The Agony of de Feet

OK, bear with me, we're about to enter what many might consider to be the Crackpot Zone.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Click here to see Elleda's photography at the Astoria Photografpix web site

Sold Down the River

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.

The dead salmon, dollar signs and "For Sale" sign say it all, but the LNG tanks are a nice touch, too.

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.

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.

Something smells mighty bad in Clatsop County, and it ain't the fish.

Click here to see Elleda's photography at the Astoria Photografpix web site

Kitchen Floor Glop

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

She finally got an electric stove in the 1960's. Which, in my opinion, took all the fun out of cooking.

Click here to see Elleda's photography at the Astoria Photografpix web site

When the Phone Rings, Run

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 Internet phone service and nobody used local codes like 503.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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).

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.

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."

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.

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.

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.

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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

But I still don't like telephones.

Click here to see Elleda's photography at the Astoria Photografpix web site

A Cat by Any Other Name ...

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Click here to see Elleda's photography at the Astoria Photografpix web site

Heat it Up

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 friggin' Kansas.

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.

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.

The chilly house guest 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.

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.

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.

Click here to see Elleda's photography at the Astoria Photografpix web site

Stories from Big Red

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.

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!

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.

You can see the video here: Stories from Big Red

Click here to see Elleda's photography at the Astoria Photografpix web site

Dead Ducks

That Noel snow siege we had in Astoria, all wrapped up as a White Christmas present, really got me galloping down Memory Lane.

When I was a little girl, back on the shoreline of Connecticut, in my little oystering/lobstering village, winter was a very big deal for most of the town's residents. Everything just stopped, period.

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.

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.

Mr. Gay was a lobsterman, 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.

When he wasn't weaving nets and swearing, he and his son, Junior (aka Junie), would take their hunting dog, Baggott, 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.

One of my less fond memories is of walking up the steep and creeky 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.

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. Baggott was watching with great interest, but didn't understand why he didn't have anything to retrieve.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Click here to see Elleda's photography at the Astoria Photografpix web site

Let it Snow

I guess all those years of dreaming of a White Christmas finally paid off, in a place I never expected it to happen - Astoria.

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.

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 dreamin') would have been, "I'll never freeze my ass off again!"

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.

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.

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 Pleistocene era, I believe) and my father lugged that damn thing uphill to the house from the driveway.

I still believed in Santa back then, so I was damn near delirious 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.

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 thunking 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.

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.

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.

Santa arrived this year, at last, and brought lots of snow and a sleigh-full of memories. I'm still smiling.

Click here to see Elleda's photography at the Astoria Photografpix web site

Dog Days

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

To say we were devastated would be putting it mildly.

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.

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.

Click here to see Elleda's photography at the Astoria Photografpix web site

Sunday Marketeering

Ah well, I've been a very bad blogger. I have no excuse except that the approach of the Sunday Market season, then the actual arrival of same, has kept me from pounding the keyboard blog-wise. Been slaving making new images for months, but not doing much else computer-wise except those damn online jigsaw puzzles, which are rapidly becoming some sort of weird addiction.

Sunday Market has been a revelation this year. And I don't mean in a good way. The gas prices have made things unpredictable at best. People who travel to Astoria have spent so much money on gas to get here, and to feed themselves once they arrive, that there is little disposable income left for frivolities like photos. Heavy sigh. It just ain't my year.

And it's getting to be a bummer to be there every Sunday, what with all the empty booth spaces all over the place. It looks like a ghost market. So this will be the summer of passing out business cards. Seems like a hell of a lot of work, emptying the car and setting up the tent and schlepping all that heavy crap under it, but hey, what the hell.

You may ask why I bother. I wish I could say I had a rational answer. I don't. Perhaps it is sheer masochism.

I tried the Grays Harbor Market, a good idea in theory. Yes, indeed, there is a parade of traffic going by on either end of the market, but ... there's no way to stop the traffic, and no place for the cars to park if they actually did decide to stop. Another heavy sigh.

Like Bette Davis said, getting old [and marketeering] ain't for sissies.

Click here to see Elleda's photography at the Astoria Photografpix web site

Ain't They Grand

A new pal of mine, Angel, is an incredibly talented illustrator who lives in Spain. He was asking about houses in Astoria, and was interested in all the bright colors, thinking he might like to draw one. Which made me think, yet again, about how wonderful and quirky the houses here are.

They're fascinating to look at just whizzing by when driving around. But from a walking point of view, they're downright amazing, since you have the time to stop, look, and admire.

Even the decrepit ones are fun, because I immediately go into "if I had a zillion dollars" mode, and think about all the things I would do to fix it up, sparing no expense in the restoration, of course.

Just about everyone I've talked to would love to get their hands on the "other" Flavel house, the bitch empress of "fixer-uppers."Anyway, I was going to walk the dog and take some photos of houses for Angel. But it was raining, and not being fond of dealing with large wet dogs, I drove around in the drizzle, opened the car window and shot photos of interesting and/or colorful houses. Just for the hell of it.

And it was hugely entertaining, even tho some of the photos have visible raindrop splotches on them. The important part of the deal is that this was an exercise in fun, not something I "had" to shoot, so rain splotches don't count.

Anyway, what here's what I came up with on my first foray:
Astoria House Adventure 1

I know, I know, I haven't even begun to scratch the surface as far as interesting houses go here in town. I'm thinking of making it a "mission" to go around taking photos of intriguing and/or colorful houses. Again, just for the hell of it. Might be fun. Today's venture sure was.

Click here to see Elleda's photography at the Astoria Photografpix web site

Mr. Lee

"One, two, three, look at Mr. Lee
Three, four, five, look at him jive"

The Bobettes sang that many years ago, but it keeps bouncing through my head lately.

In today's mail was the postcard pictured above. The No. 1 box gives you three choices: I would support the recall of Richard Lee; I would oppose the recall of Richard Lee; and I am undecided at this time.

The No. 2 box asks the yes or no question: Is there a chance you would change your mind?

It's already postage paid, and suggests that you "Please return immediately" to Hoffman Research Group in Portland. Just try finding them on Google, and you'll send yourself on a merry chase to nowhere. So who the hell are they, really?

The only thing at all about them is a thread of a discussion on BlueOregon: Hoffman Research Group

I expect these people are the same ones responsible for the ugly telemarketing push-polls that have been going on lately, trying to convince people to vote "no" on Lee's recall.

Well, you know what? I'll return the damn card, just to let them know my mind can't be changed. Not that I needed further convincing, but that poll-card was the final blow. It's offensive they would even ask if my mind could be changed.

The recall is soon upon us. When Lee gets recalled, it just might scare the pants off the other three commissioners who kowtow and follow obediently in his wake.

It's probably too much to hope for that the Muddled Three would start thinking about LNG with their heads instead of their asses, and listen to their staff and their constituents, but hope springs eternal.

Click here to see Elleda's photography at the Astoria Photografpix web site

Ferry for Sale

I happened to notice a ferry for sale on ebay. The sale ends today, actually - M.V. Chinook Ferry on Ebay (large file). Only $4.5 million. Geez, spare change.

Anyway, it made me think of how things must have been before the bridge connected Astoria to Washington, and about the ferry that ran from Astoria across the river. I've never been on that particular ferry, more's the pity. But I'm a big fan of ferries in general. I love the ferry from Westport to Cathlamet. And the ferries from Seattle to the outlying islands are grand, too. Tourist's Seattle Ferry Ride

But I think the grandma of all ferries is The Staten Island Ferry in New York. Where else can you get a view of lower Manhattan, cruise by the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island, and get a ferry ride that lasts 25 minutes each way to Staten Island and back, all for free.

When I was a kid, the ride cost a nickel, and I used to go back and forth just for the hell of it every time I went to New York. The last time I was on it was back in the early 1970s, and it cost a quarter. The World Trade Center was under construction, and cranes were sitting 75 stories above Manhattan. I wish I could have seen the completed buildings before they were destroyed.

I also recall a memorable ferry ride to Block Island, Rhode Island, when I was about 6 years old, during which I managed to embarrass my entire family by walking up to a man with a huge beer-belly and asking him if he was pregnant.

The only other thing I remember about that day was a lady taxi driver who smoked cigars and drove us all over Block Island while telling us the local history. My father was delighted. Back then, there was actually a lot of empty space on Block Island, and it hadn't been ruined yet. New York and Boston hadn't discovered it, and it was still a nice, quiet place to go.

There's also the funny little Hadlyme Ferry in Connecticut that crosses the Connecticut River near Gillette's Castle. Gillette was a stage and film actor who specialized in playing Sherlock Holmes.

And of course, there's the Catalina Ferry from San Pedro, California, out to Catalina Island. Not the express service, the good old-fashioned pokey ferry that takes a while to get there - long enough to relax and have a couple of beers. That's one of my all-time favorite ferry rides.

Anyway, back to Astoria. When I saw the ad for the ferry on ebay, I thought how cool it would be to have a ferry here again. I know, it's expensive and impractical, but I'd sure love it. And I bet those tourists everyone's busting ass to attract would love it, too.

Click here to see Elleda's photography at the Astoria Photografpix web site

A Trek up the Coast

Saturday my partner in crime and I decided to do a reconnaissance mission up to Aberdeen, Washington, to check out were the Grays Harbor Street Market will be held. The town ain't pretty, and reminded me of how Naugatuck, Connecticut, used to look in the 1960s, i.e. pretty run down.

Fortunately, pretty ain't what matters in a street market.

We skedaddled out of there pretty fast, and went straight to the Westport (Wash.) Marina. All I can say is, Yikes! It will be condo city in no time. The development is still in its infancy, but the writing is on the wall. Right now, Westport, too, is a little run down, but it's easy to see that in 10 years it will be a polished tourist trap. I was shocked to see there's actually still vacant land near the marina. That, too, will be gone in no time.

Since we were hungry, we decided to check out the Half Moon Bay Restaurant out near the end of the marina. Omigod, you'd have to really try hard to get a worse plate of fish and chips than that one (for $13!).

The meal was like something you'd expect to get served in some landlocked wasteland. The menu purported that this piscene obscenity was cod. The breading tasted like overcooked styrofoam, and the fish was so dry it was damn near dessicated. I think it might have died in 1932, and the resurrection was unsuccessful. However, the ensuing attack on my credit card was successful, more's the pity.

While we were consuming the ill-fated fish, we noticed a helicopter that kept hovering over the jetty, which it did for more than 1/2 hour. We finally saw someone being hoisted aboard, and it took off. I kept wondering why the helicopter looked so familiar. Well, hey, it was our very own Astoria Coast Guard, rescuing some kid who fell on the jetty.

Astoria Coast Guard to the Rescue

After lunch, a little exploring was called for. For me, the lure of the beach is always strong, so we headed down the road to the beach. On the way, in the woods, what did we see but a lighthouse - the Grays Harbor Lighthouse.

Yes, in the woods, what seemed like more than a quarter of a mile inland. It looks a great deal like the North Head Lighthouse, and that's no coincidence; it's designed by the same man.

The lighthouse keepers were there, and even though it was only 10 minutes till closing time, the wife of the team agreed to take me up the very narrow and winding metal stairs to the top.

She knew a lot about the history of the place, and to me, the most interesting part was that the ocean used to be much closer to the lighthouse - only 400 feet away. In this instance, the ocean added land instead of taking it away.

Of course, right near the ocean on this spit of land, some enterprising soul built a huge three-story condo/vacation suites project that is a complete eyesore. Perhaps the sea will get angry at the desecration and reclaim the land.

The view from the top of the lighthouse is spectacular if you can igore the condos and look directly north. You can see all of Grays Harbor and really get a sense of the place. It's a climb well worth taking.

Grays Harbor Light House

All that wandering around included a side trip to Bay Center. It reminded me so much of the way my home town (also an oystering village) looked when I was a child that it was very nostalgic. So much so that it was a little scary.

I was more than ready to head back to Astoria, and I'm looking forward to the Ship Inn's heavenly fish and chips.

Click here to see Elleda's photography at the Astoria Photografpix web site

The Biggest Box

I can already hear screams of horror ... I am about to hold forth on a very unpopular topic around here - WalMart.

Since we're encouraging the big box business over in Warrenton, I'd like to see a WalMart go in. Not even a Super WalMart, just a plain old WalMart. Okay, you can start screaming now.

Oh, I know all the arguments, one being that they pay their employees poorly. Well, nobody tied 'em up and made 'em work there, for heaven's sake. In an area like this one, it could make the difference between having a job and not having one at all. And McDonald's pays just as poorly, if not worse.

The biggest argument is that WalMart puts little stores out of business. Frankly, that's a crock, and most of the time, when people say that, they're referring to what are known as Super WalMarts, which include a grocery store. And even that argument is a crock, since the other big box stores, such as Safeway, have already wiped out the mom & pop grocery stores, for the most part.

As for other merchandise, if you want high quality expensive shoes, pants, whatever, you're not going to go to WalMart, anyway. But if you want the best value for your dollar, and are happy to settle for just good quality school clothes (which they're going to grow out of in a year, anyway), WalMart is the place to go. The clothes aren't fancy, and often aren't very stylish, but they're more than adequate, and functional. Same goes for the shoes.

The only store that would be put out of business in this area would be Fred Meyer, and that would be no great loss. When I first moved up here I needed the usual stuff for the house, including a shower curtain. So I went to Freddie's, and found one I liked with a lighthouse on it. It was $19.99. I thought it was a bit much, but I paid it, and went on my merry way.

Three years later, it needed replacing, and the very same shower curtain was now more than $25 at Freddie's. But by then, I knew where the WalMart is. So I looked at the WalMart shower curtains. I was utterly pissed off to find the very same shower curtain ... identical in fact, down to the manufacturer ... for $9.99. Whoa. Now I keep an ongoing list of things I need at WalMart, and the next time I have to go to Portland, I stop at WalMart in Longview.

At the time of the shower curtain fiasco, I decided to cruise around the store to check the cost of other things I was buying at Freddies. And I was horrified. Freddie's was charging $1-$3 more for almost every single item, same brand, etc. In the clothes department, there was no comparison at all. WalMart clothes and shoes are affordable. Freddie's are not (at least in my opinion).

I'm a photographer. I use a lot of photo frames. If I bought my photo frames at Freddies I'd be in the poor house. WalMart has perfectly good frames for reasonable prices. Can't beat it.

I should also mention that now WalMart only charges $4 for many prescriptions. A pal of mine in Texas is overjoyed, since she's on a lot of prescriptions. I don't have to tell you that for those without medical insurance, and there seem to be a lot of them up here, that would be a lifesaver - and maybe the difference between being able to afford needed meds or doing without.

I could go on and on, but I'll spare you. All I know is that I ain't the only one around here who has to watch every buck they spend, and I'd rather get the most bang for my buck as possible. So I'm all for good old affordable WalMart. Bring it on.

Click here to see Elleda's photography at the Astoria Photografpix web site

Ol' Man Winter

My pal Margot from Kansas was here for most of December, and into a bit of January. Strangely enough, after living through decades of wicked Kansas winters, the entire time she was visiting, she complained about being chilled to the marrow.

She spent a great deal of her time here wrapped in sweaters and blankets, parked by an electric fireplace.

In today's email, after mentioning that not so long ago the temperature hit -20, she said, "I really have cabin fever. Monday the fog was terrible ... the fog never really lifted so I couldn't drive ... It began to snow and rain and sleet Tuesday morning. There was also wind. By this morning my car was buried under three foot drifts. I think the actual snow fall was about a foot. I think I will be able to go to the office tomorrow."

I was brought up in New England, where the temps would often hit -20 in the winter. It ain't no picnic, and we won't even go into what happens to your face and nose when you walk outside when it's that cold.

Oregon winters at the coast sure seem very mild to me. Yet she thinks OUR weather is unspeakable? Go figure.

Click here to see Elleda's photography at the Astoria Photografpix web site

Dreams of Pier 11 - It Could Be So Grand

I've been thinking about the Pier 11 building ever since I posted about the ill-fated John Jacob Waterfront Grill in Astoria getting grilled.

I've spoken to many people around town, and there's one thing we've agreed on, even in currently contentious Astoria ... that one piece of real estate probably has the most potential in town to be a really great gathering place for locals to enjoy good food and drinks and a fabulous view. IF the food and drinks were reasonably priced (i.e. not the cost of a car down payment), and IF the atmosphere was comfortable and welcoming.

In the process, we had lots of fun brainstorming about what the place COULD be like ...

First of all, and this may sound a bit radical, we would have the bar run across the whole back wall so the customers are facing the river. As I recall, there's already a step down to that section of the building.

We'd remove that wall that separates that section (if it's possible structurally) and just leave whatever posts are structurally necessary. That way the area would be open to the rest of the building. And all the booze would be below eye-level on shelves, but lit and visible. And, please God, LOTS of beer taps.

It goes without saying that there must, must, must be comfortable swiveling bar stools, with padding, almost shoulder-high backrests, armrests and footrests! Lord have mercy, that alone would be a revelation in this town of butt-busting bar stools.

We all thought it would be great to have regular restaurant tables and chairs along the east and west sides, next to the windows. And more tables in the middle of the place ... the high ones, with those same lovely comfy bar stools, for diners who don't want to sit at the bar but still want to see the view.

Where the old bar is would make a good spot for the gamblers amongst us. Lord knows, their vices have kept many a bar afloat, and hey, they're going to do it anyway.

One of the problems with the place is that it's too damn big. How about, on the west side, making a dancing area with room for a band?

Of course, the main thing that would make any venture on Pier 11 successful is to have the booze and food prices local-friendly and reasonable. Lots of sandwiches, burgers, reasonable steaks, and of course, fresh seafood. I know I'm gilding the lily here, but I personally would almost kill for a decent salad bar.

Anyone else out there have any thoughts on our "vision" of Pier 11?

So many restaurants around here are victims of backward-thinking, i.e. let's price this shit so high only tourists can afford to come here. It's the locals who are the life blood and who keep establishments going in a seasonal town like this one. Capture the hearts of the locals, the tourists will follow.

Click here to see Elleda's photography at the Astoria Photografpix web site

Beware the Half Moon

When men are young, they go bare-chested and flex their muscles as signs of display to court or attract women, or just for the hell of it. For the most part, if they're in any kind of shape, nobody minds, and they may even be appreciated for their efforts.

However, something bizarre happens to the male when they hit middle age. Some glitch happens in their wiring, maybe. I call it BCDS, otherwise known as Butt Crack Display Syndrome. They can be affected by this syndrome at any time, anywhere, and feel an inexplicable need to bend over or sit down and expose 4" of butt crack.

Today I was at a local tavern, sitting at a table and watching the Super Bowl Game. I'm fibbing. I hate sports. I was actually reading a book while the game droned on. We went there because our pals were there, sig other loves sports and the tavern has a wide-screen TV.

A spaghetti dinner was being served, and the barmaid plopped a plate by me. Distracted by my book, I didn't pay much attention, and started scarfing down the food.

Then, I had the misfortune to look up to get her attention to thank her and ask for another beer. What was I greeted by, with a forkful of spaghetti on my way to my mouth? The butt crack from hell.

This mother must have been a yard wide. It was blaringly white in the otherwise muted light, parked on a bar stool right in front of me. It's not like there was any subtlety, or that you could, perchance, miss it.

Nobody can tell me that the owner of this dermatological billboard didn't notice a very distinct and chilly draft on God's little acre of posterior. I mean, he was wearing a coat and two shirts, plus heavy pants and boots. Yet he made no move to cover up. Who the hell knows, maybe he thought he needed an airing.

He was obviously a victim of BCDS. Which is, apparently, incurable and untreatable, more's the pity.

Click here to see Elleda's photography at the Astoria Photografpix web site

Another Sell-Out?

Geez, just when you think the majority of the Clatsop County Commissioners couldn't possibly do any more damage than they already have, trying to literally sell Clatsop County down the river to the highest LNG bidder ...

Whoa, we have yet another decision looming on the horizon. You gotta give 'em credit ... they just keep 'em coming.

The latest lunacy involves DeLarua Beach, an undeveloped expanse of ocean front property. There are three alternatives: do nothing and keep the land, sell it to the Oregon State Parks and Recreation Department to turn into park land, or go for the gold and sell it to private interests.

The first two alternatives would, of course, protect that pristine section of beach from development and save it for us, and for future generations to enjoy. The third alternative would block off that whole section to everyone but the wealthy elite who could afford to buy and build there. Malibu, anyone?

To quote The Daily Astorian today, "Commissioners Ann Samuelson and Richard Lee said they didn't think the $1.3 million offer from the state matched the value of the property."

Once again, Sam Patrick seems to be the only one who isn't in a greeding-frenzy. He thinks the county should keep the land. Is he the only one who gives a shit about the future of Clatsop County? I'm beginning to think so. And no, I don't know him, and I'm not related to him. Hell, I've never even met him.

Hasn't anyone ever told/taught the wayward commissioners that there are some things that are impossible to place a tangible value on? And just shouldn't be for sale?

If they succeed in selling us out to LNG on the river and/or to private interests at DeLaura Beach, they will leave an embarrassing legacy even their great-great-grandchildren won't be able to live down.

Click here to see Elleda's photography at the Astoria Photografpix web site