What I wanted was just to relate,
To the mother of my chosen mate,
So we stared at the screen,
Of an Apple machine,
And we chatted of things like baud rate.
Though that’s twenty-three years in the past,
And our new Mac computers are fast,
We still sit back-to-back,
In the family shack,
And we surf and play games — what a blast!
As froggies go, he wasn’t very big. He was about an inch long, smaller than all but the tiniest plastic ones in the toy store.
He wasn’t plastic, though. He was real.
The day we picked up my brother’s car was a tough one for me. The car was the largest thing Stevie had owned, and although my job was to eventually sell it for his estate, I was emotionally attached to it. Standing beside the plain-vanilla Camry with the keys in my hand, I got a little teary-eyed.
That’s when the the little green guy appeared. He crawled out from behind the passenger-side mirror and looked at me with big round eyes. Did he know he was an omen, or did he think he was just a frog? Was he really a Froggie?
When he passed away, Stevie’s living room walls were decorated with paintings of beaches and lighthouses, and in the center hung his doctorate, double-matted, in a heavy gold frame. In the place of honor, right below the doctorate: His froggie collection. That’s right, froggies. I never once heard him use the word “frog.”
Stevie had stuffed froggies, glass froggies, ceramic froggies, metal froggies, and plastic froggies. Some were elegant, some were goofy. One of them used to make croaking sounds, although I accidentally destroyed that capability when I ran it through the washing machine.
The first one came from a coworker, 15 years ago. He had such fun with it, calling it “Froggie,” and making up stories about it, that others began giving him froggies as well. A friend of his mentioned a “Froggy Battle,” which sounded epic. Dad sent froggies for birthdays and Christmas, and I gave him Seattle-themed froggies. Stevie never bought a single one for himself.
He referred to them by silly names: Santa Froggie, Big-Mouth Froggie, Squeaky Froggie.
Stevie was very protective of his froggies. When I sent him a stuffed gorilla named Curious George, he wrote back, “Did I tell you that curious george can stay but that the Froggys and their extended family have eminent domain!”
Stevie was in rare form with his thoughts about a February event called GroundFrog Day, in which a bullfrog by the name of Snohomish Slew offers his weather “frognostication.” He wrote:
“Snohomish Slew and I could become very good friends although as long as Mr & Mrs Froggie are around they cannot be replaced by an upstart tadpole from who knows where who can barely speak froglatin and does not see his shadow cus he probably don’t have one!! Plus he makes BAD predictions and as anyone knows…when you’re frozen like he was you are usually braindead upon arrival!! I guess I’m kinda hard on Slew this morning but ya gotta be kind of jealous towards someone who gets to live in a place called Flower World!”
At Stevie’s memorial, we displayed all the froggies, and afterwards, family and friends could choose one to keep as a memento. I ended up with more than my share of Froggies — Bendy Froggie, Spitting Froggie, Playskool Froggie, Sparkly Froggie, and a bunch of tiny plastic ones.
With Stevie on my heart, you can imagine what I thought when that live little frog climbed out from behind the car mirror, looked at me, and climbed back into his hiding place again.
I am sure that there are people who find frogs on their cars all the time. I am not one of them. Until that day, when I picked up Steve’s car, I had never in my life seen a frog on a car. So I had a name for this little guy: Omen Froggie.
Omen Froggie was tucked safely behind the mirror when we drove the car to town for dinner. There was no sign of him when we came out of No-Name Pizza. Was he still in the mirror? Was he chowing down on pizza scraps? Was he hopping around Beaufort?
It was on the way home that he reappeared. At 55 mph, he decided to make his move. “Look! Froggie!” said Barry, who was in the passenger seat. Our little friend had crawled out from behind the mirror and was now clinging to the passenger window. With his tree-frog toes spread wide and his skin blowing in the wind, Froggie was enjoying a perilous — surely terrifying — joyride. “Hang on, Froggie, hang on!” I cried. I was a very distracted driver, paying more attention to the tiny passenger on the outside of the window than to the other vehicles on the road.
I didn’t want Omen Froggie to go flying off along the road and get killed. He was a Very Important Froggie, and I needed to return him to the boatyard, where he had come from.
Or had he come from the boatyard? Perhaps he had come from another dimension! Maybe he just popped into this universe to let me know Stevie was keeping an eye on his car. And me.
Omen Froggie did not fall off the car. He made it safely back to the parking space where we’d found him. I took a picture of him sitting, serene, on the roof of the car. And after that, I never saw Omen Froggie again.
~~~
(Click on a thumbnail to see full size)
They held extra rain in the sky,
Until I arrived in July,
A serious bummer,
Because in the summer
Seattle should be warm and dry.
Did you guys save this rain just for me? You shouldn’t have!
—
When I was growing up, I thought it terribly unfair that I didn’t have a grandmother. I envisioned white-haired grandmothers as the source of all kinds of good things, like cookies, presents, and sympathy. When a friend’s grandmother tried to poison me during a sleepover in the 7th grade, I figured that was an anomaly.
One of the first things I learned about Barry was that he had a cookie-baking grandmother. She used to send the most amazing, gigantic boxes at Christmas — a panoply of homemade sweets that included fudge, cherry bites, and icebox cookies, each one individually wrapped, with love, in plastic wrap. But what I enjoyed even more than Grandma’s cookies was her sparkle.
The first time I met her was at Barry’s mother’s 50th birthday dinner at a Columbus restaurant. I was working the night shift, so I took a longer-than-usual dinner break to attend. After a meal of rich pasta, bread, salad, and cake, Grandma turned to me and said, “How about coming back to the hotel with us for a little spumoni?” I was stunned. How could this crazy family put ice cream on top of all the other food? I was stuffed! But Grandma persisted. “Just a little spumoni?” I didn’t want to offend her, so after she asked several times, I finally agreed.
When we got to the hotel, she and Barry’s grandfather pulled out a cooler and, to my surprise, champagne glasses. She meant Spumante! For a toast! When I admitted my confusion, we all just laughed and laughed.
In the decades since then, every time we get together with Grandma, there’s a lot of laughter. Growing up in the Roaring 20’s, she has a unique perspective. She lived through the deprivations of Prohibition, the Great Depression, and the second World War. She would tell us stories about about her huge, crazy family, and we’d stay up into the wee hours, talking about everything and anything. She was the ultimate hostess, not just plying us with food and drink (“I can’t eat another bite, Grandma!”), but making sure everyone was having a good time.
When she visited Seattle in the late 90’s, she made a lasting impression on our sailing friends. Bill Brown would complain at great length about “those damned blue-hairs;” why couldn’t more seniors be like Barry’s Grandma? He started a tradition at every gathering, raising his glass and saying, “Here’s to Loraine!” Puzzled friends would say, “Who’s Loraine?” This would give Bill a chance to tell them just how cool Barry’s Grandma is. Then we’d have another toast, and everyone would join in, no matter what they were drinking: “Here’s to Loraine!”
Grandma is pretty down-to-earth, so her passion for reading tea leaves comes as a bit of a surprise. She’ll make a pot of loose tea and pour us each a cup with the leaves floating in it. When we’ve sipped all but about a teaspoon, we swirl the cup carefully to drain the remaining liquid and turn it upside-down, resting on a spoon in the saucer. She can do this perfectly every time, with just the right flick of the wrist. The rest of us are complete klutzes, pouring all our leaves into the saucer, or dumping tea on the tablecloth. But when it’s done right, you can pick up the teacup and find clumps of tea leaves in the bottom, forming recognizable patterns. Or not-so-recognizable.
We take turns peering into each other’s cups, studying the dregs of our tea. “Is that a bird?” “Maybe that’s some kind of fish.” Near the end of the session, when our imaginations are getting tired, the amateurs will say, “I can’t make any sense of this one at all,” but Grandma still sees a tree or a flower and can interpret their meanings.
Of course, if the tea leaves seem to be forming a computer, a cellphone, or a satellite, we all scratch our heads and wonder what’s in the future. That’s because the guidebook she uses was published in 1922.
A few years ago, when she read her own fortune, Grandma kept finding crosses, which mean someone you know is going to die. She stopped reading the leaves for a while, afraid of what the cup might tell her. It’s tough to outlive your husband, your siblings, and most of your friends.
These days, Grandma’s a little less prone to late nights. She gave up baking cookies over a decade ago. But she’s still reading tea leaves and living on her own at almost 100. She still has that sparkle.
A couple of weeks ago, we had a 50th anniversary celebration for Barry’s parents, and because Grandma doesn’t travel, we held it in the Michigan city where she lives.
Barry’s sister had done a fantastic job of decorating the restaurant’s tables, and at the last minute, Barry and I added a bottle of champagne and sparkling cider to each one. When the restaurant set stemware at each place setting, the tables gleamed with reflected light. But what was this? The “head” table, where the original guests from the 1961 wedding were seated, seemed to have something extra.
You guessed it — that’s where Grandma was sitting! She hadn’t been to a party in many years. Now she seemed to have found some reserve energy, and she was the life of the party. How many parents get to attend their children’s 50th wedding anniversary? It was pushing her limits, and she’d be tired the next day. But there she was, sparkling away.
And that is what Grandma does best. The champagne is optional.
Nick sails Valkyrie, peaceful, serene,
With the engine turned off, no machine,
Breaks the stillness, the quiet,
Til he creates a riot,
With his blender, which burns gasoline.
With a sound like a loud chainsaw roar,
Our Lake Union’s not peaceful, no more,
“Margaritas,” I say,
“Over two miles away,”
It’s Saint Nick, giving alms to the pour.
We went out on Flagrante Delicto to watch Duck Dodge (for you non-Seattlites, it’s a very silly sailing race) last night, and were greeted in limerick form by Blender Boy Nick. Here’s a picture of Valkyrie’s crew (don’t ask me how Nick can steer with this many people in the cockpit!).
The theme for last night’s race was “Bastille Day Night,” which inspired these clever sailors to install a guillotine. Now I know where to put one if I ever need one.
Our captain for the evening, buttoned up against the weather in his MG-B. He says that at 30 mph, the rain just goes over his pith helmet, and he cleverly pulls out an umbrella at stoplights.
As the day breaks, a beautiful hush
Hangs o’er breathtaking fields, oh so lush,
But this deceptive green,
Is the most ever seen,
For the rain’s turned the whole place to mush.
Sometimes it’s the colors that tell the real story, and it’s a tragedy. Driving along, enjoying the lovely green fields in North Dakota and Montana, we suddenly realized: It’s not supposed to be green here! And those blue waters? The ones over the road? They’re not supposed to be here, either.
A rancher in Montana yesterday told us about digging a post hole on top of a rocky hill and coming back, two days later, to find it half-full of water. “It hasn’t rained, has it?” he asked his Dad, incredulous. “Nope.” In all their lives, folks have never seen the ground this saturated. Many folks couldn’t plant their crops. The ones who did say their hay’s not forming heads and ripening.
Our pictures show blue skies, puffy clouds, and vast green fields. The news organizations’ photos show tragic flooding and families fleeing their homes. Both capture the truth of 2011.
Here’s where we crossed the Mississippi.
And here’s some of the flooding along I-94.
The following super-green photos were taken at Theodore Roosevelt National Park in North Dakota.
Over 50 years, no one else knew,
That the preacher who married these two,
Did not tie a mere “knot,”
As the poor couple thought,
But instead joined the Stellrechts with glue.
Though he poured it on gooey and thick,
He still wasn’t sure that did the trick,
So what keeps them together,
In both good and bad weather?
It’s the DUCT TAPE, that’s what makes them stick!
I’ve never been to a golden anniversary party, and so I wasn’t sure what my official duties should be when celebrating my in-laws’ 50th. I decided to make myself useful by writing this limerick and reading it at the party last weekend.
I also took a few photos at the event; a few of them follow. There’s a photo of Sharon and Dave with their original 50-year-old champagne glasses, one with Barry’s sister (who put the party together), one of the happy couple cutting the cake (with the original 50-year-old cake topper!), and one of Barry’s parents with us, his sister’s family, and most importantly, Grandma. How many people get to celebrate their children’s golden wedding anniversary?
Michigan is a beautiful place to be today. “Oh boy!” I can hear you say, “Does that mean you’re posting some photographs?” No, I’m afraid there are no photographs to illustrate this state’s beauty today. It’s more elusive than that.
It’s the way the wind is moving the trees, the way the air smells, the way the fluffy white clouds form in the blue sky. It’s the way the birds sang after the rain shower, the way the homemade cherry pie tasted in the cafe in Clare. It’s the way the baby in that same cafe peered curiously from his Daddy’s lap.
It’s the bouncing, crazy exuberance of our nephews at 8 and 11-going-on-12. It’s the precious hugs from Grandma at 97-going-on-98. It’s the Happy Spot I made outside my in-laws’ motel room.
I don’t have photos of any of these beautiful moments. Just memories.
My mother-in-law grew up in Michigan, when the world was smaller. Michigan was her world, and though her father traveled for work and her parents moved a couple of times, it was always within Michigan.
This morning, she showed us some old family photos from the 1940’s and 50’s. Most include her parents, aunts, uncles, or cousins. They’re always smiling and laughing, whether standing on the shores of a lake, sitting at a table, or posing with their arms around each other in front of some trees. The extended family vacationed together for decades, fishing, sharing meals, playing cards, drinking beer, and just enjoying each others’ company.
Of course, all these vacation spots are in Michigan. From what I can tell, this state has always been beautiful, as long as the right people are here.
I learned the art of subtle wave when I lived in rural South Carolina, the summer of 1984. On my one day off a week, my boss at the Beach and Tennis Club would loan me her car so I could buy groceries. Since the closest store was 15 miles away, I’d negotiated the loan of the car in my employment terms.
At first, I couldn’t believe my city-bred eyes. Every time I passed a car or truck on the 2-lane road, the driver waved at me. “Is something wrong? Why are they waving at me?” I wondered. By then, it was too late to wave back. I felt guilty. I was sure I owed them a wave.
When I started to wave back, I was doing it wrong. I was too energetic, waving with my whole hand. Eventually, I learned the technique. You hold the steering wheel at the top, and you don’t actually take your hand off the wheel to perform the wave. You just casually lift your fingers, keeping your thumb around the wheel. A little nod completes the split-second greeting.
All this comes back to me as I travel the Intracoastal Waterway, because this is a waving trip. All day long, I wave at people on passing boats, folks on shore, bridge tenders. When the days are long and our speed is slow, waving is an interesting distraction, a complex and subtle way to communicate without words.
Back in Georgia, traveling on a weekday in May, we might see one or two other boats, no houses on shore, and no bridges. Here in North Carolina, on a weekend in June, we have hundreds of boats, three or four bridges, and countless houses with docks. My arm could get tired with all this waving.
In each encounter, there’s the question of who waves first, and who waves back. When I am about to be rolled by a big powerboat’s wake, I ignore any friendly waves by the boat’s occupants. I have an excuse — both my hands are occupied trying to steer Flutterby into their wake. I admit, that’s no excuse for my scowl.
When we’re passing a boat full of people, it’s interesting to see how many of them wave. Sometimes, the passengers look at us suspiciously when we wave. Then they notice their own captain waving, and they think, “Oh, it’s OK to wave.” So they wave, too, belatedly. Other times, the kids wave, but not the grown-ups. Or the grown-ups wave, and the kids look away, embarrassed.
I hesitate to wave at people whose have both hands occupied. Kayakers and fishermen, for example. I don’t want them to feel guilty for not waving back. The more inexperienced kayakers miss a stroke just to wave back at me. The savvy ones wave their paddles, mid-stroke.
Bridge tenders are another difficult one. Where the heck are they? I peer up as we go through the bridge, trying to figure out which reflective window might have a person behind it. Then I wonder if both their hands are occupied with bridge controls. Still, I wave gratefully and enthusiastically.
Swing bridges open very slowly, pivoting in the middle. When they’re open, the bridge tender is on a little island, isolated from either side of the road. Sometimes, they come out and watch us, waving or calling down a hello. They’re not in a hurry like the bascule bridge tenders, whose bridges open like big jaws trying to take a bite out of the sky. (And close like big jaws trying to take a bite out of my mast.)
I could write a whole book about waving technique. I love the super-enthusiastic waves that we get from tiny kids and pre-teen girls. Sometimes they even use both arms. One of them, today, shouted “You’re from Seattle? I LOOOOVE Seattle!”
When I see people on the dock looking particularly relaxed and sipping drinks with little umbrellas, I give them a wiggly-finger wave, as if we know each other. That leaves them puzzled. Sometimes I use my Princess Parade wave — elbow, wrist, hand, elbow, wrist, hand. That leaves ‘em laughing. But most waves are just a simple lift of the hand, palm facing out. It reminds me of kids playing Indians: “How!”
I’ve tried some other, non-verbal, non-waving communications with mixed results. My attempts to communicate “slow down” always fall on deaf eyes. But a few times, we’ve been treated exceptionally well by boats passing, and a bow of gratitude is universally understood. Thumbs-up is another universal gesture, meaning, “I like your boat!”
Sometimes, when Barry comes up to take his watch, I wave at him, too. It’s just because I’m waving at everyone else, why shouldn’t he get a friendly wave as well?
Today, I noticed a lot of two-finger waves. Is that a modified military salute, or a papal benediction? Luckily, I have never, ever on the water, seen the “one-finger” wave.
I hope that one is reserved for cars.
There once was a man with a frown,
And he glared at our boat, bearing down,
We escaped in disgrace,
From that look on his face,
But our new spot’s the best one in town.
In Wrightsville Beach, for the first time, we dragged anchor amongst other boats. Most of our neighbors were kind, except for one who sat on his deck and stared. We had a lovely night by ourselves in another basin, free from fetch and wakes, with an excellent internet connection.
My thesaurus tells me that a synonym for “disgrace” is “dragged through the mud.”