I’ll be singing in a series of concerts on the Oregon Coast next month.
I’ll be singing in a series of concerts on the Oregon Coast next month.
I’m taking a breather on the Oregon Coast so I can regroup after months of breast cancer treatment, retiring from higher education, and a major move. I’m not really starting over in this location—I’ve lived here part-time for some 19 years. The push to roll in for this current leg took some doing—months of it. I didn’t try to reflect on the state of my life until I was finally settled and feeling cozy. I do have a number of writing projects on my plate, which I quickly unloaded and began to tackle. Yet one morning, I found myself staring at the blank calendar on my wall, only to experience a major moment of, “Now what?”
I was pleased when the opportunity to join the Central Coast Chorale surfaced, as the choir has added some structure to my free-flowing schedule. Then a friend sent me information on That’s My Farmer, a nutrition and wellness program for cancer survivors. This set of workshops is designed by Samaritan Cancer Resource Centers, located in Albany and Corvallis. While That’s My Farmer has been successful in the Willamette Valley for several years, it is new to the central coast.
It didn’t matter that I received my cancer treatment at Moores Cancer Center in San Diego. All cancer survivors are welcome to enroll (the fee is nominal: $20). Upon arrival, I was immediately surprised by this forward-thinking course which pairs Samaritan Cancer Resource Centers with the local Community Supported Agriculture (CSA) movement—in other words, local farmers. Indeed, the best part of the program proved to be the CSA boxes of luscious locally grown organic produce. Every participant received a new box each week—the specific contents were always a surprise, which added a fun element.
One of the reasons I’m taking time off is this gut feeling I have around the need to rethink aspects of my life, particularly diet, exercise, and emotional well-being. Fortunately, the team responsible for That’s My Famer included a registered dietician, health trainers, and a medical social worker. These speakers covered a range of topics pertinent to my concerns: anti-inflammatory diets, fitness, stress reducers, and mindful eating.
I was already in the know about how fresh vegetables might help my body fight cancer; yet I was fascinated to learn about a new nutritional pyramid. The last time I checked, the food pyramid was buttressed by a nutritional group focused on bread, cereal, rice, and pasta (as recommended by the USDA). However, there is a newer food pyramid under discussion, one designed with a foundation of vegetables. Our dietician, Athena Nofziger, specifically extolled the value of heaping half of one’s plate with veggies. She went on to say a quarter should include a protein dish—a quarter can be devoted to starch.
While I did glean plenty of useful information from these weekly presentations, I particularly enjoyed the informal conversations centering on “what people did with their box of produce last week.” During the first session, participants were given an instructive cookbook, Farm-Fresh and Fast: Easy Recipes and Tips for Making the Most of Fresh, Seasonal Foods by FairShare CSA Coalition (2013). In addition, our presenters passed out informational sheets centering on specific vegetables, the “Local Pick of the Week,” if you will.
One participant had never cooked with chard; one didn’t like beets; one had never eaten leeks; one was at a loss for what to do with a fresh fennel bulb. We were all charged with coming up with creative ways to incorporate this healthy fresh stuff into our meals. The discussions resulting from our homework proved to be though-provoking, because attendees really did roll up their sleeves and experiment with ways to break out of old patterns. For example, one woman made a chocolate cake using her beets as a key ingredient. Several others expressed enthusiasm over the fresh pesto they whipped up. A lot of soups were concocted—salads, too.
For my part, I enjoyed moving away from my usual cooking ruts, which in my old life often included not cooking at all (AKA going out for a meal). I actually like to cook, but not when my days are crazy-busy. This slower-paced “schedule” has afforded me time for leisurely tinkering in the kitchen. I didn’t want all of that good food to go to waste, so I ended up eating way more vegetables than I usually do.
OK, I’m not sure if I’ll ultimately change my dietary habits for good. I’m bound to get back into the fray at some point and live a more stressful life, which means my new diet could easily fall by the wayside. For now, I’d like to continue mulling over fresh organic produce, so I can figure out what to make of it.
My first “arty” movie theater was the Bijou in Eugene, Oregon (officially, Bijou Art Cinemas). I experienced this uncanny space shortly after it opened in 1980—I’d just become a freshman at the University of Oregon. I usually attended the Bijou with new friends, the people I was meeting on campus. We were delighted by the fact that the cinema was housed in an old funeral home. Sitting in that drafty building with Italian Gothic vaulted wood ceilings, one could not help but think of coffins. But that didn’t prevent me from becoming a fan of foreign films. It felt like these movies were hard to come by—like only a lucky few got to view them, because they weren’t being shown all over town. It was particularly satisfying to describe one of these flicks to someone who’d missed it. You’ve just got to see… You knew they’d probably never get the chance.
I continued to covet quirky movies houses after I moved to Seattle, and then later, San Diego. By then such theaters were being called independents. Only larger cities and college towns seemed to offer them, not to mention the independent movies they screened. It was sad to watch some of these theaters eventually close as people began forgoing cinemas in favor of home-viewing.
I must admit, I enjoy binge watching as much as anyone else, but I still manage to make my way to the movies when I’m in the mood to get out of the house. I’ve got my fingers crossed Americans will continue to support their movie theaters, even the larger chains. While the home-viewing experience has improved dramatically, it can’t always match the grandeur of the big screen. Some films are just better up there.
Last winter I discovered The Minor Theatre in Arcata, California. It originally opened in 1914 and claims to be one of the oldest movie theaters in the country. Needless to say, it’s gone through a number of incarnations. It was once even in danger of becoming a parking lot. These days, the Minor Theatre has been retrofitted to offer extra leg room, not to mention little tables for the enhanced concessions they sell in the lobby: microbrews, wine, pizza, wraps, baked goods, and the usual theater fare, including upscale hot dogs. It was an icy winter night—I was happy as a clam.
Now that I’ve begun my retirement on the Oregon Coast, I expect The Bijou Theatre in Lincoln City (not affiliated with the Bijou in Eugene) to be a welcome respite from the rainy days soon to commence. It’s the only theater in miles offering independent films on a regular basis. It is also an old theater—it opened in 1937 as the Lakeside Theatre—that has been retrofitted and brought up-to-date, though it has plenty of arty touches. The women’s bathroom harkens back to an earlier era of coffee houses, while the cozy lobby showcases movie posters, old and new. All tickets for regular features cost $7.00 (most of the time). The concessions are reasonably priced, too.
I will say the audience is often, well… pretty gray. I’ve been noticing this phenomenon in other audiences—at dance concerts, music performances, and plays. This sea of gray is loud in the little theaters of America’s larger cities, not just places where there are a lot of retirees. Younger people seem to have brushed off live worlds in favor of something else. The strange thing is, this country boasts a lot of worthy, if not prestigious, schools that train people to how to act, dance, sing—play music. And there are plenty of people who still seem to want to learn how to perform. If this graying trend continues, maybe these younger artists will have to settle for the stage that appears on in-home screens.
It’s a clear morning on the central Oregon Coast, the first one in a while. We’re hoping for a similar weather pattern a week from now, when the solar eclipse moves to barrel across the country (in actuality, the planet will turn, like it always does, beneath the eclipse). The spectacle will hit the Oregon Coast first, crossing a section that spans from Waldport to a stretch of coastline above Pacific City.
People around here have been bracing themselves. Roads, parks, and area establishments are already overrun with extra tourists. Nightmare traffic is being predicted for next weekend (these tales are mildly reminiscent of predictions I once heeded when Y2K was looming). I’m hoping to avoid a traffic jam on Highway 101 by making it into the area of totality the night before the moon blocks our morning light. On the Oregon Coast, lots of people have been fretting about fog or low clouds getting in the way of the whole show. Today, however, the weather forecast for Newport on August 21 reveals a happy sun. Let’s hope this icon remains nice and yellow.
On Sunday night, I’ll be attending a slumber party consisting of three women who don’t want to drive on the day of the eclipse. In the morning, we plan to have breakfast with friends of the hostess of this said party, so we can all view the eclipse from their eastward facing back deck. Sounds like as good a plan as any.
Normally, I would be back at work by now, kicking off the new semester at Cuyamaca College, in El Cajon, California. I’ve just become a full-time writer (a.k.a. retiree). It’s strange to consider my former coworkers, the ones still living in my old routine. It’s even stranger to think about my own schedule, the unknowns before me. Writing is one of my reasons for this recent passage. And I have been writing most days. I’m particularly happy with two submissions that were born of intensity only a significant amount of time could have brought about.
I’ve also got a number of short stories going, some poems, plus the first draft of a novel that should keep me grappling a while. Yet my works-in-progress pretty much recount worlds I encountered as a working woman. Indeed, my work life has proven to be fodder for much of what I have to say, in my fiction, anyway. Now that I have so much free time, I’m wondering where new material will come from. While my surroundings are gorgeous, the pace of life here is slow. Certainly, my imagination will continue to reach back to earlier times for nuggets that will help me round out this story or that poem. But what about current vicissitudes? Yes, I will spend time with a tribe of people who volunteer, work on their health, travel, and natter in coffee houses. I’ve already joined the Central Coast Chorale. I’m not suggesting there won’t be stories in these dimensions, but I’ve just released a big chunk of me.
I’ve been thinking a lot about how my days in higher education kept my self-esteem whole. I had my place on a fine team—we were accomplishing something. I was continually learning new technologies. I worked at developing my teaching style. I enjoyed the college culture—the camaraderie I experienced with passionate educators. I don’t regret my decision to retire, but I do feel the need to remake the fabric of my life so that I actually have something to say.
I will note, the solar eclipse has already made its way into one of my short stories. While my character has decided to walk some eight miles along the beach to Waldport, in order to get into the area of totality, she still doesn’t know what this event will mean for her life. Hopefully her creator will come up with something after she experiences the little gathering on the back deck of the home of these folks she hasn’t yet met, the ones living in Newport.
Update (8/21/17) Newport, Oregon, comes through!
Choosing the right storage unit has made me feel a bit like Goldilocks. My preferred facility recommends a 10 x 20 for the contents of a three-bedroom house. Yet my three-bedroom home doesn’t contain all the stuff a typical one might have. I’m getting rid of some furniture (though I do have lots of books in the garage). I suspect I can get away with a storage unit perfect for the contents inside a two-bedroom apartment. That said, several storage sizes appear to work for this purpose. It all depends on how many business records I have—how much sports equipment, electronics, extra boxes, appliances, and gardening supplies.
I was happy to discover several online videos meant to help people visualize how various storage unit sizes would work for different piles of things. Still, doubt keeps pricking me when I least expect it. I go over the range of spaces in my mind. I think about all of my stuff. I just can’t figure out which dimensions will work the best. I’m afraid my storage unit will be too small and end up frustrating my movers. Or it will be too big, thus becoming a money drain.
I’ve thought about getting rid of excess stuff. Minimalism is all the rage right now, and I’ve been finding the concept more appealing. If I’m not mistaken, minimalism used to be called Simple Living – before that, “The Good Life,” free of the fetters of consumerism. I always feel warm and fuzzy when I hear people espousing the benefits of this sort of lifestyle. But since I decided to start a new chapter on the fly, I feel the need to hedge my bets. I’m not quite ready to get rid of things that might lighten my load. I might need them down the road (writing projects come to mind, camping trips, a budding resolve over a crucial exercise regimen).
Besides, I’ll probably come back and grab a bunch of this stuff in six months. If my storage unit ends up containing enough room for me to throw down a mattress, I can always move everything into a smaller one. Surely a few volunteers would be willing to help me haul my stuff from one unit to another. If not, I can always hire an extra set of hands (I think there is a company in town that goes by this very name).
There are other moving issues that keep me up at night. Will I get my new address to everyone who needs it? Do I still have all of my “second keys” (PO Box, etc.)? Will I remember to cart my Mini Box back to Cox? Have I kept the necessary moving records for my accountant? Am I storing something I’m really going to need later? I’m packing for my new life. Yet I’m also packing for a vacation in Italy. This is my gift to myself for surviving cancer treatment and making it to retirement. Last April—before I started chemotherapy—I made a point of renewing my passport with the hope that I would be using it as soon as I became cancer-free. This intention has held firm—I am now scheduled to spend time overseas. I packed my bags for Italy first, because I didn’t want to store something that should be in my suitcase.
For the record, I’ve already blown this last one. My REI travel towel now rests somewhere in a pile of boxes stored in one closet. As most of my things are already in boxes, I’m not going to go through them now. I’ll have to buy another towel before I hit the road (another thing to remember as I prepare the house for its next occupants).
I suspect my obsession over storage is really about something else. Have I chosen a life that will end up just right? Or did I just discard one that should have been left intact? As the days barrel toward my departure from San Diego, burgeoning conviction over the rightness of my plans reassures me. My gut is not waffling. And if this new life really isn’t just right, one major change can always lead to another. Goldilocks did try out three sets of furniture after all.
My poem, “Sound Garden,” has just been published in Along the Shore: Poems by the Sea.
I’ve been trying to get to some of my favorite places before I leave the San Diego area in a few months. When I first arrived, I remember struggling with what I viewed as the lack getaways—my definition of them, anyway. I was used to taking a scenic drive to some small town where it was more relaxed and probably quaint.
During my childhood in Davis, my family sought out Northern California destinations, such as Mendocino, Napa, Point Reyes Station, Willits, Grass Valley, Nevada City, Truckee, and Downieville. Some years later, I ended up in Ashland, Oregon, where I ultimately graduated from high school. Ashland is one of those weekend destinations. Still, we made our way to other Oregon towns, including Jacksonville, Butte Falls, Brookings, and Gold Beach. Mount Shasta City in California was also an alluring retreat in the region.
I moved to Eugene to become a Duck and stayed a while. There, the Oregon Coast was my favorite weekend jaunt—Florence, Yachats, Newport, and Lincoln City. Bend was always worth the trip, as was Sisters. After I landed my first professional library position in Seattle, I fell in love with Bainbridge Island, Snoqualmie, Langley, Port Townsend, Anacortes, Friday Harbor, Deer Harbor, Lopez Island, Ellensburg, La Conner, and Leavenworth. Of course, Victoria, BC, was always a treat.
San Diego proved to be another situation altogether. I immediately found the Southern California sprawl overwhelming—not to mention the freeways. Hopping in the car and getting on the road felt daunting, and it wasn’t long before I began to feel hemmed in. The trip to Julian for pie and some mining town ambience was the one exception. I did come to love the various drives passing through Julian, drives that often swerved into Borrego Springs. Yet it took a while before I discovered other places. Idyllwild and Joshua Tree finally grabbed my heart, as did the Laguna Mountain Recreation Area. I stayed in Mount Baldy once. Somewhere along the line, I added Catalina Island to my list.
It takes some work to get there from San Diego—several fast freeways and a ferry ride. My maiden voyage departed from Long Beach on the Catalina Express, which also leaves from Dana Point and San Pedro. More recently, I’ve been departing from Newport Beach on the Catalina Flyer, which is particularly convenient for visitors from San Diego (though this ferry only runs once a day and does not have year-round service). The first time I called the Flyer for reservations, one of their attendants urged me not to miss the Bloody Marys sold on board. I didn’t imbibe that time, but I recently broke down to kick off this farewell journey in style. I was a little queasy by the end of the boat ride, but I would probably do it again.
What I like about Catalina Island can be summed up with the word, whimsical. Avalon is a fitting name for the main town. You get on a boat and cross the ocean, often spotting dolphins and whales along the way (dolphins love to frolic in the wake of the ferry). Then you arrive in another dimension, another time and space that truly calls for doing nothing. Of course, there are plenty of playful activities to sample. Take a ride on the Yellow Submarine to get a good look at the fish in the harbor. There’s a glass bottom boat for this same purpose. And a number of crazier rides tempt daring types—parasailing outfits and zip line runs. A person can also take a boat to get in some snorkeling or check out a different side of the island.
The inland bus tours are guided by drivers who have delightful stories to tell—they know the island and its history inside and out. If you go, you’ll most likely end up on an antique bus, circa 1950s. You may even see a bison or two, and then your guide will tell you why. I won’t spoil the fun. I’ll leave it to the visitor to discover this tale, not to mention the numerous other yarns (that’s the beauty of this place, the ongoing storytelling about what has gone down around here). I can offer one hint, though – Zane Grey. I did hear the bison herd has gotten too big at times, so they’ve sent some back to South Dakota to live with the Lakota Indians.
Zane Grey, aside, the island’s history is fodder for writers looking for a great backdrop. I’ve certainly been known to contemplate the possibility of a longer writing retreat in a cute vacation cottage. All of these cheerful vintage homes beg the imagination to consider who may have lived here and why. The people get around on golf carts, though smart cars are becoming increasingly popular. On one bus tour, I learned “autoettes” are the only vehicles residents are allowed to own, unless they happen to be on the waiting list for the limited number of full-size cars permitted on these streets. The list hasn’t moved in twenty years. As an FYI, visitors can rent golf carts for their own excursions.
Of course, Hollywood hasn’t ignored the place, old Hollywood, anyway. Today’s representatives of tinsel town seem to have moved on to other domains. Yet the former heyday of movie stars long dead, their interaction with the island, is evident. Those looking for an overview of area history – including Hollywood vignettes – should not miss the updated Catalina Island Museum, recently relocated from the historic Casino to a fine new building.
During my visit to the museum, I was excited to stumble upon a marvelous exhibit by a figure who moved in the background of my Seattle Days, the famous glassblower artist, Dale Chihuly. I quickly learned it is the museum’s first exhibit featuring an artist of his stature. The pieces on display are perfect for a locale bordering a marine preserve. I was most drawn to the “Seaforms” room, housing individual pieces that evoke sea plants and creatures. I probably could have viewed these creations in the Puget Sound region years ago, as Chihuly created the display in 1983, five years before I arrived there. His much newer Mille Fiori (2016) demands a long look, as well. Also on display are “Coastal Blue and Cloud White Baskets,” “Blue Ridge Chandelier,” “Aureolin Yellow Spire Chandelier,” “Red Reeds,” and “Sea Blue and Green Tower.” (This show closes on December 11, 2017.)
One of the museum’s permanent exhibits propels visitors through the island’s various eras, starting with its indigenous beginnings, and not all of these accounts are whimsical. I was appalled to discover the story of a weird so-called archeologist who once lived and worked on the island, Dr. Ralph Glidden. To say he didn’t know how to respect old bones is an understatement. He dug up several hundred Indian skeletons in the Channel Islands, and then displayed them in a manner that could only be branded undignified. While his Catalina Museum of Island Indians has been defunct since 1950, his handling of human remains continues to make even the least conscientious people uncomfortable. The Catalina Island Museum is now making a lesson out of this chapter of the island’s history, raising awareness around the lackadaisical treatment traditionally afforded ancient burial grounds in America.
History buffs should also consider a tour of the Casino Ballroom, as the guide will conjure the big band era, how people dressed to the nines before getting on a steamer ship departing from the mainland for an evening of elegant dancing. (You can view a number of photos of these ships, not to mention their passengers, in the Catalina Island Museum.) There’s a stunning movie theater beneath this ballroom—the Avalon Theatre—with a domed ceiling showing off art deco style murals by John Gabriel Beckman. Get there early enough on a Friday or Saturday evening, and you will be treated to live pipe organ music before your talkie starts. The stately Page pipe organ once accompanied the silent films that were screened there.
The island may sound high falutin, but it is actually down-to-earth, meeting my requirements for the quaint getaway. While all of these touristy perks are fun, I like to walk around, or sit somewhere. Then I walk around again, until it is time to eat somewhere. And then all I can do is sit somewhere else, because there are so many charming views to lull the mind. As I compose this from a white wicker chair on my hotel porch, the morning air feels silky. In a few hours, I plan to head to the Descanso Beach Club Restaurant for lunch, where I’ll sit at a table and watch people play in the water. Maybe I’ll rent a kayak for a few hours.