June 9, 2026

Getting mad at Dad for hacking MY beaked hazelnut bush; Dad and Victor Wembanyama; Susan Nolen's An Uncertain Age and Coleridge's Christabel; an unplanned swim in Cedar Mill Creek

From the Woods

On a walk last week, I noticed my favorite beaked hazelnut bush had a few stems missing. Tell-tale machete marks pointed to the culprit—Dad. This particular beaked hazelnut is on the gravel road traversing our woods, making it easy to observe spring catkins elongate, then sway in the wind. I’ve brought their pink and green slinky-like forms home in my pocket to show Mom; I’ve photographed them; I’ve looked up which critter likes to eat them (Stellar jays, black bears, ruffled grouse, white-tailed deer. . .)

We have many beaked hazelnut bushes, but when I saw the macheted stems on this one, MINE, I was upset. Yesterday, Dad, Griffin and I were out cleaning up the trails for a tour this Wednesday, and I told Dad he’d hacked at my favorite bush. He said, “That’s serious,” then asked if I had a whip. I didn’t, but I made him stand in front of the bush and look contrite.

My response reminded of Ericka Berry’s reaction when she walked through a favorite forest that had recently burned. She yearned for the trees she’d become acquainted with and then wondered, “Why did I think I was owed a stable wilderness?” Why do I think of this particular bush as mine—nothing is mine. I want to hold the forest’s gifts more loosely.

People Older Than Trees

Growing up, we did not have a TV. Mom and Dad started their life together in Alaskan logging camps where there was no signal, and when we moved to the lower 48, they decided to keep our home screen-free. As teenagers, we protested mightily to no avail.

But now, streaming services bring nightly entertainment to the tree farm— Mom started watching basketball after becoming a Portland Trailblazers fan. In recent years, Dad has pulled ahead of her in enthusiasm. (She takes out her hearing aids so his excited, “HEY, HEY, HEY” don’t make her jump out of her chair.)

This year, Dad is rooting for the San Antonio spurs, specifically for a Victor Wembanyama fan. Dad is taken by Wemby’s profession of love for his teammates.

What I’m Reading

Reading about “Wandering Women”

I’ve started “An Uncertain Age” by Susan B Nolen, an author I met in a writing class last year. It’s set just after the Black Death in England and features women living, thriving, pushing against the confines of the times. Nolen has done her homework and includes stories told around the dinner table—The Weardale Fairy—stories in which a wandering shepherd girl disappears only to return inexplicably changed—give 11-year-old Agnes a fright in spite of herself. I love learning about a different time and place and am enjoying the interaction of the characters. Makes me think maybe I want to write historical fiction?

In Popova’s Traversal, she recounts Lord Byron challenging his guests at the Swiss Villa Diodati,—Percy and Mary Shelley, Mary’s half-sister Claire, and Byron’s personal physician Polidori to a ghost-story writing challenge. On the second night of the challenge, Byron recites Coleridge’s supernatural poem Christabel. In the poem a lovely maiden wanders out of her father’s castle and . . . Coleridge’s language is mesmerizing. I read the first half aloud to Tom and am determined to finish.

Stumptown

Right near Akane and Abby’s home is Cedar Mill Creek and a waterfall. They love playing in the water—throwing rocks, floating sticks. The rushing water drowns out any road noise and it feels like you’re back in the day when the water fall was used to power Jones Cedar Mill in 1855.

The girls wanted to cross the creek—I was wearing Birkenstocks and didn’t feel steady on the rocks, but was persuaded. We made it across, but on the way back, I was holding Abby’s hand and slipped. She fell into the muddy, crawfish-laden water. I had hold of her the whole time, but her boots filled with water and she was shaken. After she quieted down, I helped Akane across, handed her Abby’s boots (Abby was sure crawfish were lurking in the toes) and carried Abby home. Akane stayed close on her razor scooter making sure her little sister was okay.