Grandpa’s Fun Farm

I have a favorite place to go here in town. It’s not too far away, it’s bright and cheerful and full of hope, it’s mostly outdoors…but it also has antiques. How could I not like the sound of that?

Grandpa’s Fun Farm – so named, I presume, because of its autumn pumpkin-themed activities for the whole family – is not just a place for fall fun. It’s also a wonderful nursery for all of your flower, plant and tree needs, as well as having an antique-filled barn with prices that are quite reasonable.

Marlyn and Jolene Nystrom are now in their 15th season of running their business, located out on Read Avenue. In June they are open Monday-Saturday, 9am-5pm. In July and August they are open Thursday-Friday, 9am – 5pm and Saturday, 9am – 12pm. They are always closed on Sundays. Their animal exhibit (goats, cows, horses, pigs, peacocks, guinea fowl, geese…and more!) is open by appointment during the summer until their fall hours when it is open most every weekend.

If you live around here, don’t wait to visit Grandpa’s Fun Farm just in the fall – go now! They have lovely plants (including ready-to-go hanging baskets and flower pots), many bedding plants and herbs and veggies, trees, bulbs, etc. It’s a feast for the eyes in their five greenhouses and all around the property with lovely flowers in all sorts of wonderful locations!

And the great old barn, filled with many farm-related antiques, shelves and desks and decorative items is a must-see as well. It’s clean and charming and is run by Marlyn and Jolene’s daughter.

So come buy a plant or two, check out the barn, and enjoy your time at Grandpa’s Fun Farm – not just an autumn treat!

I love the variegated leaves.

Everywhere you look there are great things to see!

Part of the fall fun out at the Fun Farm.

Back home with our plants, the girls and I got to work.

I had two helpers. One with the camera and one running errands!

Whose pasty arms and legs are those, anyway?

Summer in Full Swing: Check

Kids off to summer band – check. Kids off to science camp – check. Girls off to Girl Scout camp – soon to be checked. Church camp and Bible camp – nearly checked. Children’s library reading time – checking all summer long. Swimming lessons – not yet checked. Cleaning the house – checking. Worst-ever sinus infection – check. Flowers, tomato plants and herbs bought – check. Planting said flowers, tomatoes and herbs – not yet checked.

Weekend away with the family – check. Longer vacation with the family – yet to be checked. NOT doing a community theater production this summer in order to actually have a summer – check. Removing ticks from the cat – check. Bird watching out my windows – checking each and every day with joy. Doctor appointments, dentist appointments, veterinary appointments – check.

Strawberry shortcake – checked several times. Iced coffee consumed by the gallon – checking daily. Grill used and appreciated – check. No time to write – check. Barely able to blog – check. Taking advantage of every moment possible to cuddle and read to kids – check. Reading a lot myself – check.

Getting verklempt every time my six year old reads to me with her newly-acquired fabulous reading skills – check, check, check.

Summer in full swing: check.

I May Live on the Prairie…But my Heart is on the Beach

So I’ve been thinking about Orcas Island lately, and it dawned on me that I never posted a whole lot of photos that I took there last summer. There are many things I love about Orcas, but the beach and the view of the ocean is definitely one of the biggest.

So – I give you a typical Orcas Island beach, filled with stones and tide pools, seaweed and shells – except that this one is even better in that it has a cave and a waterfall. I adore this place.

What is it that I love, you ask? The salty tang in the air. The polished driftwood, worn down by days in the briny sea, so smooth it’s splinter-free. The limpets and hermit crabs, sea anemones and tiny Dungeness crabs that inhabit the tide pool worlds. I even love the barnacles that mark the high-tide line along the rocky cliffs (if you keep your eyes peeled you’ll see this in one photo). Even I must admit, however, that don’t like falling on the barnacles and getting my knees all bloody – I’ve done that plenty in my day. I love the stony beaches of Orcas Island – no sandy beaches for me, thank you very much! (There are a few sandy beaches on the island, but not many.) I love the tide, rolling ever onward – or outward – free of human concern and worry, simply obeying the order of the moon. In and out, in and out, in and out, twice a day forever and ever, amen.

I love the order of the tides…and the disorder of the shore.

I remember that I loved the way my feet inside my socks inside my wet Keds (wet because a kid can never go to the beach and remain dry) would squelch all the way up the beach and along the dirt road to my house, 90 feet above the crashing waves. By the time I reached home, my socks would be all smushed beneath my feet and my toes would be raisiny and cold and I didn’t care one bit.

I loved the “Whoosh” of the Orca whales breeching off the shore – the giant exhale of their breath which we could hear from our deck and we’d come running to watch the pod pass by. How could a person not love that?

I loved the screech of the seagulls as they dive-bombed the Bald eagles – and the patience of the eagle as he put up with it. And then, with a sudden swoop from his cliff-top perch, the eagle would leave the old, dead snag and drop to the ocean, coming up with a fish in his talons to grace his family’s table.

I loved the splash of the ocean’s spray against our windows in mighty winter storms – even that high above the sea, we’d have salt on our panes to wipe away in the following days. I loved the constant company of the waves – lulling or roaring, it was never silent in our yard because the ocean was our constant guest.

Our constant guest: and yet, really, it was we who were the guests, we who were the brief interlude between other people, other guests, other visitors to that ocean-side spot, where smoking mountains greeted us across the water on clear mornings, reminding us that we were not in charge of anything – not really. We were merely caretakers for a short time, of that little piece of magic that was ours. That little piece of Orcas I called home.

This is me, in the empty field next to our house. That’s Mt. Baker in the background and yes, it would steam and belch smoke sometimes. My father took this photo and called it, “Bouquet for Mommy”.

Old bones of a giant squid? Nope. Just tree roots.

The tide was coming in – all of the tide pools were filling up and I was close to being stranded! Not really – I’m smarter than that.

The islands off in the distance are Matia, Sucia and the tiny one is Puffin. Matia and Sucia are entirely parks. Did you notice the high-tide mark of the barnacles?

I love driftwood, all scoured by salt and sea.

Tanker and tug boat

High tide line.

Told you there was a cave.

Bull kelp.

Behold the bounty in my daughters’ hands.

Beach glass, collected over the years, now holds a place of honor in land-locked Minnesota.

A few nostalgic photos of our actual beach – just up the shore from the photos above.

I believe my sister threw in a large rock so as to splash me and get me even more wet than I already was. All part of the beachy fun!

My grandma, cooking burgers on our beach – probably 1972 or 3.

The walk home from the beach was along this road. I have always had a fondness for forgotten dirt roads.

The dirt road, coming up from the beach. There was an old orchard at the end of the road. Yum! I’m the smallest one, holding my grandma’s hand.

School Bus Stories: Part 2

I was in Kindergarten along about 1975, and the bus, as usual, was 3 or 4 kids deep per seat. We were almost the last bus stop, which meant my seating options were limited. The bus had already covered the entire east side of the island and the kids on board were eager to be off.

It was an old bus. The kind with no “cush” in the cushions. The kind where you felt every single bump on the road. The kind with a metal bar on the top back of each green seat as opposed to full vinyl covering, front and back.

So there I was, teetering on about 3 inches of seat, bouncing along at 30 miles per hour (the top speed limit on Orcas Island) when suddenly Mr. Faff had to slam on the brakes, right at the four-corner stop between North Beach Road and Mt. Baker Road.

I slammed forward and my mouth smashed on the metal bar of the seat in front of me. Teeth on steel. I tasted blood. I felt a broken tooth. I cried.

My two sisters – bless them – mopped me up the best they could with the napkins from their lunch sacks. I remember feeling so badly that they wouldn’t have any napkins that day. What if they spilled their milk? I was really quite worried about that.

I also remember feeling quite excited that I got to miss school that day. I had to go to the dentist and he pulled the tooth which, thankfully, was a baby tooth anyway. I also remember that Mr. Faff (whose name has been changed though he’s been dead for years so it probably doesn’t matter) felt very badly about what had happened. He tried to comfort me in his quiet, awkward way. Did he remove his dentures to make me smile? I don’t remember. But it was kind of him, just the same.

I remember one other thing about Mr. Faff. Never, in all the years he drove the bus and cleaned the school, had we seen him out of his baseball cap and coveralls. Never…until, one day, my sister and I attended a funeral and, low and behold, down the aisle of the church came Mr. Faff. He was wearing a suit and his head was bare. My sister and I turned to each other, our eyes wide, amazed grins on our faces.

Who knew? He had hair!

Happy Two Year Blogaversary to Me!

Female Baltimore Oriole, Cat bird, fuzzy Orchard Oriole

Two years ago today I posted my first blog post! Every single Tuesday since then I have posted something, “Tuesdays with Gretchen” being my goal. I have posted occasionally on other days as well – for a total of 155 posts, almost 23,000 views, a Freshly Pressed honor, and a perpetual sense of guilt because I haven’t looked at all the other blogs I ought to be looking at. I have not worked very well at building my blog presence, and I alternate between resignation, guilt, frustration, and contentment about that fact. Today I am feeling okay about it. I have three children who are far more important, a husband whom I have loved (and been loved by) for 17 years, and a house which is in sore need of some serious cleaning attention, not to mention a manuscript that I have written, edited, and am attempting to sell. And so the blog gets pushed to the back burner…except for a few hours every Tuesday.

Thanks for coming along for the ride! I’m so glad to be a part of your world. I leave you with a few bird photos – it’s what’s going on in my yard this week!

Orchard Oriole…plus two friends in the background.

Goldfinch, looking gorgeous.

Cat bird. They make the craziest sounds.

Mrs. Baltimore Oriole

Mr. Baltimore Oriole.

I love these guys.

School Bus Stories, Part 1

“Cool,” I thought to myself as I stepped onto the bus one morning, 10ish years old, hair in pigtails, my Charlie Brown lunchbox clutched in my hands. “An empty seat.”

My exact lunchbox. Well, not MY exact one…but exactly the one I had! I bought it on Ebay a few years back.

I sat down, scooted to the window, smiled.

Only then did I realize that there were words all around me. Words jeeringly flung into the air. Words aimed at me.

“EWWW!! You sat in the throw-up seat!”

I didn’t. I did not. Denials rushed through my mind and my own sudden nausea soured my stomach. I looked wildly around at the seat. It looked clean. Much cleaner than usual, actually. This is not a throw-up seat. They’re just being mean. I remained seated, hoping to goodness they’d just leave me alone.

“You’re in the throw-up seat, you’re in the throw-up seat,” voices chanted all around me.

“I am not,” I muttered, redder than the beets Mom served at dinner.

“Are too, Freddy’s little sister threw up there right after we picked her up. And you’re sitting in it.”

So that’s why the bus was late today. Shoot. I AM sitting in the throw-up seat.

“Cleaned it up,” grunted the bus driver, Mr. Faff, a cap-wearing, denture-sporting, laid-back man who doubled as the school janitor during the day. Sometimes he took out his dentures to make us laugh. Mostly he just minded his own business and left us to mind ours.

“He cleaned it up,” I whispered in my defense. “He did. He cleaned it up.”

But he couldn’t clean its reputation.

Mount Saint Helens Exploded 33 Years Ago this Week – My Dad Was There the Next Day – And Here are Some of his Photos

I remember the boom that Sunday morning, May 18th, 1980 – 33 years ago this week – as we were getting ready for church on Orcas Island, Washington. It was 8:32am – or however long it takes for sound to travel 300 miles. My oldest sister was off at college, my Dad was down in Oregon at work with the Air Force, and my other sister, our Mom, and I were slipping on our Sunday shoes and just about to head out the door when we heard it.

“Oh, they’re dynamiting on Buck Mountain,” Mom said dismissively.

But Jenny and I said, “No! It was Mount Saint Helens!”

“No,” Mom disagreed. “We couldn’t hear it this far away.”

“It was the mountain, Mom,” we said again. “Turn on the radio.”

Sure enough, Mount Saint Helens – which had been steaming and belching and threatening to explode for weeks – had finally blown her top. The mountain – the entire skyline of southern Washington State – was no longer the same. The north face of the mountain was gone.

And so were 57 people with her.

My father, LTC David K. Wendt, was a rescue helicopter pilot for the United States Air Force Reserve, based out of Portland, Oregon. Here’s what Dad had to say about May 18th:

“I was the duty officer that Sunday – in the RCC (Rescue Control Center) which was a madhouse!! We were getting calls from everybody – including the President of the United States (or the White House office, anyway, to set up a visit for President Carter.) I didn’t get to fly until Monday morning – when I found the Moore family. Lienau’s rescue was a week later.” (The following photographs will fill-out the stories of these people a little more.)

These are some of his photographs, taken over the next several days following the event on May 18th.

The cauldron!

It’s like a photo from you-know-where.

These were trees. The explosion – firing at several hundred miles per hour – killed every living thing within a 230 square mile radius. All within a time period of 5-9 minutes. The orange smudge in this photo is a flare. (See links below to verify this information.)

Blasted trees on the surface of Spirit Lake. Spirit Lake was made famous even before the explosion because of a long-time resident, Harry Truman, who refused to evacuate prior to the explosion they KNEW was coming. His body was never found.

Steam vents – filled with logs from the blast.

Steaming waterfall.

Devis Valley

A 200 foot hover, while a parajumper is hanging on the end of a 200 foot cable as he works to make a rescue.

Flying toward a lake on the mountain.

Micheal Lienau, rescued by Dad and his crew. Several years ago they saw each other again as they were both asked to be a part of an NBC production on “Disaster Survival”. Here’s what Dad had to say about Lienau: “He made a video of the whole ordeal – saying how they looked back up the pass they’d come through and saw a volcano-blasted tree in the shape of a cross – just showing in the narrow slit of overcast volcanic cloud and the pass. He told the others with him – after seeing that cross – that he truly felt they were going to be saved – and a few minutes later we flew over the pass! I was hover-tracking them by their trail left in the ash and mud.” Otto Seiber, another guy rescued by Dad and his crew, was a filmmaker from Seattle, who went with his film crew to document the destruction on May 23rd. Their compasses freaked out in the volcanic atmosphere and they got themselves lost in a hurry. The mountain then erupted again on May 25th, and Dad and his team rescued them. By the way, Wikipedia has proven its reputation for inaccuracy by reporting that they were rescued by the National Guard…but it was NOT the guard, it was the Air Force!

A helicopter-view of another Huey.

Steam vents

They searched for the Moores – and they found them. Alive. Mother, father, and two small children.

The Moores.

Heart Lake

Reid Blackburn’s car. He was a photojournalist for a Washington newspaper as well as for National Geographic magazine. His body was eventually recovered from the car.

Chemically-altered pools. All sorts of weird stuff in that ash and lava!

Dad didn’t send me this photo because he’s not one to brag – but I wanted to include it! Details of the rescue of the Moores. This is the nomination form that was turned in, nominating them for the Helicopter Heroism Award that year.

Amazing what the ash in the air will do to a sunset!

Forever changed.

Here are several interesting links:

A very informative video put out by the USGS – the United States Geological Survey.

The USDA/FS site (United States Department of Agriculture / Forest Service)

Mount Saint Helens.com

A USGS summary of the event, including right before it and several years after it.

There are many, many more sites – I just choose a few which seemed especially good.

My Dad has had his photos used by the USGS, the Mt. St. Helens Interpretive Center, and this book, Fire Mountain. I have many reasons to be proud of my dad. The things he did during his Mount Saint Helens rescues are definitely some of them.

Copyright Notice: Unauthorized use and/or duplication of any material in this blog without written permission from the blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited.

Copyright May 14, 2013 by Gretchen Anne O’Donnell and Col. David K. Wendt, USAFR