Sep 30, 2005 by Naomi.

Now it seems that enough folks are up in the night hours to want the neighborhood lit up like day. Why? I can’t figure it out. Another street light was installed recently on the street along the apartments beyond a row of lofty Ponderosa pines a few hundred feet from my house. That’s another light to make my star gazing more difficult and I am annoyed.

There are always rumors of theft that multiply as they spread but to make night into day is impossible. The galvanized wash tub stolen from my back yard years ago could have as easily been taken in broad daylight. Anyone cruising along the paths in the pines would know by frequent passing when I was away and judge the length of my absence.

We have lost our ability, at least our desire, to see in the dark. Long, long ago our ancestors developed keen eyesight to find their way. Fires kept predators at bay, perhaps, but exploring was done without light. And certainly land was conquered and population spread without it.

Every room in my house is lit well enough by the digital lights of technology so I don’t need to switch lights on in every room. The neighbors’ glaring porch lights almost blind me making it difficult if not impossible to identify an intruder in the yard if I had to.

As winter approaches a bright porch light welcomes morning paper deliveries and lights their way along the streets. I don’t begrudge them that amenity. And you know what? I can’t move into the open country for a lot of reasons so I will shade my eyes and appreciate the light when I need it. But I do hate to give up the stars.

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Sep 25, 2005 by Naomi.

Last week I thought about what made computerwork easier and surprisingly the most basic skill that came to mind was touch typing. Many times executives who input all their reports for secretaries painstakinly use the hunt and peck method with forefingers on both hands. What a time waster! Imagine a CEO or a manager at any level, who makes an awful lot more money than the secretary or clerk who files the information, taking time to hunt and peck instead of adding creative and innovative ideas to save money for investors. Maybe the words being put onto the computer are exactly those innovative ideas and should be put into verbal directives toward action.

So what’s my point? Touch typing is the point. The alphabet placement on a keyboard has not changed since the introduction of the typewriter so learning to type with ten fingers has been a skill taught for more than fifty years. Shop classes were opened to girls in high school and cooking classes were opened to boys making gender no longer an issue in generic skills. Many crossovers occurred. Sometimes classes were taken to raise the percentage of contacts between boys and girls. One of the many such occasions where the boy chasing girls paid off was in the programmer field. Imagine how much the programmer who could touch type had the advantage over one who had to hunt and peck!

Typing skills may have more uses than meets the eye but I’m promoting touch typing for everyone who can spare a few months to learn. My lack of skill was an embarrassment to me when I went back into the workforce at age 42. I interviewed for a position of graphic artist and presented a formidible portfolio of my art work. The interviewer was mildly impressed and casually asked, “Can you type?” Of course I said yes because I had taken a typing class twenty-five years earlier. I didn’t think it was important to add that I passed with a “D” or indicated that my skills scraped the bottom. I was interviewing for my artistic ability, after all.

At the time, charts and graphs were drawn by people who had bonafied
AA degrees in the graphic arts and a typist added the callouts, the identifying
indicators on the drawings, with a typewriter outfitted with a special
font. I was put into a group of artists as a temporary employee. This
was and still is the practice of trying out not only the technical skills
of a new employee but also the personality and people skills for a good
“fit” with the regular staff. Within two months I became a “permanent”
emplyee and a month later it was announced that a new unit was being formed
in a different location. Well imagine my disappointment when I was placed
in that new unit as the typist.

Because it was an untried location, the graphic artist and I had few clients to begin with so I had time to reacquaint myself with the keyboard - I hadn’t touched one in twenty five years - and I had almost completely forgotten the touch method which I had not learned well in the first place. The position was a challenge which I met satisfactorily. Luckily new technology came along and my real skills were recognized so I moved away and up in the company where I remained for twenty years.

I was probably lucky that I couldn’t type. I saw proficient typists take different paths within the communications department and I’m glad I didn’t go there. It has taken years to gain a touch typing skill mostly because I am compelled to write and need word processing skills as never before. Learn the skill. You’ll never know where it might lead.

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Sep 15, 2005 by Naomi.

It’s true - a day can make a difference. Yesterday I woke up in Richland, Washington, faithfully ate my oatmeal and fresh vegetables, went about puppet practice, after which I picked up my packed bags and walked out the door, locking it securely behind me. Al whisked me away in a gas guzzling contrivance to an International airport and the next thing registering on my brain, is waking up to another day in Ventura County, California. Sounds quite simple doesn’t it? Or maybe a little mysterious? Like capricious extraterrestrials stalked in, had their way with me, and faded into the canyons or middle earth or the cosmos,

But I am here - in California with the same sunny outlook and the 50’s temperature I thought I left in the northerly latitudes. Oh, well, like the gambler remarked, “you can’t win ‘em all!” Putting natural environment aside, I did gain immeasureably - the company of my son, daughter-in-law and two tall and equally gorgeous grandchildren. Boy oh boy, what genes will do for one! Can’t beat all the good stuff that heredity brings out when you’re as lucky as Sherer’s!

I crashed in a daybed in the computer room which sleeps the best! Really wouldn’t have gone vertical if nature hadn’t demanded. After a bit of visiting during breakfast the family went their separate ways and I was free to wonder at the backyard zoo. You should see the fat sassy squirrel licking water from the leaking sprinkler. It made its way across the lawn quite at home. When the California bunny made an appearance a different atmosphere desended. The squirrel went up the corner post quivering at the menacing confrontation of Captain in command. How extraordinary to see a precocious land based rodent send a distant relative up a tree and out of here, NOW!

From this day forward new and different adventures will undoubtedly occur. I can hardly wait!

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Sep 6, 2005 by Naomi.

Great weekend experience in Willamette National Forest of Central Oregon! I arrived at Coldwater Cove around 1330 on September 2, 2005, and registered for campsite number 4, half price with my Golden Age Passport. Tim arrived shortly thereafter. We visited over beer and generally became acquainted with the area, a site developed around 1937 by President Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s Civilian Conservation Corps. I relaxed from my four hour drive by watching the wildlife - several furry tailed squirrel types with which I am unfamiliar. Two came at different times, both very dark brown/black with creamy to yellow underbellies. Tim had planned for tacos, had the ground turkey cooked and seasoned, with the new ‘scoop’ taco chips for dipping.

At that time the only visitors were a determined hornet that was willing to crawl right into the gooey mixture. They would get the greasy stuff on their legs and try to crawl out of the pan. I shoved them out so they could fly away. One was more difficult and crawled away on the ground. I thought it was gone for good until I felt an awful sting on the protruding part of my belly. By that time, if it was the same hornet, it managed to fly away or drop down beyond my vision. But the stinger was imbedded in my fat. I applied a sting patch that alleviated the pain somewhat but the stinger was still there.

We were up around 0700 on Saturday and you know that when you camp with Tim, you are going to hike. After coffee and toast we chose the Clear Lake Loop trail #3507 and began the counterclockwise walk at 0800. It was an easy hike although sometimes over rough lava. The old trees were beautiful and other plants caught the eye. We saw several species of water birds, probably Barrow’s Goldeneye, common loon, mallard, and a pair of Canada geese. Most unusual were the pair of American Dippers. The British name for their species of dipper is Water Ouzel which Ron used to tease me with because I accused him of making the name up as he sometimes did. Our American Dipper is the only species of Cinclidae in North America and is a nonmigratory perching bird adapted to run and feed on aquatic animal life around and at the bottom of fast-running mountain streams. Ron and I had watched a pair feeding in a stream outside a restaurant window many years ago on a trip through the Oregon Cascades.

The walk ended three hours later and Tim suggested a light lunch of soup which he whipped up with chicken bouillon, chopped onion, carrots, and celery. With crackers it was really good. We played a couple of games of cribbage at which he skunked me on the first and only beat me by 2 holes on the second. I discovered that the hornet sting had formed a hard lump on my belly about 2 inches in diameter and a rash that spread across the entire mound - itchy as the devil to which I applied the itch reliever I got in Kenya when I developed a rash in Hippo Camp by Lake Naivasha in 2003. That was enough of relief to let me sleep.

That afternoon I studied background for the Jamaica novel I’m working
on. We napped and walked the paths around the campground. The furry tailed
squirrels never came around again until the last few hours we were there.
Although a ground squirrel, the striped chipmunk in the rodent family,
scooted around the trees and up and over the banks. Our part of the asphalt
loop was about 50 feet higher than the lower asphalt road where we had
to go to manually pump water and where the pit toilets were perched above
the road. We bought bundles of wood and had warm bright fires every evening.
Tim cooked potatoes, sauer kraut, and Kiobaso sausage for supper which
we ate with toast. Tim had acquired a four-slice toaster for his camp
burner and a new, more stable on-the-table burner on which he used a cast
iron skillet for most dinners.

Sunday morning we had leftover sausage and eggs with coffee and went
on the scenic route over Santium pass toward Sisters. At camp Tim made
barbequed sandwiches from cold roast beef I had and we ate heartily of
that on ranch biscuits. I was amused by the fat little curious chipmunk
that scooted around expecting a handout and finally gave in and tossed
a tiny hunk of raw carrot to it. That of course is a mistake of which
I am well aware because that was an invitation to come closer and become
braver. The animal was used to being fed by people I could tell by the
way it merely ducked when I threw out my arm to shoo it away and came
back to sniff out the morsel it thought I had thrown. We did foot stomping
to discourage it. Tim spotted an animal sticking its head out of a hole
close to where he slept. He had heard the skittering footsteps of the
animal the first night but didn’t get a look at it.

When the animal came up the road I immediately called it a mink. Its
long tail tipped with black should have brought to mind the ermine but
I since looked in mammal field guides and identified it as a long-tailed
weasel. All those mammals are in the weasel family, Order Carnivora, not
Order Rodentia, as are squirrels. The lovely sleek brown animal watched
us curiously but it really had its eye confidently judging our quiet observation
as non-interferance in its life.

Tim saw it chase another critter and wondered if they were playing. Upon
closer observation we saw it chasing the chipmunk and I mean really chasing
it in a life threatening race. The chipmunk ran in large circles on the
asphalt roadway avoiding capture until it tired and the evading circles
became smaller and smaller until they ended in the kill. The weasel held
the dying animal for a few moments and then picked it up by the back of
the neck, where it had broken its spine and began to cross to the down
hill slope. Unfortunately a car came toward us and the weasel hesitated
a bit before running across with its kill.

We looked at the dead chipmunk seemingly abandoned after the car passed
but soon the sleek dark brown weasel came to retrieve its prey and disappeared
into the underbrush. We examined our campsite more and saw many holes
where the animals lived. My field guide states that the adults raise several
young in dry burrows, well aired. We saw the animal disappear into the
hole by Tim’s bag and come up thirty feet down the bank. A long rotten
root formed a ledge below my side of our ‘tent’ where I could see many
holes for critters to live.

Breakfast on Monday in the chilly ‘white-breath’ morning was coffee,
toast, potatoes and eggs. That’s when the black squirrels came through
our camp, one chasing the other but more in a playful mode. They disappeared
either behind or up the tree. I lost track but the long bushy tail and
light colored underside haven’t helped in their identification.

We broke camp around 0800 with Tim sorting and packing his stuff first.
And he left for Eugene soon after. I packed but sat and wrote in my journal
and also noted some items for further research on Jamaica. I left the
camp at 1030, stopping occasionally to read a roadside marker and simply
mark the roadside. A federal holiday, the day off for rangers, so I could
get no information at the Sister’s station for the Deschutes National
Forest about fire lookout stations for rent.

Gas was over three dollars a gallon and I had enough from the fill on Friday at Madras at $2.95 to take me several hundred miles down the road. Traffic was moderate, although heavier in the westerly direction than going my way. Oregon state road 126 was the highway to the campground and I was back on US 97 at Redmond to Grass Valley where I stopped to browse for an hour at the junk/antique shop. Farther north at Biggs I went right on Interstate 84 to Umatilla. There I filled with gas at $2.99 so I have a relatively full tank for the next few days.

That is the end of outdoors for this summer with the exception of my backyard that must get some of my attention soon.

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