Bermtopia by the Sea: The haunted edition. . . Or don't read this if you're home alone, laying in a bunkbed, at 4:10 in the morning

Well.

We have survived yet another grand Bermtopian holiday. One that, this year,  was just a notch below epic.

Who else out there in the Blogosphere can say they survived a canine near-death experience. . . the Great Seattle Poopheads' Dishwasher Fire. . . a trip to the ER and hospital overnight with The Mom Unit. . . four days in Texas (not as weird as we thought it would be). . . the Number Two Son's version of Grand Theft Auto. . . and throughout it all, the impossible cuteness of The Most Adorable Grandson in the World.

But this all pales -- pales, I tell you -- to being haunted.

To recap. Christmas Eve and Christmas Day played out here in The Beav with My Date, two sons, daughter-in-law, The Mom Unit and, of course, TMAGITW. We then decamped for another four days to Arch Cape Cannon Beach on the Oregon Coast.

WTF!!!! you ask in a shouting font: YOU ALWAYS STAY IN ARCH CAPE.!!!!

Why, yes, boys and girls, we usually do. But this year, five weeks before Christmas, we we were informed our long-time go-to rental place in Arch Cape had been hijacked by its owner (fancy that) for an impromptu family reunion. Okay, so the guy apparently lives in Tanzania and is home for once in a blue moon. . . . . w.h.a.t.e.v.e.r.

So we selected a back-up place suggested by the rental agency in Cannon Beach. It had its pros and cons, including My Date, Number Two son and myself sleeping in bunkbeds (try it sometime!), a faintly sinister playhouse in the backyard and a selection of somewhat weird tchotchkes displayed throughout the house.

Bald dolls. Two-sided dolls. A frog holding a potato.
There are SO many things are wrong with this.

They should have been our first clue.

After a bracing walk on the beach and a replay of Christmas dinner (leftovers are ALWAYs better -- probably because they are actually warm when you eat them), we all toddled off to bed our first night in the house: The Mom Unit in the main floor master bedroom, the Number One Son and family to an upstairs bedroom, the dog to his bed in the living room and The Number Two Son, My Date and myself to the lower level "bunkhouse."

My Date and I nestled into our bunks, noting not to rise up too quickly or risk smacking our heads on bunkbeds above us, while N2S stretched out in the adjacent room for a late-night movie.

And we fell asleep.

Until about 4 a.m. that is -- when I was vigorously persuaded to answer a call of nature. As I tiptoed back to my bunk, I glanced at my cell phone. It was exactly 4:10 a.m.

"Perfect. Another couple of hours of shut-eye," I thought and began to doze, the house silent except for the faint whisper of a gentle wind in the trees outside.

And then. From inside the wall right next to my pillowed head:

KNOCK.

(Silence.)

KNOCK.

(Silence.)

KNOCK.

And silence. Well, except for the "WTF!!??" firmly wedged in my throat, struggling to make its presence known.

I let a minute pass.

"Bra-aa-ad. . . did you hear THAT?" I hissed.

"Yesssssss," My Date hissed backed.

We bolted out of bed (of course smacking our heads on the upper bunks) and checked the bedroom windows.

Nothing. Nada. Zip.

The front and backyards were empty and silent, shimmering through an early morning rain shower.

And with that, date and I settled back in our bunks for a not-surprisingly restless couple hours before sunrise.

We recounted the story at breakfast. The Number Two Son had heard the knocks, too!

With that, he and I decided to do a perimeter check, reconnoitering for evidence our Cannon Beach version of Caspar the Friendly Ghost. Armed with a flashlight that was about 4 feet long (they grow 'em big in Cannon Beach), we set out on our ghostly campaign. We checked the empty garage first, thinking it was adjacent to the "bunk house." It was not. Plus the exterior doors were locked.

And then. . .  we discovered the Secret Room -- an add-on to the garage that did, indeed, share a wall with bunkhouse. Was this the haven of some insidious Cannon Beach prankster? The N2S readied the flashlight.

We stopped in our tracks and stared the irrefutable evidence. There couldn't be an insidious Cannon Beach prankster: The knob was coated in at least a year's worth of cobwebs. No. one. had. been. in. the. room.

Gentlemen (and women) of the jury, Exhibit #1

Suitably impressed by our phantom visitor's skills at breaking and entering and knocking, the N2S and I retreated back into the beach house to make our report, only then noticing one, slightly unnerving detail. The door to the faintly sinister playhouse was ajar. The same door -- that had been closed the day before.  

We gently closed it -- with apologies to Caspar.

Epilogue: There were no more paranormal antics for the rest of our stay. . . although we three bunkmates slept upstairs the next night, but the bunkhouse was silent and would not reveal its secrets.

It appears haunting is a lonely -- and somewhat inconsistent -- business. Which is a good thing.

Arrrgghhhhhh

How can it be I haven't touched this blog for three months -- THREE MONTHS!!?? How can one be gainfully unemployed retired and not make time to fire off a few bon mots once or twice a week? What a wanker I am.

Well, I'm back. And, actually, thanks to the miracle of my cell phone camera, I have pictorial proof that I haven't been just sitting on my patoot doing nothing. Sort of.

1. Well, there was this move. . .

In an impressive burst of karmic irony, Number One Son, the Miz and the Most Adorable Grandchild in the World moved to Bermtopia, our former domicile, at the end of May. We helped. Imagine cleaning and closing up a 2-bedroom apartment in Everett, packing, driving across the glorious state of Washington and unpacking over a three-day period. Yup, that was us.

And did I mention, the MAGITW perfected crawling that weekend, thereby requiring the one-on-one attention of at least one adult at all times? I am now qualified for a career as a Secret Service agent.

Grandma, you forgot to mention I'm pulling myself up, too.

2. And we had to take a break for a little culture here and there. . .

By taking in a Nellie McKay concert over in PDX's Alberta Arts district. . .

Visiting the city's Japanese Garden. . . Rose Gardens. . . and Chinese Garden

And rolling over to the coast a couple of times. (Okay, okay: technically not cultural. Does it count that we watched "American Ninja Warrior" one night?)

Greetings from The Place of Noisy Water.
I still refuse to get my paws wet.

3. And let's not forget Phase One of the Great Front Yard landscaping project. . .

It's a start, people. It's a start.

4. We did hit the road a couple of times. . .

Number Two Son and I took on Chicago, ostensibly to attend a wedding but mostly we just geeked out on the architecture, Jamaican jerk chicken, the Art Institute, River Walk, Millenium and Grant Parks, Lincoln Park Zoo, gangster tours and miniature golf. Not necessarily in that order.

And there this little junket to Sin City with our Vegas travel buddies, the Poop Heads.

Check it out!
If Joe Biden's presidential bid peters out, he can always fall back on that side job!

5. We played with matches with the Mom Unit and Number Two Son on July 4.

6. Oh, there was that record-setting heat wave that pestered all of the Northwest most of July.

Fat calves and Hobbit feet! Yay me.

Homemade sangria helped.

7. And we cared and nurtured Think Outside the Box Acres, where tomato leaf curl, blossom drop and incendiary bush beans are a way of life.

The survivors.

So there you have it. A waa-aa-aay too long pictorial documentation of how I'm spending my spring and summer vacation. But I finally figured out how to move Instagram pix to Blogger. So we've got that going for us. Which is good.

I am tired of being a wanker. I am back in the blogging saddle. Next stop -- Astoria, Ore., via the backroads. Providing the back roads are not too back-roady.

Bermtopia by the Sea: The 36-Hour Edition

One of the many advantages of being retired is the ability to pick up at a moment's notice for an adventure.

Well, not exactly a moment's notice. . . finding a Ben-friendly hotel in Cannon Beach proved somewhat vexing for my date. And took a couple days. Largely because when the website of said hotel said it was pet-friendly. But wasn't. 

But that's neither here nor there. We found The Guest House Inn and took off with Ben Wednesday for an overnight at the beach, or as Ben calls it, The Place of Noisy Water.

Ben: Sweet. But I won't get my paws wet.

Although Arch Cape is our go-to coastal sweet spot, we landed in Cannon Beach because of the plethora (or so we thought) of dog-friendly hotels that will book one night with you. Of course, it helps it's February -- the lowest of the low season on the Oregon coast  -- and the middle of the week. We packed for a windy, wet overnight trip -- and were rewarded with balmy shirt-sleeve (well, long-sleeve/sweatshirt) weather. 

Fat Bastard and I are having such a time of it, figuring out these mild climes.

Upon arrival, we beat feet to Ecola Seafoods for clam chowder. My date ordered the bread bowl and promptly sent a cell phone pic to the Number Two Son. Simply to torture him.

I ordered a side of pickled herring. Simply to torture my date.

Then on to the Cottage at the Guest House Inn. Just steps from the beach, it's a tidy little place, fully equipped with a serviceable kitchenette, electric fireplace and -- ahem -- the biggest jacuzzi tub I have ever seen. 

In the living room.

Use your imagination. 

*sound of crickets*

On to the beach. You know it's going to be a good walk when this is the first thing you encounter:

Don't tell Ben, but I have an inexplicable obsession with pugs.
This 14-week-old puppy cemented it.

The rest of our walks over the next 36 hours did not disappoint either. Especially a chance encounter with a South Korean choral group who took approximately 8 zillion selfies with Ben. A sweet soprano's voice guided us home Wednesday afternoon.

It's good to be retired.

Dog meets beach

Despite all his (reluctant) "frequent flyer miles," Ben, our dog, has never been to the beach. He's been to rivers and lakes, wineries and country weddings and rehearsal dinners, jaunty sidewalk cafes, world-class urban parks -- but never the beach.

I'm not quite sure how we came to be so negligent. I mean, what dog doesn't love running along the beach, splashing in the foam-specked surf, chasing seabirds and rolling among dead fish carcasses?

The short answer.

Ben.

Sort of.

Last Saturday was Ben's first trip to The Beach. The Mom Unit, The Miz and I decided to brave Oregon's frequently frivolous fall coastal weather and make a run down to the coast. The Miz graciously agreed to share the backseat with Ben.

It was destined to be an interesting day. This is a dog with a serious aversion to water (we trace it back to an unfortunate, excessively noisy experience with a jet ski when he was a puppy) and an obsessive-compulsive fixation with his feet. That part is a herding dog thing, so I've been told.

So off we went. First stop, Arch Cape -- beach of my childhood. To this day, a relatively undiscovered beach where most dogs lope along, off leash, foot loose and fancy free, chasing seabirds and biting at the waves.

Ben knew he was on sacred ground. Nostrils flaring, he pushed his way into the front seat before I had barely set the emergency brake.



He flew out of the car. The massive thickets of blackberry bushes flanking both sides of the path down to the beach met with his immediate approval, laden with scents only a dog could appreciate. And then he reached the end of the path.



W.T.F.??!!

Throwing us a brief, inscrutable glance, he clambered across the rocks to the sand. Rigid, in full alert, Ben's tail gave him away as he walked along the waterline and listened to the surf for the first time.



Ultimately, canine curiosity trumped caution. Ben stooped to sniff the briny surf.

Just as the tide surged, covering his feet with a foamy blanket of salt water.

We were rewarded with a lively dog's interpretation of The Funky Chicken as Ben hastily put it in reverse and beat a somewhat undignified retreat to dry land. Beach 1, dog 0.



And yet.



Ben was intrigued. He sensed the wildness, the freedom of an empty beach scoured by wind and water. After a moment of two, he turned and began to run, chasing sticks and bird feathers, pouncing on crab shells, biting and nipping at the ropes of kelp I whipped back and forth through the sand.

And then he stopped for a minute. To laugh.