Are you in the market for a pick-up truck? Something retro perhaps? How about a flatbed to go with it? If you don't mind a little rust and you can figure out a way to extricate the pick-up from the back of the flatbed, I know where you can get a matched set for only $900.00!
In deference to midwinter break, the family and I took a little jaunt southward to Portland; or P-town as my neice Kelli, a sophmore at University of Portland, likes to call it. To change it up a bit, the kids and I ventured off the mighty interstate to take a ride through the countryside aboard Amtrak's #11 Coast Starlight. Oh the sights we saw.
In a few places the scenery was striking; the majestic Olympic Mountains rising up over the peninsula and looking across the Puget Sound, a bald eagle leaping upward right off the edge of it's nest and rising above our train, dewy, bare naked limbs on the trees in the poplar (I think) forests and even a few pretty little farmhouses with white fencing to stitch up their boundaries.
More intriguing however, and unfortunely more common, were the sights that left me wondering what people care about. I lost count the number of cars weathered by time and sinking slowly into the earth, that were left along the tracks or abondoned in streams. I thought it was a joke when I saw not one but three barns (or were they houses?), miles and miles apart, completely engulfed in blackberry brambles. And plentiful too were the yards littered with debris of all kind, including more cars and more trucks. In the 186 miles of rail between Seattle and Portland there were enough rotting vehicles to fill a junkyard the size of Safeco Field.
It was about half way through the trip, about Centraila I'd guess, that I remembered a train ride my son and I took some years back travelling from Paris to the Dordogne region of central France. On that trip I recall being struck by the pristine townships, pastoral views and the sparkling countryside. I saw not even one misplaced vehicle. In fact, every auto that I did see was tucked neatly into the driveway next to it's home.
I wondered then as I do now, why the difference? Is degradation prevention legislated in France? Are they just a more conscientious citizenship? Do the French have more interest in beauty? Are Americans lazy?
I still don't know the answers to my questions, but I do know one thing. When I return to my home, I'm going to take a thoughtful walk around my little piece of the earth and make sure passersby know at least one thing I care about.
By the way, if you are interested in that old pick-up truck, I sincerely hope you are in need of a flatbed too. Because the owner whose property butted up against that rail line clearly stated in his spray-paint on plywood sign that the $900.00 price tag included both vehicles and that no other offers or combinations would be entertained!
Friday, February 24, 2006
Monday, February 20, 2006
Things That Make Me Laugh
... Kids
Linkletter was right, they do say the darndest things. One of the 4 -year- olds in our class told us a story today. It started out, "One day, when I was riding a chicken." But Henry who is a bit wiser having lived a year longer than Sally, could top that. He interrupted with the story about the guard tarantula that sits in front of his family's house, stretching his arms as far as a 5-year- old can, to demonstrate its enormity.
... Olympic Ice Dancing
While I recognize the skill involved here, those gaudy costumes, the farcical twizzles, and the impossible lifts are all just too comical to be considered sport.
... The Tink, Tink, Tink Sound I Hear When I Tap My Finger Against My Head
What the hell is in there? I can only laugh at my inability to grasp the nuances of the English vocabulary ... let alone the spelling of the damn thing. Today was a bit rough. I got a heaping dose of humility and at the same time learned the difference between complement and compliment. I'm still not sure my shiny little brain absorbed any of the lessons, but I do think it's safe to say that I owe my readers a compliment for their patience with my blog.
And gee, don't you think the lime green and periwinkle fonts complement the black wall paper splendidly?
Linkletter was right, they do say the darndest things. One of the 4 -year- olds in our class told us a story today. It started out, "One day, when I was riding a chicken." But Henry who is a bit wiser having lived a year longer than Sally, could top that. He interrupted with the story about the guard tarantula that sits in front of his family's house, stretching his arms as far as a 5-year- old can, to demonstrate its enormity.
... Olympic Ice Dancing
While I recognize the skill involved here, those gaudy costumes, the farcical twizzles, and the impossible lifts are all just too comical to be considered sport.
... The Tink, Tink, Tink Sound I Hear When I Tap My Finger Against My Head
What the hell is in there? I can only laugh at my inability to grasp the nuances of the English vocabulary ... let alone the spelling of the damn thing. Today was a bit rough. I got a heaping dose of humility and at the same time learned the difference between complement and compliment. I'm still not sure my shiny little brain absorbed any of the lessons, but I do think it's safe to say that I owe my readers a compliment for their patience with my blog.
And gee, don't you think the lime green and periwinkle fonts complement the black wall paper splendidly?
Sunday, February 19, 2006
I Need an iPod ... I Do!
And here, in no particular order, are the reasons why:
1. I’m a sampler. A track or two off this album, a track or two off that album. Rarely the whole album – except ‘Moondance,’ 'Graceland' and ‘Traveling Wilburys Volume I.’
2. I’ve yet to find a radio station that will play Holiday, Caravan and Shipoopi all in one set.
3. Turns out, few people in my home want to listen to my preferred music at my preferred volume.
4. I’d look so cute at the gym with those cord thingies hanging down from my ears and lacing up under my shirt.
5. I'm pretty sure an iPod would thwart my gym-dork image.
6. Shoot, if I had an iPOD I might actually go to the gym!
7. A girl needs her tunes, when she needs them and where she needs them.
What more can I say? I must have an iPod.
1. I’m a sampler. A track or two off this album, a track or two off that album. Rarely the whole album – except ‘Moondance,’ 'Graceland' and ‘Traveling Wilburys Volume I.’
2. I’ve yet to find a radio station that will play Holiday, Caravan and Shipoopi all in one set.
3. Turns out, few people in my home want to listen to my preferred music at my preferred volume.
4. I’d look so cute at the gym with those cord thingies hanging down from my ears and lacing up under my shirt.
5. I'm pretty sure an iPod would thwart my gym-dork image.
6. Shoot, if I had an iPOD I might actually go to the gym!
7. A girl needs her tunes, when she needs them and where she needs them.
What more can I say? I must have an iPod.
Saturday, February 18, 2006
He's Cute, But Can He Catch?
Early reviews of Kenji Johjima, the Mariner’s new catcher, indicate that things look favorable for their latest Japanese import. Johjima arrived at the spring training camp with his red mitt and lunch box in hand. All accounts describe an engaging, energetic hard worker looking to overcome the language barrier and prove himself to be the breath of fresh air the M’s so desperately need.
His first day of camp was spent catching Moyer (“I felt like I was pitching to my dad” ), Gil Meche and George Sherrill. But it was his ‘off time’ that was more telling. Johjima affably spent time with both the American and the Japanese press corps; his every move documented by the forty- some photographers from Japan and the incessant clicking of their cameras. Then he returned to the plate, crouched down behind his back up catcher, Rivera, to watch and take notes on the hurlers he hadn’t caught that morning.
He's having fun too. In baseball, nicknames are as fundamental as knowing how to tweak the line drive. And the veterans are already finding one for Kenji
Moyer: “who are you?”
Johjima, in disbelief that Moyer didn’t recognize the guy he’d been catching back in Seattle:
“Joe … JOE!”
Moyer: “Joe? Joe who? Joe Mama?”
Johjima didn’t quite get the nickname, but got the significance of having one.
His first day of camp was spent catching Moyer (“I felt like I was pitching to my dad” ), Gil Meche and George Sherrill. But it was his ‘off time’ that was more telling. Johjima affably spent time with both the American and the Japanese press corps; his every move documented by the forty- some photographers from Japan and the incessant clicking of their cameras. Then he returned to the plate, crouched down behind his back up catcher, Rivera, to watch and take notes on the hurlers he hadn’t caught that morning.
He's having fun too. In baseball, nicknames are as fundamental as knowing how to tweak the line drive. And the veterans are already finding one for Kenji
Moyer: “who are you?”
Johjima, in disbelief that Moyer didn’t recognize the guy he’d been catching back in Seattle:
“Joe … JOE!”
Moyer: “Joe? Joe who? Joe Mama?”
Johjima didn’t quite get the nickname, but got the significance of having one.
Friday, February 17, 2006
Special Delivery
Let’s file this under, ‘What Would You Do?’
Suppose the pizza you ordered half an hour ago was brought piping hot to your door by a teacher at your kid’s posh private school? How about if said teacher was also a parent at said swank school? It's a question I've been faced with often; once a week to be precise. Only, I wasn't the one ordering the pie, I was the one delivering.
While you’re working out your answer, let me tell you what one parent, slash customer, did. First, she hitched up her jaw. Then, she forced a smile and asked incredulously, “What are you doing? Is this for real? What are you doing?” She posed these questions as though I was standing naked on her doorstep; fair enough, in the eyes of this college professor, my second job was just as preposterous. As for my response? Well, what could I say?
It was all true.
For a short time last fall I lived a double life. I was a Montessori assistant- teacher by day and pizza driver by night. The reason why I gave up my Friday nights and became an employee where I was once a devoted customer is simple. Determining that your heart muscle is doubly wounded from the radiation treatment that saved your life 15 years ago turns out to be an expensive jaunt through the land of “we’ll see” and “let’s try this test.” Before I knew it, one thing led to another when I joked with my neighbor Willie last summer about coming to work at the local pizza delivery kitchen. Although he is in his sixties, he refuses to give up his hobby of a job because the “dough is just too good to pass up.” And so with Willie’s relentless encouragement, I signed up to pay off the last bit of my substantial medical bills and do my part for fiscal responsibility.
The reason I'm no longer the ‘pizza mom’ is more complex: the juxtaposition of performing what I would consider blue collar work while living in a white collar world was just not something I could stomach. Straddling the two worlds was a bit awkward to say the least. I’m fairly certain none of my friends would ever consider delivering pizza as way to make a few more bucks.
Luckily, there were lots of perks that made the job tolerable. The work itself was actually quite fun. Chatting with the diverse crew of drivers (each there for a different and sometimes noble reason) between runs was a hoot and something I looked forward to each week. Finding addresses and learning intimately how neighborhoods are arranged was akin to working a puzzle. Deep discounts on the pizza my children adore put me in their highest esteem. In their eyes, my one night each week as ‘pizza mom’ was far nobler than my day job working as a teacher. And when it was all said and done, taking home a hundred bucks each night was pretty sweet, too.
But none of those perks could ever outweigh the sickening feeling one gets when two cultures clash. I’m speaking of the wealthy and the not so wealthy. Or shall I say the perceived wealthy and the perceived not so wealthy?
Let me digress into a little background information. Each of the twelve other drivers has a different reason for donning the regulation Pagliacci polo shirt to augment his or her income. One man in his late 70’s (with more energy than I’ll ever hope to have) is a retired Navy SEAL as well as a patent-holding engineer. I don’t think he can stand being home in the evening without his beloved late wife; so he occupies a few of his nights each week bringing other people their dinners. Another man, in his 60’s as well, is from Beirut and delivers 7 days a week to send his earnings back to his wife and children back home. Of course several of the drivers are college students; one is in pre-med, another in pre-dental, a few are liberal arts majors. Diana is a young grandmother raising her two grandchildren; she needs to be home during the day to take care of the boys so she drives at night. Sean is a musician. Mo, from somewhere in the Middle East, is a father of three. He works pizza 6 nights a week in addition to his full time job in admissions at the University. “I just want to provide a good life for my wife and children,” he once told me. You see? You just never know who’s bringing you your pizza when you answer that knock.
Our customers are diverse as well. The 34 grids representing the neighborhoods on my delivery map cover only about 10 square miles yet represent home values ranging from the low 200’s to in excess of a couple million. You get the picture. One run would be to young kids in their first apartment, the next to a fabulous manse right on the water.
Those are the deliveries that the drivers loathed. And I loathed them too. Not just because I knew before I left the shop, my tip would be minimal, if at all. Not because those neighborhoods chose to dispense with the grid system altogether and plot their streets like something that resembles a plate of spaghetti. But because more often than not, when I rang the doorbell at those magnificent homes I was greeted with an attitude so rank with elitism that there were times I was overcome with that sickening feeling one gets just before you vomit. It was as obvious as the cheese on the pizza that anyone who would stoop to this sort of work had no place in their world. It’s not that I wanted to be invited in and become friends with my clients, I just wanted the same respect they’d give me if they met me at my other job. After all, what would these people think if they knew about my real job? Or about the black tie fundraisers my husband and I attend. I wanted to scream at these people that I too, read the New York Times, The Washington Post, and the Atlantic Monthly. I too, am a public radio subscriber and a member of the art museum. I too, know the best spa in town to a get a hot stone massage. And yes, I work out at the same health club as you. And didn’t I see you at Lampreia the other night? But, try as you might, you just can’t convey all that in a sixty second exchange. Number of runs is the name of the game in the pizza biz. More deliveries equal more money.
And I thought prejudice was obsolete. One time I delivered to a nice home in the neighborhood where my husband grew up and my mother-in-law still lives; that is to say, our home away from home. I knocked on the door of this understated house the Friday after Thanksgiving to be greeted by a perky twenty-something, her college aged sibs and their mother decorating the Christmas tree. A pleasant scene for sure; until miss perky hollered “mom pay the lady.” At which point “mom” scurried off somewhere, presumably to get the checkbook, while I stood waiting with the door wide open and twenty pounds of pizza (it’s heavier than you would think) in hand. As I waited for nearly 5 minutes I couldn’t help but notice the terrific art collection. It wasn’t as if they concealed the Chihuly, after all. When I complemented the woman on the spectacular piece, she eyed me slowly from head to toe (no kidding) and informed be that it was a Dale Chihuly.
“He’s from Seattle you know.”
“Really?” I replied emphatically surprised. “To think, I thought he was a Tacoma native!”
To top off this revolting experience she passed me “two dollars for you dear,” along with the check paying for her dinner.
I know now that it takes a special person to ring those doorbells and deliver those pies. For awhile, it was fun with a capital F. It was just one night a week making it very novel. It was the first time since my allowance earning days that I’d been paid in cash. You can’t imagine what a 5 dollar tip does for your adrenaline.
And now? Now I know that I take a certain social risk if I mention my Friday night occupation while chatting it up with the parents at my school. And an even greater risk when the person on the other side of the door is from my real life. Like it or not, our society is classist. And like it or not we make assumptions based on the work people do.
Suppose the pizza you ordered half an hour ago was brought piping hot to your door by a teacher at your kid’s posh private school? How about if said teacher was also a parent at said swank school? It's a question I've been faced with often; once a week to be precise. Only, I wasn't the one ordering the pie, I was the one delivering.
While you’re working out your answer, let me tell you what one parent, slash customer, did. First, she hitched up her jaw. Then, she forced a smile and asked incredulously, “What are you doing? Is this for real? What are you doing?” She posed these questions as though I was standing naked on her doorstep; fair enough, in the eyes of this college professor, my second job was just as preposterous. As for my response? Well, what could I say?
It was all true.
For a short time last fall I lived a double life. I was a Montessori assistant- teacher by day and pizza driver by night. The reason why I gave up my Friday nights and became an employee where I was once a devoted customer is simple. Determining that your heart muscle is doubly wounded from the radiation treatment that saved your life 15 years ago turns out to be an expensive jaunt through the land of “we’ll see” and “let’s try this test.” Before I knew it, one thing led to another when I joked with my neighbor Willie last summer about coming to work at the local pizza delivery kitchen. Although he is in his sixties, he refuses to give up his hobby of a job because the “dough is just too good to pass up.” And so with Willie’s relentless encouragement, I signed up to pay off the last bit of my substantial medical bills and do my part for fiscal responsibility.
The reason I'm no longer the ‘pizza mom’ is more complex: the juxtaposition of performing what I would consider blue collar work while living in a white collar world was just not something I could stomach. Straddling the two worlds was a bit awkward to say the least. I’m fairly certain none of my friends would ever consider delivering pizza as way to make a few more bucks.
Luckily, there were lots of perks that made the job tolerable. The work itself was actually quite fun. Chatting with the diverse crew of drivers (each there for a different and sometimes noble reason) between runs was a hoot and something I looked forward to each week. Finding addresses and learning intimately how neighborhoods are arranged was akin to working a puzzle. Deep discounts on the pizza my children adore put me in their highest esteem. In their eyes, my one night each week as ‘pizza mom’ was far nobler than my day job working as a teacher. And when it was all said and done, taking home a hundred bucks each night was pretty sweet, too.
But none of those perks could ever outweigh the sickening feeling one gets when two cultures clash. I’m speaking of the wealthy and the not so wealthy. Or shall I say the perceived wealthy and the perceived not so wealthy?
Let me digress into a little background information. Each of the twelve other drivers has a different reason for donning the regulation Pagliacci polo shirt to augment his or her income. One man in his late 70’s (with more energy than I’ll ever hope to have) is a retired Navy SEAL as well as a patent-holding engineer. I don’t think he can stand being home in the evening without his beloved late wife; so he occupies a few of his nights each week bringing other people their dinners. Another man, in his 60’s as well, is from Beirut and delivers 7 days a week to send his earnings back to his wife and children back home. Of course several of the drivers are college students; one is in pre-med, another in pre-dental, a few are liberal arts majors. Diana is a young grandmother raising her two grandchildren; she needs to be home during the day to take care of the boys so she drives at night. Sean is a musician. Mo, from somewhere in the Middle East, is a father of three. He works pizza 6 nights a week in addition to his full time job in admissions at the University. “I just want to provide a good life for my wife and children,” he once told me. You see? You just never know who’s bringing you your pizza when you answer that knock.
Our customers are diverse as well. The 34 grids representing the neighborhoods on my delivery map cover only about 10 square miles yet represent home values ranging from the low 200’s to in excess of a couple million. You get the picture. One run would be to young kids in their first apartment, the next to a fabulous manse right on the water.
Those are the deliveries that the drivers loathed. And I loathed them too. Not just because I knew before I left the shop, my tip would be minimal, if at all. Not because those neighborhoods chose to dispense with the grid system altogether and plot their streets like something that resembles a plate of spaghetti. But because more often than not, when I rang the doorbell at those magnificent homes I was greeted with an attitude so rank with elitism that there were times I was overcome with that sickening feeling one gets just before you vomit. It was as obvious as the cheese on the pizza that anyone who would stoop to this sort of work had no place in their world. It’s not that I wanted to be invited in and become friends with my clients, I just wanted the same respect they’d give me if they met me at my other job. After all, what would these people think if they knew about my real job? Or about the black tie fundraisers my husband and I attend. I wanted to scream at these people that I too, read the New York Times, The Washington Post, and the Atlantic Monthly. I too, am a public radio subscriber and a member of the art museum. I too, know the best spa in town to a get a hot stone massage. And yes, I work out at the same health club as you. And didn’t I see you at Lampreia the other night? But, try as you might, you just can’t convey all that in a sixty second exchange. Number of runs is the name of the game in the pizza biz. More deliveries equal more money.
And I thought prejudice was obsolete. One time I delivered to a nice home in the neighborhood where my husband grew up and my mother-in-law still lives; that is to say, our home away from home. I knocked on the door of this understated house the Friday after Thanksgiving to be greeted by a perky twenty-something, her college aged sibs and their mother decorating the Christmas tree. A pleasant scene for sure; until miss perky hollered “mom pay the lady.” At which point “mom” scurried off somewhere, presumably to get the checkbook, while I stood waiting with the door wide open and twenty pounds of pizza (it’s heavier than you would think) in hand. As I waited for nearly 5 minutes I couldn’t help but notice the terrific art collection. It wasn’t as if they concealed the Chihuly, after all. When I complemented the woman on the spectacular piece, she eyed me slowly from head to toe (no kidding) and informed be that it was a Dale Chihuly.
“He’s from Seattle you know.”
“Really?” I replied emphatically surprised. “To think, I thought he was a Tacoma native!”
To top off this revolting experience she passed me “two dollars for you dear,” along with the check paying for her dinner.
I know now that it takes a special person to ring those doorbells and deliver those pies. For awhile, it was fun with a capital F. It was just one night a week making it very novel. It was the first time since my allowance earning days that I’d been paid in cash. You can’t imagine what a 5 dollar tip does for your adrenaline.
And now? Now I know that I take a certain social risk if I mention my Friday night occupation while chatting it up with the parents at my school. And an even greater risk when the person on the other side of the door is from my real life. Like it or not, our society is classist. And like it or not we make assumptions based on the work people do.
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
Mom's Mix
Since I’ve not yet been able to meet with my tech guru to learn how to add columns dedicated to the music I’m listening to and the books I'm reading – that’s what all the hip bloggers do, you know – I have to post my latest spin right here.
Since last night, the CD that's been going round and round in my player is a sweet little disc of 14 tracks compiled just for me by my currently golden son.
Said he after school on February 14: “Mom, I’ve got to go shopping.”
Said I: “Oh really? What’s up?”
“Mom it’s a surprise, but I just want to ride my bike to Starbucks.”
“You’ll be home by 5?”
“Yes mom.”
After assuring me of the route he’d be taking, checking for his phone and testing to make sure the tunes in his headphone weren’t too loud, my boy rode off to get me a valentine. I figured he was out to get me a gift card to further enable my cursed addiction to caffeine. To my surprise, upon his return he presented me with an eclectic mix of essential tunes the he entitled Mom’s Mix.
Unaware that he could download and burn a CD right on our own PC, he utilized the hear music console that Starbucks has added to their repertoire; in case the coffee thing doesn’t work out. But then again, if he’d put the CD together at home he’d missed out on the bike ride and the nifty packaging.
So what does a teenager want his mother to listen too? He said something to the effect of “music that you listen to mom, and music that I want you to listen to.”
His selections included a few songs from Green Day, including my favorite Holiday; Scars from somebody called Papa Roach; and the Presidents of the United States of America singing the hilarious, yet soulful Peaches. In deference to my taste he added Sting’s Bring on the Night. In an effort to enlighten me, he chose Smells Like Teen Spirit by Nirvana. And then just to round things out a bit he put in ABBA’s Dancing Queen. For the record, he is the ABBA fan but I can definitely bust out the moves for Dancing Queen if need be!
All and all it’s a great disc and certainly the best Valentine I’ve received in a long, long time.
Since last night, the CD that's been going round and round in my player is a sweet little disc of 14 tracks compiled just for me by my currently golden son.
Said he after school on February 14: “Mom, I’ve got to go shopping.”
Said I: “Oh really? What’s up?”
“Mom it’s a surprise, but I just want to ride my bike to Starbucks.”
“You’ll be home by 5?”
“Yes mom.”
After assuring me of the route he’d be taking, checking for his phone and testing to make sure the tunes in his headphone weren’t too loud, my boy rode off to get me a valentine. I figured he was out to get me a gift card to further enable my cursed addiction to caffeine. To my surprise, upon his return he presented me with an eclectic mix of essential tunes the he entitled Mom’s Mix.
Unaware that he could download and burn a CD right on our own PC, he utilized the hear music console that Starbucks has added to their repertoire; in case the coffee thing doesn’t work out. But then again, if he’d put the CD together at home he’d missed out on the bike ride and the nifty packaging.
So what does a teenager want his mother to listen too? He said something to the effect of “music that you listen to mom, and music that I want you to listen to.”
His selections included a few songs from Green Day, including my favorite Holiday; Scars from somebody called Papa Roach; and the Presidents of the United States of America singing the hilarious, yet soulful Peaches. In deference to my taste he added Sting’s Bring on the Night. In an effort to enlighten me, he chose Smells Like Teen Spirit by Nirvana. And then just to round things out a bit he put in ABBA’s Dancing Queen. For the record, he is the ABBA fan but I can definitely bust out the moves for Dancing Queen if need be!
All and all it’s a great disc and certainly the best Valentine I’ve received in a long, long time.
Friday, February 3, 2006
Tears for Kevin
Have you been lucky enough to see a Purple Martin in the Seattle area lately?
If you have, thank Kevin Li.
Until I’d heard about Kevin’s project, I’d no idea that the largest of all the sparrows once lived and prospered in Western Washington when not wintering in South America. Since 1996, when he was first made aware of their absence, Kevin’s been faithfully keeping house for the Martins. I’ve just seen his gourds hung near Shishole Marina on long abandoned pilings, but I’m told he’s brought the Martins back to other sites around the Puget Sound region as well. He’s somewhat famous among the birding community for his efforts.
It is that community, and many others, that will gather this evening to celebrate the tragic and all-too- premature death of an outstanding person. Kevin was just 50 years old when he suffered what friends and family believe to be a heart attack while diving last Sunday.
The obituaries say he will be missed by the many lives he touched. True enough. I really only knew of him through my cousin Karen, but the few times I met him were enough to genuinely touch me. From Kevin I’ve learned the basics of birding and foraging for prized matsutake mushrooms. Both endeavors, like the rest of his life I imagine, he carried out with the utmost of respect for the earth. The one time he shared his binoculars with me to view some sea ducks on Lake Washington, I was lucky enough to see his quiet, intelligent approach in action. Little did I know, on that evening just last spring, that it would be the last opportunity I’d have to glean just a bit of his knowledge.
Let it be noted here that that this exquisite individual will be deeply missed by someone he hardly knew.
If you have, thank Kevin Li.
Until I’d heard about Kevin’s project, I’d no idea that the largest of all the sparrows once lived and prospered in Western Washington when not wintering in South America. Since 1996, when he was first made aware of their absence, Kevin’s been faithfully keeping house for the Martins. I’ve just seen his gourds hung near Shishole Marina on long abandoned pilings, but I’m told he’s brought the Martins back to other sites around the Puget Sound region as well. He’s somewhat famous among the birding community for his efforts.
It is that community, and many others, that will gather this evening to celebrate the tragic and all-too- premature death of an outstanding person. Kevin was just 50 years old when he suffered what friends and family believe to be a heart attack while diving last Sunday.
The obituaries say he will be missed by the many lives he touched. True enough. I really only knew of him through my cousin Karen, but the few times I met him were enough to genuinely touch me. From Kevin I’ve learned the basics of birding and foraging for prized matsutake mushrooms. Both endeavors, like the rest of his life I imagine, he carried out with the utmost of respect for the earth. The one time he shared his binoculars with me to view some sea ducks on Lake Washington, I was lucky enough to see his quiet, intelligent approach in action. Little did I know, on that evening just last spring, that it would be the last opportunity I’d have to glean just a bit of his knowledge.
Let it be noted here that that this exquisite individual will be deeply missed by someone he hardly knew.
Wednesday, February 1, 2006
Thirty-One Days and Counting
I’m not sure of all the reasons, but for me, January is a bugger. Sure, it starts out fine, renewal and all that. But by the time the kids go back to school, it quickly dissolves into the dark, bleak month that it is. Alas, today is the first day of February. Time to flip the page on the family calendar, time to celebrate surviving the darkest month and gratefully, it is time to move on.
Historically, the second month has always been easier. For that I can attribute a few rituals I begin every year at this time that serve as checkpoints propelling me toward the Vernal Equinox (and ever onward presumably).
Among them is attending the always inspiring Northwest Garden Show with my sister. Not to mention the fabulous dinner and drinks after the show. It is advisable to discuss with your sis all the brilliant ideas you’ve gotten, before going home and bombarding your husband with the changes you plan to make to the yard – employing him as the head laborer, natch.
Not too long after I’ve filed away my pamphlets and ideas from the garden show, will begin the sweetest of all spring rituals. I’ll get to turn my radio to the AM. Dial to hear the man that will yet again coax me through another cold, wet spring: Dave Niehaus, voice of the Seattle Mariners.
About the time I file through the gates at the convention center, Dave will arrive at the Peoria Baseball Complex. While I’ll toil away the final days of winter, he’ll gather the veteran players’ winter stories; learn the names of the innumerable hopefuls trying for a spot on the 25-man roster, and of course scope out the hot new prospects. By the time the first game rolls around, he’ll be ready to wow me with stories and statistics that I’ve been waiting since October to hear.
This year my world will be righted on the third day of March. Precisely at 12:05pm PST Dave and his broadcast partners, Rick Rizz and Ron Fairly, will clear their throats, dust off their microphones and call the first pitch of the first inning of the first spring training game from the sunny fields of Arizona. And each and every day after that broadcast, until what we fans call Opening Day (April 4th at 2:05pm versus the Los Angeles Angels if you’re wondering), I can tune in for a daily update of my boys on the diamond.
And you know, it is only 31 days until March 3!!
Historically, the second month has always been easier. For that I can attribute a few rituals I begin every year at this time that serve as checkpoints propelling me toward the Vernal Equinox (and ever onward presumably).
Among them is attending the always inspiring Northwest Garden Show with my sister. Not to mention the fabulous dinner and drinks after the show. It is advisable to discuss with your sis all the brilliant ideas you’ve gotten, before going home and bombarding your husband with the changes you plan to make to the yard – employing him as the head laborer, natch.
Not too long after I’ve filed away my pamphlets and ideas from the garden show, will begin the sweetest of all spring rituals. I’ll get to turn my radio to the AM. Dial to hear the man that will yet again coax me through another cold, wet spring: Dave Niehaus, voice of the Seattle Mariners.
About the time I file through the gates at the convention center, Dave will arrive at the Peoria Baseball Complex. While I’ll toil away the final days of winter, he’ll gather the veteran players’ winter stories; learn the names of the innumerable hopefuls trying for a spot on the 25-man roster, and of course scope out the hot new prospects. By the time the first game rolls around, he’ll be ready to wow me with stories and statistics that I’ve been waiting since October to hear.
This year my world will be righted on the third day of March. Precisely at 12:05pm PST Dave and his broadcast partners, Rick Rizz and Ron Fairly, will clear their throats, dust off their microphones and call the first pitch of the first inning of the first spring training game from the sunny fields of Arizona. And each and every day after that broadcast, until what we fans call Opening Day (April 4th at 2:05pm versus the Los Angeles Angels if you’re wondering), I can tune in for a daily update of my boys on the diamond.
And you know, it is only 31 days until March 3!!
Sunday, January 29, 2006
Black Sunday
I've been a football fan for oh let's see ... two weeks now.
And even though my hometown team is, for the first time ever, playing in the Super Bowl next week, I'm finding this obligatory dry weekend between the end of the playoffs and the big game itself surprisingly depressing.
For the more than the twenty years of our marriage, my high-school- football- star husband has been slowly, patiently building a case for the sport. Oh, I've resisted alright. Until a few years ago; when he actually got me seated in front of the TV during a game. I was utterly impressed with the depth of the game. I'd had no idea it was so complex. But still, who could give up a few hours to watch a sport on TV? Even my beloved baseball is relegated to the radio, so I can get other things done while keeping up with my boys of summer.
But today, on this gray, rainy Seattle day, nothing sounds better than a few hours splayed out on the couch, in front of the tube with good ol' #20.
And even though my hometown team is, for the first time ever, playing in the Super Bowl next week, I'm finding this obligatory dry weekend between the end of the playoffs and the big game itself surprisingly depressing.
For the more than the twenty years of our marriage, my high-school- football- star husband has been slowly, patiently building a case for the sport. Oh, I've resisted alright. Until a few years ago; when he actually got me seated in front of the TV during a game. I was utterly impressed with the depth of the game. I'd had no idea it was so complex. But still, who could give up a few hours to watch a sport on TV? Even my beloved baseball is relegated to the radio, so I can get other things done while keeping up with my boys of summer.
But today, on this gray, rainy Seattle day, nothing sounds better than a few hours splayed out on the couch, in front of the tube with good ol' #20.
Monday, January 23, 2006
Happiness Is ... volume I
....reaching into the pocket of the sweater you haven't worn for two weeks and finding twelve dollars and your missing driver's license.
....a husband who brings you coffee in bed and makes the kids' lunches when you've been up all night writing.
.... track #2 on The Traveling Wilburys (Vol 1) played so loud on the car stereo you can feel the drum beating right in your gut.
....driving in the car without the kids so you can play the Wilburys.
....dropping your head on the pillow with such enormous fatigue that even your loud- music loving muse won't be able to wake you up.
....a husband who brings you coffee in bed and makes the kids' lunches when you've been up all night writing.
.... track #2 on The Traveling Wilburys (Vol 1) played so loud on the car stereo you can feel the drum beating right in your gut.
....driving in the car without the kids so you can play the Wilburys.
....dropping your head on the pillow with such enormous fatigue that even your loud- music loving muse won't be able to wake you up.
Good-bye Jules, Hello Blog
Nixon occupied the White House when I was a kid.
Growing up with parents who voted for him meant that, in their eyes, he was fine, just fine.
I don't hold it against them. I felt and feel the same way about Clinton.
When Nixon left office, my mother wore the shame that one wears when a close relative has disgraced himself. Parentally devoted as I was at the time, I had no choice but to believe in old Tricky Dick.
Then as now, politics weren't my thing. The pop culture surrounding our pundits and politicos? Now those are some good times.
Logically, I was fascinated with the first daughter, Julie Nixon Eisenhower.
She was 21 and a newlywed when her father was elected. I was 8 and in second grade.
I thought she was so cool.
Smart, savvy and cool.
Something I read at the time, probably Beverly Cleary but maybe Laura Ingalls Wilder, caused me to start a journal. I found it hard to just write without writing to someone. When I confessed this a year later to my third grade teacher, she encouraged me to write as if I were writing to
someone.
Logically, I chose Julie.
And so it began:
Dear Julie, Jan Johnson said I stole her flute. Why would she say such a thing? I'm no thief ...
Dear Julie, My big sister got married today. I'm so happy for her!
Dear Julie, We're going on a trip! We're driving to Kentucky and I get to meet my grandma and grandpa!
It was good fun, but eventually, I dispensed with the pen and paper and began composing in my head; far easier to think the words than to write them. Any conundrum, observation, frustration, or brilliant idea that arose over the next 30 years was simply spun around quietly in my precious and private little mind, for better or for worse.
Until now.
Now I have the Bon Blog, for better or for worse.
So, farewell to you Ms. Eisenhower.
I'm all grown up and moving on to better modes.
It's time for you to go now.
Growing up with parents who voted for him meant that, in their eyes, he was fine, just fine.
I don't hold it against them. I felt and feel the same way about Clinton.
When Nixon left office, my mother wore the shame that one wears when a close relative has disgraced himself. Parentally devoted as I was at the time, I had no choice but to believe in old Tricky Dick.
Then as now, politics weren't my thing. The pop culture surrounding our pundits and politicos? Now those are some good times.
Logically, I was fascinated with the first daughter, Julie Nixon Eisenhower.
She was 21 and a newlywed when her father was elected. I was 8 and in second grade.
I thought she was so cool.
Smart, savvy and cool.
Something I read at the time, probably Beverly Cleary but maybe Laura Ingalls Wilder, caused me to start a journal. I found it hard to just write without writing to someone. When I confessed this a year later to my third grade teacher, she encouraged me to write as if I were writing to
someone.
Logically, I chose Julie.
And so it began:
Dear Julie, Jan Johnson said I stole her flute. Why would she say such a thing? I'm no thief ...
Dear Julie, My big sister got married today. I'm so happy for her!
Dear Julie, We're going on a trip! We're driving to Kentucky and I get to meet my grandma and grandpa!
It was good fun, but eventually, I dispensed with the pen and paper and began composing in my head; far easier to think the words than to write them. Any conundrum, observation, frustration, or brilliant idea that arose over the next 30 years was simply spun around quietly in my precious and private little mind, for better or for worse.
Until now.
Now I have the Bon Blog, for better or for worse.
So, farewell to you Ms. Eisenhower.
I'm all grown up and moving on to better modes.
It's time for you to go now.
Sunday, January 22, 2006
Newhart, Teary Heart
There's something you should know before you read on.
I cry easily.
At odd times and without warning.
Remember the Ma Bell commercial about the college freshman away from home for the first time? Every single time I watched that silly, sixty second melodrama I reluctantly produced tears.
Did you cry when you saw The Incredibles? I did; even the third viewing.
One of my more impressive moments came late one night a few years back. My husband and I stumbled upon the final moments of Out of Africa. You know the part where Robert Redford's plane doesn't appear in the sky and Meryl Streep knows she's lost the only man she could ever love? That part? Swear to God, although we'd just tuned in, and I'd seen none of the emotional build-up scenes that directors use to tug the viewers heart strings, I was bawling, you guessed it, like a baby.
The tears come at other times too. Notably, during sex. I'm more selective here. It's not the everyday poke that leaves me with streaked cheeks. Make no mistake, I'm not talking about making love, I'm talking about the exquisite, soul searing stuff. Yep, that’ll put tears on my pillow too.
Exquisite people can release the tears as well.
It's a kind of barometer, I guess.
The director of my daughter's school, a genius when it comes to the education of children and adolescents, can utter the most precise observation about our youth and there I'll be, looking like an idiot crying, while the other, intelligent parents are asking insightful questions.
When I met Bonnie Raitt, I could barely say hello for the tears that were welling up. The Rodin exhibit we saw last summer. Well, most art museums really. No, I won't go there. Suffice it to say; when I go to art I've got to have an arsenal of tissue in my tote.
And it was just that, a small package of Kleenex that sat in my lap as Bob Newhart took the stage at Benaroya Hall last night. Good thing it was there too. Although I'd planned for tears of laughter, I never would have guessed that this (apparently exquisite) comedian would get me started. The crowd was applauding appreciatively, he was beaming his infectious smile and my emotions were welling up inside of me and streaming right down my cheeks.As it turns out, he's been performing since 1964; the year after my birth. He was a favorite of my mother’s, and has been in my conscience for as long as I can remember.
No wonder.
As I mopped up, Newhart easily, quietly slipped into his repertoire. Thankful of course, to be back in the Seattle, he recalled moments before his career began while he was stationed here during the Korean War.
Did you know the National Guard was once called upon to combat the mounting snow levels at Mt Rainier? “It didn’t go well; the rocket launchers entirely missed their looming target.” Big Laugh. “Perhaps they should have practiced on something bigger – say the Pacific Ocean.” Bigger laugh.
And so the next ninety minutes went: he recalling jokes and events from his past, we laughing, laughing, laughing.
Was it funny? Yes.
Was it fresh? Not really; except that like others of his era, he didn’t jab the administration, use obscenities or even one dally in “bedroom talk.”
Did I ever use my Kleenex to wipe away the tears of laughter?
No. Not until the encore, when he finally got out his famous “phone bit.”
And then I laughed so hard I cried.
I cry easily.
At odd times and without warning.
Remember the Ma Bell commercial about the college freshman away from home for the first time? Every single time I watched that silly, sixty second melodrama I reluctantly produced tears.
Did you cry when you saw The Incredibles? I did; even the third viewing.
One of my more impressive moments came late one night a few years back. My husband and I stumbled upon the final moments of Out of Africa. You know the part where Robert Redford's plane doesn't appear in the sky and Meryl Streep knows she's lost the only man she could ever love? That part? Swear to God, although we'd just tuned in, and I'd seen none of the emotional build-up scenes that directors use to tug the viewers heart strings, I was bawling, you guessed it, like a baby.
The tears come at other times too. Notably, during sex. I'm more selective here. It's not the everyday poke that leaves me with streaked cheeks. Make no mistake, I'm not talking about making love, I'm talking about the exquisite, soul searing stuff. Yep, that’ll put tears on my pillow too.
Exquisite people can release the tears as well.
It's a kind of barometer, I guess.
The director of my daughter's school, a genius when it comes to the education of children and adolescents, can utter the most precise observation about our youth and there I'll be, looking like an idiot crying, while the other, intelligent parents are asking insightful questions.
When I met Bonnie Raitt, I could barely say hello for the tears that were welling up. The Rodin exhibit we saw last summer. Well, most art museums really. No, I won't go there. Suffice it to say; when I go to art I've got to have an arsenal of tissue in my tote.
And it was just that, a small package of Kleenex that sat in my lap as Bob Newhart took the stage at Benaroya Hall last night. Good thing it was there too. Although I'd planned for tears of laughter, I never would have guessed that this (apparently exquisite) comedian would get me started. The crowd was applauding appreciatively, he was beaming his infectious smile and my emotions were welling up inside of me and streaming right down my cheeks.As it turns out, he's been performing since 1964; the year after my birth. He was a favorite of my mother’s, and has been in my conscience for as long as I can remember.
No wonder.
As I mopped up, Newhart easily, quietly slipped into his repertoire. Thankful of course, to be back in the Seattle, he recalled moments before his career began while he was stationed here during the Korean War.
Did you know the National Guard was once called upon to combat the mounting snow levels at Mt Rainier? “It didn’t go well; the rocket launchers entirely missed their looming target.” Big Laugh. “Perhaps they should have practiced on something bigger – say the Pacific Ocean.” Bigger laugh.
And so the next ninety minutes went: he recalling jokes and events from his past, we laughing, laughing, laughing.
Was it funny? Yes.
Was it fresh? Not really; except that like others of his era, he didn’t jab the administration, use obscenities or even one dally in “bedroom talk.”
Did I ever use my Kleenex to wipe away the tears of laughter?
No. Not until the encore, when he finally got out his famous “phone bit.”
And then I laughed so hard I cried.
Saturday, January 21, 2006
My Inauguration?
January 21, 2006.
Who knew today would have any sort of meaning at all.
I woke up with words in my head, wrote them down, sent them off to a friend and now look where I've ended up. My own blog.
Unlike the the reams of words spewed at presidential inaugurations, in my inaugural blog I'm promising nothing ....except perhaps, a few laughs, a bit of introspection and a unique view of our interesting little corner of the world.
As I write on, my voice will evolve and perhaps even become evident. Maybe it will hold the interest of the reader, maybe not. I'll try to keep my entries brief, but like I said before, I'm guaranteeing nothing.
In closing, I wish to thank my supporters, you know who you are. Thank-you ... more than I can ever express, thank you. And to Jim, I thank you for the title of this here blog. As usual, your concise eloquence was right on the mark. Thank you.
~bon
Who knew today would have any sort of meaning at all.
I woke up with words in my head, wrote them down, sent them off to a friend and now look where I've ended up. My own blog.
Unlike the the reams of words spewed at presidential inaugurations, in my inaugural blog I'm promising nothing ....except perhaps, a few laughs, a bit of introspection and a unique view of our interesting little corner of the world.
As I write on, my voice will evolve and perhaps even become evident. Maybe it will hold the interest of the reader, maybe not. I'll try to keep my entries brief, but like I said before, I'm guaranteeing nothing.
In closing, I wish to thank my supporters, you know who you are. Thank-you ... more than I can ever express, thank you. And to Jim, I thank you for the title of this here blog. As usual, your concise eloquence was right on the mark. Thank you.
~bon
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