World Travel My Style

Mom:

I'll try to give you a call tomorrow or the day after. Slight change of plans... I want to see if you can fly down first, and a little earlier... say any time in Feb... beg, mid, or end. Shu Li has never been on an airplane before nor left the country and is moderately afraid. She would rather meet you first and have our families know each other before traveling across the ocean into an unknown world. That's not how she said it, but I'm pretty sure it's how she feels.

Maybe I can meet you at Harbin's airport and we stay for 4 or 5 days at Harbin's Holiday Inn, then fly home as a group? We'll crash in WA for 2 weeks probably, then head back. It'll be a very exciting gig for all of us.

You are probably numb to surprises at this point, but in 2-3 years she and I might be opening that restaurant in America. 'Eat Chinese food downstairs, learn the Chinese language upstairs. Hmm *ponders*

Love,

Your son, Rick

Rickshaw, Harbin style

Hey, Rick:

So you want your old mother to fly over the ocean to Bejing by myself and change planes to go North to Harbin without being able to speak a word of Chinese. Then you want me to stay only five days, which isn't much time to go porcelain shopping, but just enough time to get food poisoning, and get major trauma when Shu Li tells me I ate a dog or a horse as well.

I suppose the ice and snow sculpture is all taken down and I'd just have to freeze my butt off without the pretty scenery. What's the average temperature? Minus 20? I hear the air is heavily polluted with coal smoke in the winter.

Ok. I'll do it. Let me figure out how. Send me as much information as you can.

Love and miss you,

Mom

Lokahi

Ka'ahumanu Church, Wailuku, Hawaii

On a recent visit to the island of Maui, I made time to attend Sunday services at Ka'ahumanu Church in Wailuku. I'd been wanting to do this for many years. My favorite aunt told me that she attends Hawaiian churches when she visits the islands, and she said the singing is beautiful and the congregations are friendly and welcoming.

Wailuku has several historic church buildings. I believe there are fourteen on the island of Maui. Most are Congregational in origin, these being established by the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions of Boston, Massachussetts in the early 1800s. Some of the family members of these missionary families, such as the Baldwins and the Baileys, also pioneered the sugar industry. That makes for fascinating visits of historic sites and museums throughout the Hawaiian Islands if you are visiting.

These were missionaries of an untypical sort. They more or less personalized Christianity for indigenous people, such as the Hawaiians. One of the first things they did was teach the Hawaiians to read and write in their native language, so they had to put together an alphabet and written text for them to learn. The Bible was translated into Hawaiian language in this process, as were hymnals. As the Hawaiian people became converted, by choice not force, they also learned to speak, read and write in English. Some of the royalty and upper class even went on to higher education.

These Congregationalist missionaries provided as well for the Hawaiians as they were able, having a deep respect and love for the people and their culture. In fact, when the government of the Hawaiian territory outlawed the language and the culture in a wrong-minded attempt to unify the cultures, the Congregational church was the preserver of these things because the goverment could not violate the sanctuary of the church.

This particular parish in which I attended service, is named for Queen Ka'ahumanu, a devout Christian convert who was probably most the most influential in transforming the entire kingdom from the ancient to the modern. Ka'ahumanu was the favorite and most powerful wife of King Kamehameha I, who united the islands under one rule. She visited the site before the present structure was built, and she requested that it be named for her. The honor was gladly bestowed.

Queen Ka'ahumanu

I arrived at Ka'ahumanu Church a few minutes early. I stood on the big lawn in front of the New England style architecture and watched as a procession of Daughters of Hawaii and their escorts were given entry ahead of the other congregants. Dressed in all-black or all-white Victorian dresses, they each took the arm of an escort dressed in black suit with yellow and red cape. As I approached the steps, they smiled to welcome me. A deep, masculine voice chanted an invocation in Hawaiian as we all entered the sanctuary and found our seats with the procession in the front rows, the rest of us seated behind.

The Daughters of Hawaii were founded by a group of pastor's daughters to preserve Hawaiian places and language.

There were three of us caucasian faces in the room full of brown people. The Hawaiians are not small. They are large, strong and handsome people. And although few of them are of pure blood, having intermarried with Westerners, Asians and other Polynesians, there is no mistaking the "brand."

It is bright, and light and breezy inside. The windows and doors all open to the tropical air. The walls are painted white and the trim painted green like so many plantation houses in the islands. Decor is simple, the windows are plain glass, and athough there is koa wood and fine linens at the altar, a simple wooden cross is the focal point.

"Ekolu Mea Nui" sang the Na Po'e (the congregation sang the hymn "The Three Greatest Things" from a hymnal printed in Hawaiian. I held it in my hands as I listened)

"Ka hea ho'omana," said the Alaka'i. ("Call to worship," said the pastor.) "On the second day of Advent, Christ connects us to the church in the spirit of Lokahi, the Hawaiian word for Unity."

The Alaka'i, whose name is Kahu Loweana Hau, gave a sermon on the topic of unity beginning with reminding folks that no matter how the local political elections turned out, everyone should be supportive, not devisive, in living with decisions as they are made. He pointed to a portrait of King Kamehameha V, and said that in celebrating the birthday of this past monarch today, we should remember also that the king was a uniter and a peaceful man. Alaka'i quoted Mark Twain:

Kamehameha V, also known as King Lot. He was the last monarch, having left no heir.

"He was a wise sovereign; he had seen something of the world; he was educated and accomplished, and he tried hard to do well by his people, and succeeded. There was no trivial royal nonsense about him; He dressed plainly, poked about Honolulu, night or day, on his old horse, unattended; he was popular, greatly respected, and even beloved."

The structure of the hour of worship was typical Congregational style, identical to services I've attended at home. The communion was a little different, though. Alaka'i presented a whole loaf of homemade bread, broke it in half as he gave the blessing and poured wine from a caraffe into a chalice. We congregants came forward, broke a bit off the loaf and dipped it into the wine before eating it.

The singing was as my aunt described. Harmonious and robust. I can still hear it sometimes when I am falling asleep. The chanting at the beginning and end of the service stirs the emotions and resonates in your very bones.

Upon the conclusion of the service, all are embraced by Alaka'i at the exit.

"Hi!" He said to me in my native tongue. "I am glad you found us and came to join us. May God bless you and keep you."

"Aloha," I replied to him. "Beautiful service. Thank you."

I walked across the big lawn toward my car. I turned around for a moment and looked back at the beautiful building with the West Maui Mountains as a backdrop. Just up the road going into the Iao Valley, King Kamehameha the Great defeated his last enemy army and made the Iao stream run red with blood and clogged with bodies, beginning the unification of the islands. His queen, Ka'ahumanu assisted him by forming alliance with the Westerners and obtaining cannon and muskets for her husband's effort.

Kamehameha the Great

It is said that Ka'ahumanu's life as a royal Hawaiian did not please her and she was eager to reject the old ways for the new. She made great personal sacrifice and good use of her position to make vast changes for the love of the Christian church and of her people. This is a good article about who she may have been:
http://www.aloha-hawaii.com/hawaii/queen+kaahumanu/

Lokahi. Unity in the marriage of Kamehameha and Ka'ahumanu, Ka'ahumanu and the church, the church and the people.

Lovely service indeed, on the second day of Advent.

HO'ONANI I KA MAKUA MAU.


Iao Valley and Wailuku painted by Edward Bailey, a benefactor of Ka'ahumanu Church, in the mid-1800s



Letter From My Son, Rick, Harbin, China, December 2010

Harbin is known for it's Snow and Ice Festival every winter

I should probably write a slightly detailed note on some of the things that have happened to me during my China adventures.

Firstly, I would like to dispell some of the misconceptions I’ve heard floating around.

#1: China is a 3rd world country- Maybe; I’m not really sure. Harbin is not 3rd world. Everyone in my city has a job and everone has a bed. A common worker has enough money to eat good food every day and have some fun on the weekends, just like America. It may seem like average working wages are lower, but the cost of living is also much lower. It balances out.

#2: China is a dangerous place- Not true. China is safer than the U.S.; at least in Harbin. The homicide rate is about 200% less than Detroit, anyway. Because of the crowds and the contant construction, it appears dirty and dangerous; but no one has so far harrassed me. Occasionally a taxi driver or a street vendor will over charge me, but that doesn’t happen anymore now that I speak well and I don’t look lost.

#3: China has an oppressing government and human rights abuses are rampant- Although the laws sound strict, they are rarely enforced unless there is a complaint; and nobody does that. People here, based on what I’ve seen, take care of their own problems. Unfortunately, the media appreciates taking isolated incidents out of context and blowing them up, in spite of the fact that similar things happen in America.

#4: China is more socialistic than the U.S.- Tax rates for average citizens are actually lower; zero actually, if you’re below the 2000RMB mark. There aren’t any food stamps and there isn’t any subsidized housing. If you don’t work and you’ve got nobody to take care of you, you don’t eat. It may be a cruel system, but it is a fair one.

With that said, my adventures in China were (of course) scary at first, but I have very quickly fallen in love with the place. My first 3 days after arrival were spent in my hotel room, too terrified to explore Harbin’s loud, dirty streets alone; but when I finally lept in, I was filled with light. The people here are the most helpful, respectful, and interesting I have ever seen; and when I talk to them in their own language they are as thrilled as I.

Harbin has a population of about nine million. It doesn’t seem to be very big, but it is very dense. It also seems that every time I bend down to tie my shoes, I am in somebody’s way. Whenever I’m in a hurry, someone is in my way. It was fun and interesting at first, but it gets kind of annoying after awhile… not being able to take a casual walk down the sidewalk. It feels more like I’m a fish swimming upriver. Drivers beep their horns as often as they use their turn signals. It gave me a headache at first, but my ears have now grown numb to it.

Heilongjiang University, where I study, takes up an area about six times larger than Skagit Valley College. It’s about one mile long in all directions. 30,000 students live here with me, which I believe is about half the population of Anacortes? Regardless, students travel from class to class in giant rivers. Imagine needing to look both ways before crossing the street to avoid running into PEOPLE. This is Chinese life.

My dorm is the equivalent of a 3 star hotel, equipped with internet, a TV, room service, maid service, and a private bathroom. It’s a great luxury, compared to the packed-like-sardines Chinese student dorms that smell like rotting cabbage. It’s pretty cheap ($100 per month). The most delightful aspect is I can talk to students from all over the world here. Most of them are Russian or Korean, but there are also students from Africa, Italy, South America, and other parts of Europe. English speakers are quite rare, so most of the time we find ourselves talking in Chinese.

Dorm at college

My roommate is Russian, but he is of a different ethnicity, meaning he looks like he’s Chinese. He does not speak English but his Chinese is near-perfect. The guy is a clean freak and he sometimes has anger problems, but he’s very smart, very honorable, and we more often get along very well. That’s the #1: having a roommate that I know isn’t going to steal from me.

My Chinese classes are very difficult, primarily because (I think) nobody really knows how to effectively teach Chinese to foreigners. It’s being taught to us in a similar manner as it is taught to Chinese children, which doesn’t really work. I find myself preferring to learn by myself, writing the calligraphy and practice talking to actual people, and I’m very tempted to dismiss my classes very soon and do just that. I’ll skip the technicalities; I can go on and on.

A lot of very good things have happened to me here. #1, I’ve landed myself a relatively well-paying job teaching oral English to children. It’s a very enlightening experience for me as I get to help the little ones learn while gaining much needed skills. #2, I’ve landed myself a girlfriend, Shu Li. She’s 46 years old, and takes good care of me, as I do her. Someday, I’m going to go into business with her and make a lot of money. There are many ways on which her and I can help each other out. Maybe it is strange to be with an older woman, but I don’t care. I’m very happy, and it is what I want.

Rick in classroom where he teaches

Speaking of Shu Li, I’d better continue this later. I’d better head over and see what’s for dinner :D.

Shu Li

American Prince

Through a cat's eye, all things belong to the cat. No other point of view need be considered. An interesting perspective sometimes seen through a human eye, as well.

I just finished reading Tony Curtis' autobiography called American Prince. I'd given it to my mother for her birthday, thinking she might enjoy stories about a movie icon from her youth. She read it and gave it back to me, as she does with gift books. I didn't really know much about him, but he acted in so many movies, you couldn't avoid knowing who he was. Certainly a good-looking man, a natural athlete with plenty of personal charm. He was beautiful. Compact with tight muscles, abundant black curly hair and stunning blue eyes.

"See me!" this figure seems to shout from the photographs in the book. That's what show business is about. Look at him. Watch him walking and speaking and playing a part. His athleticism and perfectionism motivated him to perform his own stunts. He studied horsemanship ("Spartacus"), fencing ("The Prince Who Was a Thief"), aerial gymnastics ("Trapeze"), and yes that's really him chained up and submerged in water as the title role in "Houdini." He loved to give a great show.

There are many memoirs written by Hollywood people that tell great stories about movie making and personalities. This book does not skimp here. It's an ego-driven art form, and the drama-within-the-drama is most interesting.

I think it's marvelous that his co-writer, Peter Golenbock, lets him speak in his natural voice. You get a good grasp of Mr. Curtis' worldview, which is very, very narrow. Like a cat's eye. This is a man who grew up in a home where abuse, neglect, and a lack of demonstrated love was seasoned with poverty and prejudice. He was sensitive to anti-semitism (I didn't know he was Jewish until I read this book) and separatism. He had a keen hunger for recognition and praise.

Acting, applause, and the attention of Hollywood's most beautiful women were his life's striving . As much of these few things as he could possibly take in. And they all did belong to him. His gifts and his drive were undeniable. He made as many movies as he could, whether they were good or bad. He bedded and sometimes wedded the cream of feminine beauty. Married or not, he flew from flower to flower with joyful abandonment. He was absent from home for spans of weeks and months pursuing his career.

"After I sat down on the couch, Natalie (Wood) walked across to the trailer door and locked it. She came back to where I was sitting, sat down next to me, and kissed me deeply. It was a kiss that perfectly expressed the feeling that had been exquisitely building between us as we worked together... the next thing I knew we were making crazy love on the sofa of that trailer...

"As things played out, the pace of our shooting schedule in Salzberg kept us from finding a time when we could be together again, and in truth that was fine with me. I was happily married to Christine, and our first child, Alexandra, had already been born. Once we were done shooting the picture, I went back to my life, and Natalie went back to hers, and we both knew that was best for both of us...



With Natalie Wood from the movie "The Great Race"


"Over the years I had a powerful tendancy to fall for my leading ladies, and usually I found a way to make my feelings known. If a woman seemed receptive, I might make an advance, and if i got a good response to that, I would keep pressing my case. There's no question about the fact that I was driven to conquer every woman I met. I liked to think of myself as a ladies' man, and I felt quite compelled to prove it."



A break in the filming of "Some Like it Hot" with Marilyn Monroe. She became pregnant during this production, while married to Arthur Miller, and it was rumored to be Tony Curtis' baby. The preganancy was interrupted.

 So true, but wives and children can read tabloids and hear gossip. He seems mystified that he's let them down somehow.

"Not long before we split up, I took (my wife) Lisa to Paris as part of the publicity tour for my first book, Tony Curtis:  The Autobiography, and we had some crazy fun on the roof of our hotel. It was a very romantic evening, but it turned out to be the last one we would ever enjoy. After we returned to LA, Lisa came home late one night. She was drunk, so I said, 'Get out of here until you sober up.' She went downstairs to her bedroom and fell asleep. As I watched her walk away, I knew our marriage was over... There were no recriminations. I had had a good time while it lasted, and that was the end of that... I just moved on."

I'm imagining the humiliation Lisa must have experienced by the reading public as she toured with this man whose stories of debauchery were being circulated in hard cover. How did she hold her head up?

"You're drunk. Get out of here until you sober up."

He was mostly absent from the raising of his six children, who were raised by ex-wives. He did not know them well.

"I couldn't shake the feeling that I was somehow responsible for (son) Nicholas's death. Why did Nicholas get into drugs in the first place? Was he doing drugs because I had done them? Was he doing drugs because he had a void where his father should have been? We got along well, so I didn't think that was it...

"At Nicholas' funeral, a local minister got up and talked about Nicholas' poor mother and the loss she suffered. He never mentioned my name or even indicated that Nicholas had a father... After the service, I wrote him a letter asking, 'Why didn't you even mention my name?' Fuck him. He couldn't have been much of a minister or a father if he'd so completely lost sight of the Golden Rule."

He writes a few pages that mention the rest of his children and his pride in them, but being focused now on the woman du jour, his wife at the time of the writing, he devotes more verbage to the wonderful life they share. Many joys, few regrets. A man hates to be alone. "Things tend to balance out in the end," he says.

I hope that he said enough about his children that they feel some comfort after his death. It must have been a bewildering relationship for them, and I hope they have good therapists.

"They say that America's royalty is its Hollywood stars. The great thing about America is that you don't need to be born into a royal family. You could be born into an immigrant family in a New York tenement and still become a prince through hard work and desire."

"For better or for worse, I only stop to look back... Mostly I live in the moment, right now, and I'm grateful for it. I know that most of this life lies behind me, but what I live for is today, and for the tomorrows that remain... I can honestly say I've lived my time here fully..."

He passed away at age 85 in September. Few regrets, a life well-lived by a prince with the eyes of a cat.

China Doll

This is Fancy Charlie with one of Liz's advanced students. Certainly not me.

I arrived a little bit late for my riding lesson on Thursday afternoon. Just bad management of my own time, which I pay for. My instructor, Liz, said someone would be waiting for a lesson on Terra at the top of the hour, so I should tack up Fancy Charlie, who is a retired racehorse.

Charlie is 16.2 hands high, a big guy, and as gentle as a kitten. I'd ridden him twice before, and I like him a lot. He's not quite as fine-tuned as Terra, but he is more responsive and has a faster pace. There is a bit of thrill in that, even at my beginner level.

My friend, Debby, came along with me to watch the lesson, so I knew with her help we could get Charlie ready to go quickly and I wouldn't lose very much of my instruction time. Debby is a friend of twenty years. She has been riding English for at least that long, the best expert I know. She prefers thoroughbred horses, like Charlie, so she admired him instantly.

I put on my helmet and we walked the big horse into the indoor arena. It's very nice. A full-sized venue, it is well-lit and has several inches of washed sand as flooring. It's as safe a place as you're going to find for learning all styles of riding, including gaits and jumping.

Liz announced that we'd be working on balance in the saddle this day. We did a quick recap of the skills I've learned up to this point: transitions from walk to trot, sitting trot to posting trot, changing diagonals, leg yields, etc. Then she said, "Take your feet out of the stirrips and we'll do transitions without them."

I did fine with in a walk, then she sent me to trot and I began sliding around in that shiny English saddle. "I'm going to fall!" I said to her, pulling Charlie to a stop. Liz said I would not fall if I allowed my legs to hang straight down, my feet would become anchors.

Liz is the boss, and I sent Charlie into a slow trot, determined to keep my legs straight and long. And I began to slip sideways in the saddle... and the world tilted, spun and came to an abrupt halt. Charlie did a little hop to the left so he wouldn't step on me, then he stood still.

I landed butt first followed by my shoulders and head. The helmet is a good thing. Oh, the pain! Oh man did I hurt! The two women, Liz and Debby came walking over to where I lay in the sand.

"Wriggle your fingers," said Liz, "Now wriggle your toes." I did as instructed. "Can you sit up?"

No, I told her, I want to be still for awhile. I'm dizzy. I'm seeing stars, and I know what that is.

"Adrenalin," said Liz. "But you have to stand up as soon as you feel that you can." She and Debby each took an arm and got me to my feet. There was so much pain in my lower back, it made me feel angry and frustrated. A woman of my advanced age has no business falling from such a height. That's for kids.

"This dirt smells like poo poo," I said to Liz.

She replied with a bit of sarcasm, "Would you like me to get you an air freshener?"

On my feet now, they helped me to take steps. "You're alright. I could see you landed just the way you should," said Debby. And she stayed with me while Liz went to get Charlie. She brought the horse to the mounting block.

"Now get back on," she said. And Debby agreed. I had to get back on Charlie immediately. "It's about your muscles," said Liz, "You'll heal better if you stretch them a bit right away."

Before I went up the steps, I put my arms around Charlie's neck and rubbed his face. "I'm not mad at you, Charlie. You didn't do anything wrong." He nuzzled me and put his head on my shoulder. He was concerned about me, and I found that to be amazing and touching.

And I didn't let myself think, but I put my foot in the stirrip and mounted up. Liz had me walk, then trot and walk again for maybe ten minutes. It's a psychological thing, she told me then. You have to get back on while you're still in shock so as it lifts you remember being safe on the horse. If you don't do it immediately, chances are you won't ride again after your first fall. And it's good for Charlie, too, he needs to know he didn't hurt you.

"Ok. Now you can get down and walk Charlie to the cross ties for untacking." After dismounting, I fondled Charlie again, telling him he's a good guy and we're still friends. His big soft eyes looked me over. His coat was soft and fuzzy as the cold weather has thickened it, and he smelled good. Like a horse.

It's dumb to wear jeans with an English saddle. I've ordered proper riding breeches with a full seat so I won't slide like that again.

I couldn't wait to get home and tell my cowgirl friend, Heidi. I said yeah, I'm ok. I'm in bed after taking four ibuprofen. John brought me tea. It really hurts and I'm surprised I'm not in a hospital.

"The weather's great tomorrow," said Heidi, "Want to ride Ginger through the woods? I can take Skip."

"Give me a week to heal up," I replied, "Give an old lady a break."

"China Doll," said Heidi, laughing at me.

There are worse nicknames, I suppose.

Cupcakes

It's good to stretch your limits, you know. Out of the comfort zone and into the wild blue yonder from time to time.

I am not a baker. I have fits with pie crust, having thrown the last batch that went wrong off my deck and into the blackberries, chasing the congealed mess with blue language. Cakes come out of the oven smaller than they were when they went in somehow. Bread comes out ok, but it doesn't excite me.

There's a good reason for that. Baking requires precise measurement. When I can't find my measuring spoons because the teenagers have taken them to measure chemicals for making white gun powder, I'll guess at how much a teaspoon is. It's not the same as a teaspoon in a place setting, I know that for sure. Measuring cups find their way into the laundry room and get thrown out with the empty box of Tide. It's not easy keeping kitchen equipment organized and in place when other people live in the house.

Normally, I stick with soups and stews for creative cooking. Those are easy to adjust to taste by adding a little bit of this and a dash of that. It is great fun to make stock from bones and vegetables, because all kinds of tastes can go in there. I'm happy with those results.

But the last few months I've had a hankering for a cupcake. Grocery store product is too sweet, there aren't any good bakeries within an hour of here, and although I can follow directions on a box of cake mix, those are not satisfactory, either. They taste fake.

Cupcakes are a very individual dessert expression. You can bake a couple dozen and make them all look and taste very different. Ice them in as many different colors and there is no limit to decoration. They fit any occasion from after dinner dessert to birthdays and weddings. Everybody likes cupcakes.

I stood in the baking section of Safeway and selected cake flour, new baking powder (thinking what's in my kitchen may have been purchased before the century turned), fresh eggs and powdered sugar. New measuring spoons and cups. I went home and dusted off the Kitchenaid mixer and pondered Betty Crocker's Cookbook. Let's see, will a Betty Crocker recipe work with Pillsbury flour? I hope so.

So many recipes. This first try was with a simple yellow cake, using some butter with the shortening. I will try for form first, see if I can get the texture and appearance I want, then explore variations later on.

These are good. A little dry, but I think I baked them a little too long. The simple icing I finished them with is good. Pink tinted buttercream with this first batch. Pink icing has to taste yummy, right?

Next batch will be lemon cake. I'll spoon a lemon juice glaze over the tops with just a dollop of white buttercream and a candied lemon rind. I can do it.

I Give Cathy the Finger

John and I spent the weekend on our boat. We took off Thursday afternoon and stayed the first two nights in Friday Harbor on San Juan Island. This is a nice little town, served by the Washington State Ferry and also well-visited by travelers in seaplanes and small jets. There are some world class marinas on each end of the island, and it has to be one of the most beautiful places in the world. I like the city marina, and although it is basic moorage, you can walk easily into the town center where there are shops and many good restaurants. There is also the Whale Museum on the bluff with a great overlook of the islands and boat traffic. You can start at the Whale Museum to explore the local history. The docents will show you many paths to wander and wonder.

On the third night, we got a call from some friends who have a cabin on Decatur Island. That sounded good to me.

There's a real shower in Tom and Cathy's cabin. And real beds. Don't get me wrong, I like a little boat camping, but it is camping afterall. It is not the soft life that I am used to and prefer. I never sleep properly in a campground, RV park, or marina. Any seating surfaces are scaled down, the bed is usually hard, the other campers too close and too loud for privacy. In a marina you always get those early morning people who just want to peek into your boat because they are curious. And yes, they will knock on your door even if you have the windows covered.

Cathy and Tom made us all a nice dinner of grilled chicken, roasted sweet potatoes and spinach salad. We watched a movie from full-sized sofas and got a good nights' sleep. The morning brought full color views from their picture windows of marine layer lifting over bright blue water. The Anacortes to Lopez ferry scooted by and seemed to pull the curtain of fog in it's wake, revealing bright and sunny morning sky.

A day fit for picture postcards and scrapbook memories. The sun felt warm and comforting as we enjoyed a breakfast of biscuits and gravy with apple slices and good coffee. Let's walk the beaches, someone said.

The cabin sits on a long gravel beach dotted with summer cabins. There is a salt water lagoon, then a spit that you can cross to another long gravel beach with more views of evergreen islands and shipping lanes. Cathy likes to look for agates, and she has quite a collection of them.

My eyes aren't tuned into those. Somehow, decades have passed and I haven't found a single one. But there are so many treasures that wash up; we found several jellyfish the size of dinner plates, colored crimson and magenta at their centers. John tried to relaunch one, but it was quite dead and dissolved in the cold water. Tentacle pieces and pigment spread slowly, the jelly body sinking out of sight.

We walked by driftwood fortresses built by children and parents over the summer months. They have not yet been swept away by winter storms.Tom found an old crab pot buoy painted red and blue. It looks good hung above one of the forts.

There were footprints of island deer to follow along the waterline, sand fleas to stir up, flotsam and jetsam from boats to examine. There must be a Starbucks nearby, said Tom. Here is a smoothie cup with the cap and straw still in it. You are never far from Starbucks in the Northwest.

Cathy found two agates.

I found something else. It's a small bone, I said. Too heavy for a fish or a bird. Long and smooth, it had been tumbling and washing long enough to be turning a bit translucent, but it was solid.

I think it's a human finger.

No one believes me. Cathy took it and put it in her pocket. I'll show it to Kevin, she said, and see what he thinks. Kevin is her boss at the school district where she works as a teacher's aid.

I'm not sure how Kevin's authority extends into forensics, but maybe he knows how to use the internet.

I don't want it. I'd feel I'd have to find the owner or the next of kin.

Pretty sure it's a finger. Phalanx proximalis. Third one. What do you do with that?

Duck

It's been a terrifying year for me. You and I have looked at each other and tried to focus on the past twenty years and how we could be so strange to each other. How can two people commit the same crimes over and over, harmful patterns repeating, repeating...?

What are the lessons learned from heartache and tears? What is the return on investment?

There have been two women working on us, counselors, applying their wisdom and their persistence. Like attorneys for the psyche and the soul. Stubborn things, these intimate parts. Unyielding things, they chafe and they burn, raw and tender.

I prayed to God often for relief.

One particularly stressful day while working around the apartments, I found a white duck abandoned underneath a tarp. She was just hours from death, so I put her in a box and took her home. She was too weak to stand, and could only squeak. I washed the filth off of her and looked her over. Her feet and bill were too large for her body, and that meant she'd never had good nutrition, distorted growth through wasted muscle and sparse feathering.

I crated her until she was strong enough to stand and quack. Her appetite grew from sipping a little water and just a few bites of food to robust and enthusiastic eater, and she began to gain weight. I asked you to make-shift a pen for her, and you did that for me.

Duck was grateful. She greeted me with loud quacking when I came to feed her twice a day, she wagged her tail feathers and flapped her wings. Two, then three weeks passed. Plumage was appearing a bit fuller each day, I thought, and then I noticed the eye infection. I treated it with antibiotic ointment, and it seemed to be getting a little better.

One day I took her to the pond and set her down into the water. She sank almost to her neck. Her feet could not paddle straight, and she struggled to the bank. I pulled her out and set her on the lawn, and she began drying herself with her beak as ducks do. And feathers fell like rain from her body.

I examined the feathers. They were pin-feathers, and those are the new growth that should emerge filled with blood as they grow out. As they progress from quill to feather, the blood will recede and be replaced with air... that is how a bird gets the lightness to float or to fly.

These pin feathers contained no blood. They were dead. This is a set back, I thought to myself, and I finished drying duck with a towel, returning her to her pen.

The next morning when I went to feed her I noticed blood coming from her injured eye. This is worse than a set back, I realized, and she cannot survive this. What to do? First thing, I'll give her a good meal.

Remembering that you raised meat rabbits as a kid, I called you from my cell phone and asked if you could euthanize the duck. She cannot survive her current state, I explained, it is so very sad for me. I am in the car on my way to work, and I would be very grateful if you could help me with this. Can you? It's just a duck, right?

I came home at six o'clock like I usually do, and I saw that the pen was gone, not a single feather remaining where it sat. Not a trace of duck.

I found you in the kitchen and your eyes were red from crying. You were waiting for me.

Not just a duck? I said to you. No, not just a duck, you said back to me.

Thank you, I said, both of us with now with tearful eyes.

And you took my hand and we sat at the table together.

Shame

Shelly and I were in the kitchen making peanut butter cookies for the church dinner. The oldest of my five children, I'll admit I love her the most. The other children are boys, and they are like most boys. They want to be outside playing in the hayloft, running through the woods, climbing hills... I don't know what they do out there but they're certainly not interested in women's work.

She is a sweet and happy girl. Twelve years old already. My perfect daughter, and her childhood is everything my own was not. I remember thinking this as she dropped the dough, one spoonful at a time onto the cookie sheets, criss-crossing the tops with a fork... just the way you mark peanut butter cookies. She was very meticulous. She had her back to me but I noticed she kept drawing her sleeve up to her face. I wondered, is she coming down with a cold?

I stood beside her and turned to look at her face, and I saw tears running silently down cheeks.

"What is this, Shelly? Why are you crying?" I gave her the handkerchief out of my apron pocket. She took it and lowered her head.

"I am ashamed, Mother," she said, the fork and the spoon on the counter beside the mixing bowl, both hands now to her face, hiding her eyes with the handkerchief.

And my heart felt like it had become rock, rising into my throat. So many times as a child I'd felt shame, and now I felt fear and a sort of panic, but I smiled at her and said, "Oh, Shelly, now it can't be all that bad." My voice cracked a bit, but I was thinking I know my children have a good life. I've made sure of that.

"Tell me, sweetie, what could you have possibly done to make you feel ashamed? You are such a good girl."

"No, I'm not, Mother," she said, looking at me now, "That's not what Father says."

Joseph. How could he say anything like that to his daughter? She must have misunderstood.

I've known Joseph most of my life. He's eight years older than me, but when we married he was 34 and I was 26. He knew about the pregnancy when I was 19 years old, just like the whole town knew before I could leave there and take up residence at the hospital campus in a city far away. That was where I worked as a student nurse to earn my board, and where I gave up the baby I couldn't possibly keep.

I returned to Acme three years later with a Graduate Nurse certificate. I soon found a job in a Bellingham hospital and got an apartment there. I was a pretty young woman. No one in Bellingham had any idea of what I had lived through, but I still felt very shy around my age group. I didn't socialize much, and the thought of dating did not enter my mind. What would I tell a man about myself? What could he understand and how would he judge me?

Several years later, I went home to Acme for a family wedding. Enough time had passed that I thought I could enter the church with my head up, and there were people there who loved me afterall. My sister and my two brothers were certainly beloved by me and I'd missed them so much. I helped with the reception dinner, making a potato salad and setting up the hall. And that's where I saw Joseph watching me. I smiled at him.

He asked if he could sit with me at the dinner. I was a bit shocked, but pleased, and said yes. He was so kind to me, and seemed so proud to be with me. He said my eyes were a beautiful blue, and that he'd always admired them.

And he was a constant companion from that day on. He drove the hour to Bellingham every weekend and slept on my sofa. He was ardent, affectionate, and I encouraged him. I can't say I was totally proper, but we were away from Acme, and here I was an independent woman, and not conventional by the day's standards. Joseph asked me to marry him within just a few weeks of dating and I had to say yes. This was better than I'd hoped for. Now I could come home with new respect and rejoin my family. My father, that horrible man, had died while I was living in Bellingham and so there were no obstacles.

We bought a farmhouse with ten acres. Enough land for a few cows and a place for chickens. Joseph took care of all that and I kept the house. The children arrived, the school years began, and we made lifelong friends with neighboring families, strong ties to the church. Joseph and I hosted the youth group in our home. We were busy and happy.

Then came that day when my twelve year old daughter was saying she done something bad. And everything changed. I asked Shelly again, why would your father say you were a bad girl?

And as she spoke, I could barely hear her voice.

I was remembering when I was twelve years old myself. The sound of my father's boots hitting each step as he came up the stairs to read to us from the Bible like he did every night before we went to sleep. First in the room I shared with my sister, then in the room my two brothers shared. And I remembered his hands under my nightgown, and the horror knowing that my sister could see, but he did not touch her the way he touched me. And I remember the cold air in the room and then I remember... nothing.

My daughter stopped speaking and looked at my blank face. We just stood there looking at each other for I don't know how long. Shelly hugged me and went upstairs to her room.

When Joseph came home from work, I told him to move Shelly's bedroom furniture into the room above ours. I said this is not open for discussion, just go do it. And if I ever hear your footsteps above my head at night I will kill you.

He did not say a word. He did what I told him to do.

The boys will be alright.

Love of Horses

When I look at horses, I think of the relationship between man and nature, and stewardship.

God, or the Intelligent Designer, built all creatures so that their genes could be modified through select breeding. There are wild creatures which have evolved to meet their environments, that survival of the fittest and best. And there are domestic animals that have been bred to serve mankind. The earliest of these were herd animals for meat and working animals for pulling and moving.

A good farmer has respect for the animals that help him work. And the animals, having descended from hundreds or thousands of years of living and working alongside the farmer, are programed to trust and depend on the farmer's good care. This separates the domestic animal from the wild animal. Wild animals, of course, do not like to be looked at or touched by other species because that usually means they'll be eaten.

A farmer always has horses. A horse can pull a plow or a wagon, take a rider across all terrain, and move a stockman around to contain his herds.

Imagine a human being and a horse, and the interdependence. The farmer feeds and cares for the horse. The horse earns it's hay. If the horse is sick, the farmer nurses the animal. A kind of love grows between the farmer and the horse.

In modern times, while horses still do real work, there are also hobbiests who keep horses for the simple enjoyment of their beauty and heart. We can ride them around in show rings, race them around barrels, harness them to wagons in parades.

I recently began English riding lessons. It was sort of on a whim... Let's see, I should pick a hobby of some sort, and I can try this one on without a big investment of cash. $35 an hour is cheap and I can quit anytime I decide this is not for me.

I have to admit my first impression was it's a lot of trouble to wade through mud to catch the horse, and she smells kinda strong while I'm grooming her before tacking up. It's hard digging the stuff out of her hooves (they don't watch where they step), and all these straps for the saddle and bridle are complicated. But the horse, Terra, put up with my fumblings with quiet patience. And she carried me around with the quiet wisdom of a high-quality lesson horse.

It's when she puts her head on my shoulder as I'm leading her that she hooks my heart. And when I am riding her in the arena and she senses that my balance and organization are in sync and she powers up. Like, "You've got it, Denise! Let's have some fun now!"

Terra is half Belgian draft horse and half Thoroughbred. This makes a fine English ride because the style demands a flexible skeleton. Lighter horses do not have the strength in their joints for the fancy stepping and bending exhibited in dressage and other English disciplines.

I'm looking at a Friesian horse that my trainer, Liz, just bought as a project. The Friesian is a light draft horse, most commonly used for pulling carriages, but now gaining interest in dressage. They are sometimes called Black Belgians. Usually glossy black, they have thick frizzy manes, large feet and long, graceful necks with smallish finely-featured heads. These are descended from the war horses of the Middle Ages, stout enough to carry a knight into battle. Romantic, huh? You can see them in movies such as Ladyhawk, The Mask of Zorro, and The Clash of the Titans.

I do think the draft horses are the most beautiful of all the breeds. They are probably the most intelligent and docile of the species. So breeding them with lighter weight types make superb riding horse. This Freisian seems to be the best of both worlds, as I study it. I'm no where near ready to make a purchase, though. It's way too early on my learning curve. I'm watching very closely, just the same.

There is a video that gets circulated every year around the time of the 9-11 attack on the World Trade Center. It was made by Budweiser and features their Clydesdale draft horses. I've seen members of this team at state fairs since I was a little girl, and they have always awed me. I'll set the link here to the 9-11 ad. It never fails to move me deeply. The beauty of the horses, the skill of the drivers and trainers, the draped wagon... and the simplicity and sincerity of the message.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3zXZX2sXHYI&feature=related

The love of horses. The man knows the horse. The horse knows nature. And nature knows God. I can't think of a better way to describe what I feel when I'm looking into Terra's eyes.

That this love comes to me at a very trying time in my life proves that He is watching and caring for me.

Skagit Valley Food Co-op

The Skagit Valley Food Co-op has been around for about 38 years. It's grown from a hole in the wall to a real market.

Everybody knows about Trader Joe's and Whole Foods. The emphasis of these grocers is on good quality, healthy stuff, including produce, meats, preserved and bulk edibles. These are corporate giants, in their own way, and purchase decisions are made in offices distant from the point of sale. Here's what's different about our local co-op: This is one store in one location only. It has a board of paid and volunteer staff, who personally visit with and negotiate with local farmers and manufacturers of canned and package product.

There's a list of suppliers posted at the entrance. Skagit Flats Farm, Motherflight Produce, Skagit River Beef, Samish Bay Cheese, and many others... and you can ask about any individual item. The clerks are well-educated on what comes from where. Most have even visited the sites. "Community" is the theme.

Anyone can shop here. If you wish to, you can buy a membership which makes you sort of a silent partner. Membership fees help pay for structure, and in return you get a small dividend at the end of each fiscal year. I joined up several months ago, and I don't know what my dividend will be, but I don't really care about that. I'm happy to contribute to a amirable cause. I'm "one of them" as I push my cart through the aisles of good looking and great tasting inventory.

Members get special deals on some things. I haven't explored that, because I already believe I'm getting great value. Prices are most definitely lower than Whole Foods. Produce is way fresher than Trader Joe's. If anybody has "garden fresh," the Co-op does.

There is an eclectic feel to the display, and the customers are full of character, too. The avant-garde, the aging hippie, and the conservative in the three-piece suit all shop here. The community spirit allows us to say, "Nice day," "Have you tried that hummus?" and other small talk with each other. Customers say "Excuse me, please" as they navigate the narrow aisles, and "Can I help you reach that high shelf?"

You can eat as weird as you want, or as ordinary as you want. They make amazing things out of tofu and grains for the vegetarian diet. There are raw dairy products for the adventurous, but I'll stick with the natural yogurts that have a touch of pasteurization. The meat department is small, but you really only need the chicken whole or cut up just a couple of ways, and beef roasts can be cut up into stew meat, steaks are steaks. It's all top quality.

The whole package makes meal planning more pleasurable. Appetite is summoned and creativity arises. I've never cooked with morrel mushrooms, you might say, maybe I'll bring a few home and experiment. Peruvian yellow ginger... what can I do with that? Go to the co-op's website, and they'll tell you how to use all of their amazing variety. www.skagitfoodcoop.com/ Watermelon chorizo? You can find the recipe at "In the Kitchen With Jill."

The Co-op's investment in community farming and packaging doesn't stop at it's doors. They promote all kinds of businesses in Skagit County that feature local goods. You can view The Local Food Buyer's Guide posted at the Co-op, or you can visit that organization's website here: http://www.slowfoodskagit.org/. They include some of links to some of my own favorite restaurants like The Nell Thorne in La Conner, Trumpeter Public House in Mount Vernon and Rhododendron Cafe in Bow.

Checking out is personable and friendly. The checkers have names you'll remember without even looking at their name tags after several visits.

The Co-op doesn't eliminate Costco or Safeway because it doesn't have absolutely everything, but I find myself shaping my kitchen around what's available here. It's just that much better and that much more enjoyable.

Faith

Early morning overcast
Fog lifting above the ground in whisps
My bare feet on cold wet grass
I look for the sun behind the gray
I know it is there

Fog lifting above the fir trees
Then above the ridge
The chill on my skin starts to ache
I look for the sun behind the gray
I know it is there

Fog lifting to clouds
As far as I can see
Light rain falls now from high overhead
I look again for the sun behind the gray
I know it is there

Damp and shivering
I wait

Two Ducks

My house is on six acres with a two acre pond. It's visited by all kinds of migrating ducks and Canadian geese. This year we watched a pair of those geese raise five young. It was exciting watching the flight training and getting to see the final circle over the water before the family disappeared over the ridge.

A single duck had kind of stuck around during the comings and goings of the small flocks of teals, mallards and widgeons. A bit large for a mallard, but I could see through the scope his beak was a bluish-greenish color, so he's a male. One day, when my friend, Diane and I were feeding the trout, this duck came pretty close to us. Diane threw the fish food as far as she could, and he gobbled it up. "He's starving!" she said, "Look how close he's getting. I bet I can get him to eat out of my hand." And he did.

I've always liked ducks. I had them as pets when I was a kid. My first summer in Anacortes, when I didn't know anybody, my dad gave me a pair of ducklings to play with. They were happy, funny little companion animals.

The day after Diane's visit, I was shopping at the Co-op, and I thought I could get the duck some whole grain bread until I could get to the feed store for proper food. The seed-encrusted loaf with the peace sign on the label looked about right. I went to the little dock at the edge of the pond and I could see the odd duck a ways out there. I tossed a few pieces of bread overhand, and he cautiously swam to them and ate them. Then I dropped a few pieces just below my feet. The duck zig zagged a bit and took them.

Hmmm.... I sat on the step that descends to the dock, several feet from where I'd been standing and tossed some chunks on the dock. He hopped right up and took them, and started waddling toward me. As I started tearing more chunks from the loaf, he got impatient and climbed into my lap to grab the entire loaf! A very nice bird, we visited for quite awhile. I got to stroke his feathers and he nibbled at my toes.

This is somebody's pet.

Brown duck is having a last lunch before being crated for transport.

I don't know how he wound up at our place, but he wouldn't be safe here. There are coyotes, golden eagles, bald eagles, otters and all kinds of villans a tame duck wouldn't know about. The next day I went to Skagit Farm Supply on my way to work to get a bag of proper chow for the duck. I asked the cashiers if they knew anybody who would like a nice little pet.

I should talk to Gary, said someone. Gary came from the stockroom, and we introduced each other.

"They say you might take this tame duck I have," I said. "He's such a nice bird I hate to think of him getting eaten up on my pond."

Gary said, yeah, he'd take him. He kinda collects ducks. He has khaki campbells, pekins, racers and mallards. They follow him around while he does yard work and his grandkids like them. His lot edges Gages Slough so they even have a fresh water source to play in. He takes a few eggs every spring and incubates them to hatch them safely just so the kids have ducklings to play with.

This man likes ducks. We made an appointment for Gary to receive the duck the next Friday. "I'll even give you this bag of food for being such a good guy," I said.

The pass was made, but I'd forgotten the duck food at home. Since Gary's on vacation, I'd have to wait a couple weeks to get it to him.

In the meantime, at the apartment complex we had an especially nasty move out due to an eviction. The tenants were selling drugs, letting small children run loose, and getting regular visits from police and CPS before they finally vacated. Under a tarp on the patio I found.... a white duck. Emaciated and dehydrated, very quiet, just hours from death's door. She was stunted in growth due to malnutrition and neglect. Poor, poor thing.

I've taken her home and cleaned her up and after a week she can walk around and quack. Very sweet creature, friendly and gentle. She's strong enough now for a regular pen and a washtub of water to play in. I'll go see what Dad has in his scrap pile tomorrow. He has all kinds of materials back there.

I'll post a picture of what the white duck looked like when I got her, and in a few weeks I'll show you what she looks like plumped and feathered-out. You can see here she wasn't even getting enough nutrition to clothe herself properly.

Gotta get her gorgeous for Gary. I think she can charm her way into his flock.

Biscuits and Sausage Gravy

I get bragging rights to this dish. I figured out something I didn't see in a recipe, and you won't get on your plate at any restaurant. And it's fairly simple.

Most of my recipes don't have measurements. I look and taste as I proceed, so that's why I'm good at dinner items but a failure as a baker. A baker must measure very accurately, blend precisely, or her product looks like one of mine.

Biscuits and sausage gravy is something that must be watched to get it right.

Here's what you need on hand:

Bisquick Baking Mix

Milk

Jimmy Dean Pork Sausage in the one-pound tube

White flour

I use Bisquick for the biscuits and follow the directions on the package. I can get through that much directing, but I usually just pat them out rather than get involved with a rolling pin. Put em in the oven. Set the timer, but watch them for the right color when done.

Now, the sausage gravy just needs the right start. I use Jimmy Dean Regular, Hot, or Sage. Nothing else, no other brand seems to get the same result. I think it's because there is just the right amount of sugar, spice and fat in this product. It's pretty lean, but not too lean, and the quality of the pork used is good. Spices are well-balanced, too.

Get a heavy skillet down. I use All-Clad, but here is an ideal use for that well-seasoned cast iron frying pan that was passed down to you from Grandma (or bought on impulse at an estate sale because it looked cool).

Brown the sausage at medium heat. Smush it around so it's cooking in a crumbly state. This will take awhile and this is where the magic is. Keep browing it until it is really, really brown. It's going to look like it's getting too dry, but it isn't really. Be patient. When it's all goldeny-brown, sprinkle about three tablespoons of white flour over it, then stir that around so the flour gets heated. Just a minute or two. When you cook the flour like this, you avoid a pasty taste, it's much smoother.

Now stir in a cup or two of milk. You can turn the heat up a bit, since you've been so patient with the browning of the sausage. As the contents of the pan come to a boil, it will thicken nicely for you. If it's too thick you can always add more milk. Your gravy is going to be darker in color than you normally see in other people's kitchens. That's very ok.

You can "stretch" this gravy by increasing the flour and milk. After you've made this a few times, you'll know how to adjust it to your liking.

Split the hot biscuits and spoon the sausage gravy as you like it. I like to grind a little black pepper on top.

This dish is great with fresh applesauce, also very easy. Use two or three gravensteins if you can get them, otherwise any variety with a tartness will do. Red and yellow delicious are really not very delicious and won't work very well.

Peel and core the apples. Cube up the fruit and put it in a small saucepan. Add just a splash of water and some sugar (be conservative, you can always add more later). Slow boil this like you might boil potatoes for mashing (because you are doing the same thing with the apple, with the exception of draining water). If you haven't put too much water in, and if you've kept an eye on the pot and didn't scorch it, you simply smush em up with a fork and you get excellent applesauce. The apples make all the difference here. Experimenting with varieties gets you the favorite balance between sweet and tart. You can dress it up by putting a few dried cranberries or raisins in with the apples at the beginning. Cinnamon is good, too, but I really like my plain.

Campbell Lake

Campbell Lake as seen from Mount Erie

Cambell Lake is about a half mile from my house. It's a 410 acre lake with an island in it's center. Stocked with trout, bass, and perch, there are also some old catfish in it... the stuff of legends. There are rumors that some catfish are four feet long.  It's fairly shallow for a body of water that size, so in summer the sun heats it up. The warm temperature attracts waterskiers and party boats as well as fishermen.

There is only one small public access, so the lakefront is mostly private property, large lots and acreage, rural in nature. The dwellings are  remodeled summer cottages of the 1930s and 40s, some farmhouses, and just a few large custom houses. Most residents are year-round. There are few summer people. Everybody knows everybody.

In February of 2007, a second-generation resident named Marvin Ballsmider was convicted of murdering his neighbor, a relative new-comer from Seattle named Bill Munich in October of 2005. This was a lethal confrontation over a driveway situated between the properties of the two men. From what I remember, Bill constructed the driveway that cut-off access that Marvin had in place for many years before Bill's purchase of his own lot. Marvin asserted eminent domain, but that failed, and the dispute became so heated that no compromise was made. Now, Bill could have made some allowance in his construction, but was hard-headed, however rightfully hard-headed. He underestimated the rage of a lifelong alcoholic and even more hard-headed opponent.

I heard of yelling and threats coming from Marvin's direction, and we could hear Bill's seaplane buzzing Marvin's house just after daybreak sometimes. Not something any of us would do.

One night, Marvin reached some kind of breaking point and shot Bill in cold blood at the top of the driveway. He shot once, Bill fell, and he continued pumping bullets even while his victim lay in on the ground in submission, begging for mercy. When a bystander tried to stop Marvin, calling 911 for help, that man was shot also, although not fatally.

The 911 tape is very chilling, and tells of the events clearly and specifically as they unfold. You can hear Bill pleading for his life in the background.

I know the lead detective on the case, Ken Tisconia. I also know the defense attorney, Garl Long. Garl was my boss when I worked for the Skagit County Prosectuting Attorney as a secretary, and I've known Ken since high school. I've listened to stories about this case from both of these friends.

Garl gave a vigorous defense. He said he was well-fortified, fee-wise, so he was hiring experts on a psychological theory, based on Marvin's long-term alcoholism. The defendant could not be fully cognizant of his actions, Garl explained, because he was in an alcoholic blackout, a dream-like state. That detachment would mitigate his responsiblily. There were experts who would testify to that.

I grew up with an alcoholic mother. She could slide into that blackout state without the casual observer even knowing it. I could tell because her orientation to time and space would be just off-kelter a few degrees. She could still keep up conversation (booze certainly freed-up opinions that were hard on the ear) and even work a crossword puzzle. If I should come by to see her the next day, she'd thank me for cleaning up the kitchen for her. She'd think she went to bed before I left her house and that I'd done it as a favor to her. She had no memory of doing it herself.

A clean kitchen was important to her, though. She didn't like to leave dinner dishes in the sink for morning.

I explained this to Garl while he was talking to me about planning his defense. Might as well tell him what I know. It can only help him weigh his experts. I believe, I said, that a person in that state does more or less what he normally would, but that short term memory is dissolved by the chemical. If a person is legally or morally responsible for what he does when drunk, the blackout is only a convenient cover for remorse.

I saw Ken just the other day and I asked him about his side of the trial preparation (I don't know the new prosecutor). He said he thought the murder was pretty close to pure execution, and the 911 tape was irrefutable. Even so, Garl certainly made him worry a little bit. You never know with juries.

The offer on a plea of guilty before trial was second degree murder. When the plea was rejected, the instruction to the jury leveled up to first degree murder. There were also instructions for second degree murder to the jury. There may have been other instructions, I don't know about that.

I've known Garl to bluff when he thinks it's appropriate. I've seen him question a witness about a statement that wasn't even made, just to throw the guy off-balance. He relies on the opponent's sloppy preparation to strengthen his game. It can work.

Ken said that Garl called him before the trial and said he should be very well-prepared because he had some strong stuff to confront him with.

I did not see this trial, and I did not see any poll of the jury. So I don't know if they bought the alcoholic blackout theory Garl presented to them, or if he made any prosecution witness look uncertain for just a moment, but I do know this:

Ken said Garl called him to the stand and asked him just one question: "Detective Tiscornia, were you the first detective called to the scene?" (or something like that).

"Yes, I was," replied Ken.

"Thank you. You may step down," said Garl.

Was he just having fun with Ken? Even Ken isn't sure. And Garl probably won't tell me.

The jury convicted Marvin of second degree murder. A victory of sorts. At least the roll of the dice that the trial was really all about was not any worse than the offer on a plea of guilty.

I also know Marvin's son, Thad Ballsmider. Thad's stepson, Ben, is one of my son Ross' closest friends. During the period of time that passed between the arrest and the trial, I mentioned to Thad that I felt sorry for the stress his family was going through. Thad said he thought something like this was bound to happen, but at least his dad was separated from drinking now and he might have some kind of relationship with him.

I saw in a news article that Marvin Ballsmider died in prison on October of 2009 of a pancreatic condition. Thad and his sister were at his side. Marvin's wife died a couple decades ago.

Life continues on Campbell Lake. Thad visits the family property with the occasional picnic. The house is rented, but Thad maintains it. He can launch his small boat from the ramp when he wants to zoom around as he has done all his life.

Thad doesn't appear to have any of his father's anger. A sweet guy, you might say. A very hard worker in construction, a pal to Ben and the other boys. He spends lots of time with Ben, as he doesn't have any children born naturally to him. He plays drums in a Christian rock band at Sunday services.

He alternates between periods of drinking and periods of complete abstinence.

Local gossips are hushed. People like Thad and say kind things about him. I haven't heard anything at all about the bystander who was shot. It's assumed he testified at the trial, and then went back to Seattle, where Bill Munich's people are from. The neighborhood is very quiet except for the sound of small marine engines and voices that may carry across the water. The seaplane is long gone. Today the sun is warm and the breezes light.

A good day for a picnic.

Terra

Here is Terra all tacked-up. She's sleepy because I took my time with the curry comb and got her all relaxed. She was plenty alert at lesson time, though.

Terra is a seventeen year old Belgian/Thoroughbred cross retired dressage horse. She's about 15.2 hands high, for those of you who like to know those things. That mean's she's not so tall, but that drafthorse in her parentage makes her a little stout and very strong. She is a beautiful copper red color with a white blaze on her face.

I meet with Terra and my instructor, Liz, every Thursday afternoon at Gunderson Farm.

Liz bought her several years ago for a lesson horse. I found Liz through an ad, simply called her up and made an appointment for the first lesson. It was easy to do, and that's because of the way Liz takes charge.

I told her about the lessons in Western style I'd had in childhood, and she told me she teaches both English and Western. "But I admit I lean toward English because I have dressage students and I'm advanced there." Ok, then, bring on the English.

She's in her early thirties, I'd guess. A big girl with the fair complexion, blonde hair and blue eyes of the Scandinavian Gunderson clan. She comes complete with the cheerful high energy and strong will that the Nordic people are known for. Beautiful smile.

I've had six lessons so far. The first were very difficult for me because the English saddle is very small. I didn't feel the sense of balance and security of a Western saddle, which is bigger and deeper. Perched up there on that broad horse, I thought I might fall off! And you don't hold the reins in one hand and steer assertively, you hold the reins in both hands, centered at the top of the saddle, and you steer mostly with your legs, only guiding with the rein, left hand and right hand. There is very subtle direction to the horse in English style. It's almost like the power steering of an automobile. So different from the assertive kicking and yanking of the Western style (that's a bit of a crude comparison, but it's about right). This made for a somewhat confused Terra while I was getting used to that.

"What are you trying to tell me?" she seemed to say, looking sideways up at me, "I'll just stand still while you get organized up there."

Liz constantly correcting my hands and my posture. Tighten the rein, lower your hands, lift your gaze away from the horse, now look up and ahead because that straightens your shoulders. Heels down. Squeeze her middle, you're too far back and she thinks you want her to slow down.

Gee whiz. And then Liz attached a long lead to Terra's bridle and also produced a long whip. This is called lounging. She said I was going to "sit a trot." So I did, while Terra and I went in tetherered circles around Liz inside the arena.

I was barely hanging on, but couldn't stop the laughter from bubbling up. Oh this is fun, it is funny, it's unbelievably busy. Think! Feet, hands, back, gaze, sit high and firm.

Go to walk, now to trot, go to walk, now to trot. This is called transitioning, I was informed. And it did get easier somehow.

"You have a relaxed horse now," Liz told me. "She has her ears forward and her eyes are half closed like a horse does when she's enjoying her work."

The next week Liz said I was going to "post a trot," and this is the damnedist thing I've ever tried to coordinate. The lounge line was gone. The feet of the horse go one, two, three, four and you sort of stand in the stirrips on two and four. Kinda like getting out of a deep chair, that's moving underneath you. And the floor is moving, too.

Oh, it seems like I'm never going to get that coordination down. Poor Terra, I thought. I hope my erratic bouncing isn't hurting her back.

"There it is, Denise! You've got it!" Now Liz was laughing, too.

Startled, I lost it.

"No, that's ok. It's like that. And it's a big deal because the more you do it, your muscles will remember. Muscle memory, you won't even have to think."

And last week we did it again. I got all the way down the rail of the arena maintaining that post before I lost it. And got it back.

Liz really doesn't give me any choice. I do what she tells me to do.

"You are beautiful, Denise, just beautiful!"

Really? And, after I dismounted and walked Terra to un-tack and put her away, the silly creature put her head on my shoulder. She almost knocked me over.

"Why is she doing that?" I asked Liz.

"She likes you." I got a lump in my throat.

Liz went on to tell me that I'm learning fast. "You sit very well. You are learning at a faster than average rate, and I'm enjoying teaching you. Now, you don't learn as fast as a 20 year old, but that's only because the older you are the slower muscle memory is. Don't compare yourself to my younger students. I hope you don't take that wrong, because for an older person you're doing quite well."

She looked carefully at me. "Are you satisfied with what you're learning? Do you feel like you want to continue with this?"

"Oh, yes." I said.