Can I write travel notes when I don’t feel like I’m traveling anymore? We have been in Oregon now for five days and I feel like I am in one of my homes. We are settling into Charlie’s apartment for three weeks and I keep walking around examining his walls like I am a tourist here. They are endlessly entertaining. He has a quite a collection of quirky prints and postcards and collages. Some of them beautiful, some funny, some curious, all interesting. And then, of course, there are his own huge exploding canvases.
Charlie has a south-facing bay window that looks over the city, but the glass has been rattled so hard by the wind and pelted so hard by the rain since we arrived that we’ve barely been able to see out of the window. Water runs down the streets and gathers gobs of colored leaves. I once saw a sign of sun, lasted maybe two minutes. Still, even in relentless rain it’s a beautiful city. I expect within a few days we’ll become acclimated enough to wade out into the city in the rain and explore. Powell’s book store awaits us.
In the meantime we’ve been enjoying wonderful meals with Charlie and Lori. I’m trying to recover from the Thanksgiving feast they fixed for us today. By 7:00 p.m. we had all changed into our soft pants and were watching Outbreak. After a short break for pumpkin pie, we turned to Labyrinth until Charlie declared he’d seen it a dozen times when he was a kid (was? Isn’t he still?) and he couldn’t watch it one second more. I think it was really a ruse because he was tired and wanted us to go home. An entirely reasonable feeling. Bob suggested I post this very old poem I wrote about Charlie in honor of Thanksgiving. He was about 3 years old at the time.
WHEN CHARLIE EATS HIS LUNCH
When Charlie eats his lunch
you can hear the crunch
for a hundred miles around--
it is the loudest sound.
He bashes the beans
and whacks the peas,
cracks the carrots,
and zaps the toast.
He trashes the taters,
crashes the corn,
slurps the soup,
and burps the beats.
He splashes the squash,
mashes the meat,
chops the chips
and bops the buns.
And when he is done
he cries, for the fun
is over until the next lunch.
With gratitude for every day of this wonderful crazy life we live,
Yvonne (and Bob)
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