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Part 2: We Admire the View

As you may recall from reading part 1 of our adventures here, Mom, Jenny, Amy, and I woke up Friday morning to a very poorly functioning septic system. We dressed and primped, using as little water as possible, and then left to see the sights of Port Orford while the septic guys did their thing.

After a breakfast of free coffee, tea, and donuts at a local cafe (paid for by our apologetic property manager), we headed to the Port Orford coast guard station. The museum was down for repairs, but we saw the old lifeboat and the lovely views.


Photo by Amy Smucker


Photo by Amy Smucker


Photo by Amy Smucker

After that we visited the port of Port Orford, which was an interesting and odd place. Instead of having docks with rows of boats moored merrily in the water, there was one large concrete dock with boats in little wheeled carts.


Photo by Amy Smucker


Photo by Amy Smucker

Every boat that docks here gets hoisted out of the water first with a giant winch.

After buying some iced tea at the little cafe on the dock and exploring some of the little Port Orford rocks and beaches, we decided to go to a thrift store at the senior center. En route, Jenny came down with a terrible case of hiccups. I tried to scare her (that’s a hiccup-curing tactic, right?), but her loud relentless hiccups didn’t budge.

We pulled into the parking lot and walked into the front doors of the senior center, trying to figure out where the thrift store was. In the next room over we heard some people talking, but no one was around where we were. But look! Some paper cups in a stack here, and a sink over there.

Now if you know anything about anything, you will know that the sure-fire way to get rid of hiccups is to slowly drink a glass of water while someone else massages your earlobes. So I, wanting to help my poor sister out, reached for a paper cup, intending to fill it with water for Jenny.

“EMILY *HIC*” Jenny whispered in the most yell-like whisper I’ve ever heard. “I’m NOT going to steal from the OLD people *HIC*.”

Mom and I burst into spasms of silent laughter.

“Oh, the thrift store is downstairs,” said Amy.

We went outside, down the hill, and into the basement door to the thrift store.

“Do you have any water?” I asked the lady behind the counter. “My sister has the hiccups.”

“If you go upstairs to the senior center, the men there will give you some water!” she said.

Mom went upstairs and returned with one of the exact same cups I’d been about to grab for Jenny earlier.

After spending our morning and early afternoon jaunting around town, we returned home to a fully functioning toilet. We ate leftovers and sat outside in the sunshine. “I really like this place,” said Jenny.

“Me too,” I said.

“Really?” said Amy. “Because when we first got here, you two were kind-of homfey glomphy about it.”

I laughed. I hadn’t heard the term “homfey glomphy” in a long time. I think it’s one of those phrases that exists only in the dictionary of Mom. And Amy too, now, apparently.

That afternoon we relaxed, napped, roamed the beach, and read. Then, after supper, we went to Cape Blanco. Ah, Cape Blanco, one of my most favoriteist places. (I blogged about it when I went there with Ben last year. It’s also the location of my header photo.)

As usual, the beauty was astounding.


Photo by Amy Smucker


Photo by Amy Smucker

After watching the sun set multiple times from multiple vantage points, we headed home, where Mom built a campfire out of driftwood. We sat around it for a while, feeling introspective and dreamy. Then we went inside and watched Call the Midwife.

The next morning we packed up the car and headed out. We stopped along the way to tour the Cape Blanco lighthouse, which had been closed the night before, as well as a nearby old house/museum called the Hughes House.

And then we went home, over the mountains and back to the valley, for the first (and so far, only) really hot (100º) summer day.

It is so nice, I thought, as I looked at my mom and sisters, to have a group of people with whom  you know you will always belong, no matter what. 

Part One: The Girls Have Fun

My mom has a great love of buying things at garage sales, re-selling them on Ebay, and collecting the profits in a “girl’s fun money” jar. So far this has resulted in at least one fun girl’s trip every time Amy happens to be in town.

Well Amy came home recently, I think for my graduation but I’m not 100% sure, so we organized a Smucker ladies’ trip to the southern Oregon coast. We left Wednesday and came home Saturday and had a marvelous time.

Port Orford, the little town where we stayed, is three hours from home, and we extended this time by stopping at various second hand stores (where no one under the age of 65 ever seemed to donate) and fast food restaurants. At last we reached Port Orford, and tried to follow our Google Maps directions to our house, only to come to a fork in the road with “Private Property” posted up at both forks.

This prompted us to stop in the middle of the road and have a friendly argument for a bit, until Mom found the official directions from the property manager, which said “Go left at the fork.” So we did.

“I hope that’s not it,” Jenny exclaimed as we passed a small outbuilding.

“No, this is it,” said Amy as we pulled up to a very small cabin.


Amy later claimed that Jenny and I were very “homfey glomphy” about the cabin. It consisted of a small kitchen, small living room, and smaller bedroom all in a row, with a tiny bathroom tacked onto the living room as a sort-of lean-to. The whole house was a bit crooked and sloped, and there were no cupboard doors on the cupboards. Lo and behold, when we tried to flip the light switches, we discovered that there was no electricity either. So yes, we were a bit “homfey glomphy,” which I believe is a term my mom coined about 20 years ago when we were slumped and whiney.

However, my attitude changed when I woke from my nap about an hour later and discovered that Amy had found a small path over the dune to the beach. And it was the loveliest little beach, with its dark pebbly sand that was incredibly soft to sit in, and the giant green waves that broke right on the shore.

It was private, too. During our whole stay, I never saw anyone else on the beach besides my mom and sisters.

We spent the rest of the afternoon on the beach while the electricians came to fix the electricity problem, and then came home to a delicious meal of burrito bowls (cooked by Amy). After that we tried going in the hot tub, but while 92 degrees is hot when it’s an air temperature and the sun is beating down on you, it makes for a lame hot tub experience. So we gave up and retired indoors to watch Call the Midwife.

The next morning we all slept in as much as we pleased, taking morning beach walks at our leisure, and pausing to read books and do a little writing or watercolor painting. Amy whipped up a lovely lunch of make-your-own salads, complete with avocados and hard-boiled eggs and bacon and chicken and chickpeas and many other delicious topping choices.

After that, we headed north to hike around Cape Arago and end up at the Shore Acres gardens. This was the same hike that Ben and I had taken a little over a year ago, which I blogged about here. Like then, the pictures don’t do justice to the weird geography of Cape Arago, but here are a couple pictures of the beautiful views anyway.

…as well as one snap of Mom in the rose garden at Shore Acres.


If you’re wondering why Mom is on her phone in this picture, it’s because she was texting the property manager about our septic tank issues. Scarcely had our electricity been fixed, when our toilet began to resist flushing. The property manager was apologetic, and Mom was hinting that a partial refund would be nice, if they were hoping for a good online review and all.

By the time we’d finished our glorious hike it was past supper time. We drove to the nearest McDonald’s to buy smoothies for the drive home, and then ate a late supper of seasoned potatoes, chicken, and broccoli. Amy really spoiled us on this trip, food wise.

Jenny and Amy went to watch the sunset on the beach, while Mom and I got in the hot tub.


Then we watched more Call the Midwife, and went to bed, and tried not to flush the toilet too often.

The septic guys would be out the next morning, we were told. But in order to know for sure what happened next, you’ll have to come back for Part Two.

All photos taken by Amy Smucker.



For seven years I’ve been composing graduation blog posts in my head.

For seven years I’ve been waiting for the day when I could say, “I struggled through chronic illness and depression, I never bought myself new clothes except for a couple times, like for a friend’s wedding, I went to four different colleges, I did whatever it took so that I could get this degree, and now I’ve achieved it.”


Maybe then I could make some meaning out of my struggle.

During my long college journey, I never questioned the struggle. When I took time off for health or financial reasons I never questioned that I would go back. When I didn’t buy new clothes because I was trying to save money, it never occurred to me that safety-pinning my underwear together so that I could afford another 1/3 of a textbook was a bad trade-off.

I just wanted to achieve something.

I wanted someone to say “wow, you did that thing. You kept at it, and you did it. Good for you.”


But there’s not always honor for the strugglers.

In the middle of this term, I found out that despite my 3.86 GPA, I wasn’t eligible to wear honor cords because I was short 3 OSU upper-division credits. That’s when my dreams of honor and recognition began to break down. The very struggle that I was so proud of powering through, the struggle that caused me to switch schools so many times, was keeping me from being honored.

I’ve met so many brilliant strugglers in college. People battling homelessness, mental illness, discrimination, people working multiple jobs, people who had to skip class because their children got sick, and I’ve rarely seen them get honored. Many of them never even graduated.

And then I questioned why I was doing it. If it was worth it. If it was just a stressful, expensive, thankless venture.



And I concluded that maybe it is. But as much as my human heart wanted the honor, I was never in it for the honor.

I was in it, as silly and cliche as this may sound, because I desperately wanted to learn.

Professor Covington, during my first term of university ever, told me that a liberal arts education was valuable because “it is worth it to know what you don’t know.” And I deeply believed it.

I still believe it.

And as I sat on the football field with 4,000 other graduates today, I wiped a tear away, overwhelmed with a deep sense of thankfulness.

Thank you, Oregon State University, for giving me a chance to learn.

Thank you Bridgewater College, thank you Linn Benton Community College. Kind-of-thank-you-but-also-kind-of-good-riddance, University of Oregon.

And thank you, Oregon State University.

And Go Beavs.


The Wedding

Up here the sun sets late and rises early, and the relatives go to bed later and get up earlier. My mattress on the living room floor was not an ideal place to catch some zzzzz’s. In the morning I pulled a blanket over my head to block out the light and the feet shuffling and the coffee sipping.

Then suddenly the shuffling was right next to my ear, because my curious uncle had picked the book I’ve been reading, and was flipping through it.

That woke me up properly.

(The book, in case you are wondering, is Stories of my Life, by Katherine Patterson. Katherine Patterson is the author of Bridge to TerabithiaJacob Have I Loved,  etc.)

I drank tea and then wandered over the property, with its meadows, its Christmas trees that never sold, and it’s broken-down machinery. I took a picture and then tried to upload it for this blog post. It was too big. I couldn’t figure out how to re-size it, so I made it black and white and then it uploaded. Colored pictures will have to wait until I have a better internet connection, I guess.

The wedding was at 10:30 am.

As much as I pretend, while I’m at college, that I’m an expert on Mennonites, I really have no clue about some things. This wedding was much more somber than the weddings I’m used to. Which was fine, until the preacher (who, incidentally, was the same uncle who examined my book) started saying funny things in his sermon, and I was the only one who laughed. Out loud. I couldn’t help it! Isn’t laughter the proper response to humor?

(Apparently, in some Mennonite weddings, a silent smile is the proper response to humor.)

After a couple hours of ceremony and a couple hours of reception and a couple hours of napping afterwords, I hung out with my family and washed towels and tried to pretend that I don’t have homework to work on this weekend.

Tomorrow I road trip home. As much as I’ve enjoyed this weekend I’m also eager to face the open road. It’s been waaaaay too long since I’ve had a proper road trip.


Grandma brought 15 cans of prune juice in her carry-on bag. (“No,” said Grandma, correcting me, “it was 6 cans of prune juice and 5 cans of pineapple orange juice.) We checked that bag, after all. 

Grandma got to keep her shoes on, but she was still patted down by TSA for having hankies in her pocket. 

Grandma wandered off to find a bathroom and I thought, “what if she never comes back and we have to board but I can’t find her?” Her “cellar” phone was in her bag, which was with me. But she came back. 

Grandma told me about her friends and her scrabble games and how handsome the flight attendant was. “Something about him attracts him to me,” she said. 

Mom and Dad picked us up in Minneapolis, and we went to a hotel for the night. A bag of granola had burst in her suitcase. 

“Why did you bring granola?” I asked. 

“Because I have my own kind.”

In the morning we all left for the 6 hour drive to Pelkie, Michigan. I was discussing eyebrow trends (I don’t recall why) when Grandma said, “I don’t keep up with the trends, I’m not trying to get a man.”

“Why not?” I asked. 

“Who wants to take care of another old man?”

“What if he’s 15 years younger than you, and spry and handsome?”

Grandma launched into a story about a friend of hers who dated a guy, but then broke up with him because she didn’t want to marry again. “She enjoyed his company, though,” she said. “I don’t know why they didn’t just keep doing things together.”

“So you don’t want to marry again, but you might want a boyfriend?”

“Well, yeah,” she said. 

Maybe I should recommend I Kissed Dating Goodbye. 

We should reach Pelkie shortly. 

Money and Blogging

When I opened my blog today, the first thing I saw was a bright pink Planned Parenthood banner ad.

I did some frantic googling. Is there any way to choose what ads go on your WordPress blog? No, it turns out, there really isn’t. So I spontaneously pulled all ads off my blog.

I’ve never really had problems with WordPress ads before. I never saw any half-naked women, or any “a mom in Arizona cured cancer with this one weird trick,” or anything that led to spammy websites. The ads were few enough that they didn’t make my website run slowly. A week or so ago I did have a problem with a video advertisement playing automatically, with sound, which I found really annoying, but that has not been a consistent problem. (At least for me. If you’ve had bad experiences with ads on my blog I’d like to hear about them.)

But I don’t want to promote Planned Parenthood. No way. That is where I draw the line.

To be clear, I only ever earned about $100 a year or so from advertising. I mostly did the advertising thing so that my blog would be self-sufficient–so that it would earn enough money to pay for its own domain name and fund things like an occasional giveaway, or a new point-and-shoot camera if I needed one.

I’ve always felt torn when it comes to earning money from blogging. I want people who read my blog to feel like they’re getting a gift, not like I’m trying to sell them something.

…at the same time…

As I discussed in my blog post How To Write an Opinion That People Will Listen To, posting on my blog takes effort and revision. Blogging isn’t the fun casual social media platform it was back in Xanga days. I usually enjoy blogging, but if I’m not earning anything from it I have little motivation to post consistent quality content.

…at the same time…

Would people rather get free, sporadic rough drafts or see some advertising, suffer through a few sponsored posts, and/or pay a little to get thoughtful polished blog posts on a regular basis?

I realize that this is not a unique struggle. All creatives face a tension between art for art’s sake and art for money.

Anyway. At this point I am fine with freely writing this blog as I always have. However, my hasty decision to pull advertising this afternoon just got me thinking about such matters. And I REALLY WANT YOUR OPINION on the topic, whether you’re a blogger yourself who has struggled with this question, or whether you’re a blog reader who cringes through sponsored posts.


10 Interesting Aspects of Singleness That No One Talks About


I always click on articles that have “singleness” in the headline. Maybe because I’m single. Maybe because I secretly hope I’ll get some never-before-seen insight into my own psyche. Or learn how to catch a man, once and for all.

Instead, what I usually get is a very feelings-oriented person informing me that “singleness is hard.”

“You know, because your heart has deep longings and stuff.”

“But just trust in Jesus.”

“The right one will come along. Maybe. We hope.”

Okay, fine, but what about all the other interesting aspects of singleness? The things that are sometimes a struggle, and sometimes nice, and sometimes just things you have to deal with?

Here is my list of ten aspects of singleness that I find interesting, and wish people would talk about more.

(Disclaimer: These are coming from a very Mennonite, very female, very 26-year-old frame of reference.)

1. Being single at 26 is an entirely different ballgame than being single at 20.

…and, I’m assuming, being single at 32 and 47 and 63 are all distinctly different stages.

Between the ages of 18 and 23, my feelings of singleness were lumped in with a whole host of dubious feelings about life, identity, figuring out my future, etc. And though I felt single, I was young enough that the rest of the world didn’t necessarily label me as such.

23 on, I’ve felt more settled and sure of myself in general. At the same time, my “singleness” has become more of a core part of who I am in the eyes of the people around me. 

Most of this post will be focused on 23+ singleness, but before I get there, I have one thing to say about the 18-23 stage.

2. The hardest thing about being a 20-year-old single Mennonite female is deciding what to do with your future.

Okay, maybe not the hardest thing, but definitely a hard thing that people don’t talk about much.

Good jobs for females within the Mennonite community are scarce. Going outside the community is intimidating and requires a large time and money commitment, and, let’s face it, a decreased chance of finding a nice Mennonite boy to marry.

I like to talk to Mennonite girls about the possibility of going to college, and I see this struggle written all over their faces. Sure, if they’re going to be single, they want to have a job they love which pays decently. But if they’d happen to fall in love and get married, they don’t want to slave away to pay off student debt, they want to stay at home and raise babies.

I don’t think I’ve ever talked to a Mennonite girl who hasn’t had this struggle to one degree or another.

Now, on to the interesting and varied aspects of 23+ singleness. Such as…

3. Who’s pretty and who’s not pretty changes a lot between 20 and 26.

Honesty time: have you ever Facebook stalked that gorgeous girl whom all the boys liked when you went to Bible School together, only to discover that she’s had a few babies, wears an unflattering hairstyle, and, while not ugly or anything, looks, well, like a normal mom?

My pet theory is that the effortlessly beautiful girls got by on looks alone for so long that they never had to learn to present themselves to the best effect, and it came back to bite them as they aged. Other girls really blossomed in the latter half of their 20s. Obviously this isn’t true in every case, but my point is, the fact that the boys didn’t think you were cute when you were 20 doesn’t really mean anything when you’re 26, and I find that really interesting.

4. The older you get, the easier it is to figure out which guys are worth your interest and which guys aren’t.

I am convinced that people change as much between the ages of 18 and 23 as they do between the ages of 13 and 18. I look back on my pre-23 crushes and feel a palpable sense of relief that I never married them. But how could I have known at the time that we’d eventually disagree on so many key values?

When you’re 26, people have figured themselves out. The intellectual guys have gone to college, and the nice guys are helping out their community, and the lazy guys are living in their parent’s house and hopping from job to job. You can peg people easier. You don’t have to do as much guesswork about what they’ll eventually become.

5. Making big life decisions alone feels overwhelming.

This has been my most recent struggle with singleness.

Preparing to graduate college, a whole world of possibilities is open to me. I am overwhelmed. How will I ever decide?

“You know, these decisions become so much easier once you get married,” my mom says.

6. Always getting crushes is exhausting.

Staying single until I’m, say, 35, doesn’t seem like that big of a deal until I think about the crushes.

I can just imagine myself, 34 years old and crushing on the latest nice cute guy I met. “I’m too old for this,” I’ll think. “Crushes are for 16-year-olds. People were not meant to have crushes for eighteen straight years of their life. This is exhausting.

But the only other alternative is to not have feelings at all.

7. No one really knows what you’ve gone through, romantically.

If you’ve made it to 26 without getting married, chances are that something romantic has happened to you which you’ve felt deeply. The guy who you thought was interested, but never actually bothered to ask you out. The wonderful friend that DID ask you out, but you didn’t have feelings for him.

Some single girls have spent YEARS silently pining for guys who never noticed them. Some girls have had a far bigger heartbreak over the “unofficial” boyfriend than they ever did over the “official” boyfriend.

Yet few people really know about any of that, which is so interesting to me.

8. Everyone will try to figure out why you’re still single.

…as though there’s some mathematical formula that explains it. How come no one comes up with mathematical formulas to determine how certain people ever managed to get married at all?

This isn’t just a community thing, it’s something we do to ourselves. “Why am I not married?” I ask myself. I have multiple answers.

Answer 1: The guys I liked didn’t like me back, and vice versa.

Answer 2: Mennonite guys think I’m weird and college-y, and college guys think I’m weird and Mennonite-y.

Answer 3: I never wanted to get married as badly as I wanted to get my college degree.

Take your pick.

9. It’s hard for a single Mennonite to properly belong anywhere.

Life encircles some people like a protective womb. They are surrounded by people like them. I have to carve out a place for myself wherever I go.

This is fine. I like that I can hang out with 15-year-olds in the youth group even though I’m more than 10 years older, or with the married ladies even though I’m not married, or with grad students or international students or homeschoolers that host Pride and Prejudice-inspired dances because really, hanging out with people who aren’t like you is one of the great joys of life.

But sometimes it’s lonely, and exhausting, and I just want to belong somewhere once and for all.

10. You will probably eventually get married, statistically speaking.

But knowing for sure would make being single a lot easier.

This has been my last post of the April Blogging Challenge! Jenny posted on day 27 here, and Mom posted on day 26 here.