Although my friends think me a flake
On New Year’s, a swim I do take
And now, I have found
That dear Puget Sound
Is colder, by far, than the lake!
Bare Footprints in the Snow
A snowfall out here is a treat,
And the neighbors who live on this street
Saw the man with the beard
And his wife, who is weird
Run around in it, in their bare feet.
Folks in Seattle can see snow-capped mountains year ’round. But actual snow on the ground in Seattle is rare and exciting.
The Cycle of “Stuff”
“The world is too much with us, late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers”
–Wordsworth
I feel strongly that the more you pay for a possession, the more it owns you. That’s why I’m a thrift store junkie.
When I buy something at a thrift store, I pay so little that I consider the cost to be merely “rent.” When it’s time to part with the item, I can give it away freely, or sell it for about what I paid.
Ten years ago, Barry and I were in acquisitive mode. We spent our time at thrift stores and yard sales, picking up dishes to fill our cupboards and clothing to fill our closets. We bought furniture, books, CDs, tools. We had rented a 3-bedroom house in suburban West Seattle, and to live the American dream, we needed to fill it.
One afternoon, we stopped at a garage sale in the neighborhood. I don’t recall if I bought anything. But the memory of that sale has stayed with me ever since.
It was not your average clean-out-the-garage to get rid of 1970’s shoes, souvenir ashtrays, and stained placemats. This house sported a “sold” sign in the front yard, and the volume of stuff spread on tables in the yard looked like it would fill the house to bursting. Good stuff.
As I poked through the garage, looking at rakes and edgers, I overheard the owner say, “We’re moving onto a boat.” For me, it was a watershed moment.
I was filled with envy, wonder, amazement. Imagine living on a boat, being free to sail anywhere in the world. It didn’t occur to me that the process of getting to that freedom would be painful or difficult.
How could I know then what was in store for me?
Within three years of that yard sale, I was eager to sell our house and move aboard, too. We’d graduated from our daysailer up to “big boats,” and now counted liveaboards among our sailing friends.
But Barry is powerfully stubborn. And he wanted to enjoy the house we’d bought, with its landscaped yard and view of Mount Baker. As a result of the acquisitive phase, all 2400 square feet were furnished with chairs, tables, desks, sofas, beds, and artwork. Every closet was full. Barry was proud of his workbench in the garage, with its wall of hand tools, shelves of power tools, and sturdy vise.
There was a basic difference between us: My early childhood experiences were nomadic, pulling up roots and relocating every few years. Barry grew up living in one house and went to school in the same city from kindergarten to college.
It has taken a lot of effort and struggle to get rid of the stuff from our acquisitive phase. We held a yard sale, advertised things on the Internet, gave away or loaned the most precious items to family members and close friends. I made trips the dump, almost in tears over the unnecessary waste. Whenever I struggled with what to keep and what to get rid of, I would take a walk through one of the massive thrift stores. A new trashcan cost 99 cents. An alarm clock for $1.50. That made it easy to part with the old ones.
But still we fought. Blazing rows over what to keep, what to get rid of. Screaming, throwing things, sulking. I was afraid we’d end up with 100 boxes; Barry feared that I’d get rid of everything.
Finally, our possessions were whittled down to 29 boxes, three pieces of furniture, two bikes, and a tiny rowboat. Plus one 2400 square foot house, now the subject of the blazing rows, disagreements, and sulking fits. It owns us, and it’s time to sell it.
We moved into the house, temporarily, with our meager possessions. It’s a strange form of camping. We sit and sleep on the floor, but we can cook gourmet meals in the kitchen. We have hundreds of CDs, but had to borrow a small stereo to hear them. Most of the 11 rooms are empty, echoing. We can’t sell it like this; it needs to be cleaned and furnished, or “staged,” in real estate language.
In 2003, we sold our vacuum for $10 to a couple with a 20-year-old son. “Now he won’t borrow ours, and return it with a broken belt,” they said. Being thrift store junkies, we drove to the Goodwill yesterday and found a vacuum cleaner for $10. It’s the largest physical item we’ve bought since the Squid Wagon.
I’ve come to terms with the fact that owning possessions is cyclical. I came to the world with nothing, and I’ll take nothing with me. In between, I get stuff, get rid of it, get different stuff. Keeping the cycle in mind, I don’t get attached. When I acquire something, I think, “How would I get rid of this?” When I sell or discard something, I think, “How would I replace this?”
I won’t need the vacuum cleaner for long. In a couple of months, it will find a new home, and I’ll soon forget we ever had it. I am not owned by my vacuum cleaner.
A Writer’s End-of-the-Year Housecleaning
As an aspiring writer, I collect words the way a seamstress collects scraps. My notebooks are full of unpublished paragraphs, sentences, and ideas. There are character sketches and conversations. There are even single words jotted in the margins, words I want to use someday, like “urticate” (if I can figure out what that means).
Travel writer Ronald Wright was once asked to submit some really gritty travel writing for a collection. He used this as an excuse to publish his scraps, cobbling them together with rough transitions like literary rusty staples. With no editors beating down my door, I thought I’d just publish some of my scraps here, an end-of-the-year housecleaning.
Bounding down the road on Cape Breton Island, we pass a café called “The Yack ‘n’ Snack.” A street called “Puddle Hill Lane.” A mailbox in the shape of a grinning lobster, covered in pastel polka dots.
“Polka dots” is a funny phrase. Why do we call them polka dots, and not just dots? It’s an example of rampant commercialism from the 19th century. There was a polka dance craze in Europe and the U.S., and many unrelated things were named polka-this and polka-that, from polka hats to polka curtain-hangers. Dots became polka-dots, and have stayed that way ever since. We experienced something like this during the (polka) dot com boom of the late 90’s, when the country went crazy with e-this and e-that. My employer at the time, a loser with the awful name of “Millennia Vision” had a slogan, “E-business in e-time.” What the heck is e-time, anyway? Someday, children will ask their parents what eBay means.
Leaving Nova Scotia for New Brunswick, we tuned the radio to CBC. Over a month before Halloween, there was an overview of modern witchcraft in popular culture, provided by a man from British Columbia. He told the moderator, “I’m a witch. Not a wizard, or a warlock, or any of those silly things. A witch.” A radio book club panel discussed the role of the acknowledgements section in books. The panel’s conclusion was, “It’s not who you put in, it’s who you leave out.” A registered dietitian discussed the nutrition of hot dogs. Did you know one wiener can provide 26% of your RDA of saturated fat and 22% of sodium? As the dietician said, “Hot dogs are, well, marginal.” Our favorite radio show was a college student who did a blind survey to rank brands of macaroni and cheese. The winner, based on cost and color (blaze orange), was Kraft dinner, affectionately called “K.D.”
I have an incomplete list of places where we connected to the internet. The Columbus Colony for the Deaf. A miniscule library overlooking the harbor in Cutler, Maine. The most stunning library building I’ve ever seen, the Athenaeum in St. Johnsbury, Vermont. Echoing hallways after school at Roncalli High, in Newfoundland. In Québèc; the keyboards were French. A rest area with computer kiosks at the Nova Scotia border was mobbed with tourists. In Baddeck, Cape Breton, Barry used the internet at the library while I took a walk. I found a free computer at the tourism office and sent him a message. “Hi, Sweetie! I’m on the other side of town!”
One Sunday, we find a community center with a sign indicating that they have Internet. In the parking lot, a bewildered couple asks us if we’re here for the birthday party; they’ve either got the place or the time wrong. The front door is open, but the restrooms are locked. We use a hallway computer to download our e-mail before being gently kicked out by a tai chi instructor who informs us that the building is closed.
In Port Au Choix, we were resting after a hike to the Dorset Paleoeskimo village. An angry fisherman, the only one I met, sat down beside me on the edge of the parking lot and bent my ear. “Confederation was the worst thing to ever happen to Newfoundland. The Canadians raped our land! If you put all the politicians together, you wouldn’t get the brains of a chicken.”
On a beautiful, sunny day, Dad tried to start a conversation with a fellow sitting by the beach in his truck, the window rolled down. “Great day for fishing,” Dad said. “It’s not allowed,” the man said. End of conversation.
We toured a blacksmith’s forge, full of working original equipment. There were rows and rows of letter openers and candle holders for sale. “Do you ever make grapnels or anchors?” I asked. The blacksmith said, flatly, “You can’t fish.” End of conversation.
In Canada, a scenic view is a “lookoff.” Bathrooms are washrooms. The cash register is simply the “cash.” No Chevy’s, only “Chevs.” We had no idea what we were getting when we ordered a “donair” pizza. It turned out to be seasoned lamb, what we call “gyro meat.”
My favorite signs: “Sydney Curling Club – New Members Wanted. Take advantage of our early payment plan!” “Memory Lanes – Glow in the Dark Bowling.” “Thank you for visiting Newfoundland. Long may your big jib draw!” In Minnesota, “Coffee and Fresh-Baked DIESEL Cookies.” In a Montana rest area, “Rattlesnakes have been observed. Please stay on sidewalks.” It’s November, and 45 degrees. Are there rattlesnakes this time of year? Going into the bathroom, I’m extremely nervous. Maybe that’s where the rattlesnakes go to keep warm.
In Idaho, a highway sign says “Weather Info: Tune Radio to 620 AM.” When we do so, it only brings twangy country music with a Christian theme. Is the highway department in cahoots with the evangelical Christians? We listen as long as we can stand it, about 45 seconds. The same thing happens again in Montana, and we turn it off immediately.
Gordon and Gloria Smith are country music fans. She wears a denim jacket with rhinestone snaps. His cap says Nashville. Chatting beside their fifth-wheeler in Nova Scotia, we shared a laugh about the bluegrass concert we’d attended the night before. “We were the youngest people there,” I said. “When we go to bluegrass concerts, we’re the youngest people there,” Gloria replied, “and we’re sixty!”
In Cox’s Cove, two men were driving a small herd of cattle. They looked like Laurel and Hardy. One rode an ATV. The other one, wearing rubber boots, ran up behind a cow and kicked it in the butt. It took off running, along with the rest of the cows, whereupon he tried frantically to get ahead of the stampede, waving his arms and shouting, “No! No! No!” Watching, unseen, from our cabin, I laughed myself silly.
Tyrone, an EMT, was pinch-hitting for his sick wife in her parents’ restaurant, waiting tables. His mother-in-law needed him to help with the french fryer. He drafted a friend, who happened to be eating dinner, to take over the water pitcher and order tablet. When Tyrone came back, he was friendly and chatty, and told us a variant on an old sailing joke. “A Newfoundlander wins the lottery. He goes out and buys a big new pickup truck and a fancy snow blower to put in the back. Then he heads south. When someone asks him what the snow blower is, he knows he’s gone far enough.”
Controversial topic (but a good rhyme!)
Agnostic folks share a proclivity
For secular Christmas activity.
They’ll party all day,
Not bother to pray,
And prob’ly eschew the Nativity.
This was the first limerick I submitted to the OEDILF. I wasn’t trying to define a word, just write a fun limerick. Now I hang out at the OEDILF site all the time, trying to define words in limerick form.
Christmas traditions, from oysters to chainsaws
When I was thirteen, we stopped having traditional Christmases. Twenty-plus years of shopping, decorating, and cooking for six children had worn my mother out. Mom and Dad and I fled the Midwest for Florida that year. I still feel guilty, leaving my older siblings with a crummy artificial tree while I frolicked among sable palms. On the other hand, they were delighted to have the house to themselves, unsupervised.
Years later, when I met Barry and his family, I was astounded to find all the Christmas traditions, alive and well. Here was a family that actually decorated the house and played carols on the piano. They wrapped every single present, including the ones that go in the stockings, embellishing them with ribbons and bows. Barry was famous for his creativity at disguising presents, as well as for doing his wrapping between midnight and 5 a.m.
The house was full of holiday goodies, buckeyes to bourbon balls, artichoke dip with King’s Hawaiian bread, spinach balls, Chex mix, and homemade ice cream. One year, there was a crown pork roast, with paper frills that we put on our fingers as puppets. Grandma always sent a massive box of homemade cookies, each icebox cookie or cherry chew wrapped individually,
As if this wasn’t enough, the Stellrechts did not merely buy a Christmas tree. They always cut their tree. In Ohio, for many years, this entailed a drive to Timbuk Tree Farm. There was a lot of walking around in the mud — “How about this one? This one?” and finally, “This one!” Then each family member would take a turn on their knees, sawing at the base with a bow saw until the tree fell down. An ancient school bus came around to pick up chilled people and their trees and return them to the farm hall, with a crackling wood fire, hot chocolate, and carols blasted over Army-style PA speakers.
Arriving home with the tree, there was still work to do. The bottom had to be re-sawn, providing Barry’s sister Julie with a slice of wood to make into an ornament. The tree was set up and festooned with lights and silver garland, which they call “rope” to distinguish it from the tinsel.
There were boxes and boxes of ornaments, made of glass, wood, paper, metal, fabric — even a plaster Santa that weighs a ton (and always goes on a fat, sturdy branch!). They represented school projects, gifts from old friends, memories. The ornament with the smoke alarm received new batteries, while an ancient angel perched on the top branch. We spent more time discussing the “ormanents” than actually hanging them!
Meanwhile, a pot of oyster stew bubbled on the stove, a tradition from Dave’s family. On the farm in Wisconsin, with plenty of home-grown meat and produce, I bet those Christmas Eve canned oysters were a treat! It reminded me of Christmas Eve with my family in South Carolina — we’d dig fresh oysters from the mud, clean ‘em, roast ‘em, and slurp ‘em out of the shell. No Christmas trees, but we Schultes did have some traditions.
Julie and her family have continued the tree tradition in Ohio, visiting Timbuk Tree Farm every year with their two kids. Barry’s parents retired and moved to Camano Island in 1997, choosing a home with a view of Port Susan…across their neighbor’s tiny Christmas tree farm. A mixed blessing, as the darn trees grow higher every year.
In December, Dave and Sharon march across the street with their bow saw, select the biggest view-blocker they can find, and carry it home. One year, they cut down a hemlock –free, but lousy for decorating. All the old traditions continue: Christmas music on the record player, the familiar ornaments, oyster stew. Even the precious leaded tinsel, removed from the tree each year and saved for the next, because you can’t buy it.
This year, the day was cloudy and cool. I’d gone into the bedroom to put on an extra sweater and find my hat. I hesitated, then grabbed the camera. I knew we had digital photos of the tree-cutting from 1999; surely we didn’t need more of the same? Outside the front door, I stopped in my tracks.
What’s this I see? The garden cart — are we going to roll the tree back, instead of carrying it? When my eye fell on the chainsaw, I started laughing. This was family tradition, with a twist!
Dave and Sharon had already selected their tree, a monstrous 20-foot Douglas Fir. Dave disappeared from sight when he crawled into the lower branches to hack some off with a hatchet. Then, with a loud roar, he fired up the chainsaw and began trimming branches up to 6 feet from the ground. Sharon and I loaded them into the cart, and Barry gamely hauled three heavy loads to the chipping pile. One branch held a tiny hidden bird’s nest, to bring us good luck.
Then Dave sawed most of the way through the bottom. Sharon and Barry, on their knees, did the last bit with the bow saw, the traditional way. I took photos and hollered “timberrrrrrrrr” when it finally toppled.
Six-and-a-half feet of the trunk went to the woodpile, and four feet of silly, straggly stuff was lopped off the top. We threw the rest atop the cart and dragged it, ignominiously, back to the house.
What do you do with a tree that’s nine and a half feet tall and ten feet across? Prune it carefully! As Sharon said, trimming away with her favorite pruners, “It won’t grow back if I mess up.” Even trimmed to eight feet across, there’s only one place for it: Smack dab in the middle of the living room. It dominates the room; when you sit in a chair on one side of the living room, all you see is TREE. You can’t see anyone on the other side of the room.
Remember that silly, straggly branch that got lopped off the top? It didn’t go to the chipping pile. It’s right here, in our living room, decorated with our collection of ornaments. It may be the funniest Charlie Brown tree ever, but it has two advantages: You can walk all the way around it, and yes, you can still see the person on the other side!
O Tannenbaum
“What’s this?” cried the daughter-in-law
“Our holiday plan has a flaw!
To cut down this thing
You’re not s’posed to bring
A big old gas-powered chain saw!”
I’m Gettin’ Nuttin’ but Christmas Spirit
Some years, I have a hard time getting into the Christmas spirit. I hear Christmas music in the grocery store and think, “What is that weird music?” Christmas lights seem lost, tiny white bulbs against the glaring loom of the big city. People going into stores to shop seem unrelated to me, as though I’m adrift in an alien culture.
This afternoon, another day working on our house, was filled with plumbing and mini-blinds, difficult discussions, deferred decisions. I put on some Christmas music, James Brown singing “Santa Claus, Go Straight to the Ghetto” and the Roche Sisters’ wonderfully nasal rendition of “Fraaawsty, the Snowman.” Still no spirit.
Around 6 pm, we knocked off work and drove to Greenlake, where some friends of ours were planning to gather. On this one evening, the entire lake is lined with white luminaria, and thousands of people stroll around it, enjoying the lights. The e-mail from Tina mentioned caroling, and a friend of hers planned to bring a wheeled antique wood stove (I didn’t know there was such a thing!).
From where we parked, we had to walk quite a ways around the candlelit lake on our way to meet our friends. People were strolling in both directions, ambling along in small groups accompanied by children and dogs. Barry and I, being in a hurry, zoomed around them, weaving in and out like two-legged sports cars.
The problem with events like these is that it’s cold. And dark. So everybody is bundled up in hats and scarves, looking like shadowy Polar Fleece blobs. I was afraid I wouldn’t recognize Tina, who we’d only known in the summertime, in bathing suit weather.
When we arrived at the Bathhouse, there was a group standing under the streetlight, caroling. Yikes! I hoped that wasn’t our group — these folks were actually performing with a conductor! A bit further on, we found the wood stove.
The portable antique woodstove stood on the path on a wheeled cart with a pot of cider steaming on its top. A tall fellow in a fuzzy Santa hat was tending it. “Hello, are you our party?” we asked. Howard was a friend of Tina’s, and he invited us to pour some cider into the cups we’d conveniently brought along. A small group circled round the 2-burner stove, and Howard passed out songbooks.
What a blast! We belted out all the old standards, like “Deck the Halls” and “Let it Snow.” “Here We Come A Wassailing” was a big hit, and by the time we made it through all the stanzas of “The Twelve Days of Christmas,” there was a small crowd, applauding. They left in a hurry when we did “I’m Gettin’ Nuttin’ for Christmas,” either because they were afraid of gettin’ nuttin’ by association, or because we sounded so bad.
Children kept coming by and making requests — always “Rudolph” or “Frosty.” One woman wanted to put money in my cup. When she realized we were just singing for fun (there was cider in my cup!), she gave me a hug (a total stranger) and thanked me profusely. Heck, all I was doing was standing around, drinking cider and singing off-key!
It was one of those heart-warming experiences, where you go out just to have a good time, and what happens? You end up making a lot of people happy. Somewhere along the line, I picked up that Christmas spirit I was missing. Maybe somebody slipped it into my cup when I wasn’t looking, but I definitely brought it home with me.
Ode to Howard’s Stove
A guy with a nice antique stove
Put it in his truck and then drove
Down to ol’ Greenlake
So that we could partake
Of cider and carols, by jove!
Confession of a Guilty Wal-Mart Shopper
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.