Port Townsend

Last week when we were getting that crap rainy weather Ali and I were looking skyward and talking about how it was about to rain. Lowe overheard us while sitting nearby with his cars and asked, “Is the bus gonna leak?” Imagine that coming out of a two-year-old’s mouth, “Zz-da-bus-gnna-leakin?”

Perceptive little bugger. Fortunately this time I was able to tell him, “No, I don’t think the bus is going to leak on your bed any more.”

And then I realized just how bad a parent that sentence made me out to be.

Ahh well, the bus didn’t leak, and for the first time in many moons we can sit out a rainstorm with both a canopy over the front door, and windows that are something like 97% leak-free.

As a random side note for the bus, I did actually pick up a new (as in off of a 1954 truck) exhaust manifold while in Portland. After making a bunch of calls I eventually tracked down a yard way off in the burbs/boonies that specialized solely in Mopar. Of course the problem now is that when I went to try and crack the old one off I found the bolts so rusty that of the top four only one came loose while the others basically disintegrated. No amount of penetrating oil was helping those. So yeah, I’ve no idea when that project may be tackled again. I’m not even sure how I might go about it. Things would be a lot easier if it was on the passenger side, but as it is there is hardly any space to get at it with power tools.

We spent the past couple of days in Port Townsend dry camping at the Fairgrounds with our friends Megan and Nick (of Live on the Margin fame). Nick and I are in perpetual motion, so despite our longish friendship we realized that this was far and away the most time the four (six, really) of us had ever hung out together. We now hate each other and will never talk again.

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Port Townsend is a seriously cute town. It’s filled with all sorts of hundred-plus year-old Victorian homes (I say Victorian, but in truth I don’t know the first thing about architecture). Hippies abound (I say hippies, but suppose even yuppies could have dread locks and flowing skirts). Getting good pizza was as easy as asking a local carrying six pies where he got them. And for the kids there was an abundance of playgrounds as well as the ever present beach to play at. We wore Lowe out so badly that Ali was able to get him to sleep in her arms while simultaneously eating pizza. I was quite proud.

The water around town was absolutely brimming with boats. All types, and I tell you what was most surprising to me, the sailboats were actually sailing. I almost never see that.

Anyway, Port Townsend had a very nice vibe to it. Too bad about their weather ten months out of the year.

The 4Hers were at the Fairgrounds walking horses around in what I was told was a showmanship competition. Holy schmoley is that boring. So boring that I had time to recall the term holy schmoley. Later, when we all tried to come up with the answer to, “What does 4H stand for?” we came up completely empty. I spent a good chunk of my childhood at my grandpa’s farm being teased by every one of my extended family members for being a city slicker. Turns out they were totally right. They’d be ashamed of me for not knowing the answer to that one. Thank you Google for clearing that up for me.

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