counting ladybugs with a hairy sasquatch at guillemot cove
The eastern shore of Hood Canal on a beach speckled with Pacific oysters is a good place to spend a Sunday afternoon, the Olympic Mountains loomed a mile away to the west. By evening, incoming tide forced a gradual retreat from the boys’ fort in the tangled branches of a fallen madrone and so we moved to the mouth of Boyce Creek where they played for some time. Unbeknownst to me, Adam would smuggle home several pounds of empty oyster shells in his backpack, I discovered them last night after the smell began leaching out very slowly like a faulty nuclear reactor. The odor: It was more offensive than if you imagine Sasquatch is real and has a problem dribbling pee on himself (the shagginess and whatnot) and the whole matted, knotty uriney mess is fouled by his own rotten saliva (having recently savored left-over entrails of a diseased cougar) after an unsuccessful spit bath on himself for the purposes of disentangling a chaotic chunk of crusty braids. Adam is harboring artisanal notions of barnacle-encrusted oyster shell jewelry and he explained to me how the fluted shells could hold photographs and precious stones although the wearer of such rather large pieces may contend with attacks from aggressive gulls.
Before setting out for the trailhead (on a hill high above) at sunset, at our urging Adam abandoned the wayward oyster trap you see him wearing here after it swung around for the umpteenth time and smacked him in the kisser (he kept forgetting he was wearing a trap when stooping down for interesting rocks and shells). It was an unwieldy beast which I found earlier but bequeathed back to mother nature in order to avoid contracting Mad Shellfish Disease (just wasn’t in the mood for gross briny stuff). As a consolation prize, Adam kept the floats……
A bit more terrestrially-speaking: Slipping into Elliott Bay Bookstore on Saturday afternoon for just a spell before an engagement, Adam and I hoped to find some sort of reference for the flight simulation program we’ve started working with but we came up empty. I did leave with a copy of Paula Becker’s Looking for Betty MacDonald: The Egg, The Plague, Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle, and I. We shortcut across Cal Anderson Park, observing scruffy, radical skateboarders on the tennis courts taking meticulously choreographed iPhone videos of each other in various stunts whereafter we cut a diagonal course for 15th Avenue East and I dropped Adam off for a friend’s birthday party. On the trudge home, I stopped at fancy Ada’s Technical Books which feels as sterile to me as the day it opened but nevertheless has become a popular gathering place for millennials and their laptops.
Finally, if you will allow me to vent insectorial matters of recent frustration: I stopped counting ladybugs into the bug-collecting jar the other day at number 27, all in one south-facing bedroom window. Egads! At night most of them tuck into the cracks of our drafty double-hung windows for bedtime and dream about springtime buffets of aphids but there’s always at least one renegade who gets overly excited after my reading lamp has been on for a spell, occasionally pinging me in the side of the head while twirling in small circles like a Dutch swing and extremely beneficial critters though they may be- our guests have sort of turned into the lazy couch surfer friend who leaves gobs of peanut butter in the jam jar and takes half-hour showers. One morning, I slid out of bed and noticed I’d fallen asleep on a ladybug and a moment later it slow-crawled away and when I came back it was perched on the bed post like it wanted to get my attention and I felt a little like Horton the elephant and transported the little speck but I can’t do that for all of ’em……..