Never approach a goat from the front, a horse from the back, or a fool from any side.

- Jewish proverb

Oregon has many interesting places to lay one’s head. There’s a bed and breakfast in the trees called Out’n’About Treesort near Cave Junction, the historic lodge at Crater Lake (which has bragging rights as the deepest lake in the United States and is considered a natural wonder), the writerly-themed Sylvia Beach Hotel at the coast, the purportedly haunted Heathman Hotel in Portland or a Tudor style Inn near the Shakespearean Festival in Ashland. But there’s no place quite like Goat Mama and Papa’s.

To recapra (ha ha, Capra means goat in Latin), our friends in the Rogue Valley have rescued two baby goats that live part time in their house (the other part in their customized garage-stable or sizable yard). Of course, a couple years have passed since the adoption and those darling kids are now full grown behemoths, no longer wearing leopard print customized diapers, having been somewhat house broken.

I say somewhat, because the parents still have to be cautious, making sure the girls’ horns don’t puncture the artwork on the wall while playing on the back of the couch, they don’t nibble poisonous plants or eat the kitchen sink.

I just had a thought (surprise!). If Capra means goat in Latin, is a Capricorn a mix between a goat and a unicorn?

I’m not sure what a “spiritual enticement” is, but we saw this sign while visiting Grants Pants over the weekend. We had our own woo-woo moment the first morning we woke up at our friend’s house. While I fumbled with the coffee pot, Groom suddenly pointed to the reflection on Goat Mama’s cupboard.

As plain as you can see, there was a cross shimmering on their newly installed cabinet. I lunged for the camera as Groom waved his hands about trying to figure what in tarnation was casting the shadow. It was a comical scene, me snapping away as a pre-caffeinated hubby did his best to find the originator. Along with the garlic braids, we felt very safe from Vampire attacks, and, Blessed.

Follow me while I jump ahead a few days…

On Sunday evening, after taking down the booth and loading the van when Art In Bloom had finally closed, we walked back into our friend’s house. All the lights were off and it was unusually quiet. Uh-oh…

Phew! Everything was “normal.” They were all curled up on the couch together, cuddling and cudding. There’s nothing quite like the sight of two full grown goats ruminating (chewing their regurgitated food) on the couch while watching television. I take that back, one of the goats was on the couch while the other was stretched out in the recliner, each with an adoring parent petting or combing the pampered lassies.

With five cats and two goats, it’s a common occurrence, although a tad unsettling, to find any one of them on our air mattress, or perhaps discover a “present” they’ve left behind. Creatures of habit, these cloven hoofed beasties require all manner of food and snackies practically around the clock.

In addition to the fresh hay in a manger, the grass in the back forty, and what else can be rooted, foraged and cleverly grasped, Goat Mama provides them with various and assorted treats. They are ga-ga for the almond butter she slathers on her index finger and bravely inserts into their mouths. Baby is gentle, while Honey Bunches of Goats prefers a bite of dactyl to go with her nut spread. Ouch!

They are cuckoo for dried oats served in silver bowls, mushed bananas to the point of liquification, pumpkin innards, and special organic alfalfa hors d’oeuvres. To say these goats are spoiled, well, that would simply be stating the obvious.

Raised in the country, Goat Mama had horses, donkeys, dogs, cats, guinea pigs, and skunks as playmates. Well, the skunks were actually squatters, making their presence odiferously apparent, but the point is she grew up around a variety of animals and is more comfortable around them than the two-legged kind.

She has her own language and patter and can be overheard clucking, bleating, purring, barking or growling. Goat Mama has amazing animal intelligence and can nurture any species. They instinctively know this and untold numbers of wounded critters have managed to find their way to her house so she will take care of them.

As a two-legged varmint myself, I don’t fascinate her the way I would if I had tusks, talons, beaks, wings, fur, feathers, tails or paws. I do have whiskers, but that’s a personal issue that requires tweezers and a magnification mirror.

It was a precious gift to spend Mother’s Day with my folks, see old friends, try new restaurants, and go treasure antiquing. We found some very cool vintage pieces to retrofit into our new line of necklaces, and while we’re on the momentary topic of neck girdles, we successfully sold more, breaking another record, so we’re doing the happy dance about that!

In the aftermath of relishing our visit, I am also glad to be back in our own house, sleeping in our own bed, snuggling with our own cat. As the enduring wisdom of Dorothy rings true, “There’s no place like home.”

Here Comes the Groom

As my Bride often says, I have no idea what this blog entry will be about as I sit down at the computer keyboard (or in this case, the laptop). Inspiration should come easily since I am sitting on the back deck of the Cloverdale Chapel being serenaded by songbirds and enjoying the moss covered tree branches swaying in the breeze.

Inside the building the annual pre-Mother’s Day sale is just getting underway. Regular readers will recall that this historic Creswell locale was mentioned last year at this time. This sale marks the first full weekend of our selling season. April, and the resumption of the Eugene Saturday Market, lets us get our show legs back under us one day a week – while May tosses us back in the deep end of the pool.

Even so, it still does it gently, which is just the way we sensitive artistic types prefer. Yesterday we were in Corvallis on the OSU campus for Mom’s Weekend – the Student Union organizes a sweet one-day art market as part of the festivities. As far as out-of-town shows go, this is the perfect way to get started each year. Plus, it allows us to be here at the chapel sale today, a gathering of artistic women (and the occasional gentleman) who are “artists because they love creating art,” as one of them stated during the greeting portion of the morning.

Next weekend we head a little further afield, setting up our wares at Art in Bloom in Medford. While certainly a bigger undertaking than this weekend, it has the ease factor of being able to stay with friends (Goat Mama and Papa), and the bonus factor of being able to visit Bride’s Mama and Papa. We’re keeping our fingers crossed that the weather listens to the forecasters and refrains from jumping from 60 degrees to 90 degrees overnight (as has happened in years past).

The third weekend in May will find us in Seattle for the U-District Street Fair, which requires us to be fully committed to the continuing adventure we call our lifestyle. Rain or shine, calm or gales, feast or famine, this is about the time we feel like our mettle is being tested. This is a show that can be really rewarding, or cause us to wonder aloud, “Who thought this was a good way to make a living?”

By now you have probably said to yourself, “As fascinating as this all may be, why are you writing this week?” Please allow me to enlighten you – it beats me! A day or two ago I knew something was up before my Sweetie Blossom even spoke, by the evil glint in her eye… She proceeded to convince me that it would be a great idea for me to write while we spent the day here at the chapel.

Let me tell you, she must be pretty convincing. I had not expressed any interest in doing this, I had no compelling notions that I was needing to share, and yet here I am… Well, that’s why she is inside chatting with the customers, and I am out here recording my random, yet highly insightful, observations.

Anyway, back to the matter at hand (uh…what was that again? Oh yes…). One big bonus that comes with beginning our out of town treks is the new photo op potential. Yes, our neighborhood is fairly photogenic, downtown has the occasionally well lit architectural detail, and the Market is quite colorful, but really, the creative well starts to run a little dry after awhile. Somehow, the cornice on a building in a different town makes a much more interesting subject than the one down the street.

I’ll take a slight detour right now to mention the occasional tragic moment of not having the camera in hand when a photo op presents itself. A recent case in point was the fellow crossing the street in front of us while we were driving across town – let’s see if I can properly convey his outfit without the benefit of an accompanying photo…

Imagine an old-fashioned one-piece bathing suit (short sleeves, to the knees, buttons up the front) having had a brief but passionate affair with an old-fashioned prisoner’s jumpsuit (black and white horizontal stripes, kind of baggy). The offspring of this union was the focal point of the look.

But, as all fashionistas know, accessories make the outfit. So, he drew the eye down the exposed leg to a pair of beige cowboy boots (not a common shade, by the way). This may have been look enough for most of us, but not this guy. His finishing touch was a smashing chain-mail vest. Wow. Really, why don’t I drive with the camera around my neck at all times?

I always love to hear how Sweetie Blossom spins the tales of the various things that happen to us (or even just around us), and while the classes and recent spate of local events we have attended have been the source of some fun blogging, road trips always provide her with good material.

We were talking the other day about how she is able to describe an event we both witnessed with complete accuracy, and yet still make me laugh and surprise me. Someone said the other day, “You said out loud what I was thinking, and I didn’t even realize I was thinking it!”

So, saddle up with us and let’s go find out what new and exciting things and amazing tales await just around the corner.

On the Road Again

Seven days ago, before buckling up for our last out-of-town show for the 2009 season, I imagined this week’s photo blog would be all about Half Moon Bay. After all, the coastal town 20 some odd miles and four hours (ha ha) south of the Bay area is charming enough to showcase all by itself.

However, after having experienced the road trip, it’s more accurate to call this week’s entry The Medford Jacksonville Mt. Shasta San Francisco Half Moon Bay Madera Fresno expedition edition. Fresno? Yes, that’s exactly what I thought, but I’ll tell you more about that later.

First stop, Medford and what iconic image better represents the old Middleford of yore than the scary Monster Bird? And while on the subject of yore, these next three shots were taken in and around the old mining town of Jacksonville.

Goat Mama (not to be confused with Llama Mama coming up shortly), from a few episodes back is the friend we stay with in the Rogue Valley and she’s been a professional photographer for about 456 months now and seems able to speak camera. She uses fancy words like aperture, exposure, F-stop, shutter speed and edge lighting while I know words like lens cap and button.

After spending the day taking photos with her, we left early enough the next morning to capture this sunrise over Mt. Shasta, which we’re calling Fire and Ice.

That put us going through San Francisco via the Bay Bridge during lunch hour. I was awfully tempted to ask Groom for a side-trip pilgrimage to the oft-dreamt about John Fluevog Shoe store, but I behaved myself and kept a self-imposed vow of silence. I’m sure I would have had much more fun buying two good shoes than being a goody two-shoes. Oh well...

We finally made it to Half Moon Bay, named for its crescent shaped beach. The weather was stunning and we enjoyed a leisurely Friday watching the waves roll in and perusing the upscale shops in this affluent community, contented to be ignored by Llama Mama for the third consecutive year. She’s got attitude and ain’t afraid to show it.

For the weekend and the purpose of our trip, we anticipated the feeding frenzy of the purported 250,00 eager shoppers that would clog every arterial and vein from the surrounding areas, and a day and a half into the two-day Pumpkin Festival we were still anticipating…

Now this is the part that perplexes me. Hordes of people risked life and limb to traverse the steep windy roads into town, crowding bumper-to-bumper, and then paying $10 to park once they arrived, only to walk right past the art booths, staring straight ahead, their only view the back of the person in front of them.

Disappointment leaked into the next day as we coaxed our exhausted selves from bed at 2:45am by the promise of coffee and the desire to get on the road ahead of the commuters, heading toward Fresno to spend the day with my cousin.

If you don’t drink coffee, what happened next will not impact you, for you will not be able to relate to the loss. But for those of you with the caffeine gene, you’ll understand and commiserate.

While I was checking out of our hotel (you would weep from the bill), my travel mug mysteriously overturned and my precious liquid gold spilled all over the floor of the van. The vehicle wasn’t even moving, the mug has a flat bottom and a lid, and yet when I climbed in, the carpet was soaked and my mug was empty.

I looked at Groom with his full, steaming cup and he shrugged. No coffee shop was open at pre-four in the morning, we had just turned over our card keys and I knew it would be hours before I would have another chance for chemically enhanced wide-awakeness.

I was in a foul mood. What occurred next did not help matters at all. Two hours into the drive, we pulled over for gas and a powder room. I saw a neon sign advertising what I was jonesing for, so Groom had barely rolled to a stop before I was out and heading for the golden door of coffee land.

Until I saw it. A giant rat with an even longer tail skittered across the floor, it’s unmanicured nails making that haunting clicking sound as it scurried from view. Not that you would have been able to hear it over my girly screeching sounds anyway. The attendant looked at the rat running away and then at me squealing and simply shrugged.

What is it with men and their shrugs??!!

I sulked for the next hour as we drove along in the dark, but the mood lightened when I saw a highway sign for “Los Banos.” Isn’t that Spanish for toilet? I’d heard Fresno called the armpit of California, but I didn’t know it was located so near the toilet of California.

At 6:01am I was in line for coffee in Los Banos. Never mind the translation, the coffee was good. By this time, however, as the joke goes, I was ready to order a café mocha vodka Valium latte to go.

By 7am we were at my cousin’s doorstep in Madera. She welcomed us in her lovely home and we spent the day toodling around the area. I had no idea The Armpit had such edgy and lovely art and architecture.

Notice the Gothic lettering of the Iron Bird Lofts, and what’s with Fresno’s fascination with bees, nipples and rosebud figleafs?? I’ve heard of bee-stung lips, but… ouch!

If exploding hearts and nipple honey isn’t your thang, then avert your eyes and look across the street. A full scale Amazing Grace at thy fingertips.

But my very favorite I’ve saved for last. Click to enlarge so you can take in all the details. Do you see the crow sitting on the statue’s head?

I know, I know, while surrounded by so much beauty, don’t cry over spilt coffee.