Celebrating Shannon

Some occasions truly need celebrations, and some celebrations are seriously important enough to require hopping on a jet plane in order to attend.  Two of those occasions coincided recently, with the result that I left the señor home to work whilst I jetted off to Oregon.  My eldest niece, Shannon, reached her three-score & five birthday and at the same time, left the working-for-a-wage world - plenty momentous enough for me to depart home & hearth (such as it is: a silly little electric "flame" pops up at the push of a button) and venture northward where all is damp.

To further add to the excitement of celebrating with Shannon, there were various other important-to-me personages in attendance, including but not limited to my darling daughter, Sara.

Sara & her newly-wed husband, Terry, retrieved me from the Portland airport (don't get me started about the mile-long trek to baggage claim), and drove we three to Gearhart just in time for party central the next day . . .

. . .  but not before we hung various & sundry artwork, including some of Grandma's paintings.

Nephew Jim, always the accommodating host, fortified us with tuna melts, the ingredients of which were caught and canned by his own hands. . .

. . . and then proceeded to harvest figs from his tiny orchard.  He's nurtured each of those trees from seed.

 

 

 

 

 

Despite Jim & his never-ending feeding of the hungry hordes and always antics . . .

 

. . . and the fun of being together again (yes, I was swaddled to shield me from the Oregon coast damp cold) . . .

 

. . . all (at least most) attention was on Shannon for her simultaneous milestones.

 

The children at the school where she worked went all out to fabricate cards and posters expressing their love for her, and as usual at the Hostetler home, there was plenty of fun as we read the sentiments and went through family photo albums.

 

 

 

 

 

When the festivities moved to a local watering hole/Mexican restaurant, she was feted by mobs of well-wishers.  It was at that point that I neglected to adjust my camera setting and made a mess of the event's photos.  I'm fired!
 

 

A walk on the beach (far preferable to the proverbial park) . . . 

. . . Shannon (and the delightful Brisket) treated us to a walk to, and on the beach, a mere ten minutes from her home on Neacoxie Creek.  There's always something new at the seashore, and we thoroughly enjoyed the long promenade, with gratitude for the sunshine that warmed us against the brisk wind.

Not tourist-strolling weather, besides we visitors, it was a locals-only day on the sand.  I was fascinated by a feller who was wind surfing on a wheeled contraption.  He was steering it by pushing the front axle with his feet while attempting to use the kite for forward momentum and trying not to run over us and his support crew.  The gusts were confounding him a bit; as I spoke to him when he was packing it in, he was exhilarated and exhausted at the same time.  What a lot of work it was!

For this land-lubber, the ocean and environs are of endless fascination; I never get enough of it.

 

Brisket's fascination extends mostly to chasing beach birds and running through the frigid water as if it was bath-warm.

 

Snowy plovers are hilarious to watch as the flock acts as one, running inland as the waves lap at the sand and back out as they retreat, like a land-based murmuration, always at the very edge of the water.

 

 

One exciting bird we spotted was out of Brisket's range: a bald eagle majestically surveying its domain from a post atop the dunes.

We examined a tide-smoothed log that was home to an interesting city of crustaceans known as goose barnacles or gooseneck barnacles, among other monikers.  

 

We knew that only via dint of Mr. Google, and we were astounded further when we read this: "In the days before birds were known to migrate, barnacle geese, Branta leucopsis, were thought to have developed from this crustacean through spontaneous generation, since they were never seen to nest in temperate Europe . . ." Bizarre!

 

 

Too bad about the lack of focus, but I'm including this photo because it's a creature Shannon had never seen on their beach before: a Graceful Kelp Crab.

These hearty fellows made a picture-perfect scene as they fished from the beach; . . .

. . . one of them brought in his catch while we watched and I got to question him about their method of fishing - very interesting, and obviously productive.

Joined by Patty & Randy . . .

. . .  we were away to adventure at Ledbetter Point, Washington: There it is across the water . . .

. . .  and there we are after a wet and fascinating hike, tired but still smiling.

The sights along the way pretty much speak for themselves - moss, fungus, ferns - an astounding array of vegetation that thrives in sand and coastal wet weather.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

As we moved from inland, approaching the beach and sand dunes, our surroundings became more piney . . .

 

 

. . .  and the ultimate fascination centered on a truck chassis mostly obscured in the sand and by vegetation utilizing it as a foundation planter.  When, why & how did it come to be there???

With celebration waning and guests departing, as always, my attention turns toward the beauty of the home and landscape that Shannon & Jim have created.  Their home on Neacoxie Creek is a place of tranquil beauty.

 

The final hangers-on, Terry, Sara, Shannon & I toured the Maritime Museum in nearby Astoria, where we learned incredible stories of harrowing seas and rescues on "the bar" where the mighty Columbia River creates forbidding conditions as it pours its monstrous waters into the Pacific.

 

As the last lingerer, I greatly enjoyed time with Shannon in Astoria as we walked along the river (it was a wet cold, I daresay) . . .

 

 

 

. . . and in the picturesque town perched on the hills above the river's mouth. 

 

 

The area was historically populated by native peoples who utilized the abundant natural resources . . . and later by fur trappers who established trading posts.  We lunched at the site of Fort George/Fort Astoria, an 1811 British stockade. . .

. . . where a savvy pigeon, previously banished from the restaurant, continued his quest for entrance.  He seemed particularly interested in my French fries.

 

Eventually, my adventure was at an end; Shannon delivered me to the Portland airport whence a very competent pilot who was celebrating the day of his birthday delivered me (well, me and those others on the plane) to Phoenix, where the señor had some little difficulty navigating to my pick-up spot, but finally succeeded in tracking me down.

One of the nicest airport experiences I have had was in Portland, where guest musicians volunteer daily to make the time enjoyable.  I had a pleasant chat with Josiah Austen, who played the piano beautifully.  Coincidentally, one of his students had recently moved to Prescott.  Maybe I will encounter him around town.