Quaintness Defined

A hungry customer.
Another hungry customer

Very good wine from Williamette, Oregon, a region which is slowly making the world notice their Columbia River-fed fertile vineyards, which grow Pinot Gris grapes beautifully.
Steamed Mussels

Sirloin Steak
Crab Cakes

The view of the sunset on the drive home after dinner at 9:30 pm.

We discovered the quaintest little restaurant in the back countries of the Pacific Northwest, specifically, on Chuckanut Road. The name of the road on which it sits should be a dead give-away of its remoteness. It is nestled between a mountain and the ocean, tucked away under huge oak trees and hanging vines. It is made completely of wood and done in an A-frame suggestive of Swiss chalets.

It is called Oyster Bar because of their oysters, which are caught off of the surrounding Samish Bay. It has a wrap-around wooden porch over-looking the water. The rest is typical of five-star restaurants: starched, white linen, heavy silver, black-aproned service staff, leather-bound menus, and steep prices.

We all concurred that the restaurant was quaint, gushing and sighing, until we opened the menu and saw the price points.

The food was okay--nothing earth shaking. The winner was their bread, which was crusty outside yet airy and light on the inside. I don't know if this place is worth another visit. How much do you think is the view worth?

The Genius of Frank O. Gehry

The front entrance

Jimi Hendrix' guitar

The back entrance

The Experience Music Project (EMP) is a Seattle outfit dedicated to the exploration of creativity and innovation in popular music. EMP claims to capture and reflect the essence of rock and roll, its roots in jazz, soul, gospel, country, and the blues, as well as rock's influence on hip-hop, punk, and recent genres.

It sits at the foot of the Seattle Space Needle and is housed in a structure designed by the flambouyant architect, Frank Gehry, best known for his work with aluminum sheets, forged and molded to simulate the properties of fabric. He uses them as fabric would be used in pleats, ruffles, drapes, and tucks. One forgets that metal is the medium he uses--an artistic feat of grand proportions. But it is just a bit over-the-top for me. I think his best work is the Dancing Couple Building in Prague where the aluminum sheets effectively duplicate the swish of a woman's skirt in mid-twirl whilst dancing with her partner. The glass windows were also fashioned to show movement in dance for consistency. His choice of retaining the original color of aluminum, which is silver, was crucial for the piece. Had he opted to color the building, it would have cheapened the whole thing.

The EMP seemed Baroque, Rococo, and gypsy all at once--a bit rich for my blood, too Liberace meets Little Richard.

The highlight of this Museum was the sight of Jimi Hendrix' guitar. I worshipped at the altar of a music god while the children kept chanting, "Jimi who, Jimi who?"

Ore-what?

"Oregawhn," as my favorite actor of all time, Al Pacino enunciated it as Lt. Colonel Slade in his first Oscar-winning performance in Scent of a Woman.

I post this from the boonies of Oregon--remote but green and lush and truly gorgeous. We were at Multnomah Falls earlier in the day. Multnomah-what? Once more, with feeling--Multnomah! It is the only waterfall I've seen that drops straight to the ground in a furious gush, plummeting 620 feet from its source on Larch mountain. It is surrounded by moss-hung forests; green, lichen-covered rocks; and wildlife. It is Oregon's most visited outdoor destination and I saw why.

This was home to the Watlala Indians before they were displaced--relocated is what the white man calls it--to the Grande Ronde Indian Reservation in 1855. It is a must-see if and when you find yourself in this part of the world.

Road Trip

Seattle Art Museum Olympic Sculpture Park

"Eagle" by Alexander Calder

"Love and Loss" by Roy Makin
"Eye Benches" by Louise Bourgeois. The backs of the benches are giant all-seeing eyes.
"The Gate"

"Split" by Roxy Paine

"Wake" by Richard Serra

"Typewriter Eraser" by Claes Oldenburg and Coosje van Bruggen

We drove down the Pacific Northwest trail for four days taking the coastal route. It seemed exactly like driving around New England with the winding, narrow roads backed by craggy mountainous terrain on one side and the crashing surf on the other. When it wasn't overcast and the light was good, the views were spectacular.

Our ultimate destination was Portland, Oregon by way of Seattle, Washington to visit museums, sight-see, and shop because Oregon is a shopper's haven--no sales tax on anything. It is one of the most affluent American states. Employment rate is comparatively high; most public transportation is free--imagine that!

Our first stop was the Seattle Art Museum (SAM) Olympic Sculpture Park. It was voted Best Museum Design in 2007. It s Seattle's newest sustainable green space for art and people, originally conceived to camouflage the old railroad tracks underneath. It overlooks the Puget Sound so that the backdrop of the water and the foreground of the garden showcase the gigantic sculptures set outdoors in the best way possible.

The biggest endowment for this outdoor museum came from...you guessed it! Bill Gates, Washington state's richest resident. The award winning designers are Weiss/Manfredi who built the structure as a work of art in itself--the jewel in the entire property.

Out of Control

Cruella de Ville is never ever far behind, this, I keep learning over and over. Just when I relax and think that her personality has finally assumed some form of gentleness, she strikes again. This time, it is at the children--innocent, guileless, defenseless creatures, who are too young to be introduced to the meanness of the world.

She has repeatedly told one of my children to her face that she needs a nose job and should have it done soon. She has told another child four times that braces are needed. When the child voiced out an honest concern, "But I'm afraid to look like a geek," Cruella replied, "But you already look like a rabbit, so what's the difference?" What incredible damage she is able to do to a child's floundering self-image. But no, the kids are very secure in who and what they are.

She fights with them--these six to twelve-year-olds--on a regular basis, She does the dramatic walk-out, the I-won't-sit-beside-you-on-the-dinner-table affront, and name-calling, voice-raising.

I am too shocked to say anything. What drives an adult to the depths of despair as to behave like this? What kind of human being thinks and acts this way? The only answer I can find is that she was abused as a child. I may never know the answer so I may never make sense of this.

As all these incidents unfold, I have chosen to take a back seat and be a spectator and watch how the children react. They do hold their own; behaving two times more of an adult than she could ever be: patient, courteous until the final moment when they absolutely need to vent out to prevent full-blown explosions. I let them snap, crackle, and pop at her in limited, subtle ways, using proper words--we've had to figure out coping mechanisms. I do meticulously process all the incidents with them immediately after to get their moral compass always facing straight up north and to neutralize the anger that is building up against her.

They get extremely exasperated, as I, but I explain that hey, the real world is filled with people like that, it's good practice. Then they retort, "Sure, we know that already, but family?" One of the children holds the best insight, I think: "She's insane," he said, which could just darn well be right.

And Life Keeps Happening

Thank you very much to all of you, well wishers, for the e-mail you sent, the calls, text messages, and the comments from Mike and Mayo on this site and Karla all the way from Melbourne. I am truly touched. It is inspiring to realize that I actually have more than just two friends on this planet ha ha! Again, maraming salamat...

The arm is recovering; the tendon, repaired. But the plastic surgeons, both very young and up front about things, said that although they are optimistic, they offer no guarantees that my arm will regain 100 percent of its normal function. I'll take that; there is no other choice. It sounds so zen, doesn't it, this pronouncement? Well, I didn't really react that way initially. It was a more dramatic, more tearful questioning of what luck has dished out, delivered in elevated decibels.

"But doctor, there are so many things I still want to do like rock climb, learn to fence, and pick up my golf clubs again. I was just way laid by raising the children. You have to get me fixed!"

He answered ever so calmly, "Way laid by raising children? You never stop raising your children." He then turned pensive and added, "Price you pay for the life you choose..."

To which we simultaneously remarked, "Al Pacino, Godfather III." He said yeah; I said yeah and explained further, "he said it to Andy Garcia's Vincent Corleone character in the Corleone house in Sicily." Yeah, yeah. Then we were both quiet.

So life goes on...I'm all stitched up and all seems well. The only problem was they didn't give me pain killers. The first three days post-op are now committed to memory as a blazing inferno of pain--glad that's over with.

Now the focus is on breaking the psychological barrier of not being able to do what I have been doing for all of my adult life. The path of least resistance leads to anger and frustration and it takes much effort to just let go. I've had to learn to do most everything with the left hand: eating, brushing teeth, showering--everything! I feel so dependent, it kills me. I've been so used to doing things by and for myself, quietly, alone in a corner, unseen and undisturbed. I can't even open a pack of splenda for my coffee, it kills! As if that weren't enough, it now takes me double the time to complete the simplest of tasks.

When I look in the mirror now, I spook myself out because I have become a bruha--can't brush my hair properly. My naturally thick eyebrows have merged into a unibrow (maybe I should say wall to wall carpeting to be closer to the truth) because I can't pluck them. But the silver lining is I have a handy excuse for not wearing make-up, which I really detest.

A friend said that the accident was probably heaven's way of giving me a respite from "slaving away" (the intention was sweet but what a cruel thought). See, this is the first time we've travelled without a yaya upon my insistence because I knew that the children were ready to do things on their own. So I've done all the chores with what the children can manage in terms of help--cooking two meals a day, washing dishes and pots and pans after each meal, cleaning bathrooms, doing floors, doing laundry for seven people including hand washing delicates, spray starching and putting stays on shirts, giving Mouse baths, marketing--everything. I had established a system, which ran on a tight schedule and was actually enjoying it. Okay, I bitched every once in a while but the independence was liberating. The down side was I hadn't read a book in two months, hadn't written anything substantial.

I have a new found respect for working mothers who are able to juggle career and family without
hired help because I now know first hand that it is impossible!!! With my arm out of commission, it is each man to himself at home, everyone and everything stinks and the place is a mess.

Still, I am grateful for many many things and look forward to each day hopeful that the arm will keep improving. My faith tells me that there is much more to life than a clean house and fresh-smelling laundry.

The cliche goes "Onto each one's life some rain must fall," this is my tropical depression.

Misfortune Strikes

I figured in a freak accident today. I was retrieving a loaf of bread from deep inside the fridge and had knocked over a bottle of wine that wasn't securely positioned. It dropped and I attempted to catch it but was unsuccessful. It hit the floor, broke, and then bounced off. The jagged half sliced the side of my arm (three inches below the wrist way off to the side) as I crouched to save it.

I knew immediately that it was a bad gash because blood was suddenly all over the place and I saw what had always been underneath my flesh. Let's just say I learned much about human anatomy at that moment. I went to the E.R. and waited for four hours to be treated only to be told that I had severed a tendon and would then have to undergo surgery by a plastic surgeon for tendon reattachment.

They stitched me up temporarily and sent me home. That is why I am able to write this sign off entry. I am scheduled for surgery tomorrow at 8 am. After which my arm will be in a splint for six weeks. I also need to go to therapy to hasten the healing process.

I am not sure how long my right arm will be sidelined. I am scared. I never ever get sick, never catch the flu, not even the sniffles, and am certainly never down with garden variety headaches. The only occasion wherein I turn to medicine is to neutralize a mean hangover and so I am filled with anxiety over the temporary diminished capacity my body has to live with.

Let's please pray together. My best to all of you. Thank you very much and will speak to you soon.

Into the Woods

My little wood sprite!

We went camping over the weekend at Aloutte Lake. Yes, roughing it up for real: no electricity, and sleeping in tents in the forest.

Camping has been one of my favourite things of all time and I had been looking forward to this trip for a whole year. I had taken the children twice before but the last time was five years ago and they hardly remember anything.

We had to set up our own tents. Ours was a Coleman three-bedroom, six-sleeper, which has lasted us years. So if you.'re looking to buy, Coleman is the go-to brand for camping equipment. We used Coleman propane grills to cook and gas lanterns for light. Outhouses served as commodes and public baths a few hundred meters away with freezing cold water were available for wash ups and showers. Our faces stung when we washed with ice cold water and they turned raw and red on the second day. We couldn't feel our hands and tongues and it felt like electricity was shooting into our teeth when we brushed. We built a fire with real firewood and kept it running all day for heat until we went to bed.

I banned all electronic toys so we were left with our imagination and the forest as backdrop to entertain ourselves, so we went on long hikes during the day and gathered around the fire roasting hotdogs and marshmallows and telling stories after sunset. At night, when the entire camp was cloaked in total darkness and only the dancing flames from the bonfire cast magical shadows on the trees and the forest floor, we were transported to a different world--something akin to Hans Christian Andersen's. Bidi mastered the art of chopping wood the primitive way--with a trusty ax. He loved it, by the way--controlled violence was how he described it.

Belli, Pippi, and Mouse loved roasting marshmallows and hotdogs over the fire and I was in heaven because one of our camp mates brought longganisa for breakfast, which is all I need to be a happy camper even in the most primitive of settings--have longganisa, will camp!

Although it was freezing, the scenery was breathtaking so we had the time of our lives. On the ride home I asked the kids, which trip they enjoyed more, the cruise to Alaska or camping in Aloutte Lake. They said camping, unanimously. I had hoped to hear that.