The Dudette Abides

 The first thing I should make clear is this. The arrival of our adopted ladydog Nicolette Dudette, alias Nikki is not intended as a replacement for the gone but never forgotten Max. 

Max, the hyper-entitled Maltese is the only purebred dog we've ever owned. He hung out with us for more than a decade. Our vet, Dr. Ferguson commented, upon first examining him; "this dog's got attitude. He will bend you to his will." People would drive by us when we walked him doubtless saying to one another; "Hey, who's the girly-man with the little white dog?" Max rode all the way to New Mexico, via Southern California with us, quivering and slobbering all the way. Max insisted on designer dog food. I tought him how to howl on our front landing. Carolyn was not amused. When a horse appeared on TV. Max would skitter back and forth and warn them, low in his throat, against stampeding in our living room. He learned a handful of tricks, but soon lost the knack when we failed to make him demonstrate them. Max, it goes without saying, has earned his spot in the doggie hall-of-fame.

We had not set out to adopt a new dog. But I made the mistake of mentioning to our friend Merlene that we might eventually think about another furry friend. Next thing I know there's a Facebook page devoted to finding us a new pooch. And Kathy, another friend sent links to a number of sites devoted to finding homes for canine orphans. They somehow knew that a steady diet of doleful doggy eyes would break us down. Sure enough, a female dog named Nova showed up and we (Carolyn says I need to correct that to I) were hooked. 

Nova, soon to become Nicolette Dudette thanks to the intervention of two grade-school aged neighborhood girls we call "The Minions." was very easy to love. And her story was fascinating. She started in Mexico, had pups, survived a flood, (although sadly one of the puppys didn't make it) had a prior home in California and ended up being fostered by a very nice lady named Becca in SE Portland. We met, noted how friendly and smart she was and decided to go for it. She's been with us for almost a week. She hasn't replaced Max in our hearts. She's just augmented our affection for him. 

Our first days with the Dudette have been slightly altered by a dog-sitting assignment for our friends Sky and Lori. Their doodle-dogs Huck and Daisy have made the Nettleton/Rose abode a flying, furry flurry of canine clamor. Walks with the three of them are the doggy equivalent of red rubber-nosed clowns piling out of an impossibly small automobile. Fun!!!! 

Bottom line. The doodle dogs will make their way home to Troutdale. Max's legacy remains unvarnished. And Nicolette Dudette, Nikki, the Nikster,  is here to stay. 

Nikki is a rescue dog from the doggie adoption agency Underdogs Rock. 

The Sons of the Beaches

 

They say you can never go home again. Yet, here I am, staying in an inn (a motel, really) on the bluff overlooking downtown Bandon, Oregon. We're maybe half a mile from the house I grew up in. Later I'll drive over to that house to wallow in nostalgia for the old neighborhood.

It looks way smaller than my memories of it. But realistically it was just a two- bedroom, one bath home. My older brother Bob and I shared bunk beds in a back porch area. My sisters, Lana and Birdie had one bedroom, the folks occupied the other. I could hop the back fence to go to Junior High and High school. Ocean Crest elementary school was a grueling half mile walk away. Just for grins, we looked up the address to see what it would go for in today's inflated real estate market. $460,000!!! But it is a 2 bathroom house now. Somewhere back in time someone got tired of yelling "aren't you done in there yet???" and tacked on another one. I didn't snoop, but I'd also guess the chicken shed we had in back is probably gone. I can still hear them clucking in my minds ear. 

Bandon has exploded, population-wise since my childhood of the 50's and early sixties. From a dying timber town to the home of one of the world's ritziest golf resorts is a drastic change. Our only golf course used to be a raggedy 9-holer my father referred to as "that glorified cow pasture out on the beach loop." California retirees moved to Bandon enmasse creating luxury condos where once were sand and gorse. It's not all bad of course. The new library alongside the city park is impressive. What used to be the library (with a 3 book check out rule for kids) is now a nifty little historical museum. 

The town still has a ton of charm. Much of what I loved growing up is still there. People still pick up their mail at the post office; the docks, the funky downtown, the jetty jutting out into the sea. I'm told whales sometimes come in to rub against the rocks. Hey, if you've got an itch, scratch it. And, of course, the iconic lighthouse. 

Another memorable part of the coastline near Bandon is the monumental assortment of big rocks. We spent a ton of time scrambling up and down them as kids. A fan fave is Face Rock. 

Sadly, I kept seeing the profile of my least favorite American president. Shake it off Mike.

We enjoyed a lovely early dinner/happy hour nostalgia fest with Sharon Ward Moy and Bill Smith, two people I've known since elementary school. Our spousal units were kind enough to allow us to wallow, while occasionally interjecting something nonhistorical. The food and conversation were both top notch and memorable. 

Ah, yes, I should probably explain the title of the blog "The Sons of the Beaches." My dad, Carroll was very active in the local Lion's club. And that was their nickname. They had the letters stenciled onto jackets and sweaters and wore them proudly around town. Here's my pop in action. 

And just so I can embarrass a living relative, here's my older sister Lana marching and spinning her baton as the high school band marches through town.

So Thomas Wolfe was wrong. You can go home again. And you can enjoy the memories and the places you hung out. To top off this wonderful trip, on the way home, my amazing wife wangled us a room with a jacuzzi at Sailor Jack's, right on the beach in Lincoln City. We ate take-out clam strips from Mo's, I luxuriated in a hot water massage and we watched an insanely beautiful sunset over the Pacific. 

Life is Good !!!!!

The Queen of Overkill Packs It In

 

Carolyn J. Rose

 

When it comes to packing for a long vacation or extended road trip, Mike and I aren’t on the same page. In fact, we’re not in the same book or even on the same shelf in the same bookcase.

 He often fondly recalls the simpler days of the late 60s when everything he owned fit in his car. He fails to recall that the car had bald tires and the inventory of his possessions ran to a few ratty T-shirts and jeans, some even rattier underwear and mismatched socks, a TV with foil on the antenna, and several hundred vinyl records. While he admits preparation can pay off, he still subscribes to the toss-a-few-things-in-the-suitcase-and-go philosophy. He clings to the belief that a forgotten item—no matter what it may be—can be done without or easily purchased along the way.

 I freely admit I deserve to be called the Queen of Overkill. Weeks before a trip to unexplored territory I research the geography of our intended travels, note projected temperatures and precipitation, and consider events we might attend. I consult the Internet for advice about auto maintenance, overnight accommodations, and recommended emergency supplies. Then I survey my wardrobe, check cabinets for personal care products, note vitamins and meds on hand, and make lists of what to take along and what I’ll need to purchase before we depart.

 As I packed my bag during the early years of our marriage, I also tossed the basic things he’d need into his suitcase—a hat, a fleece, a golf shirt, and spare glasses. I’d remind him to take along toothpaste, mouthwash, a hairbrush, and antacid tablets. In return for my efforts, I’d get eye rolls and hear mutterings about the strain of living with an annoying person prone to micromanaging others and thus strangling spontaneity and the spirit of adventure.

 In my defense, I believe being prepared and having adventures aren’t mutually exclusive. I don’t research every mile of our trip to the point where I feel we’ve been before we even depart. I don’t stress about whether to fold or roll clothing. And I don’t pack heavy. I don’t take a kitchen-sink approach. On a bus tour of Great Britain I won praise for a suitcase weighing only half of the 50 pounds allowed.

 In Mike’s defense, he packs light, but in a random and chaotic kind of way, and not with the same priorities I set. If he made a list of what he had to have, headphones, snacks, and crossword puzzles would be at the top. Pajamas and spare socks might not make it.

 Lately, to avoid his muttering, I assume the task of packing only the basic things we both may need—passports and tickets, credit and health cards, vitamins, flashlights, and roadside emergency supplies. Then I arrange my own bag and, often biting my tongue to prevent that dreaded micromanaging, leave him to fill his.

Our different approaches lead to some Titanic-iceberg moments along the way and/or when we arrive. Scenarios often unfold something like this:

Him (alternately plowing through his suitcase and glancing out the window at the pool): “Did we remember to pack my swimsuit?”

Me (rolling my eyes as I unpack my own swimsuit and goggles): “No. We didn’t. Your swimsuit wasn’t on our list.”

 You may note the use of the plural pronoun in the exchange above. I suspect Mike uses it because, after 30+ years, he thinks of us as a team, a unit. I, however, employ it as an imperial pronoun. If he’s going to disregard my suggestions and call me the Queen of Overkill, then I’ll act like entitled royalty and pack an attitude.