I’ve heard of soft-shell crabs, and I’ve even eaten a few. A few weeks ago, Meps and I were walking on the beach at Moclips, Washington, and we saw some strange critters washed up in large numbers. “What do you suppose those are?” we asked each other. “Soft-shell clams?”

OK, I’m not at all convinced that they are soft-shell clams, or even that such things exist, but I love the idea. And they do look quite a bit like clams, with a similar shape and clam-like growth rings. On the other hand, they seem to be tri-valve clams since they have a flat bottom and either a flat top with a sail, or perhaps the vertical part is a third section.

I suspect that the blue ones were more freshly deposited on the beach. Others have a translucent or iridescent color and look more like empty shells; maybe they’ve been up on the beach longer, with a chance to dry out.

If you have any idea what these critters really are, give us a hint. If you don’t know what they are, don’t worry–we’ll enjoy your interesting guess more than the correct answer!

When I was 11 years old, my parents put our New Jersey house up for sale. The agent hammered a sign into the ground and the rounds of showings began. My mother, always a meticulous housekeeper, set even higher standards for our home.

One Sunday afternoon, my parents left me in the care of my teenaged sister and took off for the day. When the real estate agent called to show the house, we knew the drill. No dishes on the counter, floors swept and vacuumed, all toys put away. When Mom and Dad came home, we told them someone had looked at the house, and that we’d made it look really nice.

Standing in the living room, Mom’s eagle eye fell on the one thing we missed: A pair of dirty socks. She read us the riot act! But when that very couple bought the house, I secretly thought of the socks as a sort of magic talisman.

When Barry and I put our house on the market, we staged it, so the standards were even higher. We wanted to eradicate all evidence that we were living in the house, yet be able to show the house on five minutes notice.

We had a drill, and before advertising the house, we executed the drill and timed ourselves. We had to take the trash out, turn on every light, put away the laptop, and fluff the pillows. The recycling container needed to be closed, dishes put in the dishwasher, and the quiet piano CD started on the stereo. Finally, all remaining laundry, bills, library books, and junk had to be pushed under the bed.

Buyers would open every cupboard and peek in every closet, but under the bed was sacred. That was where the evidence of our daily lives went. When we were alone in the house, I lifted the bedspread and rummaged through the piles dozens of times a day.

I went on a rampage against odors, decreeing that no onions or garlic would be allowed until the house was sold. When we came back from a bar with jackets smelling of cigarette smoke, I despaired. Maybe the jackets should be banished to the van? I ended up airing them in the furnace room and running the exhaust fan for hours.

In addition to my defensive war on odors, I went on the offensive. Trying not to be too offensive, I put vanilla on my stove burners, but it smelled “burnt” instead of “baked.” I saved orange peels to run through the disposer, but we forgot about them, and the used orange peels in the sink were an embarrassment. Finally, I settled for tea. Drinking a cup of spice tea while people were looking at the house smelled nice and gave me something to do with my hands.

A week after the house went on the market, we thought we had the drill perfected. A woman came to look at the house in the morning, and she was smitten. She made an appointment to come back later with her agent, then another appointment for her husband. By the third appointment, I was wondering if I should put a pair of dirty socks in the living room, just to make sure.

There was no need. A few days later, we signed the papers accepting their offer on the house. But in my haste to turn on all the lights for the showing, I had overlooked something. I went downstairs afterwards and was mortified to find a dirty bra, dangling from a hook in plain sight. More embarrassing than socks, but just as magical.

Most people who own a house leave evidence of their occupancy. From the minor things, like paint and carpeting, to major renovations that move walls and doors, we leave a bread crumb trail for future owners to puzzle out. As Barry and I have fixed up this house, the remnants of carpet, paint, and fixtures make me stop and wonder about the people who lived here, and what their lives were like.

A few weeks ago, in the process of remodeling her bathrooms, our friend Margaret found a 1904 newspaper in the wall of her house. I tried to imagine her house when it was built. Was her mile-and-a-half distance to town considered “sub-urban?” Did the residents walk to work, or ride a streetcar, or even a horse? What did they do in their free time, before radio and TV and computers? Seattle was a boom town, flush with money from the Yukon gold rush. Were the people who lived in her house wealthy?

Our house, built in 1939, doesn’t stretch the imagination quite as much. It was built at the end of the Depression, a time when money was scarce but labor was cheap. Seven years later, our next door neighbor moved into his house, and has stayed there for 59 years. Barry and I have changed greatly since we bought this house, but nothing has changed next door. Through Dean’s window, we can see that one of the kitchen cupboard doors has stood open the whole ten years we’ve lived here.

He’s fairly reticent, so rather than ask him what our house was like back then, we’ve tried to figure it out ourselves. What was the neighborhood like? I was outside, weeding, when a fellow about my age stopped to chat. He was from Yakima, he said, but had grown up in a house a half block from ours. He told me about the Catholic families that had filled the big houses. “There were 8 kids in our family,” he said. He pointed across the street, to a 1911 house with four bedrooms and (still) one bathroom. “That family had 6 kids, and that one,” pointing at a dramatic three-story half-Tudor “had 14 children.”

He told me about games they played in the street and how they would jump off the neighbor’s garage into our yard. Back then, our house was owned by an old lady who yelled at the kids when they did that. The biggest surprise, though, was that he remembered our house being completely pink. It made sense, given what the prior owners had told us. The woman’s name was Rose, and when her heirs sold the house, it had pink carpet, pink walls and ceilings, and a pink refrigerator. I wonder what the house would have been like had her name been Olive or Blanche?

One unsolved mystery is the mezuzah on the front door jamb. A mezuzah is a Jewish religious article, a holder for a religious scroll that you touch as you pass through the doorway. So in this neighborhood of huge Catholic families, was Rose Jewish? Given that the house only had two bedrooms at the time, she probably didn’t have a big family. The brass mezuzah looks pretty ancient, but maybe that’s deceptive. After all, the fellow who remodeled the house in the 1990’s was named Steiner.

In addition to a fantastic master suite, laundry room, and kitchen, the Steiner era left us with a lot of “interesting” wallpaper. When we bought it, the house had languished on the market for months, in part because of the sandpipers, fake burlap, flowering red-and-green tropical vines (guaranteed to give anyone nightmares, since it was in the bedroom), and pink, lavender, and green textured moiré. Barry and I were too busy sailing to take it down. Finally, this winter, we’ve gotten rid of the offensive stuff.

For years, Barry and I studied the mystery of the kitchen stoop. When we moved in, there was a sliding glass door with a concrete stoop to the backyard. Around the corner from that was an ugly patio, with brown timbers holding up one of those green fiberglass roofs you usually see on Forest Service outhouses. Since a concrete step stuck out of the blank wall, we decided there’d once been a door from the kitchen to the patio. We moved it back where it belonged, painted the patio, and replaced its roof. When it was done, we’d transformed the whole kitchen, gaining a view, light streaming in on three sides, and access to the now-lovely patio. In the process, we created our own mystery, that old concrete stoop where the sliding glass door used to be. It’s under a window now, and everyone asks about it.

Now that the house is fixed up and on the market, I thought I’d stop finding evidence of its history. But just a few days ago, I was mopping the floor behind the furnace, and I noticed, for the first time, a square of hideous green and brown checkered linoleum. Aha, I thought, the whole basement was probably covered in it! Only 15 years ago, this was a true basement, not a peaceful retreat with tasteful neutral carpeting, parquet floors, and off-white walls.

A few weeks ago, we received the Rosetta Stone of our house research. The tax assessor dropped by and caught us at home. Normally, that’s not a good thing, since nobody wants the tax man to see their improvements and raise their taxes. But hey, we’re moving anyway.

I looked down at his clipboard, and suddenly I got all excited. His printout included an original photo of the house, which I’d never seen, and he let me cut it out and keep it. In September, 1939, the house looked just like it does today, except for the landscaping and a porthole window that was removed from the living room.

I’m ready to move on, and I’ve left my bread crumb trail for the next owners. In their eyes, I’m not so different from the folks who lived here sixty-six years ago, after all.

Our house in 1939

Our house in 2005

Who would have thought it would be so fun? Getting a new roof, I mean.

I’ve been embarrassed by our roof for years. It never leaked, but it was surely the ugliest roof in Seattle. The brick red clashed with our purple door, and the top layer of shingles was curled and disintegrating. The north side was speckled with green moss.

If we were going to sell the house, a new roof was in order. We got bids, then made our decision half on cost, and half on gut feel. Instead of the huge corporation with many crews, we chose a sole-proprietor. The owner of Marmot Roofing, Darrell Bednark, seemed reliable and trustworthy. He’d originally been in business with his father, so I figured he had roofing in his blood.

Our next task was picking out a color. Since shingles don’t come in colors we think are cool (like plum, goldenrod, or teal), we narrowed our choices to three shades of gray and one of blue. We took photographs of houses with those colors, then used Photoshop to put them on a photo of our house. It was like watching an old lady try on different hats!

A few days before the job started, stacks of materials started appearing in our driveway. Rolls of black felt, trashcans, buckets, and … shovels? Were they planning on landscaping the yard when they were finished?

On Monday morning, I was too excited to sleep in. Barry and I were cooking breakfast when the roofers arrived and started unloading a 4-foot high stack of plywood. At first, I was mortified that this army of workers — all men — could see right in our kitchen windows, and I toyed with eating breakfast in the living room. Then I decided, what the heck, we were paying almost ten thousand dollars for this work. We deserved to watch!

We climbed onto tall stools at the breakfast bar, our noses against the window, eagerly watching the activity in the yard. Since the first part of the job was tearing off the old roof, the roofers were laying tarps over the grass and landscaping. Then they leaned huge sheets of plywood against the house to protect the siding from the falling bits of old roof. Just as I lifted the first forkful to my mouth, enjoying the breakfast entertainment, someone leaned a sheet of plywood over the outside of our window. Poof! Instant darkness, and no more show.

For the next half hour, we listened to the various noises, trying to figure them out. First there was the activity in the yard, punctuated by thumping noises against the walls. Next, the characteristic twang of an aluminum ladder, right next to the breakfast bar window. Then, booted feet climbing the ladder. This was followed by herds of elephants on the roof.

There were four guys, but one of them just did cleanup on the ground. So all that noise was coming from three guys! At first, they just walked around, distributing tools and evaluating the job. Suddenly, right over my head, a cacophony of scraping and banging started. I couldn’t stand it, I had to go out and see what they were doing to my poor house.

Aha! That’s what the shovels were for! They used them to scrape off the three old layers of roof. In a short time, they’d exposed the rafters and layers of old lath that covered them. I took a few photos of our naked roof and went back inside. (that plywood on the bottom right is covering my breakfast bar window!)

After a while, it was possible to ignore the hideous noises coming from the roof-shovelers. Eventually, though, they stopped shoveling, and the noise got even worse. Bang! BANG! BANGITY BANGITY BANG!

Back out I went, camera in hand. The shoveling had removed all the old shingles, but it hadn’t removed the nails holding those shingles on. Rather than remove the old nails, they hammered them into the lath. Every single nail on our roof was represented by one of those maddening “bangs.”

Once the nails were all hammered flush, they began to cut plywood to cover the roof. Brian and Brad, on the roof, took measurements and called them down the Darrell. He cut rectangles and triangles with a Skilsaw, handing up the pieces to be nailed into place. They covered half the roof in just a few hours.

Each time the rhythm changed, I went outside with the camera to capture the beginning of the next phase. There was the shoveling rhythm, the nail-pounding rhythm, the plywood sheathing rhythm, and then the fairly quiet process of stapling down the felt. Then it got almost quiet as they cleaned up the yard.

Heading outside for another photo opportunity, I chatted briefly with Darrell. “When they bring the shingles, where will they put them?” I wondered how the pile of shingles would compare to the pile of plywood. “They have a boom truck,” he replied. “They’ll put them right on the roof.”

The second day, the process continued on the other half of the roof. Barry and I ducked out for some errands, and when we returned, the amazing boom truck was parked in the street.

An enormous crane hung over our house, and the roofers were unloading a pallet of shingles up there. There was no one in the cab of the truck, and no sign of a control panel on the truck. Barry and I walked around the truck, trying to figure out how they were maneuvering the crane with its thousands of pounds of payload.

The answer was a young fellow wearing a complex remote slung over his shoulder. He looked to be in his early 20’s. I was certain his qualifications for the job included a lifetime of video games. How else would you develop that kind of manual dexterity?

The installation of the new roof was anticlimactic. The tear-off had gone so quickly that the roofers had already driven to the store and picked up a couple packages of shingles, and several rows of them were down when the boom truck arrived.

Up on the roof, the guys were having a good time, joking around with each other while they worked. Sometime on the second day, when I headed out to take a photo of the progress, they started hamming it up. After that, I couldn’t get a photo of Brian and Brad actually working, because every time they saw me come out with the camera, they would stop work and strike a pose.

It was one of the most cheerful, efficient work crews I’ve ever witnessed. There wasn’t any complaining or swearing, not even any frowning! They just worked swiftly and competently, each one contributing to the team effort. No sidewalk supervisors, either — Darrell did as much of the work and the cleanup as anyone else.

The whole job took three short days, practically no time at all after what Barry and I had gone through to get bids, compare them, and pick a color. And when Darrell came by the following week, invoice in hand, we were glad to see him. As I wrote the check, we chatted like old friends about all kinds of things, not just roofing. The experience was such a positive one, I found myself revising my thoughts about work. If it’s as much fun as the Marmot roofing crew indicated, one of these days I’ll have to try it again!

I know I’m not supposed to shop at Wal-Mart. I know I’m not supposed to support a store that uses strong-arm tactics on their suppliers. I know I’m not supposed to give money to a company that discriminates against women and minorities. I know I’m not supposed to take business away from small local retailers that actually take care of their employees.

But sometimes, I can’t help it.

Like today, when I thought I’d drive 15 miles down the freeway to save money on cat food. It’s not my fault the damn cat turns her nose up at anything but premium canned Iams. Talk about fussy! Ocean Fish flavor. One can per day. At 58 cents a can, Wal-Mart’s price is pretty appealing, compared to the inverse, 85 cents, at QFC.

When I arrived at the store today, all the parking lot entrances were blocked off by police cars, their red and blue lights flashing. Puzzled, I made my way to the Home Depot next door and parked. It was drizzling.

As I got out of the car, I could see a huge procession, a bedraggled parade, of blue smocks making their way from the Home Depot to the Wal-Mart. I followed them, about a half block behind. When we arrived at the store, the ragged group of employees went in, but customers were stopped. “Sorry, ma’am, but we’re not ready. It will be about a half hour.” Someone asked what the problem was. “We had a bit of an emergency,” was all the woman would say.

One customer, a tall blonde lady, rolled her eyes and turned back to her car. I asked her what was going on. “Bomb scare. They swept the place with nine dogs…I’m sure it’s fine now, don’t know why they won’t let us inside.”

I wandered back to the car and sat listening to a Keb Mo’ CD for a while. I moved the car near the store entrance, where customers stood, waiting, resigned. I gave it twenty minutes before trying again. A stocky fellow in the doorway was still turning people away. “We had an emergency,” he repeated over and over. I shared a chuckle with another customer, an older lady waiting to go inside and pick up her husband’s pills. “What’s the matter, are they afraid of the ‘b’ word?”

A half hour had passed, and the word was still that it would be “a half hour.” I gave up. Nearby, a tall young fellow wore a bright yellow nametag that read “management trainee.” He looked like he enjoyed bossing people around.

“Excuse me, but is there a grocery store nearby?” I asked him. He frowned, offended, then gave me directions to the Fred Meyers across the highway. As I turned away, he added, smugly, “But their prices are really high.”

I burst out laughing. “Yeah, but I bet they’re open!”

So what really is the story about the bomb? Was it a scare, an honest mistake? Or a threat, from someone who feels more anger than guilt about Wal-Mart? I don’t know whether I’ll find out, but one thing is sure: I wasn’t meant to shop at Wal-Mart today. Maybe the gods don’t want me to shop there, ever.