Old School - Wicked Little Town #2 - Third Friday Post - July 20th

When I was a small boy I remember going to the neighborhood bakery with my mother every Saturday morning.

Walking in, the place was huge (to my young self at least) with large glass display counters on three sides, wooden racks behind the counters and an old fashioned number/ticket machine on a pedestal inside the door.

Most Saturdays, when we took a number, it might be, say #76, and on the wall behind the counter was a non-digital hand flipped counter that may have read - Now Serving #44.

Yes, there would be thirty plus people ahead of us.

The wait was actually my favorite part. I got to peruse the cases peeking around other customers legs and looking for what I would want to get as my cookie treat. That cookie was in addition to the usuals, 6 honey buns, a loaf of bread, bagels, a layer cake of some sort and a few danishes, brownies or turnovers. (Did I mention how I LOVED weekends!)

The wait was never long at all. This because there must have been 8 or 9 women behind the counter, most of them in their 50's or 60's, librarian glasses on chains, old fashioned salon-set hair styles, all in their pink outfits and white shoes, calling on numbers, taking orders, filling pink bakery boxes, making change.

Then other helpers running trays up to the front to replace the empty ones. The cases were stuffed full, the bread racks filled, the cookie counter piled with trays of cookies.  The counter ladies were super friendly and so sweet to me as a child.

And looking back on that bakery, here's the thing. There was zero pretentiousness. . . Zero foodie / fad diet influence. . . Zero artisanal anything.

A true, old school bakery.



Now, you never know at that age that things will change. Some for the better and some, not so much. In those days, maybe because of the lack of movement in old, generationally settled families, it seemed like every city had many such neighborhoods, each with their own stores and shops.

It seems now that every city I lived in has lost that. The old school shops, eateries, bakeries, bookstores, newsstands, grocery stores and delis replaced with a never ending carousel of whatever the flavor of the month is in the retail world or larger, one-stop stores that seem to be everywhere now.

So when we moved to our little town by the bay, I was thrilled to find a true to life, old school bakery that still did things the old fashioned way and all from scratch.

Unassuming in it's looks when I step out my door at 5:30am just a stone's throw north of here, I can smell the donuts frying and the bread baking! 

It's run by a couple in their sixties who do ALL the baking themselves. They used to have a full staff but finding good help in small towns can be a real headache so now they're only open 4 days a week and they start their work day at 10pm. Yes, you read that right. 10PM.

They open at 5:30am and they close between 1 and 3pm when they run out of things (which is nearly every day)

I usually get a danish for my morning coffee (and a few extra for the weekend if I don't feel like baking on their closed days) and a little something for the afternoon too, which can be a hard choice.

The case if nearly full right at opening and there are trays waiting for room as the day goes on.

They've been at it for over 30 years in this location. At times they've consider selling it and retiring but have never gone through with it. According to them, most people who inquire, don't have clue about the hours or work needed to make it all from scratch each day and they're not willing to sell it to someone who is going to come in and make it a par-baked, freezer-to-oven kind place.

And the best part? Ohhhh yes, the prices. A fresh baked fruit or cheese danish or almond bear claw the size of a salad plate? $1.50. A donut or apple fritter? 75 cents. A loaf of fresh baked and sliced English Muffin Bread? $1.99 A ginormous two-person cinnamon roll? $2.50

At least a dozen times each summer I overhear people from the city in there telling them, "You really need to raise your prices!"

No, they don't. That's old school.

And in the seven years we've been here, I've come to think, when this place goes, it will be about time to move on for me too.

 Seriously.  :)

The harbor is just a few blocks away. A great place to sit with a danish and coffee and watch the fishing boats roll in or out. 

We've got a few old school places like this. The general store, the old grocery store, the counter diner. Yet none of them have kept that feel quite like our little bakery. :)

Thanks for dropping by, as always, see you again soon!

nicolas

"She's Cold Blooded" - Wicked Little Town #1 - Third Friday Post - May 18th

Well, here we go, my new third Friday topic, Wicked Little Town is an inside peek at some of the little things I've noticed about living in a very small town of 800 ppl. All names are changed, of course, and some of the stories may be just a bit of a stretch. . . but then again, maybe not. :)  There's nothing Wicked about the town to us but it's definitely one of those places that the kids can't wait to get away from when they are out of school. :)

I hope you will enjoy these small tales!

"She's Cold Blooded"

We'd lived here barely 6 months when we decided to take our car to a mechanic as it seemed to be having trouble with stalling out at stops and red lights.

Our car is a 1987 Plymouth Horizon hatchback. I am pretty sure I told the story before or at least mentioned but we got Babs (named after the only former owner) from a friend of mine who I knew in Portland. It was his mother's car and it had been sitting in the parking garage of her apartment building for a year and a half. I was told it would not start but had an inkling it just needed a new battery after that long.

Babs (the car) was a true, "little old lady who only drove her to church" story, and had just 16,000 miles on her when we bought her for $300 dollars (blue book value) We put another $500 in on tires, battery and a complete tune-up before we moved.  The stalling had been an issue even then but we noticed it less because we drove so much less in the city.

So we asked around and got a recommendation for a mechanic to take her to. Directions in a small town are often given like this: "Go south on the highway and just before town take a left at the bank
(THE bank) then pull around behind the carwash and you'll see it. . .I don't think there's a sign or anything but the garage door will be open."

Perfect directions by the way. No google maps, no GPS. No highway exits. I love that.

So we pulled up, parked and went on in.

I kind of had an idea what to expect. See, I lived in a slightly larger small town about 12 years before and had the best mechanic ever there. He worked out of his own home and he actually helped me go after an auto repair shop in town who had done some faulty work which resulted in more repairs needing done at one point which is how I found the home mechanic. I was grateful and never went anywhere else again. Plus, one of the usual visitors to this guys house was another local who was quite certain the CIA and FBI were watching his every move. The mechanic would always look at me like he wanted to apologize but I shook my head, I did not mind at all. It was . . . entertaining to say the least.

Now, back to the new small town.

OK, imagine every small town mechanic/garage stereotype your mind can conjure. . . they're all probably at least partly right in this case.

This is a "garage" I was informed, not an auto repair shop. The couple ( I think they were a couple) were both in their 60's and as I looked around, I saw quite a lot you just wouldn't find in most auto repair places today. Benches full of misc tools scattered here and there. Tables with plenty of parts either being stripped or rebuilt. . . hard to know which. Oh, you can get a rebuilt this and that thru an auto-parts dealer but here, in the garage, the guy rebuilds things himself. On site. Goes out to the junk yard and finds what he needs or to the auto parts store and does it right there.

"Cheaper for you that way" he told me.

Look around the dimly lit garage with hanging old fashioned bare light bulbs. Racy calendar on the wall, spare parts in boxes on the shelf that look as old as Babs,  half eaten sandwich on a brown bag on the counter. od fashioned soda bottle on the counter (I meant to ask where that came from!)

Old rags, oil cans that look like they belong to the Tin Man, old fashioned air machine. The list goes on and on.  Ok, getting the picture? Add the smell of gasoline, oil, rubber, grease. . . yep, that's the garage.

We left Babs for a check up and mentioned the stalling problem.
"Sure thing, got it!" we were told.

Three days later we were called to come and pick her up.

When we went in the guy was a whole lot more friendly the second time around, I think because he kind of took a liking to Babs and saw that for an old car, she was kept in really good shape. He liked the story of how we got her. .. everyone in our small town does.

Anyway, that stalling issue? When we went back in the office to pay (cash only!) we were told there wasn't really anything more they could do. "That old girl's just cold blooded." the smoky-voiced lady told us, "You just have to let her warm up longer than today's cars."  adding in "She's a reaaaaal beauty though."

Forty one dollars for the check up and some belts. . . cool.

Small towns. . . Good people.

We went out and got in Babs and drove away and, true to form, she stalled at the first light we came to. Five years later, she would still be doing that regularly if not for my mother reminding me of her old Chevy that she had to ride double footed (a foot on the brake and one on the gas at the same time ) so she could  race/rev the engine slightly at stops. Works like a charm.

So yes, We still have Babs today. Now she has double that original mileage but she's still a great car. Dependable despite her little eccentricities that would probably drive most new car owners today crazy. She's vintage now, after all.  31 years old. And she carried us here, away from the city to this little town.

I've had old cars like Babs most of my adult life. One of the unexpected joys about an older car is  that, on any given day, I'll pull into a gas station, or the farm store, or the grocery store, or the library lot and someone stops you and says something like,  "Man, I drove a car just like that one from Seattle to San Diego when I was 19. . . I loved that car."

You can hear it in their voice. They mean it.

We love ours too.

That's Babs!

Creating the World We Live In

Last night I was discussing the town I grew up in with my mother who is now 80 years old and who lives in the house my grandparents built back in 1950. This was, as many Midwest US towns were in the early part of the 20th century, a factory town. Steel and glass to be precise.

The entire neighborhood I grew up in existed only because of the mill and, by the time I was a kid, the steel industry was already taking it's leave from our town. Jobs had been outsourced and builders were placing orders overseas. Clean air and clean waterways were also now a priority and the combination of many factors led to the reduction of jobs and eventual closing of the mills.

My grandfather worked in those mills for 45 years. My brother had been working in them for a dozen. The town, once thriving with four pharmacies, three grocery stores, over a dozen and a half churches and a hundred or so small shops, slowly began to disappear too. The public was being drawn out of the cities to the suburbs and for the neighborhoods built along the rivers close in to the city, the tide had turned.

So, in talking with mom about the old days, I realized that we had totally different ideas of what the town was like.

In her day, when she was just out of school she worked walking distance from their house at a flower shop, a dress shop and a diner. She shopped every weekend after the matinee movies and spent many Saturday nights at the soda fountains in those pharmacies. The five and dime was a must see each week to catch new, inexpensive imports and clothing and the ethnic flair in the food, born of the community consisting of German, Polish, Slovak, Hungarian, Irish, Greek and Italian families that lived there, must have been a treasure for the taste buds.

In my day, what was a fractured but still close knit community was, to her, a crumbling shadow of it's former self. I grew up with one pharmacy. One grocery store and every other building along the 10 blocks or so of the main street closed and boarded up.

It was only in the last few years, in looking on line for old photos of the neighborhood and in talking more and more with my mother about the history of that place, that I came to know it in her day.  In the images of the town from the 40's and 50's I find bits and pieces of my childhood too. Some of the businesses that remained when I was a teenager were there even back then. Harder to spot in the pictures of busy streets, lively foot traffic and every door and window filled with life.

But I never knew that thriving town. It never existed in my life. And when I got to the age of making adult decisions, I did not see much in the way of reasons to stay.

I have been back the last few years to visit her and have taken several drives around the town with her. It is going through a mini-revitalization. A new library, a summer farmers stand, community projects to beautify the area. Though it comes too late for many of the lovely buildings that fell into disrepair all those years being empty.  Now there are single and sometimes double and triple gaps between all the buildings where others once stood.

It's hard to believe I lived there at all. It's no longer "home" in some ways but still every bit as much so in others.

So this is my point.

The world I have created with my miniatures and artwork, and with my life in total, is very much like life in the town I grew up in. Wherever we live, to some extent, you tailor your life to fit the location. To fit what is at your disposal. And many choose living in places where they have every possibility and convenience around them. . . though often at the expense of having to drive, commute, speed up, do more and more, schedule, compromise and somehow find the time to fit it all in and the money to pay for it.

If I showed you images of the town I grew up in, you might think, never having lived there, "No wonder you got out!"It wasn't pretty and it had, in the end, nothing to make it an "easy" place to live.

But it is what I knew. All I knew. And I think, one of the keys to being able to create THIS world I have built around me here, in this beautiful and affordable place I live now, comes from what I found in those days long ago.

You see, the very small town I live in now is also somewhat aged and, in the sense of the beauty of urban-ness, not much to look at.  Though being at the very edge of a massive ocean bay and set in among lush tree covered hills makes up for a lot and I always will prefer the beauty and abundance of nature, as well as a general lack of humans to the hum and rattle of any thriving urban environment.

But coming here and building a life that could support our art, that would allow us to not worry about money so much (we cut our expenses drastically when we left the city four years ago and it made ALL the difference in allowing us to focus on our creative work 24/7)  and giving me the freedom to stroll to the grocery store, post office and bakery, to a beautiful waterfront or to the library, city hall and fish markets. . . all withing 5 minutes walk, it's as close as I could hope to get.

And somehow, in some way that I am sure I am far from being able to articulate, the lost town I grew up in is a huge part of the work I create too. I was always inside my imagination as a child. Always creating worlds of escape and possibility. There was really nowhere else to go in those years. It just took me a few decades to realize that to live in a world built on that imagination as an adult meant leaving much of this modern but no less self-created one behind.

For my mother, today,  "creating" means talking about the old times and living in the very fond memory of what was all those years ago. And I get it now. I am the same. All I have done is create that world in my work. In the fairy realms and miniature worlds of my choosing. I bring it to life every day. I create, quite literally, the world that I live in.

And in that, I have to give credit to the town I grew up in. . . even the one from my Mother's childhood years that I never knew. To the place where perhaps the ghosts of what once was lingered just long enough to speak to me of possibilities and map-making and imagination. . . and to tell me that I, in my own way, could live there too.

I believe that we, ultimately, create the world we live in.
Everywhere.
Every day.

We choose.


xo
nicolas

This was the main street in my Mom's day during the 1950's the wonderful brick architecture of these early 1900's buildings. The Five and Dime, the cobblestone roads and the trolley tracks. and that's the flower shop she used to work at on the left.

The Beauty of Silence Returns

Living in a coastal town that runs on the fishing industry means that the summers from Memorial day to Labor day are, as you might expect, overrun with tourists and fishing boats. RVers and campers.

Today, walking down to the bay at 8am with the tide at it's lowest, we went to cross the street and, by the time we hit the crosswalk, we realized that we have "our town" back again. Looking north and south down the road, there was just one single car visible as far as we could see.

And that, is a lovely thing. . .

The sound of the town is different these 9 months. You can hear the kingfishers, gulls, herons and terns all the way from the bay, the ravens and crows are a little more likely to come by in the mornings for bread again as the digs on the street are not nearly as good. The nights are a little less rowdy and the harbor itself, though still filled with boats as salmon season approaches, is decidedly quieter too.

In my life I have always been an autumn child. I'm willing to say some of it is the school year schedule that allows September to take on the feel of possibility and newness every year since.

Though I also think it is the change in weather,
The feel in the air.
The leaves beginning to turn
The shorter and shorter days

The change in season  stirs my soul like very few things can and never more so than from the boisterous warmth of summer to the slowly turning and fading of Autumn all around me.  .  .

The creative fires burn brighter too in this air of Autumn alchemy
I could work round the clock in this season and dream endlessly of new things to make.

But the best part of all is, it all comes in on the blissful echo and the beauty of silences
As the season that subdues so many, brings the world here and within myself,  back to life

Happy Autumn

nicolas

There's This Little Place I Know

One of my favorite things about selling my work on line, which excited me from the very start of this adventure,  is the ability to connect with people throughout the world.

Having loved traveling when I was younger I could easily imagine my packages arriving in far off places, especially places throughout the world I had visited.

What I did not know is that it would stimulate my imagination so much is learning about all the places my packages go. When I've sold something to Rome, Paris, Dublin, Chicago, Montreal, Sydney, Edinburgh etc etc I can instantly picture these places and it is a thrill to ship something to a person who discovered your work from halfway across the world.  But what I love even more is selling to someone who lives in a small town, a village, a remote location on any continent. Small towns that I have never heard of before. I turn immediately to our old friend, Wikipedia, and I spend a few minutes familiarizing myself with the where and whens of it's history and locale. The inevitable pictures of main streets, historic sights, architecture, sweeping landscapes and vistas and old twisting roads and pathways pull at something in my heart. Of course, I've chosen to live in one of those towns too so what registers is the instant realization that someone who lives as I do, but many miles away, can find my shop, see my work, and decide to bring it into their home or gift it to someone they love.

In the past week I've shipped packages off to places like

Theresa, Wisconsin (pop 1200)
Havre Boucher, Nova Scotia  (pop 1500)
Crickhowell, Wales (pop 2,800)
Gravdal, Norway (pop 1500)

Each allowed me a chance to peek into the remote and unheralded places of our world.

I suppose what interests me most is this. I feel like I know cities. I've lived in my share. It's not that they are all the same but they all have very similar dynamics to them. Population density, a mix of old and new architectures and infrastructure. Constant change and shuffle. Lives pass through them in a heartbeat with no trace left to remember them by. The cities ARE the stories. . . and they are, at this point in my life, rather overwhelming to consider.

People actually use the term "livable city" these days. That should tell you all you need to know.

But for all of their grandness and opportunity and energy, they are desperately lacking in something I find to be a necessity. Continuity.

Especially in this country, old is not nearly appreciated enough be that in people or buildings.  Face-lifts on both offer a promise of newness and vitality but it's all a facade.

Cities, it seems to me,  swallow people whole. . .

Smaller places. Landscapes and places that do not change. . . one leaves a mark there. Stories evolve over time and lives stretch into the very fiber of the places they inhabit. That's lore. That's history. And it is not forgotten. That's what is interesting and eternal about them.

Look up Halstatt, Austria (pop 950) on Wikipedia and you will find a photo of the town from just a few years ago as well as one from 1898. There is so little difference in them it's amazing. Same scene, same buildings. Same beauty. No one moves there to "be something." or to attain anything (except, obviously, peace and soulful living) No one moves there to cash in on real estate opportunities or to bring something new to the town. no one moves there for social outlets or the overt distractions of population densities as we all have done with our city dwelling.

The US has it's share of places like this too. My town is one. Every building here has a story and it's not something you have to look up or dig to discover. Just ask anyone old enough and they can tell you it all. People in cities can;t tell you about the last person to live in their house or apartment let alone the history of the block, neighborhood or community. 

But in my town? A lot of people today and their families have lived here in this little fishing town for generations. Yes, things change here as with any US town. Our culture and economic structure demands it unfortunately. Change and growth are synonymous with success in the US and are often just an ephemeral illusion and an empty promise. But much stays the same too.

This little coastal town I live in is a gem. All the places I listed above are too. . . If I were to travel again in my lifetime, THESE are the places I'd want to see. But i am content here. . .and that is a feeling I never had in the city.

But that's me. . . I'm Larkrise to Candleford over EastEnders . . . Little House over Gotham City

These little discoveries are one of the many reciprocal gifts of what I do. These "out there" places work their way, in the smallest but most meaningful of ways, into my stories.
Into my paracosm.
Into my heart.

I won't forget them

Small Town Vignette #1

There are so many things I absolutely love about living, by choice, in a little town of 800.  Some are expected given the size and some are random, it-could-only-happen-here, sort of events.



Across the street from my studio windows is an old fashioned Barber Shop with the old fashioned moving red, white and blue striped barber pole in the window. The woman who owns it is always very busy the five days a week she is open. Almost all old timer's and retirees are her clientele. It's a rarity to see her chair empty though.

Awhile back she was closed for months during a series of chemo treatments for cancer. When she returned the turnout was beautiful. . . all her old clients returned and business is, from where I sit, good.

Just the other day we noticed a new addition beside the barber shop. Built by her husband to look like and old style, blue and white phone booth, it is a little booth with a seat in it and the sign, instead of "Telephone" says, "Cell Phone Booth"

I love this for several reasons.

One, it's just a great way to say, "take your calls outside please!" without it being confrontational or rude. Seriously, I am so grateful to live in a place where the majority of people scrunch up their face and shake their heads when someone is using a cellphone inside a business. Personally, I have, for some time now, had it with the need for people to be "connected" 24-7 in every store and in every place of business. And I applaud any business that will draw that line and say, "Not in here"

But more than that I love the fact that, without a doubt in our town, there was no permit process or debate over whether this little addition was ok or not just off the public sidewalk. No sign zoning or city ordinance to deal with. Though it is quite possible a deal was made for volunteer hours or a donation.

The point is that I love being in a place where people are left to do as they wish (within limits) and that there is still room for a little ingenuity and originality and it doesn't cost you to do it at every turn. Occasionally this means having to deal with the guy who has a fire-pit and a couple of beat up couches on his lawn for his weekend loving, classic rock, beer drinking soirees. Even that becomes endearing in it's own way. . .

This little fishing town is changing as it turns it's collective eye to tourism a bit more but, in the meantime, I will enjoy the small things like that cell phone booth and celebrate the fact that places still exist where nothing much changes but, when it does, it isn't always necessary to fill out an application and apply for permission for it to change.

:)

Silence and Gratitude

I've done it again. . . gone over a month without saying much. . . silence is a dear friend to me but I seem to lose track of time so easily these days.

Some of you may know that I spent part of June and July on jury duty here. First on a trial jury for an eminent domain case and then, as luck would have it, my number was called to fill an absence on our county grand jury for two months immediately following that.

It was, in our small rural county, a breeze and simply a joy to serve on the grand jury. There was only one case where the members of the grand jury had any disagreement at all. And that was simply on a lesser, unimportant charge.

But I have to say that 8 consecutive weeks of listening to the stories of people who just can't get their life together, who seem to have no idea that there is another way to live and who, often, repeat the same mistakes countless times over within the lives they live. . . well, it all starts to wear on a person.

It drove me to a bout of silence and solitude in it's aftermath.

And from that comes a wealth of gratitude.

As one of my great aunts used to say repeatedly, "There, by the grace of God, go I"

I grew up with a brother, much older, who made just about every bad choice you can make when it comes to life. And while some families seem to breed a consistent pattern of such behavior, I am happy to say that he was the exception to the rule in ours. And all that I saw him go through was like a guide book of what not to do. . . how not to live.

But there is one event in my young adult life that I believe was very instrumental to my not turning out like that or ever stepping down those pathways at all.

When I was 19, out of school, a little lost myself. . . a friend of mine at a club (where I was underage) one night asked out of the blue, "Hey, do you want to go to Europe?"

She was trying to get some distance from a suffocating girlfriend/relationship and just wanted to get far away for a few weeks.Europe seemed far enough. . .

I, with little thought, said "Sure, why not."

That trip and all of it's twists and turns was a life changer for me in how I perceived the world around me. Suzy, who I always thought was such a strong person, had trouble with the currencies, the languages, the constant need to be on our guard and make decisions and meet trains, get rooms etc etc. And I, who had no idea I could, stepped up to fill in when she was unable, and vice versa. . .  we were perfect travel companions and I leanred so much about my own abilities and areas that needed improvement.

We spent an all-nighter in Piccadilly Circus in London when we could not get a train out due to not having British pounds after banking hours. We considered, but rejected, an offer from a young couple to stay and work in their pub in the Lake District, and then our proposed "day trip" to Paris that ended up being a 4 day love affair with all things French.

There was the little Riviera village of Menton where I was solicited by a little old grocery store owner as a date for her granddaughter and, again, offered a job. ( I spoke French fairly well then)

The overnight mail train to Scotland and stepping out, pre dawn in Edinburgh, just in time to see the sun arriving over the mythic Arthur's Seat. . .

The list goes on. And while I neglect to mention them there were plenty of moody moments and discouragements too. . .

But the truth is, all these years later, I can look to that journey as the time I came to realize there were no limits to where I could go or what I could do. I returned to the US but could have easily stayed in France, Britain, Scotland, Switzerland, Belgium. . . somehow, just knowing I could, was enough.

And I can say in retrospect that I never looked at life the same again. . . suddenly the world was wide open and while I had little desire to roam the world in a drifting way, I knew that I was not limited to one thing, one place, one situation, for any amount of  time.

I grew to believe that I could create any world I wished as well, no matter where I was.

This is turning out to be true creatively too. I do not feel stuck to any one thing or "life" with my creativity. If I want to try to succeed at something new, I will. And, without a doubt, I have created the ability to make a living by not only doing what I love and being true to who I was in childhood, but by adapting and shifting when necessary to keep things moving forward. 

A little compromise, a little stubbornness, a little solitude . . .  and a lot of faith.

So yes, there is much gratitude for what I avoided by allowing myself to open to possibilities. Years later I learned that this country I live in is big enough to provide a wealth of scenery, lifestyle and opportunity if one is willing to get up and go. . .

In the end, I have chosen simplicity. Small town, rural county, more cows than people. . . the internet makes this possible, opening new opportunities to just about anyone. . .

That'sit really. . . not so much a story as a meandering of thought.

With a healthy does of gratitude for everything in my world.

For any of YOU if you took the time to read this.

Autumn is hanging so close on the horizon.
My season of choice
And as always
I will emerge
Create
And be grateful. . .

~nicolas

Poem - Starling Spring

In the city, Spring was my least favorite of seasons
Winter kept the streets silent
Everyday rain makes people go inside and
Whether that was a metaphor
Or just a corner bar
Made little difference to me
In my own treasured world
I did not have to bear the cacophony of
Jumbled hearts
Or displaced souls
Shrieking in the night

The downpour of winter was bliss
And every stormy day
Sang as a liturgy of beautiful hours
And unbroken solitude

Today, in this small town I now call home
The sun is a harbinger of the season at hand
Outside my window, starlings are busily going about it
Building their March nests and
Singing their intricate arias to attract a mate
For hours on end the hopeful
Perch and croon
Preen and display
And to my surprise
Their cacophony
Breathes a beauty into the season
I have rarely felt as an adult

Spring, in all it's bustle, is suddenly
A different place
A lesson learned
An old friend
I can embrace
Once again

- nicolas hall 2013

The Weight of Existence

It has been 8 months since we left the city. . .  there are ways I feel the change in a very immediate sense and then, in other ways, the changes are not as noticed until something brings them to our attention.

Yesterday morning, with dawn light just beginning to pour over the coast range,  I sat here looking out the window and watched the sky begin to glow. I turned away to begin my work day and, after a minute or two, I turned back realizing there was something outside the window that was just "off".

A quick survey of the surrounding area told me it was that there seemed to be an inordinate number of gulls and crows flying about.  To see these scavenger birds, along with herons, pelicans, swallows, terns, cormorants and geese is, of course, not at all uncommon. But to see them so close, circling and perched on the wires across the street, calling so shrill in the early morning, just seemed out of place.

As I watched, several of the birds took advantage of the lack of traffic on the road to swoop down and land at, what I then saw, was a dead seagull. It had been hit in the night by a car or truck. It lay on it's back, it's brilliant white wings spread out and slightly upward as if awaiting a deliverance from that hard asphalt spot.

I watched for a minute as crows and gulls approached and, it occurred to me that the crows were busy feeding upon the gull while it's kin seemed to be trying to pull at it's feathers. . . almost as if to remove it from the road.

A few seconds later I could hear the sound of a car approaching on the road and, as it reached the spot, it had to slow. The crows, always keen and aware in busy road conditions, had safely flown up to the wires again but the seagulls, more used to the lull of the bay and the ocean and at worst, a passing fishing boat, did not make a great attempt to get out of the way of the car.  

The car passed by going around the site and, a moment later another approached and I watched the same scene play out.

I decided I could not wait a moment longer and I immediately threw on the first jacket I could find and grabbed a large garbage bag and headed barefoot down the steps and out the door.

I reached the street and saw no vehicles coming. The crows and gulls had returned to their tasks around the fallen bird. They scattered as I approached, again the gulls not clearing the way but just moving along the road a bit,  and I stood over the gull, it's wings spread a full 3 to 4 feet tip to tip and each feather along the span still so perfectly and beautifully aligned.

I bent over and covered the bird with the bag and scooped it up as quickly as I could and, having not thought beyond this moment, stood in the street unsure what to do next.

Before that thought could be completed I was overtaken with the realization that a bird like this, that I had watched and marveled at it being so magnificent and impressive in the air, and even in the prone death pose on the ground, could weigh so little now here in my hands. The thought carried me unconsciously and I found myself then on the side of the road holding onto the bird, wrapped in the bag and I could not help but be fixated on it's lightness. . . and consumed with the thought of the weight of it's existence.

My entire day was affected. . . as was the next and still, today, it hangs there within me. 

8 months ago, and all the years prior living in the city, I would not have noticed "too many" birds gathering anywhere or if there was any rhythm or pattern to their movements at all.  I have loved birds all my life but not since the days of my childhood, when I would lay on my back beneath my grandmothers bird feeder and watch them in awe and wonder as they flew in and out of the tree have I felt that I was truly a part of this life WITH them. . .

There is no going back for me. . . the weight of my existence is growing noticeably and considerably lighter since I chose this place. What it allows for is more room to breathe and to grow, more emptying of the old and unnecessary and a stronger belief, as I often express in my visual art, that there is a theory of flight that just may allow us to, one day, spread our own wings and ascend.

nicolas

Squeezing Through the Neck - Poem

Two blocks below
The bay pushes gently over stony shores
Marking cycles of time
As the fleet of fishing boats crawls in and out of their berths in a similar, constant rhythm

Five blocks above
The range of mountains rises sharply,
Standing still against time
Clouds hang there
Snatched upon the pines and pulled over the ridge,
Closing the roof around this little town

We are scattered along 12 or so odd blocks between
People pass through, squeezing through this bottleneck of a town
Pushed between the bay and the mountains
They must feel constrained with the long narrow passage
It must feel like choking on the palpable lack of motion
It must be why they never
Stop

We chose to stop here
To stay here
Settling into the midst of the neck
Between bay and mountain
Where the lack of
The less of
Doesn't choke us
Here, we swallow
And every morsel of this life
Tastes so sweet

~nicolas hall 2012

Death Knell For Another Coastal Community

I read this in a small coastal business paper today.

"The creative class of people is one of the signs of an emerging area. Then rich people are attracted to that gritty feel."

I felt immediately ill. . .

As I reflect on it, my gut feeling is that this story, played out in community after community, is killing this country faster than anything else I see on the near horizon.

It is also in great part why I removed myself from the hipster haven of Portland to the small, blue collar fishing village I now call home. One with no room for pretentiousness or attitude. It is the antithesis of a town like the one described in that quote. One that will never likely turn itself out for the quick fix of the  "revitalization" and "progress" that others have sold the soul of their own towns for.

Goodbye Astoria. . . I'll remember you as you were while the wave of hipster attitude quickly erodes your unique landscape and charm and tramples your historic soul, I wish you peace.