There once was a man named DeLay
Who found, to his shock and dismay,
His aide was indicted,
The Dems were delighted,
And Republicans said, “GO AWAY!”
In his resignation announcement today, Tom DeLay said that “after many weeks of personal prayer,” he had decided to step down from Congress. See the LA Times article, Delay Announces Plan to End Career in Congress.
After I sent this out, Tom Lambert suggested a much better title: Wedding Belles!
Two gals who were feeling quite plucky
Drove north in their lesbian truckie.
But the Mass. judge said no,
And so home they did go,
Now they’re living in sin in Kentucky.
Massachussetts Court Limits Gay Unions – The New York Times, March 31, 2006.
No, it’s really not that hard to rhyme,
And it just takes a whole lot of time.
But the meter’s the thing
To make every piece sing,
And limerick-writers like me consider lousy meter a terrible crime.
I was just categorizing a bunch of limericks, and I noticed that unless I filed one under the parent category of “General,” none of the other categories were displayed. I quickly had to write a limerick that I could file under “General,” so this was the result of 2 minutes of work. For more on anapest meter in limericks, see Confessions of a Limerick Junkie.
“So hit me!” the president cried,
To the dealer who sat by his side.
“It won’t be that hard,
For me to dis-Card,
We’ll dump him for someone untried.”
Bush announces the resignation of his Chief of Staff, Andrew Card.
Back in the days of Jack Aubrey’s Navy, officers didn’t go to a traditional school. They learned aboard a ship, starting as midshipmen. Before they’d ever shaved, these children in uniform had to master celestial navigation, as well as how to manage a bunch of smelly men sailing a ship with dozens of sails and no engine.
As a matter of fact, nobody in those days paid for sailing lessons. You signed on, if you were desperate, or you were pressed aboard, and then the experienced sailors helped you “learn the ropes.”
It was an effective means of passing along the information. Today, even if you don’t know how to sail a boat, you probably know colorful phrases like “three sheets to the wind” or “let the cat out of the bag.” Even “passing with flying colors” is an idiom that comes from sailing.
Ten years ago, I wanted to learn to sail. I knew sailing was a tradition, something passed from one person to another. That led to a vague fear that you had to be born into it. If you were supposed to learn it from your parents, then Barry and I were never going to be sailors.
It never crossed my mind to pay for sailing lessons. Instead, I discovered local sailing clubs and the generous boat-owners who were willing to teach me to sail in exchange for a home-cooked meal. Many of them were bachelors who would otherwise be reduced to a steady diet of Dinty Moore and Top Ramen. Along the way, I learned to be a pretty good propane chef and make do with whatever facilities were available.
I was incredibly grateful to them, guys like Bill on Freebooter, Randy on Determination Too, and Brian on Nereid and Cayenne. “One day,” said Brian, “it will be your job to help other people get out on the water.”
When our first chance came to share our knowledge, we didn’t even recognize it. In 1998 a good friend, Michelle, bought a Santana 30/30 that she couldn’t sail herself. We sailed her boat to Blake Island, Port Madison, and Port Ludlow, learning and teaching at the same time.
Then we got our own boat, the Northern Crow. At 25 feet, it was small and funky, but we took people out on the Sound and Lake Union. My favorite trips were the long ones up to Port Townsend in the middle of summer under blue skies. One woman we took along was deaf, but communication was no problem. The joy of sailing is that it’s easy to show someone how to do it without a lot of words.
It does help to read up on the vocabulary, to be prepared for that moment when the boat is heeled way over with the rail buried and the skipper asks, “How’s the weather helm?” I’d read all the books, and when that moment came, on a Swan 44, I was ready. Another woman aboard, though, was not familiar with the concept, so Jay explained it to her, passing the information along in the time-honored fashion, verbally.
I was surfing the Internet late last night, when I came across a Craigslist posting that struck a chord. ” I’m just a guy/student who knows very little about sailing, but is very interested in learning … (I can) trade LABOR FOR BOATING KNOWLDEGE. I just want to learn, and I don’t necessarily have the money right now to pay for sailing lessons.” The posting took me right back to 1995, when I would do anything to get onto a sailboat, and I realized what a wonderful position I am in now.
I e-mailed the writer of that post, a guy named Nick. I gave him a whole list of Seattle-area resources for learning to sail without paying for lessons and wrote e-mails about him to a couple of friends with boats. It took me a while to generate all the information and links and craft the messages, but it was worthwhile.
Because now, it’s my turn to help other people get out on the water. To all new sailors: Welcome to the world of boating! Drop me a line, and I’ll do anything I can to help you learn to sail, the time-honored, traditional way. It’s the least I can do.
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Do you want to learn to sail in Seattle? Some of these resources can get you out on the water!
A good friend of ours, Bill Brown, recently pointed out that the U.S. was only involved in World War II for 3 years and 10 months. In the years since then, Americans have not shown patience for any military action that takes longer than that. “Look at Korea, Vietnam,” Bill says. That may explain why Americans no longer support the war. If Bill’s theory holds true, we should see this war resolved by January of 2007.
Bill, who’s not a senior citizen but an early retiree like myself, hangs out regularly with a group of senior citizens at a coffee shop in Anacortes, Washington. They’re the kind of guys who go to the coffee shop every morning because after they retired, their wives just wanted to get them out of the house. So when the subject of the war on Iraq came up recently, Bill was amazed to hear vocal opposition from the elderly gents. The way he describes it, they’re right-wingers who probably supported the war initially, but don’t seen any reason to continue. They probably agree with the Australian protest organizer, Jean Parker, who said “Iraq is a quagmire.”
It’s been three years since the Bush administration launched the war on Iraq. In that three years, the coalition forces have lost over 2500 people, an average of just over 2 a day. The Iraqi people, on the other hand, have lost 35,000, an average of 30 a day — our soldiers haven’t just killed soldiers and insurgents, but also civilians and children.
Imagine living in a country just a little bigger than California, but with fewer people. Not only are 30 people killed every day by bombs and guns, but countless more are injured and traumatized. And the United States is responsible.
There’s a group called Not in Our Name, whose pledge reads, “we believe that as people living in the United States it is our responsibility to resist the injustices done by our government, in our names.” It’s a simple message: Stop killing people on my behalf.
I’ve been pretty outspoken on this, since my first peace rally in 2001, before the U.S. invaded Afghanistan. But now, it sounds like more people are beginning to agree. A recent Washington Post-ABC poll says that 57 percent of Americans believe the war with Iraq has not been worth fighting.
Around the world today, anti-war protestors are rallying, because it’s the third anniversary of the war. Demonstrations have been held everywhere from Sydney, Australia, to London and Tokyo. But what’s interesting are the protests here in the U.S. — but not the news-making ones in Washington, D.C. or New York or San Francisco.
What’s amazing are some of the 34 local listings found in and around the Seattle area. As expected, there are rallies and vigils in Seattle, but also in Bellingham, Olympia, and Tacoma. Then the list gets even more interesting.
Bellevue, just on the other side of Lake Washington from Seattle, has a reputation for being conservative. There are at least two protest events there.
Port Angeles is having a rally, to be held, fittingly, at Veteran’s Park. The folks in Port Orchard are going to rally with empty boots and signs. In Twisp, a group is gathering “to commemorate the 750,00 children we killed during the sanctions.” Twisp is a tiny town in the middle of nowhere, population 909.
One of the more creative publicity stunts is the “Death of Democracy” funeral procession, in Vancouver, Washington. Their instructions say to “Wear black, at least on your upper half, and have gas in your car.” On the one hand, it’s likely to be seen by a large number of people. On the other hand, driving your car around protesting a war over oil is an oxymoron.
In Forks, the call is to “Commemorate the over 2,314 American military personnel killed; call for Peace & the end of the war; defund the war, defend our communities, fully fund the VA, end poverty, rebuild the Gulf Coast. Uphold the Constitution of the United States of America.” Forks is a little place in the middle of nowhere, kind of like Twisp.
Reading between the lines of the Forks announcement, these are a new kind of protestors. They may not have been out demonstrating before the war, but they’ve lost patience with it now. After three years, it’s time to end it and move on.
It was a mistake, and it wasn’t worth doing. As the war continues, I can only be more vocal in saying, “Not in my name.” Unless we end it, and we take responsibility and apologize for our mistake. Then I’ll be glad to help. Apologize to the families of those we killed? Yes, gladly, in my name.
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We dressed head to toe in all green
And joined in the partying scene.
But I cannot abuse
That much Irish booze;
It just sends me to the latrine.
(A description of the surprise party for Charles’ 60th birthday.)
When I take the commuter bus to Seattle from Stanwood, I literally catch it at the end of the line. It is the longest bus route; anything longer would require Greyhound. And the stop I use is at the most desolate, isolated, lonely park-and-ride lot I have ever seen.
Waiting for the bus in December and January was cold, damp, dark, and surreal. A single streetlight did little to dispel the gloom, and across the road, there was only a bleak, empty farmer’s field.
At 6:25 am, I huddled at the bus shelter, my teeth chattering from the unstoppable wind. I wished I had a car to wait in, like that other lady. She was sitting in the driver’s seat, using the rear-view mirror to apply her makeup.
When she got out and joined me, she was friendly and chatty.
“I hope the river doesn’t flood today!” she said, cheerfully.
On the other side of the bleak farm field was the Stillaguamish river, known locally as the Stilly. I knew there was a flood watch in effect, but I didn’t realize it applied to the bus stop.
“At least, I hope I don’t come back and find my car under water,” she added.
I’d originally been a bit jealous when I noticed her sitting in her warm, toasty car. But now I felt a bit smug — after all, my car was safely back at home with Barry. I’d heard that cars at this lot were often broken into, but I didn’t realize they might flood as well. I began to wonder about this woman, whose choice to ride the bus meant not only hassle, but serious risk to her personal property.
I saw her whenever I rode the bus, and each time, I became a little less reticent. Her presence made the bus stop seem less surreal. We’d have a brief conversation, but when the bus came, I went to the back. As the first person aboard, she always sat in the front row.
I took about a month off, and when I returned to the bus stop, the days had lengthened. It was light enough that I could actually see her, a middle-aged lady, nicely dressed in a leather coat and low-heeled pumps.
“Hello!” she said. “You haven’t been riding the bus lately.”
I was surprised that she remembered me. “We went down to stay in Seattle for a bit,” I admitted, “and next week, we’re going to start house-sitting in Fremont for nine weeks. I can’t wait to live in town again, in the Center of the Universe. This commute is awful, and I only do it one day a week.” I smiled at her, sympathetically. I was fairly certain she did the grueling bus ride five days a week.
“Oh, I know what you mean,” she replied. “I used to live in Greenwood, and I really loved it, being right in town, where you can get to everything.”
I wondered, out loud, how she ended up out here at the end of the bus line.
“We were raising kids, you know, and so we moved to Mill Creek.”
It made sense, a logical step. I could imagine a couple living in Seattle with a couple of kids. They might have concerns about city schools, might want a bigger house. So they’d move to the suburbs, to a place where you can get a big new house on a big lot for not very much money. Mill Creek is like that, with reasonably good schools and lots of conveniences, if you don’t mind driving everywhere. To me, it’s sub-urban, but a lot of people like that kind of lifestyle.
“After we were about done with the kids, my in-laws offered us their place on Camano Island,” she continued. “They said we could have it for pretty much what they paid for it, 25 years ago.”
It sounded like too good a deal to pass up. Except that it had another price.
“My mother-in-law loves the place. She hated to leave it, and she wanted to write something into the contract to say that if we ever sold it, they would have first rights to buy it back at the price we paid them for it.” She laughed. “My friend, who’s a lawyer, told her that was ridiculous, that once they sold the house, they couldn’t say what was to be done with it.”
Perhaps, from a legal perspective, that’s true. But not from a family perspective.
Moving into her mother-in-law’s dream home was a trap. She never said so outright, but I could tell. To sell the home would be unthinkable; they don’t dare upset the family: As long as her in-laws are alive, she cannot move. She’s stuck, indefinitely, living on Camano Island, over 60 miles from the city where she’d like to be.
As other people board the bus, I look at their faces. The daily commute of over four hours makes many of them look like zombies. How many do it because they want a good-paying job, lots of money and nice things? Or is the story more complex? Perhaps, like the lady at my bus stop, the reason involves other people’s lives and feelings.
She saves the seat beside her for a friend, and the two of them catch up on the day’s news before turning to their respective magazines. She’s always smiling, always cheerful. Starting at the end of the bus line, she has the longest commute, but she doesn’t look like a zombie. That’s what comes of making the best of it.
Crossing the border from the United States to Canada last week, the border guard asked the standard questions. What nationality are you? May I see some identification? What is the reason for your visit?
Answering that last question, Barry said, “Goin’ to see a man about a boat.”
After the border crossing, there was a long wait for the ferry to Vancouver Island, then a one-and-a-half-hour ferry trip, a long drive to Nanaimo, and another ferry to Gabriola Island. Why all this effort, when we have boats and designers right here in our local area?
Blame it on the Demotivators.
For almost ten years, Barry and I have been planning to build our own boat, from scratch. It’s a huge, daunting project, but it’s not impossible. It requires a number of skills, ranging from drafting to woodworking, fiberglass, plumbing, wiring, upholstery, rigging, and sail-making. Over the years, we’ve dabbled in most of those areas, and we think we can figure out what we need to know. We’re nonconformists, and we like things that are different.
The problem is, for almost ten years, we’ve been ridiculed, teased, and abused about the notion of building a boat. Total strangers think it’s their duty to convince us not to build a boat. People we thought were our friends think it’s cute to make fun of us. It’s happened over and over again, and I’d think I was hallucinating some of these horrible encounters, if Barry wasn’t right there experiencing it with me.
So I came up with a name for these people: Demotivators. They are the people who don’t want to see us succeed, they want us to fail.
Barry and I have studied the problem until we’re cross-eyed, wondering why there’s such vehemence. Mostly, it’s people who own plastic production boats. Perhaps they’re afraid some non-conformist will challenge the status quo and their Tupperware will lose value? Sometimes, though, we’ve been harassed by people who have built their own boats. Maybe they’re afraid they won’t be so special if we do it, too?
Regardless, it’s gotten us down. So we decided to make a trip to Canada and get motivated. We scheduled a consultation with Ted Brewer, who has designed lots of lovely traditional sailboats, many of them capable little ocean cruisers. We also scheduled a visit with Collin Wynne, who’s been working on a Benford dory in his backyard for the past ten years.
Our appointment with Ted was on a Monday morning, and despite the lack of electricity on Gabriola Island, which he and his wife assured us was a common occurrence, we covered a lot of ground. Ted looked at the specs for the boat we’re considering and gave us an evaluation “by the numbers.” He said it looked like a safe offshore boat with a reasonable capsize screening factor, but he had reservations about the flat dory bottom and the junk rig.
Ted also felt that the Benford dory would be an odd boat, hard to resell. He said a strip-planked or cold-molded hull, something with compound curves, would both perform better and have more market value. Even a plywood boat with a V-bottom or a multi-chine design would be more efficient and preferable to the flat-bottomed dory, as far as he’s concerned.
It was a good visit, and we came away with a lot of thoughts about hull shapes, rigs, keel and rudder designs. One of the biggest things, though, was the confirmation that we are not crazy, we can build a reasonably-sized boat in a couple of years and sail it around the world. Ted Brewer has known lots of people who’ve done just that over the years.
Ted Brewer is a Motivator.
From Ted and Betty’s house, we headed, on their recommendation, down to the south end of the island, where the marinas are. In addition to docks full of interesting boats, there is a boatbuilding school there, the Silva Bay Shipyard School. We wandered over to the office and tapped on the door, hoping for a tour.
Luckily for us, Les Jackson was in, and he answered lots of questions and took us around the school. It’s a small facility, with 16 students completing a 6-month program. The students divide into teams of 3 or 4 people, and each team builds a complete wooden boat, about a 12-footer, from lofting to completion, using traditional methods. It’s the only program of its kind, where the projects are selected so that students can complete an entire boat in one session.
Silva Bay gets students from all over the world, men and women who want to learn traditional methods of boatbuilding. We watched two fellows cooperating to sand down a spar, while another fellow came and went from the tool room, carefully notching a piece of wood to fit around the stem of a lapstrake sailing dinghy.
Afterwards, we hung out in the office and talked with Les about boats, boatbuilding, the school, the island, and life. Les is a former journalist who left that field and made a living building lots of things, including many small boats. He’s recently completed a house on Gabriola and bought a small cruising boat, so he can explore the local waters. He struck me as a nonconformist do-it-yourselfer, like us, and he offered a lot of encouragement to our backyard boat-building dream.
Les Jackson is a Motivator.
A few days later, we drove up to Collin Wynne’s house near the shore of Vancouver Island, north of Victoria. At first, I only had eyes for the big tarped object in the backyard: A 37-1/2 foot Benford dory. The hull, masts, and rudder are done, and he’s working on the interior. He plans to put the deck on this summer.
We clambered all over the boat, examining Collin’s craftsmanship. We sat for a long time in the cockpit, imagining her out on the ocean. We poked our noses in the spice cupboard and inspected the ceiling (which is actually the side). We examined portlights and lockers and squatted underneath to inspect the keel. We ran our hands over the topsides and had to walk all the way across the backyard to take in the whole thing. It’s a huge project for one person.
Afterwards, we sat in the house with a pot of tea, looking at the plans and photographs. I asked Collin, as tactfully as I could, what kind of experience he had in doing this sort of project. He’s retired, and I wondered whether he’d worked in some field that gave him boat-building skills.
No, he admitted he hadn’t done much along those lines. He modestly told me that he’d built the house we were sitting in, along with his previous house. And he’d built a sailing dory when he was a young lad. It was evident that Collin, like us, just decided that he had enough skills and enough smarts to figure it out. Along the way, he’s found help and encouragement from others, such as a fiberglass boat builder down the road and an esteemed wooden boat expert, Hugh Campbell, in Sidney.
We spent over six hours with Collin, which I consider extremely generous on his part — after all, he has a boat to build. He also told us to stay in touch and feel free to contact him with further questions as we get into our own boat-building project.
Collin Wynne is a Motivator.
When we came back across the border to the U.S., the guard asked us the usual questions, plus a number of questions about what we’d been doing and what we were bringing back from Canada. Any eggs or chicken? Meat? Produce?
“No, just a bit of bread,” answered Barry, truthfully. What we really brought back from Canada is not something that can be taxed or measured. What we brought back, this time, is the knowledge that there are three people who want us to build our own boat. What we brought back, this time, is motivation.
When I was 17, a woman gave me a zucchini. I remember it like it was yesterday.
Why are you laughing? What’s so funny about a zucchini? Zucchini jokes in the summer are like fruitcake jokes at Christmas:
“Did you hear the one about the lady who grew the world’s largest zucchini? It was so big, it stuck out the hatch and she couldn’t lock the car. Then she stopped for some things at the drug store, and when she came back to her car, something terrible had happened. Somebody had left her the second-largest zucchini, too!”
Pumpkins, yellow squash, sweet potatoes — they all produce prodigious amounts, leading gardeners to force free vegetables on their friends. Even cucumbers, which look just as goofy, are not as maligned as zukes.
The problem with zucchini is it grows from a tiny edible blossom to a 10-pound lump of bland green flesh in about 24 hours. You have to watch it carefully, to make sure it doesn’t take over your garden patch, and possibly, the entire world. There’s an idea there…keep reading.
Barry’s grandfather, Percy, had a younger brother who was famous for his practical jokes. In hindsight, they were pretty funny, but they nearly started several feuds. Milton knew that Percy was extremely particular about his pickle patch, and that he always picked the pickles when they were tiny and would bring the greatest price on the market. So one day, Milton snuck in a large zucchini and tucked it amongst the pickle plants. It was worth it, just to see the look on Percy’s face.
When I got out of high school, I had a job going door-to-door collecting signatures and money for a grassroots lobbying group. After talking the person into signing the petition, usually a little guilt was enough to capture a donation as well. One woman, in a small town in Ohio, signed the sheet, and then she said, “Wait here, I’ll be right back.” Usually, that meant the person was going to find their wallet or piggy bank. I waited patiently.
To my surprise, she returned with a gigantic zucchini. “I don’t have any money, but please take this,” she said.
I was just a kid. I didn’t realize I’d been had. I thought she was giving me something of value. I couldn’t figure out why my supervisor and all my coworkers fell over laughing when I returned with this huge green log under my arm.
That night, my collection was dreadfully low, because after the zucchini, I couldn’t get any donations. I figured out that I couldn’t go door-to-door with a zucchini and a clipboard; at each house, I had to stash it in the bushes before ringing the bell. I mean, what would you do if a stranger showed up at your door, at the height of summer, with a huge zucchini under her arm? You certainly wouldn’t open it!
In hindsight, I wonder if it was a diabolical plan on the part of the zucchini-grower. Maybe she really despised my cause, but pretended to support it. She knew that anyone carrying a zucchini would be suspect to the rest of the neighborhood.
The more I think about her perfect strategy, the more I think I’m on to something. This summer, our military can foist zucchini on our enemies, whose neighbors will have nothing to do with them, leading to their eventual downfall. It’s a great way to get rid of unwanted zucchini, and it solves the problems of world hunger and world peace. We can even can print zucchini recipes on pieces of paper and drop them from airplanes over war zones. Even better, we can print zucchini jokes and drop them, too.
We could also drop the zucchinis themselves from the airplanes, but in order for it to be peaceful, we’d have to come up with little parachutes for them. Otherwise, people might mistake them for green bombs. And being hit with a falling zucchini could actually hurt.
If you think this is a great idea, then it’s time to start planning your “Victory Garden” now. World peace is going to require a lot of zucchini, and it’s up to us to provide it. Go ahead and plant lots of seeds, and then let’s sit back and watch the zucchinis take over the world.
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For zucchini recipes, please see the mepsnbarry.com recipe page.