#233 Happy New Year

 MERRY CHRISTMAS AND HAPPY NEW YEAR TO ONE AND ALL

In this post I attempt to cover two topics, the first related to my struggles with Parkinson’s Disease and the second an assignment I gave myself in the last post of the blog.

A Fall in the Fall

First is a story that happened a couple of weeks ago—-it’s about a fall which appropriately happened in the fall and is being written about while it’s still autumn [Notice how I deftly avoided another use of “fall.”] Also appropriately I was leaving a Parkinson’s support group meeting at the Canby Adult Center when I suddenly found myself on the ground of the parking lot. My head was bleeding, glasses askew, small gashes on my hand and one knee. How I got there I’m not sure. I could have tripped over a rough spot in the parking lot asphalt or I could have stumbled on the toe of a dragging foot. Whatever happened, I luckily didn’t hit the ground very hard. 

Taken by Anne at my request. Me on the ground surrounded by help while waiting for the professional (EMT) help.

Better yet I had numerous people around me ready to help—Anne (who goes to the meeting as a caregiver), a couple of other PD patients and caregivers, two staff from the Adult Center. Also, it was good that I knew what to do. I stayed down and waited for the EMTs who were called soon after I fell and who specialize in picking up and caring for the fallen.

The Canby Fire Dept. rescue truck arrived in five or six minutes, thankfully with no siren blaring. The two EMTs checked me over and after confirming that I had no major injuries picked me up off the ground and got me on my feet. They helped me walk to the rescue ambulance where they checked me out more thoroughly.  Since I had hit my head on the ground, bending my glasses but not breaking the frame, they said I should consider a visit to the hospital in case I was concussed [I’ve always wanted to use that word, “concussed,” if it is a word.], We decided that with neighbors on both sides being nurses, we’d have help close by if I felt worse later. 

The result of the fall was a sore wrist and knee, some facial scabs, a little embarrassment, and a reality check. There is good logic to Parkinson’s warning that each of us struggling with the condition are only one bad fall away from a really bad day. My day wasn’t this one.  

My Photo Assignment

Celebrating Thanksgiving with a dinner out at Arrowhead GC in Mollala.

We did manage to get in a round of golf in good weather.

 

I managed to take a couple of almost good photos at the course.

The second part of this post is my response to an assignment I gave myself: "put together a photo essay of a small town between Thanksgiving and Christmas." My intent was to produce a coherent narrative of events and scenes in and around the holidays as celebrated in Canby. Within the photos I’d come up with I would hopefully find a couple (maybe more) of significant artistic value. What I ended up with was a bunch of trite snapshots not worthy of a passing grade on the assignment.

We went to our rented storage unit to pick up the last of the 17 boxes of Christmas decorations.

Why such a poor result when I had had such lofty hopes? This may sound like I’m looking for an excuse for my performance, but really I’m just recounting how I conspired against myself and got no help from outside sources.

Some of the decorations in our home for the holidays. Anne does a great job of organizing and displaying our treasures.

I had envisioned going to local town events and taking pictures of holiday cheer and happiness, but when I had opportunities I blew my chances. For instance, when at Anne’s birthday meal out with friends I didn’t even think about taking my camera until we were already at the restaurant. I did the same for a big band Christmas concert at the Hope Village Community Center. 

At the concert I did borrow Anne's iPhone to get picture. It's the only shot I took and you can tell I'm not used to using the iPhone as a camera.

I had planned to visit a couple of local parks (for nature photos and pictures of lighting displays). I did neither, I simply dropped the ball on those ideas. I have to say my Parkinson’s didn’t cooperate at all. Early in the month I fell [see previous story] and recovery was slow with several visits to doctors and therapists in the way of anything planned. I could have pivoted on my plans and come up with something else, but winter blues or Parkinson’s apathy put an end to that. The pictures I did come up with lack any value beyond the typical scapebook snapshots which could have been taken with 1953 Kodak Brownie. 

The city of Canby is nicely decorated by local snowman contest (as well as a light in the park display. I made very poor use of bothers opportunities. There's much more that I could have done.

I did learn that if I’m going to continue to produce anything worth your time to view I have to find ways to overcome physical and mental blocks that I faced on this assignment. If  I do that, the month will not have been a total washout.

Lots of local flooding and wind damage was done by the three Atmospheric Rivers (used to be called The Pineapple Express) hit us in a two week period.

NEXT: Something worth your time to read and see.

#219 Holiday Season Greetings

Hoping you all find something to be thankful for.

Our Old House in Canby

A Couple of Thanksgiving Stories

Thanksgiving Holiday is always a thoughtful time and this year. because of our leaving our house of 38 years, is even more thoughtful for us. For this post I decided to present a couple of Thanksgiving stories and some fall photography.

The Birks of Aberfeldy, Scotland

The Fairy Pools Trail, Isle of Skye

Anniversary to Remember

Married in 1968 the weekend before Thanksgiving, our anniversaries have always been near the holiday. Our 25th wedding anniversary, celebrated in 1993, was an important one and on the day of Thanksgiving. Plans were being made for big celebrations, but those plans got interrupted by Anne’s chance to go to Hawaii for the whole week of Thanksgiving to attend a teacher leadership conference (which included golf opportunities). I couldn’t go, of course, and Anne was reluctant to accept the offer until I convinced her we’d still have our celebrations, just later. On the Wednesday before Thanksgiving I was at school when I received a giant bouquet of flowers in the middle of a class. Lovely as it was, it quickly became the talk of the school—Mr. Bob got flowers. When Anne called on Thanksgiving, I told her I loved her, but she had embarrassed me at school. Then I asked her about what she was having for Turkey Day Dinner. She told me about the fancy dinner they had had. She then asked what I was having. I said, “Fried Spam.” I tell that story of my 25th Anniversary/Thanksgiving Spam dinner every chance I get.

Ballatter GC, Highlands

St Fillans GC, Our Club

Sma'Glen, Highlands

Near Loch Tay, Highlands

This second story is an award winning essay about Thanksgiving memories from a newspaper contest in 1978.

A Freshman Alone at Thanksgiving

“Closed,” “Sorry.” The signs reflected off glistening streets. Neon colors splashed from the wet sidewalks. Arcadia, California, was a lonely place for a stranger on this Thanksgiving Day 1963.

All day I had been involved in a college speech and debate tournament at Humbolt State University. Amidst camaraderie and competition I hadn’t given much thought to being away from home on Thanksgiving. But the coming darkness draped around my shoulders the shroud of the loneliness of a freshman away from home.

When you’re eighteen and a freshman in college everything new is an adventure.

A speech tournament at Thanksgiving only meant a chance to see a new place and meet new people. Reality, though, has a way of catching up, even with a freshman. So, here I was wandering dim streets, alone, in a strange town, seeking the only inexpensive restaurant open on Thanksgiving within walking distance of our motel.

The garish fluorescent lighting of the cafeteria blinded me as I sought to adjust from the dark night. Servers filled trays with the contempt of those forced to work when they wanted to be at home with their families. “Thanksgiving Special—A Complete Traditional Turkey Dinner (with all the trimmings—$1.89, drink extra,” said the sign taped to the glass overlooking trays of limp lettuce salad. At the end of the line my tray had on it two thin slices of pressed turkey (mostly dark meat), a scoop of dressing, a scoop of whipped potatoes almost as runny as the speckled gravy on it, a small paper cup of cranberry sauce. I paid extra for a glass of milk and a cup of coffee.

My hunger overcame my growing depression. I found myself enjoying the food in spite of the surroundings. As my plate-to-mouth motions became automatic my mind strayed out the rain streaked windows. My thoughts wandered into the darkness and all the way home. The family would be gathered at either an aunt’s house or our place. Dinner of plump hot turkey which I might have gotten to carve, fluffy dressing bulging with spicy sausage, both mashed potatoes with rich gravy and yams with brown sugar, and all the extras that make tradition live would have been cleared away hours ago. Uncle Lee and Dad would be arguing about who would deal the card game. Aunt Loretta, Mom, my sister Dee and the cousins would be cutting pies, whipping the cream, and sneaking bites of meat off Henrietta Hen’s carcass. Someone might have pulled out a Christmas album which propriety dictates can’t be played until after Thanksgiving Day—or at least until after the dinner is over. A car honking outside the cafeteria interrupted my communion. I finished my coffee and left so hurriedly that I left a tip even though there hadn’t been a waitress.

Back on the damp street I tried to recapture those visions of family and warmth. The moment was gone. I’d had my Thanksgiving, but would have to wait a few days to share it with those who mattered.  

Autumn at Ankeny Winery near Salem

Fall leaves with Christmas tree farm in the background.

Maes Howe Megalithic Tomb, Orkney Islands

Fattening the sheep, Orkney Islands

And autumn will soon turn into winter.

TRAVEL STORIES AND HOLIDAY GREETINGS

Fall is the time for mushrooms.

      In the next few blog posts I’ll be presenting a few of the stories that will be in my next book of travel stories which I hope to publish in the spring. Sales of Ten Years of Travel in Scotland, Ireland, England, and Wales have been encouraging.  The next book’s working title is More Travel Stories, but somehow I don’t think that’s quite catchy enough.  I did consider seriously the title Fourteen Years of Travel in Scotland, Ireland, England, Wales, Germany, Austria, Hungary, Road Trips in America and Canada, and Other Travels--I thought hard for us all then pushed the title into the bin (with apologies to W.S. and those among us who get the not so subtle allusion)--in other words, I threw that idea away. If you have a title suggestion for the new book please let me know.

Buchanty Fall 

Buchanty Spout is a waterfall (more a strong cascade) on the River Almond near the little hamlet of Buchanty in central Perthshire, Scotland.  The falls is a favorite spot for photographers, picnickers, water watchers, and fisher folk who watch the salmon leap the falls in the autumn run.  I’ve been down the short 200-yard hike to the falls several times for photos, but have yet to see the “spouts”--deep circular holes in the rocks are said to cause spouting when the water runs high.  

Buchanty Spout

The spring of 2011 was particularly rainy and all the rivers were running quite high.  I decided this would be a good time to see Buchanty Spout in spate and hopefully get spectacular photos.  Anne let me go alone since she knew I really did know the way to Buchanty and the falls--she kens (Scottish for "knows") I have basically no sense of direction and can get lost in a grocery store, so is very cautious about letting me out without a navigator.  She did admonish me with the caveat, “Be careful and don’t fall in.”  And she was correct to give me the reminder since falling into the river along the falls would indeed be life threatening.

The drive to the parking area at Buchanty was a non-event.  On the short hike down to the falls I did take note of the slippery conditions on the trail.  I was slightly disappointed that there was no spouting at the falls, the water was high but not high enough.  I was extremely cautious on the rocks as I took some good photos of the powerful cascade.  I was not cautious enough to notice the moss around the spout hole as I backed away from the rock edge.  The next thing I knew my right foot had slipped on the moss and I tumbled down with my leg mid-thigh in the hole.  Instinctively I saved my camera and lens from damage, but not my leg.  It took a couple of minutes to recover my senses and extricate my leg from the spout hole.  I count myself as very lucky to have been able to limp back to the car with only a bruised shin bone and a major scrape, rather than a broken leg.  

Sma'Glen, the Highland country near Buchanty Spout.

There was no way I could hide either my embarrassment or my bloody pant leg when I got home to the B&B.  Anne was a great sport; she didn’t say, “I warned you.” The photos I took that day, by the way, weren’t that good.

Sneaking onto the Golf Courses

People will do anything to save a buck, bob, quid, or pound.  That includes sneaking onto golf courses without paying.  We’ve had a couple of encounters with these sneaky duffers.  In 2004 we played the second course at Montrose on Scotland’s east coast.  It’s a relatively easy track being a relief course for the Championship Montrose GC and not very expensive.  It was quite a surprise when several holes away from the clubhouse three people walked off the road with their clubs, threw down balls, and started playing in front of us.  We’d never seen that before.  Several holes later the threesome found an easy egress and left.  

Moray Old GC and Lossiemouth Lighthouse.

A year later at Moray Old GC in Lossiemoth on the Morayshire coast of Scotland we had a similar situation.  On the third hole we saw a man park his car by the side of the road next to the course and walk onto the course and start playing behind us.  He seemed to be in a hurry and was pushing us until on the seventh hole he disappeared.  He could have left and walked back to his car, got kicked off the course, or just hop over to some other hole, but we didn’t see him again.  

There are other, more sophisticated ways of sneaking onto a golf course.  A Scottish friend of ours said he could get us on a major golf course for £25 each when the normal price is £150.  We said sure, set it up.  

Crieff Ferntower GC (not the course we sneaked on to).

When the appointed day came we went over to the course and our friend paid the starter £100 “under the table” for the four of us.  We were put into the queue as the Thompson foursome and the starter said when they check us at the turn we had to be the Thompsons.  None of us played well, we were all nervous about being caught as phony Thompsons.  At the turn we did everything we could to avoid the attention of the marshalls (After all, don’t outlaws usually avoid marshalls?). 

Gleneagles Queens course (not the course we sneaked on to).

I don’t know how the people at Montrose or the guy at at Moray could do it.  Our one experience with sneaking onto a course was enough to cure me.

     This next story is in honor of the season and has been published in various newspapers and magazines over the years.  It was first published on November 19, 1978.  Accompanying the story are some seasonal photos.

Thanksgiving Trip, 1964

“Closed.”  “Sorry.” The signs reflected off the glistening streets.  Neon colors splashed from the wet sidewalks.  Arcadia, California, was a lonely place for a stranger on Thanksgiving Day. 

All day I’d been involved with a speech tournament at Humbolt State University.  Amidst camaraderie and competition I hadn’t given much thought to being away from home on Thanksgiving.  But the coming darkness draped around my shoulders the shroud of the loneliness of a Linfield College freshman away from home.  

Canadian Geese at Baskett Slough Nation Wildlife Refuge.

When you’re eighteen and a freshman in college everything new is an adventure.  A tournament at Thanksgiving only meant a chance to see a new place and meet new people.  Reality, though, has a way of catching up, even with a freshman.

Geese and Mt Hood.

So, here I was wandering the dim streets, alone in a strange town seeking the only inexpensive restaurant within walking distance of my motel.  The garish florescent lighting of the cafeteria blinded me as I sought to adjust from the night.  Servers filled trays with the contempt of those forced to work when they too wanted to be home with their families. 

“THANKSGIVING SPECIAL -- A Complete Traditional Thanksgiving Dinner (with all the trimmings) -- $1.98, drink extra,” read the sign taped to the glass window overlooking trays of limp lettuce.  At the end of the line my tray had on it two thin slices of pressed turkey (mostly dark meat), a scoop of dressing, a scoop of whipped potatoes almost as runny as the speckled gravy on it, a small paper cup of cranberry sauce.  I paid extra for a glass of milk and a cup of coffee.

Two of Canby's wild turkeys in the neighbor's yard.

My hunger overcame my growing depression.  I found myself enjoying the food in spite of the surroundings.  As the plate to mouth motions became automatic my mind strayed out the rain streaked windows.  My thoughts wandered into the darkness and all the way home.  The family would be gathered at either an aunt’s house or our place.  Dinner of plump hot turkey, which I might have gotten to carve, fluffy dressing bulging with sausage and mushrooms, both mashed potatoes and yams with brown sugar, and all the extras that make traditions live would have been cleared away hours ago.  Uncle Lee and Dad would be lightheartedly arguing about who would deal the card game.  Aunt Loretta, Mom, my sister, and the cousins would be cutting the pies, whipping the cream, and sneaking bits of meat off Henrietta Hen’s carcass.  Someone might have pulled out a Christmas album which propriety dictates can’t be played until after Thanksgiving--or at least until the dinner itself was over. 

A car honking outside the cafeteria interrupted my communion.  I finished my coffee and left so hurriedly that I left a tip even though there hadn’t been a waitress.  Back on the damp street I tried to recapture visions of family and warmth.  The moment was gone.  I’d had my Thanksgiving, but would have to wait a few days to share it with those who mattered. 

Our house in Canby decorated in fall colors.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING EVERYONE from Bob and Anne