The faint path edged slowly down the side of the mountain. Small streams tumbled here and there, down the side of the mountain cutting across the path. Larry would carefully jump over or wade through the streams. Along each stream, there would be a small path that would wind along the side of each ribbon of water up the mountain. Sometimes he could see small caves from which the streams would emerge. What did this all mean, Larry thought.
As he descended he began to walk among small then larger trees. What had been little rivlets became larger streams, which finally became roaring streams. The path became a little wider. It obviously had seen use, but there were no footprints or tracks of any sort. After several hours of walking Larry sat down next to a larger stream. The path now followed the side of this larger stream. There were lots of trees now, wide meadows and the slope became more gentle as he neared the valley floor. It was warm. If there would have been a sun, Larry thought, it surely would be afternoon. He had been walking now for many hours, first down the long tunnel and then down the side of the mountain. He was exhausted. He laid down on some soft grass and was soon fast asleep.
He slept for he knew not how long. When he awoke the light was still bright and the air warm. He had had nothing to eat since the night before. He was thirsty. Despite being near water the entire trip, he had never stopped to drink. He took several steps down to the edge of the stream and cupped his hand to take up a drink of the pure water. He began to drink. Immediately he threw his hand down. This was no water! It was sweet! As sweet as any drink he had before. It had the distinct taste of sweet lemonade. He wetted his hand again and licked the moisture off to be sure. He was not mistaken. It was deliciously sweet. He cupped his hand and satisfied his thirst with the sweet liquid.
Lining the stream bed were colored rocks of different sizes and shapes. They were everywhere. He had seen nothing like it before. He picked up a particularly beautiful one. It looked good enough to eat, he thought. It was nothing but a rock, nevertheless he just popped it in his mouth. Again he was shocked. This "rock" tasted like sugar, yet different. He began to lick it and slowly it dissolved like a sucker. This rock was rock candy. Where am I, he exclaimed out loud. A small piece of driftwood lay by the side of the stream. He carefully tasted it. Sure enough, it too was candy, chocolate like, to be exact. He reached up and grabbed a leaf from the nearest tree. Again it was sweet candy. Everywhere he looked he picked up this thing or that. Everything was candy. Even the very soil. I am in a place where everything is candy, he thought.
His worries about something to eat dissapeared, as he ate candy leaves and grass, he peeled bark from the tree which tasted like chocolate. Small twigs were tasty sweet morsals. Ice cold lemonade from the stream.
All of a sudden he saw movement. He quickly turned his head. He could not believe what he had just seen. It quickly dissappeared behind a tree and dropped from view. He rubbed his eyes in disbelief.
Monday, May 14, 2007
Kaisa's Memories of Fishing Trips or Writing Lyrics from Boat Cushions
It seems eight lifetimes ago that I wrestled myself out of bed to tumble into the backseat of the truck or car where everything would still be grey with twilight.
Every trip would commence with a stop by Dunkin' Donuts - or at least the fresh water trips before we upgraded to the ocean. Everytime I wanted the same thing, a strawberry jelly or a vanilla cream filled. I occasionally brave the transfat demons and try one when I go back to Salem, but they never taste the same.
In the very early days, I would also get a hot chocolate heated to the approximate temperatures it takes to heat the fires of Vulcan. Even though I would try to be prudent, I would always end up scalding my tongue to the point where everything I ate for the next 24 hours would taste slightly citrus.
And because I was with Dad, this would be a whole lot of candy.
Scott was usually huddled in the corner in a quilted green coat, ripe for either cuddling or harrassing, depending on my mood. The a.m. was usually reserved for cuddling. We would sometimes share a seatbelt (if we wore one at all) as the car wound its way on mountain curves towards whatever lake we were going. Although it was cold and it was going to be horribly cold wherever we ended up, for the moment, in the car, everything was pleasantly close and warm. There was never a trip where my Dad wouldn't blast the heat. To this day I still hold a disproportionate amount of fondness for any man who will turn the heat to high. It's much rarer than I could have guessed at that time, when I was young and beautiful and planning to be a famous writer/model/actress.
When we finally got out on the lake after enduring the stretched time from the unloading of the supplies to the launch on to the water, two things would become quickly apparent. 1) It was freezing and 2) it was really quiet. Both were natural enemies to young Olsen children.
There was a Oliver Cromwell style kerosene space heater in the boat that was either dead or scalding. No sinful temperance for that thing. To receive heat you must be baptized by fire, and this was the objective of the dangerous thing. Scott and I would hold our denim encased legs close to its grated front as long as we could stand it, and then pull away, shreiking. After about three minutes our smoldering jeans would cool to a pleasant warmness that lasted about two seconds until we had to start the whole thing again.
This activity was usually accompanied by our enthusiastic if somewhat eccentric singing. Everything in our view was subject to verse, from our father telling us to be quiet to the ever present danger of losing your bait and hook in the swampy bottomless seaweed.
Our favorite for a good while however was a simple chant named "Gale Force Warning". For the record, the lyrics go "Gale Force Warning (repeat three times)/Storm Force Warning (repeat three times)/ and finally (with feeling) HURRICANE WARNING!!! WHOOOOOOOO!!!"
It wasn't until I had children of my own that I even knew my Dad was listening. It was a creative and motivating song, but I must confess I stole the lyrics from the floation cushion that had probably been purchased long before I told Scott too much thumb sucking affected his ability to divest milk duds of their chocolate coating. (Which therefore meant he had to give them to me to get the chocolate off so he could have the much easier to digest caramel portion and not suffer any gastronomical discomfort.)
These were good times, and unlike a lot happy things that zip past before you have time to get used to them, I knew they were as they surrounded me. At the end of every fishing trip, right after my Dad slit open the bellies of the unfortunate fish to show me what they had been eating, a spongey feeling of melancholy overcame my soul. The wind of late afternoon shaking the branches of the lazy maples seemed to predict an unavoidable fate where life didn't permit such pleasant freefall, and it was coming soon.
Every trip would commence with a stop by Dunkin' Donuts - or at least the fresh water trips before we upgraded to the ocean. Everytime I wanted the same thing, a strawberry jelly or a vanilla cream filled. I occasionally brave the transfat demons and try one when I go back to Salem, but they never taste the same.
In the very early days, I would also get a hot chocolate heated to the approximate temperatures it takes to heat the fires of Vulcan. Even though I would try to be prudent, I would always end up scalding my tongue to the point where everything I ate for the next 24 hours would taste slightly citrus.
And because I was with Dad, this would be a whole lot of candy.
Scott was usually huddled in the corner in a quilted green coat, ripe for either cuddling or harrassing, depending on my mood. The a.m. was usually reserved for cuddling. We would sometimes share a seatbelt (if we wore one at all) as the car wound its way on mountain curves towards whatever lake we were going. Although it was cold and it was going to be horribly cold wherever we ended up, for the moment, in the car, everything was pleasantly close and warm. There was never a trip where my Dad wouldn't blast the heat. To this day I still hold a disproportionate amount of fondness for any man who will turn the heat to high. It's much rarer than I could have guessed at that time, when I was young and beautiful and planning to be a famous writer/model/actress.
When we finally got out on the lake after enduring the stretched time from the unloading of the supplies to the launch on to the water, two things would become quickly apparent. 1) It was freezing and 2) it was really quiet. Both were natural enemies to young Olsen children.
There was a Oliver Cromwell style kerosene space heater in the boat that was either dead or scalding. No sinful temperance for that thing. To receive heat you must be baptized by fire, and this was the objective of the dangerous thing. Scott and I would hold our denim encased legs close to its grated front as long as we could stand it, and then pull away, shreiking. After about three minutes our smoldering jeans would cool to a pleasant warmness that lasted about two seconds until we had to start the whole thing again.
This activity was usually accompanied by our enthusiastic if somewhat eccentric singing. Everything in our view was subject to verse, from our father telling us to be quiet to the ever present danger of losing your bait and hook in the swampy bottomless seaweed.
Our favorite for a good while however was a simple chant named "Gale Force Warning". For the record, the lyrics go "Gale Force Warning (repeat three times)/Storm Force Warning (repeat three times)/ and finally (with feeling) HURRICANE WARNING!!! WHOOOOOOOO!!!"
It wasn't until I had children of my own that I even knew my Dad was listening. It was a creative and motivating song, but I must confess I stole the lyrics from the floation cushion that had probably been purchased long before I told Scott too much thumb sucking affected his ability to divest milk duds of their chocolate coating. (Which therefore meant he had to give them to me to get the chocolate off so he could have the much easier to digest caramel portion and not suffer any gastronomical discomfort.)
These were good times, and unlike a lot happy things that zip past before you have time to get used to them, I knew they were as they surrounded me. At the end of every fishing trip, right after my Dad slit open the bellies of the unfortunate fish to show me what they had been eating, a spongey feeling of melancholy overcame my soul. The wind of late afternoon shaking the branches of the lazy maples seemed to predict an unavoidable fate where life didn't permit such pleasant freefall, and it was coming soon.
Friday, May 11, 2007
Its not easy being Old by yours truly and the frogs outside my window
Its not easy being old.
having to spend each day without a fishing partner,
When I think it could be nicer with lots of little fishing partners,
or some older grandkids.
Its not easy being old.
It seems you blend in with so many other oldies.
And people tend to pass you over' cause you're
not with a bunch of little fishing partners.
But Old can be nice in other ways.
Old can be wise and friendly like.
And old can be vast like the ocean, or important like a mountain,
or beautiful like a tree.
When old is all there is to be,
It could make you wonder why, but why wonder why?
Wonder, I am old and I'll do fine, Its beautiful!
And I think its what I want to be. Maybe.
Naw, I just want a fishing partner.
Thank you kermit and my little frog friends outside my window for helping me cope- Eric
having to spend each day without a fishing partner,
When I think it could be nicer with lots of little fishing partners,
or some older grandkids.
Its not easy being old.
It seems you blend in with so many other oldies.
And people tend to pass you over' cause you're
not with a bunch of little fishing partners.
But Old can be nice in other ways.
Old can be wise and friendly like.
And old can be vast like the ocean, or important like a mountain,
or beautiful like a tree.
When old is all there is to be,
It could make you wonder why, but why wonder why?
Wonder, I am old and I'll do fine, Its beautiful!
And I think its what I want to be. Maybe.
Naw, I just want a fishing partner.
Thank you kermit and my little frog friends outside my window for helping me cope- Eric
Wanted: Fishing Partner
I am depressed. I hate Pizza Hut. My fishing partner now works five days a week from 5-9 at Pizza Hut. This is a real damper on my fishing. It is beautiful outside. I don't like to go by myself. All my grandkids are too little or they live in LA. My wife hates to fish. Now I don't mind fishing with strangers but its not the same. I just want one more day with Kaisa and Scott huddled in the bow singing "gale force." boo hoo, boo hoo. Well now I am just going to curl up in a ball and read "Old Man and the Sea" and then plant some stupid trees.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Candyland chapter 2 The Long Descent
Now a lot of boys would have just sat down and cried. I would have. But Larry was very brave. After several minutes he began to see clearer in the dark. The light glistened on what looked like very old steps that led down into the ground. The steps were small as steps go and water trickled down off the side of the tunnel walls and flowed down either side of the steps. Larry did the only thing he could do. He started descending the steps one by one.
The tunnel curved here and there but always led downward, deeper into the ground. Sometimes the water flowing next to the steps, would slip into some crack and disappear only for new rivulets to form as he descended deeper. The only constant was the soft light that drifted up from below. After what seemed like hours of descending Larry thought that the light might be getting brighter. The rivulets became a small stream that spilled out onto the steps in places. He had to be very careful not to fall as the steps became very slippery.
The light definitely became brighter and Larry in the far distance saw a bright light shining from deep below. How strange, he wondered, that this light had traveled so far, as he looked over his shoulder from where he had come. As he climbed down, the stairs now became the center of a tumbling stream.
He could not help but get wet. He braced his hands on the sides of the tunnel and headed for the light. Finally he came out to sight of amazement. The stream exited what looked like the side of a mountain from which he had just emerged and a few feet later became a waterfall falling several hundred feet below. On the right side a few stones were carefully placed that led to a rock ledge upon which Larry
stepped.
He was on the side of what appeared to be a huge mountain that went in both directions. Above him, not too far, he could see snow as the mountain climbed up until it was hidden in clouds.Below him lay a valley with hills, trees and fields. In the distance he saw other mountains, rivers and lakes. In the distance he could see mountains all around that went up to what looked like sky. There were white clouds here and there, but try as he could, he could see no sun. "Where am I," he thought. "I am deep under the ground and it is like another world." The colors were bright. He could see what looked like fields of flowers far below. Then he noticed it. Leading from the ledge upon which he stood, there was faint path that again led down, along the side of the mountain. Larry looked carefully for any footprints but there were none to be seen. But it was a footpath and it led down. Again, the very brave boy began his descent, but this time on the side of a mountain, to some unknown valley and whatever else lay below.
The tunnel curved here and there but always led downward, deeper into the ground. Sometimes the water flowing next to the steps, would slip into some crack and disappear only for new rivulets to form as he descended deeper. The only constant was the soft light that drifted up from below. After what seemed like hours of descending Larry thought that the light might be getting brighter. The rivulets became a small stream that spilled out onto the steps in places. He had to be very careful not to fall as the steps became very slippery.
The light definitely became brighter and Larry in the far distance saw a bright light shining from deep below. How strange, he wondered, that this light had traveled so far, as he looked over his shoulder from where he had come. As he climbed down, the stairs now became the center of a tumbling stream.
He could not help but get wet. He braced his hands on the sides of the tunnel and headed for the light. Finally he came out to sight of amazement. The stream exited what looked like the side of a mountain from which he had just emerged and a few feet later became a waterfall falling several hundred feet below. On the right side a few stones were carefully placed that led to a rock ledge upon which Larry
stepped.
He was on the side of what appeared to be a huge mountain that went in both directions. Above him, not too far, he could see snow as the mountain climbed up until it was hidden in clouds.Below him lay a valley with hills, trees and fields. In the distance he saw other mountains, rivers and lakes. In the distance he could see mountains all around that went up to what looked like sky. There were white clouds here and there, but try as he could, he could see no sun. "Where am I," he thought. "I am deep under the ground and it is like another world." The colors were bright. He could see what looked like fields of flowers far below. Then he noticed it. Leading from the ledge upon which he stood, there was faint path that again led down, along the side of the mountain. Larry looked carefully for any footprints but there were none to be seen. But it was a footpath and it led down. Again, the very brave boy began his descent, but this time on the side of a mountain, to some unknown valley and whatever else lay below.
Wednesday, May 2, 2007
Candyland especially for my granddaughters in Los Angeles
When your sweet mother was five years old I would take her to Montesorri school in Salem. We would sit out in the car and I would tell her a Candyland story. Sometimes a Sammy squirrel story. They are very happy memories
Chapter One: A knock at the window
Many years ago, around 1930, there was a little boy that lived in the little Red House. His name was Larry. Larry was eleven years old. He slept in the little room on the southeast side of the house. This is the exact same room that Katia and Liam slept in.
It was late in August. The plum harvest would begin in a few days. Larry helped his father stack wood, preparing for the plum harvest. His father would tend the furnance for the prune dryer, a big red barn along the little creek below the red house. The creek was low and it was a warm night. Late that night, after his mom and dad had gone to sleep, Larry heard a light tapping on his window. He thought it was just a branch touching the glass. However it was quiet and there was no wind. The tapping came back. Now a little louder, "tap tap tap." He sat up and ran to the window. He looked out over the side of the hill and saw a little man scampering across the road towards the creek below. This was no ordinary man, he was very tiny. In the bright moonlight he saw the little man cross the creek near the bridge. A small door opened out of the ground on the side of the creek next to the bridge. The door was tiny and the little man stooped to step in. Before he stepped in, he turned slowly around and looked straight back at Larry. He waved with his hand. He was not waving goodbye, but waiving for Larry to come.
Larry was very curious. What had he just seen? He quickly pulled on his pants and shirt and slipped on his shoes. He tiptoed out of the house and ran down the hill to the exact spot next to the bridge where the little door was. (I can show you the exact spot.) Larry looked carefully, there was no door to be seen. He crawled down over the bank to the waters edge and felt with his hands all along the ground but all there was only dirt,stones, moss and ferns. Larry said to himself, "maybe I was dreaming." He crawled up and began to walk back home when he heard a sound. "creeeek" He turned around and saw a sliver of light coming from the side of the creek. Slowly before his eyes a little door opened right out of the ground! Larry went back. Sure enough there was a door with hinges and a small iron handle where none had been before. It layed flat against the ground wide open. He slowly crouched down and stepped inside. A soft light came from far down below, what appeared to be a long tunnel. He eased down narrow stone steps when all of sudden the door quietly, without warning shut behind him. He was alone and now a little scared.
Except for the soft light from down below, he was in the dark. The steps led nowhere but down. He turned around and felt for the door to the outside. It was there but the handle would not move. He banged on it and tried to open it, but it was closed tight. "What do I do now?," Larry thought as he gazed down the stairs in the soft light. to be continued
Chapter One: A knock at the window
Many years ago, around 1930, there was a little boy that lived in the little Red House. His name was Larry. Larry was eleven years old. He slept in the little room on the southeast side of the house. This is the exact same room that Katia and Liam slept in.
It was late in August. The plum harvest would begin in a few days. Larry helped his father stack wood, preparing for the plum harvest. His father would tend the furnance for the prune dryer, a big red barn along the little creek below the red house. The creek was low and it was a warm night. Late that night, after his mom and dad had gone to sleep, Larry heard a light tapping on his window. He thought it was just a branch touching the glass. However it was quiet and there was no wind. The tapping came back. Now a little louder, "tap tap tap." He sat up and ran to the window. He looked out over the side of the hill and saw a little man scampering across the road towards the creek below. This was no ordinary man, he was very tiny. In the bright moonlight he saw the little man cross the creek near the bridge. A small door opened out of the ground on the side of the creek next to the bridge. The door was tiny and the little man stooped to step in. Before he stepped in, he turned slowly around and looked straight back at Larry. He waved with his hand. He was not waving goodbye, but waiving for Larry to come.
Larry was very curious. What had he just seen? He quickly pulled on his pants and shirt and slipped on his shoes. He tiptoed out of the house and ran down the hill to the exact spot next to the bridge where the little door was. (I can show you the exact spot.) Larry looked carefully, there was no door to be seen. He crawled down over the bank to the waters edge and felt with his hands all along the ground but all there was only dirt,stones, moss and ferns. Larry said to himself, "maybe I was dreaming." He crawled up and began to walk back home when he heard a sound. "creeeek" He turned around and saw a sliver of light coming from the side of the creek. Slowly before his eyes a little door opened right out of the ground! Larry went back. Sure enough there was a door with hinges and a small iron handle where none had been before. It layed flat against the ground wide open. He slowly crouched down and stepped inside. A soft light came from far down below, what appeared to be a long tunnel. He eased down narrow stone steps when all of sudden the door quietly, without warning shut behind him. He was alone and now a little scared.
Except for the soft light from down below, he was in the dark. The steps led nowhere but down. He turned around and felt for the door to the outside. It was there but the handle would not move. He banged on it and tried to open it, but it was closed tight. "What do I do now?," Larry thought as he gazed down the stairs in the soft light. to be continued
Little Red House = Haunted House
by popular demand the true story of the haunted little red house
What does Napoleon Dynamite and the Little Red House have in common? Well before Jonathan Heder became famous, he worked on haunted houses. Yes the Little Red House was a Halloween Haunted house around 1990-91. It was a creation of the Heder brothers. It contained a coffin from which emerged a scary body. There was an axe murderer and mad surgeon. There was even a trap door up stairs which sprung open to terrify whoever was in the house. There was blood, spooks and other very scary things. The kids in church had a great time. However there was a problem.
One boy that went through the little red house walked out the door and was never seen from again. I remember he was really scared. He ran outside screaming to the top of his lungs. He headed up the hill and disappeared in the woods behind the house. We all thought he was teasing. He never came back however. We searched all the next day and he never showed up. Some people think he just used the haunted house as an excuse to run away. I know different however, even now sometimes at night I hear screaming from the woods behind the house. I know he is still there, lost, driven mad by the Little Red House, waiting for some poor unsuspecting child that might wander into the deep dark woods up the hill.
To this day there are still people that will not set foot inside the Little Red House because they are still scared of it.
p.s. Everything about the little boy I made up- maybe, however everything else is for sure the truth. And you know what they say once a haunted house always a haunted house. Be careful Shannon and Ross wooooooooooooo
What does Napoleon Dynamite and the Little Red House have in common? Well before Jonathan Heder became famous, he worked on haunted houses. Yes the Little Red House was a Halloween Haunted house around 1990-91. It was a creation of the Heder brothers. It contained a coffin from which emerged a scary body. There was an axe murderer and mad surgeon. There was even a trap door up stairs which sprung open to terrify whoever was in the house. There was blood, spooks and other very scary things. The kids in church had a great time. However there was a problem.
One boy that went through the little red house walked out the door and was never seen from again. I remember he was really scared. He ran outside screaming to the top of his lungs. He headed up the hill and disappeared in the woods behind the house. We all thought he was teasing. He never came back however. We searched all the next day and he never showed up. Some people think he just used the haunted house as an excuse to run away. I know different however, even now sometimes at night I hear screaming from the woods behind the house. I know he is still there, lost, driven mad by the Little Red House, waiting for some poor unsuspecting child that might wander into the deep dark woods up the hill.
To this day there are still people that will not set foot inside the Little Red House because they are still scared of it.
p.s. Everything about the little boy I made up- maybe, however everything else is for sure the truth. And you know what they say once a haunted house always a haunted house. Be careful Shannon and Ross wooooooooooooo
Tuesday, May 1, 2007
Illegal Immigration
When I was in the 10th grade I read The Merchant of Venice. I memorized one stanza. It best reflects my opinion on how to solve this problem.
The quality of mercy is not strained
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath. It is twice blessed:
It blesses him that gives and him that takes
Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes
The throned monarch better then his crown.
His scepter shows the force of temporal power
The attribute to awe and majesty,
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings.
But mercy is above this sceptered sway;
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings;
It is an atribute of God himself;
And earthly power doth then show like God's
When mercy seasons justice.
The quality of mercy is not strained
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath. It is twice blessed:
It blesses him that gives and him that takes
Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes
The throned monarch better then his crown.
His scepter shows the force of temporal power
The attribute to awe and majesty,
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings.
But mercy is above this sceptered sway;
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings;
It is an atribute of God himself;
And earthly power doth then show like God's
When mercy seasons justice.
Mexico
In 2000 when Scott, Derek and I were driving up out of Villehermosa on the east coast of Mexico to Mexico City we played "Who wants to be a millionaire?" The elevation change was from sea level to over 10,000 feet. Derek was just about ready to win a million dollars when all of a sudden I noticed the temperature gauge on the 1996 Dodge Diesel pegged to the high end. In Mexico on many highways there are small, what looks like wishing wells on the side of the road full of water with buckets nearby. I looked up and right in front of me was a well. I immediately pulled over. I thought for sure that the engine was toast. I opened the hood and steam or what was left of any water poured from the engine compartment. I had no sooner pulled over and a 1970's sedan pulled right over. Out jumped three big Mexicans. Oh great, I thought, we are getting robbed too. They ran right past me to the well one of them carrying a bucket from their car and the two others grabbing buckets from the well. They immediately began throwing water on the engine like a bunch of whirling dervishes.
I am really not sure if that is the way to deal with an overheated engine but they sure acted like they knew what they were doing. They threw so much water that a small stream emerged from underneath the truck flowing down the mountain. Before long they cooled the engine. They opened the radiator cap and filled up the radiator. Thankfully the engine was just fine. I offered them some pesos and they vehemently declined and left with my strong Gracia's. Personally I love Mexicans.
I am really not sure if that is the way to deal with an overheated engine but they sure acted like they knew what they were doing. They threw so much water that a small stream emerged from underneath the truck flowing down the mountain. Before long they cooled the engine. They opened the radiator cap and filled up the radiator. Thankfully the engine was just fine. I offered them some pesos and they vehemently declined and left with my strong Gracia's. Personally I love Mexicans.
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