Last night we camped near Grants Pass on the Rogue River, north of Ashland. It was our best camp ever, with a giant flaming red and gold tree watching over us. We agreed that if we ever had a tree like that in our yard we’d never be able to rake up the leaves. “Not until they turned brown,” said Michael, kneeling in the pools of amber. “Its an installation.”

While Michael and Jake fussed over a fire for grilling burgers I made a dandelion salad (soft, giant, organic commercial dandelion leaves purchased at a boutique market in Ashland) and smashed potatoes (were still eating Serge’s beautiful pink and yellow produce). I used a bit of butter and olive oil and a softened cube of veggie bullion with a tad of milk. It turned out very well. (Jake reserved them for lunch the next day.)  Before he dressed, to my surprise, Jake said, “Well, better get going with school,” and he announced that he would start with his essay on Hannibal. Today he focused on writing 150 words about his achievements. Then he filled out a science worksheet on converting pounds to kg, and noting your diet. He said, “I’m going to start watching what I eat more. Can I have an apple for breakfast?”

I agreed as long as he had 12 oz. of either milk or almond milk. Jake and I biked along the Rogue River on a terrific paved trail while Michael ran. When we got back I had time for yoga on top of a picnic table.

“I really like our routine,” said Michael. “Especially with Jake initiating his own schoolwork.” Indeed. We are no longer hovering or sitting with him as he works. He mostly asks about spelling and proceeds through his science and history worksheets, his math text and his PE and Fine Arts charts (noting what he is working on and for how long each day). He seems to be thriving with the independence. He has more confidence and interest in his work and because we’re not telling him what to do as much, he’s less argumentative than when we started a month ago.  Basically, he’s learning the way most adults like learning or working. I’m just surprised that its possible with him and at his age. Maybe he has suffered from being over estimated and underestimated and just plain evaluated (and tested) too much in school.  He wants so much to be good at something, especially sports.

“So what do you think are my strengths, mom? Drama and...writing?”  He looks unconvinced. As we walked around the campus of Southern Oregon University I talked about how much it had impressed me as a kid. Since then, they’ve built a beautiful new art museum and studios. “Do you think I could get into this school?” he asked.

Its been interesting managing a road trip with two sports junkies during the World Series and the pro football season. Mike and Jake pause a lot at bar windows, staring at the screens and running statistics. I almost lost my patience last night – or Mike did, when I declined to have dinner at a dark Irish pub so they could watch SF Giants vs Detriot Tigers. “Ashland is a foodie town. I want to find something nicer,” I said. Dejected, the boys trudged a few blocks closer to the theater where we had tickets for an 8 pm show. The solution was The Black Sheep, an English inn-style restaurant which I remembered adoringly from my Ashland summers. Michael had a Farmer’s Dinner (cheese, salad, pickled veg, meat pie). Jake and I had shepherd’s pie. And we sat near a crackling fire, the final game of the World Series 2012 plainly visible on a new mantel-top monitor. But without sound.

Ironically, the only unsatisfying experience we had in Ashland was the theater. We had a choice between Triolus and Cressida or Medea/MacBeth/Cinderella. T&C is set in modern day Afghanistan, and would have been the better choice. But it sounded too dark. I think Jake was intrigued by the element of Greek drama in M/M/C, because he choose it, so we agreed. It turned out to be the three plays at once, on one very vertical stage. All stories were staged at once, with a musical element to boot. The idea was to promote the parallels and ironic juxtapositions of gender roles in each of the stories, and I’m sure it would have been a heyday for thespians with PhDs, but it was a veritable three-ring circus, a torture for us. We could hardly follow it. Everytime I snatched a look at Jake he had a dark, angry expression. Not wanting to push  him too far, at intermission Michael and I agreed we should step out. 

“The thing is you guys,” Jake opened a critical discussion as we walked back to our bandwagon, “I do like drama but I despise melo-drama, and I can’t stand musicals. Its just so UNrealistic! And when people go back and forth across the stage wagging their fingers and shouting ‘And furthermore!’ I really can’t take it.”

His pronouncement was interrupted by a lanky street urchin who performed a spontaneous caricuture of our discussion, sauntering and gesticulating wildly behind us. We laughed. He continued. Michael thanked him most graciously. He continued. Jake and I stopped turning to look at either of them. “In a town like this its hard to say whether he’s crazy or just looking for work, “ said Michael.

Walking this morning, a heavy mist and scent of sulphur wraps the sleeping village of Jackson Wellsprings. As luck would have it, we stumbled upon a hot springs driving from Jackson to Ashland last night. It’s a large temporary encampment of teepees and aging Rvs, cars and tents and dilapidated cottages that must have been built in the 20s or 30s. Lithia Springs is the famous mineral water that flows beneath Jackson County, surfacing with heat in this location and nearby ritzy spas. Also, as a drinking fountain where walkers and runners take the cure in Lithia Park. We ambled around for quite some time before discovering the registration desk, tucked in a sprawling community building that shields the pools. Pleased to find a private spot facing a meadow and picnic table between two old cottages (still virile enough to provide electricity) we donned our swimwear, showered and plunged.

As we dressed, we could hear a concert brewing, so we decided to check it out. “Lukas Nelson And The Promise Of The Real and The Human Revolution.” A very small man, about the size of Jake with a long ponytail was hopping around the stage.”Did you know,” said Michael, “That Willie Nelson is actually quite short? I guess his son takes after him. I’ve heard he’s an incredible musican.”

For about an hour we endured the ecstatic jam band humming along to such lyrics as “Clean food! Clean seeds! Healthy babies! Healthy Bodies!”  Feeling hungry and quietly disappointed, we went to our gypsy wagon for some grub. I was feeling tired, so I tucked in with a book. Jake and Michael were wired, so they went back to the tent with cameras to see how the concert had evolved. After fifteen minutes Michael texted: “The Real Willie Nelson’s son is here, as promised. Real quiet soulful solo sound.”

I jumped out of bed. As I approached the tent I could here the unmistakable W. Nelson crooning voice. But then I saw—it was pouring out of the head of a beautiful young surfer in a MAUI t-shirt. He was delivering a divine stream of lovesongs. I confess to crying. Apparently he recorded them with Willie on the Heroes album. Have to check it out! Then the band joined him for a long riproaring set of stoner rock suitable for Salmonstock. Lukas is truly an amazing musician. The scene was a giant tent with a recessed stone fire pit (smokehole above) at one end, stage at the other, and layers of exotic carpets between. People were joining the Human Revolution every second – the floor gyrated and swam with ecstatics of every description. The most eccentric were hanging near us, to Jake’s chagrin: a large woman who appeared to be naked inside a short white fur coat. She had a giant fuzzy black top hat on, and beside her was a smaller man with a giant a raccoon tail spurting out of his pants. Together they added up to one fantastic beast. Swooping around the tent there were several yogis under the influence, driving themselves into distortions that would prove to be painful the next day and a few women busily shaking by the stage, “looking for backstage passes,” as Michael put it. On the whole, a very satisfying spectacle.

Thick bushes and trees of all descriptions tower and twine along the roads. Sand dunes and oyster heaps, myrtle trees, wild apples and hops. So lush and varied, so rich and fruitful it boggles the mind. Dinosaurs chewed and cavorted here. Lewis and Clark clawed through this, trying to catalog and survey it. First people thrived and trusted, feasted and shared. White man elbowed in with rosebushes and logjams, picket fences and family farms. Today, black and white cows stand in the fields, give creamy milk.  Over three hundred micro breweries populate the state, and Oregon is gaining renown for its wines and cheeses. I think of France--this emphasis on handcrafted regional comestibles, the unique produce of Oregon’s regions. There’s The Coast with its fish and its parks, The Hood River with its wines and fruits, Central Oregon with its high desert and 300 days of sunshine annually, there’s Eastern Oregon which I’ll have to return to see, and then there’s South Western where we’re headed. This is the area I know best, in a small way--two weeks in August when I was a jr. and graduate of Homer High, I came here to study at the Oregon Shakespearian Festival. It was the best experience I’d ever had in my life. Staying on campus at Southern Oregon State with fifty youth from around the North West, walking a mile to downtown Ashland each afternoon and evening, it could have been Seurat’s “Le Grande Jatte.” Hydrangea bushes and rolling hills, broccoli trees, Frisbee players and picnickers. Warmth. Sun. Theater on the outdoor Elizabethan stage, introductions by dramaturges and actors, costume and set designers – someone special every time, giving us a thrilling foothold in Shakespeare’s  reticulated terrain.

Two days ago we drove from Corvallis to Newport and camped at South Beach. Michael hooked our rolling cabin up to electricity and water and after an hour of coaxing the camp fire, he grilled ling cod. I read aloud from My Family and Other Animals. We laughed with little Lawrence who observes with scrupulous detail the awkwardness of tortises mating in his Greek garden. Then we went to sleep. In the morning we stretched inside our Tokyo apt, then we biked on moss-green pavement through the pines and dunes. The wind came up. Sand and leaves flew in our faces. Rain chased us back to camp for homeschool. Jake analyzed whether a box and whisker plot or a stem and leaf plot is a better way to analyse rainfall. Then he read a chapter about Babylonian society from his history textbook. Afterward, I asked him if he’d ever written a persuasive essay. He said not exactly but he liked the idea and asked if he could write about Hannibal’s empire. Ideally, he would pick Hamurabi’s Code, since that’s what’s up in history this week. But I’m picking my battles. He wrote for half an hour and read us his thesis. Then we drove south along the central coast, stopping at Oregon Dunes National Recreation Area. We took off our shoes and ran over hill and dale of dunes, watching for razor clam shells and studying some fellows who were doing tai’chi on a dune, as still and erect as egrets. In response, Mike and Jake wrestled and tossed themselves down the sandhills like seals.

Later, at dinner in our new camp at Coos Bay, Jake picked at his kale and sausage over pasta. He ate the sausage, then the bowtie, and then threw the kale out window. Exiled from the steamy bento-box house, he said “I hate you” and lay on a picnic table arms crossed, sighing heavily.  After twenty minutes I tried to get him to come back inside. He would not. Michael suggested a hat and a coat along with a flashlight and some matches. He accepted these items along with my addition of a hot chocolate. Then he made a small fire which sputtered out in the rain. Michael and I tried to focus on editing a short movie about cooking dinner in the motorhome. I could see Jake’s little fire struggling. Then Jake came back inside, straining his face into large frowns. We accepted his suggestion to play poker. Jake loved it, nearly tearful at his losses and laughing uproariously at his winnings. We all crawled into our burrows by 10:30. Into the dark I said, “I love you guys.” He answered. “love you too.”

Wearing bathrobes and coats, with shoes strewn around the motorhome and paintings askew, we’ve slid into to a swampy state of chaos. We are hauled up for the night in Newport a lovely State Park campground called South Beach. With full hook up, its worth $22. Notably, it is not raining.  100-some days of sun in Oregon this year and a single week of rain has rendered everything slightly scummy and spongy in the motorhome. This afternoon in Corvallis, parked downtown we unfurled ourselves on a wide, leafy curb, The sun was shining as if onto a fuzzy flokati. Starting with the bikes, which we dropped by the curb after exploring the Willamette River (I was struck by its similarity to the Seine at Samois, where Molly lives. Dark green, spangled with mallards. feathers and leaves, but no barges. This fat green river seems to reach around the world, the same river which surfaces where I stop.) We began to release things--coats and shoes,  saggy camp chairs. Then Michael’s guitar case, which was was wet, but not as soaked as sash on my washboard. So we set all these things out to dry, and we had some sandwiches. And then we played some music. By this time, Jake was turned away from us as if to project himself out of the picture.  He had his nose in a book. Still, he cast sidelong glances at us. A fellow out raking leaves asked if we wanted to borrow the rake and move in for a while.

People are friendly in Corvallis, as warm as the fall colors. We found Rachel Livingston and family (of Homer’s Ring of Fire Meadery) happily ensconsed in a leafy neighborhood. Lawrence is brewmeister at Sky High Brewery downtown. Porter and Katie are thriving in their big high school where they are serious students and soccer stars. Rachel is discovering new walking trails daily, with dogs Iris and Kemosabe. We picked up Katie McNary from her dorm and we all went out for a dinner featuring fresh local fare at Laughing Planet.  It was a wonderful, warm evening for all of us, lapping up our Homer connectedness in nourishing mouthfuls

Wearing bathrobes and coats, with shoes strewn around the motorhome and paintings askew, we’ve slid into to a swampy state of chaos. We are hauled up for the night in Newport a lovely State Park campground called South Beach. With full hook up, its worth $22. Notably, it is not raining.  100-some days of sun in Oregon this year and a single week of rain has rendered everything slightly scummy and spongy in the motorhome. This afternoon in Corvallis, parked downtown we unfurled ourselves on a wide, leafy curb, The sun was shining as if onto a fuzzy flokati. Starting with the bikes, which we dropped by the curb after exploring the Willamette River (I was struck by its similarity to the Seine at Samois, where Molly lives. Dark green, spangled with mallards. feathers and leaves, but no barges. This fat green river seems to reach around the world, the same river which surfaces where I stop.) We began to release things--coats and shoes,  saggy camp chairs. Then Michael’s guitar case, which was was wet, but not as soaked as sash on my washboard. So we set all these things out to dry, and we had some sandwiches. And then we played some music. By this time, Jake was turned away from us as if to project himself out of the picture.  He had his nose in a book. Still, he cast sidelong glances at us. A fellow out raking leaves asked if we wanted to borrow the rake and move in for a while.

People are friendly in Corvallis, as warm as the fall colors. We found Rachel Livingston and family (of Homer’s Ring of Fire Meadery) happily ensconsed in a leafy neighborhood. Lawrence is brewmeister at Sky High Brewery downtown. Porter and Katie are thriving in their big high school where they are serious students and soccer stars. Rachel is discovering new walking trails daily, with dogs Iris and Kemosabe. We picked up Katie McNary from her dorm and we all went out for a dinner featuring fresh local fare at Laughing Planet.  It was a wonderful, warm evening for all of us, lapping up our Homer connectedness in nourishing mouthfuls.

Fourteen north miles of Tillamook, Terry sprung for a room with two doubles overlooking the sea. Closer than I’ve ever couched surfed to the great Pacific. He’s spoiling us. Which is significant on his pizza delivery wage. I’m certainly not complaining. Or discouraging this indulgence. We are cozily lodged at the Silver Sands Motel and with wifi. They’ve given us the off-season rate of $105. I can catch up on a pile of work. There’s a salt water pool and a sauna. With all of the rain, and a new leak in Rig-o-tini’s middle skylight, we sprung for a second night.

the fellas visited the Tillamook Air Museum (no great draw for me, but big enough to fit three dirgibles I’m told). I was happy to stay behind and roll out my yoga mat. I’m a bit stir crazy with these guys, their football debates and farting contests. But in doses they are a ton of fun. Tonight we are playing poker. Jake is excited. Its his first time. He puts on his toy glasses and rolls the card box up his short sleeve.  I’m getting busted for writing about all this. But its so funny. Jake and Terry are arguing and sipping non-alcoholic wine. After he acquired pancreatitis this year, Terry became a dry alcoholic. I’m impressed with his resolve. He imbibles alcohol-removed merlot. Is it the ritual he loves? Jake loves being on par with the grownups. He has just won 5 card stud with five clubs. Across the table, he whoops at Terry. Who winks  pours them both some “merlot.”

All day Jake has denied that Terry works for Papa Johns. He just can’t believe it. “Even if you did, which you don’t, why would you?” He implores? Terry responds, “Well, I was just bored in Tennessee. There’s not much fancy work. Retired, I couldn’t just play golf and walk the dogs all day. So I took a job delivering pizzas. Paid for this trip!”

Jake is incredulous. I can’t keep a straight face. Which contributes to the implication of a ruse. I can understand Terry. I always have to be busy with something. Look at me now, typing away. I can’t even keep 100% of my mind on the poker game. I admire Terry’s work ethic, his effort to maintain. And I love Jake’s incredulity, his insistence that Terry shouldn’t have a job like that. “Maybe for a guy under 30, Uncle T,” Jake says (that’s what he calls Terry), “But not for a grandpa!”

I asked Terry if he Papa Johns makes good Pizza. “Oh yeah. There’s one with Alfredo sauce, sausage, olives, green peppers and pineapple. Its fantastic.”

“Hmm,” says Jake, “sounds like Chef’s Mistake. That’s good.”

“Oh yeah!” says Terry, “Papa’s in de HOUse!”

Jake’s eyebrows shoot up. I think he’s convinced. But he won’t admit it.

 Amidst a steady downpour we drove to Tillamook. Between raindrops and teardrops I feel about as damp as a cheese. The middle skylight also  drips steady. It drives directly down, battering a small towel. One way to clean the floor. I am comforted by a big cup of tea and a long chat with my sister. Although hers is a very heavy setback, she at least sees the bright side—she will be able to do a lot of writing.  I am anxious to see her new manuscript—I’ve been elated by the poems I’ve seen as it develops.

For now, I pass the phone to Jake. He reads her his new manuscript, about skiing with his friends at Alyeska. In between sentences and laughter he looks at me imploringly. Will she be okay? I picture her two and half year old son, trying to imagine what is going on. Jake passes the phone back to me. Where I’ve scratched off the purple tint on the windows and the fog isn’t too thick I have been studying blurred bits of the landscape.  The most amazing maroon bogs dot the roadside--the kinds I’ve of dreamed about, invented. Baroque ditches, stitched with reeds, laced with emerald trees and drifting golden leaves. In these wine waters, Ophelia could float peacefully. Sadness cedes to beauty. 

Having a wonderful time in Portland, dashing into groovy galleries, dodging raindrops. Just in one day the sun has been in and out six times. And six different kinds of rain: mist, showers, spit, etc.  Spent a couple hours in Powells as the rain beat down. Jake camped out in the graphic novel section.  Michael honed in on Art and I couldn’t get past Literature. Michael’s dad, Terry, was patient with us bookworms, perhaps dazed by the spectacle of Powells, its voluminous scale. Its outrageous, fantastic, overwhelming--surely the biggest bookstore in the world. I wanted to find something about sports writing for Jake, but even so it was tough. It needs to be about football, baseball or soccer.

Jake went back to Powells while we explored galleries. Portland’s art scene is impressive. I haven’t seen so many decent galleries within a few square blocks since Chelsea.  I admire the bravura of Stepen Hayes painting at Elizabeth Leach—making a sky in a few minutes of scrubbing, seconds of dripping or a long thoughtful moment of demarcation. A bristly edge surges halfway up the canvas. The sky is the undescribed space above that edge, below knots of barns, bushes.

There were amazing encaustics by Andrea Schwartz-Feit at Butters.  Michael and I tend to like the same things. Still, I’m sure if we ever had a gallery together we’d have to take turns making selections.  At Butters, just minutes late for the artists talk, we were offered champagne and chocolate. About a dozen people stood around talking. The art dealers were all quite friendly. I wanted to know how many attended the talk, but I was too shy to ask. Based on how many stood around, I’m inclined to think that more come to Bunnell.

The gallery spaces in Portland are beautiful, inspiring. Fat beams, tall windows, floors of polished concrete, steel plates or old tongue and groove, lovingly maintained. Reminds me of Chelsea because they are also one-story buildings, big windows – many with garage doors. The quality of Portland galleries, which so boldly surpasses Seattle or San Francisco (as a community, all in a dozen square blocks) somewhat explains the presence of several great galleries not far away in Astoria. I’m still thinking about Imogen Gallery and Lightbox. Imogen is new—I was immediately delighted to see Alaska’s Sara Tabbert’s work there, mixed in with a tasty variety of abstracts. Lightbox was amazing. It’s a photographer’s gallery – a deep space with very high ceilings in front, showing a rich variety of analog prints in small wood frames. Beautiful light – each piece glowed in a precious halo of amber. There was a wonderful collection of old cameras witnessing the scene, old guys, smiling with appreciation. The floors were stained very dark. In back, a handsome work station for framing, packing. An adorable mezzanine doubled as an office (front) and critique/screening room (back). Apparently there’s darkrooms one can rent – perhaps in the basement. Its a veritable photo center, so elegantly designed and atmospheric, I would expect to see in Seoul or Amsterdam.