Kristy Athens's Blog, page 8

We’re Moving!

This week’s post is short because I’ve been busy finishing up my job at Oregon Humanities and packing! We are loading up our moving van on Sunday and taking off Monday morning for Wallowa County. Check back here next week for the full story.In the meantime, remember to lift with your knees!

Looking south from our new house!

Desk Demolition

“Home improvement” doesn’t always mean building something—sometimes it means tearing something down. In this case, it meant destroying my desk. Or, part of it.

My friend and fellow writer, Lynn Darroch, offered me this desk a few years ago, along with two plywood shelving units that originally came from the phone company in North Bonneville, Washington, a town with an interesting, checkered history.

Ma Bell! The sticker is dated 11-21-47

“Are you sure you want it?” he asked me. “It’s pretty heavy.”

The desk is a behemoth, and I love it. It weighs about a hundred pounds, is nearly three feet deep, and has six legs! I know my trees better than my lumber, so I’m not sure what it’s made of. Oak with a cherry finish? What I do know is that it is solid wood.

Another reason it’s so heavy is that it has an old-fashioned typing table: A cabinet on the right that opens to a flat drawer, which pulls out and then lifts to give you access to your Underwood.

Anyone who has experience with old typewriters knows how heavy they are. People used to build things to last. So what kind of mechanism is strong enough to support that kind of weight? Industrial-grade steel, of course.

Having moved this monster three times, Mike and I were not looking forward to doing it again. I decided that I could eliminate at least twenty pounds if I removed the typing table.

How was the issue. This is no Allen-wrenched ticky-tacky “modern Danish” furniture. The more I investigated, the more futile it seemed. But I ignored the reality and started picking away at it.

I started by unscrewing the hardware from the wood drawer, even though I suspected this would get me nowhere. I managed to remove a couple screws but, sure enough, they were essentially finish work on a much more complicated operation.

Sheared-off screwheads don’t help

The brackets that held the drawer were connected to roller-wheels that ran along tracks. Bolts that needed to be removed were blocked by the sides of the cabinet. Some of this must have been assembled, and then inserted into hardware that had been installed in the cabinet. And then the carpenter locked it all in with a wooden frame around the front of it for the cabinet door.

The raising mechanism was bolstered by four rusted steel springs that sang with tension any time the drawer was moved or the cabinet door closed. These seemed like they needed to go first, and very carefully.

Prying one end off seemed safer than trying to sever. Still, I recognized the hazard of this operation—I donned work gloves and eye protection, replaced my shorts and sandals with pants and shoes, and used the pliers in the toolbox with the longest handles. I got a good hold on the end of the first spring, moved as much of my body away from the cabinet opening as possible, and twisted.

I marveled at violence with which the spring let loose. It reverberated through my bones, threw the pliers, made a wicked zingy snapping sound, and then bobbed around from the top in odd, menacing circles. The second one was a little harder to do simply because I knew what I was in for. Line it up. Brace yourself. Twist. ZZZWANNGGG!!! Got it.

None of this exciting and dangerous operation changed the fact that it was impossible to extract the wood shelf in one piece—I couldn’t get the shelf out without detaching it from the hardware, and I couldn’t get the hardware out without removing the shelf. I was not about to try to pry the front of the desk off.

I saw no alternative but to take the shelf out in pieces. I wanted to cut as close to the hardware as I could to preserve the largest piece of wood. Remember, this was solid oak or whatever—might come in handy for another project down the line. It was too thick for our little trim circular saw, so I pulled out the reciprocating saw instead. This wouldn’t give me as nice of a cut, but I didn’t want to go buy another tool just for this “project.”

Attacking the shelf

I propped up the shelf so it wouldn’t vibrate, and chopped through it. Now I was really committed.

I also needed to cut through the remaining piece of wood, the short way, so that it freed the steel frame to collapse toward the center so I could coax it out. This time, there was no way to prop up the wood. It vibrated like crazy! The noise was formidable. Should have added earplugs to my safety gear. I gritted my teeth and kept on it until I had two cuts. I’m sure the neighbors wondered what I was up to.

The wrestling match wasn’t over—I had to remove a bunch more eighty-year-old screws, cut the lateral support bar, and work the whole thing around the lip on the front of the cabinet. It didn’t want to come out, and I couldn’t blame it. I thought of the man who had built this desk, so long ago. He did a good job.

Extracted steel track and frame with emasculated tension springs

Coda: When I first acquired Lynn’s desk in 2008, after Mike and I finally wrestled it into place and I was replacing its empty drawers, I looked in the chasm that housed the typing table and saw a piece of paper wedged into the very rear of the cabinet. I fished back there with my outstretched fingertips and retrieved it. It was my own business card—the one I had made after moving to Portland in 1995. Lynn had been one of the first people I met, when I attended a meeting of the now-defunct group Northwest Writers. And here was the card I’d given him! I put it back where it was.

Take Me to the Woods

Have you ever noticed that part of the magic of art is timing? A painting or song can resonate with one person and not another, or resonate with someone at age 30 but not 50.

My friend Jon Rombach keeps popping up in this blog. But he keeps being in the middle of a good story! I’m singing his praises this time because, well over a year ago, he gave me a book to read. In fact, he didn’t even give it to me; he gave it to my husband Mike, who was up in Wallowa County for a little creative-time solitude.

The book is We Took to the Woods by Louise Dickinson Rich, published in 1942. I didn’t know anything about this book or its author, and I was in the middle of whatever city things I was doing, and I put it on the shelf.

Mike and I went to visit Jon in April for my birthday, and I had long forgotten about the book at that point. Maybe Jon had too, as he didn’t mention it.

A couple weeks ago, I started packing for our impending move to the same Wallowa County. If we’d known we were going to move there ourselves, we might have chosen a different vacation destination, for variety’s sake. It’s safe to say we are drawn to the area.

In any case, I was packing books and came across this old hardcover. Oh yeah—that book Jon sent my way! Jon is an entertaining writer, as evidenced in his blog, so I should have known any book he recommended would be the same.

Available in paperback these days …

We Took to the Woods was a great read! Rich is sort of a Betty MacDonald (The Egg & I) of the East Coast, but more enthusiastic about living in a remote place and not critical of the shortcomings of her neighbors. (Though, to be fair, Rich went by choice.) She describes a number of activities that serve as entertainment as well as historical record, such as working a cross-cut saw or running logs through a series of dams. She describes how people interact with nature—as participants or as tourists—showing how in the last century nothing has changed but the gear. And she prefers as her winter footwear wool socks under rubber-soled tennis shoes. Total badass.

What I like about her approach is that she neither glorifies rural living nor demonizes it. It is harder than city living; it is worth the effort. Same thing I was going for with Get Your Pitchfork On.

 

I’m glad the right time for me to read this book finally arrived!

Yard Sales for Fun and Profit

Gin-and-tonic season is almost over, and that means so is yard sale season.

I often work on my blog posts on Friday, but this last Friday I spent the entire day sitting in my front yard. Sunbathing? Only indirectly. Since my husband and I are moving at the end of September, I decided to try and purge a few unneeded items in a yard sale.

We didn’t really have that much—we did a major purge four years ago, when we sold our land in Washington. Now, that was a huge sale! How do people always manage to fill the space they have?

A sale has to be a balance between displaying things prominently to attract the drive-bys to stop, and piling things so that people who like to dig feel like they’re finding something special. And don’t skimp on signage. Because we live on a major bike arterial, I relied on people happening upon it more than “professionals” who read the newspaper and Craigslist.

As I discuss in Get Your Pitchfork On!, not everyone who comes to a yard sale has innocent intentions. If you are selling the usual sundry household items and clothing, I don’t think you have anything to worry about. If you’ve got tools and other things that have serious resale value, watch for thieves.

There are two kinds of people—those who think bargaining is a fun game, and those who won’t even ask what something costs if there is no tag on it. The bargainers kind of drive me crazy—I price things to sell, not to make money. I’m already practically giving it away; it’s silly when someone tries to act outraged by the injustice of a pair of pants that cost two dollars.

However, I had the opposite experience in July, when I visited Seaside to give a reading at their library. On my way out of town I stopped at a yard sale, and as soon as I got out of my car I realized this was one of those perpetual sales. Among other telltale signs, there was a long table had about fifteen table lamps on it. No one has fifteen table lamps. The proprietor lives on a major thoroughfare of a major tourist destination in Oregon; it makes sense for her to have a sale every weekend, and to buy things elsewhere to sell at her sale.

That was all well and good—in fact, I love those giant old ‘70s lamps with 3-foot-tall shades on them. There was even a pair with ornate golden feet and green glass globes at the base. I looked at the tags–$25! Each! This lady was nuts. The shades were period, but a liability. They didn’t match and weren’t in very good shape. One even sagged off its metal armature.

I’m not usually much of a bargainer, but I wanted those lamps. And I was not about to drop fifty bucks on them. They were not family heirlooms; she probably got them at a sale in one of the tiny farm towns inland.

I stewed over it while I considered the rest of the sale: a bunch of ceramics, probably made by a friend. Videos. Sports equipment. Not bad stuff, all in all. I found a ceramic pitcher that I really liked ($12) and a brand-new hunter’s cap with drop-down ear flaps ($8).

“Here’s the deal,” I said to her. I’m usually not a bargainer! But I wanted those lamps. And I was telling the truth, which helped. “I would like to buy these two things, and those two lamps. But I have $40 in cash. If you want to take $40, I’ll buy them.”

“There’s an ATM in town,” she said. “And I’ll be here tomorrow.” She had these sales every weekend, remember.

“I’m headed out of town,” I said. I let her consider in silence for a minute.

“It’s up to you,” I said, and held the two twenties toward her. She looked at me, and she looked at the lamps.

“Okay,” she said.

I was very proud of myself as we crammed these giant lamps into the back seat of my car. The damaged lampshade came completely off as she worked one in, but I didn’t say anything. I had bargained!

I have already packed these fantastic lamps into a moving box, but I promise to post a photo of them on the Get Your Pitchfork On Facebook page once we’re in Wallowa County and settled in. Stay tuned!

Sane Health Care

Yesterday I planned to write today’s blog post, but instead I spent hours filling out an online survey for health care coverage. I am leaving my job in September in order to move to Wallowa County, Oregon, where my husband is now working. However, his job doesn’t provide health insurance, so we have to buy some.

We intend to take advantage of Oregon’s new health insurance (Cover Oregon), but it won’t kick in until January. So, I’m applying for a cheaper plan than my current employer provides (which I could elect to continue out-of-pocket), so we don’t spend quite so much on premiums for three months. This private company shall remain nameless, because I’m sure I’d have the same complaints regardless.

Filling in the application took forever! Not only do they want the basics (age, weight, etc.) there is a huge list of pre-existing conditions, when they’ve been treated, and what prescriptions were assigned. So much for privacy.

I don’t know about you, but I go to the doctor as little as possible and try to erase it from my memory as soon as I leave. I hate walking into any health care facility—I don’t care how tranquil they’ve attempted to make the waiting room. And how to dredge up prescriptions from five years ago? I did the best I could.

Then came the statements of exclusion. They spent way more time telling me what they wouldn’t cover than what they would. The list is impressive.

I went to the Health Care Marketplace website to get some background on the system going into effect January 1. These are just some of the practices the government is shutting down:

Being denied coverage, charged more, or having certain kinds of care limited or excluded if you have a pre-existing condition.
Women being charged more than men.
Plans excluding essential health benefits.

When I needed to buy health insurance in 2006, I had a more colorful five-year record—a couple surgeries and things. I figured the insurance would be more expensive—I had no idea they could choose not to offer it to me at all! But they sure did. “Too big of a financial risk,” the representative said as she showed me the door. If I got strep throat or wanted a wellness exam, tough.

If this same situation occurred in 2014, not only would I have coverage but my premium would be based on my income, so I could even afford it!

Bring on the new plans, I say. There are some things that should not be profit-driven, in my opinion, and basic-level health care is one of them.

Moth Invasion!

Well, that might be a bit of an exaggeration.

In light of our impending move to Wallowa County, I have been scouring the house for things we no longer want or need for a yard sale. In the kitchen, I considered jars of wheat flour, corn meal and grits. I had written on the jars in Sharpie marker, which sticks to the glass really well and then comes off equally well, when it’s time to wash it, with the green scrubby part of a sponge.

I looked at those jars and realized I had filled and labeled them at the farm. So their contents were, at least, four years old. Dear god.

Meanwhile, I looked at bags of rice and beans that were not in jars. As I’ve documented in this blog, I’ve been ignoring the kitchen pretty much completely since we moved back to Portland. My husband has always been the main cook, but I’ve canned, made soup and baked some. And I’m sort of obsessive-compulsive about organizing the dry goods. At least, I used to be.

I could see that I’d been neglecting my duties here. There was no reason to keep four-year-old flour. Not that it had gone “bad” per se, but any flavor and nutritional value it once had would have faded by now. And here were these poor other dry goods, much fresher, languishing in their plastic bags.

I poured the rice into a jar, and as I did I watched a dark thing slide through. Unhulled rice? I stopped pouring, and the dark rice wiggled and—flew away! A pantry moth! There were moths in the rice! I realized that I had killed one the previous week and not thought anything of it. I should have known better. Because the moths lay eggs once they find their way in, there was nothing to do but compost the whole bag (if I had chickens, they would have gotten Rice with Protein Surprise).

It wouldn’t hold still for a photo …

Never store dry goods in the original packaging once you’ve opened it. You can tie it with a twist tie. You can wrap a rubber band around it a hundred times. Those moths will find a way in. I used to have “fashion” canisters that were square with rigid, plastic gaskets under the lids. Not good enough—moths found whatever tiny gaps were there.

I’ve never had to launch a full campaign against them, as described on this website. Removing the main food source has always sufficed (once, it was the dog food). My preferred storage is a large canning jar with a screw top or a rubber gasket and latch.

No

Yes

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You do need to keep the rims of the jars clean, as the moths can get under the jar rings and eat any residual grain, even lay eggs there if undisturbed for a period of time. Airtight storage also extends the longevity of your ingredients. But not four years!

Spring Planting Update

You may recall that I decided to dip my toe back into the gardening water this spring. I thought I would give a quick update on the results.

Parsley

I started a lot of seeds intending to raise two plants to maturity. It’s always hard to decide which seedlings to pinch off; I look for the weakest stems and try to favor one closest to the middle of the pot. I now have two plants; one in a big clay pot so I can take it with me when we move, and one in the ground. Because the soil of our rental home isn’t very good, even though I did plant it with some fertilizer, the one in the pot is doing better than the one in the ground.

I picked a bunch to dry; I like to shake dried parsley on my eggs in the morning (i.e. I am too lazy to go pick some and chop it up!)

Basil

Western Oregon has been unusually warm and dry this year, perfect for growing basil! Alas, I neglected these seedlings a bit too much for their taste, and then put them in this not-great soil, so they are alive but not thriving.

I got four leaves off the other day—made a yummy lunch with tomato and herbed mozzarella balls

Lettuce

This is one of the heartiest strains of lettuce I’ve ever seen! The soil didn’t seem to bother it one bit, and since it’s been so dry the slug damage was minimal. With our warm weather I expected this lettuce to bolt months ago. It finally did, but only after providing many fresh salads.

I am leaving this to bolt so I can harvest the seeds

The dill did not stand up to the poor soil quality and pressure from neighboring flowers. Sorry, dill—not your fault!

There you have it. Wallowa County, Oregon, where we’re moving, is 4,000 feet above sea level, so I’m not sure what can be grown up there. I will give a full report next spring!

Walking Home From the Tavern

I’ve decided: Taverns are meant to be walked to.

Friday night, I went to a local public house to see some friends play music. Rather than drive or even ride my bike, I decided to walk. I highly recommend this. Thirty-seven blocks is a bit further than I would usually walk to get someplace, but then I travel a similar distance when I’m on a Walk for Fitness. On the way to the Jade Lounge, the sun was still up. Families cavorted in a park; bikers rode by; dogs barked at passersby. This particular route revealed a classic urban disparity: Walking down Yamhill near Sunnyside Park, I passed three down-on-their luck gentlemen trading stories and some kind of paper-bagged hooch on the steps of an abandoned entryway.

“Heeelllloooo,” one crooned as I passed. I made a mental note to take a different route on the way home and, turning a corner, was suddenly swept up in the hipster-mania of Belmont. Outfits. Facial hair. Shoes. Rushing past me to see and be seen. I was invisible, which suited me just fine.

A few blocks away, I entered Laurelhurst, one of Southeast Portland’s oldest and most expensive neighborhoods. The streets break from the regular grid layout, providing curved borders for immaculate lawns and landscaping that augment hulking early 20th-century estates. A crew of workers remained at 7 p.m., diligently mowing and clipping.

But the magic of walking to the bar isn’t the trip there—it’s the trip home. In contrast to the earlier bustle of the city, the street was dark and peaceful when I quit the Jade. This time I decided to go straight down Ankeny to 42nd. As I passed Laurelhurst Park, I heard voices and figured there were enough people for it to be safe for a lone pedestrian like myself. It appeared that a “movie in the park” night was breaking up; parents carried blankets, picnic baskets and drowsy children toward the edges of the park. I enjoyed the towering firs and cedars as I passed through.

Across all the thoroughfares and back in the neighborhood grid, I enjoyed the relative quiet, punctuated by an occasional car or bicycle passing.

Just a couple blocks from a busy arterial, the street is quiet

On one block there were even crickets! This made me look forward even more to living in Wallowa County; I imagined looking up and seeing all the stars, not just the brightest hundred (or, in this case, clouds).

I was propelled from house to house by different scents … bark dust … jasmine in front of this house … roses here. I admired the well-lit porches, with strings of small lights, and not-so-well lit ones, with glaring “safety” lights.

Because I was walking, I had plenty of time to study the features of the homes and gardens I passed. I’d never noticed, for example, the amazing porch that wrapped all the way around a house on the bike lane because on my bike I’m always watching for traffic. And in my car I never take this street at all.

While driving home is more dangerous in many ways but maintains your own private comfort bubble, walking does open you up to the possibility of being accosted by other people. I came across only a few dog-walkers, a couple teenagers who were totally oblivious to anyone else, and a young man who asked if I had any “green weed.” This sent me in a reverie: Why green? Is there blue weed? Pink? I’m out of the weed loop these days …

When I finally got home, my head had cleared and I was ready for bed. I think we need a new national agenda: Taverns within walking distance for everyone!

Country Weddings

Of all the wedding ceremonies I’ve attended (including my own), I prefer country weddings. Why? They’re outside with beautiful scenery; people wear practical shoes; there’s usually a bonfire at the end of the night. They’re generally more relaxed and, because of that, so am I. Any time I’m in a situation that feels super high-class, I worry about whether my clothes are fitting right, if I laugh too loudly, or if I might spill something.

Last weekend I attended the wedding of friends Dave and Karla. It was held outside, behind the home of friends Milt and Chris, a gorgeous nearly net-zero home nestled between forest and farmland in Beavercreek, a town southeast of Portland. We arrived a little early in order to set up our tent (another feature of a country wedding—sleeping over!).

“Stay close to the house,” warned Chris, only half-joking. “We saw a cougar last week.”

The mountain lion may have been driven over to their property by the neighbors, who clear-cut their entire parcel earlier in the year. It was one of those deals in which the grandfather died and the descendants cashed in. In any case, we weren’t too worried, but acquiesced and just went a short ways down from the buildings.

This looks like a good spot!

We set up camp and then drove the car back to the front of the property. One of the advantages of having random grass fields is you can mow one at a moment’s notice, et voilá! Parking lot. (Just make sure it’s not your septic drainage field, or the cars may crush your network of pipes.)

Their driveway is gravel but pretty well compacted, so I was able to roll my luggage down to the house to change into my wedding clothes. (You don’t think I put up a tent wearing a party frock, did you?) But it still looks pretty funny. I only had to stop once because I had gravel wedged in my wheel.

From Concourse A to Highway J

For a short while it was pretty hot, but then the sun dipped behind the majestic Douglas firs on the west end of the property, and a breeze came through to sweep away the heat. So much better than being stuck inside with air conditioning!

One risk of country weddings is yellow jackets. I talk about these little buggers quite a bit in Get Your Pitchfork On! In late summer they get cranky—because they’re thirsty! Whenever we had a big party on our land I was sure to set out fresh pheromones in our traps a couple of days in advance, to try to time the slaughter before more moved in.

Milt and Chris happen to have a humanmade water feature running alongside the slope that cradles their house, like a mountain stream. Naturally, this attracted a number of bees and wasps but, surprisingly, no yellow jackets. They were lined up at the edge of the water like miniature, striped cattle. They flew around the heads of those of us standing next to the water. Nary a sting—they were too busy drinking!

It was lovely to spend time with friends among Chris’s garden beds. I poked my fingers in the soil to feel the potatoes that I knew would be resting under the surface. I picked some raspberries and beans, and a juvenile, tender cucumber.

Find the potato! (I covered it back up so it wouldn’t get burned)

Mazel tov, Dave and Karla! May your union be as lush and fruitful as the garden in which you were married.

World War Z and Get Your Pitchfork On!

As those of you who have published books know, publishers spend very little money on promotion these days. The big pubs throw their whole wads at a few select titles, leaving their midlist authors to fend for themselves, and smaller pubs just don’t have the resources—their overhead eats up most of their income. So most authors have to pay for their own travel to events and for publicity campaigns (and shoot their own book trailers and make their own websites and write their own blogs—ahem).

Process Media, the publisher of Get Your Pitchfork On!, has been pretty generous with this book, but it’s no exception to the rule. So last fall I hired a local publicist, Sheepscot Creative, to reach out to web-based magazines and bookstores in markets we’d been unable to crack with previous efforts.

Sheepscot’s Dave and Bethany secured a number of online guest-blogging posts, and I’ve become a regular contributor to HandPicked Nation. One of their ideas regarding bookstores was to play up the pitchfork itself. Pitchforks are sort of synonymous with village mobs and old-world monsters like Frankenstein and zombies. Word on the street was that Brad Pitt was making a zombie movie—why not capitalize on that? So they created this “zombie apocalypse” campaign: check it out here. And share it with your local bookseller!

Prepare for the zombie apocalypse with Get Your Pitchfork On!

That’s why it pays to bring in outside talent—they can come up with ideas you never would! Thanks, Sheepscot.