tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-178358342024-03-06T22:55:07.668-08:00Astoria PhotografpixMusings of an Astoria, Oregon, digital photographer living at the edge of the earth in the Pacific Northwest.<br>
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Disclaimer: This blog contains and represents my own personal thoughts and opinions. I do not represent any one, or anything else. Period.Elledahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17703662154034411481noreply@blogger.comBlogger91125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17835834.post-29029689844563211892012-05-04T18:12:00.000-07:002012-05-04T18:13:13.455-07:00Some Still Don't Get It<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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First, the bad news.</div>
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Some North Coast Merchants are just never going to smarten up. Hasn't anyone told them there's an Internet out there?</div>
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Once again, I did my damndest to "shop local." I had a small everyday electrical part - a three-pronged rocker switch, as I found out later - that had shorted out and needed to be replaced. It's not an unusual, or even uncommon, item. </div>
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I went from pillar to post, schlepping to several places around Astoria and Warrenton. Nobody had it, and no one offered to order it for me. I didn't ask them to, but I was surprised no one even thought to offer.</div>
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Anyway, I finally found a place that had something close, but it had two prongs instead of three, and was told that I would have to figure out which wire went to which prong. I explained it was a snap-in switch, and there were no wires involved. It's plug-in-and-go kinda thing.</div>
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No, thanks, I wanted the right part. The guy explained that if I couldn't find one, I could come back for that one, and it would cost $11.95.</div>
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In total frustration, and knowing nothing about electrical parts, I finally gave up and went to the Internet. It took me an hour to find the right thing (it was an "I don't know what to call this damn thing" issue), but find it, I did.</div>
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The part is $1.99. Each. So I ordered four of them, and with shipping, my grand total was $11.91.</div>
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Once again, it goes to show, most local merchants are just plain clueless. What the hell are they going to do when their aging-out non-computer-friendly Internet-ignorant customer base goes to that great showroom in the sky? </div>
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And now, the good news.</div>
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As always, I'm enthralled with Columbia Fruit and Produce, who not only have great prices and wonderful fresh goodies, they are even on Facebook, and they regularly post the specials of the week. Now that's forward thinking. I'm a big fan. Bravo!</div>
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A little while ago, the heater/air conditioner switch on my car was down to one working speed. And, the tailpipe was leaking after an unfortunate venture to Radar Hill (which also caused a flat tire at the top of the hill, but that's another saga for another day). </div>
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In fear of getting flayed by a local merchant, I was hesitant to take the car anywhere in the area for repairs. But I finally gave in and took it to Putnam Pro Lube in Warrenton for an estimate. I sat in the waiting room gritting my teeth.</div>
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I thought I was hearing things when I was told it would be $100 to fix both. The tailpipe welding was no big deal, but the heater part was a computer chip. I was delighted, and happily coughed up the dough. Thank you Putnam Pro Lube!</div>
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I'd sure like to see more merchants around here like these two.</div>Elledahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17703662154034411481noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17835834.post-32808352642006670752012-03-10T12:03:00.001-08:002012-03-11T16:01:20.390-07:00They Just Don't Get It<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwJ8TbFdTQBlk3WRrdwTE5vkr6n4BfMcAXKwaADjY2a5wTaP1ORqLa3MyrB7DJ35-SddMYuo5emuQmWY4OdXCoPc7P3NQCa-SCXJWTTAHYbahdrjFDUtEHHGZMmiihJtBRurh2/s1600/173051.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="136" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwJ8TbFdTQBlk3WRrdwTE5vkr6n4BfMcAXKwaADjY2a5wTaP1ORqLa3MyrB7DJ35-SddMYuo5emuQmWY4OdXCoPc7P3NQCa-SCXJWTTAHYbahdrjFDUtEHHGZMmiihJtBRurh2/s320/173051.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">There are two words several North Coast merchants/restaurant owners apparently have never heard of: discretionary income. For those who appear to be clueless, a simple explanation is: Whatever money the consumer (your potential customer) has left over to have fun with after buying food and gas and paying bills and taxes. In other words, not much.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I don't know about anyone else, but I have cut way back on my discretionary spending. I call it my Austerity Program. We don't go out at all any more unless it's on a Friday, Saturday, or Sunday, for one thing. No fast food. No dinners out. Just a few beers (or sodas for him) to get out and socialize. And that's it.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I'm willing to bet I'm not the only one around here who's on an Austerity Program, either.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Yet instead of encouraging us to come back, I've noticed that several places have actually raised their prices on both draft beer (where they already make a several hundred percent profit) and food recently. It's like they're thumbing their noses at their faithful customers, who are finding it ever-harder to be faithful.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Call me pissy, but I strongly feel like I'm being kicked while I'm down. I can barely afford to go to these places anyway (and I'm not talking the chi-chi over-priced tourist traps, either, these are purely blue-collar "local" joints), and they're making me want to just stay home. I'd rather glue myself to my chair than bend over for the price of a draft beer.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">OK, that's the end of my food/beer rant. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Onward to the next one. I needed a certain item, which I'll call a whatsit. I could easily order 2 whatsits online for $3.50, including shipping. But I thought, "What the hell, I'll give a local merchant a shot." Yup, they did, indeed, have a whatsit. For $5 each. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I turned to the salesgirl and said, "Have you ever heard of the Internet?" and explained that while I'd like to shop local, why the hell would I pay more than double to do so? I don't have money to waste. So I went home and bought 10 whatsits for $16 online, including shipping, and was a very happy camper.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">OK, I know the local merchants have to mark up, and have overhead, etc. I get that part. But they should be smart enough to know they have steep competition online, and price accordingly. If there had been a reasonable markup, I might have bought the whatsit downtown. I just don't like being gouged. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Then there are places like Columbia Produce. Hallelujah and pass the artichokes. They are fabulous, and their prices are always fair. Too bad they don't sell beer on tap and whatsits. </div><br />
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<a href="http://www.astoria-photografpix.com/" target="new">Click here to see <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Elleda's</span> photography at the Astoria <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Photografpix</span> web site</a>Elledahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17703662154034411481noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17835834.post-47688316218872842242010-11-24T22:07:00.001-08:002010-11-24T22:52:26.537-08:00A Turnip by Any Other Name ...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2kxYcmyuAwRRvVK26aEedXZdobeUKmrf0mPbUyosS3uKbHXgqOu2z8EiT-tnmWFU9X38qN_5vVpn9BgBEHF94p-NlPpyn-3IJoqwUIhG_RJ4UV-XGPDxJp6tXR_CR-Wt_eKEc/s1600/turnips_at_last.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 306px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2kxYcmyuAwRRvVK26aEedXZdobeUKmrf0mPbUyosS3uKbHXgqOu2z8EiT-tnmWFU9X38qN_5vVpn9BgBEHF94p-NlPpyn-3IJoqwUIhG_RJ4UV-XGPDxJp6tXR_CR-Wt_eKEc/s400/turnips_at_last.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543371605011789538" /></a><div>A turnip by any other name ain't a goddam rutabega. Which I just found out today.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm an old Yankee, and when it comes to Thanksgiving, turnips are a must. Most people don't have a clue how to prepare turnips in an edible fashion. But my mother, who was an earnest Yankee, but only a middling cook, knew her tubers.</div><div><br /></div><div>"It's the sherry. Don't skimp on the sherry," she would say while ardently pouring. And she wasn't referring to that crapalacious cooking sherry, either. </div><div><br /></div><div>"And plenty of butter." None of that fake non-dairy good-for-your-heart drek, either.</div><div><br /></div><div>"And don't forget the salt." A heart attack in the making, by current standards.</div><div><br /></div><div>So when I went to Safeway to get the Thanksgiving goodies, I headed for the turnips. But they looked so small. And ridiculously priced, to my total disgust. We're not talking filet mignon, here, though you'd never know it from the price.</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, since the turnips looked so small and anemic, I decided to buy rutabegas instead. They're the same family, blah blah, how different can they be?</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm here to tell you, when I boiled those rutabegas, and mashed them, and added the sherry and butter and salt ... well, it tasted like shit, to be honest. So bitter, so awful, so stomach-twistingly bad.</div><div><br /></div><div>So after giving the rutabegas an indecent burial, I trundled back to Safeway and got some turnips. And boiled them, and mashed them, and drenched them in butter, sherry and salt. Omigod. Bliss. I will never, never, ever make that rutabega mistake again.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now if someone could just tell me where I could buy some bottles of boiled onions so I could make some proper creamed onions, this old Yankee would probably pass out from joy.</div><br /><div><a href="http://www.astoria-photografpix.com/" target="new">Click here to see <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_10" class="blsp-spelling-error">Elleda's</span> photography at the Astoria <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_11" class="blsp-spelling-error">Photografpix</span> web site</a></div>Elledahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17703662154034411481noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17835834.post-47747159933286879022010-09-03T21:33:00.000-07:002010-09-03T22:13:26.198-07:00Walk the Planks<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhERc0H9m1nC55XDOLH1NDZGTTdexuYNf39XpjJf1OYcv3d86Glr_wEjBa0Rh-avO6Bg0lZfFE-FlD2Tpg6hp_LrK8feX6-ngHaT045igTvlVrp5U_mnUTRxWlrQUNx-NuDz6q9/s1600/clancy1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhERc0H9m1nC55XDOLH1NDZGTTdexuYNf39XpjJf1OYcv3d86Glr_wEjBa0Rh-avO6Bg0lZfFE-FlD2Tpg6hp_LrK8feX6-ngHaT045igTvlVrp5U_mnUTRxWlrQUNx-NuDz6q9/s400/clancy1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512912861020940930" /></a><div style="text-align: left;">My dog isn't old, but he isn't young, either, and we love to go for walks - especially out on beaches (particularly Benson Beach). I have an SUV so it's a bit high off the ground, which wasn't an issue until a little while ago.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Suddenly, when we'd go places, I couldn't get him to jump back into the car to go home. Sometimes it would take 1/2 hour or more to coax him in. Eventually, taking him anywhere just became un-doable. I don't know who missed our outings more.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Then Clancy started whining and acting like he was in pain. But he was still eating well, and everything else was normal. Dr. Larry Goza (Omigod, is there a better vet ANYWHERE?) figured out the problem: </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Clancy had herniated disks in the neck and back. No, we didn't do a truckload of X-rays. A cortisone shot, followed by a regimen of pain pills, followed by the equivalent of a non-steroid anti-inflammatory pill once a day seems to have the problem under control.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Clancy was back to his normal self, walking and wagging, and putting on his smile-on-four-legs prance. But he still couldn't get in and out of the SUV.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I scoured the Internet for ramps, etc. Found a great one, but it cost $169. Then I read the reviews, and it won't safely hold a dog that weighs more than 60 pounds. Clancy is a svelte 135 pounds. OK, some don't think he's so svelte.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I kept thinking this is just asinine, there must be an easier (and a hell of a lot cheaper) way to handle this problem. And of course, there was. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">It finally occurred to me to go to City Lumber, find a nice pine plank that was 1/2 inch thick, 12 inches wide and 8-feet long. The guy who waited on me kindly cut the plank in half for me. So for $8, I have a 24" wide ramp that is 4 feet long, once the two planks placed side by side.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The next hurdle was convincing Clancy that he really, really wanted to walk the planks to get in the car. It took a bit of doing, but not much.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">We went for a ride, and Clancy was so delighted to be going somewhere (anywhere), he joyfully barked at the trees. And parked cars. And clouds. And telephone poles. And damn near everything.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Thank you, Dr. Goza and City Lumber. Clancy thanks you, too.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><a href="http://www.astoria-photografpix.com/" target="new">Click here to see <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_10" class="blsp-spelling-error">Elleda's</span> photography at the Astoria <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_11" class="blsp-spelling-error">Photografpix</span> web site</a>Elledahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17703662154034411481noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17835834.post-66580160881437520132010-08-14T21:49:00.000-07:002010-08-14T22:30:07.116-07:00Is It All About the Money?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIP9FDGEzpYt0XqKrgX7h-JRc9fSRj5__3OBJ9p53MBODOWVGLE3KRh-a0dnS3qhlyVLjiy7orNi9_u6w9_jKiZ3zsobRWihwzL6p_EYzDkBf-3lwBxpVNroViSb1GhT_3XNPl/s1600/FiveDollarBill.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 168px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIP9FDGEzpYt0XqKrgX7h-JRc9fSRj5__3OBJ9p53MBODOWVGLE3KRh-a0dnS3qhlyVLjiy7orNi9_u6w9_jKiZ3zsobRWihwzL6p_EYzDkBf-3lwBxpVNroViSb1GhT_3XNPl/s400/FiveDollarBill.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505494657581978594" /></a><div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"></span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIP9FDGEzpYt0XqKrgX7h-JRc9fSRj5__3OBJ9p53MBODOWVGLE3KRh-a0dnS3qhlyVLjiy7orNi9_u6w9_jKiZ3zsobRWihwzL6p_EYzDkBf-3lwBxpVNroViSb1GhT_3XNPl/s1600/FiveDollarBill.jpg"></a><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIP9FDGEzpYt0XqKrgX7h-JRc9fSRj5__3OBJ9p53MBODOWVGLE3KRh-a0dnS3qhlyVLjiy7orNi9_u6w9_jKiZ3zsobRWihwzL6p_EYzDkBf-3lwBxpVNroViSb1GhT_3XNPl/s1600/FiveDollarBill.jpg"></a>Well, I'm still trying to figure out how what was once a great event could go so utterly wrong. I'm talking about the Astoria Regatta.</div><div><br /></div><div>The first year I was in Astoria, 2005, the regatta was held on a single block of Duane Street, right by the Moose Lodge. Everything was all in one place, and the Grand Land Parade marched right through, right in front of my vendor tent, to my granddaughter's utter delight. </div><div><br /></div><div>The atmosphere was cozy, warm and fun. Everybody and their brother turned out to schmooze and enjoy the festivities, and all it all, it was a delightful event. </div><div><br /></div><div>There were even gillnet boat races - apparently for the last time, as I haven't even heard them mentioned, since.</div><div><br /></div><div>The next year, us vendors were fenced in on the old Safeway tarmac, and without telling us, an entrance fee was charged to the non-event. Who's going to pay to come and shop with vendors they know they can visit for free at Sunday Market? </div><div><br /></div><div>I think I was stupid enough to vend there once more after that.</div><div><br /></div><div>This year, I noted there were only a very few vendors. I don't know if it's because none of us artisans and artists were asked, or none wanted to participate.</div><div><br /></div><div>I read on some store window that the admission to Regatta Square would be $2 or a can of food for the food bank. Nope. When my son went with my granddaughter, they charged him $5 to get in - just so she could jump and slide on the inflatable bouncy things for 15 minutes. Sheesh.</div><div><br /></div><div>OK, I understand they need to pay for the fireworks, bands, whatever. But you know what? Charging $5 to enter Regatta Square to drink over-priced beer or let your kid bounce a bit is a total deal-breaker, in my book. </div><div><br /></div><div>And I guess I'm not the only one who feels that way. I drove by at about 8:30 p.m., and the band was playing to a few folks who were sitting there, probably wondering why the hell they paid $5 for the privilege.</div><div><br /></div><div>Don't even get me started on the fireworks. They used to be set off from the Maritime Museum area, where everyone on the North Slope could see them. Then they moved the fireworks to the East Mooring Basin, where only a few can see and enjoy the fun. I didn't even bother to try and see them this year. It was just too damn much trouble - where to park, blah, blah. I used to be able to walk a few blocks for a good view.</div><div><br /></div><div>And it's all a shame. The regatta used to be fun. </div><br /><a href="http://www.astoria-photografpix.com/" target="new">Click here to see <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_10" class="blsp-spelling-error">Elleda's</span> photography at the Astoria <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_11" class="blsp-spelling-error">Photografpix</span> web site</a></div>Elledahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17703662154034411481noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17835834.post-58341787280874588832010-07-24T12:56:00.001-07:002010-07-24T13:29:37.939-07:00Just Plain Stupid<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilGkWTYVqdF9cle7JBWXbbKhnhWntUVpzZrdnLpxzzbcOmftF7oN3UNCfhCWSrusVuWoF5kjC3E3XmuCzVU-PO1zLCrRNV80I59T0aUJbZuMBh5P8jMUWrDmNe6XrEFjb95ZTt/s1600/dunce.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 298px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilGkWTYVqdF9cle7JBWXbbKhnhWntUVpzZrdnLpxzzbcOmftF7oN3UNCfhCWSrusVuWoF5kjC3E3XmuCzVU-PO1zLCrRNV80I59T0aUJbZuMBh5P8jMUWrDmNe6XrEFjb95ZTt/s400/dunce.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497564205196344242" /></a>I shopped at a large North Coast retailer yesterday (you get to guess which one), and bought a pair of shoes. I really, really wanted those shoes. For a change, the price was the same as I would pay for them online.<div><br /></div><div>Then I wanted to buy some peds to go in the shoes. The ones I liked best were thick cotton, three to a pack, $9 a pack. So they're $3 a pair. Doesn't take a brain surgeon, or even me, with my limited math ability, to figure that one out.</div><div><br /></div><div>I wanted two packages of the black ones, but there was only one full package. The other package had two pairs in it instead of three. So I figured, well, I'll just take these up to the register and pay $6 and get the two pairs of peds.</div><div><br /></div><div>I get to the register, explain the situation to the cashier. Nope, he couldn't handle it, had to call a supervisor. She didn't have enough authority to say the deal was OK (for $6 worth of socks??) so he had to call HER supervisor.</div><div><br /></div><div>The chief wookie supervisor handed down her verdict: she'd give me 10% off.</div><div><br /></div><div>Huh? Thirty-three percent of the product, i.e. one whole pair of socks, was missing and she'd give me 10% off?</div><div><br /></div><div>I turned to the lady behind me and said, "Do I have 'STUPID' written on my forehead?" She said "No." </div><div><br /></div><div>I turned to the cashier kid and asked the same question. He just shook his head "No." </div><div><br /></div><div>I was so flummoxed I forgot to tell him where the supervisor could put the socks (I have no doubt they'll fit nicely, probably with room left over), paid for my shoes, and left.</div><div><br /></div><div>What I don't get is this: With people that dense in managerial positions, how the hell has that company ever managed to stay in business? It's downright scary.</div><div><br /></div><a href="http://www.astoria-photografpix.com/" target="new">Click here to see <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_10" class="blsp-spelling-error">Elleda's</span> photography at the Astoria <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_11" class="blsp-spelling-error">Photografpix</span> web site</a>Elledahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17703662154034411481noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17835834.post-85431142033637772812010-07-15T19:55:00.000-07:002010-07-24T13:19:14.826-07:00Pier 11 has No Peer<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh24W-CtWA_3vt5sAr5oCXyIyFThBj1ZZ7A5PLWOqkWHd33jbhq4rQpZj4WQfp7guciaV4U0OejGZM9yaTXdtEAV3cCAyGmElo_XKc5Qg7wv0C4F5cdVsSsax0NdqbEawqcWzEn/s1600/pier11.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 310px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh24W-CtWA_3vt5sAr5oCXyIyFThBj1ZZ7A5PLWOqkWHd33jbhq4rQpZj4WQfp7guciaV4U0OejGZM9yaTXdtEAV3cCAyGmElo_XKc5Qg7wv0C4F5cdVsSsax0NdqbEawqcWzEn/s400/pier11.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494344233520586850" /></a><div>Pier 11, at the bottom of 11th Street in Astoria, Oregon, is a grand place to go.</div><div><br /></div>Yes, Pier 11 has the drink meister, Rich (aka Nacho Biznezz), but you know what else it has? Great, affordable food ... not to mention views to die for while you're noshing.<div><br /></div><div>My son's mother-in-law, Yvonne, came up for her first visit to Astoria in May. We had a wonderful visit, wandering all over the North Coast and Long Beach Peninsula. Her last night in town, we went to Pier 11 and had the prime rib while sitting at one of the riverfront windows. I don't know what was better - the view or the prime rib. And it was a good chunk of beef and yummy- I actually had to take some home, which is rare.</div><div><br /></div><div>Speaking of rare, I'm one of those barbarians who likes beef beyond rare. When I was visiting in Kansas, and tried to explain to the waitress how I wanted my steak cooked, she said, "You mean slap it on the ass and walk it by the stove?" Yes. </div><div><br /></div><div>In June, a long-time close friend, Jasmine, came to visit Astoria for the first time. Of course, we went to Pier 11. This time I had the spinach salad. I don't think I can rave enough about it, so I'll simply say: spinach, bacon, cheese, tomatoes, killer dressing. </div><div><br /></div><div>The artichoke dip is great, too.</div><div><br /></div><div>And shame on me for almost forgetting to mention it, there's a happy hour menu. My other half was gaga over the cheeseburger, and he's a fussy guy when it comes to cheeseburgers.</div><div><br /></div><div>I have only one complaint: butt-buster bar chairs. Let's just say I have ample padding, but even so, it ain't enough. Somebody please have mercy and put some nice, comfy chairs at the bar! </div><div><br /></div><div>Anyone "of a certain age" will know what I mean: a swivel chair with a padded seat, padded back, and a foot rest - all conducive to relaxing and chatting in a good bar with a great view.</div><br /><a href="http://www.astoria-photografpix.com/" target="new">Click here to see <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_10" class="blsp-spelling-error">Elleda's</span> photography at the Astoria <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_11" class="blsp-spelling-error">Photografpix</span> web site</a>Elledahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17703662154034411481noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17835834.post-16963950537015844142010-05-08T09:16:00.001-07:002010-05-08T10:29:59.523-07:00Running Rogue in Astoria<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgotRC5v0jVWEZAMXTF5Rb1db_VQQe-VIDvPq5Tb6lhyb1HbwhJ2y0cX-Ls0xfrVAsKKWRWscbkAaguTNypWheg5OA6DRFOJVB9cL6ck7TrXBuIDMV22PxBtAVpkY0lH16DWMM9/s1600/rogue+elephant.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 306px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgotRC5v0jVWEZAMXTF5Rb1db_VQQe-VIDvPq5Tb6lhyb1HbwhJ2y0cX-Ls0xfrVAsKKWRWscbkAaguTNypWheg5OA6DRFOJVB9cL6ck7TrXBuIDMV22PxBtAVpkY0lH16DWMM9/s400/rogue+elephant.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5468948333364416290" /></a><div>Lately it's occurred to me that Astoria has several organizations that run rogue and do whatever the hell they please because, well, they can. </div><div><br /></div><div>Here are just two examples (yes, there are many more - just think about it):</div><div><br /></div><div>A Rogue Chamber of Commerce:</div><div><br /></div><div>The Astoria-Warrenton Area Chamber of Commerce thinks it's OK to get involved local politics, which is contrary to the charter of any chamber I've ever heard of, and certainly a no-no for U.S. Chamber of Commerce members.</div><div><br /></div><div>Guess what? They don't belong to the U.S. Chamber of Commerce. They don't belong to ANY governing organization, and consequently, do whatever the hell they please, including touting a local politician at a public event. </div><div><br /></div><div>It's bad enough the chamber board thinks they can get involved this way, but what's really galling is they clearly don't give a rat's ass if their members espouse the same causes. They can't even obey their own bylaws (maybe they've changed them by now, so they can do whatever they want - officially). I'm just one artist who won't be joining any time soon.</div><div><br /></div><div>The Rogue County Commission (except Dirk Rohne!):</div><div><br /></div><div>Oh, this is by far the biggest and baddest of the bunch. Since the list of transgressions against the will of the county residents is so long and egregious, I'll just go straight to the most recent topping on the cake: </div><div><br /></div><div>They let Bradwood Landing run up huge debts that the taxpayers will have to absorb, now that Bradwood has gone belly-up and declared bankruptcy, leaving the commissioners holding the bag. I don't even want to think of all the implications of this, because they make the commissioners look like utter fools, on a good day, and that's about the nicest thing that can be said. </div><div><br /></div><div>Let's just say the situation smells. No, it's actually a stench of ... well, I'll let you figure that one out. </div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, at least there is hope for the rogue county commission. </div><div><br /></div><div>Three businesspeople are running for the commission - Scott Lee, Peter Huhtala, and Debra Birkby. I don't think they, or anyone, with even a grain of business sense would have let Bradwood "run a tab." Hell, I think even my 5-year-old granddaughter would have known better. </div><div><br /></div><div>If Huhtala, Lee and Birkby win, I'm damn near certain I'll be able to take the Clatsop County Commission off my "Rogue" list. And I'd be more than happy to do that. </div><br /><a href="http://www.astoria-photografpix.com/" target="new">Click here to see <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_10" class="blsp-spelling-error">Elleda's</span> photography at the Astoria <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_11" class="blsp-spelling-error">Photografpix</span> web site</a>Elledahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17703662154034411481noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17835834.post-84193436347909576442010-02-19T13:25:00.000-08:002010-02-20T10:04:26.578-08:00The Agony of de Feet<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL8jCcY4i187Kiwg8vmyB-CyaamKtrh8Sr_ugUh8fLmh0OQ3ccYy_fFbqB0MWTERQjLg5VGNFrTE4C9QvAzLxIO_PDIksDknlNnYnnh9UuFOcmd9sJc70zrmwSbHCzajvQBa8m/s1600-h/soap.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 316px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5440069518372753762" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL8jCcY4i187Kiwg8vmyB-CyaamKtrh8Sr_ugUh8fLmh0OQ3ccYy_fFbqB0MWTERQjLg5VGNFrTE4C9QvAzLxIO_PDIksDknlNnYnnh9UuFOcmd9sJc70zrmwSbHCzajvQBa8m/s400/soap.jpg" /></a> OK, bear with me, we're about to enter what many might consider to be the Crackpot Zone.<br /><br />A little background: I've been getting agonizing leg/foot cramps in my sleep for years, which entails hopping out of bed and trying to work out the cramp, going back to bed, then hopping out again when the next cramp hits. Between the agony and the hoppng, the whole experience is not conducive to a great night's sleep.<br /><br />I'd pretty much given up, and figured it was just something I'd have to learn to live with, when I saw an article in the Oregonian one Thursday (or whichever day of the week they have the homeopathic columns). Their suggested solution for midnight leg cramps made me laugh out loud, but it stayed with me.<br /><br />Flash forward to the other night. I woke up with a screech when a particularly vicious cramp went over the top of my foot and around one ankle. And I remembered what I read. So I hobbled to the bathroom and grabbed a bar of soap. Yes, soap.<br /><br /><div>The article said to put a bar of soap under the bottom sheet when you have leg cramps at night. So I put the bar of soap under the bottom sheet. The cramps had abated, so I crawled in and put my feet against the bar of soap. </div><div></div><br /><div>A few minutes later, a cramp tried to start, then just stopped. That happened several times, but then nothing. No cramps. This is just totally nuts, I thought. But what the hell, I tried it again the next night, and the next. No cramps.</div><br /><div>So then I decided to look this whole bar of soap/leg cramps up on Snopes. Their evaluation: undetermined. Enough people say it works that apparently there's something to it, but nobody has the faintest idea WHY it works. Frankly, I'm less concerned with the whys than the fact that it DOES work, and apparently you should change the bar of soap every six months or so.</div><br /><div>Snopes said one more thing I thought was interesting: Some people say Dial soap does not work. I'm here to tell you it does.</div><br /><a href="http://www.astoria-photografpix.com/" target="new">Click here to see <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_10" class="blsp-spelling-error">Elleda's</span> photography at the Astoria <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_11" class="blsp-spelling-error">Photografpix</span> web site</a>Elledahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17703662154034411481noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17835834.post-87039649515070597512009-10-27T16:08:00.000-07:002010-02-20T09:56:51.670-08:00Several flew over the cuckoo's nest<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUw7lyw0XQUVb37iu2in6JPQDb3qsoD0bywQHsscd5Cda9l4niGBNZwSltOsuF4muanMmK-FlOq7PtMlO-jQyUjLslgyUG7SfDaf54-I4Dp5MGXdZTwR0hCeNzakbKop4IUnZZ/s1600-h/right-wing-nut.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397420900233615618" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUw7lyw0XQUVb37iu2in6JPQDb3qsoD0bywQHsscd5Cda9l4niGBNZwSltOsuF4muanMmK-FlOq7PtMlO-jQyUjLslgyUG7SfDaf54-I4Dp5MGXdZTwR0hCeNzakbKop4IUnZZ/s400/right-wing-nut.jpg" /></a>Yikes. Some wing nut over at wing nut central, NorthCoastOregon.com, thinks I'm using pseudonyms such as CDG (which stands for what, I wonder?) and posting "LIES" (what lies?) all over the Internet. Like I have the time to bother with such nonsense, much less the inclination.<br /><br />Patrick McGee has been accused of the same silliness. I bet he's as baffled as I am. By the way, Pat, thanks for the kind words in my defense.<br /><br />So here you have it for the record: I'm not CDG. My opinions are right out there in the open, and always have been.<br /><br />I am against LNG for more reasons than are worth articulating yet again, so I'll just re-state one, for the moment: It is simply idiotic to put LNG tanks in an active subduction zone.<br /><br />Three county commissioners need to be recalled before they can do any more damage by pandering to outside interests and ignoring their constituents. That may or may not happen. We'll see about two of them tonight.<br /><br />Once again, for clarity, since some seem to be a bit dense on this particular issue: These are solely my opinions. I do not represent anyone or anything but myself.<br /><br />Wing nuts: Don't bother to post any of your loony, vicious "Anonymous" comments and rants. I won't publish them on my blog - you're not going to get an audience for your hate-mongering here. Go shit in your own cuckoo's nest.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.astoria-photografpix.com/" target="new">Click here to see <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_10" class="blsp-spelling-error">Elleda's</span> photography at the Astoria <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_11" class="blsp-spelling-error">Photografpix</span> web site</a>Elledahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17703662154034411481noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17835834.post-71224782023988309802009-09-05T10:55:00.000-07:002009-09-09T15:28:04.053-07:00Ship of ...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqPjzeMWjs52RxY7ZUuQCLVkRy0bLPorBp3EpMzKI-oyLJOGPEPSxAyWC4JHQfLci4hrYQ7Qh_EY5V_d9KbNljnDrcpQzDSQb8o4WPq-i3ukUgErpLbBrFbdgwPWMmcuo_o3zP/s1600-h/fools+bosch.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378048596099888594" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 368px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqPjzeMWjs52RxY7ZUuQCLVkRy0bLPorBp3EpMzKI-oyLJOGPEPSxAyWC4JHQfLci4hrYQ7Qh_EY5V_d9KbNljnDrcpQzDSQb8o4WPq-i3ukUgErpLbBrFbdgwPWMmcuo_o3zP/s400/fools+bosch.jpg" border="0" /></a> I was away for a week, so I missed the letter to the editor sent by the Astoria-Warrenton Area Chamber of Commerce Board, and the Seaside Chamber Board, against the recall of Commissioners Samuelson, Roberts and Hazen.<br /><br />Nobody says it out loud, it seems, but being <em>against</em> the recall is the same as being <em>for</em> LNG. These commissioners are being recalled because they refuse to listen to the voters who put them in office, and are pushing forward to have LNG terminals built on the Columbia River, which is against the will of the people (as shown in the pipeline referendum).<br /><br />What I can't figure out is: No. 1, why the hell do the Chambers of Commerce think they have the right to try to tell people what to do in regard to local political decisions; and No. 2, are the chamber boards really that stupid, or have they been bought?<br /><br />I mean, aside from the obvious idiocy of putting LNG tanks anywhere near a major subduction zone, LNG on the river would destroy the tourist industry in this area, and Astoria businesses (and members of the chamber) are increasingly dependent on tourism. I suppose Seaside doesn't care, because the LNG tanks won't be visible from there if they are built.<br /><br />I, for one, would like to know which businesses support the chamber boards' stance against the recall, so I can be sure to not shop at their establishments again. And so much for my thoughts of joining the chamber - they don't represent what I want for the future any more than the commissioners under recall do.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.astoria-photografpix.com/" target="new">Click here to see <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Elleda's</span> photography at the Astoria <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Photografpix</span> web site</a>Elledahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17703662154034411481noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17835834.post-73002983009567509182009-07-18T21:23:00.000-07:002009-07-20T20:23:44.196-07:00Sold Down the River<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqlT8B-jcuLChnrNn0FZtCeA7C3go4fRDuuCoj2wbr7dYqhrQz3pir4n_dh3eYWssWvKFAqOS3L_aH_N7cHJZSvZEIHJhf_aU8AHObh_B0HzO-gyjN8CkE-U1r1usGkt1CS9ug/s1600-h/countyseal.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5360022426735511794" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 241px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqlT8B-jcuLChnrNn0FZtCeA7C3go4fRDuuCoj2wbr7dYqhrQz3pir4n_dh3eYWssWvKFAqOS3L_aH_N7cHJZSvZEIHJhf_aU8AHObh_B0HzO-gyjN8CkE-U1r1usGkt1CS9ug/s400/countyseal.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Our Clatsop County Commissioners' move to sell their constituents down the river with the 4-1 decision in favor of NorthernStar's Bradwood Landing LNG project, and a letter about the situation by Ned Heavenrich, inspired Marc Auerbach to create the new, more accurate Clatsop County Seal, above. <br /><br />The dead salmon, dollar signs and "For Sale" sign say it all, but the LNG tanks are a nice touch, too.<br /><br />A pal of mine mentioned that the other day she saw one of the county commissioners recently, at a local restaurant, writing with a Bradwood Landing pen. The commissioner was utterly oblivious to what people would think, and I'd wager my friend wasn't the only one who noticed.<br /><br />Incidents like that, and all of the ex parte conversations witnessed by many ... Gee whizzikers and oh my golly, do you think there's a whole lot more to the county commissioners/NorthernStar connection than meets the eye? Surely I'm not the only one who wonders why there isn't an official, and thorough, investigation.<br /><br />Something smells mighty bad in Clatsop County, and it ain't the fish.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.astoria-photografpix.com/" target="new">Click here to see <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Elleda's</span> photography at the Astoria <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Photografpix</span> web site</a>Elledahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17703662154034411481noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17835834.post-60396733257392938022009-07-08T20:12:00.000-07:002009-07-09T06:15:04.583-07:00Dancing on a String<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR19iie0ob9RdJBcJxpPYOXaq4u8mpYP9z-VDeYnJCkM_snRP3wbBbel8jOwl-_hCmtTsu46_SiUUoAMIEx6El0MHoV_WOq2EjXFh9dCbc0iA3xWKt9YSdJGDu6vvWnJUhuC98/s1600-h/puppet.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 271px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR19iie0ob9RdJBcJxpPYOXaq4u8mpYP9z-VDeYnJCkM_snRP3wbBbel8jOwl-_hCmtTsu46_SiUUoAMIEx6El0MHoV_WOq2EjXFh9dCbc0iA3xWKt9YSdJGDu6vvWnJUhuC98/s400/puppet.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356293795815650578" /></a><br />Just in case you're wondering who's pulling several of the Clatsop County Commissioners' strings:<br /><br />From The Daily Astorian, July 8, 2009, by Cassandra Profita, about today's Clatsop County Commission hearing on NorthernStar's liquefied natural gas project, remanded back to the commission by the Land Use Board of Appeals: <br /><br />"The disagreements reached a crescendo toward the end of the afternoon, when NorthernStar attorney Ed Sullivan told [elected] county commissioners that their job in addressing the LUBA remand was not to do what 'the clappers' told them to do, referring to the [LNG] opponents in the audience. <br /><br />"'Your job is to apply your own plan,' he said. <strong>'You're not here to apply the will of the people</strong>.'"<br /><br />Sure sounds like an terse reminder to the commissioners to continue to ignore the wishes of their constituents, doesn't it?<br /><br /><a href="http://www.astoria-photografpix.com/" target="new">Click here to see <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Elleda's</span> photography at the Astoria <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Photografpix</span> web site</a>Elledahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17703662154034411481noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17835834.post-44493160938358965832009-06-26T21:07:00.001-07:002009-06-26T22:30:57.658-07:00Kitchen Floor Glop<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTOFvl6BNvPcq7s0qSqNF7O6v8Vopb-flNsBjxQ4dmGtvyO0FPIgLbiClctNeYFtoBeMhXF5rnxEjNqpNTgZKI8KQl5k_6BsrjdYOC0nJHAP2RCkRB-Z78irePaaK2IcDOf9S1/s1600-h/stovecastiron.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351854427450474258" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 246px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTOFvl6BNvPcq7s0qSqNF7O6v8Vopb-flNsBjxQ4dmGtvyO0FPIgLbiClctNeYFtoBeMhXF5rnxEjNqpNTgZKI8KQl5k_6BsrjdYOC0nJHAP2RCkRB-Z78irePaaK2IcDOf9S1/s400/stovecastiron.jpg" border="0" /></a> My mother, being a classic old Yankee, didn't go for new-fangled luxuries like gas or electric stoves when I was a child. We lived in the bottom two floors of an old Victorian-era hotel on Long Island Sound (the top two floors were closed off), and the stove was a four-burner cast iron model, very similar to the one pictured above, but black.<br /><br />The stove originally ran off an old coal furnace, which was another cast iron monster lurking in the basement, and was used for burning trash. I don't recall how the stove was heated after being disconnected from the coal furnace, but I do know the stove was on all the time - there was no "off" switch. To cook at a higher heat, you'd remove the rings in a burner, which had four rings you could remove with a little hook tool.<br /><br />Baking required a knowledge of the wind speed and for some bizarre reason, barometric pressure. We had barometers all over the house, so that part was easy to figure out. Wind speed was another matter, usually requiring going out on the back porch, wetting a finger by sticking it in your mouth, and holding it up in the breeze. Needless to say, in the winter time, this was a tricky business. As I recall, baking was best in a southwest wind.<br /><br />Consequently, any kind of baking that required the oven to be a specific temperature for a specific period of time was a head-scratcher. We'd read the directions on the box, check the barometer, go outside for a wind-check, and then decide whether or not to proceed. Some times of year the oven was hotter than others (winter, when the furnace was going), which also had to be factored into the equation. No, we did not have an oven thermometer.<br /><br />So you'd just pour the brownie (or whatever) batter into a pan and wait. After 20 minutes or so, you'd have to get a potholder to open the oven door (it was a cast iron latch), grab a toothpick, and poke whatever it was in the baking pan. And you'd keep poking it every 10 minutes or so until the toothpick came out clean. Worked every time.<br /><br />I learned to cook on that stove, and my first piece de resistance was two eggs, sunny-side up, cooked in an old cast iron frying pan (we had several). My parents were at the neighbors' for cocktails, and for some reason, I just had to try to cook on my own. I think I was about 6.<br /><br />I cooked the eggs, and I was soooo proud of myself. I called my mother and told her what I'd done, and she asked me if I'd eaten the eggs. I said no, I didn't like sunny-side up eggs, I just wanted to see if I could do it. So she had me bring them to her at the cocktail party, and she ate them.<br /><br />Casseroles were easy with an oven like that. I remember one night mother was having a dinner party, which she did often, even with that awful stove, and the casserole was ready. It was very heavy, and in a huge cast iron pan, so I had to help her get this damn thing out of the oven. We dropped it.<br /><br />Everyone was waiting for dinner and seated at the table. We looked at each other over the mess, and both grabbed big spoons at the same time. We scooped it back into the casserole dish, sprinkled new cheese on top, and served it.<br /><br />The guests raved about the casserole and asked my mother for the recipe. She said, "It's called 'Kitchen Floor Glop,' and the recipe is a secret," she said with a smile.<br /><br />She finally got an electric stove in the 1960's. Which, in my opinion, took all the fun out of cooking.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.astoria-photografpix.com/" target="new">Click here to see <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Elleda's</span> photography at the Astoria <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Photografpix</span> web site</a>Elledahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17703662154034411481noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17835834.post-53499868075710723102009-06-12T21:40:00.000-07:002009-06-14T07:26:05.344-07:00Where Old Hippies Go to Die<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipu770Vd_93MTEldB70MZrEfwQOmVStqj3toL-SGO1lGb0ad4BOReVT3_kmuFw8tbHQBDMdMIkYwM_NUEbol6m6DfcHtKeMOsGx5fFygWDm8rNK0AjwXbsjdauC-QE2lyJCu2A/s1600-h/hippies.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5346669506144433666" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 291px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipu770Vd_93MTEldB70MZrEfwQOmVStqj3toL-SGO1lGb0ad4BOReVT3_kmuFw8tbHQBDMdMIkYwM_NUEbol6m6DfcHtKeMOsGx5fFygWDm8rNK0AjwXbsjdauC-QE2lyJCu2A/s400/hippies.jpg" border="0" /></a> I remember, when I was very young, watching this really impossibly idiotic black & white TV show called "Ramar of the Jungle." About the only intriguing part, in my book, was the myth of the mysterious Elephant Graveyard. Old elephants supposedly had an internal radar, and wandered there to die when they knew their time had come. I really believed there was such a place.<br /><br />Many moons and many graveyards later, the time had come to bury my parents. They were staunch old Yankees (although my father was a transplanted Confederate from Kentucky) who died in 1990 within six months of each other at the very respectable ages of 85 and 91.<br /><br />At the time of my mother's death (she went last), I flew back to Connecticut from Los Angeles, where I had been sunstroking my brain for 8 years, to meet with the venerable funeral director, Earl, who was no spring chicken, himself.<br /><br />We exchanged the usual terse New England pleasantries, did our business, then settled in for a proper chat. I don't remember much of the rest of the exchange, but I will forever remember one thing he said about my future demise. "A real Yankee has no damn business being buried in California. You need to be buried on Yankee soil, where you belong."<br /><br />There was no way I was going to go back to New England, for several reasons, the least of which was I had no one to go back to. But what Earl said stuck with me through the years.<br /><br />When I finally got my shit together, as it were, and decided to move to Astoria, Oregon, my friends in L.A. were appalled. One of my best friends, Harry, finally called me on it, and demanded to know why the hell would I even think about leaving L.A. The answer that fell out of my mouth, unbidden and unexpected, was, "I don't want to die here." And that was the bottom line. I just didn't know I had drawn it until that moment.<br /><br />So here I am, five years later, still in Astoria, and still loving it. Today, I was walking my dog on the Riverwalk, and happened to notice at least five other geriatric hippies. They still have their long hair, bandanas, and other badges and accourtrements of our era. My hair won't grow long any more, but I still have my 5 ear-piercings in each ear and I don't remember how many tattoos.<br /><br />And the first thing that came to my mind was "so Astoria must be where old hippes must go to die." Well, I can't think of a better place to live, or die, for that matter. With apologies to Earl, it looks like this old Yankee will stay in Astoria for the duration.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.astoria-photografpix.com/" target="new">Click here to see <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Elleda's</span> photography at the Astoria <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Photografpix</span> web site</a>Elledahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17703662154034411481noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17835834.post-38194892421356585102009-06-03T20:47:00.000-07:002009-06-04T08:06:31.721-07:00Pour it on at Pier 11<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhlfKstMe8YSIxf2dNYhXqQGdCWcGduiPUnLBaO_n5wbfGlPSxloL_p7Ca7kS8PdvdL2o5xRT5B_WBTjE7mXUdgo5OK-QkHrE_rbuX2bKc-z8uL5wlUXEfRq9SZ7wYBoNIqFlZ/s1600-h/cocktail.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343314946384450098" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 272px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhlfKstMe8YSIxf2dNYhXqQGdCWcGduiPUnLBaO_n5wbfGlPSxloL_p7Ca7kS8PdvdL2o5xRT5B_WBTjE7mXUdgo5OK-QkHrE_rbuX2bKc-z8uL5wlUXEfRq9SZ7wYBoNIqFlZ/s400/cocktail.jpg" border="0" /></a>Although I am not actually a fan of the cocktail per se (I'm a beer drinker), I love the art of the pour.<br /><br />Remember Tom Cruise in the movie "Cocktail," tossing glasses and bottles around with great elan and scary coordination? Hell, even a stodgy old fart beer drinker like me, parked at the bar, can appreciate the fun of a good performance.<br /><br /><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGihg73iq9RAd7mFiCDXA0ApQDogKkLROBR_6p-btJUts5niEXdAYRj2kF_GwS_vAr5Fb-qiIGuxO6niPTfuZiykrIWh4D55I_cyoVc4Ijx8xAHYobo7sGtthT1Zm0C6xEmv5q/s1600-h/richcard.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343317855382131954" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 235px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGihg73iq9RAd7mFiCDXA0ApQDogKkLROBR_6p-btJUts5niEXdAYRj2kF_GwS_vAr5Fb-qiIGuxO6niPTfuZiykrIWh4D55I_cyoVc4Ijx8xAHYobo7sGtthT1Zm0C6xEmv5q/s400/richcard.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><br />Rich, aka Nacho Bizznez, who holds forth on KMUN, and used to be at The Schooner on 12th Street, is a cocktail artist <a href="http://www.astoria-photografpix.com/RichTheBartender.pdf">(read about him here)</a>. I do not say this lightly. Not only that, he's a nice guy.<br /><br />So naturally I was horrified when The Schooner put up the announcement on the door that all they would be serving was breakfast.<br /><br />I'm sorry, but who gives a crap about breakfast? Where's the fun? Where's the show? Where's the bartender?<br /><br />He's at Pier 11, at the bottom of 11th Street in Astoria, that's where he is. Hallelujah.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.astoria-photografpix.com/" target="new">Click here to see <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Elleda's</span> photography at the Astoria <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Photografpix</span> web site</a>Elledahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17703662154034411481noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17835834.post-14466931566655964032009-02-11T19:58:00.001-08:002009-02-13T12:37:51.185-08:00When the Phone Rings, Run<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkTLT2GyZQ4oJwQW9ACXZR1ZnsP7gWsHtwiNXqA6oYtQebLy7ajb-m4rVmC-kh2cr9X6dtzwMEGROuJ5PXiyroLi-e8Q9PuTvbu8uTciSVH3Heas1WninjoZttnvfyEI7IdtrM/s1600-h/telephone6_crop.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301761070400115378" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 269px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkTLT2GyZQ4oJwQW9ACXZR1ZnsP7gWsHtwiNXqA6oYtQebLy7ajb-m4rVmC-kh2cr9X6dtzwMEGROuJ5PXiyroLi-e8Q9PuTvbu8uTciSVH3Heas1WninjoZttnvfyEI7IdtrM/s400/telephone6_crop.jpg" border="0" /></a> I was thinking the other day about telephones, and how much they have changed. When I was a child, there were no cell phones, no push buttons, no <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Internet</span> phone service and nobody used local codes like 503.<br /><div></div><br /><div>There were operators who were actually live human beings. If they weren't busy, you could call them and chat, even if you were six years old. You could call information, and someone would even look a number up for you. It was called "directory assistance," and it was free.</div><div></div><br /><div>To call out, you dialed four numbers, not ten. The phones were rotary-dial (does anyone younger than 50 even remember that?). Often neighbors had what were called party lines, which meant you shared a phone line with your neighbors. </div><div></div><br /><div>There was always a ring code, i.e. if the phone rang once, paused and started ringing again it was for one family, and if it rang twice, paused, and started ringing again, it was for the other family on the line. Which meant if you picked up the phone on the wrong ring tone, you might accidentally overhear some really juicy gossip.</div><div></div><br /><div>My father was a pediatrician, so the phone rang all the time. I had to learn at a very tender age how to answer phones and deal with crazed mothers (whose children had put a marble up their noses) who wanted to speak to my father whether he was "on duty" or not.</div><div></div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZB5T4gnWTWNCOeL5_Ek8mE1MjUuteAr4Jl9psV41mPEloPXs97xsntPeyEpq74JEziTmA1QL6N15dcj7KUWLhnIs-fcJjEu3ch9miKaFamRWxg2qBYfH9vH0_gsmH1Mol-t0w/s1600-h/telephone+operator2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301771459172233202" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 294px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZB5T4gnWTWNCOeL5_Ek8mE1MjUuteAr4Jl9psV41mPEloPXs97xsntPeyEpq74JEziTmA1QL6N15dcj7KUWLhnIs-fcJjEu3ch9miKaFamRWxg2qBYfH9vH0_gsmH1Mol-t0w/s400/telephone+operator2.jpg" border="0" /></a> <div>Father and three other doctors formed a little group and would take turns covering emergencies on weekends. I had to know when it was father's weekend off, and to tell crazed mothers to call the "physician's bureau," and give them the number, so they could call the physician on duty.</div><br />The Physician's Bureau was actually a lovely lady who had an old-fashioned switchboard in her apartment, and she would take the messages and call the on duty doctor at home. She was also available for children of doctors (like me) who wanted to chat with a kind and caring adult.<br /><br />Some of my father's patients were too savvy for this arrangement, and would call him directly at home, and to hell with the Physicians Bureau. I was told to be stern and turn them away. It didn't occur to anyone that it might be difficult for a child to disobey one adult (the crazed mother) to appease another adult (my mother, who hated the interruptions on father's free time ... father didn't really care).<br /><br />One particularly persistent mother called during the cocktail hour on one of father's "off" weekends. She was not going to take "no" for an answer, particularly from a child. She told me her two-year old son had swallowed a safety-pin, and she needed to talk to my father immediately. She would not let me hang up, and I was too polite to just do so.<br /><br />My father was about 1/4 of a mile away at a cocktail party. This woman convinced me to get on my bike and go talk to him, and she would just "hang on."<br /><br />Bigod, I got my bicycle, which was one my mother had in 1912 (no, I'm not kidding) and heavier than whatever Atlas had on his shoulders. I struggled up a large hill, and down the other side, ran into the large cocktail party, and found my father.<br /><br />After I finished panting for air, I told him that Mrs. Pain in the Ass was on the phone, at home, holding, and that she needed to know what to do about sonny-boy, who had swallowed a safety pin.<br /><br />My father asked,"Was the safety pin opened or closed?" If it's closed, it's no big deal, and will pass through. If it's open, it can be problematic, indeed.<br /><br />I jumped on my bike and tore back to the house, ran inside, grabbed the phone, and gasped the question. The reply? "I don't know."<br /><br />Back on the bike, back up the hill, back down the hill, back into the mob to find father. Yes, she was still holding on the phone. "She doesn't know," I told him.<br /><br />Perhaps it was my crossed eyes, perhaps it was the fact that I was reeling ... I'll never know, but father took mercy on me. He got into the car and drove home to take the damn call. I followed on my bike. Yes, she was still on the line.<br /><br />I caught hell every which-way that day. For letting a patient bamboozle me into tracking down my father. For disrupting my parents' "social life." For tying up the party line for more than an hour.<br /><br />I should mention that all the hell-catching I got was from my mother. My father was an old-fashioned doctor who thought a doctor should be available at all times for his patients, and yes, he did house calls. Every night after work. And any time there was an emergency.<br /><br />Okay, he probably wasn't the most attentive husband and father, because he was never around, but he was one hell of a doctor, and everyone loved him.<br /><br />But I still don't like telephones.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.astoria-photografpix.com/" target="new">Click here to see <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Elleda's</span> photography at the Astoria <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Photografpix</span> web site</a>Elledahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17703662154034411481noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17835834.post-17525743334513319862009-02-07T10:23:00.000-08:002009-02-07T16:06:19.624-08:00Whole Lotta Shakin' Goin' On<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZjSBrcJVSQJkDu79PjUDUJH7uGEUplNERKi4e4jkZF33JimD1roztJHgGxILWkTnMWSLCGw7eecPkLqPOeJoe61zXtklPupPNyrikgfwmh4unJCCY4tTOjTuP5J3d21ITJ-TI/s1600-h/earthquake1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300129879774575522" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 202px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZjSBrcJVSQJkDu79PjUDUJH7uGEUplNERKi4e4jkZF33JimD1roztJHgGxILWkTnMWSLCGw7eecPkLqPOeJoe61zXtklPupPNyrikgfwmh4unJCCY4tTOjTuP5J3d21ITJ-TI/s400/earthquake1.jpg" border="0" /></a>Anyone who has lived through a major earthquake can tell you how traumatic it is, but they probably can't tell you how long the fear stays with you. Probably because it never really leaves.<br /><br />I went through the magnitude 6.7 Northridge Earthquake Jan. 17, 1994, and lived only 8.5 miles from the epicenter. What a lot of people don't know is that earthquakes are incredibly loud. The noise of what sounded like a gigantic freight train approaching my bedroom at high speed on very bad tracks woke me up seconds before the quake actually hit, and made me sit up straight.<br /><br />The second the quake slammed into the house, I was thrown flat while the house buckled and rolled and the walls shimmied all around me. It was beyond terrifying.<br /><br />When the shaking finally stopped, two of my three dogs were on top of me, and my son was screaming in his room. My son calmed down, and the third dog was found in the kitchen happily snacking on the pot roast and other goodies that had been literally thrown out of the refrigerator onto the floor.<br /><br />Like an idjit, I got into the car as soon as it was daylight and started driving around. The only word I can think of to describe the landscape is "eerie." Everything was unearthly quiet, especially for such a huge city. Stray dogs and cats were running about madly, fences were down, none of the traffic lights worked and naturally, there was a lot of rubble everywhere.<br /><br />What was most disconcerting, though, were the aftershocks, which ranged in magnitudes 6 and below for days and days. Even so, things returned to "normal" rather quickly, but then, L.A. is used to earthquakes, and well prepared for them, and repairs started almost immediately.<br /><br />Everyone was spooked, of course, and for years, every time I got stuck under a freeway overpass on a red light I would break into a sweat, terrified an earthquake might start and I'd be buried in tons of concrete. Post traumatic stress disorder, I guess.<br /><br />Anyway, when I moved to Astoria, I thought, "At last, I'm out of an earthquake zone." Hah! I had never even heard of the Cascadia Subduction Zone, and was in for a very rude awakening. The Cascadia is capable of a rupture that can produce a magnitude 9 earthquake and a 100-feet high tidal wave, which makes the Northridge Quake's shaking seem like the effect of a big truck driving by in comparison.<br /><br />The last time the Cascadia did its dance was Jan. 26, 1700, which we know from records kept by the Japanese of the resulting earthquake and tidal wave there, and from Pacific Northwest Indian legends. But Japan is a long way from the fault zone ... Astoria is less than 100 miles from it.<br /><br />I kept wondering why I couldn't find anything about what happened to Astoria during that 1700 quake. What happened then could tell us more about what might happen here the next time the Cascadia Subduction Zone blows. There was nothing written, which isn't surprising, but the land itself should speak of its history.<br /><br />Finally, in frustration, I wrote to Robert Witter, Regional Coast Geologist in the Oregon Department of Geology & Mineral Industries in Newport and asked. His prompt and thorough reply was:<br /><br />"We don't know exactly what happened in Astoria as a result of the 1700 earthquake and tsunami because there is no written record of the event here in North America. From geologic evidence, native American legends, and geophysical modeling we can make some educated guesses. Damage to the area probably resulted from the following:<br /><br />(1) Strong shaking during the earthquake;<br />(2) Liquefaction of soil causing extensive settlement and lateral spreading along river banks;<br />(3) Landslides triggered by earthquake shaking;<br />(4) Land subsidence (~1 m drop in elevation) caused by earthquake deformation;<br />(5) Tsunami.<br /><br />"A tsunami probably reached Astoria based on computer models that simulate tsunami inundation in the Columbia River. Outcrops along the Lewis and Clark River, west of Astoria, expose thin sand layers that may have been deposited by tsunami currents in 1700.<br /><br />"The easiest maps to get a hold of that show how far a tsunami might reach near Astoria were produced in 1995 to implement building code statutes that restrict development of new buildings in the tsunami inundation zone. The map for Astoria can be found on this page: <a href="http://tinyurl.com/astoria-tsu">http://tinyurl.com/astoria-tsu</a>"<br /><br />He also sent a link to earthquake hazard maps: <a href="http://tinyurl.com/astoria-quake">http://tinyurl.com/astoria-quake</a> (scroll down to IMS-10). Just above IMS-10, you can buy a tsunami hazard map for Astoria (IMS-11).<br /><br />I found an interesting publication about how to survive a tsunami here: <a href="http://pubs.usgs.gov/circ/c1187/">http://pubs.usgs.gov/circ/c1187/</a><br /><br />Yikes. Very scary stuff. Buildings in L.A. are built with the earthquake factor taken into consideration. Not true in Astoria, from the looks of it. So I jumped from the frying pan into the fire earthquake-wise, but oh my, what a beautiful fire it is.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.astoria-photografpix.com/" target="new">Click here to see <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Elleda's</span> photography at the Astoria <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Photografpix</span> web site</a>Elledahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17703662154034411481noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17835834.post-63046835589672330752009-01-22T12:03:00.001-08:002009-01-23T22:35:01.944-08:00A Cat by Any Other Name ...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjdfg5bG3NhGE1hAcLNkJyYYC-O9OQRkMU2KfJwy7_CdvDDOq5wiuQXe53Bq0d7g8S_KFjS6BpLukml7yYEnIEmTlBECt8702RuTZqaQe3P9nVtj6lSuTtfDtK4EF-V5xVWpWN/s1600-h/cat+naughty+2_fixed.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5294744987425086322" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 194px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjdfg5bG3NhGE1hAcLNkJyYYC-O9OQRkMU2KfJwy7_CdvDDOq5wiuQXe53Bq0d7g8S_KFjS6BpLukml7yYEnIEmTlBECt8702RuTZqaQe3P9nVtj6lSuTtfDtK4EF-V5xVWpWN/s400/cat+naughty+2_fixed.jpg" border="0" /></a>I recently rescued a young marmalade-colored tomcat we named Buster (as in ball ...). I thought having him neutered (which I would do anyway) would have the beneficial side-effect of perhaps calming him down. Hah!<br /><br />Buster throws a paw over the shoulder of our elderly Cocker Spaniel, Mackie, and wrestles the totally bewildered dog to the ground. Mackie now flees when he sees Buster. I should clarify ... Mackie waddles for shelter as fast as a very fat spaniel on arthritic legs can.<br /><br />The Butterscotch Blur chases and torments all of the household geriatric female cats (two of whom have now ganged up on him). He unrolls paper towels by the yard, shreds them and drags the remnants around the house. What he does to toilet paper is unspeakable. He tucks pens under carpets. When he's bored, he leaps out in front of us from behind curtains, trying to startle us. It is quite effective, especially on the upstairs landing, at the top of the stairs.<br /><br />The last time I had a young male cat was a decade ago. I had an old dresser that the drawers didn't quit fit into after warping in the Calfornia climate, which is quite unkind to anything wooden. Consequenty, the drawers were always open an inch or so. The kitten tore all of my underwear and socks out of the drawers and tossed them all over the bedroom on a daily basis.<br /><br />When he wasn't engaged in undergarment sorting, he was busy overturning the cats' water and food dispensers and tossing aromatic lumps out of the catbox and sporting with them in batting practice.<br /><br />He was such a frustrating little bugger I kept yelling, "You little shit!" repeatedly at him. His name was actually Banjo, but to this day, he thinks his name is Little Shit, and he will only respond to that.<br /><br />Now that we have a new terrorist in the house, Little Shit prefers to nap on the back of a couch and observe from the sidelines. I swear he is smiling.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.astoria-photografpix.com/" target="new">Click here to see <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Elleda's</span> photography at the Astoria <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Photografpix</span> web site</a>Elledahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17703662154034411481noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17835834.post-46719513684020169652009-01-21T19:39:00.000-08:002009-01-22T06:24:18.975-08:00Heat it Up<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqwFy8B8YOOUB5vzTaG6Lk3yi5LafGyciYsLNTKZ5IvczumKkt0EiOcORM94mt-av6CuqaSJE5Fc6_UFi9-A_A_rkYUgsQcO8p94ya6NEXh4VeCXYpwK6o_S90GceKNsEtLd00/s1600-h/furnace.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5293961057245939218" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 285px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqwFy8B8YOOUB5vzTaG6Lk3yi5LafGyciYsLNTKZ5IvczumKkt0EiOcORM94mt-av6CuqaSJE5Fc6_UFi9-A_A_rkYUgsQcO8p94ya6NEXh4VeCXYpwK6o_S90GceKNsEtLd00/s400/furnace.jpg" border="0" /></a>Recently, I had a friend visiting from Kansas who did nothing but bitterly complain about the cold here. It's cold here? This is Hawaii compared to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">friggin</span>' Kansas.<br /><br />Nonetheless, she was perpetually draped with blankets, layered with sweaters, and surrounded by electric space heaters spewing waves of warmth at her ... yet she continuously took me to task for the house being too cold.<br /><br />Meanwhile, the furnace was set on 70, which heated my Yankee blood to the boiling point. I was seeing dollar signs dancing in my head (I could just see that gas meter pinwheeling along) while I was wearing T-shirts and feeling like I was living in a sauna.<br /><br />The chilly <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">house guest</span> has gone back home, and I am left with an unspeakable heating bill, which means now I have to scrimp more than ever this month. However, I have tried to mitigate the problem in this drafty old uninsulated barn of a house without spending wads of cash.<br /><br />The furnace is back on a sensible 60, and I've put up an inexpensive shower curtain between the front of the house, which is very cold, and the back of the house, which at least retains a bit of heat.<br /><br />So here I sit, in the somewhat heated part of the house, wondering what the next gas bill will bring. On the bright side, I am secure in the fact that if the fridge dies - no sweat. The kitchen is in the back of the house, and easily as cold as a meat locker.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.astoria-photografpix.com/" target="new">Click here to see <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Elleda's</span> photography at the Astoria <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Photografpix</span> web site</a>Elledahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17703662154034411481noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17835834.post-37593980244096757732009-01-19T20:44:00.000-08:002009-01-19T21:10:13.917-08:00Stories from Big Red<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidopH9KbKZu_N6N1GuGtV2MffifaBkgbDX0_0_a-Kz6mlMRfnKF71-T_BKkHuUHVKmLG3TDMhSBENm3v_kOFUjoNCCWj2RSShha7fz_tRDmA-qzdOckCHul3dV5ANqUW6x6ZPX/s1600-h/SM8-366_netloftside_CIMG0522+copy.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5293232607553003842" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 280px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidopH9KbKZu_N6N1GuGtV2MffifaBkgbDX0_0_a-Kz6mlMRfnKF71-T_BKkHuUHVKmLG3TDMhSBENm3v_kOFUjoNCCWj2RSShha7fz_tRDmA-qzdOckCHul3dV5ANqUW6x6ZPX/s400/SM8-366_netloftside_CIMG0522+copy.jpg" border="0" /></a>A few weeks ago, Frank Mahoney contacted me, wanting to use the image above for a video he was producing called "Stories from Big Red" about Royal Nebeker's Net Loft, aka Big Red, which sits out on the Columbia River at the bottom of 31st Street in Astoria. My image was of interest because it shows the building before the lid got blown off in the December 2007 storm.<br /><br />At this point, I should mention that the aforementioned storm had winds reputed to hit 150 mph, yet on the North Coast, it was referred to as a "winter storm" or a "gale." I have never seen such winds in my life, and I was mightily impressed. Being an old Yankee, I had previously thought winds of 60 to 80 mph, which were often during a hurricane, were a big deal. Hah!<br /><br />Anyway, the video, which is an hour long, gives quite a detailed tour of the old cannery, and also shows some concert footage from the Big Red fundraiser last summer.<br /><br />You can see the video here: <a href="http://www.tinyurl.com/bigredvid">Stories from Big Red</a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.astoria-photografpix.com/" target="new">Click here to see <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Elleda's</span> photography at the Astoria <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Photografpix</span> web site</a>Elledahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17703662154034411481noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17835834.post-84840552656713064562009-01-14T19:20:00.000-08:002009-01-15T16:54:39.869-08:00Dead Ducks<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSv2VxikK0Bh6prM_GLN3SGIkDj1zxT5SfZv4hxN3TeRAM6ndFSO-N-GvxEDnKrTuKjQTVZbqwiHZdaTwaNt31uscIYP_YeBSHg0Wzxx-Y0rmGy3yqo2gp2SkYgkuWwC1VeyHx/s1600-h/3b21281r.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5291578226875413090" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 202px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSv2VxikK0Bh6prM_GLN3SGIkDj1zxT5SfZv4hxN3TeRAM6ndFSO-N-GvxEDnKrTuKjQTVZbqwiHZdaTwaNt31uscIYP_YeBSHg0Wzxx-Y0rmGy3yqo2gp2SkYgkuWwC1VeyHx/s400/3b21281r.jpg" border="0" /></a> <div style="TEXT-ALIGN: left">That Noel snow siege we had in Astoria, all wrapped up as a White Christmas present, really got me galloping down Memory Lane.<br /></div><br />When I was a little girl, back on the shoreline of Connecticut, in my little <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">oystering</span>/lobstering village, winter was a very big deal for most of the town's residents. Everything just stopped, period.<br /><br />Except school, of course, and since my mother was always a social butterfly who didn't recognize seasons, I spent more time than ever during the winter with my babysitter, Mrs. Gay, after school and on weekends.<br /><br />Yes, her name really was Mrs. Gay. She lived in an unpainted shingled house that was snuggled against a seam of pink granite that was 50 or 60 feet high and ran east about 150 feet.<br /><br />Mr. Gay was a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">lobsterman</span>, which meant that during the winter he had nothing to do but mainly sit at the kitchen table and weave new nets for his lobster pots, drink copious amounts of beer and swear. I learned to cuss listening to him, and also learned to revere tattoos (yes, I now have several) and Ford trucks.<br /><br />When he wasn't weaving nets and swearing, he and his son, Junior (aka Junie), would take their hunting dog, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Baggott</span>, their guns, and liver-paralyzing amounts of liquor to hunt Long Island ducks, which were highly prized by the rich folks in the area. It was about the only way they could make any money in the winter.<br /><br />One of my less fond memories is of walking up the steep and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">creeky</span> stairs to the porch and being met by brightly colored feathers and rows of dead duck eyes. The hapless foul would be hanging by their feet all around the porch, and especially around the sides of the front door, which opened into the kitchen.<br /><br />One fall, when I was about 8 years old, Old Man Gay and Junie were drinking beer and target shooting in the yard, getting ready for duck-hunting season. The target was set up in front of the wall of granite. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Baggott</span> was watching with great interest, but didn't understand why he didn't have anything to retrieve.<br /><br />I wandered up to them, and was just hanging around, watching. Old Man Gay said, "Hey kid, you think you can shoot this thing?" Well, I had no idea, so I said, "Maybe." He handed me the rifle, showed me how to hold it against my shoulder and aim it at the target they'd set up, and told me to go ahead and pull the trigger.<br /><br />I did, and next thing I knew I was flat on my ass and looking at the sky. Old Man Gay and Junie were slapping their knees and howling with laughter. I would have laughed, too, but I was too startled by the unexpected landing.<br /><br />I think that was the first and only time I heard Mrs. Gay - whose first name was rightfully and fittingly Grace - actually bellow, which she did from the upstairs porch.<br /><br />Needless to say, Old Man Gay and Junie made no more attempts to "teach" me to shoot, and were sternly chastised for their efforts. But I never forgot the lesson, and nobody ever had to worry about me "playing with guns." A bruised backside and aching shoulder, not to mention all those dead ducks, spoke louder than any adult warnings ever could have.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.astoria-photografpix.com/" target="new">Click here to see <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Elleda's</span> photography at the Astoria <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Photografpix</span> web site</a> <p></p>Elledahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17703662154034411481noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17835834.post-9772608709492115572009-01-04T10:35:00.000-08:002009-01-04T14:04:20.734-08:00Let it Snow<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDtLtfEdOwBLLfh3iR6T1LgDvN2YoKMnaA_9sdvUgsM2gSV0u5WYXOjkXUhexf811Y2ubiWvNePVU-07oulYWy14x6MHT3NuCzkfRqLRUqSf7ZCcjVGy6i19k95UU0qH7FJzSI/s1600-h/CIMG2366A+(600+x+450).jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5287509981071040306" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDtLtfEdOwBLLfh3iR6T1LgDvN2YoKMnaA_9sdvUgsM2gSV0u5WYXOjkXUhexf811Y2ubiWvNePVU-07oulYWy14x6MHT3NuCzkfRqLRUqSf7ZCcjVGy6i19k95UU0qH7FJzSI/s400/CIMG2366A+(600+x+450).jpg" border="0" /></a>I guess all those years of dreaming of a White Christmas finally paid off, in a place I never expected it to happen - Astoria.<br /><p>The last snowy Christmas I had was in 1981, back in Connecticut. The winter that year was particularly brutal, for some reason. I always wondered if it was Connecticut's farewell present to me, as that was the last winter I spent there before moving to California, and I remember well thinking I would never be warm again. </p><p>The clothes froze to the bedroom chair, the quilt froze to the bedroom wall I was vainly trying to insulate with it, and the only room with any heat was the kitchen. I felt like Scarlett O'Hara, but my line with fist upraised on an icicle-covered porch (and California <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">dreamin</span>') would have been, "I'll never freeze my ass off again!" </p><p>From there on in, before moving to Astoria, it was California palm trees for Christmas. It's true - be careful what you wish for. I will just say that palm trees don't go well with much besides tree rats and recluse spiders, and especially not with Christmas. Sunny 75 degree weather doesn't go with Christmas, either, so I used to light up the fireplace and set the swamp cooler on stun. But I digress.</p><p>Once I got to Astoria, the locals assured me it never snows in Astoria. But that it used to, long ago. With a heavy sigh, I figured I would never see a white Christmas again. And I reminisced mightily about childhood Christmases in Connecticut, on the shoreline, when Long Island Sound froze over with ice cakes, the Victorian houses on the islands in the sound looked like Christmas cards, and the snow was always at least a foot deep by Christmas.</p><p>Which then led me to think about the best and worst Christmas presents ever. The best was a TV, when I was only 3 (which was sometime during the first <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Pleistocene</span> era, I believe) and my father lugged that damn thing uphill to the house from the driveway. </p><p>I still believed in Santa back then, so I was damn near <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">delirious</span> when I woke up and saw the beloved TV, which at that time, got a total of three stations that ran about 6 hours each per day. It was black & white, of course, and a screen and lots of tubes surrounded by some sort of pressed cardboard. That is the Christmas present I will always remember, and it still makes me smile to think about how I felt that Christmas morning.</p><p>The worst present wasn't the fault of the present, naturally, it was a case of faulty expectations. I was about 6 or so, and this one present under the tree just intrigued me. The shape was interesting, and it was wrapped in many, many layers of tissue paper. It only made a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">thunking</span> rattle when shaken, and I could not for the life of me figure it out. I must have picked it up 20 times a day to shake it, or feel it, or try to puzzle it out. I was aghast to discover that it was a flashlight. To this day, I can almost feel my face falling again when I realized what it was.</p><p>Now, in my dotage, I appreciate the fact that the best Christmas gifts are not of the material kind. This year, it's having my friend Margot here for a month. And a wonderful blizzard on Dec. 20. I was down at Pier 11 doing the Saturday version of the Sunday Market, and looking out at the river with the snow swirling all around, and was tickled to my toenails.</p><p>The icing on the seasonal cake was to wake up Christmas morning and see falling snow out the back window that overlooks the city and river. Oh, I chuckled and giggled with glee, and felt like I was 5 years old again, when I would stand in my long-john pajamas (with the button-down butt flap, of course), staring out the window, waiting for Santa on Christmas Eve.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>Santa arrived this year, at last, and brought lots of snow and a sleigh-full of memories. I'm still smiling.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.astoria-photografpix.com/" target="new">Click here to see <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Elleda's</span> photography at the Astoria <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Photografpix</span> web site</a></p>Elledahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17703662154034411481noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17835834.post-46862418054770683452008-10-10T06:15:00.000-07:002008-10-10T07:12:51.591-07:00Photo Show in Astoria Tonight, Astoria Visual Arts Center<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNIdjkOhf30PAovnynj53-rQe2SODKXnd-HUMwD9OXzBUbY_1vJTc3XeIjpA4n1PgnqxX4t2svVhB_JFya0S9XIqNc-CAZT6NEl1m595-GNl6dxiluWJp-e1NpQtCVWe7OKQlM/s1600-h/SM8-380_moonyafternoon_CIMG0833_use_a+(480+x+600)+copy.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNIdjkOhf30PAovnynj53-rQe2SODKXnd-HUMwD9OXzBUbY_1vJTc3XeIjpA4n1PgnqxX4t2svVhB_JFya0S9XIqNc-CAZT6NEl1m595-GNl6dxiluWJp-e1NpQtCVWe7OKQlM/s400/SM8-380_moonyafternoon_CIMG0833_use_a+(480+x+600)+copy.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5255526402491619570" /></a><br />Above, one of the photos in the show, "Afternoon Moon," <a href="http://www.astoria-photografpix.com/SM-380.htm" target="new">Astoria Photografpix</a><br><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRVPzfsC29iXh4szrf3uzRcH_yCeFFoQYFCynw-b20h6KNlf7TTiLjsrMpFTn3Zcl4leSMvcqX-QZPiBMZzLay4CL2E_lhKP4Z2Tw4I_8R36Ws_n5srXm6gVpHZwaUqvLfG55B/s1600-h/newsletter.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5255513370979286882" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRVPzfsC29iXh4szrf3uzRcH_yCeFFoQYFCynw-b20h6KNlf7TTiLjsrMpFTn3Zcl4leSMvcqX-QZPiBMZzLay4CL2E_lhKP4Z2Tw4I_8R36Ws_n5srXm6gVpHZwaUqvLfG55B/s400/newsletter.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />To see the poster above, click here: <a href="http://www.astoria-photografpix.com/AVA.htm" target="new">AVA Show</a><br /><br />Well, I'm finally biting the bullet and doing a show at the Astoria Visual Arts Center on 11th Street with two other photographers, Gail Lansdown and Rosetta Hurley. <br /><br />Let's just say it's a challenging space to work with, but I think it's an interesting show.<br /><br />The show opens tonight, from 5 to 8 p.m. Drina Daisy restaurant is generously supplying the food refreshments, which will, I'm sure, be yummy.<br /><br />We'll also be open for Second Saturday Arts Night tomorrow night, and Sunday afternoon, too.<br /><br />Hope anyone who can will stop by and say hello!<br /><br /><a href="http://www.astoria-photografpix.com/" target="new">Click here to see <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Elleda's</span> photography at the Astoria <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Photografpix</span> web site</aElledahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17703662154034411481noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17835834.post-90254969253684984172008-08-20T20:57:00.000-07:002008-08-22T06:52:19.197-07:00Dog Days<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI9rK0v0T9mLLR79Pjz3kt3VIwcWWkM4Tf5ckDIPhnSVLNEr49tCUGQnJOQRPQBAOTFleDBv9F-hHim6L8LUVuFCcUWyLofcFPPUq0Ca_wHoOwbVE7aI5mjkqKWUgZBE-hJSD8/s1600-h/IMG_3720.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI9rK0v0T9mLLR79Pjz3kt3VIwcWWkM4Tf5ckDIPhnSVLNEr49tCUGQnJOQRPQBAOTFleDBv9F-hHim6L8LUVuFCcUWyLofcFPPUq0Ca_wHoOwbVE7aI5mjkqKWUgZBE-hJSD8/s400/IMG_3720.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5236817194179791378" /></a>Another reason I was into non-blogging mode for many months was the sudden and inexplicable demise of my beloved wolf-dog, Leo, at the end of March.<br /><br />The photo above was taken in early January, when we went on a long walk on the beach to go see the Iredale Shipwreck once I heard the bones of it were sticking out of the sand again.<br /><br />The photo below was taken a few days before he died, when there was a wonderful snow storm at the end of March. Flowers were blooming under the snow.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp8EQyPojUPAWEXEyzEKchllDDNJFfrBwCqSFv1QAXBmejbVfe534uJB8NMC-Nc029UtW2HoLFFzBg4_IE4xnbv6ezl44jVdy1UpalVDZO0eUw5qkmGOV0VMG1sv2SQ3seq0D3/s1600-h/CIMG1128A.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp8EQyPojUPAWEXEyzEKchllDDNJFfrBwCqSFv1QAXBmejbVfe534uJB8NMC-Nc029UtW2HoLFFzBg4_IE4xnbv6ezl44jVdy1UpalVDZO0eUw5qkmGOV0VMG1sv2SQ3seq0D3/s400/CIMG1128A.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5236819192143848802" /></a>He had never seen snow close-up, so I had an urge to take him out for a walk during the storm. I had a nagging feeling it was a one-time-only experience, and felt compelled to take my camera. I am so glad I did. <br /><br />It was so strange seeing the blooming flowers look so alive under the snow, even as they were dying, especially since a few days later I realized that was the case with Leo, too. <br /><br />When I took him to Dr. Goza, he took a sample of the fluid in Leo's chest. It was full of cancer cells, and already his breathing was labored. With great difficulty I made the decision to end it then and there before things deteriorated into a crisis state, and I stayed with Leo and held him while Dr. Goza did the deed. <br /><br />To say we were devastated would be putting it mildly.<br /><br />However, I've always felt the best way to honor a rescued pet (and Leo was a pound puppy) is to rescue another. So five days later, I rescued a St. Bernard mix, Clancy, from a shelter.<br /><br />Clancy and I are getting used to each other. It's been about four months now, and we're taking long walks all over the place. Leo would approve.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.astoria-photografpix.com/" target="new">Click here to see <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Elleda's</span> photography at the Astoria <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Photografpix</span> web site</a>Elledahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17703662154034411481noreply@blogger.com2