Bob Dylan is singing House of the Risin' Sun. Math book is open on the desk. Note pad has the address of the hospital I wrote a letter to complain about the service. On the top of the sheet it says, "Be the change you wish to see in the world" --Ghandi. All I wanted was to complain. It won't change anything. Empty ink cartridge is besides the textbook. It should be recycled, I remind myself. Be conscientious, I command myself. A note to myself under the book reminds me to sharpen the hatchet and to try out the water filter. Paper is lying under all this. Paper I can't throw out because it can be reused or recycled. And Van Morrison is going to be next, but I don't know the song. And I'm sitting at this computer with a magenta fleece on becasue it's cold in the house. How can that be? It's almost July.
And I type because I feel obligated to post an entry on a blog because there are dates, and the last time I posted something was in March. And I can't even remember April. But May the family was all here, here in this two bedroom, one bathroom house. It wasn't too bad. But then they all went home and I thought about Iris, the Chinese student I met in Shanghai. "I didn't know that Americans cared that much about family." I told her that everyone loves their mother, and all mothers love their children. And family is important to all of us. And then we moved to Seattle where no family lives. And Van Morrison is singing "Domino" and I don't know what it's about.
Monday, June 27, 2005
Tuesday, March 15, 2005
The Gift
I was given a gift one day,
To be present at a birth.
My grandson, unnamed but already loved
Was about to meet the world
“It will be too difficult” one said.
“Aren’t you afraid for her?” asked another.
But it was the right thing to do, I knew,
And timing is always everything.
Arriving at midnight, I came prepared
To wait and to support and coach.
Crocheting to cover the insecurities
While waiting room worries filled my head.
The second daily doctor diagnosis began.
“Let’s hurry things along” she said.
Drugs dripping into mother’s veins.
“Hold my hand, mom, hold my hand.”
The third day, anticipation while the process begins.
An intensity of feeling for the sublime,
And she knows her limit and herself;
Just in time she accepts help and relief.
And I watched her change from woman to thing
A birthing thing that groaned and growled
As instinct and centuries of sounds emerged
To carry her past the threshold of now.
And the new life greeted me with a cry
And those of us in the circle wept.
For the miracle unfolded once more
Mother and child touching skin for the first time.
The truth is this: we are all sons or daughters.
We traveled like my grandson through a canal
Into this world of light, sound, touch and love.
Make a place for him, please, this new one.
To be present at a birth.
My grandson, unnamed but already loved
Was about to meet the world
“It will be too difficult” one said.
“Aren’t you afraid for her?” asked another.
But it was the right thing to do, I knew,
And timing is always everything.
Arriving at midnight, I came prepared
To wait and to support and coach.
Crocheting to cover the insecurities
While waiting room worries filled my head.
The second daily doctor diagnosis began.
“Let’s hurry things along” she said.
Drugs dripping into mother’s veins.
“Hold my hand, mom, hold my hand.”
The third day, anticipation while the process begins.
An intensity of feeling for the sublime,
And she knows her limit and herself;
Just in time she accepts help and relief.
And I watched her change from woman to thing
A birthing thing that groaned and growled
As instinct and centuries of sounds emerged
To carry her past the threshold of now.
And the new life greeted me with a cry
And those of us in the circle wept.
For the miracle unfolded once more
Mother and child touching skin for the first time.
The truth is this: we are all sons or daughters.
We traveled like my grandson through a canal
Into this world of light, sound, touch and love.
Make a place for him, please, this new one.
Monday, February 21, 2005
My Daughter's Son
Son of my daughter
I once saw a man
Blow a bubble in a bubble
Same shape, different size,
Not congruent, but similar.
The larger was protective gear
To keep the smaller one safe.
How’d he do that?
With skill and care.
Body within body,
Protected by your mother.
As fragile as a bubble,
But you won’t burst.
We’re waiting to meet you,
Will you be a stranger
or so similar we know you?
You are welcome to join us.
Our family is stretched out
By time zones and miles.
But we’re connected you’ll see
By blood, by memories,
By love and history.
We’re waiting, so join us;
Hold our hands and calm us,
Let us wonder over this
Bubble of life.
I once saw a man
Blow a bubble in a bubble
Same shape, different size,
Not congruent, but similar.
The larger was protective gear
To keep the smaller one safe.
How’d he do that?
With skill and care.
Body within body,
Protected by your mother.
As fragile as a bubble,
But you won’t burst.
We’re waiting to meet you,
Will you be a stranger
or so similar we know you?
You are welcome to join us.
Our family is stretched out
By time zones and miles.
But we’re connected you’ll see
By blood, by memories,
By love and history.
We’re waiting, so join us;
Hold our hands and calm us,
Let us wonder over this
Bubble of life.
Tuesday, January 04, 2005
Pruning the Hellebores
Pruning the Hellebores
Volunteering in the Arboretum every Tuesday afternoon is the best of all worlds. The job consists of purely physical outdoor labor. (How many of us get to do that these days?) Although some people might prefer wilder, less domesticated flora, I like this urban oasis of trees and plants. I’m surrounded by a carefully selected nature where everything is tagged, categorized and nurtured, except, of course, the weeds. That’s our weekly job as volunteers, pulling weeds: “Stinky Bob”, buttercup, horsetail, morning glory and the ever present, ever aggressive blackberry vines. We’ve become intimately acquainted with all of them.
But once in a while we get a treat, something different from the pulling, the bending and the digging of stubborn vines and roots clinging to the terrain around giant sequoia and huge hybrid rhododendron bushes. For example, last week our assignment was to prune the Hellebores, the flowering plants that return every January. Forget the weeders, pitch forks, and trowels. All we needed that day was a pruner.
Karen and Ryan, the Arboretum employees, drove the Gators (utility vehicles) carrying the rakes, tarps, buckets and pruners to the Winter Garden. We three volunteers, Leo, Ben and I walked the short distance towards the Hellebores.
Although Leo and I are old enough to be Ben’s or Ryan’s parents, we feel comfortable working beside them in this setting. Ryan doesn’t talk much, but I know he likes his job. He always finds a special bug, mushroom or leaf to marvel over. He’s never to busy to show us a new sight, the autumn leaves of the Chilean Fire tree or the changing color of the heather in the winter. Ben and I talk about films and jobs, books and travel. As we compare our preferences, I know some of our differences are generational.
Karen is a mom with a bright teenage son. She’s a good mom, I can tell, because he checks in on her cell phone when he gets home from school. And though she keeps us on task, she and I find time to talk about books, her son, the GIS class she’s taking, or just life. In one of her previous jobs she had worked as a landscaper for a company with wealthy clients.
“Every job had its special finishing touches. Raking the gravel was an important part; we had to make patterns with the rake’s teeth.”
Like Ryan she always takes the time to marvel over some growing thing. Sometimes she even collects discarded trimmings for a basket, centerpiece, or tinder for her tiny fireplace at home.
We were the only visitors on the path to the Winter Garden that day.
“Wow, look at that yellow! Is that the Mahonia?” I said pointing to a bushy plant to our right. I’m still awed by these plants that bloom in the December or January.
Next to the Mahonia were two Witch-Hazel trees, the sun backlighting the blossoms. I had never thought Witch-Hazel was a particularly handsome tree. It’s kind of gnarly looking, even in the winter when it blooms. It’s the intoxicating, aromatic scent that had impressed me when I first saw it the previous year. But that day as the sun’s rays highlighted the yellow and rust of the little petals, the trees took on a magical aspect. Watercolors and oils and pastels mixed up by some impressionistic painter dotted the branches.
After stealing a few whiffs from the Witch-Hazel I saw that Ryan and Ben had staked out their sections among the Hellebores and had begun clipping and snipping at the dark green leaves. I bent down to the ground with my pruner, looking for the stems of the large multi-leaved growth. “Do we prune all of the leaves like we did last year?” I asked Karen, eyeing a few of the fragile green and lavender flower petals.
Last year I had worried that we were taking away their protection from the wind and frosty air. I thought the tiny flowers looked naked rising from the cold crusty ground. But I discovered that Hellebores are as tough as Midwestern crocus that push up through a Missouri snow. The following week their hardy stems had stretched to push the flowers through the decaying elm leaves. Standing taller, and surrounded by new, smaller leaves the bell-shaped flowers hung their heads as if embarrassed by their strength. The cold weather flower had been given the space to grow and seek sunlight.
It was one the few times as a volunteer I could see a difference. To be honest, sometimes it feels like we’re fighting a losing battle against the weeds. The job we do on Tuesday can look undone by the following week. Pull one horsetail and another one is waiting under a leaf to take its place. And just because we’ve pulled up a bowl-full of spaghetti-stringed morning glory root doesn’t mean it’s been conquered. For every three feet of root there’s another ten winding through the bushes and vines.
Last week, though, as we stood up to survey the results of our efforts, we were all smiling. It was quitting time and the last leaf had been pruned. The Hellebore bed had a fresher, sleeker veneer. I turned to Karen to tell her how great everything looked. She was raking the path, making little grooved patterns in the gravel.
Volunteering in the Arboretum every Tuesday afternoon is the best of all worlds. The job consists of purely physical outdoor labor. (How many of us get to do that these days?) Although some people might prefer wilder, less domesticated flora, I like this urban oasis of trees and plants. I’m surrounded by a carefully selected nature where everything is tagged, categorized and nurtured, except, of course, the weeds. That’s our weekly job as volunteers, pulling weeds: “Stinky Bob”, buttercup, horsetail, morning glory and the ever present, ever aggressive blackberry vines. We’ve become intimately acquainted with all of them.
But once in a while we get a treat, something different from the pulling, the bending and the digging of stubborn vines and roots clinging to the terrain around giant sequoia and huge hybrid rhododendron bushes. For example, last week our assignment was to prune the Hellebores, the flowering plants that return every January. Forget the weeders, pitch forks, and trowels. All we needed that day was a pruner.
Karen and Ryan, the Arboretum employees, drove the Gators (utility vehicles) carrying the rakes, tarps, buckets and pruners to the Winter Garden. We three volunteers, Leo, Ben and I walked the short distance towards the Hellebores.
Although Leo and I are old enough to be Ben’s or Ryan’s parents, we feel comfortable working beside them in this setting. Ryan doesn’t talk much, but I know he likes his job. He always finds a special bug, mushroom or leaf to marvel over. He’s never to busy to show us a new sight, the autumn leaves of the Chilean Fire tree or the changing color of the heather in the winter. Ben and I talk about films and jobs, books and travel. As we compare our preferences, I know some of our differences are generational.
Karen is a mom with a bright teenage son. She’s a good mom, I can tell, because he checks in on her cell phone when he gets home from school. And though she keeps us on task, she and I find time to talk about books, her son, the GIS class she’s taking, or just life. In one of her previous jobs she had worked as a landscaper for a company with wealthy clients.
“Every job had its special finishing touches. Raking the gravel was an important part; we had to make patterns with the rake’s teeth.”
Like Ryan she always takes the time to marvel over some growing thing. Sometimes she even collects discarded trimmings for a basket, centerpiece, or tinder for her tiny fireplace at home.
We were the only visitors on the path to the Winter Garden that day.
“Wow, look at that yellow! Is that the Mahonia?” I said pointing to a bushy plant to our right. I’m still awed by these plants that bloom in the December or January.
Next to the Mahonia were two Witch-Hazel trees, the sun backlighting the blossoms. I had never thought Witch-Hazel was a particularly handsome tree. It’s kind of gnarly looking, even in the winter when it blooms. It’s the intoxicating, aromatic scent that had impressed me when I first saw it the previous year. But that day as the sun’s rays highlighted the yellow and rust of the little petals, the trees took on a magical aspect. Watercolors and oils and pastels mixed up by some impressionistic painter dotted the branches.
After stealing a few whiffs from the Witch-Hazel I saw that Ryan and Ben had staked out their sections among the Hellebores and had begun clipping and snipping at the dark green leaves. I bent down to the ground with my pruner, looking for the stems of the large multi-leaved growth. “Do we prune all of the leaves like we did last year?” I asked Karen, eyeing a few of the fragile green and lavender flower petals.
Last year I had worried that we were taking away their protection from the wind and frosty air. I thought the tiny flowers looked naked rising from the cold crusty ground. But I discovered that Hellebores are as tough as Midwestern crocus that push up through a Missouri snow. The following week their hardy stems had stretched to push the flowers through the decaying elm leaves. Standing taller, and surrounded by new, smaller leaves the bell-shaped flowers hung their heads as if embarrassed by their strength. The cold weather flower had been given the space to grow and seek sunlight.
It was one the few times as a volunteer I could see a difference. To be honest, sometimes it feels like we’re fighting a losing battle against the weeds. The job we do on Tuesday can look undone by the following week. Pull one horsetail and another one is waiting under a leaf to take its place. And just because we’ve pulled up a bowl-full of spaghetti-stringed morning glory root doesn’t mean it’s been conquered. For every three feet of root there’s another ten winding through the bushes and vines.
Last week, though, as we stood up to survey the results of our efforts, we were all smiling. It was quitting time and the last leaf had been pruned. The Hellebore bed had a fresher, sleeker veneer. I turned to Karen to tell her how great everything looked. She was raking the path, making little grooved patterns in the gravel.
Monday, January 03, 2005
Christmas Stollen
I looked at the clock. It was 6:25 a.m. "Ohmigosh, I've gotta get going!" "Whaaa?" said Leo, under the covers. "It's the day I make stollen and I've got to get it together cause it takes a long time." I put on my robe and go into the kitchen and begin pulling out flour, raisins, butter, bowls, yeast and the recipe I had copied from Aly's old, used cookbook at Thanksgiving. I made a "sponge" out of the yeast, milk and flour and after I got it into the oven to raise, I called Mimi.
“Think good thoughts,” I begged. I had been visualizing Nonnie all morning, putting on her red and white apron, surround by her enameled kitchen appliances, pulling out a pound of butter in a bowl, dipping into the flour bin. The only advice I got from my mother was, “I think Nonnie soaked the raisins. She always said that if she didn’t soak them they turned the bread brown.” Leo suggested we soak them in bourbon. I decided that wouldn’t be a good idea, besides he wouldn’t give up any of his Jack Daniels for a Christmas Stollen.
“Buzzzzzzz.” The timer went off, I peeked in the oven and removed the dish towel covering the mixture. I saw a gray mass that looked more like first grade paste than stollen sponge. Not ready yet. I had learned from my rye bread making experience that dough takes a long time to rise. So I gently covered up my creation and quietly closed the oven door and began beating the butter and sugar into a creamy, satiny cloud. At that point I checked the sponge again…it was ready to mingle. I put it in the bowl with the butter mixture and began adding, one cup at a time, the seven cups of flour I had sifted. [I know, I don’t have to sift in this day of pre-sifted flour, but I’m into the zen of this ritual and besides I had pictured Nonnie sifting a bowlful of flour.] The dough seemed to grow.
“Leo, help me.” He walked into the kitchen to see me trying to knead a pile of dough that was as big as a basketball. “I’ve got to get this robe off!” The dough was trying to crawl up my arms; my sleeves were in the way. I continued to push and press the dough as it began to change from a gelatinous lump of gooey, dare I say, muscus to the plastic, responsive glomp of raw bread that I recognized from my rye bread days. Hey, this is working. I kept adding flour and the dough finally said enough. It was giving and taking in that elastic way that tells you it’s ready to go to a resting spot so it can breathe and grow.
At this point, Debby is saying to herself, Sue really is losing it. Or else, doesn’t she have anything better to do? Well, I do have to be at the arboretum today at 12:30 so I’m hoping that this process will be finished by then. But Aly, I’m practicing “the mindfulness of baking”, you understand. And Deb, I know you really understand. And Carrie you understand why I have to record this in writing, don’t you. And Mimi, you understand why I have to share this with all of you, don’t you? And Rich, you are thinking, now what’s stolen, and do I like it? And yes, you will all get to taste it except Alyson. But Aly we will report on the results, I promise. So everything is really going smooooothly…
Arghhhh! The dough has risen and it looks like it will fill a washtub. I knead in the almonds, the candied fruit and the raisins and the dough has tripled in size. “Place dough on greased pans…” Pans! I didn’t know that I would need two pans. How am I going to cook two of them at once. I don’t know if I can fit two into the oven at the same time and cook them together. I calmed down and brushed melted butter on the two loaves following the recipe. I dug out another cookie sheet and put the smaller loaf on it and they are sleeping peacefully in the warmed oven. After forty-five minutes I place them into a 350 degree oven to bake. By the way, Mom, do you still have some of that stolen left over from Thanksgiving? You should eat it now, all of it, maybe leave a crumb or two for a taste test. (So much for mindfulness…)
Ever heard of burritos as big as your head?! Well, this recipe makes TWO loaves as big as footballs,… no, bigger. Now I know we will have to mail at least one of them. I still want to bring one out east with me so you and Dan will get to taste this traditional bread from our family. By the way, after Nonnie passed, away Aunt Francie took over the tradition. I think Mom said that Aunt Francie couldn’t beat Nonnie’s stolen, though. If I ship this to St. Joseph we will try to pack it so it’s nestled in something so it won’t get crushed. Actually it might weigh twenty pounds so maybe it will be the one doing the crushing.
At eleven o’clock the two loaves are in the oven baking. I have an hour before we leave for the arboretum. All I have to do is make the glaze and I’m finished. If any of you want to take over this tradition, it doesn’t take all day. Just five or six hours and lot of flour and butter. Happy Holidays. Love Sue
P.S. I just removed the loaves from the oven. They are each as big as Leo’s leg. Now what? I think I’ll mail half to Deb and a full one to Mom and bring half to Dan and Carrie’s IF the bread is any good. I also talked to my friend Malina who makes Swedish sweet bread every year and she says she doesn’t let it double in size because it continues to rise in the oven…I found that OUT! Help!... the bread is taking over the kitchen…………………………………………………
We arrive in Brookyn two days later. I wrapped the half loaf in plastic wrap and security didn't even ask to unwrap it. In fact I didn't get checked at all. That night while celebrating Shabat with Carrie and Nir, my biggest thrill was to see the Stollen next to the Challah on their table. Four days later, we arrive in Kansas City and the first thing I do when I get to my sister's is look for the Stollen. "Yes, it made it here. It's in the refrigerator." There were the loaves, taking up a whole shelf. My second biggest thrill was watching my mother spread a slice with butter Christmas Eve morning and remark, "Sue, this is really really good. Nonnie would be proud!"
“Think good thoughts,” I begged. I had been visualizing Nonnie all morning, putting on her red and white apron, surround by her enameled kitchen appliances, pulling out a pound of butter in a bowl, dipping into the flour bin. The only advice I got from my mother was, “I think Nonnie soaked the raisins. She always said that if she didn’t soak them they turned the bread brown.” Leo suggested we soak them in bourbon. I decided that wouldn’t be a good idea, besides he wouldn’t give up any of his Jack Daniels for a Christmas Stollen.
“Buzzzzzzz.” The timer went off, I peeked in the oven and removed the dish towel covering the mixture. I saw a gray mass that looked more like first grade paste than stollen sponge. Not ready yet. I had learned from my rye bread making experience that dough takes a long time to rise. So I gently covered up my creation and quietly closed the oven door and began beating the butter and sugar into a creamy, satiny cloud. At that point I checked the sponge again…it was ready to mingle. I put it in the bowl with the butter mixture and began adding, one cup at a time, the seven cups of flour I had sifted. [I know, I don’t have to sift in this day of pre-sifted flour, but I’m into the zen of this ritual and besides I had pictured Nonnie sifting a bowlful of flour.] The dough seemed to grow.
“Leo, help me.” He walked into the kitchen to see me trying to knead a pile of dough that was as big as a basketball. “I’ve got to get this robe off!” The dough was trying to crawl up my arms; my sleeves were in the way. I continued to push and press the dough as it began to change from a gelatinous lump of gooey, dare I say, muscus to the plastic, responsive glomp of raw bread that I recognized from my rye bread days. Hey, this is working. I kept adding flour and the dough finally said enough. It was giving and taking in that elastic way that tells you it’s ready to go to a resting spot so it can breathe and grow.
At this point, Debby is saying to herself, Sue really is losing it. Or else, doesn’t she have anything better to do? Well, I do have to be at the arboretum today at 12:30 so I’m hoping that this process will be finished by then. But Aly, I’m practicing “the mindfulness of baking”, you understand. And Deb, I know you really understand. And Carrie you understand why I have to record this in writing, don’t you. And Mimi, you understand why I have to share this with all of you, don’t you? And Rich, you are thinking, now what’s stolen, and do I like it? And yes, you will all get to taste it except Alyson. But Aly we will report on the results, I promise. So everything is really going smooooothly…
Arghhhh! The dough has risen and it looks like it will fill a washtub. I knead in the almonds, the candied fruit and the raisins and the dough has tripled in size. “Place dough on greased pans…” Pans! I didn’t know that I would need two pans. How am I going to cook two of them at once. I don’t know if I can fit two into the oven at the same time and cook them together. I calmed down and brushed melted butter on the two loaves following the recipe. I dug out another cookie sheet and put the smaller loaf on it and they are sleeping peacefully in the warmed oven. After forty-five minutes I place them into a 350 degree oven to bake. By the way, Mom, do you still have some of that stolen left over from Thanksgiving? You should eat it now, all of it, maybe leave a crumb or two for a taste test. (So much for mindfulness…)
Ever heard of burritos as big as your head?! Well, this recipe makes TWO loaves as big as footballs,… no, bigger. Now I know we will have to mail at least one of them. I still want to bring one out east with me so you and Dan will get to taste this traditional bread from our family. By the way, after Nonnie passed, away Aunt Francie took over the tradition. I think Mom said that Aunt Francie couldn’t beat Nonnie’s stolen, though. If I ship this to St. Joseph we will try to pack it so it’s nestled in something so it won’t get crushed. Actually it might weigh twenty pounds so maybe it will be the one doing the crushing.
At eleven o’clock the two loaves are in the oven baking. I have an hour before we leave for the arboretum. All I have to do is make the glaze and I’m finished. If any of you want to take over this tradition, it doesn’t take all day. Just five or six hours and lot of flour and butter. Happy Holidays. Love Sue
P.S. I just removed the loaves from the oven. They are each as big as Leo’s leg. Now what? I think I’ll mail half to Deb and a full one to Mom and bring half to Dan and Carrie’s IF the bread is any good. I also talked to my friend Malina who makes Swedish sweet bread every year and she says she doesn’t let it double in size because it continues to rise in the oven…I found that OUT! Help!... the bread is taking over the kitchen…………………………………………………
We arrive in Brookyn two days later. I wrapped the half loaf in plastic wrap and security didn't even ask to unwrap it. In fact I didn't get checked at all. That night while celebrating Shabat with Carrie and Nir, my biggest thrill was to see the Stollen next to the Challah on their table. Four days later, we arrive in Kansas City and the first thing I do when I get to my sister's is look for the Stollen. "Yes, it made it here. It's in the refrigerator." There were the loaves, taking up a whole shelf. My second biggest thrill was watching my mother spread a slice with butter Christmas Eve morning and remark, "Sue, this is really really good. Nonnie would be proud!"
The New Year in Seattle
The New Year
January 2, 2005
After a great holiday visit with most of the family (we missed Alyson in Chicago...but we were there Thanksgiving) we returned to Seattle once again wondering if it would ever feel like home. We decided to go see a movie the Thursday before New Year's. We were early (we always are because it just doesn't take very long to get anywhere in this town) so I suggested we walk along Broadway. "Ooh, and I can check out that stupid store I noticed the last time we biked to work. I can't believe that someone would call a store ‘High Maintenance Bitch’...you'd think that at least one woman would complain to the chamber of commerce."
I've been on my high horse lately about many things. Leo and I can't get through the daily newspaper without saying, "Can you believe this.." or "Listen to this, this is unbelievable." I suppose my grandparents did the same thing as they read the paper in the sixties. It’s partially because the world continues to change as the younger generation takes it over from the older generation. It's partially because I don't agree with the politics of half of our country. And it's partially because the goddam world is going down the @#*%$##@@ tubes....oops, now I'm digressing. But, I mean, why did our generation fight so hard for a woman's right to be equal if girl power means that someone like Brittney Spears is a pop idol and stores can pop up called "high maintenance bitch." I don't call this progressing.
I continued to rant and rave as we approached the store around the corner from the movie theater. There it was in pink and glitter. Hmmph. Perfumes and sprays were in the window on little silk brocaded chaise lounges. I saw a sign on a rack inside the store that said "All tied up." Well this IS the Capitol Hill neighborhood. As I got closer I saw a poster on the door to the store. I began to read it aloud to Leo.
"As of December 10 our chain of stores has gone national. Please come in to help us celebrate the success of one of the most unique specialty stores catering to dogs in the country... Wha...!!??? ...It's for dogs!? Look, those are little doggie beds...and that rack inside the store is a leash display. I don't believe it!" I was still laughing as we walked back to the theater.
I should be getting used to these experiences where I hear a whooooshhh going over my head...I don't quite understand many of the commercials on tv either. Not only don't I get the humor or the message, I don't get what the product is. It usually has something to do with a phenomenon called WiFi or something else with technology. I remember walking into a Best Buy two weeks after we returned from our year in Prague seeing a sign that said, "PDA accessories." "Uh, Leo, what's a PDA and why do they need accessories?” The only thing we knew at the time was that PDA was Public Displays of Affection, which was a no-no in the high schools where we worked. NOW I know that PDA means Personalized Digital Assistant, sort of like a secretary, which, by the way, isn't the correct title anymore. That job goes by the name of administrative assistant.
On this day after the first day of the new year (which marks the end of the first half of the first decade of the second millennium by the way) we decided to take a bike ride to Golden Gardens Park on Shilshoe Bay. It’s a beautiful day, a totally blue sky, with Mount Ranier peeking over the skyline of Seattle. The ride was perfect, distance wise, about 45 minutes to get to the park. It was cooler than I thought it would be, but that was because it was windy. I was looking forward to the return trip because we’d have a tail wind.
As we rounded the turn by Ray’s Boathouse, we could see the white white of the Olympic mountains glistening in the sun. The water of Shilshoe Bay was a deep blue. “Look, some people must have camped here over night,” I said, pointing to three tents flapping in the strong wind.
“Those aren’t tents; they’re kites,” said Leo. “See there’s a big one over there.”
We had driven to Golden Gardens the day before because the American Kite Flyers Association had advertised their annual New Year’s kite flying event. Because of the colder weather there were only a few people flying kites there when we arrived. At first I thought these kite flyers were from that group. Then I saw a guy in a wet suit… “Hey, these nuts are kite surfing…I think John Kerry does it.”
We rode out to the point on the beach just in time to see a guy, in a wet suit, a small board a little larger than a snowboard under one arm and both hands holding onto the bar tied to a very large, very chaotic-moving kite, wade into the water. He dipped into the water, tucked his feet into the loops on the board, straightened and off he went, the kite pulling him as fast as a speed boat.
“Wonder how they turn…” Leo said as he stared intently at the guy who looked like he had no control over his destiny. Just then he reached up, pulled the middle string on the kite which immediately started to dive bomb into the sea. But it didn’t; it quickly turned soaring up faster and higher, pulling the man out of the water.
“Oh, my god,” I said, pointing to the body sailing out over the cold dark blue waters, “it’s lifted him right out of the sea. He’s in trouble…” But as I was saying that the guy performed a graceful 180 degree turn in the air, landing right on top of a small wave heading back into the shore. He was a pro.
There were three other kite surfers now doing the same maneuvers. Obviously, they all knew what they were doing. I still wasn’t used to living in an area where people do extreme sports. To be honest, I’m still in awe of people who do any sport in the ocean or on these mountains. But for many people who grew up around these landscapes, they’re used to them.
We took Nordic ski lessons last year from the mountaineers. We knew our Chicagoland skiing expertise wasn’t sufficient for the terrain out here. So next weekend we will test our proficiency by going to the Methow Valley a few hours from Seattle and ski some of the hills. That area is known for its great cross-country skiing. They say there will be enough snow. It’s been late coming here.
January 2, 2005
After a great holiday visit with most of the family (we missed Alyson in Chicago...but we were there Thanksgiving) we returned to Seattle once again wondering if it would ever feel like home. We decided to go see a movie the Thursday before New Year's. We were early (we always are because it just doesn't take very long to get anywhere in this town) so I suggested we walk along Broadway. "Ooh, and I can check out that stupid store I noticed the last time we biked to work. I can't believe that someone would call a store ‘High Maintenance Bitch’...you'd think that at least one woman would complain to the chamber of commerce."
I've been on my high horse lately about many things. Leo and I can't get through the daily newspaper without saying, "Can you believe this.." or "Listen to this, this is unbelievable." I suppose my grandparents did the same thing as they read the paper in the sixties. It’s partially because the world continues to change as the younger generation takes it over from the older generation. It's partially because I don't agree with the politics of half of our country. And it's partially because the goddam world is going down the @#*%$##@@ tubes....oops, now I'm digressing. But, I mean, why did our generation fight so hard for a woman's right to be equal if girl power means that someone like Brittney Spears is a pop idol and stores can pop up called "high maintenance bitch." I don't call this progressing.
I continued to rant and rave as we approached the store around the corner from the movie theater. There it was in pink and glitter. Hmmph. Perfumes and sprays were in the window on little silk brocaded chaise lounges. I saw a sign on a rack inside the store that said "All tied up." Well this IS the Capitol Hill neighborhood. As I got closer I saw a poster on the door to the store. I began to read it aloud to Leo.
"As of December 10 our chain of stores has gone national. Please come in to help us celebrate the success of one of the most unique specialty stores catering to dogs in the country... Wha...!!??? ...It's for dogs!? Look, those are little doggie beds...and that rack inside the store is a leash display. I don't believe it!" I was still laughing as we walked back to the theater.
I should be getting used to these experiences where I hear a whooooshhh going over my head...I don't quite understand many of the commercials on tv either. Not only don't I get the humor or the message, I don't get what the product is. It usually has something to do with a phenomenon called WiFi or something else with technology. I remember walking into a Best Buy two weeks after we returned from our year in Prague seeing a sign that said, "PDA accessories." "Uh, Leo, what's a PDA and why do they need accessories?” The only thing we knew at the time was that PDA was Public Displays of Affection, which was a no-no in the high schools where we worked. NOW I know that PDA means Personalized Digital Assistant, sort of like a secretary, which, by the way, isn't the correct title anymore. That job goes by the name of administrative assistant.
On this day after the first day of the new year (which marks the end of the first half of the first decade of the second millennium by the way) we decided to take a bike ride to Golden Gardens Park on Shilshoe Bay. It’s a beautiful day, a totally blue sky, with Mount Ranier peeking over the skyline of Seattle. The ride was perfect, distance wise, about 45 minutes to get to the park. It was cooler than I thought it would be, but that was because it was windy. I was looking forward to the return trip because we’d have a tail wind.
As we rounded the turn by Ray’s Boathouse, we could see the white white of the Olympic mountains glistening in the sun. The water of Shilshoe Bay was a deep blue. “Look, some people must have camped here over night,” I said, pointing to three tents flapping in the strong wind.
“Those aren’t tents; they’re kites,” said Leo. “See there’s a big one over there.”
We had driven to Golden Gardens the day before because the American Kite Flyers Association had advertised their annual New Year’s kite flying event. Because of the colder weather there were only a few people flying kites there when we arrived. At first I thought these kite flyers were from that group. Then I saw a guy in a wet suit… “Hey, these nuts are kite surfing…I think John Kerry does it.”
We rode out to the point on the beach just in time to see a guy, in a wet suit, a small board a little larger than a snowboard under one arm and both hands holding onto the bar tied to a very large, very chaotic-moving kite, wade into the water. He dipped into the water, tucked his feet into the loops on the board, straightened and off he went, the kite pulling him as fast as a speed boat.
“Wonder how they turn…” Leo said as he stared intently at the guy who looked like he had no control over his destiny. Just then he reached up, pulled the middle string on the kite which immediately started to dive bomb into the sea. But it didn’t; it quickly turned soaring up faster and higher, pulling the man out of the water.
“Oh, my god,” I said, pointing to the body sailing out over the cold dark blue waters, “it’s lifted him right out of the sea. He’s in trouble…” But as I was saying that the guy performed a graceful 180 degree turn in the air, landing right on top of a small wave heading back into the shore. He was a pro.
There were three other kite surfers now doing the same maneuvers. Obviously, they all knew what they were doing. I still wasn’t used to living in an area where people do extreme sports. To be honest, I’m still in awe of people who do any sport in the ocean or on these mountains. But for many people who grew up around these landscapes, they’re used to them.
We took Nordic ski lessons last year from the mountaineers. We knew our Chicagoland skiing expertise wasn’t sufficient for the terrain out here. So next weekend we will test our proficiency by going to the Methow Valley a few hours from Seattle and ski some of the hills. That area is known for its great cross-country skiing. They say there will be enough snow. It’s been late coming here.
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