Friday evening we drove south to the Farmers Market. We found it in a new venue, a much larger space than where it used to crowd out a small parking lot and spill into the street. We were somewhat dismayed to learn that this is their third year in the “new” location. How did we miss that? Our favorite stop was the falafel truck, and we stopped going when they retired and Fridays began to seem like a better time to stay home.
The coast is booming, though not [yet] literally.
On Saturday we braved traffic again to head in the opposite direction for the memorial of a man I did not know well at all. I know his wife, a woman who always did her best for students and was kind and patient with me too. Both were generous in their lives, their hearts and actions, personally and in the world. I liked singing and the stories. We attended mostly for the wife’s sake, but it was clear from words spoken, the kindness and humor, that missing the friendship of this man was our loss.
Sunday we again drove south to celebrate another passage. One of our favorite book stores is passing into new hands, allowing new possibilities for the store’s founder. She seems excited, and we wished her well.
I made my fifth batch of jam for the year—funny, since I almost never use it myself—and I bottled 48 ounces of strawberry shrub, which I like well watered down with sparkling soda. It’s a new pleasure for me.
My novel about recovery from grief begins with terrible loss, made stunning because of guilt and self-recrimination, lost opportunities to make wiser choices, to share, express love, and admit failure. My central character manages to move on, though she recognizes that healing is a myth. She finds a new life, just as everyone around her suggests she should.
My mother died a dozen years ago today. I miss her still.
Human attention is drawn to the new, but we feel safety in stability.
Nevermind. Change shifts the ground under our feet, rescues us from safety and complacency. Sometimes when we move on, we have no choice. We stumble, we fall, we wail and resist. Love, passion, need, opportunity. Here it is under our feet.
Fireworks are illegal on Oregon beaches. That has not stopped anyone up to now. When we first moved to my family home forty years ago, we saw only little stuff, legal fireworks. Then in the 80s a neighbor (a trained fireworks person who worked on the Vancouver WA display—then the largest in the nation) would put on a display the night before or after the 4th, and this drew such a large crowd that after a few years he quit. He believed the crowds made his display unsafe. Unfortunately, people had a taste for it, and lately people buy loads of illegal fireworks. Some years it is completely insane, smoke like a war zone, thousands of dollars exploding all up and down the beach. The floating lanterns are the scariest because there is not telling where they will land. Fireworks cause distress to pets and people (especially veterans who served in combat), wild life, and sleep. They leave a nasty litter of chemicals and plastic onshore.
However, so far, this year seems pretty tame. I’ve heard some small firecrackers, the handful of booms the other day, and that’s been it. I hope people are more aware of the fire danger. A couple of acres burned up on the cape a couple of weeks ago. It was likely campers. I’d like to believe that fireworks are losing some of their appeal for many people, and then fire danger is very real. We have had horrific fires in Oregon over the past few years. And California.
The weather is perfect, a hundred yards of sand out in front of our house and low tide at 8:30 for the night of the 4th. If the big guns come out, at least there is plenty of room for them to set things off well away from trees and homes.