The life of the party

Barry and his family share my favorite toast. Here's to Loraine!

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 reads my tea leaves

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.

The beautiful head table at the golden anniversary party

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.

Inciting a peaceful riot

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!).
Blender Boy Nick and the crew of Valkyrie at Duck Dodge
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.
The sailboat with the guillotine at Duck Dodge
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.
Captain Craig in his MG-B.

How the West was wet

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.
Flooding along the Mississippi

And here’s some of the flooding along I-94.
Water over I-94 in North Dakota
Watch for water on road — yikes!

The following super-green photos were taken at Theodore Roosevelt National Park in North Dakota.

Panoramic image of Theodore Roosevelt National Park overlook
Hiking in Painted CanyonThere’s plenty for horses to eat this summer

The secret to a long marriage

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?
anniversary-d90-0694.jpganniversary-d90-0696.jpganniversary-d90-0717.jpganniversary-d90-0734.jpg

A beautiful state of mind

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.

Catching a wave

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.

A primer on where to wave, using the Ladies Island Bridge for an example

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.

Anchor-dragon

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.”

On a three-hour tour

The tourists in Southport today,
Signed up for a tour of the bay,
The first stop on their trip,
Was this Flutterby ship,
Which they circled, then puttered away.

Anchoring in the middle of Southport’s boat basin, home to fishing and charter boats, has made us a temporary tourist attraction. The skipper of the sunset cruise boat circled us, asking us questions and then explaining our answers to his landlubber tourists. Barry and I cracked up this morning, when one of the little charter boats slipped his lines and the voice of woman rang across the water, saying, “I hope this is not going to be like Gilligan’s…”

Wild life

Eighteen days so far, but it seems a lot longer. Traveling at the speed of snails, we try to make about 50 miles each day along the well-marked, well-traveled Intracoastal Waterway. Some of the route we’ve traveled twice, some three, and some four times. “I remember those houses with the little structures on top,” Barry said, in Myrtle Beach. “We anchored near that sunken boat in 2004,” I said, in the Waccamaw River.

It gets a little boring. But unlike the snowbirds driving up and down I-95, we have the wildlife to distract us.

“Look, dolphins!” we’ll say to each other, pointing. Of course, if you look directly at the place where they were just seen, you’ll miss them when they come up the next time. Because they always come up someplace else. You have to sort of unfocus your eyes and let your gaze rest somewhere near where they were. Then you can quickly refocus when they appear next, someplace else.

But one day, in Georgia, I came up from the head, and Barry said, “We have a companion.” As if on cue, a dolphin surfaced about five feet from the cockpit. “Wow!” I said, running over to see where it would come up next. To my surprise, in about a minute, it came up again, in exactly the same place. And a minute later, again.

Our marine mammal friend was so dependable, I began to talk to it. For no real reason, I decided it was a she-dolphin, and I called her “Flipper.” I’d wait for her to come up, anxiously calling “Here, Flippy, Flippy, Flippy!” She probably wondered what the stream of strange and excited noises were, each time she came to the surface.

At one point, I saw a commotion in the water a few hundred yards away. It was a group of dolphins, fishing. They were swimming and thrashing in circles, making turbulence to confuse their prey. We call it “bubble-fishing,” or “bubble-chasing.”

“You’re not going to abandon us for those other dolphins, are you, Flipper?” I asked our silvery friend. She didn’t respond, just surfaced and dove again. And again. No, she wasn’t going to abandon us.

At a bend in the river, I was so distracted by our companion that I nearly ran Flutterby aground. “Yikes! The depth is really dropping off here!” I said to Barry, concerned. “Well, aren’t you supposed to keep the green markers on your starboard side?” he replied. It was a very silly mistake, given that we had kept hundreds of green markers to starboard for days, and would continue to do so for the entire trip. For landlubbers, it’s like forgetting that you are supposed to drive on the right side of the road and wondering why the cars are suddenly coming at you.

Flipper stayed with us for almost an hour, about five miles. Finally, as we were approaching an opening bridge, Barry looked back and saw a fin, about a boatlength behind us, going away. “That looks familiar…isn’t that her?” he said. “Bye, Flipper!” I called. “Thanks for traveling with us!”

We were still marveling at our amazing dolphin experience when we saw something strange, about a boatlength away. “What kind of fish is that?” I asked. It was a very small fin, too small for a dolphin. Then there was a splash, and a larger fin appeared right beside it. “Oooooh! It’s a baby!” Just at the surface of the water, we could see two shadowy shapes — a mother dolphin and her baby. She was pushing him gently with her snout to the surface of the water, like a tugboat shepherding precious cargo.

In addition to the dolphins, we saw a sea turtle, his back covered in barnacles, swimming off the beach at Harbor Island. We’ve seen enormous rays, sometimes just at the surface of the water, and several times we saw them jump clear out of the water. We stopped the boat in Winyah Bay, outside Georgetown, to watch 3- and 4-foot tarpon leaping out of the water, too, straight up. The splashes were bigger than pelicans, which have been known to wake me up when they dive near to the boat. A local fellow explained that tarpon don’t eat when they are jumping, so it’s no good fishing for them. That explains why we had the tarpon show all to ourselves.

The past day or so, in South Carolina, have been “osprey alley.” Along the Waccamaw River, every navigational piling has an osprey nest on it, with a momma and her babies. At a thickly forested anchorage, Barry was puzzled, because one of the nests seemed to have a momma and babies, and two other osprey bringing fish to it. The little ones hollered for food all day long.

There’s a whole class of people out here who seem unaware of the wildlife. They zoom by on noisy, go-fast speedboats, cheerfully waving their beers at us. Some pass by over and over, their hateful wakes rolling and bouncing us as they tow children or waterskiiers. Without looking behind them, they don’t know the turbulence they create, and they are completely unaware of the course changes we make when they stop suddenly to pluck a crying child out of the water. At least the jetskis rarely leave a wake. But they, too, are unaware, not noticing that their spray is falling on me and my poor camera.

I call them the wild life. I have to work to remember that they are people, too, not just the obnoxious machines they drive. They are not tormenting me on purpose, they are just unaware.

Just as they are unaware of the dolphins, the osprey, the sea turtles, the dragonflies, the butterflies, the rays, the red-winged blackbirds. My wildlife. I’d share it with the wild life, if they’d just slow down.

There oughta be a rule

Vero Beach is a very clean, pristine little town. Careful zoning prevents high-rises as well as any other ugliness. There are large, beautifully-landscaped homes owned by wealthy retirees as well as tidy smaller ones, where the hard-working younger set lives.

In addition to these neighborhoods, there are gated communities, protected from unwelcome riff-raff by fences and walls. These condo communities have additional rules to prevent unsightliness and untoward behavior by their own residents: No rollerblading. No pickup trucks. No open garage doors. Speed limit 10 mph. No soliciting. No one under 55. Pool chairs must be completely covered by a towel. No pets.

So how did these two grubby sailors from Flutterby, who are used to living in a boatyard, fare in pristine Vero Beach for five months?

We stayed in compliance easily, because nobody had thought to write rules about the things Meps and Barry will do.

One day, the neighbors found the front yard of Dad’s house completely full of soggy camping and kayaking gear. It was spread across the bushes, and Barry had tied clotheslines between the palm trees and the garage for our dripping jackets and pants. These remnants of a messy and disastrous Everglades camping trip were just a harbinger of the chaos to come.

Meps and Barry with all their kayak gear in Dad's front yard
Looks like a garage sale!

Luckily, nobody had written a rule against our soggy gear display. There is probably a rule agasint drying laundry, but it was not enforced.

Next, we tested the waters with a small project, refinishing the oars for the dinghy. I took them over to Dad’s backyard one afternoon. He wandered out of the house to see what I was doing, and he pulled up a chair to watch as I set up my sanding station. There were no sawhorses, so I compromised by propping the oars across a couple of folding chairs. Then I got out my random orbital sander and my red earmuff-style hearing protection. The sander is LOUD, especially since its bearings are in bad shape after all the fiberglass we’ve used it on.

Before I put the earmuffs on, I said to Dad, “I’m going to make a lot of noise now. You might want to go back inside.” “That’s OK,” he responded, “I’m way over here.” He was all of six feet away.

I just shook my head and started up the sander. The noise and sawdust didn’t phase him at all, and he kept me company until I finished the first oar.

Evidently, the project didn’t phase the neighbors, either. I’d just proven that his gated complex could handle a little bit of sanding, Meps-style.

After the oars were sanded, we suspended them in the garage and painted them with multiple coats of epoxy and paint. I worried that the fumes might get into the house, but it was well-sealed. None of the neighbors complained about that, either.

Then we went shopping with our friend Ann, and on top of her big Mothball van, we piled enough plywood and dimensional lumber to build a freestanding wooden lofting floor in the garage. All the sawing, screwing, and hammering still didn’t raise the ire of any neighbors, although Dad started grumbling about the loss of his garage for the car.

Plywood lofting floor leaning against the wall of the garage
The lofting floor, ready to lay down

Over the next weeks, Barry set up first one, then two sewing machines in the garage. He made paper patterns and transferred them to fabric. Then he stitched them into sails, working late into the night. He closed the garage door at night to keep mosquitoes at bay, which helped keep us in compliance with the no-open-garage-door ruling. We were pushing that one.

We admired Mothball so much, Ann left the van in our care while she sailed her boat north to Maine. That was wonderful serendipity, allowing us to move vanloads of battens and yards across town without renting a truck. The longest battens are 18 feet, and they only stuck out of the van eight feet!

But surely, in the next phase, the neighbors would complain. They hadn’t written any rules against sanding aluminum or doing epoxy jobs in the driveway, but they probably should have. Any time you see your neighbor wearing a full-face respirator, he’s probably doing something he shouldn’t.

White van with 8 feet of aoluminum pipe sticking out the back
Mothball, ready to roll

By now, the neighbors were blase about the stuff happening at Dad’s normally quiet, tidy house. They didn’t peer curiously into the garage any more when they walked their completely controlled pets on leashes. I’m sure there’s a rule about that. I wonder if that’s why one woman walks her cat on a leash.

Finally, all the irritating, rule-breaking projects were done. I posted a couple of ads on Craigslist and Freecycle, and obliging people came and took away all the lumber. One man was building chicken coops, and the other was building rabbit hutches. I doubt Vero Beach allows such critters; they probably came from outside the city limits.

We returned the borrowed sewing machine to our friend Linda. We loaded the tools, paint, and epoxy into plastic bins that would fit aboard the boat, along with the carefully-folded sails. The sewing table we carried back inside.

Then we stood back and looked at the garage, ready for Dad’s car.

There was no sign of the mess or noise that had completely taken over for almost three months. In fact, the garage looked better than before we’d arrived! Barry had installed a couple of ladder hangers for working on the battens. Now Dad’s ladder was neatly stored on them, instead of leaning precariously against the wall.

I breathed a sigh of relief.

We had made a BIG mess, and we had cleaned up all of it. This was in keeping with the biggest rule of all. Not a Vero Beach rule, or a condo complex rule, but a family rule: Do not mess up Dad’s house.

Someday, Dad will see our picture on the front of a sailing magazine. He can show his friends, saying “Look! These sails were made in my garage.” I have my fingers crossed that he’ll conveniently forget the sawdust and noise and chaos, and just remember my favorite part: How much we enjoyed his company for five months, the messiest Snowbirds in Vero Beach.

Barry sitting on the floor surrounded by white fabric
Barry sewing the mizzen sail
Barry sitting in the garage, bike and car in background
The car is outside, bikes and sewing machines are in
Margaret attaching tape to batten pockets
Meps at work in the garage
Barry carrying a piece of plywood out of the garage
Taking the floor apart to give the lumber away
Barry holding a stack of folded sails
The end result of all that mess