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.

David Crosby

I'm a fan. Not for his political and social views, because I think he sounds like an idiot. We can all sound like idiots, I'm sure, but most of us don't get national press.

But he is a fascination of mine. This man, Crosby, is a brilliant songwriter with a natural unaffected voice. As a young man, he was simply beautiful to look at. I remember when I was a teenager and looking at the photo of him, below, there was something in his eyes that made me feel a little uncomfortable. I remember I couldn't look at it very long.

As a full grown woman, I can see why. He was the very image of Pan, the ancient god of Greek mythology. Of fields and forests, of shepherds and flocks... and fertility. Pan had great appetites for everything in his domain. He played his pan-pipes, made wine, and chased (and caught) nymphs with complete abandon.

David Crosby was blessed with that pure and beautiful tenor voice and a gift for writing enchanting lyrics, delivered with a slight lisp that still gives me chills. And, like Pan, he lusted and consumed. Crosby, though, is not a god but a man. The stories of his drug addictions and sometimes badly executed sexual relationships are well-known and he is quite candid about them. It's amazing he's alive.

David's written two books, Long Time Gone (1988) and Since Then (2007). They are eye-opening. He seems to take full responsibility for all of the events he describes. He conquer ed and discarded countless women, fathered children out of wedlock, betrayed friendships, took amazing quantities of drugs, defaulted on contracts and financial obligations... there was no sin unsinned except for murder. He knows mansions and jails and gutters equally well.

His good looks faded early on because of all the self-abuse, but he miraculously held on to his musical talents and that captivating voice. I saw him perform live with Stephen Stills, Graham Nash, and Neil Young in 2006, twice. It's still there, as vibrant as it was when he was a young man. Some kind of miracle, gotta be.

He is paunchy and his white hair is thin and whispy. His face and arms are scarred by burns he got passing out with a free-base torch left on so many times.  He is a wiser man now, maybe just worn down, but I understand he lives quite happily with his wife, Jan Dance, who has stuck with him for at least three decades. She's seen him through his worst, and lived it all with him. She's a miracle survivor herself. He's met the children who grew up without him, integrated them with the ones he has raised, and made amends with most of the people he severely let down during his fall from grace.

A happy man, I think. I hope so. He'll never impress me with his opinions, but I can easily ignore that.

Look at those dancers gliding around

Seems as if their feet

Don't hardly touch the ground

Look at them smiling like they knew one another

And they never would come down

Turn around and hold me

I'd like to see your face alone

I'm hoping there's someone home

I'd like to meet you.

Who do you see?

Introduce yourself to whichever of me is nearby

Close behind your eyes you're laughing at me

And I'm stuck here with no instructions

That I can easily steer by

Stick around, it's tricky ground

I'd like to see your face alone

I'm hoping there's someone home...

In My Dreams, David Crosby

Beautiful Things

I finished my riding lesson and changed my clothes to reduce the "horsey" smell so I could merge with the public. As much as I enjoyed the horse ride, and as much as I'd like a nap afterward, I just wasn't ready to go home. It's a beautiful house on lush acreage with a pond. Big rooms paneled in oak, sumptuous furnishings. But there is tension there, along with all of the chores I've felt too paralyzed to complete. Home is a place of things caught up in the air, unsettled spirits.

It was rare weather for Western Washington, sunny and hot. Where to go? I thought of Fairhaven and it's tree shaded downtown, which is tucked between the south side of Bellingham and the Bellingham Bay. There's lots of charm in this place. Always interesting. It's close to Western Washington University, so it has that eclecticism college towns are known for.

Fairhaven is a very old town (although now it is part of Bellingham), and it's history is preserved through renovation of old buildings and covenants that require any new construction fit the 19th century style of the architectural treasures, such as Sycamore Square. This particular building is one of my all-time favorites. It was originally built to be the Puget Sound terminus of the Great Northern Railroad, but has had many lives and uses since those days. I love the big atrium that is the center. I walk up the stairs and marvel at the woodwork and the views from each floor. There are old photos in frames that tell of Fairhaven's days as a transportation hub. Besides the railroad, there were and still are a bus depot and the southern end of the Alaska Marine Highway. You can start here and go all the way by ferry to Dutch Harbor at the end of the Aleutian Island Chain. Cruise ships come and go, too.

My usual course is to park in front of Sycamore Square, and walk down to the harbor, feel the cool breezes from the bay as I watch the activity and the boats, then walk up the opposite side of the street and return to my car. It's a an hour or two of good diversion, and I get lunch some where on the journey... so many interesting choices.

On my way down the street, I peeked into shops. There is fine art on the first corner, and I imagined a big acrylic painting of sailboats at rest in dry dock hanging in my living room. And small brass sculpture of wood ducks on the fireplace mantel. Beautiful things of water and air. But such things are hard to place in a restless atmosphere.

I looked in a consignment shop filled with festive gowns and colorful ensembles "pre-loved" and marked at bargain prices. I imagined where they'd been. High school proms, wedding receptions, cruise ship dining salons. In and out of suitcases, in and out of the closets of people unknown to me. And I thought, these beautiful things are mementos of other peoples' lives.

In the window of a jewelry store I saw a gold and amethyst pendant. A beautiful thing I could picture around the neck of a younger woman of high spirits and hopeful future. A gift from a lover, perhaps.

Inside an antique shop I found two nicely seasoned cast iron skillets. Beautiful things I could take home and put to good use. The clerk put them in a reusable cloth shopping bag with the company logo printed on it for just a dollar extra. So "green" they are in Bellingham. Through the door and on the sidewalk I thought about how I used to enjoy cooking, but haven't found much joy in that or anything around the house, and why in the world am I now carrying heavy skillets around with me?

I continued my walk to Squalicum Harbor where I gazed at the choppy water and the sea gulls dipping from the blue of the sky to the blue of the bay. And I said a prayer for the beautiful things and my loss of connection with them. Then back to the sidewalk and the uphill walk returning to my car and the freeway and home.

Just past the Persian carpet seller I sat down on a bench and rested for a moment. The bag of skillets was heavy and I had several blocks left to go, and uphill, too. I rose to start the trudge. Just then a young man appeared and said, "That bag looks heavy, why don't you let me carry it for you?" Surprised I turned to him and saw the bluest eyes, blue as the summer sky above us. And he reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet, "Here, you can hold this if you think I'm going to run off with your bag." Amazed at the stranger's friendliness, I took the wallet in dumb reaction. He took my bag. We introduced each other, he said his name was Michael.

He looked inside the bag, "Perfectly seasoned skillets, beautiful things. No telling how old they are.  Do you like to cook?"

"Oh, I used to," I answered him, "Not as much these days. I don't know why I bought them. Right now they're just heavy."

Michael said, "If you think hard, you might remember something about them."

"My grandma used pans just like these," I said, softly. "She showed me how to fry chicken, make the perfect grilled cheese sandwich, and how to keep the skillet seasoned. She made it look so easy."

As we walked, I studied the young man. I saw a very kind face with just a few lines. Hard to guess his age, maybe 25, maybe 35. Average height, slight of build, but I remember his eyes best, the bluest eyes, the color of calm seas.

"Where are you going?" I asked Michael. And he said,"Anywhere, everywhere. I travel light, and don't stay in any place very long. The world is big and my needs are small. I find good company where ever I am. I'm thinking of boarding the ferry and exploring the stops along Alaska Marine Highway."

"All the way to Dutch?" I asked him.

"No particular destination." He smiled. "There are beautiful things all along any route, or any wandering. I always find them. Some might call me a drifter, but it seems to be my calling."

"Look!" he said, "Cupcakes!" We were alongside a small shop that sold cupcakes, only cupcakes, with good coffee and tea. Beautiful things as seen from the window, very inviting. I asked if he'd let me treat him to one and he said sure. We went inside the store, decorated as you might expect in pastel colors with whitewashed chairs and tables. He chose Black Forest and I chose Very Vanilla and we sat down to enjoy. Michael's blue eyes shone as he sipped his coffee, eyes as blue as royal velvet.

On the wall, hung high, were some badly done acrylic paintings of dark content. One was a very disturbing landscape with a chilly blue house on the far left. Dayglow footprints led from the house to what looked like a child in pajamas lying down before a long-toothed bear that might eat him. Two "Red Riding Hoods" stood smiling passively nearby, while a wolf hid behind a tree.

I pointed it out to Michael, and I said, "What on earth is that doing in this place? So parents can bring their children here for a goodie and a nightmare?"

"It is an interesting contrast," said Michael. "But notice that it's hung pretty high up on the wall. I doubt a child would notice anything but the clashing colors and harsh brushstrokes. A child's eye would rather consider the glass cases of cupcakes and the delight of eating them."

"A parent should notice, you'd think one would suggest that the owner take that horrible thing down," I said. At the next table sat a daddy and a beautiful little girl. He sipped coffee and chatted with her while she took apart her cupcake, eating the cake first and then the icing. Michael clearly enjoyed watching them. After the treat was all gone, the father and daughter stood up and started for the door. The daddy glanced up at the awful painting, then reached for his little girl's hand. She smiled at him and hugged his leg. They left, laughing.

I returned my attention to Michael and my cupcake and the good coffee. Beautiful things. His blue eyes, as blue as Ceylon sapphires, the aroma of the Columbian coffee, the softness and sweetness of the confection, the easy companionship.

"The most beautiful things are personal," said Michael, "And those things beheld and shared with another are the most beautiful of all. Even the ugly falls away when that beauty is present."

As we got up to leave the shop, I remembered Michael's wallet and gave it to him, smiling. I picked up my bag.

"Well, you go on with your travels, Michael. This bag isn't so heavy and I've only got another block to my car."

We gave each other goodbyes and best wishes. He went back down the street toward the waterfront, and I found my car where I left it.

And the bag wasn't heavy at all.

Overheard at Star Bar

Star Bar is an elegant restaurant by Anacortes standards. There is a classically trained chef in the kitchen, not usual in a little town like this. It can be an expensive place to eat, and we save it for special occasions around here. But there's a secret. You can go in there and sit in the bar at a quiet table. No one will notice you while you order soup and bread from the kitchen. You might spend ten bucks including tip and it's pretty darned good. Chef works magic with veal stock reductions and fresh vegetable purees.

The decor is Moorish-chic, maybe. That influence comes through the two women who own Star Bar. They are an interesting and beautiful blend of Pakistani, East Indian, Portuguese, French and I-can't-remember-what-else. Farrah and Shinahz come from a family of some wealth, are educated and have lived all over the world, and somehow have chosen Anacortes for home.

There are beautiful fabrics, natural wood, and handpainted ceramics decorating the long rooms. Farrah and Shinahz also commissioned hammered steel sculpture in star motif, made by our own Paul Thorne, a master blacksmith. There are cozy little sitting areas built into one side of the bar. Satin, brocade, and velvet cushions placed here and there with voile curtain work for semi-privacy.

You can wander in most any mid-afternoon and have it all to yourself. That's the time of day some of us feel a bit lagged. If you can't get a nap, I recommend a break here. Quiet refreshment.

There I was with my fresh pea and asparagus soup drizzled with truffle oil, and a glass of iced tea, just the other day. I could see kitchen staff going back and forth through the bar and in between the kitchen and the pantry getting ready for dinner.

Two nicely dressed women about middle age appeared and sat at the next table. I recognized them from Chamber of Commerce events. I don't think they saw me with the drapery in between us.

"I just don't know why he doesn't get it. I told him come pick me up in an hour and you think he could stay gone. Go to the Brown Lantern, find some friends and a beer, I said. I can call you when I'm done," said the first voice.

The second voice replied, "I don't even tell my husband I'm going. They're all the same that way. It's like some little voice tells them to come stomping in with big boots and ruin the moment."

And the first voice said, "Yeah, I was in the chair with my People magazine reading about Sandra Bullock's divorce. I'd taken my feet out of the bath and Tran had applied the lotion to my legs. He'd started that nice, slow massage up and down my calves and down to my toes. I was just starting to feel that three-day migraine starting to fade, when in walks Jerry asking if I've got a twenty because he doesn't want to use a credit card at the bar. And he looks down at me and Tran and he's shocked. Like, what does he think is going on and who invited him? He makes a remark about Pol Pot missing one and I'm so embarrassed and I can't move because I'm covered with that lotion from the knees down, my shoes are under the chair, and I'm, like, stunned. I don't know what to say.

"Come on," she continued,"It's not like I'd bought the guy dinner or anything. And his wife's right there doing a manicure on Patsy..."

"How much did you tip?"

"Oh, five dollars. I really felt bad."

I waved at the bartender and motioned to the currency I'd laid on the table. Quick exit through the dining room... It's probably better those women don't know anyone heard that.