Aye, Conker, there's the rub!

Without Easter or May Day, late Winter and Spring are somewhat of a slog in working America. But by all account they make up for it in the Autumn. If nothing else, the addition of Halloween and Thanksgiving to the calendar postpone the arrival of Christmas decorations in the shops until December, something which cannot be said for the UK.

On the other hand, October brings the start of "the wet" in Portland, a term I've aopted from the film Australia (jolly good fun, by the way). This is a cause of frustration for outdoorsy types, such as Ethan. And since the Devil currently has an enormous backlog of work readily outsourced to small, idle hands, it shortly becomes a cause of frustration for myself also. It is vital, therefore, to make hay if and when the sun shines.

Thus we picked our pumpkins early this year. 'Twas a crisp Autumn day at The Pumpkin Patch, and Ethan was more of an age to get the most out of it this year - climbing over the hay bales, riding the cow train, bouncing on the tractor. On the other hand, the non-linear nature of this year's corn maze caused him as much distress as it caused irritation to everyone else. Coming upon marker 2 first transformed Ethan into Patrick McGoohan from The Prisoner, "No, I want to find number one. Where is number one?"

Over the next week, he and Rachel carved the pumpkins into various Winnie-the-Pooh inspired forms. And I made pumpkin curry with the innards; my favourite use for this remarkably versatile and aesthetic (by which I mean orange) gourd.

Of course, all of this is very much a precursor to Halloween. And few parents could have been more delighted than I when Ethan expressed his desire to be a cat for this year's festivities - just one aspect of a (clearly inherited) love of all things feline. Having expressed no interest in soft toys as a baby, he now adores his stuffed "Conker" and indeed has an array of other cats which he refers to as "White Conker", "Baby Conker", "Other Conker" etc. Meanwhile the original form - whom he continues to harass - is now referred to as "Real Conker."


A truck load of pumpkins.


Rachel and Ethan whizz past in the cow train (plus I totally nailed the panning shot).

'Twas Halloween night, before the curtain rose...


To be the cat, to suit the action to the word, the word to the action, with this special observance, that you o'erstep not the modesty of nature.


"My child, speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounc'd it to you ("Trick or Treat"), trippingly on the tongue."


Ah, the smell of the greasepaint!


'Tis showtime - my public await!


Enough of your "dress rehearsals". I am not some amateur, fresh plucked from obscurity to perform this night of souls. This is my moment, let me shine, I prithee!

What timely knock upon the door is this? Poor players from another troupe, methinks, to vainly plunder the candy so nobly bought for none other purpose than to give this cat his due!

- THE PERFORMANCE -

The curtain has fallen and 'tis with melancholy I hasten to the prosaic theatre of existence.


Yet my public, they adore me!

Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Conker, a fellow of infinite
jest, of most excellent fancy... 'tis but his eyeball that remains, aglow and foil wrapped; who had thought in life he were naught but chocolate?

To the actor - the spoils - or was not the fancy that tripped lightly from your tongue when you did entreat me to this endeavour? More chocolate, I demand, though sicketh it may make me - for in my judgement the merriment is not ended, and the booty mine to savour or cumulate as befits my temper!


And yet my tummy is full.


And so to bed, to sleep, perchance to dream. Aye, Conker, there's the rub!

Newport

I'm not sure which sensation I preferred: my first dip in the hot tub for more than eighteen months or the knowledge that I could now count amongst my friends-of-friends a highly competent plumber. Little more than a stagnant water feature and potential toddler death-trap since the heating element packed up the Christmas before last, I had avoided peering beneath the leatherette cover since March for fear of attack by some kind of primordial sea serpent.

Yet neither sensation was quite as relaxing as our recent holiday to Newport, a town about three hours south-west of Portland on the Pacific Coast. I had put off holidaying for an entire year on the basis that I couldn't think of anything that we could do for a holiday that would be any less work than staying at home. My darling Ethan, sweet apple of my eye, can be something of a handful in a restaurant, and when we last stayed at a hotel decided he had to get up at 3am. He then had to be hugged/wrestled back to sleep by yours truly, eliciting a vocal response that Rachel was certain would provoke a call to Lincoln City's finest.

So the bar was set pretty low for our sojourn and I am happy to report that the trip wildly surpassed my expectations. By day three, I actually felt relaxed - a nostalgic sensation. The sea air exhausted Ethan and he slept well and without fuss. We self-catered in a lovely condominium, with a balcony overlooking the ocean. Ethan and I played on the beach. A lot. Rachel went deep sea fishing and brought back several large rock bass which we ate for our tea each night - the freshest and finest fish I've ever eaten. A cafe around the corner served both the best scones (of the American variety) and best quiche (crustless, sublime) I've ever eaten too.

At one point I threw a beach ball in the air and the wind took it north along the beach faster than Ethan and I could run. We ran anyway, Ethan laughing continuously. Walkers travelling in the opposite direction provided reports on its passage. Eventually we found it, parked against leeward side of a modest dune, over a mile from its launch point. We took two hours to hike back, sliding down the sandy slopes, sometimes repeatedly if they proved particularly engaging.


Running through the underwater tunnels at Newport's Aquarium.


A handsome jellyfish ambles by.






Ethan displayed little difficulty in summiting the enormous sand dune at Pacific City.

Oregon State Fair 2009

Without further ado, here are my pictures from our annual trip to the State Fair. As per usual, a fantastic time was had by all!

Sweetness is my weakness

There are few tasks less agreeable to me than the attempt to fill a shopping basket with food that isn't going to kill me over the medium to long term. Normally I wouldn't bother - indeed the best I normally shoot for is to fill the basket with food that is unlikely to kill me more quickly than eating nothing whatsoever (~two months based on the Bobby Sands calculus). But on this occasion I was in preparation for a paramedical exam whose result would influence the premium on a 20-year term life insurance policy, and the thought of forking out an extra $240x on account of a couple of pints of Ben and Jerry's was too much to bear. If I could just hold off for a few days, I reasoned, then I could celebrate the medical with a banana split and a cinnamon twist or somesuch.

In any case, it's a near impossible task, unless one resolves oneself with wan joylessness to eating organic vegetables without any dressing - the cost of which, based on 2,500 calorie diet, being around $740/week. I expect.

The sum to insure oneself for is another vexed issue; certainly enough to ensure that one's nearest and dearest are not left destitute, and at the same time, not so much as to provide sufficient incentive to have oneself whacked. Not that Pookie's actively planning that, I should think, except perhaps in some unconscious oedipal manner for which he can't really be held responsible.

In any case, I find that spending time with Ethan makes me unspeakably happy for no obvious reason at all. For example, the other day I took him out to the playground in my usual cavalier fashion without the slightest bit of preparation, and within two minutes of our arrival it began to shower very heavily. We took shelter under the spiral slide and sang "Ten Green Bottles." It sounds utterly miserable but I think I have never felt more content.

Likewise there is a game which Ethan plays at night-night time, in order to put off the inevitable flight into the land of Hypnos, called "I watch a car come past." Following story time, we sit by his window and wait for the stated event, speculating on the direction it may come from and the colour it may be, noting pertinant astronomical phenomena etc. On paper it couldn't be more dull and yet it is for me often the highlight of the evening. Eventually a car comes past, at which point Ethan says, "No, Ethan and Daddy watch two cars come past" - an offer which, admittedly, I politely decline.


Ethan "helping out" with a spot of watering.










Some black comedy here: Ethan's behaviour chart from a few weeks ago - somehow the gravity of the crime is not adequately represented by the symbolic "Sad Ethan."