The casserole is the true symbol of the holiday season. Any concerns about its questionable contents are quickly dissipated by its kitchen-given warmth and seemingly endless portions. Jesus may have done well with the loaves and the fishes but, let's face it, if he'd had a decent casserole to ladle around, all of Israel would have needed a nap on the couch that afternoon. The casserole is a melting pot, the grandmotherly equivalent of a witch's cauldron to simmer and blend a mad concoction of bizarre relatives, poorly made travel plans and holiday traditions. The shared casserole is a communion spooned onto the plates of those who believe in the value of family.
She waved the box of cheez-its accusingly from the curb and wailed through her missing teeth "You won't even roll down the window to find out what I want!". It's true... I wouldn't. Most of the time I believe in opening the door to any knock, just in case opportunity happens to have dropped by unannounced, but in Portland, the urgent vapors of the city seem to have coalesced with the foggy depths of the pacific northwest to produce a level of crazy that I'm not interested in messing with.
We were packing up the van to leave for Portland when Tiffany reminded me that we could take the trailer and avoid the issue of packing all together. So we hitched it up and pulled it out of the trailer park like a wooly mammoth out of a tar pit and headed to the city. Feels fantastic to look in the mirror and see our silver house humming along behind us. We spent a week in a real house with friends and family checking out the city, catching up, and eating well. A nice change of pace from the Corvallis Mobile Home Park for sure, but it still didn't leave us wishing to be homeowners again. We're now parked on a 5 acre farm 3 miles outside of Corvallis. The tipi is done and ready to be picked up in Bend, but were trying to get some prep work done on the site and figure out exactly how to do the floor. We're all looking forward to having some more space. The rain and waning daylight hours are making the trailer a smaller and smaller space. Our move to the country also heralds a new phase of trailer life....we are now using the the bathroom and shower in the airstream. The bathroom, of course IS the shower and having a toilet and sink in the shower presents some unusual opportunities for efficiency. So far, its going pretty well and it is nice not to have to walk across a trailer park to pee in the middle of the night.
(the following my best attempt at a tribute to Sal Paradise and Dean Moriarty. "blow man blow!")
the mad swirl of the rain-soaked city snakes back and forth across the river until we end up down town with all the wild lights, incongruous architecture and pulsing humid vibe that is portland. time and money are short tonight but kinship and familiarity are running over and the six of us puzzle-piece our selves into the formerly swank hotel room with it's turn of the century dimensions and over-abundance of furniture. babies and bottles of beer make their way through the room as the king of trees shouts "you simply must try the coffee! the crabcakes are wonderful tonight!" while leslie takes off her boots and sits on the bed unperturbed like a motherly tree pleasantly buffeted by the winds of her mad family. tiffany is swinging her arms to tell the story the right way and tiny stella sumo-toddles into the padded headboard on the bed and giggles when it knocks her down. we all pile out of the room into the elevator and you can hear the feathers ruffling in the lobby as we navigate the noisy toddlers towards the street and continue talking over top of one another from the elevator to the street. this is family and time is running out and we know time. outside the air is cool and sweet and the rain holds long enough for us make it to the store for snacks and drinks. sprite for leslie and beer for the rest of us. someone has to stay sober or all this craziness will go unappreciated. calder leans over his crib like a friendly neighbor and points something that has caught his eye. Stella pulls a beer bottle out of the trash and wanders around with, embarrassing and amusing us at the same time and then the conversation dies and the babies loose their love for life and begin to scream in chorus and the night is over and its back to the interstate and our friends have to go to bed to make the plane and oregon might be beautiful but there's no family here and no one knows time anymore.
