The stop sign extended from the side of the bus, lights flashing. As the bus slowed to a stop, Mr. Brown grabbed the handle and popped the door open. A girl got on the bus. I don’t remember her name and wonder if I ever even knew it. The house where she lived was little more than a shack. There were other kids in her family that rode the bus, too. No one wanted to sit too close to them. The smell was terrible! She smelled like dirt, body odor, urine and kerosene. I paid no attention to the others, just the girl. Her hair was matted and looked like it had never been brushed or even washed. Dirt was visible on her skin and on the ragged unmatched too big hand-me-down clothes she wore. If she scratched her face, a trail was left in place of the dirt. I imagine a tear left a trail as well. Her shoes were too big for her feet and she usually didn’t wear socks. Many days the bus stopped in front of the house and waited, but she never got on.
She wasn’t in any of my classes. If she would have been, I know she wouldn’t have been in the Bluebirds reading group. I don’t remember even seeing her in the schoolhouse, just on the bus. Kids in the classroom were divided into groups. Each row or group indicated a degree of intelligence. Often the dirty impoverished kids were all clumped together in the same group.
I wondered about her family. Did she have parents in the home, or did she live with someone else? Did she have any friends? I don’t remember ever hearing her talk. If anyone would have listened, what would her heart have revealed? Would she have said she wanted a friend, or to belong to a group, or to play with someone on the playground? Was she made fun of all of her school days? Did she even finish school?
Even though I never had any contact with her or said anything ugly to her, I often think that she needed a friend. What if I had dared to speak to her, to offer a smile or give her my coveted maple stick from my lunch bag? Who would have been changed the most – her or me?
You know, we pass nameless faces almost every day. As we look across the sea of faces, we don’t see the hurt they may carry. Maybe they lost someone dear to them. Maybe they don’t know where they will get their next meal. Maybe they have no home or family. Maybe they suffer some kind of abuse. Maybe they are alone with no friends. Maybe they are neglected or abandoned. Maybe they have had no one to teach them how to care for themselves. Maybe they wear a smile and walk with confidence. Maybe they reach out to help someone who trips and falls. Maybe we should remember that in the sea of faces, others see each of us as a nameless face, too.
I saw some sponge curlers in the store – blue, green, yellow and pink. Ahhh, I just imagined my littlest granddaughter would like to have her big sister curl her hair. When I handed her the bag of curlers, she knew exactly what they were and what to do with them. She was excited to have her sister curl her hair and more excited when her hair bounced with curls. Cute as a bug, she was!
Mama behind cake
Mama’s wanna-be-curls on left
That triggered the memory of when I first started helping my Mother with her hair. At first it was just putting gook on her wanna-be-curls. Later, I also rolled the hair on the back of her head because it was hard for her to reach.
My mother’s hair was limp, lifeless, and “straight as a poker.” She was jealous of anyone whose hair was wavy or curly. She told me more than once that she wished her hair had body and could hold a curl like my hair. If she curled her hair on regular rollers, it would be flat again in no time at all. It wouldn’t hold a curl at all. She remedied that with a Toni perm.
She opened the pink box, laid out the permanent rods, pack of end papers and the two bottles of solution. I remember her first calling me to help when I was just five years old. I don’t know why she chose the youngest of her kids to help, especially a five-year-old. Maybe it was when the other kids were in school, but it seems she got me to help her even when the older girls were around.
She got her Rat Tail comb, parted her hair into sections, each twisted and secured with bobby pins. Each section was parted one little piece at a time, combed carefully, the ends wrapped in little papers (that looked like my Granddad’s cigarette rolling papers) and rolled onto the curling rods. That’s when I was called to duty. Mama sat in a chair, wrapped a towel around her shoulders and waited for me squeeze the solution onto the hair rolled on the rods. My favorite part was snipping off the tip of the nozzle of the thin plastic Permanent Wave Solution bottle. I turned the bottle upside down and squeezed out some of the liquid, letting the tip of the bottle scrape along the top of each curler. I repeated the process until all the solution was used. The last few curls got an extra squirt. What an awful smell! It was almost as bad as the nose-hair-burning odor of sulfur. Just thinking about it opens my sinuses.
After waiting about five minutes, she rinsed her hair and patted it with a towel. The towel rested on her shoulders again while I administered the second solution, the neutralizer. After another five minutes, she rinsed her hair again. Then the curlers came out. Rods were cast to one side to be rinsed and sorted, the wet papers to the other. All evidence was destroyed except for the awful smell of permanent solution that lingered in the house all day.
Leaving Uncle Sid’s place wasn’t so bad because we had Uncle Sid with us as we headed to Big Sky Country. We left behind Hurricane Ridge where we had our adventure with Chuley (the dog) and Uncle Sid. We passed Dungeness Spit, between Port Angeles and Sequim, along the Strait of Juan de Fuca where we had walked the beach with Aunt Lois. The Strait, named for the sailor who reputedly discovered it for Spain in 1592, separates Vancouver from the Olympic Peninsula. We drove along the road that curved around Discovery Bay, then took the ferry from Port Townsend crossing the northern end of Puget Sound, called Admiralty Inlet, to the town of Coupeville on Whidbey Island.
Though we had driven along much of the coast from California to Washington, this land of waterways was still foreign to me, though no less fascinating. Standing on the deck of the ferry with the wind and spray of salt water in my face was somehow refreshing and relaxing. The small town of Coupeville was interesting. Years later, I visited that area again. There was just something special about eating in a quaint café that stands on stilts. Big windows allowed for a view of Historic Coupeville Wharf while looking out across the inlet as birds dove into the water to catch their next meal or foraged along the shore covered with rocks and shells. The sounds of birds and foghorns, the smell of salty air and the décor of nets, anchors, fishing relics and shells, all reflected the atmosphere to match the weather-beaten clapboard buildings of the coastal town – laid back, hospitable, rustic.
Historic Coupeville Wharf
We crossed the emerald green waters of Deception Pass. It wasn’t long before we followed the Skagit River and heard the Northern Cascades call our names. I have had the opportunity to travel that road more than once, even into the Canadian Cascades. That is beautiful country. One thing that surprised me was the color of the water, especially the larger bodies of water. It was really evident in the waters of Diablo Lake. The emerald color is so intense because of the surrounding glaciers that grind rocks into powder, called glacial flour. It stays suspended in the lake, giving it that brilliant color. The lake, also called “Emerald Lake,” has been described as the “emerald-green jewel of the Northern Cascades.” Words don’t give it justice. How can I paint a picture with words to display the beauty and wonder of such a place?
The road wandered through the mountains, sometimes the curves so sharp we almost met ourselves on the other side. Douglas fir, redcedar, western hemlock and spruce trees dominated the forests of the Cascades. Alpine meadows opened up to display their splash of color as a variety of wildflowers bloomed and raised their faces to the sun, glad to shake off the cold. The wind blew high in the trees, slowing as it descended into the valley and danced over the emerald green waters of the lake and creeks. Waterfalls cascaded down the mountainside and joined other streams that bounded into the valleys below.
Diablo Lake
I didn’t know until many years later, specifically in the Winthrop area, that we traveled through part of the country that holds one of the mysteries of my Great Great Grandfather on my mom’s side of the family. That’s a story for another day. Our road took us past Coulee Dam and into Idaho. We stopped somewhere near Coeur d’Alene to visit another Great Uncle, my Grandfather’s brother, on my mom’s side of the family. He wasn’t home. So, what did we do? We opened the door, went in the house, got a drink of water and left a note on the table. We were sorry to miss him. I had only seen him once or twice and would have loved to have been able to know him a bit better.
We didn’t wait long because we were anxious to get to Big Timber. With Uncle Sid telling us family stories and other tales, it seemed the time flew by. Memories were triggered as we passed through each part of the state. Oh, how I wish I had all those stories recorded! Just being in Montana made me feel like I was home. To see it with Uncle Sid riding shotgun made it exponentially more special. What a great treasure! Before long, we turned into my Grandmother’s driveway. And so began another series of fortunate adventures in Big Sky Country!
The map program won’t let me track the road through the National Park but we took the road from Diablo Lake to Winthrop where the second map picks up.
My Guest Author today is Aunt Ellen via a manuscript written by my Daddy in which this poem was featured.
note written by my Daddy: Here is a note from Ellen in January of 1944. The flu bug was going around in the Crazy Mountains. Here’s a piece of her poetry: I have left the punctuation and spelling the same.
The first time Pa got the flue T’Was January the Twelth Up to that time He enjoyed perfect health He would work and he would cus And he would wallow the snow And travel the ridges Where the south wind does blow.
Oh he is tough And he is wiry Always on the go Up in the hills In the ice and snow With four kids and a wife And an axe and a saw That cussing old fellow My lumberjack Pa
Two weeks have gone by But dear father is not dead He coughs and he sputters And has pains in his head His bones almost rattle His eyes almost glaze As he suffers around in a kind of a daze
The next time I see him Will be early spring He’ll be pulling the saw Making an axe ring The logs will be rolling The river up high The hole outfit busy And the flue long gone by.
written by Sister Ellen
Poppy & Sister Ellen
The Influenza Epidemic of the Winter of 1943-44 in the United States: A Preliminary Summary Public Health Report, September 1, 1944, Dorothy F. Holland & Selwyn D. Collins
The influenza that hit the mountains of Montana was part of the influenza epidemic in the winter of 1943-44. “An outbreak of a mild type of influenza started in Minnesota and the Great Lakes region about the middle of November 1943.” “The epidemic spread eastward to New England, the Middle Atlantic States, and Kentucky, Virginia, West Virginia, Delaware, and Maryland, outbreaks being reported subsequently in the Mountain and Pacific States, the Southeast (Central and Atlantic) and, finally, in the West South Central States.” “ The disease in the epidemic “were the sudden onset, moderate prostration, ever and general pains, followed by marked weakness. The duration has been variously reported as between 3 and 5 days. As a result of the characteristic short duration of the illness, the term “lightning” influence was used in newspaper reports of the epidemic in England.” “The excess mortality associated with the epidemic resulted from the high incidence of cases rather than a high case fatality rate.”
I crawled up in the chair and squeezed in beside the little man. In younger days, I would have plopped down right onto his lap. He looked over at me and gave a weak smile. His chest rose and fell sharply as he fought for every labored breath. He had only been on oxygen for a short time, progressing from a nightly routine to a valuable lifeline. Still, he struggled to breathe. The pneumonia filling his lungs was slowly drowning him. Antibiotics couldn’t even touch the rampant infection that threatened to take control of his body.
It was evident the little man was uncomfortable. He could find no rest whether lying in bed propped up or sitting in the recliner. He had gone with us months earlier to select his recliner. The requirement for the perfect chair wasn’t a matter of comfort. It had to be the right size for one little man and one little girl who brought him a smile and shared his blueberries every morning. That little ray of sunshine was a miracle worker. She brought him life – gave him something to live for.
There was something special going on that day – a birthday celebration. Several family members were already gathered, some came to visit the failing little man, and some came for the birthday party. We all buzzed in and out of the bedroom where he lay in the hospital bed. I took his hand and chatted a minute or just rubbed his little face when I checked on him. Sometimes I just sat by him and held his clammy hand in mine. His words were few. It took too much strength to even try to talk. In fact, it was almost impossible to say anything between gasps for breath. He tried to muster up a smile, his eyes darting back and forth, as oxygen was depleted from his lungs.
Earlier, my daughter had suggested that I had not given him permission to “go on.” Well, I had, but said I would give him permission again. I suggested that she do the same thing. She looked a bit sheepish and made her way to his side and gave her consent. And then, as I sat with him in his chair sharing just a quiet moment, our eyes met. His eyes held a steady gaze. I rubbed his little hand that was in mine and said, “Daddy, it’s okay if you want to go on now.” He gave me a smile and his eyes twinkled a bit. My eyes twinkled a bit, too, but it was because they held tears that began to spill over. I told him, “Daddy, I will miss you.” He whispered, “I will miss you, too.” “I love you, Daddy.” “I love you, too.” That was about all he could muster. Though the words were brief, they forever hold a place in eternity and in my heart.
More times than I can count, the little man had said his goodbyes. For almost twelve years, after my mother’s death, he tried to check out. Every time he was sick, and often when he wasn’t, he said, “I won’t see you in morning.” I would roll my eyes and say, “Sorry, but you will see me in the morning. That just isn’t your choice. When God says it’s time for you to go, then you can go. Until then – same song, same dance.” As time approached for a little girl to turn three years old, the little man promised that he would stick around for her birthday celebration.
That day had come. The tables set up outside, spread with birthday cake, snacks and drinks, were in full view from his bedroom window. Everyone filled his room and we sang “Happy Birthday” to the birthday girl. He managed a slight grin and a slight movement of his hand as if he was mustering the strength to raise it. That was a familiar sight. I had been with him numerous times, as a child and as an adult, to visit parishioners at home or in hospitals. At various times during the visit and before we left, he raised his hand and pronounced a blessing on them. It seemed as we were all gathered around his bed, he was sending himself off with a blessing. Maybe the blessing was for him, but I believe it was intended for all of us as a blessing and a goodbye. It wasn’t long before he seemed agitated. I could tell the crescendo of the chatter bothered him. I suggested everyone leave the room so he could rest. After we left the room, I sneaked back in and just sat with him.
Someone came and delivered a larger oxygen tank and increased the level. I was called out of the room. Reluctantly, I went out the door. I was only gone about two minutes or so. When I returned, there was no sound of labored breath. His chest did not rise and fall gasping for air. His hands were slightly crossed, his glasses laced in his fingers. He was at complete peace. I touched his hand, then his face, and knew that life had left his body. I had wanted to be with him when he left us, but he waited until I stepped out of the room. I needed a deep breath myself before calling the others. It was okay for him to go. He had kept his promise to a little girl.
We celebrated life that day – the life of a little girl and the life of a little man who was endeared by all. Life and death were intertwined in the lives of those two who were the best of buddies. He was invited to another celebration that day. He stepped over the threshold and was met by loved ones and friends. I wonder if they gathered around him along with a choir of angels and sang, “Happy second birthday in heaven” as he raised his hand.
Two years have passed since that day and not a day passes without thoughts of him going through my mind. There are so many things I still want to tell him, so many songs and stories to hear, and so many questions I want to ask.
Our ride along the coast and through the mountains had been full of adventure and gorgeous scenery. Even our stops in the big cities had been eye-opening adventures for two young girls traveling across the country. After visiting a great uncle on my mother’s side of the family, we headed to another great uncle on our father’s side. We had seen him several times before. He was no stranger. He lived in the shadow of the Olympic Mountains and being with him was always and adventure!
It wasn’t hard to recognize Uncle Sid. On a clear day, you could see Uncle Sid for miles away. He was easily identified by the hat that had formed to his head. It was just as weathered and worn as its owner. His walk also gave him away. For one thing, even at a distance, you could see daylight between his bowlegs. That’s what years of sitting in the saddle on the back of a horse will do. He didn’t back down from even the roughest toughest bronc and dared it to cross him. I would guess he sat in a saddle long before he could even walk. Animals of all kinds did his bidding at a mere word or silent request. His horse Jughead counted with his hoof or stuck out his tongue on command.
Un clé Sid & Jughead sticking out his tongue
Uncle Sid was full of jokes. Little kids would run and hide under the table whenever they heard he was coming. When they poked their heads out to see this legend, they were rewarded with ears wiggling out from beneath an old cowboy hat, a contorted face, or forefingers stuck in the man’s ears with the others wiggling. Solemn soulful eyes belied the playful youthfulness of the aged man. He was full of fun and he told stories just like other members of the family. His straight face didn’t even twitch a tiny bit as he told some wild tale.
You can read some of our adventures with him in a previous post What Does A Cowboy Look Like? All of our experiences with him horseback riding, rounding up cattle and almost getting thrown out of Olympic National Park were unforgettable. We enjoyed seeing his saddle collection. He had a story of each saddle – when and where it was made, who it belonged to, what it was used for, how he acquired it and the history that went along with it. We spent time with him and Jughead, went with him several places and explored the countryside. I feel sorry for any little kid that didn’t grow up with great uncles. We had a blast!
Aunt Lois in her younger days
Another perk was seeing Aunt Lois. Somehow, I didn’t think she and Uncle Sid matched. She wasn’t as boisterous as Uncle Sid. She took us on adventures, too. We went to Dungeness Spit and hiked on the beach. We picked boysenberries that we put on her homemade Cream Puffs topped with fresh whipped cream. She cooked fresh wild salmon on the wood cookstove in the kitchen that was the best I’ve ever had. Aunt Lois was an adventurer herself. She loved the outdoors and was an avid backpacker and backwoods camper.
We went as far northwest as we could go without skipping over to Alaska. Backed into the corner of the lower 48, it was time to launch out toward the east. Our destination was Big Timber, Montana. Uncle Sid said he would be headed there in just a few days. As we talked, we asked him if he just wanted to ride with us. He studied the situation a few moments and said, “Sure.” I felt a bit proud to be traveling with a famous celebrity. After all, he was a famous bucking bronc rider and Grand Marshall of the Big Timber Rodeo Parade.
We rearranged a few things in the car. We had picked up a huge chunk of driftwood that we hauled up the cliffs along the Oregon coast as well as a Redwood slab to use for a tabletop. When everything was shifted, there was room for Uncle Sid and his belongings. I climbed into the back and managed to wiggle in between the mountain of gear and other things we had accumulated. I was fine as long as I could see out the window. As we pulled out, we waved goodbye to Aunt Lois who stood in the shadow of the Olympics.
My Guest Author today is my youngest granddaughter. She is almost five years old.
This looks like. a house that Wolf might like to blow down. Be careful Goldilocks!
Once upon a time there was a little girl named Goldilocks. She was always soooo embarrassed but she always wanted to have friends. And she met one.
His name was Wolfie and he started to be her friend. So whenever she went to play with him, he was out of sight.
And when she came back he was here — (with a swish of her arm) but he wasn’t here the other days. But when he was here, he sat up and then….(said in a whisper)he had magic in his ears — magic in his hands –and his cheeks are red and blue…(said in a whisper)and gray.
And I forgot he was … (said in a whisper)red and blue and gray — (fingers curled like claws)Wolf Monster! And she screamed really loud and she had a powerful scream that throwed him away and he would be dead… and then —– SURPRISE!
The emerald waters of the Pacific pounded the cliffs of the Southern Oregon coast. I had only seen pictures of the rugged Pacific coastline. We had seen the golden sands of Southern California beaches made famous in song, and I lost nothing at the seashore filled with masses of kelp monsters washing onto the shore (though time with family was priceless). Not being a thalassophile, I had no problem leaving that behind. The rough coastline of southern Oregon was more to my liking. The jagged cliffs and rocky formations consumed the shoreline that separated land from ocean. They took on their own unique characteristics and offered a perch to sit and look out over the mesmerizing watery expanse that surged with the tide. We stopped and watched the fog dissipate as the cool salty breeze washed over us. The masses of people were left far behind and we relished in the solitude and the unobstructed view.
Though there were not hordes of people, there were other inhabitants in this domain. We visited one such place and it was very noisy. The Sea Lion Caves was an entertaining stop. Sea lions of all sizes applauded us and honked and grunted. Their flippers flipped out like appendages as they waddled across rocks and disappeared beneath the incoming waves. They weren’t like the performing Orcas or trained seals we had seen show off at Marineland. I guess if someone had thrown the sea lions a ball, we would have been spectators of a good game. They were fun to visit and barked “come back again,” when we left.
When we got closer to Portland, snowy Mt. Hood glistened in the distance. The air was cool and clear which offered quite a view. We continued into Washington and drove through Mt. Rainier National Park. As we rode up and down the winding road, we got a closer view of the mountain. The mountainsides wept as waterfalls spilled over the edges and merged with streams that bounded into the valleys below. Mt. Rainier was gorgeous. I only have one photo of the mountain from that trip. That was my kind of country! You can have the sandy beaches. I’ll take the mountains!
Mt. Rainier
Uncle George
Our mountaintop experience came to an end as we descended into the valley. Kent was our next stop. We arrived at Uncle George’s house. Some might think it odd that two young girls traveling across the country would choose to stay with their 82-year-old great uncle for a few days. We had grown up with tales of our family history and knew that uncles were special. He lived within walking distance of a little café. We had several meals there during our stay with him. At first, we were a bit intimidated. He was a crusty bachelor with a dry humor. I studied him a bit to determine the best way to approach him. He had some similar personality traits of his sister, my Grandmother, so soon we had him buttered up. He took us various places and we had a blast. I have a suspicion that he did, too. I’m so glad we spent time with him and feel much richer for having done it. He died the next year. One of my greatest possessions is a teacup and saucer that belonged to Uncle George. It was special to share hot tea at his table and I am reminded of it when I drink from his cup.
One of our side trips was to Seattle. For anyone who has been there, you know that the Space Needle is a city landmark and icon of Seattle. It was built in 1962 for the World’s Fair. The needle was once the tallest structure west of the Mississippi River. It was built to withstand 200 mph winds and earthquakes of 9.0 magnitude. The Space Needle opened in 1962 along with the monorail that was built at the same time. We went in the heart of the city and boarded the monorail, along with many other visitors, for the ride to the Space Needle. Big windows on the elevated train and the Space Needle allowed wonderful views of the city, the Pacific waters and the mountains beyond. We also visited the Government Locks and made a stop at REI where we gathered a few camping supplies. I think we could have stayed in REI for days.
One thing my Mother taught through word and deed was that no matter what comes your way, you must go on. She faced many trials, made ends meet with meager supplies, managed a tribe of kids, wore many hats, and encouraged our individualism. She also taught us the principle of priorities. Each day I am reminded that life is short.
This is a true story, written in verse, of an event in her young life that spoke of staunch survivalism on the open prairies of Montana. I believe that God called her name that day and gave her the determination to survive the storm. “You must go on!” – and she did time and again….
My Aunt & my Mother
Bundled against the wind, they sent her on her way. She headed off to school on that blustery day.
Braced against the onslaught, wind whipped the blinding snow. No longer did she see her way – her distance she did not know.
Icy fingers beckoned her, drawing her from the path. She heard voices in the wind, but ‘twas only the blizzard’s wrath.
She wanted to turn aside, tired from the storm. Yet she knew that just over the hill she would find a fire warm.
Guided by an unseen hand, urged by a rising voice, “You must not stop, you must go on.” There was no other choice.
Pressed to the wind she turned to see the one who spoke her name. It was her father’s face she sought – she thought the storm he’d tame.
“I was not with you child,” he said as he heard her tale. He took her in his arms and stroked her face, so pale.
“A miracle from heaven,” is all that I can say for it was her father’s voice that led her on that day.
Guided by an unseen hand, urged by a rising voice, “You must not stop, you must go on.” Let that be your choice.
sa 2012
Urged by her father’s voice that she heard on the wind, she made it to the neighbor’s house. It was there he found her warm and safe from the storm.
There is nothing quite like visiting an area with a local as your tour guide, especially when the guide is Cousin Donna who likes to go hiking and camping and likes adventures. She lived in Brookings, Oregon. I’ve already told you about Cousin Donna in a previous post. Her story actually goes right here in the Cross Country series.
Brookings is just north of the California Oregon border. We backtracked with Cousin Donna into Northern California and explored more of the Redwoods and coastline from Pamplin Grove near Fortuna to Cape Sebastian. Sis and I had previously stopped at a roadside Bigfoot shop somewhere in that part of the country. The redwood forest would definitely be a good place for Bigfoot to hide, though I think the rain forest of Washington is a more favorable location. Regardless, the Redwoods were the perfect place to camp. We met up with several cousins – Dixie’s family & the Leepers – at the campground which made it extra special. (We had already spent time with Cousin Diane & family). We started our campfire to take off the chill of the evening and to cook our supper. The three of us crawled into our two-man tent for the night’s sleep. That was probably the softest forest mattress I’ve every slept on. I didn’t have to dodge a single rock during the night. The sounds of the deep forest were soothing. Birds and sounds from other forest animals mingled with the dancing music of the Smith River. Very little moisture settled on the tent under the thick canopy of branches and needles. After a bite of breakfast and packing stuff away, it was time to do more exploring. That included the beaches of the area.
Do you see Cousin Donna?
We were prone to stop wherever there was a pull off or just an inviting spot beside the road. We stopped at Pebble Beach near Crescent City. There were occasional windblown trees hanging on the sides of cliffs or a lone cypress bowed in the breeze braving the weather on top of an eroded island just offshore.
Cousin Donna wrapped up in her jacket and scarf when we walked the beach along Cape Sebastian. We walked through an opening in the rock as we walked through the sand and pebbles. The tide started coming in, so we hurried back to the same opening before it got swallowed up by the ocean. There were interesting formations of rocks and cliffs weathered by time, wind and water. The erosion process certainly produces character.
As the sun descended in the sky, we made our way to Harris Beach. Piles of driftwood lay on the beach, some pieces on top of the other and some scattered around. Whole trees were uprooted and thrown onto the beach. Smaller roots, logs and limbs rested in strange positions. Some had holes worn all the way through. We sat silent, watched the mesmerizing waves, and were amazed by the blazing evening colors that settled briefly above the ocean that looked like it fell off the face of the earth. The contorted limbs and sticks looked eerie in the growing shadows. Soon the color faded, and darkness consumed the last glimmer of light.
Though our time with Cousin Donna came to an end, our adventure was far from over. Catch up with us as we travel the Pacific Northwest.
