This sign was erected recently during the annual Vernonia Friendship Jamboree (more on that later!) The high water mark records a height of "over six feet" --and--for the record--that's a LOT of water to overtake a town!

There is something soul-binding for a town full of people who have all survived a natural disaster such as this. While not as epic as something like Hurricane Katrina, it was extreme in it's own right. 

There is an analogy used in some recovery circles which compares  sobriety to surviving a shipwreck. You and your fellow passengers all share in a common peril and yet your own experience of that peril is unique. This opens up a different type of communication. These types of events are what creates community bonds and within Vernonia there is a palpable feeling of community and connection.

That may sound a little sappy, but it's true. When my husband and I were looking for some place to live outside of Portland, we meandered all over the North and the West part of Oregon. (Why? Because North feels right and West feels right, but South and East do not.) We investigated Scappoose, Clatskanie, Birkenfeld, Ranier, Deer Island, Buxton, Timber, Cathlamet, and even  Astoria to name a few. Oregon is a damn beautiful state-- I will tell you that--but we fell in love with Vernonia pretty fast and kept coming back. When we found the property we wanted, we prayed everything would work out. It was a major cluster-fuck to be honest--there were so many problems, but a year later we were proud landowners (a first for me!)

​One of the things that immediately caught our attention in Vernonia--and holds it-- was this:

These are some of the cars one might run across at Meyer's Body Shop. The two Road Runners are permanently displayed inside the shop, and I happen to know the black GTX outside belongs to the owner, Gary Meyer. I think the 440 is gone now--I haven't seen it in a while--so I assume it belonged to a customer. I get excited every time we drive by his shop--I never know what's going to be there.

(When there was small flood this past spring, Rich and I spent a few hours driving out to Vernonia to see how our then future property fared [it was fine]. Driving through town we noticed that the two Road Runners had been moved out of the shop. To this day I cannot figure out how he did that.)

When Gary Meyer saw Rich and I drooling over "his" cars he was kind enough to take us on a tour of the shop. There was some fun stuff in there:

For the record I have always loved cars in general, I come from a long line of car thieves and enthusiasts. I just happened to luck-out that the man I fell in love with is more than a car-thief (he's not) or enthusiast. He's a car owner, and builder and encyclopedic knowledge storer. We've been married one and a half years now and he still says stuff like: "I think I'm going to take the Dart out of storage and make sure it's ok." and I had no idea he even owned a TWO-TONE 1962 DODGE DART THREE SPEED TORQUE FLIGHT TRANSMISSION--push button tranny! MOPAR! This still happens! It happened last week with some vintage Dodge Power Wagon!
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Behold--I am it's step-mom:

I have veered away from my main topic of the 2007 Vernonia Flood. To be continued!

I want to talk about holes. The kind one digs in the ground. In the last week and a half I have dug 8 holes--all of them Tree-Sized, which means they are about 24"-36" across and anywhere from 18"-30" deep. The Tree-Sized holes are intended for trees. Pictures do not do these holes justice, but here is the first one:
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It LOOKS tiny (that's what she said) and shallow-- but it is not! And it took about an hour to dig it. Why? Why would I dig for an hour when I could be hammering for an hour? For a special tree, of course! My husband's anniversary present (from me): a Golden Chain Tree. I am planting it by the front gate so it can be a beacon! A beacon of love and homeness and Happy-Arrival-Time! We're Home! We're Here!
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​I also dug a hole for the Golden Chain Tree's friend, Weeping Plum:
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At least this picture has some kind of scale--that's a full sized garden shovel there on the ground. 

I had a plan! I had a dream! I knew exactly what I wanted (two trees) and where I wanted them (by the front gate) and now I had dug the holes. Pioneer Woman am I!

Two days later when I came back to do the planting, this is what the holes looked like:

Before I continue, I'd like to talk about Holes. There are a lot of holes out there, some more famous than the other:
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Since time immemorial people have been digging holes...I know that's a little dramatic, but it's true! Or I assume it to be true... Clearly there is no way of really knowing BUT if I were one of the first people ever to walk the earth, all upright with my thumbs and everything, I would dig a hole. Here's my thought process a zillion years ago: "I'm hungry. There is a scary unknown forest over there--maybe there is food inside! On second thought, I'll just scrap away a few layers of this stuff I'm standing on..." Not bad, right? This is how I've managed to stay around so long.

Here's a quick list of some of the more common holes:

​And my favorite: 

ANATOLE (FRANCE) (he's a poet)
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I do enjoy getting a fresh perspective on things. My holes are neither common nor famous (and as I type this, that feels like a good thing.) My holes have not yet killed anybody--that's always a plus. And none of my holes are located so close to the Pacific Ocean that the wind will whip your golf balls away...Although, I suppose it is possible considering the ocean's only about 50 miles off.

But my holes are killers of dreams and the wind of disappointment blows and swirls around my tear-stained face.

​No, not really. I just keep going.

Filled with water!! Both of them!! Almost to the top! Epic letdown!

If you're missing the point, the flooded holes means the ground is saturated with water and doesn't drain (and days later this was still true.)

But this is where I want to plant my trees--what to do, what to do...

Even though I claim a general lack of outdoorsiness, I did work in a plant nursery for 3 years and have a working knowledge of plants and what to do with them and how to trouble shoot. So, I understood my options fairly quickly, the labor these options required, and, most crucially, that in the long run, this location was not going to be a good match for these trees. 

So I decided to do some tests. I walked the front of the property looking for possible "Beacon/Homeness/Happy-Arrival-Time" locations. I dug one test hole on the other side of the main gate about 12" across and 6" deep before it filled completely with water. And it wasn't even raining! I could see the water flowing out of the tiny fissures in the clay soil! I tried again about 12 feet away in a location that seemed to be different--but it wasn't. Dirt out, water in.

I looked to the east, down the southern property line, and then I looked to the west...the land was all at the same level. Add that to the drainage gulch running along the main road--there was no way the trees were going to do well anywhere I initially wanted them. Not unless I brought in a few truck loads of dirt and made some sort of mound for them.

My Beacon of Golden Chains--dead, as they say, in the water.
 
I remembered that there were several already existing--and unexplainable-- mounds near-ish to the front gate--just not on the road. My husband claimed one of them was an old pile of gravel that had never been utilized and had simply been absorbed into the landscape. He guessed that it would be too rocky. The other mound, he assumed, must be the same, only it had been around a lot longer and may be usable. 
 
So, I went from one mound--rocky but an ok possibility--to the other which was better than ok, it was great soil, great drainage--but there was only room for one tree and I didn't want them split up--they had become accustomed to one another. I figured if they were going to make it through the winter they would need the warmth of arbor friendship and, I assume, storytelling.. 

For the record, by now I was bitter.

Picture it: I'm BITTER. And tired. BITTER AND TIRED.

I was trying to be all spiritual fit about the holes but I wasn't. As I said to a friend of mine later, somewhere between Holes 3 and 7 I was a changed woman. A woman who suddenly wanted a hot drink, and indoor bathroom and a soft bed. I had to shrug it off.

So, I went a different route and tried the Northern side of the property where the land starts to slope upward. 

This is when the yelling started. My husband is a curious man, and likes to know how I'm doing and if I need assistance. I guess what I needed was someone to yell at. I tried to be cool--"This hole is good" (It's not) "I can make it work." (I can't) "I'll just need some gravel" (Like a half ton). As his questions persisted about the soundness of the location I told him to fuck off and get off my back. I can't answer every question in the world, now can I? Why doesn't he just go back to whatever he was doing and leave me alone? I'm fine and I'm going to make this work no matter what because I am not digging one. more. hole.

Next time! The exciting conclusion to "The Diet of Worms"!

So, it is October here in Oregon. When I first moved here that meant rain for the next nine months--and I loved it. I moved to Oregon because of the rain. I grew up during a 7-year drought in California and it was really uncomfortable. I am a Pisces and water is like air to me. The parched colors of Northern California are forever burned into my brain: bleached ochres, dusty, dark greens, crackling pale yellows and burned-out beiges. (Burn-Out Beige should be on the Color Wheel somewhere). Everything was always covered in a fine powdery dust, the plants, the roads, the cars...I felt covered. I would take baths for hours--the water cooling off only to be refilled two or three times. I would read or find pictures in the vintage-crap burgundy and white marbled tiles of the bathroom. My skin was always dry and my hair was always fried. Seven years is a long time when you're a child, and I thought the whole world was scorched. 

When I look at the weather reports today and see that it is raining in Northern California or L.A.--it is hard for me to believe. If you watch Hollywood movies from the late 70s and 80s, most of which are filmed in L.A.'s backyard and North---you can see the colors I am taking about. Those low rolling hills in the background of so many mainstream movies, covered in dead grass and grasping oak trees--the ochre and the dark green--that's what I'm talking about. I recognize it like a I recognize a childhood pet.

Rain was like a God to me (I am not being dramatic--trust me!) and when I heard of a city where it rains nine months out of the year, and the world was green and teeming with wet life, I packed my bags and never looked back. 

I never planned to stay anywhere for very long--(I thought I had the wanderlust but really I had alcoholism)--but every time I moved away from Portland, I came crawling back--missing the verdant landscape. And I don't even hike! Or rock climb! Or surf or camp or ski or snowshoe or canoe or kayak! I'm here for the rain.

I've already written about how annoying it is when Oregonians want you to qualify every sunny day that comes--What did you do? Did you enjoy the sun? Did you get outside? What did you do in the sun when you got outside? So I won't get into that again.

But the weather here in Oregon has become less predictable--as it has become less predictable almost everywhere. While normally I would have settled in for the wet weather--it can still get warm and sunny--for long stretches of days. Right now Rich and I are racing the seasons, trying to get the cabin into shape, cutting wood, roofing storage spaces. I recently described how excited I was to acquire some bead board for the ceiling of the loft. And how it fell out of the truck onto the pavement in the center of a four-way stop. And how it got rained on and how I didn't know what was going to happen to it. 

This is a continuation of that. What happened to it.

Can I just first qualify that I have a strong emotional investment in rebuilding this cabin--rebuilding the broken and forgotten into something useable and lovely. As a recovering alcoholic, this is what I do every day. Sometimes it goes smoothly and sometimes I hate myself for not knowing how to do something I've never done before. Or I hate myself for not being able to accurately predict the future from my bedroom. Or I hate myself for not transcending the physical plane into a pure state of light and energy when I feel like it.

​All of these personality nuances reveal themselves in the cabin reconstruction. 

So, first of all, the edges of the bead board got a little messed up, but not much. There were a couple of spots that warped slightly, but then relaxed back into place.

My husband helped me store it on the somewhat flat surface of a picnic table, we covered it up with a tarp that evening and when I came back the next day this had happened:

I had much chagrin over this, but, it was only the top sheet and I figured I could still use half of it. 

It took me two more nights of covering this beadboard with this stupid tarp AND ruining the top board to realize the tarp had tiny holes in it. I was a little sweary and throwy for a while after this--but I'm okay now.

HOWEVER--and let me reiterate, I have NO construction experience, and I am learning as I go--which is really my favorite way to learn, even if it's not the most efficient way. (It is imperative that I remember that I will often risk making my own blundering mistakes rather that ask for help. Which is fine as long as I don't act like I am a victim to a lack of information later when things don't exactly work out. Which is also what I do.) So, I am just feeling my way here, getting inspired, thinking I'm brilliant--and then sometimes, feeling really dumb.

Me not knowing stuff has resulted in a few mishaps: 

For instance, it is not a good idea to attach  bead board to the inside of a pitched roof in a damp environment. Not matter what you do, it will sag a little bit and the" illusion of wood" (if there ever was one) will be compromised:

Please ignore, if you can, all the visible nails, etc.--that will supposedly magically disappear when I use my magically disappearing touch-up paint. 

The reason it is so haphazard is because of this (lets see if I can make this make sense--I love diagrams!):

With the amount of work I've put into this so far, the sagging ceiling depresses me. But I decided two things: 

1. If it doesn't "correct itself" (I have ways of helping it) when the air gets drier (with the instulation of the wood stove) I can always TEAR IT OUT and call it a loss.

2. It may look a lot different when there is a bed and some shelves, etc. This is a "starter home". I am learning to do stuff now so I can do it better later when we attempt an actual house. So, maybe, it's good enough.

On the good side: The wasps are finally becoming inert! Check it out! They just stay in their little area now.