Saturday morning I went to the dance studio to meet Jesi & R. S tagged along to provide input, and brought his camera if the opportunity presented itself to take pictures of us swirling, but he said the flourescent lighting was terrible.
It helped being able to use the space and the mirrors; R’s little kitchen has a big mirror but we can’t see all three of us in it when we practice there, and we can’t see our arms out to the side or above our heads, and often we can’t see our feet. S offered a few suggestions about the choreography, and both are points we had struggled with, where the music goes through a transition, there’s a
Pause
Boom boom boom boom
Pause
Boom boom boom boom
Pause
Boom boom boom boom
Pause
And then the melody picks up again. There are three Boom boom boom booms, and there are three of us, so we figured we each get a Boom boom boom boom to boom. With grace notes or whatever, like boom bada boom shimmy boom pause in pose, sassy-like, individually. And then all come together again when the melody picks up. S said no, looks like you all forgot what you’re supposed to be doing right there.
Other than that, we had him mesmerized, and he was impressed with our ingenuity and creativity. We done good, my swirly girlfriends and me.
Part of the reason S accompanied me on Saturday morning is because he & I had a fishing date at his recent favorite spot on the Middle Fork of the Willamette. Fishing regulations permit fishing in lakes only this time of year, but there is a series of dams on the Middle Fork that constitute as lakes. We parked on a small gravel access road and walked about a mile along the lakeside in the mist and cold, puffing like dragons along the leaf-covered path. We saw a large newt creep across the gravel in front of us. He was the same rusty red orange as the fallen leaves from the oaks and vine maple.
The colors of autumn always please me. Tree leaves change color when the temperature difference between night and day exceeds forty degrees, and when the night temps are below freezing. Since the sign at the gas station down the road said the temperature was 42 degrees and it was almost two in the afternoon, I can guess the night temperatures are downright chilly up there along the lake. Annual plants blackened and burned from the cold showed signs of previous frosts. One lone daisy crouched low to the ground.
The ferns were not bothered by the cold. Maidenhair ferns with their delicate black stems and feathery fronds rooted in the moss on the cliffs, the big sword ferns as tall as I stand, the more refined deer ferns and lady ferns, dark evergreen against the bright reds and oranges and yellows of fallen leaves.
We found an ideal place for fishing, a narrow spot not too far from the dam, which we could hear but not see. The water looked black and deep, and didn’t reflect much because the sky was dark and gray.
I caught a very nice trout, as long as my forearms and about as big around, on my third cast. We each caught one nice keeper, and a few smaller fish that we could have kept but didn’t want to be greedy. The weather was cold, and the barometer had changed since the last two days when S caught his limit of big fat trout. But we were not disappointed with our catch, and held hands whistling on the walk back to the car.
We had pork chops for dinner. Sometimes fish guts changes the appetite.
S had decided to smoke the trout by Sunday afternoon, and spent half the evening clattering around the kitchen mixing up a brine solution using salt and brown sugar that draws moisture and fat from the fish. He let them soak until midnight, chopped up some alder for chips, set up the little smoker on the back porch and let the fish cook until six this morning. He just called and told me he had eaten smoked trout with eggs for breakfast, quite pleased with himself, said the skin and bones peel right off and the flesh is good and flaky. He had packed one in my lunch this morning to have with a salad. He smoked the trout to preserve them, but I don’t think they’ll last that long.
It helped being able to use the space and the mirrors; R’s little kitchen has a big mirror but we can’t see all three of us in it when we practice there, and we can’t see our arms out to the side or above our heads, and often we can’t see our feet. S offered a few suggestions about the choreography, and both are points we had struggled with, where the music goes through a transition, there’s a
Pause
Boom boom boom boom
Pause
Boom boom boom boom
Pause
Boom boom boom boom
Pause
And then the melody picks up again. There are three Boom boom boom booms, and there are three of us, so we figured we each get a Boom boom boom boom to boom. With grace notes or whatever, like boom bada boom shimmy boom pause in pose, sassy-like, individually. And then all come together again when the melody picks up. S said no, looks like you all forgot what you’re supposed to be doing right there.
Other than that, we had him mesmerized, and he was impressed with our ingenuity and creativity. We done good, my swirly girlfriends and me.
Part of the reason S accompanied me on Saturday morning is because he & I had a fishing date at his recent favorite spot on the Middle Fork of the Willamette. Fishing regulations permit fishing in lakes only this time of year, but there is a series of dams on the Middle Fork that constitute as lakes. We parked on a small gravel access road and walked about a mile along the lakeside in the mist and cold, puffing like dragons along the leaf-covered path. We saw a large newt creep across the gravel in front of us. He was the same rusty red orange as the fallen leaves from the oaks and vine maple.
The colors of autumn always please me. Tree leaves change color when the temperature difference between night and day exceeds forty degrees, and when the night temps are below freezing. Since the sign at the gas station down the road said the temperature was 42 degrees and it was almost two in the afternoon, I can guess the night temperatures are downright chilly up there along the lake. Annual plants blackened and burned from the cold showed signs of previous frosts. One lone daisy crouched low to the ground.
The ferns were not bothered by the cold. Maidenhair ferns with their delicate black stems and feathery fronds rooted in the moss on the cliffs, the big sword ferns as tall as I stand, the more refined deer ferns and lady ferns, dark evergreen against the bright reds and oranges and yellows of fallen leaves.
We found an ideal place for fishing, a narrow spot not too far from the dam, which we could hear but not see. The water looked black and deep, and didn’t reflect much because the sky was dark and gray.
I caught a very nice trout, as long as my forearms and about as big around, on my third cast. We each caught one nice keeper, and a few smaller fish that we could have kept but didn’t want to be greedy. The weather was cold, and the barometer had changed since the last two days when S caught his limit of big fat trout. But we were not disappointed with our catch, and held hands whistling on the walk back to the car.
We had pork chops for dinner. Sometimes fish guts changes the appetite.
S had decided to smoke the trout by Sunday afternoon, and spent half the evening clattering around the kitchen mixing up a brine solution using salt and brown sugar that draws moisture and fat from the fish. He let them soak until midnight, chopped up some alder for chips, set up the little smoker on the back porch and let the fish cook until six this morning. He just called and told me he had eaten smoked trout with eggs for breakfast, quite pleased with himself, said the skin and bones peel right off and the flesh is good and flaky. He had packed one in my lunch this morning to have with a salad. He smoked the trout to preserve them, but I don’t think they’ll last that long.
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