The paint
on the white picket fence
was peeling.
The dried-up,
seed-filled pods
on the spent poppies
drooped.
The grass
was brown
and dusty.
The kitchen window
was mostly
broken.
I picked up a rock
and threw it
hard.
The rest of the glass
shattered
and fell.
No one
lived there
anymore.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Monday, January 16, 2012
It's Snow Simple Matter
You wake up in the morning and you mozy out of bed.
You stick your feet in your slippers
And maybe scratch your head.
You stretch
and you yawn
and you feel all right
When you take a look outside and...
EVERYTHING IS WHITE!
So now what do you do?
Do you have to go outside
Or is it safer to stay in?
Do you have to go to work?
Or can you climb back in
to that bed that's still so warm
That bed that feels so soft--
Do you have to go to school
or did they call it off?
Can you play all day in that
white fluffy snow?
Is there something truly pressing?
Do you really have to go?
You hate those messy roads!
You hate those sheets of ice!
Is it really that important?
Cuz' your bed is looking nice.
Have a cuppa' hot chocolate!
Build a snowman with your kid.
Stay home.
Take a break.
You'll be oh so glad you did!
Friday, January 13, 2012
Color Me Purple or Orange or Green or...?
My darling husband has informed me that the sheet rock will be going up in the new house within the month. Therefore, it is my clearly defined duty to select the colors for the walls. All of the walls. At once. If it were just one room or just one wall, perhaps I could manage without too much difficulty. That would be rather like selecting just the right party dress or the color for my hair--simple enough to change should I tire of it. But all of the walls in one blow, dear reader, how is a girl to do that?!
Where do I start? I've perused so many articles on selecting color and I've dabbled with several of those gadgety online room simulators, all of which have rendered me utterly useless and more bewildered than before.
Providencial olive? Why, yes, that's so restful! Tranquil blue? Indeed, yes, please! What about that Kangaroo tan or the beautiful golden lab? How about a nice bird's egg blue with punches of tangerine? Red! Who doesn't love red? Add splashes of black, of course! What room would be complete without black or white?
Do you see my dilema? My quandry? My colorwheel turned quagmire? I love them all! Each color and hue and intensity evokes my imagination and I begin all over again to redesign every room of the house. I simply can not seem to settle.
Well, now, to be honest I have eliminated the crayon box colors "orchid" and "charteuse." I dislike those colors intensely. So, you see, I am making some progress.
If only I could date the colors for a while. You know, take them out dancing or to the movies and see if they laughed when I did or made me blush maddeningly with the slightest glance my way. Then I would know, wouldn't I? Then I would know, just who I wanted to spend the rest of my life with and who I wanted to see across the breakfast table every morning.
If we could spend a year dating I could see how they would react when viewed in a different light or when my mood changed ever so subtly. I would know which color to choose for sure, if only I could spend more time just hanging out with each one before I had to commit. But, I only have a few weeks to decide.
...Only a matter of days to fall in love.
No wonder they call it a "color wheel;" it makes one dizzy to think about them.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
The Dishes are Still in the Sink
Today my five-year old son and I finished off almost all the peppermint bark from Christmas.I unabashedly bribed him to practice his "Twinkles" on his violin. For every squeaky full song he played, I gave him a piece of peppermint and ate one myself with a gleam in my eye. We felt so sneaky and wicked! (Not to worry. We left one piece each for Daddy and his older sister.) He made amazing progress on his "Twinkles."
Yesterday I made him a "Memory Game" out of paper and used pizza boxes. We pasted "sight words" on the back of the old pizza box and cut them out. Then, we played for an hour while his baby brother was napping. He must have hugged me five times during the game telling me he loved me so much.
I left the dishes in the sink tonite. For some reason that song, "There's always tomorrow" keeps coming into my mind whenever I think about the dishes, but it never came into my mind when I was eating peppermint and practicing with my son. Never. Not once.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Signs and Seasons
The first Shasta Daisy bloomed today. It's a sure sign of summer.
Around here I need signs because the weather is no certain indicator. One day it is summer and the next it is not. June 25 today and what did I make for dinner? Soup. Soup, I tell you! That warm, ambient meal often reserved for autumn and winter. I made broccoli / cheese soup with warm sourdough bread to ward off the chill I felt from the dank clouds hanging in the heavens. At least the broccoli was freshly picked from my garden...another sure sign of summer.
The last two days were warmish. At 76 on Wednesday it felt downright blistering. If the mercury ever hits 80 we all go into a tailspin looking for popsicles and running for the beach.
The hydrangeas are starting to bloom so it must be nearing the 4th of July....
Around here I need signs because the weather is no certain indicator. One day it is summer and the next it is not. June 25 today and what did I make for dinner? Soup. Soup, I tell you! That warm, ambient meal often reserved for autumn and winter. I made broccoli / cheese soup with warm sourdough bread to ward off the chill I felt from the dank clouds hanging in the heavens. At least the broccoli was freshly picked from my garden...another sure sign of summer.
The last two days were warmish. At 76 on Wednesday it felt downright blistering. If the mercury ever hits 80 we all go into a tailspin looking for popsicles and running for the beach.
The hydrangeas are starting to bloom so it must be nearing the 4th of July....
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Flutter-Bye
Glitter, flitter, princess crowns
Ruby slippers, fancy gowns.
Kisses, giggles, curly hair
Froggy, doggy, teddy bear.
Cuddles, puddles, sleepy time
Swings and slides and trees to climb.
All too soon you're grown and gone
Off to school with blue jeans on.
By: Sarah L. Garriott
Ruby slippers, fancy gowns.
Kisses, giggles, curly hair
Froggy, doggy, teddy bear.
Cuddles, puddles, sleepy time
Swings and slides and trees to climb.
All too soon you're grown and gone
Off to school with blue jeans on.
By: Sarah L. Garriott
All in the Family
I have two biological brothers. I have two adopted sisters. We became a family the day my parents chose to love us and give us a home.
I have an adopted daughter and a biological son. People have asked me if there is a difference in my love for them? Yes. Yes there is a difference. It is the same kind of difference as if you had asked which do you love more your eyes or your hands? Your ears or your feet? The moon or the stars?
Mother, Father, I am your biological offspring, but what did I inherit from you? I don't have your eyes, your nose, or your mouth. Dad's skin, maybe? Yes. I have dad's ultra-white, freckled skin.
But, I have inherited much from you both.
From my mother I inherited the idea that white bread is poison and I should never eat it. It will turn to paste in my intestinal tract and rob me of nutrients. I should always take vitamin supplements--especially if I slip up and eat white bread or, GASP, sugar.
I also inherited my mother's disdain for day-time television and television in general.
I feel serious guilt if I do not get up and get dressed--"ready for the day"-- by 6 AM. And, truly, that's practically lunch time already for my mom. I'm working on passing on my genetic code to my children. I can't help myself; it's part of my being.
My father loves to fill out forms and so do I. We like to fill in all those fabulous blanks and check all the pertinent boxes that apply. It fills us with ethereal satisfaction. We both shrink from making phone calls to people we barely know. We have tele-phobia.
I believe I and all of my siblings inherited the knowledge that even if no one else loves us--our parents do. My children are lucky; they inherited that, too.
Both of my children are in love with my hair. I never loved my parent's hair. I wonder who they got that from? They stroke my hair, smell my hair, entwine their fingers in my hair and run to it when they are frightened or sleepy. No teddy bears or blankets or binkies for them...only Mama's hair. They must have gotten it from their dad; he loves my hair, too. He calls it, "sparkly."
My mother and I pray and expect an answer--even if that answer comes "someday." I'm waiting to see if that gene will blossom in my children or not.
Gardening, planting, nurturing, harvesting and preserving--all of these activities are hard-wired into my genetic code as they were in generation upon generation before me. I must garden or I am not. To see my children digging and harvesting with me reassures me that the legacy of reveling in spring blossoms, summer buds and autumn's harvest will be passed on.
My daughter has my genetic love for words. She is six. My son has inherited my ultra-white, freckled skin. He is three.
Neither of them has my eyes, but even if they did...we'd all see things differently.
Sarah L. Garriott
I have an adopted daughter and a biological son. People have asked me if there is a difference in my love for them? Yes. Yes there is a difference. It is the same kind of difference as if you had asked which do you love more your eyes or your hands? Your ears or your feet? The moon or the stars?
Mother, Father, I am your biological offspring, but what did I inherit from you? I don't have your eyes, your nose, or your mouth. Dad's skin, maybe? Yes. I have dad's ultra-white, freckled skin.
But, I have inherited much from you both.
From my mother I inherited the idea that white bread is poison and I should never eat it. It will turn to paste in my intestinal tract and rob me of nutrients. I should always take vitamin supplements--especially if I slip up and eat white bread or, GASP, sugar.
I also inherited my mother's disdain for day-time television and television in general.
I feel serious guilt if I do not get up and get dressed--"ready for the day"-- by 6 AM. And, truly, that's practically lunch time already for my mom. I'm working on passing on my genetic code to my children. I can't help myself; it's part of my being.
My father loves to fill out forms and so do I. We like to fill in all those fabulous blanks and check all the pertinent boxes that apply. It fills us with ethereal satisfaction. We both shrink from making phone calls to people we barely know. We have tele-phobia.
I believe I and all of my siblings inherited the knowledge that even if no one else loves us--our parents do. My children are lucky; they inherited that, too.
Both of my children are in love with my hair. I never loved my parent's hair. I wonder who they got that from? They stroke my hair, smell my hair, entwine their fingers in my hair and run to it when they are frightened or sleepy. No teddy bears or blankets or binkies for them...only Mama's hair. They must have gotten it from their dad; he loves my hair, too. He calls it, "sparkly."
My mother and I pray and expect an answer--even if that answer comes "someday." I'm waiting to see if that gene will blossom in my children or not.
Gardening, planting, nurturing, harvesting and preserving--all of these activities are hard-wired into my genetic code as they were in generation upon generation before me. I must garden or I am not. To see my children digging and harvesting with me reassures me that the legacy of reveling in spring blossoms, summer buds and autumn's harvest will be passed on.
My daughter has my genetic love for words. She is six. My son has inherited my ultra-white, freckled skin. He is three.
Neither of them has my eyes, but even if they did...we'd all see things differently.
Sarah L. Garriott
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Peace
It feels satisfaction in being a raindrop.
It lets others talk.
It releases regret like heat in a hot air balloon.
It uses anger only as a way to reproduce itself and survive.
It remembers.
It forgets.
It can hear the clock ticking while it slowly sips tea.
It is a boat on a storm-tossed sea...again.
It awakens.
It is the salmon who knows its way home.
It is the mother who has a change of clothes, a snack and a kiss for her child.
It is the father's protective embrace and the smell of him always there.
It finds itself in its description.
By: Sarah L. Garriott
It lets others talk.
It releases regret like heat in a hot air balloon.
It uses anger only as a way to reproduce itself and survive.
It remembers.
It forgets.
It can hear the clock ticking while it slowly sips tea.
It is a boat on a storm-tossed sea...again.
It awakens.
It is the salmon who knows its way home.
It is the mother who has a change of clothes, a snack and a kiss for her child.
It is the father's protective embrace and the smell of him always there.
It finds itself in its description.
By: Sarah L. Garriott
Monday, April 5, 2010
Facade
Oh, a hair! A white, white hair!
Color it! Cover it! Hear me shout!
Pull it! Yank it! Tear it OUT!
Aging? Never! No not I.
I'm 32 until I die.
Liposuction
Nip and tuck
Eyebrow lifts for just a buck.
Lasar zap that fat away!
Facial contours
Don't delay!
Round that bum
And lift that chest!
Aren't my new lips
Just the best?!
Ah, my skin! It just got clearer...
But, hey, who's that there in my bathroom mirror?
By: Sarah L. Garriott
Color it! Cover it! Hear me shout!
Pull it! Yank it! Tear it OUT!
Aging? Never! No not I.
I'm 32 until I die.
Liposuction
Nip and tuck
Eyebrow lifts for just a buck.
Lasar zap that fat away!
Facial contours
Don't delay!
Round that bum
And lift that chest!
Aren't my new lips
Just the best?!
Ah, my skin! It just got clearer...
But, hey, who's that there in my bathroom mirror?
By: Sarah L. Garriott
Lost
Again I looked for you today--there where I thought you would be--and then I remembered that you weren't.
I heard you laughing today, but it was another.
I thought sure you were coming perhaps in time for the holiday or at least by Spring, but something always seems to foul up the plan and, once again, you are delayed in your arrival. Perhaps next year?
The family has been asking about you. I smile and change the subject. I hate to raise false hopes.
I couldn't find my cellular phone the other day; I said a little prayer and magically walked right to it. I can't tell you how many times I've prayed about you and still you are lost to me.
I have called you in every way I know how, but you simply refuse to come in to dinner!
Have you caught the kisses I've been blowing for you? I send them every day.
By: Sarah L. Garriott
I heard you laughing today, but it was another.
I thought sure you were coming perhaps in time for the holiday or at least by Spring, but something always seems to foul up the plan and, once again, you are delayed in your arrival. Perhaps next year?
The family has been asking about you. I smile and change the subject. I hate to raise false hopes.
I couldn't find my cellular phone the other day; I said a little prayer and magically walked right to it. I can't tell you how many times I've prayed about you and still you are lost to me.
I have called you in every way I know how, but you simply refuse to come in to dinner!
Have you caught the kisses I've been blowing for you? I send them every day.
By: Sarah L. Garriott
Grandmother
For nearly ten long years you have been gone
Yet still in my world you live.
When I pen these words
It is your hands I see writing.
When I speak
It is your voice I so often hear.
When I cry
It is your arms I feel around me.
When I laugh
I know you laugh with me.
I'm glad you are with me, Grandmother, for in my day growing old is something to disdain and to fear. Aging is a disease to be fought with all manner of physical alterations and fervent denial. Women cling to their youth as a child clings to its mother.
But you, Grandmother, have given me a reason to grow old and to glory in it. Educated and eloquent, giving and full of grace, brimming with wisdom and experience I can't envision a more beautiful woman than you are.
Your life's history is recorded in the wrinkles of your skin, in the strands of your soft white curls and in the depths of your eyes.
With rolls of baked goods stored around your middle and age spots on your hands--you have known not only pain and loss, but also joy and abundance.
When I rock my children
I sing with your voice.
When I put them to bed
I pray with your faith.
When I tell them I love them
I feel generations of love.
As I grow old
I am glad of your company.
By: Sarah L. Garriott
Yet still in my world you live.
When I pen these words
It is your hands I see writing.
When I speak
It is your voice I so often hear.
When I cry
It is your arms I feel around me.
When I laugh
I know you laugh with me.
I'm glad you are with me, Grandmother, for in my day growing old is something to disdain and to fear. Aging is a disease to be fought with all manner of physical alterations and fervent denial. Women cling to their youth as a child clings to its mother.
But you, Grandmother, have given me a reason to grow old and to glory in it. Educated and eloquent, giving and full of grace, brimming with wisdom and experience I can't envision a more beautiful woman than you are.
Your life's history is recorded in the wrinkles of your skin, in the strands of your soft white curls and in the depths of your eyes.
With rolls of baked goods stored around your middle and age spots on your hands--you have known not only pain and loss, but also joy and abundance.
When I rock my children
I sing with your voice.
When I put them to bed
I pray with your faith.
When I tell them I love them
I feel generations of love.
As I grow old
I am glad of your company.
By: Sarah L. Garriott
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Sound Pollution
You know you live on an Island when...
Have you ever slept in a cheap hotel near a busy freeway? How about tent camping near a bustling train track? Those sounds. Those vibrations. You never forget them.
Sometimes living in the middle of Puget Sound surrounded by a dense blanket of fog is like that. You feel it. You remember it. You might never sleep.
Some people think the sound is lovely and romantic. Some find it haunting and lonely. Some people think that warp and two woofs make magical music. I think they must not live a mile from the ferry dock.
When I was twelve my family went on our first luxury cruise up the St. Lawrence River, docking in Quebec for a day and then on around Cape Cod and into New York. It was a splendid experience. I remember my oldest brother, Matt, break dancing 'til dawn and I remember amazing midnight buffets. Yet one memory stands out from the rest: the day of the fog.
My brother, Alex, and I--tired of being cooped up--decided to go up on the top-most deck and attempt a game of tennis. It was so foggy that I couldn't see Alex on the other side of the net nor could I have any indication as to where the ball would suddenly appear for me to chase. It was so windy that often when the ball did appear it would suddenly veer away or even blow over board. We couldn't hear each other and had great fun even trying to hit the ball at all in the wind. Often, we couldn't even see the end of our own racket.
I was standing with my back to the middle of the ship and Alex was standing with his back to the stern when suddenly the ship's fog horn sounded. Jolted, I discovered I was standing directly in front of the horn -- the bell of it open like a great white shark's jaws surrounding my five-foot, two-inch frame.
The blast of the horn literally propelled me to the deck. My ears rang for hours. Every cell in my body still retains the memory of the sound and sensation. Never had sound been such a physical, tangible force.
Picture now this Emerald Isle where I live filled with conifers and lush with life. From above you look down and see only the very tops of the trees as the mist and fog engulf the land. Above you are a million stars in the velvet night. Somewhere on that misty Isle I am sleeping. Softly sleeping in the Sound until -- the warp blares long and the woofs bleat again and again. The ferry has docked and I am awake. http://www.historylink.org/video/ferry_whistle/whistles.htm
Have you ever slept in a cheap hotel near a busy freeway? How about tent camping near a bustling train track? Those sounds. Those vibrations. You never forget them.
Sometimes living in the middle of Puget Sound surrounded by a dense blanket of fog is like that. You feel it. You remember it. You might never sleep.
Some people think the sound is lovely and romantic. Some find it haunting and lonely. Some people think that warp and two woofs make magical music. I think they must not live a mile from the ferry dock.
When I was twelve my family went on our first luxury cruise up the St. Lawrence River, docking in Quebec for a day and then on around Cape Cod and into New York. It was a splendid experience. I remember my oldest brother, Matt, break dancing 'til dawn and I remember amazing midnight buffets. Yet one memory stands out from the rest: the day of the fog.
My brother, Alex, and I--tired of being cooped up--decided to go up on the top-most deck and attempt a game of tennis. It was so foggy that I couldn't see Alex on the other side of the net nor could I have any indication as to where the ball would suddenly appear for me to chase. It was so windy that often when the ball did appear it would suddenly veer away or even blow over board. We couldn't hear each other and had great fun even trying to hit the ball at all in the wind. Often, we couldn't even see the end of our own racket.
I was standing with my back to the middle of the ship and Alex was standing with his back to the stern when suddenly the ship's fog horn sounded. Jolted, I discovered I was standing directly in front of the horn -- the bell of it open like a great white shark's jaws surrounding my five-foot, two-inch frame.
The blast of the horn literally propelled me to the deck. My ears rang for hours. Every cell in my body still retains the memory of the sound and sensation. Never had sound been such a physical, tangible force.
Picture now this Emerald Isle where I live filled with conifers and lush with life. From above you look down and see only the very tops of the trees as the mist and fog engulf the land. Above you are a million stars in the velvet night. Somewhere on that misty Isle I am sleeping. Softly sleeping in the Sound until -- the warp blares long and the woofs bleat again and again. The ferry has docked and I am awake. http://www.historylink.org/video/ferry_whistle/whistles.htm
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Spring
Curlicue, curlicue
what a funny little line.
A shape that swirls
and curls
and twirls
around us
all the time.
It twines
around the farmyard, too.
It winds
around the town.
I've seen it
round the pumpkin patch
unfolding up and down.
Our galaxy's a curlicue
--a galactic, cinnamon twist--
Full of stars
and sugar dust
and powdered
moon-lit mist.
I looked inside a snail's shell
and deep inside an ear
And there it was
--that twirly shape
that I'm describing here!
A lollipop,
a curly lock,
a tail on a boar
The water
swirling down the drain,
a tornadoe's wicked roar.
Like steps
that spiral
round and round
inside the castle tower,
The curlicue
is shaping life
with stunning
genome power.
By: Sarah L. Garriott
what a funny little line.
A shape that swirls
and curls
and twirls
around us
all the time.
It twines
around the farmyard, too.
It winds
around the town.
I've seen it
round the pumpkin patch
unfolding up and down.
Our galaxy's a curlicue
--a galactic, cinnamon twist--
Full of stars
and sugar dust
and powdered
moon-lit mist.
I looked inside a snail's shell
and deep inside an ear
And there it was
--that twirly shape
that I'm describing here!
A lollipop,
a curly lock,
a tail on a boar
The water
swirling down the drain,
a tornadoe's wicked roar.
Like steps
that spiral
round and round
inside the castle tower,
The curlicue
is shaping life
with stunning
genome power.
By: Sarah L. Garriott
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
An Island Passage
It stretches long.
Winding itself
back and forth
maintaining
its bi-polar course
It bends.
Wandering lazily
through the evergreens
dressing itself
in Autumn's foliage
It heaves.
Skimming along
the seashore
soaking up salt and sun
It facilitates life.
Rushing past
storefronts
cascading
down down
to the Sound
It brings me home
again.
Winding itself
back and forth
maintaining
its bi-polar course
It bends.
Wandering lazily
through the evergreens
dressing itself
in Autumn's foliage
It heaves.
Skimming along
the seashore
soaking up salt and sun
It facilitates life.
Rushing past
storefronts
cascading
down down
to the Sound
It brings me home
again.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Civilized: adj. Characterized by Taste, Refinement or Restraint
I've been meaning to write this post for a couple of weeks now. It's just a short note about a little phenomenon on the Island named, "Grannie's." If you ever have the pleasure of being on the Island for more than a few days, you're bound to hear the term "Grannie's" thrown into conversation at one point or the other.
So what is "Grannie's?" Here are a few phrases you might hear in conversation. Try and guess!
"Isn't it great? I got it at Grannie's for only a buck fifty!" "If you don't pick up your toys, I'll take them to Grannie's!" "I seriously need to clean out my closet and just take everything to Grannie's!"
By now, I'm certain you have surmised the answer (a local, home-grown, second-hand store). Grannie's Attic is, in fact, a local thrift shop run by--you guessed it--Island Grannies. The store's main focus is to raise additional funds to support the largest Health Clinic on Vashon Island and they do a very nice job of it to the tune of a few hundred thousand dollars a year.
For me, however, I didn't know just how much Grannie's meant to many of our locals until one seemingly normal, Thursday morning about two weeks ago.
It was one of the first, cool Autumn days we'd had. (I remember because I had to argue with Truman about him wearing a coat out of the house that morning.) I put Anna on the school bus and then took Truman to the above mentioned Health Center to have his regular, well-child check-up. He did very well at his exam, but did have to have one shot. I told him, "Truman, if you sit still for your shot, I'll take you to Grannie's and let you pick out a toy afterwards." Well, that pacified him immediately and he sat brave as a soldier.
So, a kind "Thank you" to our family physician and off we walked across the parking lot to Grannie's. Now, I've found some wonderful things at Grannie's, but I'd never been to the thrift store at opening time before.
A rather non-descript sort of establishment, Grannie's has two buildings next to the Health Center (all part of some old military something-or-other). When we arrived at the door there were a couple of men standing right at the doorway. I noted that opening time was at 10:00 and being that it was only a quarter to, I decided to take Truman to the car, get him a snack and let him eat it there before going back to the thrift shop.
Five minutes or so later we were back at the front door, and to my astonishment, there were about 20 people now mulling around the building front! I wondered if there was some sort of special discount, blow-out clearance sale that day? But, Truman was still feeling a bit blue about his shot so I made light conversation with him and didn't bother to ask.
I noticed, a few minutes later, that mobs were gathering at the other Grannie's building as well. Cars were being parked in the field across the way as all the parking spaces were filling up. Was there a celebrity book signing at Grannie's Attic today? What in the world was going on?!
I was just about to ask a thin, wispy woman near me what the commotion was all about when she looked straight at me with an insinuating squint and spat, "You can't just walk up to the door and expect to cut in line in front of the rest of us." Oh, my! I was so suddenly made aware that there even was a line! But, now that she mentioned it, I could see that people had lined up on the sidewalk. I had just thought they were being polite and not pushy since they came from the other direction. The grass was wet, and I thought they were just standing on the walk way. I really didn't know it was an official line.
"Oh, I'm sorry." I honestly, innocently replied, "I didn't realize that there was a line."
That's when the tall, elegantly dressed, auburn-haired woman behind the thin one slowly turned her head towards me and hissed through lip-sticked lips, "There is."
Then, as I politely made my way to the back of "the line," the thin one muttered loudly, "Didn't know there was a line! Lines have been around since the beginning of civilization. All civilized people stand in lines!"
That's when I loudly told my son, "It's okay, Truman, You were such a good boy getting your shot at the doctor's this morning. We'll find you a nice little toy at Grannie's. The store will open soon."
The door soon opened and the greedy mob rushed the store (so much for lines) anxious to find the latest and greatest find. I witnessed one woman standing by a beat-up old desk, her hand resting on top, gloating to another treasure hunter, "Sorry, I got here first. It's mine!"
Somehow this all reminded me of those day-after-Thanksgiving retail-nightmare shopping tales of mobs rushing a Walmart. But here? On my tranquil Island? I was truly appalled, ashamed and sickened.
Truman and I stayed happily in the mostly patron-free toy section and he joyfully tried to make a selection. He was, thankfully, oblivious to the materialistic mob madly rushing about scouring the junk in the next room. I couldn't help but contrast Truman's utter delight in a simple toy car or a little figurine and how he was so honestly grateful to me for letting him choose a little something. We walked out with some "super secret spy glasses" for a dollar.
I think from now on, I'll try to go to Grannie's in the afternoon when the salivating shoppers have slunk back into their Island hide-outs with their treasures of broken tables and chairs, used pots and pans and trinkets of silver and gold.
Tell me that part about civilization again?
So what is "Grannie's?" Here are a few phrases you might hear in conversation. Try and guess!
"Isn't it great? I got it at Grannie's for only a buck fifty!" "If you don't pick up your toys, I'll take them to Grannie's!" "I seriously need to clean out my closet and just take everything to Grannie's!"
By now, I'm certain you have surmised the answer (a local, home-grown, second-hand store). Grannie's Attic is, in fact, a local thrift shop run by--you guessed it--Island Grannies. The store's main focus is to raise additional funds to support the largest Health Clinic on Vashon Island and they do a very nice job of it to the tune of a few hundred thousand dollars a year.
For me, however, I didn't know just how much Grannie's meant to many of our locals until one seemingly normal, Thursday morning about two weeks ago.
It was one of the first, cool Autumn days we'd had. (I remember because I had to argue with Truman about him wearing a coat out of the house that morning.) I put Anna on the school bus and then took Truman to the above mentioned Health Center to have his regular, well-child check-up. He did very well at his exam, but did have to have one shot. I told him, "Truman, if you sit still for your shot, I'll take you to Grannie's and let you pick out a toy afterwards." Well, that pacified him immediately and he sat brave as a soldier.
So, a kind "Thank you" to our family physician and off we walked across the parking lot to Grannie's. Now, I've found some wonderful things at Grannie's, but I'd never been to the thrift store at opening time before.
A rather non-descript sort of establishment, Grannie's has two buildings next to the Health Center (all part of some old military something-or-other). When we arrived at the door there were a couple of men standing right at the doorway. I noted that opening time was at 10:00 and being that it was only a quarter to, I decided to take Truman to the car, get him a snack and let him eat it there before going back to the thrift shop.
Five minutes or so later we were back at the front door, and to my astonishment, there were about 20 people now mulling around the building front! I wondered if there was some sort of special discount, blow-out clearance sale that day? But, Truman was still feeling a bit blue about his shot so I made light conversation with him and didn't bother to ask.
I noticed, a few minutes later, that mobs were gathering at the other Grannie's building as well. Cars were being parked in the field across the way as all the parking spaces were filling up. Was there a celebrity book signing at Grannie's Attic today? What in the world was going on?!
I was just about to ask a thin, wispy woman near me what the commotion was all about when she looked straight at me with an insinuating squint and spat, "You can't just walk up to the door and expect to cut in line in front of the rest of us." Oh, my! I was so suddenly made aware that there even was a line! But, now that she mentioned it, I could see that people had lined up on the sidewalk. I had just thought they were being polite and not pushy since they came from the other direction. The grass was wet, and I thought they were just standing on the walk way. I really didn't know it was an official line.
"Oh, I'm sorry." I honestly, innocently replied, "I didn't realize that there was a line."
That's when the tall, elegantly dressed, auburn-haired woman behind the thin one slowly turned her head towards me and hissed through lip-sticked lips, "There is."
Then, as I politely made my way to the back of "the line," the thin one muttered loudly, "Didn't know there was a line! Lines have been around since the beginning of civilization. All civilized people stand in lines!"
That's when I loudly told my son, "It's okay, Truman, You were such a good boy getting your shot at the doctor's this morning. We'll find you a nice little toy at Grannie's. The store will open soon."
The door soon opened and the greedy mob rushed the store (so much for lines) anxious to find the latest and greatest find. I witnessed one woman standing by a beat-up old desk, her hand resting on top, gloating to another treasure hunter, "Sorry, I got here first. It's mine!"
Somehow this all reminded me of those day-after-Thanksgiving retail-nightmare shopping tales of mobs rushing a Walmart. But here? On my tranquil Island? I was truly appalled, ashamed and sickened.
Truman and I stayed happily in the mostly patron-free toy section and he joyfully tried to make a selection. He was, thankfully, oblivious to the materialistic mob madly rushing about scouring the junk in the next room. I couldn't help but contrast Truman's utter delight in a simple toy car or a little figurine and how he was so honestly grateful to me for letting him choose a little something. We walked out with some "super secret spy glasses" for a dollar.
I think from now on, I'll try to go to Grannie's in the afternoon when the salivating shoppers have slunk back into their Island hide-outs with their treasures of broken tables and chairs, used pots and pans and trinkets of silver and gold.
Tell me that part about civilization again?
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Provincial Providence
It was late as I stood on the ferry gazing into the onyx water of Puget Sound by night. The water was nearly motionless except for the ripple made by the quiet passing of a nearby Bayliner.
Of the many crossings I'd taken on this ferry, most were routine. Once, however, I crossed in a gale. The boat heaved fearfully and, my car being at the bow, was washed with salty waves crashing over my car and covering the windshield again and again. That was the last crossing that day before the officials closed down the ferry due to the weather and the last time I will ever cross in a near hurricane.
I've crossed the water watching rain hopelessly try to fill the Sound to overflowing. I've crossed watching Snow dissolve softly in the deep. I've crossed the Sound as it dazzled in a million sparks of sunlight. I've seen orcas, seals & too many jellyfish to count. But this night, I wasn't thinking about the weather or the aquatic life. This night I was pondering the darkness of the Island I was headed to.
Vashon Island sat dead ahead. Its 37-square mile mass filling in the last 60 degrees of a full circle. Being that I was at the south end of the Isle so that I couldn't see where Puget Sound opened to the North, the Island appeared surrounded by water in the inner circle and nearly surrounded by land on the outer. The outer ring of land was a blaze of light. I could clearly make out the skyline from Gig Harbor and Tacoma in the South past Federal Way and up to Seattle in the North. It was Friday night and I could only imagine the goings on under the millions of lights in that broad swath of high energy.
And then there was Vashon. Smack dab in the middle of the modern metropolis, it stood dark and immense with only a smattering of lights to mark a few beach houses along the shore and the chain of lights leading up from the ferry landing and then disappearing into the caliginous tree line. According to Wikipedia, Vashon "is approximately 60 percent larger in area than Manhatten, but with 1/150 of the population."
There are bumperstickers found on many salt-washed cars on the Island that say, "Keep Vashon Wierd." Among other things, I think that means to keep the Island a sleeping giant in the middle of modernity.
Where in all of Seattle and its suburbs could you put up a vegetable stand unattended and know that people will just put the money in for the produce and leave the can and its contents for the owner? Where in all of Tacoma would you ever, even once, leave your car or your home unlocked while unattended?
But it gets "wierder" than that. The wierdness of Vashon includes the fact that I can let my hair go silver in my 30's and no one even flinches and I can wear knee-high rubber boots (if I owned them) and every one would just assume I'd been clamming -- or not. It just doesn't matter. At least, it doesn't matter until you cross back over the water to the where the world has kept moving. If I were to show up at Truman's gymnastics class in Gig Harbor in knee-high rubber boots and an old T-shirt and jeans I'm certain none of the mom's would sit and chat with me. To those moms with their latest fashions, $170 hair, painted toes and fancy jewlery I'm just a frumpy bumpkin without a clue--in the dark, as it were.
I went to the mall with the kids the other day in Seattle and it's like taking them to Tokyo. They gawk and gape at the people, the fashions, the stuff, and the hugeness of it all. I have to say things like, "That is JC Penny. They sell clothing. That is Starbucks; they sell coffee." They assimilate it like you do when you visit a foreign country and not like you do when you just live in it everyday and absorb it. And to think it's all just a 15-minute ferry ride away....
The realization that I used to live in the electrifying, fast-paced world and that I have changed so dramatically over the past 9 years of Island life came slowly. As I stood looking at the darkness of Vashon in that circle of light I realized just how much Jon and I have both changed since we moved there. How the shackles of status and station have slowly dropped from our list of cares. How building a family instead of building a fortune has become our focus. And I realized most of all how much we value having such a simple, slow-paced lifestyle that enables us to be together.
And so it is that I have come to conclude that perhaps there really is light in all that darkness. Indeed, the longer I live on that dark Island, the more light I seem to enjoy. By the way, you should see the stars at night from the Island. You can see the Heavens so much more clearly when you live in the dark.
Of the many crossings I'd taken on this ferry, most were routine. Once, however, I crossed in a gale. The boat heaved fearfully and, my car being at the bow, was washed with salty waves crashing over my car and covering the windshield again and again. That was the last crossing that day before the officials closed down the ferry due to the weather and the last time I will ever cross in a near hurricane.
I've crossed the water watching rain hopelessly try to fill the Sound to overflowing. I've crossed watching Snow dissolve softly in the deep. I've crossed the Sound as it dazzled in a million sparks of sunlight. I've seen orcas, seals & too many jellyfish to count. But this night, I wasn't thinking about the weather or the aquatic life. This night I was pondering the darkness of the Island I was headed to.
Vashon Island sat dead ahead. Its 37-square mile mass filling in the last 60 degrees of a full circle. Being that I was at the south end of the Isle so that I couldn't see where Puget Sound opened to the North, the Island appeared surrounded by water in the inner circle and nearly surrounded by land on the outer. The outer ring of land was a blaze of light. I could clearly make out the skyline from Gig Harbor and Tacoma in the South past Federal Way and up to Seattle in the North. It was Friday night and I could only imagine the goings on under the millions of lights in that broad swath of high energy.
And then there was Vashon. Smack dab in the middle of the modern metropolis, it stood dark and immense with only a smattering of lights to mark a few beach houses along the shore and the chain of lights leading up from the ferry landing and then disappearing into the caliginous tree line. According to Wikipedia, Vashon "is approximately 60 percent larger in area than Manhatten, but with 1/150 of the population."
There are bumperstickers found on many salt-washed cars on the Island that say, "Keep Vashon Wierd." Among other things, I think that means to keep the Island a sleeping giant in the middle of modernity.
Where in all of Seattle and its suburbs could you put up a vegetable stand unattended and know that people will just put the money in for the produce and leave the can and its contents for the owner? Where in all of Tacoma would you ever, even once, leave your car or your home unlocked while unattended?
But it gets "wierder" than that. The wierdness of Vashon includes the fact that I can let my hair go silver in my 30's and no one even flinches and I can wear knee-high rubber boots (if I owned them) and every one would just assume I'd been clamming -- or not. It just doesn't matter. At least, it doesn't matter until you cross back over the water to the where the world has kept moving. If I were to show up at Truman's gymnastics class in Gig Harbor in knee-high rubber boots and an old T-shirt and jeans I'm certain none of the mom's would sit and chat with me. To those moms with their latest fashions, $170 hair, painted toes and fancy jewlery I'm just a frumpy bumpkin without a clue--in the dark, as it were.
I went to the mall with the kids the other day in Seattle and it's like taking them to Tokyo. They gawk and gape at the people, the fashions, the stuff, and the hugeness of it all. I have to say things like, "That is JC Penny. They sell clothing. That is Starbucks; they sell coffee." They assimilate it like you do when you visit a foreign country and not like you do when you just live in it everyday and absorb it. And to think it's all just a 15-minute ferry ride away....
The realization that I used to live in the electrifying, fast-paced world and that I have changed so dramatically over the past 9 years of Island life came slowly. As I stood looking at the darkness of Vashon in that circle of light I realized just how much Jon and I have both changed since we moved there. How the shackles of status and station have slowly dropped from our list of cares. How building a family instead of building a fortune has become our focus. And I realized most of all how much we value having such a simple, slow-paced lifestyle that enables us to be together.
And so it is that I have come to conclude that perhaps there really is light in all that darkness. Indeed, the longer I live on that dark Island, the more light I seem to enjoy. By the way, you should see the stars at night from the Island. You can see the Heavens so much more clearly when you live in the dark.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Line Upon Line
Ferry lines are not for sissys.
I have lived on this Island for 9 years now--nigh on to a decade. And I can tell you with some authority that life dictated by the comings and goings of a ferry builds character.
Now I know that there are a great many touristy types who find an afternoon floating on a ferry to be a jaunty diversion from the hustle and bustle of city life. But, taking a float on a boat once a month or once in your lifetime just doesn't pass muster. Real character comes to those who wait and wait and wait for a lifetime. ....right? I hope so, cuz' I surely do wait a lot.
There are days when there is nothing I'd rather do than sit and wait in a ferry line.
Perhaps there is a pink sky over the water or even an orca or two to watch. The ambiance and romance of the Island merits leisurely daydreaming, painting, photography & romantic walks while waiting for the next boat. Some Islanders knit while they wait or chat with one of the many folks they're bound to know in the line. Many of us read. More and more people are turning to their cell phones for a ferry line chat or maybe a computer-generated video game or two.
Probably the most popular ferry line diversion is sleeping. I know I've caught more than a few z's while sitting in line or crossing the great waters from Vashon to Seattle. Waiting in the ferry line can be nothing short of rejuvinating.
Except when it's not.
Rejuvination doesn't come as easily when you and your friend have been out all day with five children under five in the car and you are one car short of making the next boat. There you suddenly sit, after having raced to make it to the ferry in time, faced with perhaps an hour of confinement in a car of screaming, tired, hungry, children and you look at each other and say, "and we live on an Island because....?"
Or perhaps you have a plane to catch and the ferry decides to break down entirely and the replacement boat won't be along for a bit.... or what about that extremely important meeting that you are in charge of but are now going to be an hour or more late for just because the ferry line was inexplicably long on that particular afternoon? Suddenly, even the pink sky doesn't do it for you. You get that hemmed in, stuck-on-a-rock frustrated feeling that only a ferry line wait can do for you. Now that, my friends, is character in the making.
I once drove over an hour with a screaming baby in my car through rush-hour traffic to try and make a ferry only to arrive and find the ferry completely out of service with no substitute ferry coming until the next day. "Sorry, lady, you'll have to drive to the North end ferry" (that's about another hour away). When all was said and done, it took me close to four hours to finally get home when I could have driven home in ten minutes if there had been a bridge to my Island. I believe that was the closest I'd ever come to actually swearing at a stranger. But I didn't.
What have I learned from all this waiting? Well, I've learned to always keep water, food, a change of clothes, movies (and a DVD player), books, and blankets in my car because I live on an Island. I've made a greater commitment to learn to knit one day and listen to more books on CD about things I'm interested in. I've learned that it doesn't do a lot of good to get angry about waiting, but I find that I still do. I'm working on that. I've learned to be a little more flexible -- maybe even a lot more.
The ferry does have it's positive benefits. The crime rate on the Island is low. After all, who wants to pay to come onto the Island so they can rob your home and then wait for a ferry to get away with your loot? Puget Sound makes a mighty fine moat around our "castle."
I've often wondered if I save more money by living on the Island even though the cost of living is slightly higher to live here. I find that by living on the Island I consolidate my "off-Island" errands and driving needs for maximum benefit to conserve on ferry fares. Therefore, I also don't shop as much as others might. (I will confess to "on-line" shopping to save "off-Island" excursions.) Still, I think I probably save a bundle just by not running to Target whenever the notion strikes me.
Another ferry benefit is being able to leave a dull meeting at a moment's notice simply by saying, "I'm sorry, but I have a ferry to catch. Gotta' run!" It's always a fact and you never have to mention WHEN the ferry is actually leaving. Downside is when you'd rather STAY at a party or social gathering and you really can't because the "darn" ferry is shutting down for the night.
One of the best benefits of a ferry-dominated lifestyle is knowing just when your guests will arrive based on knowing which ferry they are on. You know exactly when to put the steaks on the grill so they'll be perfect upon their arrival or just how much time you have to throw all of your clutter into the closet before your guests walk through your door.
If your guests have over-extended their stay simply pull out the ferry schedule. "Oh my, you had better be going if you want to catch that 8:40 boat or you'll be in for a very long wait at the dock!" Works every time. Of course, we always have an extra bed for guests who we wish would just miss the boat and stay a little longer.
Why is Island living so notoriously lazy and languid? Because anybody who stays on the Island has passed the "wait test." We know how to take it easy when life hands us a lemon or a problem that seems immovable because we've been practicing. It's not lazy living, it's patient living.
Patient living while we wait for our ship to come in, whatever that might be.
I have lived on this Island for 9 years now--nigh on to a decade. And I can tell you with some authority that life dictated by the comings and goings of a ferry builds character.
Now I know that there are a great many touristy types who find an afternoon floating on a ferry to be a jaunty diversion from the hustle and bustle of city life. But, taking a float on a boat once a month or once in your lifetime just doesn't pass muster. Real character comes to those who wait and wait and wait for a lifetime. ....right? I hope so, cuz' I surely do wait a lot.
There are days when there is nothing I'd rather do than sit and wait in a ferry line.
Perhaps there is a pink sky over the water or even an orca or two to watch. The ambiance and romance of the Island merits leisurely daydreaming, painting, photography & romantic walks while waiting for the next boat. Some Islanders knit while they wait or chat with one of the many folks they're bound to know in the line. Many of us read. More and more people are turning to their cell phones for a ferry line chat or maybe a computer-generated video game or two.
Probably the most popular ferry line diversion is sleeping. I know I've caught more than a few z's while sitting in line or crossing the great waters from Vashon to Seattle. Waiting in the ferry line can be nothing short of rejuvinating.
Except when it's not.
Rejuvination doesn't come as easily when you and your friend have been out all day with five children under five in the car and you are one car short of making the next boat. There you suddenly sit, after having raced to make it to the ferry in time, faced with perhaps an hour of confinement in a car of screaming, tired, hungry, children and you look at each other and say, "and we live on an Island because....?"
Or perhaps you have a plane to catch and the ferry decides to break down entirely and the replacement boat won't be along for a bit.... or what about that extremely important meeting that you are in charge of but are now going to be an hour or more late for just because the ferry line was inexplicably long on that particular afternoon? Suddenly, even the pink sky doesn't do it for you. You get that hemmed in, stuck-on-a-rock frustrated feeling that only a ferry line wait can do for you. Now that, my friends, is character in the making.
I once drove over an hour with a screaming baby in my car through rush-hour traffic to try and make a ferry only to arrive and find the ferry completely out of service with no substitute ferry coming until the next day. "Sorry, lady, you'll have to drive to the North end ferry" (that's about another hour away). When all was said and done, it took me close to four hours to finally get home when I could have driven home in ten minutes if there had been a bridge to my Island. I believe that was the closest I'd ever come to actually swearing at a stranger. But I didn't.
What have I learned from all this waiting? Well, I've learned to always keep water, food, a change of clothes, movies (and a DVD player), books, and blankets in my car because I live on an Island. I've made a greater commitment to learn to knit one day and listen to more books on CD about things I'm interested in. I've learned that it doesn't do a lot of good to get angry about waiting, but I find that I still do. I'm working on that. I've learned to be a little more flexible -- maybe even a lot more.
The ferry does have it's positive benefits. The crime rate on the Island is low. After all, who wants to pay to come onto the Island so they can rob your home and then wait for a ferry to get away with your loot? Puget Sound makes a mighty fine moat around our "castle."
I've often wondered if I save more money by living on the Island even though the cost of living is slightly higher to live here. I find that by living on the Island I consolidate my "off-Island" errands and driving needs for maximum benefit to conserve on ferry fares. Therefore, I also don't shop as much as others might. (I will confess to "on-line" shopping to save "off-Island" excursions.) Still, I think I probably save a bundle just by not running to Target whenever the notion strikes me.
Another ferry benefit is being able to leave a dull meeting at a moment's notice simply by saying, "I'm sorry, but I have a ferry to catch. Gotta' run!" It's always a fact and you never have to mention WHEN the ferry is actually leaving. Downside is when you'd rather STAY at a party or social gathering and you really can't because the "darn" ferry is shutting down for the night.
One of the best benefits of a ferry-dominated lifestyle is knowing just when your guests will arrive based on knowing which ferry they are on. You know exactly when to put the steaks on the grill so they'll be perfect upon their arrival or just how much time you have to throw all of your clutter into the closet before your guests walk through your door.
If your guests have over-extended their stay simply pull out the ferry schedule. "Oh my, you had better be going if you want to catch that 8:40 boat or you'll be in for a very long wait at the dock!" Works every time. Of course, we always have an extra bed for guests who we wish would just miss the boat and stay a little longer.
Why is Island living so notoriously lazy and languid? Because anybody who stays on the Island has passed the "wait test." We know how to take it easy when life hands us a lemon or a problem that seems immovable because we've been practicing. It's not lazy living, it's patient living.
Patient living while we wait for our ship to come in, whatever that might be.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Living on "the Rock"
When I walk into the post office and the postal worker knows me by name and asks about my relations by name, I have to smile. I can pick up my parent's mail with no I.D. or hand-written note. They know who we are and to whom we belong.
When I go to the bank the teller greets me by name, comments how tall my children have grown and hands me a note through the window about some firewood she needs from my husband. I feel smug in my surroundings.
The lady at the grocery store asks after my garden, lets me know about upcoming specials on things she knows that I buy or tells me about her grandchildren.
It's all part of small-town life and it's something I appreciate. It's nice to be known, trusted, and to feel at home. I truly like that.
However...
There is a flip side to all this familiarity, and I'm not talking about the local gossip network, which we all know about.
(For example, the rumor that started at the Strawberry Festival this year that some famous Who's Who was going to buy a rather expensive parcel on the Island...that rumor zoomed around the Island faster than a hydroplane at 5 a.m. on the Fourth of July. The next week the local paper had an entire article on why the rumor was a rumor even though several well-known locals had begun selling it as fact. Indeed, the rumor had been posted on Wikipedia as fact in less than a week's time. Only on an Island....)
Though gossip is one flip side of familiarity, there is yet another, well, flippier side to it all: the introvert's need for anonymity. Sometimes it's nice to go where everybody knows your name, (as the famous lyric goes) and sometimes, well, it's just nice to go where no one does.
I have days when I just want to be left unnoticed. Days when I'd rather be surrounded by 1,000 people I didn't know on a New York subway than live on an Island. I'm sure I would feel more isolated manuvering through Manhattan anonomously.
Thursday was such a day. Thursday I was in no mood for a grocery aisle encounter or a check-out chat. I wanted to go into the store and out again without so much as a friendly grin. Tell me I'm not alone in wanting to be!
The truth be told, miraculously I made it. I went in during "rush" hour at 6 pm and somehow managed (with careful plotting) to dodge in, grab my much needed contact lense solution, run through the introvert-friendly computerized self-check out machine and back to my car in under 3 minutes. Alone in my victory I drove away.
Maybe small towns aren't the best places to live for true introverts. But then again, "sometimes it's nice to go where everybody knows your name...." sigh. Island living.
When I go to the bank the teller greets me by name, comments how tall my children have grown and hands me a note through the window about some firewood she needs from my husband. I feel smug in my surroundings.
The lady at the grocery store asks after my garden, lets me know about upcoming specials on things she knows that I buy or tells me about her grandchildren.
It's all part of small-town life and it's something I appreciate. It's nice to be known, trusted, and to feel at home. I truly like that.
However...
There is a flip side to all this familiarity, and I'm not talking about the local gossip network, which we all know about.
(For example, the rumor that started at the Strawberry Festival this year that some famous Who's Who was going to buy a rather expensive parcel on the Island...that rumor zoomed around the Island faster than a hydroplane at 5 a.m. on the Fourth of July. The next week the local paper had an entire article on why the rumor was a rumor even though several well-known locals had begun selling it as fact. Indeed, the rumor had been posted on Wikipedia as fact in less than a week's time. Only on an Island....)
Though gossip is one flip side of familiarity, there is yet another, well, flippier side to it all: the introvert's need for anonymity. Sometimes it's nice to go where everybody knows your name, (as the famous lyric goes) and sometimes, well, it's just nice to go where no one does.
I have days when I just want to be left unnoticed. Days when I'd rather be surrounded by 1,000 people I didn't know on a New York subway than live on an Island. I'm sure I would feel more isolated manuvering through Manhattan anonomously.
Thursday was such a day. Thursday I was in no mood for a grocery aisle encounter or a check-out chat. I wanted to go into the store and out again without so much as a friendly grin. Tell me I'm not alone in wanting to be!
The truth be told, miraculously I made it. I went in during "rush" hour at 6 pm and somehow managed (with careful plotting) to dodge in, grab my much needed contact lense solution, run through the introvert-friendly computerized self-check out machine and back to my car in under 3 minutes. Alone in my victory I drove away.
Maybe small towns aren't the best places to live for true introverts. But then again, "sometimes it's nice to go where everybody knows your name...." sigh. Island living.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Family Root Cellar
I remember sitting on a stool in front of a crank apple peeler trying to see just how long I could get the peel without breaking it. I was at least eleven at the time. There was a box full of apples at my side and my mom was slicing them up as fast as I peeled them. It was early autumn.
I don't remember what she was making with the apples. Perhaps it was a pie? Perhaps she was putting them into the big juicer or putting them into the food dryer. The important thing was that we were together preserving the harvest.
It was hot. It was high summer and I was in Okanogan, Washington at my Grammie Buzzard's house. (Yes, my mom's maiden name is "Buzzard.") There were a hundred chickens to slaughter, pluck and "process" for freezing. I remember watching my Dad and my Grandpa Harold slaughter the chickens and throw them into the big gunny sack hanging from the tree in the yard to let them bleed out. We'd then dunk them into the very hot water in the big wash tub and sit around in lawn chairs plucking and talking. My Uncles would tell stories about recent bear hunts, cougar encounters, rattlesnake scares and who just bought whose "place" or horse. I was all ears while I squeezed out pin feathers.
Inside the house, Mom, my Aunts and Grammie were having races to see who could cut up the chickens the fastest. At some point over the years I became old enough to be taught how to cut up a chicken properly and join in with the kitchen crew. The stories changed to family, neighbors and children. The talk was often of health, marriages and fallings-out or spiritual insights.
Other times we gathered to slice up lugs and lugs of peaches or pears. There was always a family dinner afterwards and lots of cousins to wrestle and Aunts and Uncles to play board games with.
Today I picked two and a half gallons of blackberries. My hands are purple and my arms are scratched from thousands of thorns. I plan to make jam tomorrow. Next week I'll pick some more and hope to freeze some for pies and such. Later this month will be the peaches, the pickled beets, cucumber pickles and tomatillo salsa verde. I have onions drying on my porch and squash fattening on the vine to be put away for long winter days.
When I bottled the green beans a couple of weeks ago it was a family affair. Jon washed them and he and the children sat together on the kitchen floor snapping them. I washed and readied the bottles, lids, brine and kettles. Jon monitored the pressure cooker. We talked about our recent summer vacation and the happy memories we'd made. Jon and the kids tried to see who could snap the most beans the fastest.
I realized that it is more than vegetables and fruit I am preserving in these jars. Some things do indeed keep forever.
I don't remember what she was making with the apples. Perhaps it was a pie? Perhaps she was putting them into the big juicer or putting them into the food dryer. The important thing was that we were together preserving the harvest.
It was hot. It was high summer and I was in Okanogan, Washington at my Grammie Buzzard's house. (Yes, my mom's maiden name is "Buzzard.") There were a hundred chickens to slaughter, pluck and "process" for freezing. I remember watching my Dad and my Grandpa Harold slaughter the chickens and throw them into the big gunny sack hanging from the tree in the yard to let them bleed out. We'd then dunk them into the very hot water in the big wash tub and sit around in lawn chairs plucking and talking. My Uncles would tell stories about recent bear hunts, cougar encounters, rattlesnake scares and who just bought whose "place" or horse. I was all ears while I squeezed out pin feathers.
Inside the house, Mom, my Aunts and Grammie were having races to see who could cut up the chickens the fastest. At some point over the years I became old enough to be taught how to cut up a chicken properly and join in with the kitchen crew. The stories changed to family, neighbors and children. The talk was often of health, marriages and fallings-out or spiritual insights.
Other times we gathered to slice up lugs and lugs of peaches or pears. There was always a family dinner afterwards and lots of cousins to wrestle and Aunts and Uncles to play board games with.
Today I picked two and a half gallons of blackberries. My hands are purple and my arms are scratched from thousands of thorns. I plan to make jam tomorrow. Next week I'll pick some more and hope to freeze some for pies and such. Later this month will be the peaches, the pickled beets, cucumber pickles and tomatillo salsa verde. I have onions drying on my porch and squash fattening on the vine to be put away for long winter days.
When I bottled the green beans a couple of weeks ago it was a family affair. Jon washed them and he and the children sat together on the kitchen floor snapping them. I washed and readied the bottles, lids, brine and kettles. Jon monitored the pressure cooker. We talked about our recent summer vacation and the happy memories we'd made. Jon and the kids tried to see who could snap the most beans the fastest.
I realized that it is more than vegetables and fruit I am preserving in these jars. Some things do indeed keep forever.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
It All Comes Out in the Wash, Doesn't It?
The August rain on the roof woke me this morning with its soothing rhythm. Knowing that more hot days are ahead, I was even more grateful for the wet coolness.
It is Wednesday and, for me, wash day. As I went about gathering up the laundry from each room and sorting them out into color piles I found Anna's striped shirt.
Ah, yes, Anna's day of pink striped top "matched" with the navy and aqua striped pants.... I had said nothing about it and even allowed her to go to the store in the outrageous outfit. I repeated to myself over and over that it was more important that she had made the effort to get herself dressed on her own and that SHE liked her outfit than what I thought of it. This kind of self-control on my part is a major victory for me.
Tut tut, I reflect, how many people do I know who probably wish they could weigh in on MY choice of dress each day? Let it go, Sarah, let it go.
And there are Truman's piles of big-boy underwear. Twice as many again as there "should" be... a reminder that potty training is another practice in patience. And, my, how many pairs of socks can one little boy go through? And where are the mates anyhow? He has obviously been taking off his shoes in the sandbox again, but not his stockings. I notice that if you go through his shirts day by day you can tell precisely what he ate for all three meals. But there is that little boy smell and those little boy sizes that bring me back to pure happiness.
Jon's clothing are a pile in and of themselves. Deeply soiled from tree cutting or digging about, or sanding wood or painting or changing oil or any other number of Jon's activities. His clothes are a testament of his work ethic: just get it done. Don't stop to blow your nose on a Kleenex when you have on a perfectly good old shirt for wiping. Don't stop to rinse your hands between each chore or worry about that big spill on your pant leg. The thing is to get the job done and done well. I must always check for screws and bolts, markers, pens, or money in his pockets. They are always full of curious things that I often label as "unidentifiable." But then, there are his Sunday clothes. They smell of his cologne. His whole pile testifies that "A man lives here." I smile that, God willing, his piles will be around for me to sort for another 60 years or so.
And then, of course, there are my clothes. Predictable, plain and work-a-day. Nothing in this pile any longer that is labled "dry clean only" or "hand wash." I found in one pocket a stash of tissues and remembered that the day I wore those pants I had been reading a tender account of George Washington at Valley Forge to Anna during Truman's nap time. As I read, teary-eyed through the sentences, Anna put her arm around me and snuggled close. "Even great men need God to help them, don't they, Mom?" "Yes, Anna, there are times in life when even the greatest and the smallest of us have no where else to turn." We sat comfortably in our quiet moment as we looked at the print of George Washington kneeling at Valley Forge that I recently hung on our living room wall in our little home at the far end of an Island in Puget Sound seemingly miles away from any sort of trouble.
I took the tissues out of the pocket and threw the jeans into the appropriate pile. Wednesday is wash day at my house.
It is Wednesday and, for me, wash day. As I went about gathering up the laundry from each room and sorting them out into color piles I found Anna's striped shirt.
Ah, yes, Anna's day of pink striped top "matched" with the navy and aqua striped pants.... I had said nothing about it and even allowed her to go to the store in the outrageous outfit. I repeated to myself over and over that it was more important that she had made the effort to get herself dressed on her own and that SHE liked her outfit than what I thought of it. This kind of self-control on my part is a major victory for me.
Tut tut, I reflect, how many people do I know who probably wish they could weigh in on MY choice of dress each day? Let it go, Sarah, let it go.
And there are Truman's piles of big-boy underwear. Twice as many again as there "should" be... a reminder that potty training is another practice in patience. And, my, how many pairs of socks can one little boy go through? And where are the mates anyhow? He has obviously been taking off his shoes in the sandbox again, but not his stockings. I notice that if you go through his shirts day by day you can tell precisely what he ate for all three meals. But there is that little boy smell and those little boy sizes that bring me back to pure happiness.
Jon's clothing are a pile in and of themselves. Deeply soiled from tree cutting or digging about, or sanding wood or painting or changing oil or any other number of Jon's activities. His clothes are a testament of his work ethic: just get it done. Don't stop to blow your nose on a Kleenex when you have on a perfectly good old shirt for wiping. Don't stop to rinse your hands between each chore or worry about that big spill on your pant leg. The thing is to get the job done and done well. I must always check for screws and bolts, markers, pens, or money in his pockets. They are always full of curious things that I often label as "unidentifiable." But then, there are his Sunday clothes. They smell of his cologne. His whole pile testifies that "A man lives here." I smile that, God willing, his piles will be around for me to sort for another 60 years or so.
And then, of course, there are my clothes. Predictable, plain and work-a-day. Nothing in this pile any longer that is labled "dry clean only" or "hand wash." I found in one pocket a stash of tissues and remembered that the day I wore those pants I had been reading a tender account of George Washington at Valley Forge to Anna during Truman's nap time. As I read, teary-eyed through the sentences, Anna put her arm around me and snuggled close. "Even great men need God to help them, don't they, Mom?" "Yes, Anna, there are times in life when even the greatest and the smallest of us have no where else to turn." We sat comfortably in our quiet moment as we looked at the print of George Washington kneeling at Valley Forge that I recently hung on our living room wall in our little home at the far end of an Island in Puget Sound seemingly miles away from any sort of trouble.
I took the tissues out of the pocket and threw the jeans into the appropriate pile. Wednesday is wash day at my house.
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