Small Town America

Small Town America

This past summer, I decided to pull up stakes in Portland and move closer to my chosen field in the wine industry. I found a very affordable house within a mile of historic downtown McMinnville. It wasn't just the commute that was pulling me away from Portland. Somehow the Hipster Disneyland of the U.S. had lost its appeal, or maybe I just wasn't cool enough. I was frustrated by the quagmire of traffic, compounded by the bad manners of cyclists, but also by a slow disintegration of the city's soul. Having moved to Portland in 2008, I'm sure I was part of this slide; regardless, it felt like a good time to move.

I also found it interesting that a friend moved back south to Athens, Georgia, and another acquaintance moved back east, outside of Burlington, VT.  Two years prior, a friend moved to Telluride, Colorado. There was also a move to London and Lausanne, Switzerland, but those are outliers in this discussion. It seems to me there's a trend to move to small town America. The children of Suburban America, who grew up in strip malls and sprawl, we yearned for a sense of place, an ease of public transportation and food that was made with intention. But once we got there, we we missed the affordability of a home with a porch and with neighbors and friends close by. Where we didn't have to wait 2 hours for Sunday brunch or snarled in traffic to get to your friends' houses that lived on the outside of the other side of town. We wanted both. The answer is in small town America.

After retuning from the holidays in the South, where I visited Charleston, Atlanta and Athens, I found  a kinship between the large cities and small towns of the South and the Pacific Northwest. An argument could certainly be made for small towns outside of those two regions, but I have no authority to speak to those.

McMinnville, Oregon, naturally enough, was named for McMinnville, Tennessee (population 13,620)Linfield College. I am lucky enough to live close by and enjoy the lovely campus, which hosts our wine industry's annual International Pinot Noir Celebration (IPNC).

Linfield College's IPNC

by William T. Newby after his hometown in the South. He also later donated the land for the local institution of learning, McMinnville College, which was later named

McMinnville, Tennessee: McMinnville, like many smaller American cities and towns, has gone through a revitalization of its downtown area. "Main Street McMinnville" serves as the city's non-profit revitalization organization funded by the National Trust for Historic Preservation and Tennessee's own Main Street Program.^{[10] (Wikipedia)}

McMinnville, Oregon: In the days of strip malls and big box stores, there is a place within the heart of Oregon wine country where the 1800s meets the 21st Century. While in communities around Oregon historic downtowns are struggling, along East 3rd Street in McMinnville, the downtown isn’t just surviving, but flourishing. (Oregon.Com)

Community Plate's Lavender Latte

As I was driving to Athens, GA, from Atlanta, I was struck by the similarities of the drive from Portland to McMinnville. The miles of sprawl outside the city, the traffic signals becoming slightly farther apart until they disappear altogether. Then there's just farmland and forests and the feeling that life is slowing down and becoming somehow easier. Now Athens is a college town and McMinnville is more like a wine town, an infant Napa or Sonoma. But they both have great downtowns with good food, drinks, shopping and an ease of walkability. The brick architecture and the craftsman, bungalow style homes echo each other. I enjoy good craft beer, breakfast, coffee, cocktails, food in both places. Athens takes a point for best breakfast and McMinnville takes a point for best coffee and wine lists. The Pacific Northwest has outstanding breakfasts, but it just can't beat the South. No grits? No fluffy biscuit? No cigar. If we could just combine the power of The Community Plate's Lavender Latte in McMinnville and the allure of the biscuit and Bird's Nest of Big City Bread. 

BIRD’S NEST 4.00
FRIED EGG IN SLICE OF SOURDOUGH TOAST WITH FRESH HERBS & GRUYERE CHEESE 

Big City Bread's Bird's Nest

As I was looking for information on the McMinnville's, I came across this Parade Magazine contest for best Main Streets in America. The winner was in Tennessee, the runner up was McMinnville, Oregon. You can't make that up! Even Parade Magazine sees a correlation between small towns in the south and in the Pacific Northwest. Congratulations to winner Collierville, TN, located outside of Memphis and my new hometown Finalist, located 35 miles south of Portland. 

My next correlation comes from McMinnville's annual UFO festival. It's the second largest one, falling behind Roswell, NM. 

The festival began as a way to honor the famous 1950 Trent sighting in which two local citizens witnessed and photographed a UFO, said to be some of the most credible images of UFOs to date.

Here's the complete history of the UFO sighting, but basically a woman went out to feed the chickens and saw a flying saucer. She ran back to the house, yelling for her husband to get a camera. Now, we Southerners know about the stereotypical perception Yankees have about us with regards to aliens. Nothing supports this more than this absurdly hilarious Yahoo! questions comment:

Anyone notice the uneducated south are the only ones who see UFOs?
I was reading about yet another UFO sighting in the south. Us in the north LOVE these stories because it blatantly points out the education difference between the north and south. One guy was quoted as saying: "You hear about big bass or big buck in the area, but this is a different deal" That's HILARIOUS! All they know is huntin' an' fishin'. It's amazing how backwards and uneducated they are! Agree or disagree? 

I strongly urge you to go the link and see how and who agreed or disagreed. But my point has been made. I think I searched Google for "aliens South believe" and that link came up in the top 5. Folks out here in small town, rural Oregon are pretty darn into huntin' and fishin' and spotting them UFOs too. I can't wait for my first UFO days in McMinnville this summer! And I guess I'll fit right in.

Go Dawgs! Georgia fans in Oregon

We find each other everywhere! This note was found on my car in the Ikea parking lot during the 2015 Labor Day Weekend rush. Shortly after, I was immersed in the intense and frenetic world of the grape harvest in Dundee, Oregon. I was unable to listen to or watch the Georgia Football games. I was there in spirit and would check my Yahoo Sports app on a regular basis for updates. I was quite sad to hear about Nick Chub's injury and to see the Dawgs drop out of the top 25. Also sad about the fallout with Mark Richt. I thought he was a great coach.

I also received a random email about my blog post in watching Georgia football at the Brooklyn Park pub, but I was so busy that I don't think I ever responded. I'm glad that the word got out though! Go Dawgs!

We snow how you feel, Atlanta

Day 5 of PDXsnowpocolypse

Snowpocolypse. Snowmageddeon. I typed those words into Google, resulting in mentions of Portland as well as Atlanta. You're not alone Atlanta. Elsewhere in the United States are places ill equipped to handle a winter blast. Both of us are ridiculous in the face of frigid temperatures and precipitation. I love the absurdity that results.

With plenty of friends still in Atlanta, I kept tabs on how snow went down. I absolutely loved the SNL skit with Buford Calloway

"flakes of devil's dandruff"  

"climbed into my white Escalade and headed to the safest place I could think of…the Interstate."

"sweet Dixie Champagne…I am referring to Coca-Cola"

"The skies parted and the fair Georgia lady shone her golden radiance down uptown the Yankee Slush! And I knew…in that moment…that the SUN WILL RISE AGAIN!" 

One of my favorite Yankee newscasters continued to needle Hotlanta later on the Daily Show.
and Jon Stewart's needling of Hotlanta.

I have been trapped by the "Connecticut Cocaine" here in Portland for the past few days. I haven't been able to go to work for the past 4 days. I actually drove to Government Camp to cross country ski on Thursday, barely making it back in my southern vehicle in time for things to get really nasty. I was sliding around on the ice and traffic was already sorely affected. Little did I know I'd be able to XC ski for the next few days right outside my door.

Portland has it's own issues: lots of people who know how to drive in the elements; lots of people who have cars that should be able to navigate but can't; lots of people who have cars that can't make it and who don't know how and still try. Yes, all those people on the roads make for nasty business. Of course Portland has all those irritatingly fit people who continue to run and bike in it. One of my friends just posted this interview on Facebook. I'd say Portland is just as ridiculous as Atlanta, just in a different world of silliness.

This winter precipitation has made watching the Winter Olympics in Sochi a bit more interesting.

Southern Appreciation

There are some wry moments only a Southerner can truly appreciate. Take, for instance, my recent job interview at a small winery and vineyard a little north of Salem, Oregon.

Following an interstate, a traffic-light-ridden highway, country roads, and a very bumpy gravel road, I made my way to Amity Vineyards. I spoke with the owner for a while about my experience and wine sales approach. She mentioned in passing that one of the winery/tasting room employees was from Georgia.

When we went back inside, I told said employee, Anna, that I grew up in Georgia too. She asked, where? I responded, Marietta. She asked, which high school? I said Walton. She said, me too! I asked which neighborhood she lived in? Turns out we lived off the same traffic-light-ridden highway in Marietta, Georgia. Of course, she graduated over a decade after I did and probably never had the chance to see country, gravel roads in Marietta the way I had. These little moments in life are exquisite, but that's not the moment I'm referring to when I speak of Southerners appreciating life's wry sense of humor.

Take a close look at the menu. 

No, I asked another employee, Andrea, if there were any especially good spots in Amity for some lunch. She suggested Uncle Jack's BBQ. I usually avoid BBQ out west, but I was going to take her up on this one. From the outside, it was exactly what I was looking for.

The inside was too. A few tables were populated with locals as I made my way to the counter to inspect the menu. As I was gazing over the fare, I was thrilled to bits to see the prices. We're not in Portland anymore, Dorthy! The waitress asked if I wanted it to go, and I said no, and she said, oh well have a seat and I'll bring you some water and a menu. Such hospitality.

So I sat and observed the other side of the menu. I'll be dammed. Sweet tea in Oregon. I think this was the first time that I've actually seen it listed. Of course it's not listed in the South. That's a given. There is nothing better to wash down a pulled pork sandwich than some sweet tea. As my eyes scanned further down I was overjoyed to see the beer and wine selection. There were the usual suspects, yes. Bud, Coors, etc. But a Deschutes Seasonal? And bless my stars, a wine list!?! At BBQ?! I'm throwing down the gauntlet to my southern people. If you can find a BBQ joint (where you can get a sandwich and SALAD—cole slaw will count for $5.95) and they also offer a Pinot Noir and Gewürztraminer by the glass, I will send you one of my Domaine Serene Evenstad Reserve Pinot Noir from 2008. Seriously.

The BBQ was good. Unsurprisingly, the salad was a bagged version of iceberg, dehydrated carrots and purple cabbage, but I did get an option of balsamic vinegar dressing. While the sauce lacked a vinegar component that I so enjoy in a delectable BBQ sandwich, I was easily able to compensate by pouring my salad dressing directly on top. Gourmet. I mean gour—met.

Just as I was shaking my head in disbelief Anna from the winery came in to pick up some sandwiches to take back to the tasting room. Just two gals from Marietta, Georgia, eating some BBQ and talking wine in Amity, Oregon. America, to thee I sing!

The menu at Uncle Jack's. See previous photo for drink list

Oxford, Part II: "Faulkner Country"

A Just and Holy Cause?

Traveling to Oxford, Mississippi, with a handful of non-Southerners, I ruminated on the South's relationship with time and place. Upon entering the Square from the Memphis airport, one of my friends said, "Man, stuff happened here." And yet we know stuff happens everywhere. What's the difference?

I grew up stopping at almost every historical road sign on byways of the south. I weaned myself off of it a bit while living in Europe, because you'd never get where you were going because you'd always be reading about what happened before. But even the monuments in the south are monuments themselves. Take this obelisk dedicated to Confederate Soldiers, erected in the early 20th century.

I just read a book review in the Wall Street Journal by Barton Swain about Tracy Thompson's "The Mind of the New South," and several of the passages stuck with me. One particular section discussed Southerner's obsession with the past as well as the fatigue of, as the author of the article writes,

the sanctimonious browbeating and ridicule constantly issuing from the entertainment industry, academia and the national news media? Most Southerners are prepared to live with the incessant reminders that their history and culture were corrupt from the beginning. What they aren't prepared to do is go looking for more such reminders.

Oxford Cemetery

The Garden & Gun article mentioned in an earlier post about Oxford muses that Faulkner would be turning in his grave if he saw the state of his beloved "postage stamp of native soil." Part of the change has to do with tearing down the old and putting up the new. Certainly most American cities could take a page from Portland's city planning, but should we drape all our pasts behind ropes and monuments?

Perhaps it's due to my Southernness, perhaps I can contribute it to my English major nature, but I was the only visitor to make a Faulkner Haj. Other than watching a beloved friend get married, this was the top of my list of things to do in Oxford. Using a little pamphlet included in the wedding baskets, I went on a run through the square, past Faulkner's grandparents' house (the Falkners, the author added the "U" after returning from a stint in the Canadian military. Make of that what you will) and on down to Rowan Oak, the home of William Faulkner for over thirty years.

British and American Oxford notes

In his 1936 book Absalom! Absalom! Faulkner wrote, "Maybe nothing ever happens once and is finished. Maybe happen is never once but like ripples  maybe on water after the pebble sings, the ripples moving on, spreading, the pool attached by a narrow umbilical water-cord to the next pool..."

This quote has stuck with me ever since I took an American Literature class with professor Jim Hans at Wake Forest University. I definitely think that Faulkner's writing would have remained obscure to me without his guidance through some of the more difficult passages. Granted, those are few of the shortest sentences Faulkner ever wrote, but still. Even in 2013, we're weighed down by history. It's almost paralyzing if we let it.

What I never needed help appreciating, was Faulkner's ability to describe what it felt like to be in the South. While I was in Oxford, I was reading Light in August, and I began to underline passages that struck me. Here are a few:

Beyond the open window the sound of insects has not ceased, not faltered.

...feeling the intermittent sun, the heat, smelling the savage and fecund odor of the earth, the woods, the loud silence.

He remembers it now, sitting in the dark window in the quiet study, waiting for twilight to cease, for night and the galloping hooves. The copper light has completely gone now; the world hangs in a green suspension in color and texture like light through colored glass.

Rowan Oak

  As if I'm accustomed to hearing galloping hooves.

Cedar lined driveway

So, I went solo to Rowan Oak, the actual physical place where Faulkner wrote those words. I walked through his gardens, tip toed around his back patio and peered through his kitchen window. I failed to bring $5, so I was not able to enter those hallowed halls. I was pained with nostalgia, watching students and professors read from books around the house. I wanted to eavesdrop and crash the course.

Faulkner walked here

Faulkner ate here

So the next day, before the wedding, I took a little trip to Square Books to peruse the Faulkner section. There must be one, right? Now I had heard quite a bit about this bookstore. It's the Powell's books of the south. First I walked into a small book store, and it was only children's books. Then I walked clockwise around the square until I found another square books. Ahh, this must be it. I ambled up and down the rows, but it still felt amiss. While there was a little homage to Garden & Gun magazine, I found no Faulkner section and not even a fiction section. I was confused. I asked for directions.

Clearly I wasn't from around here, because the lovely lady explained I was in the home and style section of the store. If I would just exit the front door and walk three doors down, I would find the main store and an ample Faulkner section. Just like my first trip down Hawthorne Boulevard in Portland, when I went into the wrong Powell's. The lady in Oxford was a little less condescending.

Faulkner Mecca

Boy, oh, boy did I find the gold mine. The holy grail. The pirate's booty of a true American literature devotee. A just and holy cause. After perusing several titles, I opted for a book entitled Faulkner and Love: The Women Who Shaped His Art. I'm barely half way through, but it's a good read for a historian and literary buff. I know that my old Professor would be scoffing at all the historical/revisionist/political bent to Faulkner's work, and I'm scoffing along with him in some parts. The pictures, dates and family trees are the most interesting to me so far.

As it turns out, Faulkner's mother was Maud Butler and she has the same birthday as me: November 27. I couldn't help but feel connected to her. I may just have to name my future daughter Maud in honor of our connection. Of course I haven't read that chapter. I could be both embarrassed to be a Butler as well as a Sagittarian.

As the weekend culminated in the actual wedding that brought the Pacific Northwest to the Southeast, I was illuminated by the father of the bride that the ceremony would take place on Faulkner Ridge. Apparently he participated in hunting parties here. Perhaps nothing ever happens and is finished.

The view from Faulkner Ridge

Now I'm back in Portland, and I've taken up reading several other books, one notably by Eckhart Tolle, the author of The Power of Now. Here in Portland you can't drive too far without reading a bumper sticker that touts his phrase, "All you have is now." Of course Eckhart lives in British Columbia—the Pacific Northwest. Wouldn't it be interesting to get Faulkner and Tolle in a room?

Oxford, Part I: Put Some South in Your Mouth!

The first weekend in April brought exciting fodder for the Southeast in the Pacific Northwest blog, so much so that I have difficulty in pruning down the events for a single blog post. 

One of my oldest friends, and co-Portland inhabitant married her Alabama-born fiancé in a pastoral setting outside of Oxford, Mississippi. The wedding congregants consisted of largely three groups: Portland family (with some overlapping Georgia folks), an Athens, Alabama family and an Atlanta, Georgia contingency. The mixture was fabulous, and an affirmation, in my mind, that certain elements of The South and The Pacific Northwest dovetail nicely together.

For me, the two main themes were Blues City Cafe's Motto, "Put Some South in Your Mouth!" and William Faulkner's line, "Nothing ever happens and is finished." So this first post will address the culinary delights we put in our mouth

Let me first make plain, that I have never been to Oxford. I associate it mainly with Faulkner's writing and a 2008 article from Garden and Gun magazine. It has been, for some time, a place I wanted to visit. To get to Oxford, the Portland contingency had to fly to Memphis and rent a car for the hour and half drive. Our Portland party consisted of two Georgia affiliated, two Nebraskans, and two Californians. We all shared a penchant for good food and drink and discovering a quality sense of place. 

Our first stop? Beale Street and some lunch. After finding our way from the airport, we were all struck by how wintry it looked. It seems Portland, way up in the Pacific Northwest was much further along the spring trek than the heart of dixie. Who knew? We were also struck by the bleakness of the city. Memphis has seen some hard times.

Ghost River Golden Ale

I was the only person who had been to Memphis, and while we consulted our iPhones and networks, we ended up going to Blues City Cafe (rather than BB King's Restaurant & Blues Club across the street; I had been there in 2002) based on the awesome sign that told us to put some South in our mouth. Done.

Portland Family in Memphis

The six of us shared some delicious ribs, coleslaw and baked beans. Two of us opted for a local brew called the Ghost River Golden Ale.  What do you know, they tout that great water makes great beer. Exactly what we say in PDX. They also say think global, drink local. I love these guys.

We threw back the last drops of golden nectar, gnawed on the remnants of cow bones and hopped in our rental mini-van. Oxford, onward! One thing we were warned about: Mississippi does not sell cold beer, and we should pick up some before crossing the border. Even to me, a native southerner, alcohol regulations are a mystery to me. Why? Why can't an American buy cold beer in MS? I mean, it's unAmerican. In any event, I thought there would be all kinds of crazy carnival signs proclaiming, "Buy Cold Beer Here!" as we approached the border. Like firework shops on the border between Georgia and South Carolina. Alas, I was wrong. We seriously thought we were going to get shot, mugged or worse in our search for cold beer.

Eventually we picked up a 12 pack of Budweiser and got the heck out of there. No Ghost River Ale to be found. Colt 45, yes. Craft brew, no.  Ok, Oxford, onward!

The Garden & Gun article I referred to early, states that, "The Square of Oxford is studded with good bars and restaurants like jewels in a crown, and you can have big fun and great meals without ever leaving it." Too true. We didn't stray far from our VRBO which was just a few blocks away from the crown.

We ate at four locations on the Square: Soulshine Pizza Factory, Proud Larry's, Boure`, and City Grocery. All had their credits and debits.

Soulshine Pizza Factory

Credits include excellent and competent service to a large and unwieldy party. A huge bonus for me was access to Magic Hat #9 on tap. Oh delicious beer that was my favorite at Charlotte's very own Philosopher's Stone Tavern. It's very difficult to find on tap on the west coast. Impossible really. We had wide array of foods, including a variety of nachos, pizzas and salads. Sorry Soulshine, if your salad comes from a bag that includes iceberg lettuce, dehydrated carrots and purple cabbage, I cannot condone you as a food place.

Proud Larry's

We were another large party of 8 or so, so we missed out on the delightful outdoor seating. It was sunny outside and the Portlanders were tucked away in a little corner. I had my doubts about the food, but it ended up being delicious. I had a roast beef po' boy and bites of lobster nachos. Unbelievable. Thumbs up. Service was a bit slow and I'm not sure there was vodka in my Bloody Mary. That's nothing to be proud of, Larry.

Boure`

That's pronounced Boo-Ray for those of you who don't know. It evoked an appropriate nickname for a certain To Kill a Mocking Bird character for me. To be fair, we were catered here with tapas style food and drink. All were to my liking. The porch and atmosphere of this spot were killer.

City Grocery

City Grocery

Now this spot has a reputation. Written up in Garden and Gun, extolled by my brother and on the "to eat list" of every Portlander visiting that weekend: I knew I had to go here. We made lunch reservations and examined the menu so we could eat and run. We had a wedding to get to. Pricy, yes, but aren't all haut cuisine spots? Kudos to the wine list and affordable pricing. I had a Sauvignon Blanc for $5.50. Eat that Portland. The Waldorf Salad, on the other hand, was 8 bucks and was the size of a fruit cup. I had the shrimp and grits, which were delicious as was the cornbread. But I paid for it. Looking around at others' selections, I was not impressed by the cost per portion ratio. I'm not even that big of an eater, but it was kind of ridiculous. So over all, I would recommend this spot, but I might also recommend having heavy appetizers before I go.

Chick-fil-A

So I didn't eat here this trip. I took a run to Faulkner's home, Rowan Oak (to be mentioned later). However, I was a bit envious to miss those delicious waffle fries, polynesian sauce and fried chicken laced with pickle juice. Boo hoo.

Woodson Ridge Farms - Chef Elizabeth Heiskell 

Woodson Ridge Kitchen

The wedding was amazing, beautiful and poignant. The setting, the father's toast, and the dinner created a lasting impression. I felt quite lucky to be immeshed in such a quintessential Mississippi moment. Shrimp, grits, fried green tomatoes and some delicious Brussel sprout salad. The addition of St. Innocent and Oregon Pinot Noir did help. A delightful blending of Pacific Northwest in the Southeast.

Oregon Pinot Noir on a Mississippi Farm

Winter in Portlandia

My Portland friend just shared this Portlandia skit on Portland in the Winter. Hilarious. It's a nice addition to my most recent post Weather or Not Here I am.  I guess it's not just southerners who take every available moment to find the sunshine in the winter.

I've actually been enjoying my drives to Forest Grove, because the sky is more expansive and I'm able to see patches of sunlight coming through the clouds.

Weather or not here I am!

SC does have nice winter weather

This is the part of the year when my father likes to compare notes on the weather in Charleston and Portland. He does not let a Facebook comment or phone call to go by without smugly interjecting, "It's 70 degrees here!" or "I'm wearing shorts!" He's not so smug when it's 100% humidity and 98 degrees, swatting mosquitoes and squashing ginormous flying palmetto bugs when we're enjoying dry, delightful 77 here in Portland.

I can't really complain about the weather, since I elected to live here, partially based on the climate. Living in Chicago, Minnesota or New England would never have been an option for me. I always want to embrace the joy of a SNOW DAY! Where it's a gift to be played in, an unexpected holiday.

Just an hour away!

This year has really been lovely, and I'm not at all fussed by my father's commentary. From an INdian summer to a chilly, but relatively sunny winter (so far, knock on wood). On Friday, I drove an hour away to meet a friend in Welches and go cross country skiing on Mt. Hood. Thirty-six degrees and sunny in Portland changed to 31 and snowy as I was passing through Sandy. The roads were a bit too treacherous to make it all the way to the Thriftway, and I ended up pulling over into a closed down gas station. There I left the Beetle Bug and climbed into a Jeep Cherokee—and the very capable driving hands of a girl born and raised on Mt. Hood's slopes.

Before we knew it, we were gliding through a winter wonderland. We picked up a puppy, Elsa, and rescued her from a day in the kennel for a day of romping in the snow. Can't do that in Charleston! But like all good places, dogs make it more fun.

A winter wonderland

I still have Georgia Bones in me, and I don't really do the downhill skiing or snowboarding, but that doesn't mean I can't learn the culture of snow and mountains. Ah, chasing freshies. Yes, it had snowed the previous evening and morning, and a few clouds continued to shroud the mountain. We had lots of sunshine and some bluebird views. The conditions were perfect for our trail and the best I've ever experienced—crisp, fluffy snow. Now I understand what all the fuss is about when people talk about conditions. It really makes a difference, even for the less adrenaline fueled sport of cross country. I'm officially not a gaper, and while rarely seen on an XC trail, we  did see a few Woah-bro's in town. Thanks for teaching me the lingo, Shelby!

Snow shimmering in a bluebird sky

I have discovered that Portland has a large contingency of people who just like to complain about the weather. Yes, we do get dreary stretches in the winter, and I'm OK with that. It's acceptable to let out a little whine about 24 days of straight overcast, drizzle clouds. But this year, no longer working in a window-less building, I've really been able to experience the outdoors on a daily basis. About a week ago, we had a beautiful, blue-sky day. I remarked to the check out lady at the grocery store about the beautiful day, and she looked at me in surprise, and said, "It's just so windy." The same day someone said, "But it's so cold." In the summer people complain about how hot it is or how dry or how humid. I'm keenly interested to know if these weather complainers are native Portlanders or not. I may do a scientific survey to find out.

Can't complain about this! 

While it's not exactly a resolution, I intend to be more aware of my weather commentary. I will earnestly try to not complain about the weather. I shall endeavor to see the positives about even the very worst of days. One of my favorite parts of PNW climate compared to the south is the variety and range of my clothing options. Layers make dressing fun! Do you have any suggestions for counteracting the weather nags?

East, West Boating's the Best

Map of My First West Coast Boating Experience

I've done my fair share of boating on the east coast, especially since my entire family lives on a tidal river, and everyone has a boat. From putzing around the Toogoodoo River, heading out to Botany Bay or Rockville and Bohicket Creek, to various lakes in Georgia and North Carolina, boating is second nature. However, one must never take the boating experience for granted. It's not my boat, after all. It never fails to feel like a serendipitous gift to go out on the water.

Not my first Rodeo

But how to get here?

Part of my draw to Portland, Oregon, was its water life. There are some big rivers and plenty of marinas. I just didn't really have any connections, so I was often looking longingly on those lucky boaters enjoying a summer or Indian summer day. Heck, I'd even go out there in drizzily winter!

Recently, due to an unmentionable employment status, I've been shaking it up and meeting a whole bunch of people outside my inner circle of friends. I've been "networking," if you will. It's not what you think, however. If you're interested in my networking philosophy, please see my guest blog at Alison Wiley's Diamond-Cut Life. Long story short, I've made friends with boats.

On a recent wilting Wednesday afternoon, my friend AJ sent me a text asking if I wanted to go boating. Yes, AJ, yes I do want to go boating. He didn't prepare me for what was to be expected for boating on the west coast, and so I naturally brought my Whaley's Koozie in anticipation that there would be drinking and boating the way I'm accustomed to on the east coast. I don't know where my manners were, and I should have picked up a six pack to share. I just had no idea.

We're off!

I didn't have long to wait to find out that I was in good company. My friend Ali and her friend arrived shortly with some coldies (the mountains were, in fact, blue), but we still awaited our host. Ali had a bit more experience than I, but she didn't exactly know what to expect.

How did I get on this boat?

In short order, AJ and Christy arrived and we were introduced to the boat. Lots of rearranging, throwing brewskies on ice, lamenting the dearth of vodka (but there was rum) and generally tidying up. As we headed out, Christy filled the uninitiated on their form of boating protocol. Skiing and wake boarding were not unusual activities, but heading up to the Ross Island "C" was the extent of the exertions. Nice.

Ross Island Sand and Gravel

We motored south on the eastern side of Ross Island, slowing through the construction of the Street Card bridge at OMSI. We picked up speed and headed toward the Oaks Bottom Wildlife Refuge and hung a right (off the starboard?) into a bay formed by Ross Island. The "C" is actually a manmade occurrence by joining four islands together to create a lagoon. Ross Island Sand and Gravel own most of it, and their operations provided the backdrop to our 3 hour stage.

We parked in the northern part of the lagoon, and unanchored, we very slowly eddied toward the entrance. Very slowly. Toward the west, we could see the towers of the Southwest Waterfront condominiums peaking above the trees. To the southeast side of the lagoon was the mammoth and industrious RISG company. It lent a surreal atmosphere to the day, but it was some how appropriate, too.

We swam some, sunned some, drank some. Throughout it all, we had an iPod shuffling in the background. Because it was a Wednesday, we only had one or two other boats to share the scene with. Apparently on a weekend or holiday, it can get pretty crowded out there. Luckily everyone on board was affiliated with wine or beer and had unregimented schedules, allowing us to beat the heat and the crowds at the same time. I was taking notes for my next career move and discovering potential lucrative opportunities. 

Ali showing me how it's done

AJ showing me how it's done.

Christy showing me how it's done.

What could I do but take notes?

Beer Fest(s)

Charlotte Octoberfest Volunteer

In my four years of living in Charlotte, North Carolina, I attended exactly 4 beerfests. Oktoberfest came but once a year, and it was always looked forward to with much anticipation. My last year, I had made connections on the inside and got to volunteer. This was fun, but a seemingly isolated event. It was rare to see the beers sampled at the fest in local bars or shops.

In my two years of living in Athens, Georgia, I attended exactly 2 beerfests: Oktoberfest. I was also a nominal member of the Brew 52's home brewing society. I did not home brew myself, but I was an excellent taster and commenter on the hoppy fruits of my friends' labors.

"There Will Be Beer" International Beerfest

Long lines under the big tent at Holiday Ale Fest

In my four years of living in Portland, I've probably attended at least 4 per year.  I think I went to three my first arrival month: Portland International Beerfest, Oregon Brewers Festival, and North American Organic Brewers Festival. Subsequently, I've attended Dogtober Fest, Hopwork's Biketobeerfest, and the Holiday Ale Festival. According to PortlandBeer.org, there are over 30 festivals a year and growing. This doesn't even mention the number of craft breweries and beer stores opening up around town. In fact, I just visited The Commons Brewery, which is a stone's throw from my house, and Josh Grgas informed me that 4 other breweries had opened up since their December 3, 2011, grand opening.
When it comes to beer in Portland I am a neophyte. The amount of varieties, information, and celebrations out there surrounding beer is, quite frankly, a little overwhelming. Even with all of those beerfests, the crowds are still pretty large and lines are long for just a taste of beer. Usually we end up just getting a taste and getting back into line, because by the time you reach the counter, your little taste is empty.

Maybe I got a little humbug as I exited my 20s or maybe I'm just maturing, but I no longer find the drunkenness or debauchery tolerable. I actually do want to experience and taste the beer. I like taking notes and reading the descriptors. OR maybe I'm just too hip for the mainstream. Right, too hip. In any event, I was going to stop at The Commons Brewery on my way down to the Oregon Brewers Festival this weekend. I ended up staying and enjoying the intimacy and "Gathering around beer" instead. I think it was a wise choice.

After sampling 3 Farmhouse Ales for Uptown Market, I wanted a closer glimpse of the goings on of Commons. I went for a sampler that included 4 tastes for $8.

Pale Evening, Fleur de Ferme, Flemish Kiss, Pils

When I arrived, there were just a handful of people drinking beer and talking with Josh, who works in sales and distribution for Commons. The space was airy and inviting, yet it had a feeling of minimalism.  Beer glasses, tasting trays, bar, beer barrel tables, chalk board information, ipod playing music and and ipad for credit cards. The backdrop was the warehouse with all the brewing equipment. As I made my way through the tray, many more people showed up, and I had the feeling that I made it to the best, and most comfortable, beerfest in town.

Menu

Josh tending bar

Gathering around Beer