Eco-friendly treatment for blue jeans offers alternative to controversial 'sandblasting'

Eco-friendly treatment for blue jeans offers alternative to controversial 'sandblasting'

I saw this article in a post on Facebook. It talks about the denim jeans that have become mainstream, all soft and broken-in the day you buy them. Quite unlike the jeans my generation bought when we were kids.

It was about 1970 when dress codes in public schools were relaxed. Up until then, girls wore dresses and skirts while boys wore slacks and button down shirts. No one owned a pair of Levis, unless you lived on a ranch and needed them for work.

Blue jeans were invented in 1850s California, by Levi Strauss. He'd moved to San Francisco from the east coast to open a dry goods store. The Gold Rush created a demand for supplies, and Strauss saw opportunity. One prospector visiting his store told him, "You should have brought pants." He complained that he couldn't buy any that would hold up as he worked the soil.

Strauss first tried making them using tent canvas, but that fabric was so stiff the customers complained of chafing. He did some research, and discovered a fabric from France called "serge de Nimes" that was the twilled cotton cloth we call denim. At first the pants were a overall-type, not becoming the classic "jeans" until about 1920. Over the years, rivets were added at stress points for strength, a pocket stitching evolved to identify the brand, and a red tag added to a back pocket to identify the brand at a distance.

The modern jeans became popular with cowboys and ranch workers in the West in the 1920s. And in the 1950s, counter-culture types such as greasers and bikers started wearing them, and in the 1960s the hippies liked them, too. By 1970, Levis were mainstream, worn mostly by young people of all types.

Rebel Without a Cause, James Dean

The Facebook posting by a childhood friend made me think back to my first pair of Levis when that dress code was relaxed at my school. I bought them at Brown Brothers, a local men's store, for $11. All you could get in those days were 501s, which are the classic button fly, shrink-to-fit, so stiff they could almost stand by themselves. I sewed a blue star on the left thigh, a tribute to my favorite poster artist, Peter Max. They broke in to become soft, beloved and very personal.

As John B. wrote in his Facebook post: "I remember washing them and putting them on wet so they would fit right. And having my legs stained blue for awhile. And climbing trees in the almond orchard, scrambling up the sides of the gravel pit behind the junior high school, sliding down the back side of Half Dome. I never felt the need to pay others to provide that broke in feeling, prefering to have the fun myself.  I sound like a whining elder, no doubt, as I lament on the efforts and money put into making jeans look old and worn out. Wouldn't it be a hoot if there was a similar passion to make ones face and body look aged and lived in?"

"That is poetry," I replied. "Maybe it's good we can buy our jeans already broken in at our age, so the contrast with the face and body is not so stark. And that mullberry tree I used to climb in the fuse works is long gone. I'm thinking about the smell of the hot dusty earth and dry grass, the feel of the rough bark and the knots in the trunk for toeholds, scraping an elbow getting a grip on the branches. And reaching my favorite seat, breathing in the spicy scent of cool green leaves and the sweet fruit hidden among them..."

Iko Iko

I've been thinking about blind prejudice lately, ever since I got that email about the 9/11 False Flag Conspiracy. That looks to me like almost-pure antisemitism, which dates all the way back to the Crucifiction of Christ. It's been a constant in world history, and you can find excellent articles on this on Wikipedia. I won't try to reconstruct it here.

When I was a child in the early 1960s, I lived in a small town called Livermore in Calfornia. My father was a small businessman there, but we lived on the same street with scientists and mathematicians employed at Lawrence Livermore Labs, known then as Lawrence Radiation Laboratories. "Where they build the bomb," as locals liked to say. These brilliant people came from all walks of life, so our neighbors were Jewish, and also Japanese, Chinese, and any domestic blend you can imagine.

Equality of races and religions wasn't exactly instructed, it was exemplified. For instance, there was no Christmas tree at my friend, Craig Goishi's house. I may have thought that was puzzling, but there wasn't one at Angelica Hemple's house, either. Hemples had a big candelabra instead, and they called it a Menorah. These things weren't pointed out and compared, they just were.

I heard my parents talk about the camp that Craig's parents were kept in before he was born because that's where his parents met. They compared the stories Watt and Minnie told with the stories they'd heard of the concentration camps of Germany. I was too young to understand the cruelty, and could not process it.

My parents' folks lived in Vallejo, a Navy town about an hour from Livermore. There were many black families there, along with Filipinos and the usual American mix. My cousins and I played alongside all of them at the city parks.

Grandma's famous neighbor

I was thinking of this today because it was so easy then, as a child, to play together. We could see the differences in each other, but we'd shrug our shoulders and get down to the business of sharing a swing set, whoever was next on the swing would push the kid who had the swing. It was understood.

And I was just remembering the four little Filipina girls who lived in a basement apartment across the street from my grandma. They were hitting sticks together and pounding fists on the sidewalk singing, "Iko Iko." I knew the song was on the radio those days, sung by the Dixie Cups, and I thought that must be a Filipino folk song after that.

It's not. Today I looked it up on Wikipedia. It's a Mardi Gras song and it's got a smattering of West African rhythms and Carribean dialects in it, along with other influences no one can really identify. It dates back to the mid 50's, performed in the French Quarter of New Orleans by Mardi Gras Indians. The song is about competition between these tribes; their music, their dress, and their popularity among the revelers.  Mardi Gras Indian tribes? How come they look like black men? Again, Wikipedia has a great article on how this can be.

"The tradition was said to have originated from an affinity between Africans and Indians as minorities within the dominant culture, and blacks' circumventing some of the worst racial segregation laws by representing themselves as Indians."



Big Chief Monk Bordreaux, of the Golden Eagles

 That's how today's musings come full-circle. Here and now. Today is Mardi Gras! Serendipity leads again, such timing! Just as the taking in stride as children can, as they meet their playmates if allowed to do so.

False Flags and Phony Credentials

"False flag operations are covert operations designed to deceive the public in such a way that the operations appear as though they are being carried out by other entities." Wikipedia.

A friend of mine sent me a Youtube video clip of someone named Alan Sabrosky, who knows the real reason the World Trade Center was attacked and destroyed. The Jews did it. They did it to help George Bush start a war with Iraq. Bush and his cronies wanted to go to war so bad they were willing to take part in a conspiracy that would cost thousands of innocent lives. They couldn't have done this without who knows how many Trade Center employees and tenants looking the other way while hundreds of pounds of explosives were brought in and placed by dozens of pyrotechnic crew, suppressing the New York City Fire Department and hundreds of after-the-disaster inspectors. There would have been an incredible number of people in the know, and somehow everybody kept it secret! Even now that the cat is out of the bag, it's still protected!

You see, the Jews and our president knew the radical Islam terrorists were going to run airplanes into the towers. All the Jews had to do was set explosive charges around the foundations and make sure of total destruction and huge loss of innocent lives. Just wait for the airplanes and hit the plungers. Then with a nod and a wink to George W, they would be assured he'd help them kick butt on those Muslim nations, starting with W's favorite Iraq.

Most Jews are guilty of some kind of treason because they have loyalties to Israel, and everybody knows you can't divide patriotism.

Alan Sabrosky is a retired Marine who knows all this because twenty-five years ago he worked as an administrator at the U.S. Army War College, as a librarian more or less. Nevermind that he was long gone from there when the Twin Towers were attacked, and not likely be privy to classified information with only a mid-level securty clearance. But he knows! It doesn't really matter how he knows!

It amazes me that so many people will take this guy's word without questioning his qualification or checking his facts. I have to think it's because some people have hatred in their hearts so deep that it doesn't take much to get them to open up Granddaddy's trunk and dust off the white robes and pointed hats. Just tell em who to hate and they'll get right on it.

I've got a whole list of citations to support this rant. Yeah,  I could have been more eloquent and quoted leaders, experts, and documents. But why bother?

Conspiracy theorists don't need real logic and evidence. They create their own and steadfastly defend it. If you offer them alternatives, they'll reject all of it. And then they'll attack YOU. If you are not "us" you must be "them."

Most of these guys are so antisocial and generally disagreeable they can't get along with each other to get much of a gang up. I believe that is the case with this bunch rallying around Sabrosky and his friends. In the meantime they cause fear and distress to the innocent people made suspect through ignorance. And I'll include this word: Evil.

My sympathy and support go to the good Jewish people, no doubt the vast majority. And my gratitude for good Americans of all faiths who use critical thinking and good judgment in keeping the the light shining into the dark corners as much as they can.

Here's a place to start if you want to read more detail on World Trade Center conspiracy theories: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/World_Trade_Center_controlled_demolition_conspiracy_theories

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



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.

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

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.

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.

Spring Break

Eight teenaged boys and a fire ring. On an island on a small lake in the middle of Fidalgo Island.

Seated in a circle.

A ring of boys, around a ring of fire, on an island with a ring of water on a bigger island surrounded by another body of water, surrounded by a continent surrounded by ocean.

A mandala.

Maybe something magical.

Except Colin is one of them, and I think that was an M-80 I heard.

Stop that! The police are not part of the mediation.

And now they're back in the house.

Trail

"Do you want to walk dogs with me?" I asked my son, Chris, over the phone, "They have new halters and leashes and I haven't test driven them yet." The day was cloudy but pleasant, a good day to be outside.

I have two miniature pinschers that are house dogs. Can't really take them anywhere because if they see something, they go after it, and are not coming back until they're good and ready. It's the nature of the breed. They are darlings in the house. Very clean and sweet-natured. Bright and entertaining. I keep them in the yard using electronic "fence."

So, I thought if I took Chris along on the walk, he could help with the chase-and-corner if one of them managed to slip free from her halter.

We chose the Tommy Thompson Trail. This four-mile rails-to-trails paved route goes from about 15th Street past Fidalgo Bay RV Park and used to go over Fidalgo Bay to the edge of the refineries' property. Last year, an arsonist burned a span of the trestle crossing, so you can only go as far as the barricades. A heroic community effort is underway to rebuild the pilings and walkway section. It's the only thing I can remember the community uniting over and getting right to work on. Everything else requires endless hearings, a lawsuit or two, and protesters from all over the state. The paper says it will be finished the middle of next month.









The trail follows the water's edge. It's elevated above rip-rap and tidal flats. Across the bay are Tesoro and Shell refineries, but they are far enough away they don't spoil the scenery. Mount Baker rises behind them, and Hat Island fronts a line of evergreen islands. You can sit on one of the benches placed here and there and watch tankers pull up to the piers, or watch pintail ducks pursue crustaceans. Mostly you can watch people, as this is a very popular trail. Every kind of walker, jogger, biker and canine make up light, but steady traffic on nice days.

There are a few sculptures made by local artists placed along the way. My favorite is a granite river otter in a playful but not too fanciful pose.


There is one condominium project along the trail. It was expensively and inefficiently built, and took years to sell out. I saw the full-occupancy and I noted this to Chris, who made a wry face and said he was sure they'd all find it very nice until one of those cat crackers at the refineries blows. I imagined that. Each lanai has a clear view of the potential disaster. A little like living at the foot of Mount Aetna, I suppose. People do it.

With that cheery thought hanging, we went through the list of family and personal bummers, as moms are wont to do. After we checked them off, I asked him if he was ok with all the material, and he shrugged and said, "It's just news. I'm glad you keep me in the loop."

I was pleased that the dogs stayed tethered to us and were having such a good time they'd given up growling and lunging at the occasional bicycle. They still strained at their leashes and got tangled up at cross-purposes. I said to Chris that they were doing pretty good for the type of dogs they are. He said he thought management could use improvement and winked at me. I told him that they really don't like management.

The dogs like to act tough when they see other dogs. Size differences matter not, and a chihuahua is greeted the same way a pit bull is (why do people seek out and buy pit bulls?). Hackles up, posture rigid, shooting the mouth off. And us owners of these stupid dogs look at each other and apologize. I marvel at Ava, especially. At ten pounds she's afraid of nothing. I remark to the baffled owner of a rottweiler, "She looks even bigger when she's got her fur up, doesn't she?"

We passed through the RV park, which is now owned by the Samish Tribe. I noted that it appeared well-cared for, with the exception of some semi-permanent ratty-looking trailers along the rear edge. What a great place to hide out, I thought to myself.

And then at the beginning of the trestle platform, we saw lots of work in progress. There is a crane and soon to be a pile driver in place. The charred debris has been removed and progress should be made quickly. The portion we could walk on, before the barricades, was pleasantly familiar. Shattered clamshells litter the pavement. Sea gulls dine here, after dropping the live creatures and dashing them to bits.

We stood together at the trail's end for a few minutes, gazing into the water, taking in the views of industry, Highway 20, and nature in 360 degrees. The salt air chilly but clean-feeling, and it's good to breathe in deeply.

We turned our backs to the cyclone fencing and began the return, little dogs now confident of the route, their new harnesses feeling more comfortable... not so much straining.

"Are you up for a beer at the Wheelhouse?" I asked my son.

"Sure," he said, "You buying?"

Of course.

Wasted Youth

Last night was the Anacortes Youth Sports dinner and auction. I think this is worthwhile. The AYS is an excellent organization which has raised enough money to pay for some pretty spectacular sports fields for the kids to enjoy and to help carry them to athletic careers, if that's what they want to do.

Lot of Anacortes business people attend. There are long tables of silent auction items, and it all comes from people you see here. Kinda cool that you bid on goods and service you'd probably buy anyway, and the money goes into the community with little interference. A local volunteer-run organization can do that.

We chatted with people we do business with and parents of kids Ross hangs out with. One couple, perplexed that their second-youngest son has participated in sports from little league baseball to high school varsity football, but is this day in his third week of in-patient drug and alcohol treatment. Yes, we've watched Zach grow up, too. He attended all of Ross' birthday parties from kindergarten on. He hasn't been over to visit in awhile, though, being the number one suspect in the theft of some cash from Ross' room.

Zach's been a mess for awhile, and it's been painful to watch. Stole his dad's car and put it in a ditch two years ago. Ran away from home last year and was gone a few weeks. Skipped so much school that he is a certified drop out now.

The parents: Still married to each other. Active in their church. Owners of a fairly large construction company. Stay at home mom. They have been permissive in parenting style, but I don't think that's what went wrong. The other three children have turned out just fine.

Speaking to Mike and Karen I said I hoped Zach emerged from the treatment healthy again, and that I thought he had good parents. He's a good kid raw-material-wise, I opined, wanting to offer some optimism. Mike doesn't have much hope for him, and Karen looks pained. He's a stupid kid, said Mike. He's going to have to hit some rocks for awhile.

We came home from the event around 10:30. Ross and about ten friends were out on the island enjoying a fire and whatever it is they talk about. He came into the house and asked if he could take the sedan into town. "Dakota's been arrested for having a little weed in his pocket and he needs someone to drive his car home."

Dakota is an A student who is working hard to win college scholarships. But his parents have been split most of his childhood, and his mom is allowing her boyfriend to set rules and limits on him. He resents it. I'm not surprised.

Ross tells me arrests for having a little weed in one's pocket are increasing, and there have even been a few searches at the high school. I tell him I'm glad to hear this because the previous lack of law enforcement has made all this drug stuff look ok. There's way too much of it. Anacortes is worse than towns along I-5. I waited up till Ross got back from town, without Dakota, who was facing a disappointed mom and verbose male companion. Everything looked alright on the island so told the boys I want everyone to go home by 1:00. I went to bed.

Ross woke me up around 12:30, eyes clear and breath clean. "I shouldn't have let Cody bring beer, Mom. I didn't drink any, so I thought it would be alright." I sat upright and turned on the lamp.

"What do you think I should do?" I asked him. Now, I know these kids have partied before. The rule is You Can't Do That Here and I'll Make Sure You Have Food and Pop. All the parents know I expect them to respect that rule. The parents who have bothered to check with me, I mean. I've actually met very few of them.

"Nobody's drunk but Cody," said Ross. I summoned the group off of the island. Thinking fast, I said that everyone should go home now, those who can't drive must not drive, those who can't get home will go to bed now on the living room floor. I'm deciding whether I should call parents based on what's in front of my face in the next ten minutes. After a movement like rats out of an aquaduct, we were left looking at Cody, who had thrown up on the patio and was wiping his face with his sleeve.

Inside the house, I spoke with Ross. Should I call Cody's mom?

"Cody's mom moved to Colorado when Cody said he'd rather live with his dad. She went to be with a man there. Cody's dad just finished chemotherapy for his cancer and they think they got it out of his bones so he'll live another few months. He's stuck in bed for a week or so. And Cody just found out his girlfriend is pregnant. His own mom won't talk to him." Ross looked down at the floor so I wouldn't see tears in his eyes.

I see. There is no one to call. When Ross lifted his eyes I told him that no matter what happened between his dad and me there would be no abandonment. Ever.

When Cody's stomach was finished erupting, Ross made him a bed on a couch.

"Hey, man," I said to Cody this morning, "You've got a lot of bad stuff happening to you. If your dad wants you to hang here once in awhile, you can. But you have to behave yourself."

It's late afternoon and I'm happy to report that Cody kept his breakfast down and is getting hungry for dinner.

I need a nap.

Epilogue, March 30: There have been no more boozy parties. Rules have been observed. Cody was here last night, and this morning told me his girlfriend had miscarried. I asked him how he feels. He said he supposed it was for the best. And we agreed it was also ok to feel sadness. How's he doing? Well, his dad is not going to live much longer, but he graduates with a good GPA in June and he has a decent-paying job lined up. He should be alright.

Epilogue, May 23: Cody's dad lost his battle with cancer. I found this obituary, and it made my heart glad to see that Cody had a very loving father who taught him good things. Cody told me he and his siblings wrote this obitiuary. (cut and paste isn't working, so go to: www.goskagit.com, then to "obituaries" and search John Michael Hernandez)

Duo

Here it is Friday already, and I have my work lined up. First I have an excise and hotel tax report for the great Hemorrhagic State of Hawaii (that's for the vacation rental income on the Maui condo), then I have four bank statements for Somerset Apartments so I can wrap 2009 and send the books to the accountant, and I have a box of quarters to count and roll. About $700 worth, they come from the laundry machines. Yes, I could take the box to the bank, but they won't pour them into the coinstar device in front of me. They take the box away to a room and send a deposit slip some day. They don't do that with checks and paper currency, so they're not going to do that with coin as far as I'm concerned.

It's my hard head and it's my time.

Out on the pond I see two Canadian geese. They stop here every year on their migration, but in the past there were three of them. I wrote a sweet little story about that last year:

http://denisehoverson.blogspot.com/2009/04/trio.html

And like I said, this year there are two instead of three. I smile and wonder where the third goose is. I think she must have found a love of her own.

Or bird shot.

That's the best I can do today in the romance department.

The Old and the Young

I think it was early September of 1997. Beautiful day in Victoria, BC, just below 80 degrees and bright sun. We were trying to hurry down Humbolt Street to Wharf Street where our bus would arrive in ten minutes.

"Not now, Ross," I pleaded with the five year old boy. "Just another three blocks and we'll be at the bus. Then you can sleep." Ross went limp like a sixties civil rights activist and lay in a whining lump on the sidewalk.

I had my backpack on and an overnight bag slung over my shoulder. John was carrying the packages from the Bay Company. I tried raising Ross up with one hand around his resisting arm.

"Ow!" yelled the little boy. "You're hurting me, Mom!" We gained five feet of progress along the sidewalk.

It had been a long day for the kid. John and I hadn't been to Victoria in years, and we probably should have left Ross with his grandparents. But there was the Bug Museum, the taxi boats of the Inner Harbor, Madame Toussaude's Wax Museum that we were sure he'd like, so here he was.

He liked the Bug Museum, but he didn't like the hotel because it didn't have a pool. He didn't like the wax museum because he couldn't touch anything, and the taxi boats weren't running today. I spent way more time in Munro's Bookstore than he thought I should. John was worried we'd miss the bus back to the ferry because I had to run into Murchie's to get a box of Empress Blend tea.

The Empress Blend is black pekoe and darjeeling teas blended the way no one else can do it. The aroma is deep and floral. The taste delicate and earthy. I couldn't leave Victoria without it, and because of me we were in a rush. But who knew when we could return?

The black cardboard box with the gold embossed logo was tucked inside my backpack. That was sitting nicely, but the overnight bag fell over my shoulder, then to the ground as I struggled with the child. Ross jumped to his feet and ran ahead of us to a wooden bench. He lay down on one end of it and announced he wasn't moving.

There was an old, severe looking woman sitting at the other end of the bench. She wore a muted plaid wool coat and scarf on this almost hot day. Her wiry grey hair lay in neat curls under a brown beret.

"I'm tired," Ross said. "You can't make me move."

The old woman spoke.

"You should take a switch to that boy. You'd be doing him a favor. Worst thing you can do to a kid is spoil him."

I turned to get a better look at her. I saw a face that hadn't smiled in a long time.

"No, you shouldn't spoil him. He won't turn out right. I can tell that for myself, nobody ever did nothin for me, and it's a good thing, too. I always made my own way from the time I was a girl. My folks never bothered to fuss, and then my father passed away when I was a teenager. I joined the army at seventeen and worked my way up the ranks as a trained nurse. I put my money away, as much as I could so I could retire to Oak Bay. And now I have a nice house there.

"Nobody did it for me, I done it myself. If Id'a been spoiled I would have nothin today."

Then she fell silent, watching John try to coax Ross off the bench. John gave the boy a juice box from my backpack and said some soothing words to him.

"Do you have any family to enjoy your retirement with?" I asked her.

"No. There was no time for that and I couldn't rely on anyone let alone a man. Never married, and dedicated myself as an army nurse, I did. I have medals.

"Nobody ever gave me anything," she repeated.

I reached into my backpack for the Murchie's Empress Tea.

"This is from me to you," I said. "I hope it's the kind you like. It is my own favorite."

The woman did not reply, but took the tea and quickly got up and walked away. She did not look back at me.

Ross watched the woman for a moment, got off the bench, took John's hand and we walked the last two blocks to the bus for home.

Last Tango in Toledo

Finally quiet. Go to sleep, you bastard. I'm numb from all your complaining, your fussbudget crap.

The dishes you left from this morning are washed, dried and put away. Your underwear and socks are folded as you wish and stacked in the drawers like firewood.

I vacuumed and swept and had the carpets steam cleaned. The surfaces have been scrubbed with Lysol, removing every trace of what was us, so all that will remain when I'm gone is YOU.

I was placing my suitcases in the entry hall when you came home. You walked past me and inspected the great room and kitchen. Then you actually smiled at me and said one thing you'd miss about me is maid service. I could smell Chanel No. 5 on your coat when you dropped it on the floor for me to hang up.

You "tapped" me when I bent down to pick up the coat so I would stumble. And you laughed. You said I never did have a sense of humor.

I kept my eyes downward so you wouldn't see my thoughts. You brute, you liar, you cheat.

I smiled back at you and said that since this is what we both want, why can't we just be pleasant for the last few hours. I hope when some time has passed we can stop being angry. I won't take anything away from you that isn't mine.

You narrowed your eyes at me and said fat chance, looking at my hips and thighs. I'm not going to react to that, I thought to myself. I know what lawyers are for, and I can continue the fight for whatever shit belongs to me from my mother's house. A few hundred miles between us and I'm much stronger for the contest.

I dressed for bed in the bathroom with the door closed. How is this going to go? I entered the bedroom, and there you were already in bed with the light off. I told you I'd sleep on the couch in the living room and took a pillow and blanket from the closet.

One last power play from you. No you won't, you said. You won't leave this room. Sleep on the floor like a dog, you bitch.

Why? The game is over. David will pick me up first thing in the morning, and I'll leave your sorry ass far behind.

I can do this. I get as far away from you as you'll allow. Just inside the closet I put my head down on the pillow and pull the blanket over myself.

I am exhausted. I listen for your breathing to become slow and regular, then I allow myself to drift off.


"It is wrong to think that love comes from long companionship and persevering courtship. Love is the offspring of spiritual affinity and unless that affinity is created in a moment, it will not be created for years or even generations." Kahlil Gibran

That Special Place in Hell

I'm watching the news this morning. The big story is about Maj. Nidal Malik Hasan, who shot up Fort Hood in Texas.

This man shot 34 people, with 13 fatalities, earlier this month and his story will be in the headlines until long after he is dead. I can't imagine the public will allow for anything less than a death sentence.

There must be a special place in hell for someone who commits such a crime.

I think there is. He's in it now. Whether he loses his mind or stays lucid through what's left of his life, he will never know peace. He does not need to wait for death to open the blackened gates of a netherworld.

His goose is cooked up brown.

Not much comfort to the those who lost loved ones in this horrifying act of terrorism, little comfort to those who survive it, but there it is.

We send our prayers to the victims, survivors and families... that is the obvious thing to do.

For the man who did this, I feel sorrow for a wasted life. He's in a blind alley, and he will never find his way out of it. Once a counselor and healer, now a villian and killer.

I wish I knew what prayer to offer for him.

It's Too Darned Hot!

I wonder how many blogs started with that title this week in western Washington State? We've had record temperatures here. It was over 100 degrees Farenheit in Seattle yesterday. That's never happened before.

We had record freezing temperatures last winter.

"Where's our global warming?" people were heard to say, "We can use some of that warm."

Well, now we have it.

Evenings are the worst. The kitchen is the last place I want to be with the sun coming through the bay windows. Appetite is low and it's contrary to nature to bring more heat in through the cooking devices.

The first night I waited until the sun ducked behind Scimitar Ridge, but it was almost 9:30 by the time dinner was over. The second night I wangled dinner out at an air conditioned restaurant. The third night, and it must have been the hottest in the series, I looked at John and said we should cook as much of dinner as we could on the outside grill. That's what steaks are for, and I'm glad I bought the little grill "wok" thing with holes in it. It handles vegetables real well.

You can only play the air conditioned restaurant card about once a week, so I am happy to say this evening is the coolest one lately. It's only 82 degrees outside and 86 in the kitchen.

I did sneak down to the Majestic to visit with my oldest son late this afternoon. We sat in the air conditioned lounge, had cold drinks and watched the new mail drop across the street from our table. It used to be in the one-way alley way between the city hall and the post office bays. It was a great driver's side approach, but somebody worried that although it had been in the same place for twenty years and nobody could remember any wrecks, that there might be one some day and they should move it. Now it sits on the kerb of 5th Street with a passenger-side approach and cars are coming from both directions to get at it. Not everyone thinks to bring a passenger.

One of these days, the right hard-head in a hurry will make the front page of the newspaper.

Not much to do in a small town on a very hot day.

Dinner is in the oven. Just a chicken and some potatoes, nothing fancy. I can sit way in the back of the house, in the dark den with the window fan. Sipping an iced tea, I can even stay awake.

The teenager, Ross, just returned from town with some guys who said they want to swim in the pond. They stood on the dock in their shorts, all ready to plunge, when someone pointed and said, "Leaches." Those are fire newts, but there's no telling some people.

They ruined the supersoakers on the Fourth of July by pouring kerosene in them to make shift blow torches. The kerosene dissolved the threads and soft plastic fittings rendering them useless. Bad planning.

So now they're in the game room playing pinball, and that may be better than leaving wet towels all over the hardwood floors. I'll leave it alone.

No real complaints, though, about the high temperatures. There is entertainment in watching news stories of people scrambling to find air conditioning units at premium prices (as soon as they're installed the temps will be back in the 70s). Some will flood their basements with portable swimming pool mishaps.

I think most people will find a way to lay low or have fun.

I'll wait for the sun to dip behind Scimitar and take a peddle boat around the pond. Maybe I should get one that looks like this:

Independence Day

It's the night of July second, and I'm settled in with my dogs and the TV news shows. It's been a hot day, so I have the window open with the fan going. The air is nice and cool, but it seems the first bottle rocket fire is burning nearby and the air supply is smoky enough to make my nose a little stuffy. Too late to close the window. I don't hear sirens, so maybe it'll be all clear soon.


The news people are talking about the Fourth of July and the celebrations. There is much discussion on keeping the holiday safe: Only children over 12 should handle fireworks. Wear eye protection. Light only one firework at a time. Obey local fireworks laws. Never try to make your own fireworks. Designate one person only for lighting the fireworks. Adult supervision is a must. Never throw or point a firework at another person. Soak all of the spent fireworks in a bucket of water for at least fifteen minutes before putting them in the trash. Fireworks and alcohol do not mix!

My adult sons are busy with their friends and I probably won't see them over the holiday. They've forgotten about family picnics and the making of ice cream with the hand-cranked bucket freezer at Grandpa's house. Years ago they and their cousins kept the paddles turning in the creamy mix until finish, and we all enjoyed big spoons full with fresh strawberries.

The Old Fashioned Fourth of July at Causland Park includes a parade, games and the Annual Town Photo on Commercial Avenue. The photo is taken from the fully extended ladder on Anacortes' biggest hook and ladder firetruck. The mayor stands in front and citizens crowd behind him filling the street between the sidewalks.

But that's the stuff of childhood. Now they are planning backyard parties of their own or maybe even making the trip to Seattle for the big fireworks shows. My teenage son may hang around home until late evening, bringing a few friends over for cheeseburgers and potato salad. There's a chance they'll invite John along for the detonation of whatever bombs they've been building. After all, he helps pack them. A friend has property alongside the Swinomish fireworks retail area, and that's good camouflage.

I'll insist that's where they'll go and that John and a couple of his friends supervise. No arguing!

They'll promise to observe all of the safety rules. Of course.

Me? I'll put on the meal and then send everyone off the property. I'll watch fireworks displays from all over the country on TV while holding two trembling, panting and wild-eyed miniature pinschers. They really come undone by the pyrotechnics in the neighborhood, and this holiday it's a curse to have that keen hearing. Poor little things.

The cats will come home sometime around noon the next day. I don't know where they go, but it's not possible to corral them when they hear the first firecracker before I do.


Sometimes I think about the picnics and the ice cream freezer with the hand-crank. I have a good print enlargement of the town photo with my dad and me and my brother and all of the grandchildren are visible near the center. Ross, the youngest, was three and Chris, the oldest, was fifteen. It was 1995.

I look at that photo and I smile, but I do not feel sad.

The kids are doing what all kids do. They are grown up or growing up and making their own fun. Nothing wrong with a little independence on Independence Day.

There are no grandchildren for me yet. I believe that when they arrive, I'll be looking around for that old ice cream freezer with the crank on it.

And the local vet will give me Xanax for the dogs, I think.

Dinner at the Brick

It's a tough economy for many people. No doubt about that.

I read in the paper that this resort town I live in has some citizens forced from homes into travel trailers and cars.

"I don't see that," I remarked to a friend, who showed me the article. Janet is a retired woman friend who volunteers a few Sundays a month preparing and serving "Dinner at the Brick" which is advertised through local media and charitable institutions. Anyone can come eat for no charge. The Brick is the Presbyterian church basement at 9th and M Streets. Coincidently, it's across the street from the house my family lived in when I was a teenager. It's sanctuary is made of bricks with a castle front. Dates back a hundred years or so, and is very beautiful inside and out. There are elaborate stained glass windows, wooden beams and an organ with brass pipes that reach twenty feet or so.

Janet said just drive up and down the alleys and you'll see the homeless. I did that, but I thought people always parked their RVs and extra cars behind their houses. Whatever the case, I told Janet I'd like to come and help with the dinner sometime, and a date was set.

In an earlier story, I wrote about my first weeks in 1968 Anacortes at twelve years old, having arrived from California suburbia, and what a culture shock that was. In one "scene" I described a man staggering up the sidewalk with a pistol in his hand. He was on his way to confront a prostitute girlfriend a few doors from ours. He thought she was spending too much social time with clients, apparently.

That man, Bob, was the first person I met when I parked my car at the church. He hadn't disappeared in the forty years or so when I first saw him. He'd been a barfly until his later years, then he'd be seen sitting on the bench in front of the Post Office with his best drinking buddy from the old days. Neither of them had much spark left in the past ten years or so.

This day, Bob was pushing a walker along the walkway and making slow progress toward the basement stairs.

"I'm going the same place you are," I said to him, "Let's see if I can help you get there at the same time."

I saw a sign indicating an elevator lobby at the other end of the building.

"Should we use the elevator?" I suggested. No, he said. He'd always gone in this way.

Very well. We tucked the walker into a corner and I took his arm, with my elbow under his armpit, nursing home style.

He smiled and said it was a pleasure having such a beautiful lady accompany him to dinner.

Well. Thank you.

I think if he'd started down the stairs on his own, dinner would have been interrupted by paramedics.

There is a nice commercial kitchen in the church basement and a large gathering area adjacent. One end is set for meetings with a podium and piano. About twelve big round tables are at the kitchen end. I took Bob to his customary seat and went back for the walker.

Janet introduced me to the volunteers in the kitchen. There would be about five of us serving and cleaning up. One woman had made a big pot of "cowboy stew" and Janet herself had produced homemade bread. Costco salad mix rounded out the meal. As good or better than my family might get at home.

I watched the guests arrive. Some I'd seen around town, some I hadn't seen before. In trying to describe this gathering, I can say if you looked closely you might see a mental imbalance here and there, but it could have been any gathering of family and friends. The volunteers were not condescending, and the dinner guests were well-mannered and sociable (to varying degrees).

All were dressed in clean clothes and I did not smell intoxicants. Some even dressed up a bit, however oddly. Clearly this evening was an event.

One man, a Lummi Indian named Robert, sang songs and recited poetry he'd written. He played a handmade elk skin drum to accompany his voice. I'd seen him walking up and down Commercial Avenue over some years and thought he was one of those crazy guys. He's actually educated and a very good writer. Not nuts, but certainly eccentric. Robert was offering handmade jewelry items based on cedar bark weaves and glass beads. He displayed two baseball caps out of woven cedar bark. Very precise and creative work, no plastic. Janet bought two pairs of earrings for $20 each. She praised his work and said to me in the kitchen, "That should keep him going for a little while."

I waited for the sermon I thought would preceed the meal. There was only a brief prayer of thanks for the food and fellowship.

Dessert was all homemade, too. Apple pie, rhubarb crisp, blueberry coffee cake.

Janet counted the plates as they came back into the kitchen. Second helpings are also counted. When the meal was over, the leftovers are plated and sacked for whoever wants them. Those plates are counted, too.

"We served forty-six meals," a volunteer reported. This somewhat inflated tally is necessary for some agency somewhere, but the costs of this meal are so minimal. I wondered if the real purpose is of the count is to show a strong need to keep the dinners happening.

When the last diner had left the building and we were putting away the clean china plates and glassware I said to Janet, "This is a social evening for these people, like a treat, isn't it?"

She said, "You got it."

Salad Bowl 2009

What a beautiful day today! After months of virtual wet-blanket weather (short days, mostly cloudy and rainy) we have the sun and it is bright and hot!

I'll wear shorts today! Not being one to reveal the prison-like-pallor of my legs to the gentle public, I applied the fake-and-bake and looked outside toward the pond. Standing on the shore of the island was a very large raptor bird. Not a bald eagle... this was larger, and dark brown with a light colored mantle. Before I could get the camera, it took flight and flew right past the kitchen window! I keep a field guide handy for identification of the many birds that visit, and easily identified this one as a golden eagle! Quite a thrill! I ran out on the lawn to watch it rise up and up and gone.

Now that my blood was stirred up, I looked around for a project. In the direction of the eagle's appearance I was reminded of the raised planter next to the pond. I'd bought seeds a few weeks ago and had been procrastinating. Still on my feet, I made the decision to keep moving and get the project started.

My oldest son, Chris, built the oval raised garden for me. The past two years, we've planted tomatoes in it hoping that proximity to the pond would get enough light from the sky and the reflection from the water to get them ripe before autumn frost. Without a long, hot summer tomatoes are a gamble in this part of the world. We threw the dice and lost twice, so this year I decided we'd plant salad.

I located the double-edged action hoe in the garden shed. A powerful and resolute-sounding title has this tool. Some call it a hula hoe, but I think that sounds insensitive. With it's assistance I was able to prepare the soil in about half an hour, clearing out last year's remnants of failed tomato plants.

The trout in the pond can feel footstep vibrations, and they thought it must be feeding time. I tried to ignore their leaping and boiling while I traced the seed furrows with an alder stick. Basil and spinach at either end, then rows lengthwise of iceberg, romaine, and red leaf lettuces, with one row of carrots in the middle. I planted sunflowers on the pond side edge for decoration.

The last step was liquid applications. Generous watering, then a big circle of a black goopy potion called "Deadline" around the base of the planter. We cannot grow big tomatoes in Washington, but we sure can grow huge slugs. The subject species is called "banana slug" locally because they resemble small, slimy bananas. Without Deadline to quell the pests, the lettuces would never get past sprouts.

Now that the seeds were tucked in, watered, and immunized, I could sit down and visit with the fish. I tossed the chow into the dark water and enjoyed the supper dance of my chilly little friends.

Although we'll still have rainy days through spring and even through summer, we'll have enough sunny days to produce salad greens from mid-June until late September. I'll hope California sends good tomatoes to the local Safeway.