I walked passed a bag of papers on the way to the recycling place the other day and noticed a cover to a nursery catalogue- my first nursery catalogue- partly sticking out of the rest of the papers there. It was part of a bunch of stuff Wendy was hauling out of what used to be my office.
A portion of my time last Friday night was spent behind a video camera, a situation I have been known to find myself in as of late. The reason for being there was to record a panel discussion among four women who have been known to swim long distances in the open water, which in the purest sense usually refers to a fluid that is cold and salty.
As a member of the on again, off again group known as the Friends of Vashon Pool, I have been receiving emails lately that have been detailing the latest efforts to make the Vashon Pool a year ‘round facility. In reading what these e-epistles had to offer I was left less than impressed
I will admit it- I am addicted to the Trump Watch, in whatever form that might take. The reason for this obsession is fairly simple- we are looking for the end to the madness. The madness is of course that the president- previously noted here as mostly unworthy of naming and thusly designated as 45*- is actually the president, and the sooner he is un-presidented the better.
Last week, if nothing else, was an eventful one here on the farm, or whatever it is. As it was, we were named as the first family to lose power by the folks who came to get the troublesome half of the madrona off of our powerlines. It was Wendy who first noted that as a follow up to the airborne fir branch that took out part of her glass sunroof in that wind storm last October, that now a snow laden section of our majestic Nothofagus dombeyi had stripped her driver side mirror from the door.
I sat down to write something for this past issue, the first of the year, and there was nothing there. It was not because there was no there there, or that it depended on what one meant by the word “is”, or because a mission was “accomplished” and there was simply nothing more to say.
I don’t know that I have ever really been a fan of anything, in the sense that I have come to understand fandom anyway. I do remember becoming a Smokey the Bear ranger and getting a bunch of stuff from that club, but I don’t remember why.
There is something conflicted in thinking about infinity on the shortest day of the year. I suppose one could say there is something hopeful in it. But with the next delivery of hope balanced on the edge of some event horizon and threatening to disappear down a black hole, I guess hope is a requisite commodity once again..
I have been in Vietnam recently- the only reason I am not there now is because I am here writing this. Of course, I did not mean to mislead about my whereabouts- I wasn’t really “in” Vietnam. It is just that I have been immersed in hours of video and photos and listening to stories about one person’s experience of that war- hopefully soon I will be able to share this, but not yet.
I don’t know about you, but I found that the recent revelation that scientists had found something that would confirm Einstein’s theory about gravitational waves somewhat disturbing. I say this because, at least on the surface, the idea that it takes all kind of research and special equipment to discover something supposedly earth shattering, or at least physics-mind bending, is mind bending in itself.
When a clarion call rang out from the opinion pages of the Beachcomber last fall that terrorists had bombed the athletic facilities at the high school, I decided I should probably go take a look. In truth, David Hackett’s warning about the sorry state of many aspects of the VHS athletic facilities wasn’t really about terrorists, although the shock and awe contained therein smacked of sensational rhetoric.
Part of my morning ritual here and elsewhere generally includes the washing of the dishes. This is not because I am obsessed with cleaning, as a few people know all to well. It is because in a world cluttered and compelled by a variety of projects, it just feels good to wake up and finish at least one of them on a regular basis.
There is a box on the floor in our house that arrived recently with the shipment of objects, devices, artwork, clocks and toys from my parents’ house. Despite its daunting nature, I am slowly going through all of it, although compared to what got left behind, this task at hand seems rather small, but not insignificant.
The sun was just beginning to brush the tops of the mountains outside of Butte as I left there the other day. The temperature was in the low teens and there was a light dusting of snow all around, although the roads were thankfully bare and dry. It was the state of the snow the night before that sealed the deal on my pulling over for a warm rest stop inside an inn that was a part of a national network of such places.
I know- it should be Surf and Turf, but on this Island and in this park district it seems that grass will always trump water, until of course we run out- of water that is. I start off this way this time because I endured yet another virtual water torture of a meeting at Ober Park last night.
To be clear, I do not obsess on the VES fields both day and night. If I had a choice, I would pick the day time, because I like to sleep at night and I already have enough spinning around inside to keep me alert during the time of darkness,
A little less than two weeks ago I opened up this paper to find that there were suddenly now two flavors of Island Life being served herein: plain and “real”. Having lived and written and read the plain version a number of times, it seemed only right that I satisfy my curiosity and read all about Real Island Life so as to find out what insights writer Scott Harvey would bring to the fore and what I might have missed along the way.
I hadn’t really thought about it until I sat down to write this, but it was a year ago (possibly to the weekend) that my sister informed me that she had gotten tickets for a lake cruise and I was being asked to tag along on that Sunday afternoon with her, my brother-in-law and his two sisters who were visiting.
I may have referenced this recollection somewhere in the past in this space- I can’t recall for sure one way or another. For those of you taking copious notes, I apologize if that was the case, but it is a story worth repeating, especially in this latest context.
Along with a number of other things, the issue of parking and safety along the Vashon Highway came up at the latest Park District commissioners meeting last night. This was not really the main event that all were in attendance for- that special part of the agenda was reserved for the ceremonial bid opening for the latest iteration of that giant sucking noise that is the VES fields project.
In responding to the question “How’s it going?”, one could easily be any number of miles from an aquatic environment and still be able to answer “swimmingly” if one were so inclined, and could very well do so whether or not that was indeed the case. In the word association game that one’s brain tends to constantly be playing, the mention of the word “swimmer” almost cannot exist without a picture of something blue, relatively clear and viscous appearing at least somewhere in the corner of the mind’s eye.
At the end, that is all there is, because there is no time for anything else. At the end, most of the time is spent seeking a way for it not to be so, especially when the end comes from nowhere, as if the ticking clock and the calendar on the wall were not clues enough.
I don’t remember if I’ve ever told this story here- I certainly have thought about it. It has to do with a time capsule and a responsibility to your voting public. It has to do with the ongoing relevance of a lesson from the youthful times. It has to do with not making assumptions about what is important to others and what isn’t.