a few, because of all the talking and laughing. It was then that my niece Rhonda diagnosed an ailment of mine. She said I have laughter-induced asthma. I’ve had a lot to laugh about up here, and each time I get a really good one going I start coughing. I’m pretty sure it only happens in Washington.

            The time we had the most fun was when we were looking for the Northern Lights. The newspapers made a big deal out of it. The Lights were going to be visible as far south as Washington. Curt drove us out to the top of this barren hill, where we pulled out our lawn chairs and sat right there in the road. There are a lot of roads out here that you sit on without anyone driving by for hours.  

            Turned out, we saw more meteors looking for the Northern Lights than we did during the real meteor shower. The Northern lights drew much attention from its absence. This was in mid-July, and it was as cold as, uh, someplace where it's really cold. (Everything else I knew had testicles, boobs or butts in it.) Cold nights and hot days. We sat out there shivering for two hours. At one point we started singing every song that Rhonda knows. That girl knows ‘em all... oldies, newzies, crazies...

            I did some serious laughing that night. And, I provided laughs for everyone else when I tried to explain my vast knowledge of astronomy and quantum physics. After singing “Bessie the Heifer, Queen of all the Cows” people are less receptive to anything resembling enlightenment. Have you noticed that?

            However, my mind has been broadened as a result of our stay. I’ve never considered reincarnation as anything on which to hang one’s faith. Yet, I’m beginning to toy with the notion that Kay was once a Peruvian goat-herder. The four goats in the pen over yonder have really taken to Kay. Anytime she steps out the backdoor it’s like Elvis has entered the building. I just hate to hear goat-yells.

            You may remember that at one time we all took a course on how to make an apple pie from scratch. I learned enough to know that life is too short to spend making a pie that isn’t close to being as good as Marie Callendar’s.

            I also got to watch it snow. Twice. A couple of Curt and Rhonda’s grandkids and one of the neighbor’s boys came outside to enjoy it with me. They were almost as excited as I was. Curt had prepared the “sled hill” for action, but it didn’t snow long enough to accumulate. It was the biggest snowfall I’ve witnessed in the past 43 years.  
           
            I knew I wouldn’t have the time nor space to cover all the fun moments we recollected at the kitchen table. I’ll probably visit a few events over the course of the next year or two. After all, I’ve got a one page journal here that should add credibility to my stories. 

            I strive for truth in story-telling. That being said, I did not actually participate in the singing of that stupid cow song. That was just one strep over the line.  --  Next time, I’ll write one of those “On the Road” articles. It’ll be somewhere between here and home. “Home.” I like the sound of that.     
end

             Mark can be contacted at hayter.mark@gmail.com.

Tuesday, November 14, 2017

Grape picking

The Big Blue Hippo
  
      GRANDVIEW, WA – I had no idea, but I’m a grape picking fiend. It’s such a joy when one discovers a hidden talent. Next, I’m going to try my hand at interior design. Or soap sculpting. I can’t make up my mind.



            The grape picking experience was provided courtesy of Curt’s sister, Deanna, who owns a six acre Concord grape vineyard. Concord grapes are the ones used in Welch’s Grape Juice. Welch’s is the best grape juice in the galaxy.

Deanna’s vineyard is a pick-your-own, pay by the pound farm. She doesn’t charge family, though. I chose not to tell her that the sister of the brother who married my niece would likely be considered unrelated. I believe that telling her that would be rude. Wouldn’t it be rude?

            I’m not sure you’re aware, but it doesn’t take all that long to pick all the grapes you want.  Curt, Rhonda, Kay and I picked a small portion of one row. Three of us missed a lot of grapes on the "picked" vines. Grape clusters can hide better than any fruit. You have to think like a grape to find ‘em.
We ended up with six crates loaded to the brim and beyond. Heavy, they were. A crate of Concords weighs over 40 pounds. That means Curt picked 120 pounds of a 240 pound pick. I really like Curt, but I’m sick and tired of how good he is at everything.

            Had we had a grape picking machine we would’ve made out like bandits. The only problem with a grape picking machine is cleaning the thing once you’re finished. After a harvest, a picking machine looks like a thick, syrupy, giant blue hippo… with a few more sharp-corners.

I'm a self-proclaimed expert on grape harvesters because of Curt. Everybody around here knows and likes Curt. He’s the guy you call at two in the morning when you’re stuck in the snow, or your porch collapses or your cow starts walking backwards. It's Curt's weird nature of helping others that makes people want to return the favor. One thing the owner of a massive vineyard across the road from us did, was let Curt take his aunt and uncle on a nighttime grape harvest.  

If you’re going to sell your grapes to a super market you can’t pick ‘em by machine, because the machine knocks the daylights out of the grape clusters. The harvester we rode did some serious shake, rattle and rolling as it moved down each row.

            The giant blue hippo straddled each row of vines. Rounded bars located in the belly of the beast defrocked the stems of each plant in the rudest manner imaginable. Everything that was knocked off the stems, fell onto a conveyor belt that runs right between the hippo’s feet. I don’t care if your cat was sleeping on one of those vines, it would end up on the conveyor belt purple, gooey and stunned out of its mind.

The more modern machines have vacuums that suck out the cats, rats and drunken birds. The machine we got to ride on had a guy at the top who picked out all of the leaves, stems and critters. He had to work fast. You can’t stop to scratch when you have that job.

I don’t know that much about wine making, but I just imagine that crushed critters would alter the taste of wine somewhat. – “Let’s see. It’s got a nice, nutty, sweet taste with perfect acidity and just a hint of cat.”

            I’m proud to say that no animals were killed when we did our picking at Deanna’s vineyard. Kay and I kept only a partial crate so we could experiment making grape juice… just like Welch’s. The worst part of the process is cleaning the stupid grapes. I spent hours out in the yard with a water hose, a five gallon bucket and a sheet of plywood. I would’ve rather washed and waxed an Abrams Tank.

After cleaning and de-stemming the grapes, I tossed them into a giant bowl, and Kay and I crushed ‘em in our hands. At some point during the squeezing, Kay discovered that Concord grapes contain an acid that blisters her hands. I was so mad that she was the first to think of it.

Next we had to filter the stuff, ‘cause it had the consistency of jam. In a perfect world, you filter unrefined grape juice with cheese cloth. – Let me stop right here and tell you that cheese cloth is not made of cheese. I was as surprised as you. I’d tell you what it is made of, but I’ve only seen the stuff on TV. Kay knows all about cheese cloth, but, apparently, never bought any.

We had to use our metal sieve. The thing has mesh with openings big enough to pass BBs through. We ended up with two quarts of really thick grape juice. It would’ve been so much better had it not been so bad. After drinking about three ounces of the stuff, my lips started burning. Then my tongue.

            Rhonda has a real grape juice maker. It’s a three level urn that steams the grapes and filters the juice into a pan. Yesterday, she gave Kay a quart of her grape juice. It’s terrific! Tastes just like Welch’s.

            Tomorrow evening we’re going to Bill’s Berry Farm to pick apples. Rhonda wants to make a few gallons of apple cider. I've never seen it done, but I surmise it will involve some brutality on some Golden Delicious apples. 

When Kay and I get home, I doubt we’ll get to apply much of what we’ve learned up here. Then again, my friend, Jerry Bernhardt, will probably want me to work at his winery near Plantersville. Unless he has a gigantic grape-cleaning and squeezing machine, I’ll not hire on. I’d rather get a job scraping barnacles off of shrimp boats.
   
end

Mark can be contacted at hayter.mark@gmail.com

Friday, November 3, 2017

Brain oddity



“My brain and other oddities”

               GRANDVIEW, WA –Today is the first day I’ve felt decent since returning from our Oregon vacation. I don’t know if I had an allergy or a cold. I told everyone at church that it was an allergy, because that’s what people want to hear. People really get mad at you when you share your cold.
In truth, doctors can’t even tell you if what you’ve got is an allergy or a cold. The symptoms are the same. Your nose leaks like a toilet with the handle stuck. You’ll likely end up with a sore throat and a cough that may last through mid-July.
            With either ailment, your friends will eventually turn on you. Your spouse will become more annoyed than sympathetic. Eventually, you’ll find yourself in a room, sitting in a recliner surrounded by wads of spent Kleenexes. You’re holding a TV remote, but the TV hasn’t been on for hours. Your mind is entering another dimension, somewhere between light and shadow, between science and superstition… You’re both sick and over medicated.
            I tried three different cold and allergy medications over a period of a week. I gave each of them two days to work. One of ‘em was supposed to loosen my mucus, one was supposed to dry it up, and the third promised to do both.
One thing they were each good at doing was adding to my problem of irregularity. I wasn’t surprised, because it said so right on the box. “May cause constipation, diarrhea, headaches, nosebleed, a desire to jump off a tall structure, an unnatural craving for pancakes, a horrible fear of pancakes…”  If any of these symptoms occurred, I was to contact my doctor, immediately. Possibly meet him at I-Hop.
            I don’t know which medication worked, but one or a combination of ‘em did the trick. My nose quit running… as did my bowels. I also began having trouble sleeping. But Kay took care of that. About an hour before bedtime she gave me a melatonin pill, a “natural” calming agent that would help me sleep. If you stick the word “natural” on a quart jar of sand, you could stand outside Walmart and someone would pay five dollars for it.   
            But, let’s forget that. – I took the melatonin, and just like Kay said, after about an hour I began to get sleepy. So, I walked into the bathroom to brush my teeth before bed and found Kay standing at the sink getting ready to dry her hair. Seems she forgot to put on her shower cap before showering. I once stepped into the shower while wearing my left sock, so I was not taken aback by her behavior.
What did take me aback, way aback, was the sound of Kay’s hairdryer. The second she turned that thing on, it sounded as if I was standing on a runway next to a 747 that had just taken off. I stooped over, put my hands over my ears and yelled for Kay to turn it off, which she immediately did. Then she put her hand on my shoulder and asked what was wrong.
Turns out, her hand felt like a branding iron to my shoulder. I was going nuts. I didn’t like sound, didn’t like to be touched, and I wasn’t feeling all that happy about the light in the bathroom. I don’t know if it was the melatonin or the combination of everything I had taken during the week. Whatever it was threw my brain for a loop.
After apologizing to Kay, I staggered out of the bathroom, heading for the bed. Before climbing in, I located the earplugs that I wear while mowing the lawn, and plugged up my ears. Then I crawled into bed and put a washcloth over my eyes, because even in the darkened room light was somehow getting past my closed eyelids. The last thing I remember was the feel of Kay’s kiss on my forehead. It wasn’t nearly as painful as a branding iron.   
            That was the second weirdest thing that ever happened to me. I have read about people with autism who experience similar sensations, only it happens to them every day. I can now almost imagine what that would be like.
            At the moment, I’m right as buttered toast. I’m calm and collected. There’s no sound in this house that sets me off. I’ve always shunned bright lights, but I can sleep without eye cover. Best of all, I still love to snuggle with Kay.       
            Again, I’m not at all sure what caused my senses to elevate the way they did, but I’m glad it happened. If we are, indeed, the total of our experiences, I have grown a bit. And, I have more questions about the brain than I did before. If the neurons and all the other brain matter inside our skulls can immediately alter our thought processes… cause our feelings to turn on a dime, what does that say about who we are? Who we might be?     

            Could a doctor give me something that would make me fear butterflies? Cause me to like soccer? Make me give up Cheetos for pickled beets? Get me excited about polka music? Or get me to enjoy the taste of Smooth Move Tea? I really need to be hitting that stuff hard.

end
Mark can be contacted at hayter.mark@gmail.com.

Saturday, October 14, 2017

Oregon Beach





“On the beach”
Curt in front, Mountain dune behind
            PACIFIC CITY, OREGON One of several peculiar things Curt and Rhonda noticed about me from the get go was the fact that I didn’t own a hoodie. I tried to explain that since I had no intention of ever robbing a person, pawn shop or Popeye’s I didn’t see the need to conceal my features in the heat of the day.
            Well, today I find myself at dusk sitting on the balcony of a beach house on the Oregon coast, and I’m hoodied up. I’m feeling good, and I’m imagining that I look good. Cool, even. You want some of me? Anybody?
            Just a second. Hear that? It’s geese, flying in the appropriate “V" formation, almost within rock throwing distance. They’re making the ol’ goose honk noise and appear to be headed north up the coast, which, as smarter geese know, is the wrong direction. It’s pleasantly cold at this latitude, but every flap northward has got to bring a chill.
            Curt, Rhonda and Kay are somewhere the other side of the tree-strewn dune. They drove to the beach, because they were hauling lawn chairs and didn’t care to wrestle them over the dune. Yesterday, I climbed one of the higher dunes. It was actually a mountain. I only did it because Curt asked if I wanted to climb the thing with him or stay with the women and watch as he climbed. Those may not have been his exact words but he was challenging me, all right.
During our ascent, we had to stop to catch our breath four times, but eventually we got there. Me, with my bum knee, and Curt with his cowboy boots, (How does anyone climb with boots?) we took in the sights and sounds of the beach for a moment before I asked Curt about his plan for us getting down. He said, “We run.” He assured me that it wouldn’t be all that tiring, because we’d likely fall halfway down and roll the rest of the way. “Ready?”
“What?” We exchanged the Butch and Sundance glance, and then we were off. Curt’s plan was ingenious. -- We would run.  I’m here to tell you, unless you’re a gecko, it’s impossible to walk down a steep incline. After a stumble or two, I noticed that Curt was raising his knees unnaturally high.. I immediately copied his stride and my stumbling ceased. Only God and Curt know why he chose not to suggest that.
At the bottom of a steep dune, you will find an abrupt leveling off. It was at this point that I came this close to making a triple somersault. Fortunately, I managed an awkward bone-rattling recovery, whereupon I joined Curt in the “Rocky Arm-raise.” The girls were absolutely gaga… over one of the shells Kay found during our descent. Wives? They don’t care. – “Yes, dear, you were spectacular. Can we move along now?”
Kay was always hot on the trail for shells, stones and tiny sticks to use in her fairy garden. By the time we finished our beach walk, the 14 pockets on my commando pants were stuffed, causing my pants to develop a massive downward tug. Having lost my butt in a skiing accident, there was nothing on which my pants could rest. I had to stuff rocks in my pockets with one hand while holding onto my pants with the other. It’s impossible to maintain the look of an impressive figure while trying to keep your pants up. I have learned so much on this trip.
One thing that likely saved my life was Kay’s decision not to collect any live creatures. Had I been pocketing critters with claws, sharp spines and poison slime the doctors would've spent days on my autopsy. -- "I had no idea the tiny poison sack of a red-demon squid-urchin could compress something with that much intensity. The pain must've been incredible."      
Kay has great respect for beach critters. Apparently, much more than she has for her husband. She impressed Rhonda and Curt with her knowledge of crawly critters, and shell inhabitants. I’d heard it all before, so continued walking along clinging to my pants.
Just a second. I hear the sliding door. — “Well, hello darling. I didn’t expect y’all back so soon. Yes, I’d love to see your bag full of shells, rocks and driftwood, and your photo of the gigantic starfish. Does that mean we’re having tacos tonight? Oh, you left the starfish clinging to a slightly submerged outcropping. A wise move. Let me finish here and I’ll examine what all you collected in your bucket. -- A bucket to put things in? How wise.
That woman is way past the fairy garden stage. She’s headed in the direction of a gorilla garden. Considering the region, she might come closer to assembling a formidable Sasquatch lair. Regardless, it’s time for me to sign off.
Right now I need to inspect Kay’s beach collection. I assure you, I’ll appear more interested than she was at my dune descent. I surprised myself. For a few seconds  I thought I’d end up strapped to the skid of a helicopter with a slip-knot, and flown to Portland General. Yep, that was an awkward dismount. – Next time.
end
Mark can be contacted at hayter.mark@gmail.com. An archive of Hayter’s articles can be found at  http://markhayterscolumn.blogspot.com

Tuesday, October 10, 2017

Grapes




“The grapes are coming. Hops are
Inspecting Hops
here”

            GRANDVIEW, WA – Sue’s daughter, Rhonda, kept assuring us that the time would come when we would smell the grapes. I don’t remember smelling the cherries when they ripened or the apples and peaches. I guess they were overpowered by the outdoorsy fragrance permeating from the goats in the back of the house, and the dairy farm across the road from us.
            However,  the air tonight has been captured by the grapes. My niece said that when we started having warm days with       really cold nights, the grapes would enter their final stage of ripening. In three weeks, harvesting will begin, and Kay and I plan to be there to witness it.
            Three weeks ago, Curt (Rhonda’s husband) took us to watch hops being harvested. The experience changed me. I find myself more open to weird stuff. My nephew-in-law told me that there are three methods for harvesting hops. I think the third one involves goats and machetes.
            We recently witnessed two techniques. The first involved a meticulous process involving a tractor clipping the vines at the base, and a huge strange-looking vehicle following behind to cut the rope holding the tops of the 16 foot vines and passing them along to two workers standing in the back of a flatbed truck. Then it was off to the factory where the vines were hooked and drawn through a tall, narrow entrance.
            In some cases, what happens on the other side of the vine entrance is a secret. There are apparently different ways to enhance the taste and aroma of hops. Both require a massive amount of enhancing. The taste of the flowery fruit is bitter as all get out, and the smell is off-putting. Yet, smart people know how to ferment them so they will taste nutty, peachy, smokey, frosty, flaky... Whatever adjective goes best with taste. (And by the way, “Off-putting” is this week’s favorite word.)
           The second harvesting method involved a single behemoth of a machine that cliped, pulled, de-flowered and then shreded the vines, throwing the chopped up stuff back to the soil. It then belched out the hops parts into a truck. Hops looks like a small flowery cone.  
            Apple picking came next. One of the apple orchards behind our house has been picked. No machines involved here. It took pickers, step ladders, canvas bags and wooden crates. By the way, the term “picker” has taken on a new meaning for me. I don’t care if its peaches, cherries, apples, plums or an angel’s kiss in spring, it takes a talented person to pick fruit and vegetables.
            I don’t have space to go into detail here, but, as mentioned in a previous article, I’ve never possessed the stamina and dexterity to be a picker of produce. It’s just hard to believe how fast these men and women can pick, while in the same movement culling the bad stuff. They get paid by the box, and they can pick for hours without missing a step. Watching these experts work will give you a sense of humility each time you visit the produce section of the grocery store. 
            Speaking of cows, did you know that the dairy farmer across the street sold his house, feed lot, tractors, trucks, barns, cows and milking station? The whole lot, stock and milk can.  The family that bought his place didn’t want his cows. For whatever reason they preferred Jerseys over Holsteins. The Holsteins were shipped off one night, and the Jerseys showed up a couple of nights later. The cows get milked three times a day, so they’ve gotta move ‘em at night… and move ‘em fast,
            I’ve come to prefer the Jerseys, because they seem to smell less worse. Possibly because the new owner keeps them  in a stockyard on the far side of the farm. Closer to Bill’s Berry Farm, located next door to the dairy. Bill’s Berry raises peaches, plums, pumpkins, apples, grapes, corn and berries of all denominations.
They also make a mean donut. Apple cider has been the featured donut for the last couple of weeks. Bill and Julie make cake donuts that are as soft as your typical glazed donut, and they taste like the fruit of the week. I’ve had blueberry, apple cider and peach. My girth now appears somewhat larger than when I arrived here.
            A weekend or two back, Bill’s BF had its special fall festival. There was bbq, music, fruit picking, and apple slinging. Contestants would put an apple in a bucket strapped to two huge elastic bands; back up several steps and then let go. The target was one of several huge signs out in a field. I think the prize was a bag of donuts. The time I was there, no one came close to scoring a hit. I’m pretty sure I could’ve done it, but I don’t like standing in lines. Apparently, bad apple slingers have patience galore.
            At some point after the grape harvest, Bill’s Berry Farm is going to have another festival that will include a corn maze. I’ve talked Kay into entering the maze with me. I’m told that each year they have people who need rescuing from that thing. Not me. I’ve always been good with corn.
            At the moment I’m feeling good with grapes. Soon as I can, I’ll let you know about the harvesting process. Curt’s sister said that I could help with her vineyard. She’s handpicking it. This experience will join my on-going list of embarrassing moments. My latest involved me trying to keep the goats out of the garage. – Maybe next time.
end
Mark can be contacted at hayter.mark@gmail.com. An archive of Hayter’s articles can be found at  http://markhayterscolumn.blogspot.com.