The Apple Grove

At the west end of Springville road, two fields from the end, on a derelict farm, stood a grove of apple trees. There were a dozen or so, scattered in no apparent order across an acre of land. This was what remained of an orchard, devastated in the Columbus Day storm of 1962. The ripe apples were a pale gold, almost white, deliciously juicy, and sweet as honey. Neglected for years, they were there for the picking. It was one of our favorite places.

We were inseparable the summer we were ten, BeckySue and I. And, like many girls growing up in rural America in the mid-seventies, we spent most of our free time on horseback. Nearly every morning during summer vacation, I’d ride down to Becky’s house. We’d plan our day’s adventure while Becky saddled her pony. Sometimes we’d ride up the power company right-of-way, a steep climb of about three miles. From there, we’d follow old fire lanes back through Forest Park. Other days we might set up poles and barrels in the pasture, and practice our gaming. We dreamt of rodeo glory under arena lights. More often than not, we would just meander on down Springville to the old farm.

The road flowed gently west between orchards and grain fields, blackberry thickets and lone houses. At the edge of our apple grove there was an ancient fence. We’d turn and follow the fence line, past the abandoned farmhouse, between the apple trees. An old pole gate opened into a fifty-acre forest. We spent countless hours there, exploring the woods until we knew every inch, riding deer trails, or simply sitting on a fallen log and talking, sharing plans and dreams. The dimpled sunlight filtered through the branches, creating a fantasy world for make-believe. Our ponies would stand, contentedly nibbling the tall grass at the edge of the trees. Patiently, we watched the apples, waiting for them to ripen.

When we got tired of playing in the woods, we could ride through to the other side and take the tractor path across a wide field. Two roads crossed there, and an old country store sat at the intersection. We could usually scrape together enough change to get cokes, or a candy bar.

One July day, Becky and I pulled weeds for her grandma, and she paid us a dollar each. We felt rich when we entered the cool, dark of the store. We each got a grape soda, a pepperoni stick and a snickers bar. As we loitered outside, Becky noticed the flyer. The headline read:

NOTICE OF PROPOSED DEVELOPMENT

              We knew what those words could mean for us. We had seen these signs before, when they built the Portland Community College campus. Three of “our” fields had gone away that time. We stared at the diagram, trying to make some sense of the map. It looked like the whole farm would be wiped out. We had not known the woods were part of the same property as the orchard. There were never any people around, so we just never thought about it. We were certain of one thing, though. We could not let this happen.

Within days, white-topped wooden markers appeared on the farm. This put us into a minor panic. The best plan our ten-year-old brains could come up with was to pull up those survey stakes. We tied our ponies and stealthily walked the property, pulling as we went. It hadn’t occurred to us that we were vandalizing someone’s property, never mind breaking the law. To us, the farm was a sacred thing, and we were stubbornly dedicated to saving it. How dare anyone try to bulldoze it! Feeling rather like crusaders, we hid the little pile of lumber, neatly stacked, inside a blackberry thicket.

When taller white stakes, flagged this time, replaced the missing ones, we pulled those, too. Amazingly, we never encountered a survey crew. It seemed that the flags grew of their own accord. After removing survey markers three times, and watching them reappear, we realized two things: the battle was futile, and we were running an increasing risk of being caught. Becky and I decided it was best to leave well enough alone. New notices were posted: construction of the Shopping Center would begin October first.

That gave us the rest of the summer, and we made the most of it. The grass in the rich soil of the apple grove grew thigh-high. Lush and green, the perfect place for picnics and secret forts. With the Montreal Olympics fresh in our minds, we used the pilfered survey stakes to build a cross-country jump course. Racing through the woods, the fern fronds whipping our ponies’ legs, we pretended to ride for team USA. Our miniature “hunters” sailed effortlessly over the eighteen inch “fences”. We dreamed of shining gold medals.

As summer waned, the apples ripened. White survey flags now fluttered undisturbed around the perimeter of the property. Labor Day came and went and school started. BeckySue and I didn’t get back to the farm for several weeks. On the last Saturday in September, we set out early. We knew it would be our last trip to the apple grove. It was a glorious fall day, the kind where the colors are so intense, they make your eyes hurt. Where you need a flannel shirt at eleven a.m, and regret wearing it by one.

Our orchard was absolutely golden, the trees dripping apples. We each carried an old pillowcase to hold the bounty. Gently we filled our bags, taking care to choose only un-bruised fruit. My mother had promised to make applesauce and bake pies. This final harvest would not go to waste.  

When the pillowcases were full, we stashed them in a cool spot by the fence and rode to the little store. To make the ride last, we took the long way, following alongside the road. The smell of hot asphalt rippled on the heat waves, the ponies’ hooves raising puffs of dust with each step. Grasshoppers chirped and leapt out of the way. We were hot and thirsty when we reached the store. Sitting with our ponies in the shady grass, we ate a lunch of Dr. Pepper and Twinkies.  

We decided to go back through the woods, completing the loop. As we crossed the field, Becky and I glanced at each other. We were approaching the opening to the deer trail. Almost in unison, we broke into a gallop, racing for the obstacle course. I took the lead by about a pony length. We zigzagged through the trees at full velocity, much too fast for the terrain. Rounding the last bend, I barely saw a large branch blocking the trail, about three feet above the ground. With nowhere else to go, we were immediately airborne. I grabbed for a handful of mane, and missed. My chin bounced on the pony’s head. Hanging with both arms around Frisky’s neck, I managed to yell, “Watch out!” to Becky.

Too late, she was already in mid-air. Landing hard, but essentially undamaged, we sat there giggling in amazed relief. “Now that’s a jump!” Becky declared. “But we both loose a couple of points for form!”

It was a fitting end to our excellent summer. Still laughing, we tied the bags of apples to our saddle horns, and turned for home.

The apple grove has since disappeared under a layer of progress; even Springville Road has changed its path. The wheat and barley fields have given way to suburban neighborhoods.

 “That used to be a grove of apple trees…” I say to my children, waving a hand in the general direction. I start to describe it, and then stop. All they can see are acres of houses, and streets with street lamps. The trees are birch of identical size, perfectly spaced along the sidewalks. They can’t picture the farmland of the past. I smile as I remember. “And a long time ago, this all used to be a farm.”

Carmel Apple Upside-Down Cake       Heat oven to 350°
1 package spice cake mix

4-6 large apples, peeled, cored and sliced

6 tbsp. butter

¾ cup brown sugar

Grease the bottom of a 9x13 baking dish with 1 tbsp butter. Sprinkle ¼ cup brown sugar evenly over the butter and set aside.

Melt the rest of the butter in a heavy, non-stick skillet. Keep the heat at medium. Add the apples, turning to coat. Cover and reduce heat slightly. Be patient and don’t let the fruit scorch. When the apples have softened, arrange in a single layer in the baking dish. Drizzle the butter over the slices. Sprinkle the remaining brown sugar over the apples.

Prepare cake mix according to package directions. Pour the batter over the layer of apples. Bake at 350° for 35 to 40 minutes, until toothpick comes out clean. Cool no more than 5 minutes before turning pan onto serving platter. If it cools too much, the cake may be difficult to remove from the pan.

Serve at room temperature. Top each serving with whipped cream. 

Homemade Dog Treats (Back to My Roots)

It's been almost a year since I started my job as a bather at Cooper Mountain Kennel, and I still love it. I actually get paid to do something I used to do for free. Not always for free. I worked for a summer in Bend, at Lucille Cosby's, until the work dried up during the last recession. So, here I am, over 30 years later, gone to the dogs.

A lot has changed since then. Not only is the equipment far more efficient and ergonomic, but toy poodles, which were the backbone of the business back then, are much less common today. At CMK we groom all variety of dogs, from Chihuahuas to Tibetan Mastiffs and everything in between. By my non-scientific observation, Labs and Labradoodles seem to be the most popular large breeds, Shih Tzus and Lhasa Apsos the small. We also board and groom cats.

I'm not naturally a morning person, but I've found that the 7:30 start time has not been a problem for me. My husband says it's because I'm happy. I think that's true. Standing on a lush green lawn as the sun warms the air, watching a dog or two exercise before their bath is not a bad way to begin a day. In what other line of work can you snuggle your clients without getting into trouble?

The kennel is located on Farmington Road, just west of Beaverton. Hours are 7:30am - 6pm, Monday thru Saturday, and 10am - 6pm on Sunday. For an excellent boarding or groom experience for your pet, please come see us.

It's been nearly a decade since our German Shepherds crossed the Rainbow Bridge, so I haven't had a chance to make these treats myself, but I intend to make some for my new friends.

Everyday Biscuits*

2 teaspoons dry yeast

1/2 cup lukewarm water

2 tablespoons dry parsley

2 tablespoons minced garlic
1 1/2 cups chicken broth

3 tablespoons honey

1 egg

5-6 cups whole wheat flour

Preheat oven to 350 ° F (180 ° C).

In a large bowl, dissolve yeast in warm water. Stir in the parsley, garlic, broth, honey, and egg. Gradually blend in flour, adding enough to form a stiff dough.

Transfer to a floured surface and knead until smooth (about 3-5 minutes). Shape the dough into a ball, and roll to 1/4-inch (6 mm) thick. Using small bone-shaped cookie cutters, make biscuits! Transfer to ungreased baking sheets, spacing them about 1/4 inch (6 mm) apart. Gather up the scraps, roll out again, and cut additional biscuits.

Bake for 30 minutes. Remove from oven and turn over. Bake for an additional 15 minutes, or until lightly browned on both sides. Let cool overnight.

(After all batches of biscuitsare finished, turn off the oven, and spread all the biscuits out on one baking sheet. Set them in the oven to cool overnight. The extra time in the cooling oven helps make the treats crispier and crunchier.)

Makes several dozen small bones that keep and freeze well.

Birthday Cake for Pups*

1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour

1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder

1/2 cup soft butter

1/2 cup corn oil

1 jar meat baby food

4 eggs

2 strips beef jerky
 

Preheat oven to 325 degrees. Grease and flour an 8x5x3 inch loaf pan. Cream butter until smooth. Add corn oil, baby food, and eggs. Mix until smooth.

Mix dry ingredients into beef mixture until batter is smooth. Crumble beef jerky and fold into batter. Pour batter into loaf pan. Bake 1 hour and 10 minutes. cool on wire rack 15 minutes. Ice with plain yogurt or cottage cheese.

Store uneaten cake in refrigerator

*For more homemade treat recipes, visit www.bullwrinkle.com

 

 

 

 

 

Garden Fever

According to the calendar, yesterday was the first day of spring. The black clouds and pouring rain would argue with that. It just stands to remind me that it's really early yet. The sunny days of last week had me all ready to get the garden going. I should know better, from experience. The last frost date in our climate zone is mid-April. Unless you have a greenhouse or other plastic cover, the tender plants will get nipped.

Last year I helped my grandkids plant their first garden. Their new home came with two 1'x1'x6' planter boxes. They were empty, clean and ready for use. They were also in back of the house on the fenced in patio. Being fresh from the deer wars on Orcas, and having seen actual deer in the front yard, this seemed to be a bonus. What I didn't take into account was that the large oak trees lining the driveway would grow leaves. Jordan, 6 1/2 at the time, and Connor, 3, chose the crop. They requested a salad garden: lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers and carrots. No problem. I explained about having to wait for things to grow and ripen. They were both very excited to get things planted. A field trip to Home Depot bought us the "three s's": seeds, starts and steer manure.

Under supervision, Jordan and Connor helped place the Early Girl and Sweet Million tomato plants into one box. The space in between held the carrots. Hard for small fingers to control, the seed packet  was mostly dumped and then spread around. Pretty much the same for the butter lettuce and Romaine. Oh, well, I thought. We can always thin. A lovely Marketmore cuke nestled in the corner next to the greens. A couple of wire cages over the tomatoes and we were done. Nothing left to do now but water and wait.

 Jordan lost interest first. Connor hung in there with me, faithfully following with his little orange watering can, being the first to notice the little green sprouts of carrot. Jordan got back on board when she saw the first tiny green tomato. After that it was a daily ritual, to check for ripeness. But I'm getting way ahead of myself.

We planted in late March, on a gorgeous Saturday afternoon. The plants we purchased were large, gallon pot size. Those should be tough enough to withstand a bit of cold, right? Nope. The tomatoes did all right, but the cucumber succumbed to frost bite rather quickly. I'd also forgotten about slugs. The unprotected lettuce was eaten as quickly as it grew. Not wanting to disappoint the children, I replaced the cuke with a zucchini plant, since the nursery was out of cucumbers. The plant flourished, but produced no fruit.

Both tomato plants produced large quantities of lovely green globes, but even in the lovely, sunny, rain-free days of last summer they were very slow to ripen. Those pesky leaves were blocking the sun for most of the day. Even so, the kids were thrilled to eat sweet cherry tomatoes warm from the bush, even if there were only two at a time. The carrots were sweet and tender, but no larger around than a pencil, and about an inch long at best. The lack of proper thinning was to blame. Connor in particular didn't care. It was all about the pickin' for him.

This winter, I noticed that the front flower bed has nothing in it, aside from some daffodil and tulip bulbs. With southern exposure, there is full sunlight about ten hours a day. So, the plan is to put the sun-loving crops, tomatoes, cucumbers and maybe a zucchini out there. The empty space around the rose bush can hold herbs. All I have to do is be patient enough to wait out the cold. That, and invest in some slug deterrent.

CAESAR SALAD
1 or 2 cloves of garlic, depending on strength
1 large, fresh egg
1 tbsp. anchovy paste
1 small lemon, juiced
Extra virgin olive oil

Croutons
1/2 cup shredded parmesan cheese
Romaine lettuce

Peel garlic and place in food chopper or blender. Add egg. Add anchovy paste and lemon juice.  Blend until smooth. Pour in olive oil to double the quantity. (About 1/2 cup) Blend again. Toss with lettuce. Top with parmesan cheese and croutons. Serve immediately in a chilled bowl.

A Dog's Tale

The names are fictional, the story is true...

 

April 1973
           It was a typically damp, early spring night in western Oregon. Inside, the tavern was dry and warm. Country music blared from the jukebox, occasionally punctuated by the crack of pool balls or the clatter of beer bottles.
           A bartender hoisted an empty beer keg to his shoulder and stepped out the back door. He deposited the barrel next to several others, squinting briefly into the darkness. He went back inside, never sparing a glance at the pup huddled miserably next to the dumpster.
           This was the only life the pup knew. He had a vague recollection of being inside, fussed over. Unfortunately, when the novelty of having a 12-week-old puppy wore off, he was tied out back. At first, he had been able to crawl under the dumpster for shelter, but he soon grew too large. Occasionally, someone would toss him some kitchen scraps. He was much too thin, and always hungry.
           Gradually the noise from inside subsided to the clatter of clean up. Finally, only the dim glow of security lights remained. The pup was able to relax then, knowing he would have peace the rest of the night. He curled into a tight ball and tried to sleep.
           Meg was angry as she sat in the alley behind the tavern. The fact that anyone would treat a defenseless animal this way infuriated her. After years of working with the Animal Defenders League, she still couldn’t understand the mindset. A neighbor of the tavern owner had tried to intervene, even offered to buy the pup. When she was told to mind her own business, she called the A.D.L. That was where Meg came in: she would do whatever it took to rescue the dog.
           The sound of the car door did not disturb the miserable little creature, but the glow of the flashlight did. He jumped to his feet and cowered against the wall, whimpering.
           A soothing voice came out of the darkness. “It’s ok, little one. It’s ok.” The quick flash of a knife-blade severed his bonds, and a large, soft towel enveloped him as Meg lifted his emaciated body. “Everything’s gonna be all right.”
            The pup found himself in the backseat of a station wagon that smelled faintly, but distinctly, of dog. He was still nervous, but the warmth was irresistible. He burrowed into the towel, the motion of the car rocking him to sleep.
           The woman drove home, smiling, now. In her heart, she knew she was doing what she did best: giving an abused animal a second chance at life.
            
           Meg Hart operated a small kennel with her husband and daughters. She was a 4-H leader, PTA mom, and ran dispatch for the rural fire district. But, her true passion was animals. Her home was always open to anyone in need, be it dog, cat, horse or human.
           That morning she inspected the pup closely for the first time. He was curled on a blanket in the corner, just as she had left him the night before, but he raised his head when she came in. Meg knelt on the floor and spoke quietly as she looked him over. The pup was an Australian Shepherd, about nine months old and quite obviously of good bloodlines. His mottled coat was matted and dirty, but his large brown eyes shone with intelligence. No longer afraid, he gently wagged his stumpy tail.
           With gentle hands, she felt him over for wounds or abnormalities, relieved when she found none. A vet-check would be in order, immunizations, and worming, but first, a flea bath. Even Meg had to admit that the dog stank. She carried him to the tub and set him in, expecting the pup to throw a fit. Surprisingly, he did not. After thirty minutes of shampoo, combing, cutting and blow-drying, he looked like a different animal. Thin as a rail, but that was easily fixed.
           She walked him out to the nearest run and opened the gate. “There you go, Buddy, nice and safe ‘til we find you a good home.”
           The dog looked up at her and grinned, the first expression Meg had seen from him. She laughed. “Well, you’re welcome! I’ll bring you some breakfast in a minute.”

           Two weeks passed while the young dog spent his time mostly sleeping and gaining weight. Feeling comfortable and safe, he blossomed. He started to show interest in his surroundings. His coat, a rich grey, dappled with black, a color called blue merle, took on a naturally healthy sheen. He had a grin and a wiggle of his stubby tail for anyone that stopped by.
           Meg had not tried to place him yet. She wanted him to be fit and healthy, and truth be told, was in no hurry to see him go. She chided herself for being silly. She tried not to bond with her rescued animals, but this one had captured her.
           On Friday, Meg received a call from Jerry Adler, the local vet. “Just a heads up,” he told her, “I’ve got Annie Marek’s Lucky in here with distemper. I thought you might want to let your 4-H club know.”
           That sent a chill down her spine. “Annie left him at home this week,” Meg remembered. “Do you think he’ll recover?”
           Dr. Adler wouldn’t commit one way of the other. Distemper was not an easy thing to cure. He hung up with a reminder to check all the immunization records.
           Meg thought back to what recent months had held for 11-year-old Annie. In February, her old dog, Shamrock had passed away. Several weeks later, the other family dog, Suzy, had been hit by a car. In mid March, Annie and her dad had gone to the Animal Shelter and adopted “Lucky”. Now, barely three weeks later, he had a life threatening illness. Meg knew that the dog had been immunized, but distemper can lay dormant for a long time. She was sure that he’d already been infected. She was not surprised when Annie phoned the next day, saying they’d had Lucky put to sleep. The girl was in tears, and Meg’s heart broke for her. There was not much to say. It was a lot for a young animal lover to bear, losing three pets in such a short time.
           The following week Meg took the Aussie for a final health screening. He’d already had his shots, as well as being wormed. Dr. Adler was impressed at the progress the young dog had made. He had gained enough weight to be nearly normal for his age, and had a newly acquired spring in his step. The vet pronounced him ready for a new home.  Meg thought she knew just the one.
           On Saturday, she called Annie. “I was wondering if you could do me a favor?” She asked. “I have a dog here that needs a foster home. Do you think your folks would mind if you did that for a while?”
           She proceeded to tell the girl’s parents about the Australian shepherd, and how it had come to be in her care. They agreed to come down and see the dog, and think about taking it in.
           As soon as girl and dog met, it was all over. Annie sat on the floor in the run and the dog immediately came to her. He sniffed her outstretched hand, then allowed her to scratch his ears. Within seconds, he was in her lap, nuzzling her neck. “What’s his name?” Annie asked, giggling.
           “I don’t know,” Meg admitted, “I’ve just been calling him ‘Buddy’.”
           Annie stood up, looking him over. “He has that beautiful silvery coat. I think I’ll call him Silver.”
           The dog perked up his ears and cocked his head to one side. Annie giggled again.
           “Are you sure you’re ready for another dog?” Mrs. Marek asked her daughter. “Do you really want to take this on already?”
           “Yes, Mom, I’m sure,” Annie answered, her face snuggled into the neck of her new dog. “You know how empty the house has been. And besides, Silver needs us.”
           Meg smiled. This would not be a foster home.
           The family drove the mile or so to the Marek’s farm. When they got out of the truck, Mr. Marek said “Go ahead, Annie, turn him loose.”
           She did. Silver didn’t know what to do. Freedom was new to him He smelled the truck tires, lifting his leg on one of them. Then he went into the grass, scaring a sleeping cat. He jumped, startled. He stretched and sniffed the air. He trotted forward, immediately breaking into a flat-out run. He circled the yard a full three times, finally coming to rest in the middle of the lawn. He flopped down, then and looked up, grinning, tongue lolling to one side. The young dog knew he had come home.

In loving memory of Chief Silver Comet (Silli),

and the real "Meg Hart", who prefers to remain anonymous.

The Beach House

            When I was in second grade, my parents and their best friends rented a cottage at the beach.  201The two families would spend spring vacation together in Lincoln City, Oregon.

            There were four kids, including myself. This was thrilling to me, as an only child. Built-in playmates! Amy, the oldest, was my age. Her brothers, Andy and Paul, were slightly younger. I couldn’t wait!

            We got to the cottage on a Saturday. The Johnson’s had arrived the night before. Amy ran out to meet me and show me around.

            Leaning slightly, the cottage was wind-worn and faded. The clapboard siding had not seen a paint brush in years. The place was great, it looked like you couldn’t hurt anything if you tried. There was a big, open, kitchen and living room downstairs, and several bedrooms upstairs. Tough clean and neat, the place definitely had an air of casualness. The furniture was old and comfortable and nothing matched. There was a tire swing in the backyard, and the beach was across the street. The kids’ bedroom had two sets of bunk beds. Amy and I called “dibs” on the top bunks.

            That night we had a bonfire on the beach. We ate Kentucky Fried Chicken and watched the sun go down over the Pacific. I remember dozing by the fire, lulled by the lapping of the waves.

            Next thing I knew, I was waking up in my bunk to the smell bacon. After breakfast, we grabbed buckets and shovels and ran to the water. The day was foggy and cool, and the tide was way out. We were going clamming. With just a few tries, I got the hang of digging and flipping clams up onto the sand.

            I remember the smell of salt air and seaweed on the spray, and the cries of the gulls, swooping overhead. It was a magical morning, mysterious and still. We pretended the clams were treasure, and that a pirate might appear from the mist at any time.  We chased seagulls and played tag, and eventually brought the filled bucket of clams back to the house. There would be fritters or chowder for dinner that night.

            By midday, the fog always burned off and the sun came out. Amy and I would roll up our jeans and wade in the tide pools, playing with the sea anemones. The wet sand squished between my wiggling toes. I wanted to bring a starfish home, as a pet, but my father explained that it couldn’t live without saltwater. Reluctantly, I put it back where I found it, to continue its starfish life.

            One afternoon the four of us built a huge sandcastle, surrounded by a fence made of oyster shells. As we finished, we saw the tide had crept up, unnoticed. We dug moats to protect the castle, but quickly got overwhelmed. The water surged around our feet as we frantically scooped sand. In no time, we were soaked to the skin. When Paul fell, face first, into the rising water, we realized it was no use. Starting to shiver, we ran back to the cabin. In the morning there was nothing left to mark the spot but a few oyster shells from the fence.

            There was no television at the cottage, and none of us missed it. We were seldom inside, anyway. There was always something to do. On our last day, it rained. After a morning of board games and puzzles, and watching it pour, our parents decided to reward our patience. We all piled into the station wagon and drove to town.

            Lincoln City was a small, quiet town, home to fishermen and loggers. It was still a decade or more away from being discovered as prime vacation real estate. It drew its share of tourists, though, and did its best to offer things to entertain them.

            At the Aquarium, we fed sardines to seals in the front lobby. Crossing through the turnstile into the main gallery was enchanting. Dimly lit, illuminated mostly by the glow from the tanks, the effect was of an undersea cave. Maritime objects decorated the spaces between displays. We saw fish of every size, shape and color. The center of the room was sunken, a wide pool, filled with creatures native to the northwest. An octopus drifted by, changing color as it went, blending in with its surroundings. Sea cucumbers and Dungeness crabs shared space with rock cod and flounder. It looked like an underwater anthill, there was so much activity.

            When we were done with the tour, we made our way down the boardwalk. Andy and Paul wanted to ride the bumper cars. But when stood by the red line, they were not tall enough to ride alone. After just a tiny bit of pleading, our dads agreed to take all of us on the ride. Amy and I climbed in with my dad, while the boys got in with theirs. We giggled and squealed as the carts zipped around, bumping and whirling, in a crazy game.  Our moms stood by, laughing and waving. On the way back, we had purple snow cones.

That night, Amy and I sorted our collection of shells and other treasures we’d found while beach combing. We stayed awake late, whispering in the dark. I watched the full moon outside the window, and wished our vacation didn’t have to end.

            Although the adults talked about it, we never did get back to that cottage. A busy, happy summer came and went. The Johnsons moved away not long after school started, and Amy and I lost touch.

            I thought of my old friend the other day, when I found a photograph taken during that long ago vacation. Two eight-year-old girls wearing toothless grins and dragging a massive piece of driftwood, on their way to a new adventure. It all came back in a flash, after more than thirty years, the wonderful week at the crooked old house in Lincoln City. 

Lincoln City, Oregon sometime in the '60's - author unknown