The Snow in Portland Keeps Falling

Snow Day

So, I'd been wanting to make a crown and some dress-up stuff for my niece for Christmas. She's almost 2 and about to hit that magical age of imagination. My idea was to knit a crepe paper crown with buttons and fun ribbon, then to make a robe out of fuzzy, super soft material. Unfortunately it snowed today, making it impossible to gather the needed supplies. As I sat trapped in my house, I wondered what I could possibly make out of the craft supplies I had on hand.

I dug through my fabric box and found a scrap of pretty pink taffeta and a complimentary calico. I cut the taffeta to the (estimated) size of a two year old robe. I used the calico to make bias tape for the left and right side of the robe. It also worked as a pretty ruffle for the top and bottom of the robe!

Lucky for me, I am a fairly frugal person and have saved the ribbons used to tie various bouquets together. I had several sizes and colors saved up (pinks and purples mainly...PERFECT!). I took the longest piece of my "thrifty" ribbon and sewed it to the top of the robe. After I had stitched the ribbon in place, I thought that it would be fun to pour something down in the opening left between top and bottom stitching. I found some glitter (that was passed down to me from my Mom) and poured the entire bottle into the space between the ribbon and taffeta. The space was too large and the glitter sagged into one place. I took a deep breath, spread the glitter out evenly, then took another deep breath before sewing on top of the glitter. I had no idea what it would do to my machine, but I had visions of the needle breaking and flying into one of my eyeballs. Thankfully, I was able to keep both of my eyeballs and the stitching worked to keep the glitter evenly distributed!

The final touch was the crown. I had a tiny piece of gold felt left over from an apron project that had gone awry. It turned out to be just the right size for a fun princess crown! I took some more of my "thrifty" ribbon and stitched it around the bottom, so that the crown could be tied on. I added a complimentary light pink ribbon (accidentally purchased for a project because I thought it was white) and a button that had fallen off a pair of pants that used to fit me. It looked a little plain, so I cut out a few diamond shapes and sewed fabric (left over from the robe) to the back side of the felt. The fabric peaks through the front (reverse applique) and makes a whimsical looking crown.

Just for fun, I coaxed Dave into modeling the crown and robe.

I felt like writing a poem

To linger on some singular note,
And find it sings my soul.

To lose the note,
Then my soul,
My mind has lead me astray.

Clarity so rarely reached,
So easily driven away.

What once was found,
Now is lost,
How quickly it fades to grey.

Oh, Christmas Tree

My sister and I have always decorated the Christmas tree together. Its a tradition, like sleeping by the Christmas tree once Christmas break started or racing to move the mouse on our advent calendar every morning. The biggy was to move the mouse on the 24th. Whoever moved the mouse on the 24th was the winner. I remember my Mom once tried to make the other days just as special. She would stick Bible verses and candies in them. But, the 24th reigned the supreme prize no matter how my Mom tried to equalize the days. It was the last day on the calendar, the last move. There were no more moves for an entire year. To make the last move meant you were the winner for an entire year. It was great.

Christmas was great; chopping down a tree with my family, digging out boxes of Christmas decorations, and hanging ornaments while bickering with my sister about which ornament belonged to which of us. Last year we divided up the ornaments one last time. My Mom sent mine with me to Oregon and my sister's with her to Texas. My sister called today to let me know she had hung her ornaments. It was a little sad to think about. I left mine in their box this year and instead hung handmade snowflakes and strands of cranberries (see picture at top). It's a simple tree, but pretty and festive.

This will be my first Christmas away from my family, so I'm feeling a bit nostalgic. I have a feeling I'll sleep by our Christmas tree at some point this December and I might even buy an advent calendar (the cardboard type with chocolate). We'll see.

Mr. Poopy Pants

Hello world. What is wrong with you? Not everything. I find that some of your shops are nice and that massages are quite pleasant. Those aside, I can find some fault.

For example, stolen car windows. Why steal the window? Why not the twirly heating/cooling nobs (those are cool) or the emergency brake? I like the emergency brake, but I'm not completely confident that it does anything except make a great cranking noise as I lift it up.

I need my car window you, Mr. Poopy Pants!

I know that times are hard, but of what value could the car window be? You took nothing else. In fact you left more than you took. Your rusty hatchet, bent hanger, and half smoked cigarette, were they left as a trade?

Forgive me for blaming the whole world for what you did. I have no face to put with this act. I am lashing out and will find time to do breathing exercises later (and I promise I will do them--this will be a non-thing by tomorrow).

Thank you for listening.

Story

I love story. I love the places it can take you to. I love the people you meet in it. Story is a passage way into my imagination. A well written story invades my mind and my imagination comes to the rescue. It makes sense of the parts that my mind doesn't recognize. My imagination constructs wild animals that I've never seen the likes of. It collects the descriptors of a place written about and builds it; either city or small house. I love story.

As I flip through the pages of a book, my imagination either thrills at the entries or sighs and says "I've seen this before." The last book I read made my imagination thrill. There were people "graced" with special abilities, powerful women who charged themselves with fighting for the weaker of their sex, and a romance that wove throughout. This story I couldn't put down. I rushed through it; from front to back. My imagination screaming with delight.

As I drew to the end of this story I felt as if I was about to loose something. Like the last day of a vacation, I couldn't really enjoy the last pages of this book, because I knew it was about to end. Reluctantly I finished. I then searched the few empty pages at the back of the book. I read the front and back flyleaf. I closed the book and turned it over and over in my hands (maybe hoping that a certain amount of turns would open a secret door back into the story I'd just left). I found no hidden messages or doorways, only the tease of a prequel to be written at an unknown time in the future.

This is somewhat ritual whenever I read a great book. I search for the hidden track, desperately looking in the folds of a page or at the bottom of a flyleaf. One or two books have satisfied me in providing a hidden something and thus encouraged this obsessive behavior (Fablehaven and Artemis Fowl). If you recognize those titles, you now know something about me. I read Young Adult Fiction. A genre whose audience is often looking for the prize at the bottom of the box.

This just in...

We're staying in Portland.

Some People Wander

On my first day of kindergarten I wore my hair neatly in braid. It was a long blond braid that cascaded down my back and ended shortly past my bottom. I had on my first day of school outfit, a new backpack, and a look of utter bewilderment. I held my Mom's hand tightly as the yellow school bus slowed to a stop in front of us. I turned and in an act of desperation wrapped my arms around my Mom and began sobbing. My Mom acted with grace in a moment that was potentially embracing for us both. She managed to coax me onto the bus and talk a 5th grader into taking care of me until I found my class.

It is almost scary how little I've changed since then. I have moved from home, traveled, and tried many new things but never without the last act of desperately clinging to what I know. I like to be comfortable. I like having things around me that make me feel safe. I like having people around me that make me feel safe. In the same breath, I recognize the tremendous amount of growth available to me when I move beyond the comfortable and the safe to seek the new and the challenging.

I bring this up because my husband and friends have started discussing the possibility of moving to New Orleans. The need there is still great. With 40% of the homes abandoned or destroyed the neighborhoods look less than inviting. My husband, Dave, looks at this as an opportunity to build community in the places that have been abandoned. He and our friend Kate see it as an opportunity to live out the faith we profess. I see it as another opportunity to find something to cling to and sob.

It's a conflicting feeling, much like the one I had while waiting for the bus over 23 years ago. I am scared. I like my home, my job, and my current community. I'm not looking for adventure, I am not a thrill seeker. But, there is a part of me who wants to go and see. I want to try this out, because there is a potential that this could be good. I mean kindergarten turned out alright. My teacher did yell at me for not knowing how to tie my shoes, but learning how to read was pretty cool.

Beautiful Quote

"There is only one of you in all time, this expression is unique. And if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and will be lost." -Martha Graham

Lone Black Bird

A saw a lone black bird flying through the drizzly Northwest sky. An infinate blanket of grey clouds hung behind him. He seemed to be heading for something that was more important to him than his personal comfort. For a few seconds he appeared to be alone. Then, slowly the rest of his flock came into view.

While he was alone I imagined that his life was like the weather; dreary, sad, and hard. As his flock came into view, my perspective changed. He was now the leader. He flew out ahead of his group to charge the weather and be the first to confront any dangers. While I watched, part of me wished I was the bird.

Kruger Farm

Dave, Libby, Molly and I had our Kruger Farm adventure today. Here are some pictures to document the occasion.

Dave and Molly head into the pumpkin patch.

Molly is in the barn. Molly sees...

Calves!!!

Libby uses her map reading abilities to help us through the corn maze.

Thanks Libby!

Molly likes the leaves on the ground. She sets one on the bench

near Dave.

The End!

A Mariner's Life for Me

Swimming in front of my eyes was a large sea bound ship. It bobbed up and down, nodding affirmatively as I questioned it about my future as a mariner. It seemed my only option. I looked around the pier wondering if anyone had followed me to this potential get-away. Something moved in the shadows and rather than wait to distinguish what had moved, I scampered up onto the quarter deck.

I stepped into a crowd of others who had also accepted a life at sea. A tall man stood to my left with long, greasy, brown hair. He smiled at me, revealing a set of yellow, broken teeth. On my right, a collection of red-haired men stood together looking comfortable with each other. They laughed and reacted to each other knowingly. The tall, greasy man nudged me and said, "The Riley clan." He smiled widely and bounced his head up and down. He kept starring at me, smiling. I smiled quickly then turned away from him. He nudged me again and extending his hand to me said, "They call me Boris. What do they call you?"

"Ah..." I responded. I looked over my shoulder and into the shadows. I was feeling increasingly anxious about the movement I had seen in the shadows. Boris grabbed my hand and began shaking it. He repeated his question to me and I muttered to him that my name was Milo and that it was a pleasure to make his acquaintance. At that, he stopped bouncing his head and instead looked at me curiously.

"What part of London you from?" he questioned me.

"No part, I'm not from London." I said and looked back over my shoulder. Something moved again. This time I saw the rising sun reflect off what could only be a silver-plated pistol held in the hand of a man wearing a long black coat that brushed against the bottom of his knees. He looked at the ship from under his dark bowler hat. I turned my back to him and held my breath. Had he seen me?

To be continued...

The DMV

My third trip to the DMV should have been successful. My purse was bursting with papers stating that I am the person I say I am. I had my passport, marriage certificate, an official letter from the social security office, my driver's license, WA registration, proof of insurance, a pay stub, and credit card bill (with my current address). You would think that this coupled with $200 would have gotten me what I wanted. But, my first trip to the DMV had already foretold that things like this don't come easy.

My first trip to the DMV was at the tail end of a long line of errands. I pulled into the parking lot and noticed a sort of exodus happening from the building. Someone walked to the door and made movements like they were locking the place up. This baffled me, because my clock said it was only 5pm and I clearly remembered writing that they would be open until 5:30pm on a lime-green post-it note that I stuck neatly upon my desk at home. So, I came home and decided to investigate this discrepancy. I had indeed written 5:30pm as the closing time for the DEQ, not the DMV.

On second trip to the DMV, I had all my ducks straight in a row, or so I thought. I had gone over the on-line DMV checklist several times and had even conferred with Dave about needing to bring anything else. He suggested that I bring a pay stub. So, I brought one along for good measure. I walked in and was summoned immediately to the counter where the helpful people sit. It took the man less than 1min. to dash all my hopes of getting anything accomplished within that trip. He looked at my pay stub with contempt and spelled out for me the specifics of what they were looking for as "proof" of my identity and residence. I left with yet another checklist of things to bring.

One obvious thing I had neglected to bring with me on my second trip was the title of the vehicle. I've owned the car since 2002, but I don't actually know what the title looks like. I have one--someplace. I looked for it. I thought I had found it. I drove back to the DMV, with all my documents and strode up to the counter. The helpful man at the counter was a bit feistier than I was in the mood for. He told me that the document in my hand was not my title, but rather another registration form. I sighed and asked, "Does it at least look like a title?" He hesitated and it seemed to me that he was processing whether or not I was jesting with him. I wasn't. He arrived upon the conclusion that I was. We came to an impasse and I was not happy with the feisty man posing as someone helpful. I got in my car and drove back home.

I don't feel like an intelligent being right now. I feel as though I should have a dunce hat sat upon my head. It should be my task to guard a doormat and keep it from a life of crime. How hard is it to get a driver's license and plates in the state of OR? What level of intelligence does it require?

Sewing in July

Sewing in July is thought to be good luck in Ireland. It is said that if you sew two things during the month of July your luck doubles. I made that up. But, honestly I did sew two things in July. Here they are:

a. a purse I sewed and embroidered (pattern from Bend the Rules of Sewing)

b. a skirt I sewed from old pajama pants, my high school graduation dress, a t-shirt, and a pair of pants from goodwill (pattern from a skirt I bought at Saturday Market)

New necklace,
Pretty necklace,
Brown, turquoise, and silver.

I bade ye,
I made ye,
Without a bow or a quiver.

On Hawthorne,
Busy Hawthorne,
That great cement river.

I bade ye,
I made ye,
With a laugh and a shiver.

Running...

Once I was deceived into thinking that running was fun. I believe it was my third grade teacher who convinced me that running was so fun that I should actually pay to do it. You see, my elementary school held an annual "Fun Run" that the students would raise money to be apart of. And believe it or not, we were all very excited to get together on a Saturday and run. That's it. We would just run.

Looking back, I could only sigh and explain it as a part of my gullible youth. That was until yesterday. Yesterday, Dave and I went for a run with some friends (Kate, Libby, and Molly). We had been talking about it for awhile, but it took their initiation to make it happen. It was hard; we huffed and puffed. I think I walked more than I ran. But, we did it! And if you can believe it, I enjoyed myself!

Today, after Dave got off of work, we went on another run. It feels good to get out there and just run; heart racing, breath painful, and sides aching. We are talking about making it a regular thing that we do every day. We've even discussed the possibility of signing up for a 10K...and paying for it. It's primarily for the cool t-shirt, but you know what...it might just be fun.

A Vacation with the Johnsons

Today Dave and I said good-by to his parents. We drove them to the airport early this morning. The farewell was sad, as most are when family and friends are involved. We both hope that one day there will be no farewell and no end to their visit to Portland. Until that time it is up to us to continue showing them all the wonders that make up our fair city.

Some of the places we highlighted on this trip were: Powell's, Saturday Market, The Screen Door, Flying Pie Pizzeria, Mt. Tabor Park, Montavilla Antique Mall, IKEA, Genies, and Cannon Beach. Each day was so full that we needed a mid-afternoon nap in order to gather enough strength for the next item on our itinerary. I was so exhausted from our trip to Cannon Beach that on our drive home it took less than 20 min. for me to fall asleep; my head bobbing up and down, swaying gently with curves of the road in the soft heat of the car.

While we rested well, we also ate well. I don't think my stomach ever had a fair opportunity to realize that it might be hungry. We estimated that while we were at Cannon Beach we must have spent over $20 on candies alone. I found one candy shop that had the most amazing caramel. It was soft and chewy, buttery and slightly salty; it was everything one could desire from a morsel of caramel. Originally I bought only one--silly me. Shortly after I ate my caramel I realized that I most certainly needed another. I went back to the candy shop and showed more restraint than I thought possible and bought only two more.

This morning all the candies and mementos were packed up in suitcases, then loaded into our car. Dave and I watched as the suitcases were checked and then as his parents walked away through the security check. I have to be honest, I am not a fan of good-byes.

*In keeping with Johnson Family tradition, all photos posted on this blog show people walking away from the camera.

A Day with Mom

My Mom made the long trip from Ferndale, WA down to Portland, OR this weekend. She pulled into Stumptown, USA around 2:45pm on Friday and left around the same time the next day.

Along with her she brought her dog Bo, sometimes called Bo-Bo. Bo is a min-pin/pug cross. He is a small, excitable dog that bounces rather than walks.

My Mom, Bo, and I enjoyed chit-chatting until Dave came home from work on Friday. We then ventured into downtown Portland, which is something that Dave and I rarely do. We walked along the riverfront and ate a delicious meal at Macaroni Grill. For the first time, I ordered something I liked at Macaroni Grill. It was the Marsala Chicken Ravioli. It was mm-mm-good. Coming home after our meal was necessary, as we all ate so much, we were getting sleepy.

We started off the next day with tea and berry muffins. We talked over music as we enjoyed our breakfast, then went for a morning walk up Mt. Tabor. Bo came along and wheezed and gagged as he pulled excitedly on his leash, nearly choking himself at times. My Mom couldn't move fast enough to satisfy his enthusiasm so, Dave took charge and ran him up the many stairs that go to the top of Mt. Tabor.

At the top of Mt. Tabor you can see most of the city. The view includes Hawthorne, the Steel bridge, and the West hills. We sat on a bench and enjoyed looking over the city as we caught our breath before we heading back down the mountain.

At home, after the walk, Bo collapsed with exhaustion. He laid limply on my lap as I played with his ears making them stick straight up and then flipped them inside out. He was so tired that when we put him in his kennel he merely curled up and fell back to sleep. With Bo all tucked into bed, we decided to make our way down to Saturday Market.

Lively music and the smells of spices and fried foods greeted us as we walked into Saturday Market. Of course, we stopped for food first. Dave and Mom ate Philly-steak sandwiches. I choose a piece of pizza, that wasn't fully cooked (the crust was still doughy). I have bad luck with food at Saturday Market. But, Mom and Dave loved what they ordered!

There were some amazingly creative merchants at Saturday Market. One merchant made hooks, bracelets, and clocks from recycled silverware. And another merchant made antique handkerchiefs into cap sleeves for tank-tops. Mom bought organic toys for the pets. She found a dried sweet potato chew toy for Bo and bought a cat-nip body pillow for Yoda.

At home she gave the presents to the pets. Yoda sniffed and caressed his new body pillow. He curled his body around it and cuddled it. After about a half an hour with his cat-nip body pillow, Yoda started dry-heaving. We are pretty sure he over-dosed on the cat nip. We now regulate how much time he can spend with his new toy. Bo also enjoyed chewing on his dried sweet potatoes.

Happy Mother's Day Mom! Thanks for coming.

Virginia Woolf

Virginia Woolf, the name sounds epic. I breath it in and out once more, Virginia Woolf. This name has been elusive to me.

In college, I knew little about who Virginia Woolf was or what she was about. Whenever I heard her name, I thought about The Brother's Grimm or some other fairy tale writer. I pictured her writing the story about the dancing shoes that made the child wearing them dance until they died. A gruesome story, but one I thought befitting to someone named Virginia Woolf.

I didn't know who Virginia Woolf was.

I happened upon a book she wrote last November. Dave and I were flying back from Omaha and we stopped at a bookshop in the airport. I picked up A Room of One's Own and turned it over in my hand. The back cover talked about Virginia Woolf's theory that, "women must have a fixed income and a room of their own in order to have the freedom to create." What a devilish book this must have been when it was published.

In 1929, the idea that dedicating a room to a woman for creative purposes, would have been seen as extraordinary. Virginia Woolf mentions how little was invested into a woman's education. She laments her own lack of education and pines for a college with wealthy donors, whose walls were built from the coffer's of kings, such as the men's colleges. She states that the mind of a woman held less creative and intellectual value than that of a man. Not because a woman couldn't possess creative or intellectual genius, but because they were not afforded opportunities to develop either of these attributes.

When asked why she wrote A Room of One's Own, she says, " I wanted to encourage the young women--they seem to get fearfully depressed."

Virginia Woolf.

Things I learned Today From Wikipedia

The Strand: is a street in the City of Westminster, London, England. In the Victorian era, the Strand became a fashionable address. Many avant-garde writers and thinkers gathered here, among them Thomas Carlyle, Charles Dickens, William Makepeace Thackeray, John Stuart Mill, Herbert Spencer, and the scientist Thomas Henry Huxley.

Skittles: is an old European target sport, similar to bowling. In the United Kingdom the game remains very popular as a pub sport in England and Wales.

Coffer: in architecture, is a sunken panel in the shape of a square, rectangle, or octagon in a ceiling, soffit or vault.

Soles: are flat fish of various families, the most common being of the flounder family. In European cookery, there are several species which may be considered 'true' soles, but the common or Dover sole Solea solea, is simply called the 'sole', and is the most esteemed and widely available.

Counterpane: an embroidered quilt or bedspread

Retinue: is a body of persons "retained" in the service of a noble or royal personage.

As Seen On Mt. Tabor

-A girl, age 6 or 7, running behind her father. She is steering him like a horse with a jump rope she has fastened around his waist. The father trots, gallops, and turns as she directs him.

-A girl, in middle school or high school, wearing all black. In her hand is a walking stick that she absentmindedly pokes at the ground as she walks up the path. She peers over her shoulder at me and gives me a look that says, "I know who I am and why I am here, but I don't understand your presence in my journey."

-Later, I see the Girl in Black, cradling the walking stick in her arms. She picks at the bark and grooms the stick.

-13 dogs, 12 big and 1 small.

-A thousand small white flowers emerging among the million blades of grass.

The Artist

I am nervous to introduce you to someone. She is a timid creature with wide eyes and a fragile soul. She is an artist and she resides within me. I barely bring her out. She is scared.

I am going to attempt to be brave. I am going to expose her. She, is me. I am an artist.

That is a hard word to claim: Artist. When I think of artists, I think of people who have worked their whole lives to obtain the title; the people who are scattered throughout my Art History text books like Van Gogh, Warhol, and Cassatt. Yet, what about those people who simply see the world through a different lens? Those rare souls who try to capture every remarkable thing that they see with a camera, a paintbrush, a crayon, a pencil, a piano, a violin, a clarinet, a written or spoken word? These are artists, whether recognized or not.

Artist is a word that has to be claimed if you are to believe it of yourself. I guess that's what is hard. You have to believe in yourself. The Impressionists were laughed at when they introduced the style. Duchamp received criticism for Fountain, a urinal displayed as an art exhibit. People naively remark that they themselves could easily recreate works of modern art or say that their 2 year old could have done something similar. In college, I learned about countless artists who barely made a living during their lifetime. I wondered what they thought of themselves. Did they claim the word artist or did they hide that aspect of their life fearing that they would be seen as a failure? I would like to think that the artist was so much a part of them, that they never questioned themselves. They just were. They were the artist, whether or not someone else dubbed them so.

The small creature inside of me, who blushes at the word, is an artist. She is dying to come out. She wants to play with paint, arrange words, and tell stories. She wants to sing and dance. While she hopes no one will see her, I fear it's inevitable. She must be exposed. She, is me. I am an artist.

The Cow

This is The Cow. The Cow is a painting I have been working on for the past two weeks. This is her first appearance on the blog.

In this painting, I am trying to emulate the style of an artist named Marie Laurencin. Marie layers on white paint to wash out most of the detailing of her subject, while working in splashes of color through out the piece. What remains are simple and elegant figures that entertain the eye with the lacing of white in contrast to vibrant color.

I started my project by layering brown and gold paint over the entire canvas. Behind the brown and gold, there is another painting. You can still see faint traces of the previous painting in the left bottom corner where the color is a bit darker. There was once an ocean there. Now it will be a field.

After the background color was done, I needed to pick a subject. So, I did what any artist would do and I picked up a copy of the Pottery Barn catalog. I wanted to see what was currently being hung on the trendy walls of America. Bright yellow canvases and black and white pictures of exotic animals seemed to be the rage. I could get behind the idea of hanging pictures of animals on my wall. I like animals. But exotic animals? Where's the connection between me and an elephant?

So I thought about animals I was connected to, and I remembered that Dave has had a picture of cows on the background of his computer for a few months now. I was connected to them! They were a regular part of my life. Anytime I want to listen to music from Dave's computer, I am greeted by these cows. So, I picked one and drew it onto the canvas. On the right side of the painting you can still see the sharpie marks for the shoulder blade and the rib cage.

The painting is far from done. While color has been blocked in and the style chosen, it still has many phases to go through. I hope to post the painting in its various phases and to tell you more about the subject as it progresses.

The Polar Bears

I'm worried.

This is actually a common feeling for me. I get tense and concerned about things that have not actually happened. Right now, I am worried about the current state of our environment. I am worried that our world will look very different in 2050, which isn't too many years off.

A week ago I picked up a National Geographic that declared it contained a "Special Report". Let's start there. The words "special" and "report," combined together cause my breathing to become irregular. I start to feel like I need an inhaler. It's the same feeling I get while I am watching an episode of a Law and Order: SVU. I am scared and I feel helpless knowing that I can in no way change the outcome of the story--even if I really, really wish it.

I started to read this "Special Report," feeling tense and wondering if my throat has always been this dry. It starts out with an ominous, "It's here." I can only guess they are referring to the arrival of the new spring line-up of melting ice caps, changing weather patterns, and the end of civilization as we know it. Of course they are. I continue on. My thought process leads me to believe that if I read a bit further, maybe the writer will have some nicer things to say. Maybe the writer will know that it's me reading this article and that I am afraid. Maybe he'll write in a "happily ever after" ending for me. I do so wish it.

But, that's not what happens. The writer tells me that "warming has hit polar species the hardest," and that "we cannot restore their habitat." He says that, polar bears are having a hard time getting enough to eat, because their environment has changed. He describes them as emaciated. Then he introduces Professor Bob Steneck. He quotes Steneck as saying, "It's a modern Dr. Strangelove moment when you see the Artic melting at record levels and the Russians planting their flag on the seafloor so they can extract more oil."

I stop reading. I no longer want this writer, Joel K. Bourne, Jr., to tell me any more. I am sad and worried and I want it to stop. But, it doesn't. My thoughts keep revolving around what I have read. I have this scene in my head of a man dressed in a suit, running his flag to the point where land meets ice. I see him plant his flag and it transform into a oil refinery. Then the bears, from their icy vantage point, look over at the black smoke issuing from the the man-made fortress, and decide their time is over. I watch them walk away and vanish.

I am worried.

Gaining Ground Farm

Earlier this morning six friends set out to see a farm. This is the usual thing for the friends to do: gather together at a coffee shop in the morning then take a long twisting and turning road out to a farm. We spent our time trudging around in mud and letting drops of rain fall on our heads. This is what we call fun.

Let me explain. As friends, we have started to entertain the idea of becoming farmers. I like the idea of having bees and a few sheep. My husband is planning much more. He dreams of running a CSA. He lights up when he talks about the earth, Wendell Berry, and how we can become more community oriented. Our community of friends share his enthusiasm.

We gather together most every Sunday to discuss our plans of owning a CSA and living together as an intentional community. Our discussions cover how we will run our farm, the ideals we want to uphold, how we can live debt free, and what we will do to maintain a healthy lifestyle. Not all of our talk is about the future; some of it we can immediately apply to our lives. For example, we are trying to eat less fast food and eat locally grown food instead. John and Kate decided to participate in a CSA so that they could receive locally grown vegetables throughout the summer. Dave and I thought we would take advantage of the Portland Farmer's Markets.

Our dream of owning a CSA, along with our interest in subscribing to one, brought us out to Gaining Ground Farm, the farm John and Kate are now community members in. The farm is beautiful. We walked through muddy fields that will transform into bountiful rows of barley, garlic, onions, etc. The owners, Mike and Jill, toured us around and showed us their sod house, their Cornish-X chicks, and their new tractor.

This trip encouraged the idea of being a part of a community larger than the six of us (John, Kate, Dusty, Cara, Dave, and myself). Kate and John are now participating in a farm with almost 100 other people from the area. Mike and Jill are no longer just faceless farmers - they are people we know and would love to know better! After our trip out to the farm, Dave and I decided to become members of the CSA too. We were inspired.

The life Mike and Jill live at Gaining Ground Farm is the life we aspire to live. On our way home, we stopped by an Italian restaurant and debriefed. Kate talked about her role on the farm. She talked quickly about how she could help with an intern program and how she could organize the community members of our farm. Dusty and Dave talked about their year-round schedule, fixing machines and fences in the chilly winter and breaking ground in the warm summer sun. The rest of us aren't as sure of what we'll be doing. As we learned today, there is a lot that goes into running a farm. No one is absolutely sure what skills will be needed. So, as we draw nearer to the purchase of land and as we learn more about what the farm will need, I am sure each will find his or her place.

Thank you to Gaining Ground Farm!