Tuesday, October 10, 2023

Oregon Dreaming

                                                               Obe is dreamin' with me.

I have often dreamed of a Beach house sitting on the sand, no yard work, just sand up to the door. The sea is ahead; I can see it from my window, but behind the house, there are trees, for I love trees and need them in my life.


At my little dream house, I can write all day and party with friends at night. Nobody cares if the house is clutter free or the table is perfectly set. We drink wine, eat great food we have all prepared, have great conversations, and laugh a lot. 


After hearing the play Carousel rehearsed, and my husband, Neil, singing in it, and then attending the performance by the Lindfield College thespians and choir, the lyrics to This Was a Real Nice Clambake gives me a tickle every time I run across it. I almost named my memoir "This Was a Real Good Clambake," meaning my life. But I've never attended a clambake. I wrote about digging clams and frying them, though, at a little rented house in Long Beach Washington—thus the clambake song came to my attention.


This commentary came from reviewing my memoir, which I now call Come On, I Dare You, meaning write your own memoir. And when I came to the frying of clams, the lyrics of Rogers and Hammerstein's This Was a Real Good Clambake was there again, so cheerful and fun. Have you tried singing while smiling? It's impossible.


Rodgers and Hammerstein researched a lot to write that song. They wanted to know the procedure, the pit, the hot rocks, packing clams in seaweed, sprinkling salt water on them as they cooked, and what other food went well with the clams. They even collected recipes. Some say clambakes came from the Native Americans, but others say that is not the case. It is a New England invention. Clams used to be fed to the pigs.


My blog took a nosedive—I guess I wore people out with Conversations Under the Maple. I was basking in the sweetness of having my readership jump from 9,699 in August to 40,915 in September, but now it's a trickle—I love you faithful tricklers though. And usually, I don't get too concerned about numbers. If someone shows up, they ought to receive something. 


Perhaps people could feel my dilemma in wanting the meetings under the Maple to be in a sweet place while knowing that if people are to grow and share and be honest, they ought to bring their positives and negatives to the table. The idea was to eventually accentuate the positive and eliminate the negative. 


I was prompted by reading that many people feel displaced, sad, and alone after the Pandemic and that the world is wonky right now, they need friendly meeting places. To have a healthy culture, we ought to provide such sites—thus, one group of six individuals elected to meet once a week under the maple tree in Ollie’s backyard. Perhaps they should take a sabbatical for the winter. But Shal's baby will probably be born by then. Shal was so excited to tell you guys about their pregnancy. He and his wife were about to enter into fertility treatments, when viola' they got pregnant on their own. "Fascinating,” said Ollie, “that this happened after Shal began meditating, although, stranger things have happened." Shal's wife is a PA (Physician's Assistant) 36, and he is 40. And they have worked out their jobs and childcare. Shal’s shirt is popping its buttons.


I wish them a perfect child. She will be fearless and go into the world to do phenomenal things.