The Bittersweetness of Childhood Reconnections

I love reading The New Yorker.

The Sept. 20th issue has a feature on Mark Zuckerberg, the guy who co-created Facebook. When I read the article I felt that the writer was really having to work hard to get Mr. Zuckerberg to give him something of real interest. The article said that Zuckerberg was a private person who didn't speak to The Press and who wasn't thrilled about the increasing number of public engagements required of him.

Can you imagine being him? He'd have to change the privacy settings just to accommodate his own need for privacy. His facebook quote says that he's "trying to make the world a more open place by helping people connect and share." And, that's why I'm even talking about this.

Come to think of it, I wasn't actually on Facebook (but LinkedIn) when I made a reconnect with a girl I knew from childhood, elementary school, birthday parties. You know, that part of our other lives that we all have but in adulthood, we can't really believe, so many years later, that we ever truly had.

If you're of a certain age, it's the one where you and I got dressed up for birthday parties, where we actually played a game called Pin the Tale on the Donkey and where my mother, (as so many mothers of that era) would wrap pennies (or was it dimes?) in Saran Wrap and put them inside the cake. I don't really recall ever getting money (or choking on money) but my memory of  my childhood has always been a bit hit and miss.

We'd play musical chairs with all manner of chairs collected from throughout the house and just as the anticipation interspersed with hesitation reached a peak, dear old mom would lift up the needle from the record player and the lap scramble would begin.

My brother and other boys would have greasy, Brylcreamed hair. I had a pink, organza party dress that was too short and I'd wear white ankle socks with pointy black patent shoes. We each had a cake because our mother, bless her, would make my brother and I each a separate cake. And, we'd sit at each end of the table, King and Queen, over our small but very special birthday party domain.

There was Phyllis and Michael and Darryl, Diane, Jo-Anne and Gary, Leo, Richard and Robin and I'm sure I'm forgetting someone.

I can recall this person, that I just connected with, as a child. I remember, vaguely, her mother, the fact that she didn't have a father around and she lived in an apartment. Her mother smoked and I liked her mother. I remember this friend's thin felt or black velvet ribbon that she often wore in her hair  and the way her thick, coarse brown hair curved around her face. I remember her smile and her teeth and her sweetness and I think she even had a dimple.

I feel the need to emphasize that unlike the pseudo preciousness of celebrity that has been touted as the "norm," none of the people I grew up with are famous, and, I have to remind myself as you should do occasionally just to to check in with reality that, NOT being famous IS actually the norm. It's easy to forget that nowadays.
Whenever I hear about people from my childhood, or my past, and undoubtedly if/when they hear about me, none of our lives have turned out to be what might have been anticipated for us when we were children. I find that so very bittersweet - for them, for their parents and for the type of hopes that may have had for our futures. Maybe it's just my very working-class background that has made that so. Maybe it's just the norm.

Perhaps that is why I've always found connecting to the past more sad than satisfying once the momentary curiosity that comes from being "updated" on the person's circumstances has passed. In a short life, it's always seemed good, to me,  to leave the past back there where it was being lived  instead of brought forward although I have had at least one or two really enjoyable times reconnecting for short periods.

Any thoughts about re-connecting with people from your past?  Sweet nostalgia? Waste of time? Major annoyance? Path to forgiveness? Reminder that you can never really go back.

Farm Stand to the Rescue

There's a farm stand just two doors down from where I live. It's a little square wooden structure with a cover and a shelf. There's a locked money box and the honour system is in place. You take what you want and you place your money in the box.

Tonight, I needed some tomatoes to add to some basic pasta. I didn't have any. I wanted to taste a freshly grown tomato, not the kind you buy in Safeway. I walked down to the stand hoping there were tomatoes for sale and sure enough, they were there packed into the plastic tub above with rosemary branches stuffed in for a decorative effect, adding a wonderful aroma. Grab the rosemary branch and run your fingers up it and the essence of rosemary remains on your fingertips and has transferred to the smooth red/yellow tomato skins.

I've bought a delectable summer squash there about a month ago and a friend purchased sunflowers on my behalf that stayed on my mantle for a sunny week.

You just never know what might be there at these home-grown zero mile gardens on sale. I like to think of the people who own the stand arriving, excited that the fruits of their labour have found a new home,  stealthily, with only the smiles of satisfaction and anticipation on the faces of those who have purchased, anticipating the flavours on the way back to their own kitchens.

Newport Oregon gets my vote for favorite Coastal Town

Did I mention it rained a lot on our trip to Oregon which by the way is pronounced Oregin but absolutely not OreGone. I had a bit of a problem with getting that right it seemed.

In a way, the brash weather was exactly what was required to provide us with the full-on, authentic Oregon Coast experience. Think of it as a little bit of the same little bit of hell that so many of the early explorers, lighthouse keepers undoubtedly turned closet boozers must have endured 365 days a year shrouded in the natural prison of the quiet, foghorned wet, gray flannel horizon. The first lighthouse we tried to see - Tillamook - was invisible through whiteness. The endless wind and rain began full force in what might just get my vote for favorite little town along the coast: Newport, Oregon.

We packed in the camping at that point and found ourselves a really sweet deal at the American Inn and Suites which was exceptionally clean and cheap at $55 per night. I liked Newport because it seemed real. Newport looked like what you'd expect from a small town along the Oregon Coast. It had the Coors signs in the windows. It had the crab traps on the streets. Small forklifts were working the dock.

The barking of the sea lions huddled together for warmth along the dock permeated the mist. Crusty bearded fishermen were downing a pint in the local Tavern.

I peeked into a store window and noticed two bumperstickers, "Time to Cancel the Obama Drama" whatever that means and "Uncle Sam Wants YOU to speak English!" Just the kind of local colour I'd expect from a small town in Amurica.

The downpour painted the streets like a lucky accident in a watercolour painting and turned our umbrellas inside out. We poked around a  few shops. Gwen patiently held the umbrella over my head while I tried to take these photos in the downpour. We wandered around before deciding to go to Mo's for some New England clam chowder and to get out of the rain. We had the onion rings and the soup which was extra flavourful with bacon.

The Newport restaurant is the original location of Mos and the story goes that "early one morning a woman returned to her car parked outside the restaurant, put it in drive instead of reverse, and crashed through the front of the café. Far from being disgruntled, owner Mo Niemi put her arms comfortingly around the woman and said, 'Well, just put in a garage door so you can drive in anytime you want.' To this day, the garage door on the front of the restaurant is raised on nice days and turns Mo’s into an instant sidewalk café. On the inside, there's a painted characterizaion of a surprised looking woman, seated in her car, just after the crash. The desserts looked fabulous too but we were too full to try them.

After dinner, we moved the car to a spot in front of The Rogue Ale Public House famous for its 31 brews on tap. Enriquez, originally from Mexico, was the bartender that night.We pretty much just had to think we might like to taste test one of them and he'd be filling a shot glass taster; a bartender with E.S.P. and a steel trap memory for names it seemed.

Then Kent Harrison showed up. He was celebrating his return to Newport after taking a job in California for a year.  He was ecstatic to be back in the rain of Oregon and he was celebrating with a drink and dinner (homous) after his first shift as the chef at Embarcadero Resort Hotel.  Kent's favorite beer? The Shakespeare Stout. Enrique preferred IPA Brutal. Kent was gracious, knowledgeable and a seasoned conversationalist. Nice guy. One barstool down sat Bonnie Breach. A regular. A true blue Oregonian with long grey hippy hair to prove it. By the look of the pint glasses in front of her, Bonnie seemed to prefer dark ales  but geneaology was her true passion. She wanted to know my last name. She had me spell it twice. The v is very unusual she said. I'll have to do some research.

We slept well that night out of the rain and headed the next morning to the Yaquina Head Lighthouse, with a quick stop at Nye Beach  and a wander through the Sylvia Beach Hotel (a haven for writers and cats). We then dropped into the Newport Visual Arts Centre and took in a sobering but fascinating Washed Ashore project by Angela Hazeltine Pozzi. Large sculptures - turtles, jellyfish -  created solely from the plastics that she had found on remote beaches in Southern Oregon.

After that we made a stop at Oregon State University Hatfield Science Center(suggested donation: $5)  and it proved to be an excellent place (an alternative to the Aquarium)  full of interactive displays, information on Tsunamis and earthquakes and other research studies complete with a "touch pool" full of ginormous sea anemones, starfish, sea urchins each managing to survive in spite of being poked more than a cute Grade 5 girl by the Grade 5 boy who sits behind her in class.

In mid-2011, the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration will move its base for research ships from Seattle to Newport. The base has about 110 marine officers and a total of 175 employees. It will base four ships and provide support for up to two itinerant vessels.^[5] NOAA already has some personnel at the Hatfield Marine Science Center which support the Alaska Fisheries Science Center and the Northwest Fisheries Science Center. The ships will join the RV Wecoma which is based at the center. There were signs all over town welcoming NOAA and you can only imagine what a welcome to the economy new residents will be.