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.

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.

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.

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.

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.