Summer Dinner in the Rain

Original publication, Methow Valley News, August 26, 2020

Petrichor [pet-ri-kawr]: the earthy scent produced when rain falls on dry soil. From Greek petros, "stone", and ichor, the ethereal fluid that flows in the veins of the gods in classical Greek mythology. As I am writing this column late on a Friday afternoon, the aroma of petrichor blows through the window carried by late summer winds. September rains cannot come soon enough. 

A friend noted that while she lived in the deep south there was never the smell of petrichor when it rained. Perhaps because the southern soil is perpetually drenched by humid blankets of air from ocean currents, and there is no dry soil to release sighs of petrichor when raindrops fall. 

While southern air may be heavy, Pacific Northwest gardens benefit from long summer days. The vines droop with the weight of ripened tomatoes, squash, and beans, while branches bend beneath the weight of juicy peaches. 

Summer dinners are seasonal feasts. It begins with a plate of sliced tomatoes atop thick slices of mozzarella, drizzled with balsamic vinegar and topped with torn basil. Next come meatballs, made with two cups of finely shredded zucchini, a grated shallot, half a cup of panko bread crumbs, one teaspoon of red pepper flakes, one pound of ground turkey, a handful of chopped fresh herbs: mint, basil, parsley, dill, oregano, the juice from a large lemon, and half a cup of feta cheese. The meatballs are drizzled with olive oil prior to baking at 425 degrees Fahrenheit for 30 minutes, and served wrapped in warm pita bread topped with a cucumber dill yogurt sauce. A side of colorful roasted vegetables from the garden, drizzled with oil, topped with feta and herbs complete the meal. 

Barbara Kingsolver’s book Animal, Vegetable, Miracle contains a staple zucchini dish: Disappearing Zucchini Orzo. This works well as a warm side dish, or a cold pasta salad, or in a bowl all by itself. Cook up a pound of orzo pasta according to package directions. Shred 3 zucchini, an onion, and 2 cloves of garlic. Saute the vegetables in olive oil and butter until golden and translucent. Finely grate a half cup of parmesan, and toss together with the pasta and sauted vegetables. Top with freshly chopped thyme and oregano, salt and pepper to taste. 

For dessert, a peach ginger crumble comes together with barely any effort. Remove skins and pits from a dozen peaches. Thinly slice peaches and place in 9”x9” baking dish. Peel two inches of gingerroot and using a zester, finely grate the gingerroot over the peaches. Sprinkle with a bit of cinnamon and nutmeg. Toss to combine. Pour a half cup of honey over the peaches and stir to combine. Pour two cups of quick cooking rolled oats over the peach mixture, spreading evenly. Top the oats with three quarter cups of loose brown sugar, in an even layer. Thinly slice a stick of cold butter and place the slices atop the brown sugar. Bake at 425 degrees Fahrenheit for 30 minutes, until the oat topping is browned and peaches are bubbly. 

 

Book Review: The Fire Next Time, James Baldwin

As I consider how far America has come in sixty years, and how far we have yet to actualize the ideals listed in the Constitution and Bill of Rights, one singular image is burned into my mind. Little Ruby Bridges, escorted by federal marshals to her first day of kindergarten at a newly desegregated elementary school in 1960 New Orleans. She looks like every other kindergartener: smaller than the school bag she carries, with a button nose and chubby cheeks of a baby, stepping out into the big wide world. Her hairbow is most prominent as she looks down, her little feet stepping down those big steps. 

I want to rush up those steps and scoop her into my arms, hiding her face in my shoulder so she doesn’t see the crowds of other white women hurling objects at her and yelling ugly words. I felt this even more strongly as images of my hometown from last week portrayed white adults physically assaulting young protesters who were peacefully requesting an end systemic racism. I often think about what Ruby Bridge’s mother must have felt that first day of school… in addition to the fear, I know her mother felt an overwhelming sense of awe, love, and pride in that little girl who held her head up and returned to school day after day, walking through those crowds with the federal marshals at her side. 

Little Ruby Bridges grew into a strong woman with a large voice that she uses to this day to continue to advocate for civil rights. 

In his essay, “The Fire Next Time”, writer James Baldwin touches upon the strength that Ruby displayed at such a tender age. He states that generations of Black Americans surviving the worst that life had to offer had born, “children of kindergarten age who can walk through mobs to get to school.”

The title of Baldwin’s essay is from a slave song, “God gave Noah the rainbow sign, No more water, the fire next time!” His essay opens with a letter to his nephew, also named James. The letter is a map for his nephew to navigate a white America as a young black man. The second part of the essay is a letter from the writer describing his own navigational journey. Harassed and abused by police when he was ten, young James finds security in a life devoted to the church, and enters the ministry. His essay examines the roles Christianity and Islam played during the civil rights movement, and in slavery and oppression. Through hardship, black Americans rose above fear and moved forward with love and grace. The overarching message is change is messy, and requires all citizens to stand up and make their voices heard in unity. At 100 pages, the essay is bit longer than most, and requires a quiet mind to listen. At once historical and timely, “The Fire Next Time” provides context for civil right actions today.

 

As it has always been...

Two recent earthquakes shook the western slopes of the Rocky Mountains. On March 18th a 5.7 magnitude quake shook a town near Salt Lake. On March 31st, a 6.5 magnitude quake occurred north of Boise. The quakes were unrelated, but caused by the same actions that formed the Rocky Mountain range 80 million to 55 million years ago. The mountains continue to slowly grow, as they always have. It is a reassurance that the world continues to move in ways it always has.

The Idaho quake triggered an instant video conference with school chums from my hometown. We all had ‘working from home’ hair except for that one guy who dresses up for everything, and that one gal who is always put together. His coiffure lay in perfectly combed waves and he wore a sweater vest with a tie, her black hair smoothly framed her flawless skin as she sipped a glass of wine. The rest of us bore wild uncombed locks and sported concert t-shirts and sweatpants. It has always been this way with this group.

Mud season is not my favorite season, but I do love what it promises: long walks in an awakening spring. Plants unfurl their leaves to absorb sunlight, breathe in carbon dioxide and exhale oxygen, producing food and clean air. Afternoon mud puddles transform overnight into crystalline art forms, glistening in the morning sun. As the day warms, rivulets of melted ice trickle into the ditch along the road, rushing to meet the creek, which flows into the river in a rush towards the great ocean. Mary Oliver assured us, “It is the nature of stone to be satisfied. It is the nature of water to want to be somewhere else.” It has always been this way.

In the novel, The Overstory by Richard Powers, one of the characters describes walking through a Pacific Northwest forest tucked into the stony folds of the Cascade mountain range. She walks in a place where one of the native languages uses the same word for “footprint” and “understanding.” The Wenatchi dialect of Interior Pacific Northwest Salish uses the same phrase for “footprint” as “to comprehend and to understand.” In Latin, the phrase solvitur ambulando, translates as, “it is solved by walking.” Walking is good for both body and soul, as is understood in languages older than our own. It has always been a grounding reassurance to feel the earth under our feet.

I’ve been stuck on the song, “Alaska,” by Maggie Rogers. She sings about walking through icy streams and glacial plains. The chorus, “I walked off you, and I walked off an old me,” is a reminder that everything is temporary, and a walk is good medicine to clear the mind. It has always been this way.

While we are physically distanced, we can still make a connection with each other by listening and reading one another’s stories…as it has always been.

We are all made of star stuff

Everyone has a desire to connect with where their DNA originated from. Friday night discussions in the tap room circled around an upcoming vacation. The couple planned to follow the genetic signature revealed by their DNA test results. The journey to find our common origination source could go back even further.  Let’s start at the very beginning. I heard it’s a very good place to start.

In the first few seconds of the Big Bang, the simplest atom, hydrogen, formed. Hydrogen atoms were the only element for nearly 300 million years. Hydrogen atoms begin to stick together, forming large clusters.  As more and more hydrogen atoms joined the cluster, the internal temperature and pressure excited the particles to the extent that two hydrogen atoms crashed together in nuclear fusion. The protons of each hydrogen atom fused in the nuclei, forming a nucleus with two protons. Helium was born. This nuclear fusion released an astronomical amount of energy, converting some of the hydrogen mass into energy expressed as light, creating a star. Einstein’s shorthand for this process can be read as E=mc2.

Within the newborn star, nuclear fusion continued. Elements crashed together again and again, protons colliding into nuclei, combining to form more elements. Helium fused with hydrogen to form lithium, and on and on all the way up to iron, with 26 protons in its nuclei. At this moment, the star full of elements reached the end of its life and exploded in a supernova. The elements erupted forth in the form of stardust that traveled on stellar winds like little space dust bunnies, clumping together to form more stars. In all, 86 different elements are produced during the birth, life, and death of stars. 

All of these elements, these particles of stardust, make up the human body. There is oxygen in our lungs, carbon in our muscles, calcium in our bones, and iron in our blood. All of these elements were created inside a star before Earth was ever a twinkle in her daddy’s eye. Imagine, someone may have wished upon a star that you are made of.

This week of January is the perfect time of month for star gazing, if the skies are clear. The moon is positioned in between the Earth and Sun, showing us her dark side, and leaving only the light of the stars to reach our eyes at night. 

Look directly north around 7:30 p.m. to see the Double Cluster of stars. These star clusters lie between the constellations of Perseus and Cassiopia. The Double Cluster is visible by the naked eye in areas with little light pollution – like our own Methow Valley dark skies. In the northern sky this week, comet C/2017 T2 PanSTARRS will travel through the Cassiopeia constellation. With binoculars, the comet and perhaps its tail is dimly visible during the month of January. Peak visibility of the comet is during May 2020. 

Preserving our dark skies allows us to see the very stars from whence we came, and connect with the basic elements that we all share. As Martin Luther King Jr. said, “Only in the darkness can you see the stars.” 

This article originally appeared in Methow Valley News, 22 January 2020

Mr. Crotchet

Merry Christmas Eve

The year was 1981. I was seven, and mesmerized by our neighbor: a crotchety man, I will call him Mr. Crotchet, who tirelessly ranted about everything and everyone. I found him fascinating.

Sometimes I sat on my bike in his driveway, listening while he puttered and muttered in his garage.

Sometimes I would inch closer and start handing him tools while he worked on his motorcycle and raged against the world. He taught me sophisticated insults: insipid, fatuous, obtuse, and more. I never heard an adult so articulately voice anger on a consistent level. I honestly did not think he noticed who handed him tools, or that a seven-year-old intently listened to his diatribes on the current state of affairs.

One day he uncharacteristically asked me a question: when were we getting a Christmas tree?

The night before, my dad explained there was no money for a tree. His shoulders slumped as he said he hoped I was not disappointed. I only wanted my parents not to worry, I did not care about a tree.

I explained all this to Mr. Crotchet, and shrugged my shoulders to indicate that a stupid tree was not important. He asked if we had enough to eat, and inquired about my baby brother. We were fine, I said, and then took off on my bike after wishing him a Merry Christmas.

The next day I came home from school to find the biggest, fullest, beautiful fir tree leaning up against our house next to a box filled with jars of baby food and a frozen turkey. The electric bill was due that day, and when my mother called the power company to explain why we were not able to pay on time that month, the receptionist said someone paid our bill the day before.

I told Mom it was Mr. Crotchet. She doubted it, but piled a clean styrofoam meat tray with cookies, wrapped it with Saran Wrap and stuck a bow on top. We marched across the street with the tray full of cookies topped with a bow and knocked on his door.

As we thanked him, Mr. Crotchet claimed he didn’t know what we were talking about and rushed to firmly shut the door in our faces.

Mom bent down to set the cookies on his stoop and met me at eye level. “Clearly, it wasn’t him,” she said with a look that made it clear this was a secret we would let him keep.

His gift was not the tree, the turkey, the baby food, or even the paid bill.

The gift he gave us was kindness.

Being kind is not the same as being nice. Niceties are shallow, and disappear quickly, like snowflakes melting on a fingertip. Kindness leaves a lasting impression, an indented fingerprint on our souls of clay.

Festivus, 2019

Brothers and sisters, let us gather together once again for the holiday that brings us all together, Festivus. The hallowed tradition of the Airing of Grievances connects us all in our mutual annoyance of all things annoying. Place a solemn gloved hand on a pole, and let us begin. 

Toilet paper rolls with one remaining square. Nothing ruins the sacred grounds of trust more than a previous user failing to replace the role of toilet paper. 

One headlight out. The dashboard of a car is filled with useless lights and warnings. I can readily see that my seatbelt is not fastened, I don’t need a flashing cartoon reminder accompanied by a loud ding. The ‘Check Engine’ light is too generic to be of any use. What I can’t readily see from behind the wheel of the car is that one headlight is out, causing a whole host of perilous dangers. We can put a man on the moon, but can’t develop a dashboard notification of a Popeye.

George RR Martin has yet to finish the final two books of his series, A Song of Ice and Fire. He’s procrastinated for over two decades, pumping out other novels, a daily blog, essays, and granting interviews. Instead of just sitting down to focus on finishing what I want, he just does what he wants. The audacity of being an independent human being. 

Drivers who drive too slowly when the roads are dry and weather’s awesome. Look buddy, I know you’re out on a scenic drive, but this two-lane highway is a conduit for people who have somewhere to be and we don’t all have the luxury of going 35 in a 60 zone. That’s what the back roads are for. Take that whimsical drive over to the back road. 

Drivers who drive too fast when the roads are nasty and the weather’s thick. Look buddy, I know the speed limit is 60, but there’s people driving around with one headlight out and nobody can see more than ten feet in front of the car. Slow your roll to 35, and let’s try to live until Georgie-boy cranks out the final two novels of A Song of Ice and Fire. 

Brimmed hats indoors on someone’s head. Do they need a ‘check engine’ light on the brim to remind them to remove their hat? Or should I just make a ding noise next to them until said hat is removed?

Speaking of hats – outdoor lights with no lamp shade. The light just spills out all over the place, lighting up other neighbor’s windows and copious amounts of sky. Can you afford to light the whole neighborhood? Nobody wants your extra light. 

Vacuums with bagless canisters and hinged openings on both the top and bottom. Having two hinged openings on one bagless cannister opens up a whole dusty bin of opportunity for failure of multiple hinges. Nothing aggrieves me more than a dust bin unexpectedly opening from the bottom to release all the dirty contents on a freshly vacuumed floor. 

Happy Festivus! 

This article originally appeared in the Methow Valley News, 11 December 2019

Aunt Rosie

The same year my great-aunt Rosie was born, her 17-year-old sister Jean gave birth to my mother Carol. Being just a year apart, my mother Carol and her Aunt Rosie were playmates and confidantes, as close as sisters. They had sleepovers and play dates, inside jokes and secrets.

When we visited Grandma Jean and Grandpa Harvey, Aunt Rosie would drop in for a visit. She was a whirlwind of punch lines and vivacious color. When she stood and announced she was going to the restroom, Harvey would complain that Rosie used too much toilet paper. With a flourish, Aunt Rosie whipped out a roll of Charmin from her ample bosom. “Don’t worry Harvey, I brought my own!”

Her cleavage was like the bottomless hat of a magician. Car keys, wallet, lipstick, Kleenex and more appeared and disappeared with a flick of the wrist. My memory includes an endless string of colorful scarves and a white rabbit, but I’m willing to bet — hesitantly — that she probably never tucked woodland creatures into her brassiere.

Eventually, my mom moved to Idaho, Jean and Harvey retired to Florida, and Aunt Rosie remained in Ohio. I would come home from school and find my mom doubled over in mirth, the long cord of the kitchen phone jiggling wildly with waves of her glee. It was either Aunt Rosie on the other end, or Grandma Jean talking about Aunt Rosie’s latest antics. Grandma Jean often said, “just sit on Rosie’s porch, and life happens!” They were a treasured trio who loved and laughed regardless of the time and space that separated them.

If Aunt Rosie was the life of the party, my mother was the joy. Once, while we were waiting for my mother to arrive at a get-together, my father leaned down and whispered in my ear, “Watch how the room lights up when your mother walks in — see how everyone smiles?”

My mother Carol was the first to die, and my Grandma Jean soon followed. Aunt Rosie’s communications with me were always a reminder of the closeness that the three women shared.

One morning, I had the most vivid dream. I was suspended in space, planets and stars in prescribed orbits were all slowly moving according to plan. In the distance, I could hear Aunt Rosie laughing. She was somersaulting through time and space, having a grand time. I could feel the wind blow as she rushed by, a smile and a wave she gave me. I looked down to see a sunny meadow below — dotted with white and yellow flowers. Carol and Jean stood ready, knees bent and arms extended, their faces upturned expectantly to the sky. Falling through the blue came Rosie, tumbling into their waiting arms. The three rolled to the grass in laughter.

I awoke still holding that sense of joy, but also a bit of sadness. Rosie took her leave from this world while I was dreaming that morning, and I’m so grateful she passed me by on the way.

Bad Advice for Good People

This article first appeared in the Methow Valley News, May 22, 2019

This time of year is filled with celebration vibes, and a wagon load of well-intentioned advice. People are either walking a graduation line or down a wedding aisle. Tables are laden with iced cakes, floral arrangements and congratulation cards scribbled with lines of well-wishes and advice.

I tried to compile a list of sound, excellent, life-skill advice for this week’s column. But, all that came to mind were the reams of terrible advice I received from well-meaning people. What follows is bad advice for good people.

“That plaid couch is so you.” No, it is not you. You are a colorful being with many textures and patterns. Do not define yourself by a patterned fabric that you will be stuck with for the next decade. Avoid print-patterned furniture at all costs, because, five years from now you will abhor that plaid couch and wish you had saved yourself some hard-earned cash by going with a neutral tone futon and a few sporty throw pillows.

“Say yes to everything for one year.” No. Do not say yes to everything. In college I had a semi-roommate who convinced me to say yes to every opportunity, including dating, for one year. Here’s how that year went: fencing lessons, banana-flavored everything, ballroom dancing, a plaid couch, a tense moment at gunpoint on a beach in Mexico, 37 awkward dates wherein I learned what I definitely did not want in a life-partner, and a brown paper bag filled with 52 ska CDs. I don’t even like ska. The only high point of that year was learning a few parrying techniques that I’ve never used again.

“Make direct eye contact to show confidence.” Eh … within reason. Half of the uncomfortable situations in my life have occurred because I made direct eye contact and the person on the receiving end mistook the look for one of interest. This has led to several marriage proposals from complete strangers, an offer to kick my assets, unwanted windshield cleaning at stoplights, and TMI from seatmates on trains, planes and automobiles.

Charcoal-activated anything. Charcoal belongs in potting soil and barbecue pits, not in any body part with a mucus lining and surfaces sensitive to abrasives. Activated charcoal is used to treat drug overdoses. It works because drugs and toxins chemically bind to the charcoal and leave the body. It’s become more popular to take activated charcoal as a supplement, or for mild discomfort. According to WebMD, activated charcoal can cause gastrointestinal blockages, and will reduce or prevent absorption of other medications including pain killers, heart medication, asthma medication and anti-depressants. As an alternative to toothpaste, charcoal use is discouraged by scientific evidence. A recent study published in the British Dental Journal reveals findings that activated charcoal causes tooth decay and staining.

In other news you didn’t want to hear: The Pateros Super Stop gas station has declined to continue offering the Methow Valley News to customers. If you have an idea of a local distributor please email editor@methowvalleynews.com.

There is a bright side! In an effort to support readers in the lower valley, Methow Valley News is offering a $5 discount on subscriptions to any Pateros address. This discount will be honored through the end of June 2019.

Water Dance

This article first appeared in the Methow Valley News, March 27, 2019

It must be the end of winter.

All the tell-tale signs are here. Robins nibble on dried-up berries and rosehips at the edges of the yard. The dogs are shedding their winter coats, leaving tufts of hair like a breadcrumb trail wherever they go. The roof shrugs off layers of snow and ice, with a cacophony of drips throughout the morning followed by thunderous slides that shake the house in the afternoon. The winter food storage, so plentiful at the end of harvest, is nearly gone but for a few shriveled carrots, a handful of sprouting potatoes and one lone jar of tomato sauce.

Afternoon mud puddles transform overnight into crystalline shards of intricate geometric ice castles, glistening in the morning sun. As the day warms, ice crystals melt into rivulets that trickle down the walkway, joining other trickles in a rush to the creek that soon will become a roaring torrent, rolling down to the river in a rush towards the open ocean. As the poet Mary Oliver so wisely observed, “It is the nature of stone to be satisfied. It is the nature of water to want to be somewhere else.”

In our valley of plenty, it’s easy to take water for granted. According to an article published in the Los Angeles Times last week, 1.6 million people in the United States don’t have access to clean drinking water. Recently I traveled to the Bahamas — where there is no surface water and the freshwater resources are finite and vulnerable. The tap water on the island was filled with salt and sulfur. After a salt-shower, I would wet a washcloth with bottled water to rinse the residual salt off my body. My travel water bottle was useless as the only available drinking water came in plastic bottles. As we were instructed on the dangers that sunscreen posed to coral reefs, I couldn’t help but think of all those plastic bottles, and the impact on the fragile eco-system of the limestone and coral islands.

Returning home, I realized the stark differences between the water-rich and the water-poor. I ran four loads of laundry, took a shower, mopped the floors, filled the water fountain, turned on the humidifier, and filled the dogs’ water bowl with the ease of rotating a handle. Filling a quart jar with well water from the tap, I drunk deeply.

People in Flint, Michigan, still don’t have clean drinking water. An interactive map at www.drinkingwateralliance.org tracks all the areas in the United States with unsafe drinking water, and how the community has responded, or has failed to respond.

All these watery ruminations drove me to seek out the poems of Mary Oliver, who died early this year.

What is the vitality and necessity

Of clean water?

Ask a man who is ill, and who is lifting

His lips to the cup.

Ask the forest.

“Water,” by Mary Oliver

Whales hear shapes, bees dance maps, and plants eat sunshine. What happens when it ends?

This article first appeared in the Methow Valley News, March 13, 2019

Long walks in the woods with friends can lead to fascinating conversations.

On a recent sunny day, our footsteps crunched over freshly fallen snow. A group of friends shared how they each experienced listening to ensemble music. Some choose to close their eyes and picture a story unrolling, like a movie reel. Others enjoy the technical aspect of the music, how the different instruments emerge in solo or interact with others. Individual notes tracking over a range of scales, sending waves and ripples of sound through a concert hall.   

The conversation stuck with me for days, as I thought about how other living creatures experience sound, like whales, for instance. The ocean’s dark abyss limits eyesight, while water dilutes scent. With limited sight, and muffled scents, whales must depend on other sensory skills. Soundwaves move faster in water than in air, and the ear bones in whales are highly developed to process sound. Whales vocalize ultra-sonic pitches that travel through water and echo back, allowing whales to “see” their environment using echolocation. Whales depend primarily on sound to navigate, feed, and socialize.

Bees also depend on communication to navigate, feed and socialize. A scout bee will return to the hive and share her findings in a detailed “waggle dance.” She dances out a map indicating the length of distance to the nectar source, the richness of the nectar, and the direction in which to travel. Her co-workers will watch the dance once, and immediately fly off in the direction indicated.

Plants that are visited by the bees have their own unique way of processing food. They absorb sunlight, convert the energy to sugar, and grow into a food source to sustain other living creatures. Plants breathe in carbon dioxide and breathe out oxygen, a key component of our own survival as humans.

Whales hear shapes, bees dance maps, and plants eat sunshine.

Plants are made of sunshine and air; humans are made of water. Sixty-five percent of the human body is water, the same salinity as the sea. Soundwaves move through us as we dance our own maps. Sunlight makes us happy, and our bones strong.

What a wonderful world we live in. A symphony of sights, sounds and smells that nourish our bodies, and engage our senses. And yet, there is the sense that the slightest tremble of butterfly wings will set calamity in motion and disrupt the entire balance.

Here’s where it gets dark.

Whales throw themselves ashore to escape something terrifying they’ve “seen.” Bees suffer colony collapse under a storm of pesticides, damaged eco-systems and mono-crops. Just as air pollution causes respiratory disease in humans, dirty air kills plants. 

What if we humans were the proverbial butterfly, the cause of massive disruption? Industries contaminate the water that fills our bodies. Pollution disrupts photosynthesis, killing off pollinators and plants. The delicate interplay of clean water and clean air is essential to whale, bee, plant and human survival.

Real protection comes in the form smart legislation to manage resources and curb pollution. Liberty Bell High School students interning with the Methow Valley Citizens Council researched climate bills and armed themselves with knowledge. This week, that student envoy met with elected representatives in the Washington state Legislature to advocate for action on climate change. We should follow their lead, and demand an effective strategic plan from our representatives that addresses the human causes of climate damage and provides real solutions.

The Houseguest

Grief is a strange companion

An unpredictable house guest 

She comes and goes on a whim

When she finally takes her leave

It’s always a turn to discover

She might have left your heart

Better than she found it

La Mer as La Mere

Water is one of the many things I like to think about.
71% of the Earth's surface is covered by water. 73% of the human heart and brain is water.
Ocean currents move people, weather, animals from one shore to the other, river currents flush out debris and transport goods between ports.
Blood currents deliver oxygen to muscles and flush toxins from the body.
While still in the womb, mere weeks from taking our first breath of air, we take practice breaths under water - inside our mothers. Water forms tears of joy, and of sorrow.

While interviewing director Derrick LaMere for the upcoming screening of his film, United by Water, all of these themes came to mind as he talked about the importance of 'bringing the people back to the water' - in acts of conservation of resources, preservation of culture, and reconciliation of human relationships.

His other films also are about people returning to the water to reconnect with their environment, their roots, their human-ess.

"Your name is very powerful," I said, thinking of the French translation of La Mer, The Sea

"It is, the water is, in many ways, our mother," he said - referring to the French translation of his actual name, La Mere, The Mother

And then he told me of his grandmother, and his great grandmother.

And now I'm thinking of Water in terms of Mother

How, when I was a child, I would dive deep to the bottom of the pool and try to stay there, marveling at the feeling in my ears of hearing the blood rush with each heart beat, and the muffled shouts above of splashing kids in the pool . I'd pop up for air and look at my mother sitting on the bleachers beneath an umbrella - holding my baby brother. Is this what he heard while he was inside of her?

Even now, on days when the world is too much with us, I'll slip into a warm bath and slide under the water, with just my nose above the surface. Listening to the inner sounds of my body carrying on: the beat of my heart, the inhalation of breath into my lungs, and the muffled drip, drip of the faucet, and all is right with the world again.

All You Need is a Toothbrush and Clean Underpants

Everyone has a holiday travel story filled with unfortunate events. Here’s another one for the books…

I don’t normally check a bag, but this year I decided to take advantage of the convenient option of checked bags – roomier suitcase, space for gifts, and all the liquids a woman desires - including a bottle of rum. We planned to take a flight from Wenatchee to Seattle, enjoy a leisurely dinner and a restful night’s sleep before our flight to Britain the next day. These plans were futile, beginning with the checked bag.

After landing in Seattle, we strolled to baggage claim with the other passengers to wait for bags that never arrived. While my husband walked the length of the airport baggage area searching for our bag, I stood in a long line at customer service. Apparently, all the bags where lost. All I wanted was dinner, a cup of tea, my liquids, and my comfortable pajamas from my checked bag. It was not to be. We gave up and turned in for the night…sans liquids and comfy pjs.

In the morning we lumbered down to baggage claim, and there was our bag, sitting all alone in a vast empty line of silent luggage carousels. I opened the zipper just enough to verify that this was indeed my bag - and upon seeing my socks and underwear, promptly zipped it shut without fully examining ALL the contents. We grabbed the bag and rushed upstairs to check it in before joining the security line before our flight to Chicago, which was delayed.

The flight from Chicago to Manchester was also delayed, and there was a scene at customs. The customs agent simply was having one of those days (or lifetimes) where he gained immense satisfaction from being an asshole. We watched as numerous families were loudly belittled for "wasting his time and everyone else's" for imagined slights and sent to the end of the ridiculously long line of over a hundred weary passengers and crying children. When our turn arrived, the only available agent was this power-wielding sack of flesh. We also were immediately shunned, yelled at, and sent to the end of the line for showing disrespect, when we had not been able to get in a single word to answer the belligerent rapid fire questions of "and how would I be treated if I were to travel to your country?! You are wasting my time. END OF THE LINE!" Making our way back through the maze of line forming poles and rope we were intercepted by another agent who took us back to the front of the line and hand delivered us to a different agent - they passed knowing looks and we sensed that the agent who was having a no-good-rotten-horrible-day was a regular occurrence.

With all the delayed flights and customs drama we missed the prime 10 a.m. train to Edinburgh, but managed to score tickets for the noon train. There was a bit of confusion before boarding the train, as our tickets did not match the train cars or seats. We stopped a uniformed man to ask which car we should board and were informed these tickets were for the metro train across town, not this train right in front of us, ready to leave the station. Being the calm, rational, people that we are, we tossed our luggage on the theoretically wrong train and jumped aboard. Long story short, the uniformed individual happened to be new on the job and gave us directions that would have most certainly ruined Christmas. The other passengers were very helpful in explaining the ticket and seating process.

We arrived in Edinburgh, the hilly capital of Scotland. Cobblestone streets and Harry-Potter-esque architecture make up the section known as Old Town, lined with baked potato delis and shops offering highland wool and Celtic jewelry. I opened my bag and rummaged around for the rum. It was gone. Of course it was gone. When a bag goes missing in an airport for 12 hours, so does the rum.

On the return trip, I ditched all the liquids and opted to carry on my bag instead of checking it. That was a “stable genius” move on my part because everything that could possibly go wrong in the history of air travel went wrong.

Perhaps that sentiment is overblown. We did not die, there was no water landing, and the air sickness bag was not required. However, the pilot came over the intercom and said, "Folks, this plane is smaller than the one we would normally use for a transatlantic flight and the fuel tank is not big enough to get us all the way to Chicago. We're going to stop in Bangor, Maine for a refuel." As we approached Bangor, Maine, the pilot made yet another announcement, "Folks, Bangor Maine is too windy for a safe landing, so we are going to try to make it to Boston for a refuel."

Never fly American. Who uses the wrong plane??

All this wrong plane business resulted in an unexpected overnight stay in Chicago, as everyone missed their connections. Representatives met passengers at the gate and had dinner and hotel vouchers, and tickets for rebooked flights. American Airlines rebooked us on an Alaskan Airline flight to Seattle the next morning. This time I had my comfy pajamas in my unchecked bag, so staying overnight in Chicago was not that inconvenient. The next morning we arrived at the gate and were on standby for seat assignments. After all the passengers boarded, and just before the plane door was shut, we were assigned seats. As they scanned my newly issued ticket, the ticket agent said, "I'm sorry, American didn't complete the purchase on this ticket - You'll have to go to gate K7 and have them issue you a purchased ticket." I ran to K7 and was told, "We aren't ticket agents." I ran back to N9 (yeah, a different terminal!) and they let me on the plane anyway, sans ticket.

My advice for sane holiday travel? Forget the checked bag. Just take a backpack with a toothbrush, clean underpants, and comfy pajamas. Be prepared to enjoy the ‘scenic’ extra-long way home.

Tenacious Crossword

There is a valley character who I call "Crossword". He always has a stack of crossword puzzles that he's working on all over town: in Hank's deli, at the laundromat, at the garage, in the library, at the bakery...

While waiting for my snow tires to be put on, I walked over to the bakery and took up at my customary table by a window with full view of the sidewalk and people coming and going. Crossword was at the table next to me, pencil poised in mid air over a stack of puzzles freshly torn out from various newspapers. As I opened up my laptop, he leaned over conspiratorially,

Crossword: I was over at Hank's and I asked a woman for a hug.

Me: How'd that work out for ya?

Crossword: She said, "ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!!" Hahahaha! (slapping his knee)

Me: Did you expect a different outcome?

Crossword: Are you kidding me? Hahahahaha!!

He continued to chuckle to himself, his head and shoulders shaking in laughter as he filled in the little squares of the puzzle. After a time, he slowly got up, put on his coat, and shuffled with great effort out the door. Still smiling and waving as he left. I watched through the window to make sure he got where he was going.

Most people passed him quickly, not giving the old bent man a second look as he shuffled along, carefully concentrating on each step. He paused at the curb, and reached out a hand - curled and gnarled by years of work - and placed it on a hood of a car to keep his balance as he shuffled a few steps forward.

A young man took long quick strides for the bakery, passing Crossword. The young man put his hand on the bakery door, pushed it open, and then stopped short as a sudden look of awareness and concern furrowed his brow. He stepped away from the door and turned around, his back to me, and the door now shut. He greeted Crossword, generic words passed between two strangers and Crossword waved him off with one hand, his other sliding along the cold metal of a car hood.

The young man pulled his phone out of his pocket, and frowned down at it, standing on the sidewalk - bakery seemingly forgotten. As Crossword made slow progress, the young man kept discreetly glancing up from his phone. He took small steps that to passerby would look like a distracted movement, but he was keeping a mindful distance between himself and Crossword. As soon as Crossword reached his destination and was inside the next shop, the young man smiled, pocketed his phone, and rushed into the bakery - where he ordered lunch to go and rushed back out.

In a world of name-calling and frustration with everyone around us, it was a gift to see someone stop and carefully consider the level of assistance someone might need. From my vantage point, Crossword turned down help because he wants to stay mobile and independent as long as he has the ability to do so. The young man respectfully gave him space and a sense of privacy - while ensuring Crossword met his goal. Let's all be both of them - tenacious when we are older, and kind when we are younger.

Bodies of Water

Dear Husband is waxing poetic on safety features of table saws...a current is applied to the spinning blade. When a body part comes into range, the current flows from the blade through the body, immediately depleting the blade of power and stopping it before causing bodily harm. My poetic brain picked up the thread:
65% of the human body is water 
The same salinity as the sea
Energized by currents
An ocean of charged particles 
Surging in waves
Powerful waves of humanity

Bad Hombres and my fellow Nasties

I went to bed last night in tears and sick to my stomach
I woke up in fears and catatonic
This reality tv star is the black horse of the apocalypse
His deplorable followers clueless
And yet...I have hope
Over half the nation voted for decency
Record early voters for the first time in history
Feel the Bern and I'm with Her
Don't give up now, we're not kicked to the curb
Bad Hombres and my fellow Nasties
We're still a democracy

John

John, Omak Stampede, August 2016

I am naturally cynical, pragmatic, logical. I do not believe prayers move a diety to action. 

I found myself 'praying' last night as I scrolled through pictures of protestors and recognized someone else - John. 
I met John at an event this summer. I was interviewing a young lady and John sat quietly nearby, intently listening. When she and I were finished, John stood up and held out his hand. He firmly grasped my hand in both of his and told me a story. John is disabled, his speech is garbled, but that does not stop him from interacting with everyone and being his friendly self. I had no idea what he was saying, but I loved every word as he animatedly emphasized here, raised an eyebrow there, and laughed heartedly at a punchline that only he knew. Awhile later I felt a tug at my elbow. John had changed into his dancing clothes and was going to drum that night. He motioned to my camera and then proudly mugged for a few shots.
John is unable to talk, but in the brief evening I spent with him he communicated volumes with his smile, hand gestures, drumming and dance.
As I scrolled through images from the NoDAPL protests, I recognized John. He was held in an embrace by another - someone who I know was arrested. His face was buried in the other man's chest. I wondered, was he hurt? was he scared? was he arrested too?
He can't talk. Was he one of the ones with a number written on his arm instead of a name? Was he one of the ones held in a dog kennel?
He can't talk. Were the police patient or gentle with him? Did they recognize someone who has special needs and act appropriately?
I worry and I pray.
Me. Praying.
For his safety, for everyone's safety. And a quick end to this brutal attack on peaceful protesters who are standing ground on their own treaty lands that were never ceded.

Ladybug Hiberation

 Where ladybugs slumber deep
Through winters long dark keep

A seasonal and silent gathering

Bodies cluster wing to wing

On rocks and logs and leaves
On stems, the ground, the trees

Cold and clear flows the creek

A watery lullaby for them to sleep

Ladybugs settling down to rest

The moment before snows drift

Monday - A Deconstruction

I decided to start the day off right, by getting up early to exercise, eat a healthy breakfast and pack a slimming salad for lunch. Here’s how the day transpired:

• 5:30 a.m. Bounced out of bed, unrolled exercise mat and assumed plank position.

• 7:30 a.m. Woke up face-down on the floor mat, dog licking my face. Vaguely remember doing one pushup. Now running late for work, no time to pack lunch or eat breakfast.

• 8:00 a.m. Stop at Carlton General store for a coffee, muffin and freshly made turkey sandwich on croissant for lunch. The store and parking lot are packed with out-of-town hunters. One of them holds open the door (nice) and says, “Morning, baby girl” (not nice).

• 8:10 a.m. Now slightly irritated and running late, I forget that I placed the cup of coffee on top of the car. The man who mistook a grown woman for a baby jumps in front of the car, waving his arms and yelling, “don’t go anywhere baby girl!” Remembering the coffee, I retrieve it, while the man continues to instruct me as if I were an infant, “buckle up, baby girl!” 

• 9:00 a.m. I arrive to my job as the office administrator at the Bear Fight Institute, where scientists conduct research and publish findings on geological formations within our solar system. An airmail letter from Britain is in the pile of unopened mail. Marked “Private and Confidential,” the letter looks important. I email the scientist it is addressed to; he was out of town that week. He replies that it may need immediate attention, so I open the letter to find a handwritten note requesting a professional opinion on the existence of Loch Ness. A self-addressed stamped envelope is enclosed.

I take a long sip from the still-hot Carlton General Store coffee that I had earlier refrained from throwing on someone, and decide not to reply to the letter. Although I truly want to say, “Dear Sir, as a research institute located in the Pacific Northwest, we can only speak on issues relating to Bigfoot.”

The rest of the work day passed quickly without further incident, until the drive home, when a Methow Valley-sized traffic jam of cows took a leisurely stroll across the Rendezvous Road. The behooved “cow-moot” resulted in a dinner idea.

Beef stew ingredients browned in a pot on my stove later that evening. I grabbed a carton of beef broth and shook the contents vigorously before pouring into the pot. Then I reached for the can of Guinness and, without thinking, also shook it vigorously. I’d like to believe most of the Guiness dripped down into the pot after exploding all over the kitchen ceiling. I’d also like to believe that my ceiling was relatively clean.

Find my beef stew recipe here :)

Bears Like Honey, Too

Monday evening, August 15th 

Tonight was supposed to be a quiet evening shared with my favorite husband and a lovely Malbec. Three hours and 3 beestings later we are instead drinking whiskey straight. 

Hive reassembled, fence fixed, diversion tactical bottles filled with nasty stuff and covered in peanut butter. Go bears.

This evening started with my husband going up to the garden to water, as usual, while I took the dogs for a walk. A few minutes down the road, I heard him hollering for me to come quick, as a bear had gotten into the bee hives in the garden. 

The hives are in the back corners, with tall flowers growing around them as shields. He knew something was wrong even before noticing the hive. The bees were louder than usual, emitting a distressed buzz. They were bumping into his head - letting him know something was very wrong. That was when he decided to look in the back corner. 

The fence poles are buried three feet into the ground, and a six foot tall fence wraps around them. The bear had pushed in the pole and was able to then bend the slack wire, digging underneath it. 

The top boxes full of honey were pushed off to the side - in the picture above, the bees are coating two of the honey supers. The bear had most wanted all the protein rich larvae from the brood chamber. In the photo above, you can see the larger brood frames scattered on the ground. A bear butt print is in the dirt, surrounded by thousands of dead bee bodies. When bees are defending the colony, they will embed their barbed stinger into the flesh of the intruder. As the bee pulls away, the barbed stinger is left in the attacker, still attached to the pulsating muscle of the bee, pumping the venom into the skin. As the bee pulls away, it is disemboweled, dying almost immediately after deploying the stinger. For this reason alone, bees rarely sting - only doing so when the action is worth losing their own life. 

After surveying the destruction, and calling the wildlife officer to report the bear, Joe and I set to work. Joe wore no protective gear while he worked within a foot of the hive to secure the fencing. He was not stung once, despite the tens of thousands of displaced and panicked bees in the immediate area.

I made my best effort to reassemble the hive. The brood nest was scraped nearly clean, and covered in dirt but a few live larvae and eggs remained. The nurse bees were still attending to these cells, even the midst of all the chaos - seeing this, I became overwhelmed with emotion and started to cry at the dedication and commitment of the colony. The queen was covered in dirt and honey, but still alive. I moved quickly in the gathering darkness, brushing off the dirt, righting the boxes, and slipping the frames back into place.

As I do not use foundation in the honey supers, some of the comb had collapsed under the weight of being upended, and also the bear had taken a large swipe of honeycomb. The now broken honey comb loosed over a gallon of honey into the hive, but I hoped the bees could recover most of it.

Despite tens of thousands of bees (freaked out, stressed bees) swarming around me as I struggled to put it all together, only three stung me, and those three were ones that I accidentally pinched: once when I lifted a super full of honey covered in hundreds of bees and rested it on my thigh, pinching a bee. The second when I stuck my knee against the fence to bend it back into place and squeezed a bee between my knee and fence. The third strike was when I crouched down and pinched a bee between my calf and thigh. I was covered in bees, thousands of bees, and were only stung by three that I pinched.

Best case scenario: They'll live for now, but they will not make it through winter, and it's too late in the season to try and combine them with another hive, I've had bad luck with late season joining hives. At the least the bear got a good meal.

Closing thoughts on that day: Joe is the best - he helped change my mindset. The bears are stressed and starving after two years of devastating fires in Gold Creek that destroyed their food sources. At least he got yummy meal of bee larvae and honey. Circle of life. I've never had a hive make it through the winter anyway, and it's easier to start over with new bees in a different spot than to move an existing hive. Already scoping out spots for next year, and making plans for a better fence. It's all good. I've made my peace with the bear, hope s/he makes it through hunting season.

Thursday, August 18th

The bees had coated the outside of the hive for three days, refusing to go inside. I thought there were one of two reasons:

1. It was extremely warm the last few days with temperatures in the high 90s. The bees could have been trying to cool off the hive. This is done by 'bearding' the outside of the hive and fanning the entrance with their wings to increase air circulation in the hive. 

2. It was very dirty in the hive, with dirt and loose honey everywhere, maybe they were giving the other bees room to clean. 

But on this morning I looked closer at the bottom of the hive and noticed that at the entrance was not live bees, as I had thought from a distance, but a mound of hundreds of dead bees blocking the entryway, covered by wasps that were feeding on the dead bees. The honey had flowed to the bottom of the hive and out the front entrance, attracting wasps. The bees had tried to protect the entryway, and as they fought with the wasps, had piled up, blocking the entrance. The bees were not coating the outside of the hive for the reasons I had initially thought. Quite the nightmarish contrary - they could not get back in. 

I switched out the top of the hive with a cover that had a top opening just big enough for one bee to enter at a time - all the easier to defend from wasps. 

I cleared away the mess at the bottom entrance and blocked it with a wedge of wood. 

I buried all the dead bees to discourage carrion feeding by the wasps, and set up wasp traps around the hive.

In the afternoon when I returned, the area had been visited once again by the bear, who had torn a hole in the fence and had dug underneath. This time, the bear had pushed over a pile of empty hive boxes and pulled away the wedge of wood at the bottom entrance of the restored hive. To solve the problem, I braced other blocks of wood against the entry, and wrapped the entire hive in fencing. After mending the hole in the fence, I hung up cheap water bottles filled with 50/50 water and bleach, and coated them in peanut butter - giving the bear a nasty taste if he came back, hopefully a diversion. Finally, I found large bales of wire throughout the property and piled them around both hives, making it difficult for anything to get close.

Final Thoughts, Friday, September 2nd

We have not had any problems in the last two weeks. It seems that if you just make it more difficult to get near the hive, i.e. pile lots of wire and lumber all around, the bear will lose interest. 

I usually do not have a problem. Normally the bears are up in higher elevations, but the fires in this drainage the last five years have depleted their once rich food supply. Bottom line, there are too many bears trying to pack on the calories in a limited area - the only food sources left in Gold Creek are where the houses are. 

Wildlife officials have been working on moving the bears to better foraging areas. Two were moved within the last few weeks, and they were skinny, starving little things. 

I am not a fan of electric fences. They do not always work, sometimes it just makes the bear madder and work harder, causing more destruction. With our dogs and kids of friends and family, an electric fence is just not worth the cost and effort. 

Our plan next year is to move the bee hives closer to the house and hang bells on the fencing, along with a motion detector light. The dogs will be alerted to any activity around the hive via both the bells and light and will chase off the bear.