Snowy Sunday January 15, 2012

January 15, 2012

The snow has stopped at 12:09 pm after falling all morning. I woke at 8:30 am, happy to have had the sense of being in a cocoon of bedness, the dark and closed box of my room muffled by the soft outdoors.   It was lovely, first to have slept so deeply and late, and second to come into the bright living room and open all the blinds to the white world, full of falling flakes of snow. And then several couples and kids came out early to sled down the hill outside my windows with whoops and screams. One father particularly touched me as he took his daughter, about 4, in a pink coat, farther up the hill, trudging up closer to the mailboxes, to try the run again and I tried to imagine what Lucy may be doing at the same moment. The landing spot for the brave, after the two curves of the road, was about 4 parking spots below the clubhouse, just across from my unit.  The outward force flung some sliders outward which got them stuck on the near side.  They all tried several times to get the perfect ride. 

I sat computing on the couch, but had to jump up to the window whenever I heard a scraping of snow or a shout. That they were turning the slope into a sliding hell for my car mattered not a whit for the moment.  The view was good and I loved watching the fun, warm and foot-stable inside. Flakes falling, childlike excitement, parental sharing of experience, the clear, crisp air, the pleasure of a warm home, what a wonder is Nature! 

Sad after-note:  a huge pickup with a plow mounted on his bumper came. He made several passes around the curves down the hill, shoving the snow aside, and the sliding was over for the kids.  Luckily from one angle, the father with the pink jacketed little one had just returned with heavier coats to climb slowly up the hill and slide on their plastic orb from the mailboxes all the way down, twisting and whirling around beautifully.   Moments later, down came the truck, chasing the sliders home.  From a recently retired Grandmother viewpoint, that was very sad.

Sewing A Straight Seam

My current bliss is sewing. I am a novice again, having left the hobby for a long while. Trying to find new pastimes after selling my house with its large, interesting garden, I decided to hem up some napkins from pretty quilting fat quarters, and soon found myself suddenly grabbed by fabric, sewing notions, how-to books and patterns. It's all familiar, as I was trained to sew as a girl.  (Thanks, Mom!)  I made skirts and blouses and shirts, and eventually little dresses and shirts for my kids. My old Kenmore sewing machine from my husband of 1967, is still around. It weighs as much as a bag of cement, but that is a good indication of its sturdiness.  Sitting in the closet for about 10 years, it nevertheless started right up after a small drink of oil. Re-familiarizing myself with sewing details seemed a little daunting in the beginning, but I know, finally, at my age, that sometimes one only needs to go forward a little and leave the rest for the next day, to get anywhere. Now I find new pleasures in putting the Kenmore through its paces, though my skills are still basic. 

Here's why, so far:   1) It's grand, in my jet speed world, to complete a project--get it done!   2) I like the challenge sometimes presented by a seemingly indecipherable pattern, or a balky sewing machine, to test my patience, my mind, and determination to emerge victorious! 3) I love the appreciation I feel from people who look at my productions.  4) It seems to be a great diet program. When I am sewingly engrossed, I don't snack. At all! I have to remind myself to drink water; to watch the clock for lunch time! 5) When NPR tells one more story of financial disaster or failure of our many US wars, or I start to worry about the high price of peas, or the tread wearing thin on my tires, I can retreat into my "workroom" and bring back a sense of control. Fabrics and notions seem to be continually on sale so that prices are more like 1970 than 2012. 6) Learning more about color and fabric is something I find fascinating, along with the sound of the scissors on the material, the sound of the machine, the steam that rises from the iron in pressing down a seam. Kind of a BB zen thing, I guess. 7) Holing up in my workroom where one wall heater keeps me cozy on the coldest winter days, meets my need for home economy.  8) With sewing, you see immediately what the results are, and you can always rip out and do something over. 9) I kind of know what I'm doing, though my eyes and steady hand are not that of my younger self. 10) And best?!  Lucy's eyes full of excitement when she came over with her Mom to try on her new dress!  

My Sister the Chicken

Jeanne C Hardy was an amazingly unique person.  Yes, she would have been proud to be remembered as a chicken. She paraded through town that way, as a matter of fact. She clucked down the main street of her small town purposefully one summer, marketing her newsletter and her many other writings. She put together the costume, prepped her handouts, then laughed when a neighbor dressed up as a rooster and chased her down the parade route.

Jeanne was a professional writer. She did everything she could think of to support her passion. She made her living from writing, although it didn’t make her rich. She lived her life with such amazing energy, creating truly rich story after story. She hit on the concept of group journalism in the ‘80’s..... She created a newsletter called The Spotted Chicken Report and solicited memberships instead of subscriptions. Members were a part of her marketing plan. They sent in items to publish, from all over the country, and publish them, Jeanne did. She was interested in her members and shared news about them in the letter. She celebrated their victories and raved about their accomplishments. She ended with a personal piece. Over and over, the readers would say, “when I get my “Chicken” in the mail, I sit down immediately and read it. It makes me feel wonderful.”  Not “the chicken,” but “my chicken.”  I felt that way too, and opened them eagerly.  I was every bit as thrilled as any member when she put in a bit about me.

What was it that attracted people to her writing?  Well, it was simple and personal and funny. She had a sense of humor that glorified common experiences so they became poetic and important. Everyday occurrences, well there was no such thing. Every event, or nearly so, was food for fond elaboration.  She loved a funny story, and found them hidden where no one else could see. Her simple theme mesmerized folks living in a complicated world. She was not a country hick, she had been born and raised in a large city. She was earthy and practical, honest and good spirited.

The motto of the Spotted Chicken Society was No Chick Kicking. The intent was to save the world, one spotted chicken at a time. What is a spotted chicken? was the question.  A spotted chicken is any chicken that has been observed, she answered.  Of course it was kindness she was peddling.  She wrote and quoted articles, recipes, quips and poetry that followed that theme. She had Spotted Chicken Conventions for her members at her cabin in the country. She thought up activities to foster ideas on protecting Spotted Chickens. She had chicken paraphernalia up the ying yang, gifts from readers. She had more than one chicken costume.

There’s much much more to say about my writer sister and her fabulous trek through life, now after nearly 10 years without her. She died of lung cancer in 2002.  (She said she thought that was a good year to die.  Even, balanced. The digits kind of looked like a bra, fostering her feminist inclinations.)  I miss her all the time. Her odd viewpoint, her interest in every possible subject, her resourcefulness, her intelligence, her love for her 4 sons and her granddaughters. Her interest in every relative and each and every person she met. But mostly I miss her love.  Her great endless capacity to love.  I don’t have to feel selfish in that yearning, for I know that others are missing her too, still.  The world is just a bit cooler without her wacky, heart warming chicken perspective.  Fill her shoes?  Never. Conjure up her wit? Nope. Impossible.  Love her and miss her? Yes.  That’s it.  Sometimes, and my family all will concur, desperately.

Orchard Memories 1986

These apple polishers and tractor driver (Tasha) searching for her hat gathered one day at the Canyon Park Orchard.  Apple maven Susan on the right was directing operations for her sister in law Barbara and niece Holly in rubbing the bloom off the gorgeous orbs.  The farm held 5 acres of apples, two houses and a large pond in front of which sat the apple stand where customers bought from the selection of 37 varieties of apples from 2000 dwarf trees. The action was quick and constant. Apples were harvested, sorted, polished, boxed, labeled. Earlier in the year there was much ado about pollinating, fertilizing, mowing, thinning, watching the weather. The first row of trees was right outside Susan’s kitchen window and the beautiful apple blossoms filled her whole view........

 The whole apple production process was great for kids and visitors who only got a glimpse of the incredible work it took to take care of 2000 apple trees that produced giant, crisp apples. Selling season was very quick in October. Boxes of apples flew off the hill into the hands of waiting customers.  In the beginning both farmers Susan and Tom worked outside jobs to help support the fledgling business. The work was hard and wearing but they loved it.  They loved seeing the fruits of their labors! The unusual varieties of apples attracted the attention of scientists and media and they had more than one story done on their operation.

Making apple cider was an October celebration. The honey from the bee hives was delicious. Tractor rides for the kids was a regular feature, and 25 years later, new grandsons get the privilege. The orchard is gone, pulled down by the problem of apple maggots, and the trees rotted in piles and are now only a memory, and part of the earth.  A pretty pasture and vegetable garden anchor the hillside.  Two weddings were conducted there. Little kids still run through the property which farmer Tom has rigged with places for pushing toy dump trucks through dirt pathways, a fort in a wagon with a pulley and basket, a swing on a stage that has held musicians and diners.  The farmer couple like to sit on their wide front porch, in a house constructed so many years ago by their nephews, and watch the vines creep up one tree and across to the others, making a quiet, secluded place for contemplating life and its surprises.

A Quick Primer on the Basics of Our Rights

The American Constitution:  the 1st Amendment from the Bill of Rights: Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press, or of the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances.

Thomas Jefferson said: Believing with you that religion is a matter which lies solely between man and his god, [the people, in the 1st Amendment,] declared that their legislature should make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof, thus building a wall of separation between church and state.  

He also said: ... no man shall be compelled to frequent or support any religious worship, place, or ministry whatsoever, nor shall be enforced, restrained, molested, or burthened in his body or goods, nor shall otherwise suffer, on account of his religious opinions or belief; but that all men shall be free to profess, and by argument to maintain, their opinions in matters of religion, and that the same shall in no wise diminish, enlarge, or affect their civil capacities.

The original Constitution,  Article 6, at the end of the third clause: ....but no religious Test shall ever be required as a Qualification to any Office or public Trust under the United States.

When the Constitution was written, the individual states were writing their constitutions too, and included references to freedom of religion.  The men had lots of different takes on the subject.  The Declaration  of the Independence for the country says: We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. That to secure these rights, governments are instituted among men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed.

Some Empowering Inspiration....?

When soldiers opened fire on a crowd that was taunting them over government tyranny, five men were killed. This became known in the press and forever as The Boston Massacre.  It was 1770.  John Adams, a lawyer fighting for American independence, defended the British soldiers, at great peril to the success of his own career.  The only American lawyer willing to take the case, he said he was firm in the belief that no man in a free country should be denied the right to counsel and a fair trial. He was convinced, on principle, that the case was of utmost importance.  He would be hazarding his hard earned reputation, and in his words, “incurring a clamor and popular suspicions and prejudices.”

David McCollough wrote the above in John Adams, Simon and Shuster, 2001. ........ I often wonder about the principles that led to our American Declaration of Independence and the Constitution, since I read such a wide variety of opinion about how our Constitution was formed, and about our current loyalties to that document. McCollough has unearthed detailed information about the original ideals, through the writings and letters of John Adams, who later became our second President, 1797-1801. It appears that much of the dignified, respectful resolutions toward freedom and individual liberties came from John Adams.  At least, he was best equipped and disposed to collect the ideas and write it all down.  But the thinking on the Boston “Massacre” was his own. The words compel, given the current growth of the Occupy Wall Street movement. Protesting crowds, however high the intentions, can lead to violence.  Much depends on the police:

John Adams: “We have entertained a great variety of phrases to avoid calling this sort of people a mob. Some call them shavers, some call them geniuses. The plain English is, gentlemen, [it was] most probably a motley rabble of saucy boys, Negroes and mulattoes, Irish teagues and outlandish jacktars. And why should we scruple to call such a people a mob, I can’t conceive, unless the name is too respectable for them. The sun is not about to stand still or go out, nor the rivers to dry up because there was a mob in Boston on the 5th of March that attacked a party of soldiers…Soldiers quartered in a populous town will always occasion two mobs where they prevent one. They are wretched conservators of the peace.”

He described how the shrieking “rabble” pelted the soldiers with snowballs, oyster shells, sticks, “every species of rubbish,” as a cry went up to “Kill them! Kill them!” One soldier had been knocked down with a club then hit again as soon as he could rise. “Do you expect he should behave like a stoic philosopher, lost in apathy?” Adams asked. Self-defense was the primary canon of the law of nature. Better that many guilty persons escape unpunished than one innocent person should be punished. “The reason is, because it’s of more importance to community, that innocence should be protected, than it is, that guilt should be punished.”  (To me, this translates to innocent til proven guilty and if there’s a doubt let them go. So why are our prisons so full?)

“Facts are stubborn things,” John Adams told the jury, “and whatever may be our wishes, our inclination, or the dictums of our passions, they cannot alter the state of facts and evidence.”  The jury remained out two and a half hours. Of the eight soldiers, six were acquitted and two found guilty of manslaughter, for which they were branded on their thumbs.  John Adams later said the defense was “one of the best pieces of service I ever rendered my country.”

I support the Occupy Wall Street movement. Who wouldn’t?  Federal Reserve Chairmen Ben Bernanke said "Like everyone else, I'm dissatisfied with what the economy's doing right now. They blame, with some justification, the problems in the financial sector for getting us into this mess, and they're dissatisfied with the policy response here in Washington. And at some level, I can't blame them."

My investments are shrinking with everyone else’s. But I’m not ready to hit the streets, because of the potential personal danger.  I am an old lady, not very strong. I don’t know if this is cowardice or not. Thought I’d write about it first and see what happened next.  I find the words of John Adams most inspiring and practical. They make sense.  He said: “The preservation of liberty depends upon the intellectual and moral character of the people.  As long as knowledge and virtue are diffused generally among the body of a nation, it is impossible they should be enslaved…”  That’s us, folks. Not a mob, but intelligent, moral people.  I do have a Bank of America account I can close.

Old bones and smart phones!

I have long cherished my smart phones, and before that, my PDA, for remembering tasks and schedules. I'm 68 now, and as I get ever older, my memory sometimes frustrates me. If I let a mental request set for a bit, the needed piece of information always appears, though sometimes beyond the time of usefulness.  Smart phones seem a perfect tool for older (or younger!) people when they begin to forget names and tasks. That can be embarrassing.  I love my smart phone; I refer constantly to the brain in my back pocket.  I can look up pretty much anything I need.  But there are even more advantages.

I have been reading 1776 and John Adams by David McCullough , and told son Scott how exciting it would be to see the places in Boston mentioned in the books..........  Scott called this morning and used Tango on his smart phone to show me, between conference meetings, the Boston streets as he jogged along the Freedom Trail.  I got on my laptop and looked at Google maps to follow his course. When he could give me street names, I could see his exact location on my map and give him tips to navigate. My IPhone doesn’t allow data searches while I talk, as his Droid does, but tracking him on my computer w Google maps, and talking to him on my cell phone worked fine.  I love this. The technology gets more fun all the time. My IPhone told me he was 2400 miles away, but we talked as though he were across town.  I saw the State House, Bunker Hill Monument, Paul Revere’s house.

On Scott jogged through the heart of the historical city, and came to the Atlantic Ocean. Just two days before he had been at the Pacific Ocean near his home. And now the Atlantic. It seems pretty darned remarkable to this jaded techy granny, that I could be there electronically.   My smart phone buddy keeps my grocery list and reminders for paying bills, has my schedule, the up to the minute stock market report, weather report, all my photos in gorgeous high resolution, Google maps, my IPod contents, a compass, a flashlight, a dictation app, a bar code reader, some kids’ games, Google Earth, Netflix, all my contacts, and a lot more. I can watch movies or the news on it. The images are clear and crisp.  It’s a gol-darned computer. There’s nothing missing that I can see. And when I want to look up any fact or detail about any topic, I have an Internet search app. Oh yeah, and it’s a phone.

And the kids and technology!  Oh my!  My 3 year old grandson is very well acquainted with his parents smart phones. Tech is part of his life. And this morning my grandson and I had story time via Skype and my laptop and his Mom’s laptop. He is only 3 and he knows how to stay on screen, and how to put his show and tell item within camera range.  Today, story time over, with him in CA and me in WA, we “blew” good bye kisses to each other. I’d blow at the screen and he’d “fall” off his chair, and he’d blow at the screen and I’d “fall” off mine. This worked an adequate number of times. Now what part of the brain, heretofore unaccessed in all of human experience, was awakened in us? Blowing kisses to a screen and reacting as those we were together.  Mind you, this little boy is 3!  For the granny side, I’m thinking those new tech synapses, heretofore lying dormant, will fill in the gaps for those poor fading connectors in the deep byways of my noggin. Hope so.

October: time to work and play smart!

Little Lemon Cakes

My 401(k) just dropped thousands of dollars. (Aug-Sept 2011) I refused to look at my account until the end of September and had a wonderful birthday month!  (I’m now 68.) It was full of friends and excursions, swims in the pool, creative cooking, hosting one graduation party, sewing projects, massive room rearrangements with the help of nephew Gregg Hardy, a trip to Mt. Rainier, some overdue furniture repair, and great good life changing news from relatives and friends. The weather was calm and warm, with only mild hints of the Fall to come. I really settled into the retirement thing this month.

One major inspiration for all that energy was a birthday present from son Scott and daughter-in-law Kimberly, Gretchen Rubin’s The Happiness Project, a #1 New York Times best seller....... Gretchen’s (I feel I know her!)  writing style grabbed me and held me til I just had to get up and try some of her ideas.  In a way it’s hard to finish her book because her ideas take me away from reading her book!  Her credentials as a lawyer and published writer inspire my respect. She does not profess to be an expert, however, just a detective in finding what really brings happiness.  She tries this and then this, and takes note and proceeds. The creativity is immense and rubs off on me. And she collaborates with her readers, an attractive to me method.

Find handy baskets for storage of sewing items?  Buy a comforter on sale? Get rid of unwanted stuff? Finally get a new bicycle helmet?  These things all lead to larger projects via the energy created from simple accomplishments. And the projects and rewards are endless.

Gretchen’s discussion of the rewards of creating her blog http://www.happiness-project.com/   brings me back to mine. The effect of imagining others reading my words makes me take myself seriously, a very good thing. I don’t like being wishy washy in public and a potential observer brings me increased drive for clarity.  I come to better know my own mind. Also, as I looked around in Blogger, my blog creator, I easily experimented with a new template.  I want to make a good looking blog.  And what the heck, if it doesn’t work, I’ll try something else!

I’m poorer now, but still ok with the finances. And October is a blank slate.  The challenge of being more cost conscious in October and November will bring its own creative aspect. I intend to work and play smart!  (Read Gretchen’s book—you’ll talk like this too.)

Letters From Grampa Joe - excerpts 1972

My grandfather wrote letters to his large, extended and wide spread family for years. A retired Yakima hop farmer, he had taken up the task after my grandmother died. He used carbon copies on his typewriter.  Some came pretty faded but readable. He was faithful--every week the letter came.  Written in his 70's and 80's they are pure Grampa Joe.  Here's one:

Grampa Slavin's Family Letter  January 6, 1972

Grampa Joe's house on Slavin Road

My Dear Ones:
Family letter writing has come around again. I always feel a little closer to my family when I communicate this way. Why?  Because I feel my letter lingers longer about your homes, visiting with other dear ones about the house. I keep a copy of these family letters. In a way your could ask me the second time, just what I wrote, if you should lose the letter down the sink.

My, my--24 hours later.  1AM Sunday.  To St. Josephs for confession with Ted. Of course I did not need to go. But as long as Ted needed to go I felt it would not hurt me either. Confession is always a beautiful heart warming experience. Ted then treated me to a Sambo low calorie supper. We then drove to Uncle Tony's for one hour of talking mostly about Sister Jean's memoirs. At 8:30 evening we also visited Aunt Laura, talking about all our Grandchildren; also the changing of Sister Nun's dress styles. I found Laura and Ted old fashioned along this line. Aunt sputters over this idea, while Ted, squints his eyes, pulls his ear and drops a tear for a goodbye-yesteryear.

Ted has gone to bed 2 hours ago. I suppose cuddled under a new electric blanket. Ted told me, never to cover over an electric blanket. It felt so light and comfy. How about that? Is Ted right? Let me know. There are a few times when I do not know everything. YES?

Wind just started to blow. Light warming winds has been the last three days ---has been chasing cold blasts back north over the mountains. I hope Spokane and Plentywood will soon enjoy some of this warming weather too.

The kittens think Ted is a little queer yet. They do a little more rubbing on his pants leg now and then. In a way Ted has charmed the Kittys. Now if the Kittys can charm Ted, tomorrow, this household will be one big contented foursome. 1:30 Saturday nite. Must say goodnite, until tomorrow afternoon.

Goodness and the way we go. At 1AM Tuesday morning. Ted goes at 7pm. Monday evening. and such a pleasant 3 days we had together. We discussed probabilities, possibilities and successes and failures in Grange and basked in the glory's of its successes. As Fred Yahn, Chairman of the 1972 Annual Convention Committee said  "This turnout today at Broadway Grange Hall is fantastic. It seems like every one is anxious for June to come to show off Yakima Grangers brand of hospitality." Sure, WE pot-lucked that day at Broadway. Thanks, TED, for all the meals you treated me to at Sambos. Your coffee tasted so good at breakfasts, I couldn't put it down.

April 14, 1972

.......Here I am Tuesday, 2AM 24 hours late and off schedule. Never to catch up, never.  I know you won't mind for an 80 year old pal to be a little slow when he tells you how lost he was in happiness with Ted and Neita here to enjoy -- just 30 hours and they were gone. Back to their nest farther West.

When Ted and Neita left the house for Seattle they were stopping at Fruitvale Grange hall to a banquet honoring the State Grange Executive Committee who had spent the day familiarizing themselves  with the convention facilities........Neita had on the dress she wore at my 50 year surprise party. The dress looked delightful in its simplicity and Neita looked beautiful in the thing. No wonder I married her Mother. There is no difference between the girls, except Neita has a more talented husband. I don't envy Ted. I do wish my Anna was around too. I'll confess up. Neita has a prettier neck and shins. 2AM Better go to bed. I could talk all nite about my two Girls - Neita and Anna, and all next day about my Sunrise Montana Sweetheart in Plentywood.  (Joanne O'Toole)

Love, Your brother Joe

Oil by Joe Slavin

I’m Retired. Go Around Me

After almost two months of not working, I still feel like I have been set free!!! I retired on April 1, 2011 after 33 years at my job. The job changed over time, but the company was the same. It was a grand place to work, serving the elders of our community, and because of the modest pay, fulfilled my need for community contribution 100% of the time. But now that is done.

I could have worked longer to bolster my nest egg, but wanted to retire and improve my health in order to still be alive to eat the egg! Well, fine. The days now are so….peaceful and satisfying. I have had outings and talks with friends and family, started classes at the Y, started writing my memoirs, enjoyed walking at whim along the creek below my condo. I have done an uptake on my appreciation for line drawing and music, the domestic arts and creative writing. I feel like a different person!

I keep wanting to pinch myself, (I don't--that would hurt) and trying to form words to describe the way in which I look at the world in such a different light. I wonder every day at my new ability to 1) not rush to the next thing, whether task or play, 2) be able to stop doing with such heartfelt relief paid work that was so much a part of who I was, 3) change course in random activities, ignoring efficiency, at a moment’s notice, 4) sleep as much as I want; the feeling of being tired all the time going away, and 5) spend little money with no problem! I don’t know how long this attitude will last. I know my activities now bring me happiness. Being busy with just the common occurance gives me energy.

Although I managed a computer department and liked the digital world very much, I also have enjoyed, over my life, the pleasures of homemaking. Studying home economics was always a treat, particularly when a link was made to the way my ancestors were domestic. Fascinating! It’s been years since I could find satisfaction in doing really excellent work. Time constraints associated with computers and probably my brain power or diminishing enthusiasm eliminated that pleasure. But homemaking is slow-making. Ahhh!

There is a fine line between resting and busy-ness to create satisfaction. I don’t have a sense of contributing to the world in the way I had imagined I did at work. But I contribute to the lives of people in my life. Maybe that has as much or more impact. So I must recognize that as contribution. Last night I watched Oprah's last show, in which she said with wonder that she could stop at Starbuck's on the way in to work and enjoy that simple pleasure. She said it twice, awed by the difference in perspective. I understood exactly what she meant.

My financial adviser says I might take a year to decompress. My daughter says that was true for her too. People ask me questions that sound to me like they worry if I’m keeping busy enough, and here’s the truth: I’m not!! How I love to go slow, and putter, and meander! Maybe later will come a craving for a faster, more productive pace, but the end of 33 plus years of marching to someone else’s drum must be bringing me this great pleasure of release. Filling my days with the imagined needed activities just seems like more insistent drumming. Now I don’t have to cut corners to meet a deadline. I can pretty much let life happen at its own pace. I have ideas bubbling gently in my head about ways to make some extra money, but for now, ahhhhh!! I am just enjoying it for what it is for as long as it lasts. (Smile)

Editor's View

Backers of Initiative 210, for statewide daylight saving time, are making triumphant sounds over the filing of "an avalanche" of signatures, virtually assuring the measure a place on the November election ballot. It's no wonder, of course, in view of the large sums of money that have been spent to obtain those signatures. It's reliably reported that the sponsors had a war chest of $75,000 with which to "sell" fast time this year.

Can the state's voters be "bought" or brainwashed into the idea of reversing their long-standing preference for standard time? We don't think so, not yet. But the issue is forced upon us again. The Grange and other friends of standard time must accept the challenge and counter-attack on a wider scale than ever before.

It's an odd thing that so many big city dwellers still ask the same question: "Why are farmers opposed to daylight saving time?" The obvious answer seems to be that we've never had enough campaign money to offset the heavy barrage of propaganda emanating from radio and TV stations and metropolitan newspapers.

Facts which are common knowledge to farmers seem to be as remote as the stars from your big city dwellers. If they ever do get off the pavements, it's only after the heavy dews of morning have long since evaporated.

All you have to do, in their view, is to "milk the cow an hour earlier."

The reasons for maintaining standard time are just as urgent, just as true as they ever were. How are we going to get them across to the ever-increasing voter populations of our big cities? That's the $64 question, not only in 1960 but for future years.--B.

Ted F. Berry, Editor
Washington State Grange News
Friday, July 22, 1960

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Empty book of life…

My granddaughter is pregnant. It was a surprise (they always are, aren't they?) and I am excited for her and wondering if I can be helpful. She's still just getting used to the idea, thinking of blue versus pink, researching infant bath tubs and changing tables, anxious for the sonogram in a little while, getting used to the terms Mommy and Daddy. I sit and watch and see the future in what I hear, the whole thing—diapers to baptism to sandboxes to kindergarten to school friends to buying a car to attending college or getting a job, then perhaps comes another generation! It's pretty amazing to be able to sit and imagine the whole thing a little. What a life this is! I try to imagine a book that would hold all the nearly infinite details. Would it be a 15 volume set? Like an Encyclopedia?

I am at the same time in the thick of producing a 160 page book of sayings and amusements for my 12 year old grand niece. It's a traditional family project, written by older female relatives to a younger one. I look at the "Empty Book" and try to imagine, in 12 years, writing sayings and comforts for the little girl my granddaughter could give birth to. That child does not even have a title page yet. Boy or girl, blond or brunette, etc. What will be written in the Empty Book or the whole book of life for my granddaughter's child?

Help and amuse. It's a motto for what to write in an Empty Book, from an old woman wanting to contribute to a young woman's life. For I know that is what I can offer to both these young women, no matter my long view. My mistakes are not lessons to my descendants—that's been a hard lesson for me. We all have to make our own mistakes, and there's a limitless variety of those!

Truth is–I really have no expertise in raising a child in 2009. My skills are decades old. I can read books on the subject, but beyond the basics, it truly is like a different country of customs. I used cloth diapers. I introduced solids at 3 months on the dot. I followed Dr. Spock and let the baby cry sometimes. And raising a 12 year old? Fugedaboudit! I too often tried to protect with stern directives instead of reasoned conversation. I lacked patience. We have come out of ignorance on so many issues and many of the old ways just don't work. This is something I celebrate with passion. Education helps everyone. Wisdom and peace can come from knowledge and experience.

In 2009, all I can offer my grand niece is some silly sayings and suggestions that at best will hopefully show her I care for her well being and understand. All I can offer my granddaughter is support that has love behind the offering, not ideas in current trends in parenting. I do know how to hold and burp a baby and change a diaper. I know that time will pass and the first few months are not endless as they appear. I know a baby is soothed by a light touch but is not overly fragile. I know that support from friends and family is critical to the health of the baby and parents. I know the poignancy of the very first time you leave the little one with relatives to go for a walk alone. I know that calling the nurse with worries is a privilege worth a King's counting house. I know that the absolutely most blessed feeling is looking in the eyes of a tiny baby, wondering again at the miracle of it all.

Help and amuse. The Empty Book writes itself. And I look forward to the chance to be on the outskirts of helping my granddaughter and welcoming this new baby person. Support and encourage. A light heart. As requested and needed. I'll bet I'm up to it!

Cooking Can Be A Page Turner

At 6 AM outside my door I found a 12" square box sitting beside the Seattle Times. It must have come after I came home from work. Poor UPS and Fed Ex--working at all hours catching up after our 10 day region-wide snow-in. I looked at the return address: Fulfillment Center. Yay! I am going to be fulfilled! Whomever thought of that moniker must have known she'd bring smiles to many many recipients of doorstep boxes.

Then I noticed "COOKING" on the box and remembered a certain gift giver's response when, after Christmas had passed I asked her hesitatingly about the Christmas package she had said I would get: "I lied." she said. "You don't get the little cutting boards. I forget that I went over budget and there was a cutback. There might be a government bailout at some point, but the legislation is stuck in the house so you're out of luck for now. But the cookbook holder is on its way! It got stuck in the snow. Projected delivery date is Friday."

I had laughed my head off at that one, clever comedian gift giver! I opened the box and indeed there was a cookbook holder--a sturdy kitchen helper that I, with aging wisdom (and eyes) know I will really enjoy.

I've tried all kinds of book propping methods and the closest I have come to this gleaming metal beauty was a bent coat hanger. Usually I just bend to the page to see. But now a visual bail out! There's also an equivalent chart for liquid and dry measure, and weight, in the transparent cover--been hankering for one of those ever since I came back from LaJolla, where resides said item in that esteemed kitchen.

And frosting on the cake, so to speak, butter on the muffins, cinnamon in the stew, comes with knowing my new holder will do double duty as a novel holder at meal time. Yes, I read at dinner, something my Mother would have frowned on, but she is not here to suffer through it, so we can all relax. I'll enjoy being able to continue at mealtime (no cutbacks there!) with the good part of the story, hands free. Now I'm enjoying a personal massive rally and projected long term fulfillment!

10 Year Journal - The Final Page

For the last 3,650 nights, I have written in my 10 year journal. Just a line to two. A friend recommended the journal as a way to track major events and doctor visits, and I added home maintenance milestones and a phone call log for people I didn't call often. Live a life and remember it, I heard a long while back. Well, I've filled the book.

Now I'll use my PDA to record events. It has the advantage to be search-able, a helpful thing for a forgetful person. Some decade-end remembering and excerpts from the last 10 years:

Off early to receive new Amana frig; old one to Holly. Hamburgers at H's and saw Joe Black. (3/21/00) Dug hole for steel barrel. Too many roots! (3/22/01) Cleaned woodshed. Mouse do. Ugh. Had to total shower. (9/1/02) Read all Range of Motion. Sooo good. (12/6/06) GREAT song by HC Seattle Unity "Operator." Long talk w JC re retire and San Diego (7/28/02) Scott says they'll have to wear bootees re mad cow disease in Paris; Mary here w new Goldie Honda. (4/1/01) 8:15 haircut by Donna. Bought 2 patio chairs for entry w HC at Pier 1 Lynnwood plus cushions, slate table and rug, mirror w doors; lovely!! (7/28/01)

Fighting cold w garlic & hot water successfully (11/16/04) Pat Olsen quitting (3/22/05) Wore myself out-bike w Mary to Magnuson-lovely. Put chicken & chips on front east half. Bed at 9pm! (5/10/03) Zoo with Tasha-all but NE corner again! TC drove Jetta on Perkins & to mall (8/10/02) Visited Mom at 7-she called me! Maybe Hillary got her to do it. (10/8/04) JB here for practice Hanalei-giggles gigantic. (4/19/04)

The older entries interest me more --they are history, and seem to come from some other, very interesting person. The later entries are still too much just me talking. Here's one I like from this year: Obama elected! 11/4/08

My 10 year written journal keeping experiment is over. All that time. All those days. What I'd really like is a Blackberry to record major events. Should I try to make the entries more interesting? Like times I stepped out of the mold? On July 10, 2006 I tried to watch Conan the Barbarian because it's so famous, but couldn't endure. Is this news? Only time will tell.

Chicken gods

6AM on the 9th day of being snowbound: I bless my IPod, Skype and my cell phone for keeping me in touch with the world all these days. I have cleaned cupboards, watched DVD's, worked at my desk, conducted business for my job, improvised ways to exercise. I've eaten well because the gods took me to Costco to stock up on frozen chicken, shrimp and salmon just before the storm hit. I do take personal credit for buying toilet paper in bulk.

My most frequent non-electric entertainment is watching the maneuvers of my co-condo dwellers navigate the steep ice and snow encrusted road to our buildings that has a curve thrown in at just the wrong spot for bad measure. No matter the intensity of my heavenly beseeching, I will not suddenly become 15 years younger and get out there and take a shovel to the snow on the road so I can get out of here. I wait.

I just think the gods must be crazy for sending about a foot of snow to us living here in this marine/mountain climate. What possible purpose could they have in tethering us this way?

Shalom Auslander on This American Life just gave me a huge hoot on Day Nine in describing Chicken, the god beyond understanding. He describes an out of body experience where a guy floats to see -----------Chicken, who is gee oh dee. Gasp! But when he gets back in his body, he doesn't have the heart to tell his loving, grateful to god family that they are grateful to a Chicken.

Isn't that great!? What if all those people who won't talk about their out of body experiences share that guy's reluctance to share and spoil it all?! Well......Over and over we try to figure out what the heck the purpose of all this is, and some of the ideas are terrific! This one's just perfect to tease out a smile and warm the heart of a snowbound chicken. Wait. does that mean I'm............?? Back to waiting....

Thunder Snow Leftovers

Stuck indoors because of the Thunder Snow storm that slickered up every square inch of the Northwest and was coming back for an encore. Called that because some reporter heard thunder during the snow storm. Got food, got heat, got all the comforts. But I want out. Gotta send Christmas packages. Call with Tom: he said use a walking stick to take you over the icy sidewalks. Good idea! How about my long handled scrub brush sans brush--I used to clean the outside of our old house with it in the Spring--screwed a screw into the tip of the pole--wa-lah! I'll get the pro version from REI Tom mentioned later. Off to Staples/UPS in a 3 legged trot to send the Christmas gifts that weren't going to make it before Xmas because of the storm.

Surfaces along the street for walking: 1) dirty ice resembling what leftover lumpy oatmeal would look like frozen. 2) Mini snowy mountain tops you had to balance on or walk between covered with a thin layer of ice. 3)Broken up ice that looked like what a shattered windshield looks like. 4) Then there was that lumpy souffle, rigid with defeat that I made in '66--that stuff is what the thrown up snow at the curb edges looked like. 5) Predatory ice covered with a thin layer of lacey snow--a trap.

I had new warm boots with furry tops to keep me connecting to the earth. Sticking the washing I mean walking stick in the snow at the edge of the sidewalk helped transport me over the sheer ice. I paused at every driveway to wait for cars that might turn and not be able to stop. People did seem anxious to stop for a 3 legged woman, that is, with a walking stick walking in a hesitating fashion wearing little round sunglasses. The two miles went by quickly. Package delivered to the heroes at UPS, I took the long way home, carrying a new surge protector for my new laptop to meet the next wind storm coming after dark. I abandoned the snow cement on the street for the sweet powder on the creek trail. The ducks clustered in the middle of the iced over lake I passed, their bodies warming just enough water for the clan. What keeps them warm?!

The sun did not have much of a point of view from behind that gauzy overcast lid. Hard to imagine it's radiant beams from Heaven above. Easy to imagine the insides of a freezer full of beef and corn, some frozen oatmeal, cookies. Hmm. The brisk air at 20 degrees put a spring in my walking stick and I got hungry. Thought I'd turn on the holiday music on my IPod when I got home and make some old fashioned Christmas cookies to eat when the power went out. Food and snow and little adventures, that's what I'm thinking about. And, back at home, the joy of a challenge met, with the help of my bro. Merry Christmas.

The WPA Built Grand Coulee Dam

Fast on the heels of my publishing the 1950 editorial on the Coulee Dam, the Seattle Times brings the subject to the present in today's paper: Monday, Dec 15, 2008: Northwest may blaze U.S. path to green grid. Reporter Les Blementhal writes that the WPA built the Grand Coulee Dam and other public works projects during the depression, a possible model for another major public works project for the Northwest, delivering green wind power to the region through the Bonneville Power Administration. The BPA, a not for profit federal utility that Ted Berry editorialized on 50 years or more ago, may provide 50,000 local jobs. Keeping public power public was a subject that often appeared in Ted Berry's editorials. Blementhal writes that US Representative Jay Inslee is emerging as a leader in the green energy issue. Washington State may become a model for such projects around the country. Pundits warn of comparing the Great Depression to current events, but this news is more than deja vu. Handled well, it would be a good idea, one I know editor Ted would relish.

The Heart of America

Riding with a presidential motorcade to Grand Coulee dam last week, we noticed a little girl standing beside the road with her mother. In each hand the youngster held a tiny flag and we wondered how long she had stood there, waiting for the President to come by. Of course little kids like that couldn’t be allowed within the roped off areas surrounding the President at each stop, nor to mingle with the photographers, Government brass, Secret Service operative and local welcoming committees.

The whole show is cut to fit an exact pattern of time and space. The President and all the supporting cast must move strictly according to plan. The press must be given priority, for the eyes and ears of America are waiting to see and hear about this visit to Grand Coulee. The President obediently follows the instructions of the photographers to “look this way, Mr. President” or “raise your head a little, Mr. President.” The procedure must have become exasperatingly monotonous through endless repetition on the 10 day trip.

The little girl at the crossroads wouldn’t know about that. She probably was waiting for the United States of America to come by, her little heart swelling with pride in her country.

Among all the newsmen and cops and soldiers, the congressmen and high Government officials were a dime a dozen. Sometimes you would see them standing alone, with nobody paying any attention to them. But the photographers were everywhere, taking enough pictures to paper the White House. Sometimes the flash bulbs created a continuous, prolonged light—there were so many being fired at once. The President had not much opportunity to talk to anybody, outside of the Governor, the former Governor and a few other officials who rode with him or sat beside him on the platforms.

The little girl with the flags saw them go by in the open car. Perhaps the President saw her and smiled as she waved her flags. We hope so.

Your country correspondent wishes that this little girl, and other kids, and a few working men and farmers could somehow get inside of the roped-off areas; that they could talk a while to the President of their interests and problems, and what they think about things.

Seems to us as if our institutions would be safer that way, and maybe the President would be too. -- B

How long did it take you, reading the editorial above, to realize how dated it is? Ted F. Berry (AKA Dad) wrote it as Editor for the May 20, 1950 issue of the Washington State Grange News. The President was Harry Truman. Some things have not changed in 58 years....some have. Little girls still wave flags. But Presidents need those Secret Service more than ever. Was my Dad right? If our Presidents were more accessible, would we now live in a friendlier world? Too simple a conclusion. Never mind. I just want to put this article out there because of its connection to history and to my Dad.

Truman said in a speech at Grand Coulee that "the Columbia River is the greatest source of power in the Nation. Today we are well on the way to harnessing that power. The Northwest is no longer a backward colony. Its population has increased more than 30%." Mr Truman went on to tell of 11 new major industries that had been established, bringing $135 million in payrolls and $50 million in new tax revenues to the Government. They are new enterprises, he said and did not "hurt the East." In fact, he continued, these industries have created bigger markets for producers in other states. The aluminum mills produce nearly half of the national output which in turn supplies materials for some 600 factories across the country.

Progress.

Violeeeeeeeeee!

My cheap violin leaned in its black case against the hutch in my living room, chastising my neglect, like neighborhood dogs coming out to bark a while at my passing. The mental rocks I threw at their voices defended my position--I play horribly, like the neophyte I am at age 65 with all of 6 violin lessons under my belt, and I abhor inflicting auditory pain on my condo co-dwellers. I am a singer and can recognize fine notes.

So I carried my violin outside and walked in late evening to the valley below my condo along the path to the creek to whom I am grateful for singing me cheery ditties on my mandatory health walks, forgetting for the moment that it might be possible to torture a creek as well.

Later I thought better of that and sat to play on the grassy knoll by the freeway away from the creek so the traffic noise would drown out the strident A's and G's, the not quite on the note notes, the grating squawks and crashes against the ear drum.

Later I played at my brother's country house because he has a big field with no other houses in sight and he promised he and my sister-in-law wouldn't listen.

Later I played with no caution at my friends' farm and stayed too long in their pasture of gold and pink and purple blossom-topped grasses, lost in each slide of note to note, senses awakening moment by moment under puffy clouds in a vast sky the deep blue color of a shirt I stole from my daughter 20 years ago.

Later I played boldly on my own hillside so that my violin, now coming to live, tail wagging, as a being in my world, would have a view.

I think it may have been on that hillside that I played one fine note.

Most of this is not true. Most of it is a combination of fact and fiction I stumbled upon whilst thinking of my violin and letting my creative juices simmer a while. To embellish what’s real with what could be—now that is super dreaming! I slide from taupe to gold and red on theoretical strings of imagination that may be connected to….who knows what?! Yehudi Menuhin or a violin on a dump heap.

Old gods

James Mitchener described the Hawaiian culture over 11 centuries. My dog-eared copy of Hawaii, read and reread when I was 16, is long gone. The paperback binding was broken apart and the cover was elsewhere, by the time it left me. I looked for it years later, not remembering I had finally let it go. Occasionally now some snippet of Mitchener's story comes to me - like one main Chinese character, Char Nyuk Tsin, whom I can rediscover on the Internet! In 1959 the idea of the world of information at my fingertips on my laptop, including the very passage from the book that I needed, would have sounded like science fiction. We only had TV and radio.

But on the net I find Wu Chow's Auntie to help me craft this essay. One of Mitchener's main characters in a long saga, her devotion to the lepers of Molokai despite the dangers of contracting the illness herself amazed me. It revealed "her loyalty and compassion to her fellow humans. This experience begins a habit that will last until her death the night she achieves American citizenship at age 106; every night she examines her body for signs of leprosy, and when no such signs are found, she can continue on her hard working way." (Hansen's disease is now curable, but only since the mid 20th century.)

I was interested in Hawaii at age 16 for two reasons: my friend Gail's grandmother lived in Hawaii and she talked about the place with affection. In a time when trips to Hawaii were taken maybe once in a lifetime, Hawaii became more real to me. Then I met a boy from Hawaii and my study of things Hawaiian became a passion. I married the boy and had two children by him, one born in Hawaii, both children blessed with the grace of the royal Hawaiian characters in Mitchener's book. I'm not kidding. In 2004 I toured the Hawaiian island of Molokai as part of my trip to my son's Kauai wedding.

Now I am 65. A few years back I found Moloka'i by Alan Brennert. The story of the lepers came alive again - of Father Damien, who spent sixteen years ministering to patients before he himself died in 1889 of leprosy. At 16 I had no concept of the many things that happen in one long life. Char Nyuk Tsin showed me that. Then Brennert drew out my sorrow for the ignorance that causes such suffering.

A new Mitchener memory popped up recently and is the reason I started to write this essay. Where all that other stuff came from, I don't know. I recalled that when the Christian missionaries convinced the people that their old Hawaiian religion was barbaric, there were a few stragglers who still worshiped their old gods in secret--because the old gods were more comforting! (Never mind that the "new" god also had some strange ideas about punishment.) I love this secretive bent of some of the old Hawaiian people, given my current hesitant affection for the teachings of Eckhart Tolle and The Power Of Now. My old "god" I turned to when I was upset and got immediate comfort. Now Tolle says I don't ever have to be upset! And he is right, given my so far limited but impossible to deny spiritual growth from his teachings. But leaving the familiar? I'm working on it.

Oh, what a comfort it was, to turn to what never failed me in my usually self imposed but nevertheless miserable case: my own brand of "god". Now I find myself on the edge of what appears to be an evolutionary movement. I'm trotting along with the others, wondering if we are either lemmings or brave warriors, sure only that we are leaving the old gods behind, only occasionally slipping back into that secret comfort. Well, time takes time. And persistence. 'And bravery because it's getting a little, um, unusual out there. I've heard Chuck Yeager quoted twice with the same quote in the last week: He was the first person to break the sound barrier. When he landed from the flight the media ran to him and asked what he had to say. His first comment was “just before you break through the sound barrier, the cockpit shakes the most.” On Tolle and the world in general right now? I can hear a kind of escalating vibrating hum, can you?

Humming away, I push the past into the present and try to figure out what the heck this essay is about: well, if I live to 106, I now have 41 more years to perfect my spiritual growth, checking myself nightly to see if I'm still aliiiive. I need every minute, let me tell you. Rather, every current moment. And with so much personal history- well it's not a saga, but 65 years is a lot for me to keep organized-- I am living what would have amazed me at 16. If I make it-- and my age is the age you really begin to wonder, I bet I will gasp- agog at the constantly accelerating evolution of life. But in this moment--gotta --wanta!! ---live in the now. Get out the meditative eraser and wipe away the random thoughts to let the more creative ones show up. Now I know what I think, just for now. What's next?

Geez. What was all that?