I LOVE power tools

There are few things in life that are more fun than a trip to the tool store. In Denver I would go to THE TOOL STORE which was more like Home Depot on a whole lot of steroids. If at some point I ever get to heaven I will know because it will have a tool store there.


Of course this picture shows that I am not the only one around here that thinks that way.

Christmas tree farm ~ Portland 2009

Northwest Wanderings: Note to the old stomping grounds

Dear Idaho ~

You've been draped in snow for a few weeks now. I miss watching you cover your shoulders in white as the year turns round. Things are so green in my new neck of the woods; it makes me wistful for a snow-drifted visit.

Alas, home sweet home, I have a confession to make. Much as I miss your amazing winter coat, I've been having a little tete a tete with Christmas tree hunting here in this maritime climate. Do you remember how we used to go stomping up into your hills to find a tannenbaum for the holidays?

The snow always crept damp, icy fingers into our boots.

Prune-toes inside itchy wet socks.

Ring of sodden jeans, crammed like a vise round the calves.

Dad always wanted to look just a little further; maybe there was a better tree round the bend.

Shivering kid-folk just wanted to grab the first Charlie Brown-style sad little conifer and get warm again.

Stamping the drifts away from the base of The Tree once we found it.

Bending over, baring that slice of lower-back hide to the breeze while the dull hacksaw zup-zup-zupped.

Someone was often crying by this point.

Dad's usual reply: "Start being grateful, dammit!" or some such encouragement.

But not this year, dear Idaho.

Not this year.

You see, my Spouse is a man with distinctive taste in tools. No more interminable zup-zup-zup while we bang our frozen limbs together for warmth. One smooth,  subtle "buzzzzzzzzzzz", and the job is done. Even the tree-cutting dude stood there in his official sweatshirt, hacksaw in hand, looking on with quiet admiration.

Bart at Furrow Tree Farm, December 2009 ~ by Katie

One more thing, sweet Gem State:

We've discovered a delectable alternative to post-holing a sweaty, chilly trail up the hillside.

It's called an Oregon tree farm, and it is a level, mossy, balmy little place. No drifts to clear. No icicles to combat. {"Those things have been known to kill people!"} No dad gently instructing us to hurry up and have fun, dammit. Just a leisurely stroll, a quick application of the ol' power tool, and a two-minute jaunt back to the truck. Much as I love you, this kind of beats the pants off your frostbite picnic, Idaho. 

Bart at Furrow Tree Farm, December 2009 ~ by Katie

I'm going to say that Oregon wins on this one teensy weensy count.

But Idaho...I do love you. There is no place on earth quite like you. Can we still be pals?


All my love,
Katie

Northwest Wanderings: New Se@sons Grocery

The Husby and I have been treated to a few surprises since we moved to the Pacific Northwest. Every region has their little identifying markers. Portland, for example, is:

Green.

Crunchy.

All-natural.

{Or at least mostly natural.}

But even this knowledge had not prepared me for what lay in wait on the hygiene aisle of a local grocery store chain.

Behold: Exhibit A

New Se@sons grocery store ~ Portland, OR November 2009 ~ by Katie

My choice comment upon encountering this little nugget:

No WAY!!

And yet, way.

I submit photographic evidence of box-less, mint-less, veg@n-tested dental floss {cause it's got to be free-range, uncaged, organic, fair trade floss, or nothing}. I briefly considered purchasing some just for the novelty. I mean, when in Rome, do as the Romans do, right? But then I paused to wonder just what if that unboxed, wild 'n woolly floss say, got loose in my purse or the medicine cabinet? I mean, it might be an un-minted flossapalooza free-for-all, and I don't know if I am quite ready for that degree of Northwesterliness.  {Besides, Rome's empire came a-tumblin' for good reasons...maybe insidious floss was among them?}

There has got to be a market for some such product, and I suppose something had to take the place of the hair-removal section. For example, let us consider Exhibit B:

Based on the convincing chesticular region of this individual, I'm persuaded that there were lady-parts in the mix. Then again, that would make her a bearded lady. {Sorry for the lack of facial elaboration. While I do shoot random photos of strangers, I am not yet to the point of letting them catch me in the bold act.}

Girl-person of questionable authenticity ~ Portland Nursery apple tasting event, October 2009 ~ by Katie

Oh, Portland, you make me smile.