Archive for November, 2009

Christmas Trees in the Land of the Doug Fir

Monday, November 30th, 2009

Last year, Adam convinced me that we didn’t need to get a Christmas tree.

We were shuffling between an apartment in West Salem and our current abode in Northeast Salem and were waiting for our moving truck to arrive between December 1 and 10th. It didn’t come until the 18th, and we were unpacking through the New Year.

I’m still holding a grudge.

For even if we had just hung up a branch of greens and strung some popcorn on it, it would have made me feel a little less alone in our new city at the holidays.

This year, I claimed, would be different. This year, I would get my first-ever family-appropriate Christmas tree and heavy its limbs with ornaments. This year, I would have a tree by the beginning of December.

Now I’m sure you’ve seen the trees lining the makeshift tree lots in parking lots all over town by now. They are a decent way to get your hands on a tree.

But the truly Oregonian way is to do it like my friend Jan and her family does it — make a trip out to the Willamette National Forest and cut one down yourself.

This is a legal program run by the U.S. Forest Service. If you don’t include the cost of gas to Detroit, Ore., this tree will also run you a pleasing $5 permit fee and a little back and arm labor.

But I fear my husband’s conspicuous modesty, one of his most darling traits, has won out yet again. For we have decided to accept a dear little throwaway tree from our new Salem friends, who spent the weekend landsculpting their new backyard in a 1950s Salem neighborhood.

Adam picked this tiny Tannenbaum out, repotted him, shaped him as if he were the most prized bonsai, and stuck him in the corner, on top of an antique end table that houses many of my old paperbacks. We strung him with LED bulbs and ornaments I picked up in Germany.  After Christmas, we’re planting him in the yard.

The only drawback of choosing such small shrubbery is that he doesn’t exactly fill the room with the crisp scent of Christmas. But I guess that’s why I picked up that fir-scented candle back in October.

I’m already in love with this tree. We really only needed a little Christmas, right this very minute, and that’s what we’ve got.

Pregnant Pauses in Salem

Tuesday, November 24th, 2009

It’s no secret that I’m pushing nine months pregnant. This isn’t a mommy blog, and thus I haven’t made its readers privy to all of the regular annoyances of the gestational cycle.

But it should be clear by now that being pregnant in Salem changes things. I’m no longer the spry, energetic blogger I once was, posting nearly every day, extending my circle far and wide, traveling nearly every weekend.

In fact, these days I’m pretty much a Weeble.

The biggest surprise of pregnancy for me is how small it has made my world. I’m still desperately seeking salem, but my consumer habits have changed remarkably over the past two or three months, and so has my energy level.

So I will make this one post on pregnant Salem with the hopes that you pregnant women, or once pregnant women, or husbands of pregnant women, or friends of pregnant women will find some value in it.

Best pickles: Auntie Becky’s dill pickles, made right here in town, have won the top prize at the Oregon State Fair. You can buy them at Roth’s — and if you were lucky enough to be  there last weekend, you might have even met Auntie Becky herself.

Best hungry pregnant woman dinner: The avocado burger at Rockin’ Rogers on Market Street NE. As an added bonus, you can giggle over the Saturday Evening Post advertisements on the tables.

Best place to geek out on baby stuff: Baby Depot at Burlington Coat Factory. I have never bought anything there, but it’s wonderful eye candy for when the womb takes over.

Best second-hand baby store: Reruns for Kids on S. Commercial.

Best retail baby stores: T.J. Maxx. I bought this Small Paul snuggly sweater the other day — probably my biggest baby splurge so far.

Best maternity wear, retail: Burlington Coat Factory. As my belly (and, erm, the rest of me) has grown, I’ve been buying size 14 Calvin Klein dresses there for far less than most maternity wear costs.

Best maternity wear, second-hand: My husband’s closet. Outside of my home, Value Village. I’ve heard Goodwill has a pretty good selection as well.

Nicest people to pregnant people: E.Z. Orchards’ staff. It must be the abundance of produce and the donuts at the door.

Any I have missed? I still have about four weeks left and haven’t ruled out taking  many more trips outside before settling in for winter.

Found Poetry: On Bringing Back Chickens

Thursday, November 12th, 2009

Poem

Sometimes I think my house has become this celestial dumping ground for Salem’s stories — all in service of making this blog a place  where Salem’s true character can come alive in fits and short starts.

Why else would someone have sent me this poem inspired by Salem’s ongoing chicken debate?  It was penned in black ink on the back of a “nike school innovation fund” pad of red-lined paper, and looks to be hand-written by a woman.

Also, it has these ridiculously cute line drawings of chickens pecking at specks of black feed. Yummy full stops about as big as a period at the end of the lines of poetry.

Check it out the text — it’s got an ABCB rhyming scheme and is fleshed out in four stanzas.

WARNING: THIS IS NOT FOR YOUNG CHILDREN OR FOR CONTENT NAZIS.

On Bringing Back Chickens to Salem

It takes me back to the good old days
when chickens ran the yard.
My cock would come out every morning
and stand up straight and hard.

And then from the top of the chicken coop
he’d wake you from your bed.
My cock was a friendly, neighborhood bird
who liked you to pet his head.

But everyone had a cock back then.
It was the regular thing to do.
People were happier with cocks all around,
and the hens seemed happier too.

We’d like to bring those old days back,
but the law’s put that dream to bed.
So we’ll be walking the same old dogs
and petting our pussies instead.


Did anyone else notice that this writer doesn’t seem to understand that the group advocating for chickens in Salem isn’t talking about bringing roosters back, just hens?

No matter. I guess hens don’t lend themselves very well to innuendo. Either way, I’m kind of shocked and besmirked by this gift from a stranger. And I kind of love the idea that there is this underground world of rhyming poetry inspired by Salem. Beats a slam poetry night any day of the week.

Stu Sighting!

Tuesday, November 10th, 2009

StuPhoto2

I had my first Oregonian celebrity sighting last week.

And as with the time that I saw George Stephanopoulous walking down 28th Street in Georgetown, D.C., and the afternoon I ran into Thurston Moore on the main drag in State College, PA, the fact that this was a lesser celebrity — no motorcade, no paps, no Kevin Costner falling in love — didn’t prevent my sweet release of having witnessed, if only for a moment, what famous people do when they don’t know they are being watched.

And what a setting! Yes, folks, I saw Silverton Mayor Stu Rassmussen, the nation’s first transgendered mayor, shopping for shoes at DSW in Eugene.

This is where my friend Rachel would interject and say: “See! Even Stu has to go somewhere else to find good shoes!”

Well, yes, that’s why I was there too. But my mission quickly morphed from picking up a nice pair of pregnancy-friendly flats for a my sister’s wedding to flat-out stalking Stu as he perused the aisles of DSW.

I really wanted to say something. The journalist in me came up with all kinds of normal-sounding intros that would have brought me into conversation with The Mayor. The best I could come up with was: “I love your little town so much I’m giving birth there!”

Alas, my superpower, empathy, won out. I don’t like to be bothered while I’m shopping, and I couldn’t fathom doing it to him just to feed my interest.

So instead, I just followed him around like a spy, watching him shop for — ta da! — six-inch stilletto-heeled brown boots. Also, he was wearing four-inch heals while shopping.

It would seem that Stu makes a far greater woman than I. After I had my fill, I sighed and left, shuffling to my car, through the rain, my five year-old, moldering posture shoes squeezing a little tight against my toes.

No shoes that day. But still… Stu sighting!

One Salem Adventure Writer Turns to Inner Travel

Friday, November 6th, 2009

RollAroundHeaven

One of the most prescient book covers I’ve seen recently graces the dust jacket of Jessica Maxwell‘s new spiritual memoir, Roll Around Heaven.

It features an achingly adorable winged swine swathed in the light of some divine clouds.

Well-timed nod to the swine flu?

Probably not — the pig refers to the author’s relationship with a Washington State pig farmer who became a religious guru to her as she embarked on her own spiritual journey about 20 years ago.

Maxwell is reading from her book tonight at the Tea Party Bookshop, the only bookstore in town that holds its own author readings.

Tea Party Joanne Kohler  has said:

“This is one of the few books I feel compelled to read again, and I am encouraging just about everyone who walks in to read it.  In fact, across the country, many people read a copy, then return for multiple copies to give as gifts.”

I found the book a little too inconsistent and out there for my tastes — you can read my review here.

But I might be alone in that regard, for here are some additional reviews, which glow so bright I might expect them to have been written by the author’s friends. Seriously, reading these is like watching a high school chemist burn a strip of magnesium.

I’m inclined to go down to Tea Party and check out the event tonight and meet Ms. Maxwell herself, who is pretty damn lovable in the early chapters of her book. We don’t have too many books coming out by Salem authors, and I firmly believe in the power of showing up.

Is This Your Bunny We Found Hustling D Street?

Wednesday, November 4th, 2009

Bunny 001

For months I have walked by a house in my neighborhood where two bunnies, one brown and one white, frolicked on the lawn.

Lawn bunnies.

I assumed they were somebody’s pets — that the homeowners had domesticated their bunnies so well that they let them roam freely in their front yard.

Free-range bunnies.

Until tonight.

Tonight a highschooler from South Salem stopped on our front doorstep, rang the door, and stood there, holding a small, quivering white bunny with red eyes.

She had been knocking on doors up and down the street and happened to land with us. Good thing, too, because we are, I assure you, the nicest people on the block.

We’re calling him Buster.

Bartholomew was another contender.

Anyway, after knocking on quite a few doors ourselves, we learned that there is actually a mythical race of free-range bunnies roaming around our neighborhood. No one is claiming them as pets, and all of the homeowners we talked to insisted that the bunnies are, in fact, wild.

Dear Readers, if you saw this little quivering bunny on D Street, you’d know it wasn’t wild. Someone come pick up your pet at the Willamette Humane Society, because that’s where this buster is going tomorrow.

Come on folks, let’s not lose another bunny to the mean streets of Salem.

Zombies Welcome in Salem

Monday, November 2nd, 2009

EmilyZombie 003

Were you one of the estimated 1.597 million people in Salem who decided to go to Value Village last Saturday at 2:00 p.m. to see what the second-hand retailer had in stock for Halloween? I was. It was a mistake I won’t make again.

We were actually looking for some furniture, but got distracted by all of the 1960s loungewear and gold facepaint and all of the people walking around dressed like [insert favorite cartoon character here].

My ability to walk straight down an aisle of clothing is inversely proportional to the number of people in said aisle, so it wasn’t long before we threw up our hands in exasperation and screamed “Screw it!” let’s just find something at home.

And that’s how Adam ended up a Devil’s Advocate — easy, all you need is some horns and lawyer’s garb — and I made good on my promise to be a Zombie Emily Dickinson.

You know, a dead poet. They have societies for these things.

Sadly, no one at the Halloween party we attended recognized Ms. Dickinson, perhaps because she so staunchly refused to be a part of the public eye. Seriously, what did her diary read like?

Woke up this morning. Wore white. Wrote some poems.

The party guests did reconize me as that pus-spewing little girl from The Exorcist, though, so I walked around yelling obscenities and trying to make my head spin.

Zombies.

I’m still thinking about them.

I had a plan to write November’s Desperately Seeking Salem column about something kind of altruistic and Thanksgiving-y that I’ve been doing here in Salem, but I couldn’t help myself. Zombies are an image that fits well with what I see as the hunger for cultural products in Salem.

And I’ve been pretty excited to see what Salem’s Culture Shock Community Project has cooked up with zombies over the past month. Those guys deserve some recognition.

Their brains taste good.


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