Life Long Learning

Bearing in mind all the things I’ve tried but wasn’t very good at, I could feel like those experiments ended in failure.  But in light of recent brain science, giving up on them is not the thing to do, which is kind of exciting.  For most of my life I’ve enjoyed taking family photos, but whenever I’ve tried to learn the art of photography, most of the concepts escape me.  So should I pack it in and leave picture taking to the professionals?  Not according to Dr. Daniel Amen.  He says the more difficult the task we give our brains, the more neural pathways we develop and the better our brains function, especially as we age. 

That reframes learning about wine, cooking, playing an instrument, learning a language, boating, fishing, bird watching.  All the things I tell myself I’m too old to master.  Well, I might be too old to master them, but that shouldn’t stop me from enjoying them anyway.  Who says we have to be expert at something to enjoy it?  It’s nice to have a sense of mastery in some things, but it’s certainly not necessary to have it in all things.  Saying no to trying new things is at the very least limiting, and at worst bad for our brains.  Here’s what Dr. Amen has to say about maintaining brain function:

1. ·  The human brain is dependent on proper stimulation to grow and develop in healthy ways throughout childhood and to maintain its functioning into old age.  
2. ·  When you stimulate neurons in the right way, you make them more efficient; they function better, and you are more likely to have an active, learning brain throughout your life.  
3. ·  The best sources of stimulation for the brain are physical exercise, mental exercise, and social bonding…

Read about brain science on Dr. Amen’s website:  http://www.amenclinics.com/

And according to the Franklin Institute, “The human brain is able to continually adapt and rewire itself. Even in old age, it can grow new neurons. Severe mental decline is usually caused by disease, whereas most age-related losses in memory or motor skills simply result from inactivity and a lack of mental exercise and stimulation. In other words, use it or lose it.”

None of this is huge news to anyone who has been paying attention to media reports on brain function lately.  But what is a new idea to me is that simply by challenging our brains, we do them good, and that challenge can come in many forms.  Particularly learning new skills, and interacting with others.  This is great news.  All those classes I’ve been wanting to take but couldn’t justify suddenly become an investment in my brain.  Learning Adobe Photoshop, writing seminars at the library, bird watching trips.  All justified. 

Although dementia runs in my family, both my parents kept their brains active long into their old age.  Completing the daily crossword from the paper was part of their routine.  They found creative ways to travel at low cost and my dad researched his family when they went back to England.  They volunteered at their local library which both kept them connected to their neighbors and taught them new skills.  My dad used a computer and they kept current with electronics recording educational and comedy shows, as well as continuing to read the paper every day.  They also volunteered in the library thrift shop, my mom learning to use the cash register. 

It’s great to have come to live in a place so full of people interested in so many things, and so many educational programs, as well as opportunities to continue to work, stay active in the community and get involved in local politics, now that will get your brain working.  It’s exciting to know for years to come there will be plenty of ways to challenge my brain here.  And as Dr. Amen suggests, lots of opportunities for social bonding as well. 

© M.E. Rollins

Singularly Happy

It's nine o'clock on Saturday night of Fair week and I'm standing in line for my once a year elephant ear. I limit myself to one a year so I don't balloon up like the animal for which this fried and sugared mouth watering platter of bread dough is named. Looking around at the Fair goers, it's obvious people are happy. Talking, laughing adults, teenagers roaming in herds, kids bundled against the chill of the night, held in the arms of Fair weary parents, weary but satisfied. It's been a good Fair. It's the third week in August, Fair week on the island. Summer's last big event before back to school preparations begin and Labor Day approaches.

I've just come from the beer garden where people are drinking beer, wine, wine margaritas. I've had half a beer myself. The music is good, lively, people are dancing. It's the last hour of the last night of the Fair and there's an intense energy surging through the dancing crowd. It's the last frantic, fleeting chance to get that final jolt of Fair energy for this year. Jam has been sealed in jars, entered, tasted and judged. Livestock has been raised, entered, judged, and auctioned. Wool has been sheared, carded, spun, and woven. Rides have been ridden. Corndogs have been eaten. Fudge has been melted on tongues. Zucchini have been raced. It's the last hour of the last night of the Fair and I am waiting in line for my elephant ear alone. But things are just as they should be. 

Friday night of Fair week I went to see Eat, Pray, Love, all by myself. That was a good way to see that movie. Having read the book, I knew the story well. It was luxurious to walk around town in solitude, feeling perfectly safe, walking home, then on the spur of the moment, at nine pm, when many were going home to bed, jumping in the car and dashing to the movies. Something wonderfully self indulgent about buying a popcorn sprinkled with brewers yeast and picking a seat in the middle of the back row, the theater almost empty because of the Fair. Waiting for the lights to dim, the curtain to open, the movie to begin. Enjoying my own company. Perfectly congruent with the theme of the story. Is this my Bali? I thought to myself when the movie was done. No, it's too cold here for that. Is this my figurative Bali? Maybe. Like Liz Gilbert, I'm remembering who I am in this new place I call home. 

Feeling much more like I belong than I did last year, now I wait in line for my elephant ear. It's the last hour of the last night of the Fair. There's a nip in the air that says “Fall's here.” How can that be? Summer just arrived. Last year I did the same thing, leaving my elephant ear till last. Waiting until the last minute to buy it, the anticipation of it kept all week in my right front jeans pocket with my Fair pass. Putting off temptation till that final hour. Flirting with disappointment if I wait too long. A little Fair food roulette. I find my excitement where I can these days. There'll be no Eat, Pray, Love excitement of departure from this place, the thing I sometimes fantasize. Except in the darkness of the movie theater. This is my Bali. The place I face my fears. The place I plant my flag. The place I remember who I am. Perhaps the place I find love. The place I eat my elephant ear, and it is...delicious.

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© M.E. Rollins

Gratitude

One day, back in 1996, my beloved little car was stolen from the Washington Square parking lot while I took a few hours out of my busy life to spend too much money on clothes that were ill suited to me in yet another desperate, knee jerk attempt to better my life. Not the first ill fated move on my part. I've done lots of things in my life that worked, and more than a few that didn't.

The sad side of this story is I loved my little Honda and was shocked and devastated someone could in one simple move, take my mostly well ordered life and ding it up quite badly along with my car. My little burgundy hatch back was later recovered across town, trashed and much worse for the wear of a very long joy ride. Somewhat guiltily, since I'd loved my little car so much, I took the insurance settlement and sent the little Honda to public auction, It felt like a betrayal of a family member, but it had to be done. 

The upside to this event was I bought with the insurance settlement and the meager gain we'd recently had in our savings account, a bigger, gently used, more comfortable car. A much needed improvement. For years I'd been driving my dad, now in his eighties, to a lovely adult daycare program where he was able to make friends, sing songs that were familiar, join in group activities that fit even his stroke addled brain, and where he could have a little independence for a few hours a week. 

I really wanted this program to continue to be available to my dad as he loved going so much, and the local lift bus was not well matched to his infirmities. Twice a week, I drove from my home in Southwest Portland to the apartment he shared with my mother in another part of town, helped my strapping, but disabled dad into my tiny car, and drove to Trinity Episcopal Church in Northwest Portland where the adult daycare program was offered.

Once there, I pushed, pulled, coaxed him out of the car and up the steps into the building, returning four hours later to do the whole thing in reverse. Just as I made the switch to the slightly used, but much more comfortable car, my sisters and I came to the conclusion we could no longer keep up the grueling schedule that made my dad's trips to adult daycare possible. For our own sakes, we sadly admitted that while the program was good for both my parents, our own lives were suffering too much in the process. It was one of those difficult decisions we all have to make eventually. 

The new car did, however make it possible for me to transport my dad to a nursing home near my own home for periods of respite for my mother, who was also showing the signs of wear and tear so often associated with spousal caregivers who themselves are of advancing age. I was devastated to see my once physically strong, mentally sharp father, medicated and confused, receiving mediocre care in what was supposed to be a top notch facility, while we struggled to make better arrangements for him.

My sisters all contributed to the effort, varying amounts at varying times, according to what we could each give at the time. I made almost daily visits to his temporary digs in an effort to ease his suffering, since he was by this time quite demented and unable to do

much for himself. I was, along with my sisters, determined to find a better arrangement for my dad, and eventually we did.

But before we reached that eventuality, I started to be a casualty myself. Years of balancing home, career, being a parent, keeping a marriage afloat, along with care for my aging parents was taking a toll. This new arrangement, although far from perfect, did however get us through another phase of my dad's declining health. In 1999, when my father was in the final stage of a very long and productive life, it became clear he needed the kind of care that could be provided only by moving full time to a nursing home.

By then I'd really had it, and that's when the panic attacks of which I've spoken in this column began. Fortunately, shortly thereafter, my dad was moved to a nursing home where he could get the proper care he needed, my sisters and I could focus more attention on our mother who was now in need of a lot of support as well, and I could get help for what had become debilitating panic attacks.

You know, looking back on that time, what's happening in my life now, the current challenges I'm facing, don't seem all that bad. I am mostly only responsible for myself now. I have some money worries, and I've had some medical issues to deal with lately. But compared to managing the life I had ten years ago, this is much easier. It's important to remember that. Especially as I lay here with a heating pad on my back, wondering how I'm going to make things work out for myself.

I've got a ways to go before I reach the age my parents were when they really started to decline. I'm still able bodied, most of the time. I still have my full mental faculties, most of the time. I have a couple of gripe groups with beer associated where I can vent and laugh. I live in a beautiful place. For now I have money in the bank and food on the table. And I have wonderful friends. My folks were family rich and I am too, but they didn't focus so much on friendships. For me, if I need help, I'll have the benefit of a combination of family and friends. And that's good. Heck, it's more than good, it's friggin great. How lucky am I? Life is good.

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© M.E. Rollins

Mosh Pit

When I was young, I loved music, but never quite made it to the kind of concert where one could ride on a mosh pit. It always looked fun, but scary. A lot of trust involved there, trusting the crowd not to drop you. The other day I suddenly got it into my head to write about mosh pits as metaphor for life. Like most of my writing ideas, this one came seemingly out of nowhere, rising to the surface of my brain like words rising to the surface of a magic eight ball. Such ideas usually come when I'm trying the least, while doing the dishes, taking a shower, or when first waking in the morning. So I keep pads of paper and pencils all over my house, since without a notation, those best writing ideas disappear, slipping back into the dark, murky water of my brain, often never to appear again.

The pencil instead of a pen next to my notepad comes from years of being an architect. I never lost my love of a good pencil. It used to be pencil holders with leads I sharpened myself. A real draftsman can sharpen a pencil on a piece of sandpaper in a pinch. Ah, I miss the good old days. Now I use mechanical pencils of all sorts, collected over the years, that hold .7 mm HB leads. It appears you can take the woman out of architecture, but you can't take architecture out of the woman. It's been seven years since I closed the door on my one person architecture firm, but I still consider myself an architect. Architecture has been such a large part of my life.

Like most people, I went into my chosen field because I had the natural talent for it, and a desire to do something good, something bigger than myself in the world. And, if I'm really honest, it was also because I was tired of making minimum wage, managing offices for men who were making the big bucks while I and the other women held down the fort, made coffee, fended off unwanted advances, not career advances if you know what I mean, and kept our mouths shut in order to keep our jobs.

I was a timid rebel. I wasn't willing to be a pee-on the rest of my life, and I had a brain I knew could be put to much better use than it had been in the jobs I'd held up to that point. The only thing lacking for me was self confidence. I had virtually none of that. However, through a fortunate series of circumstances, I was lifted up and handed off from one caring soul to another, held aloft like a rock and roll fan in a mosh pit until one day, I found myself a licensed, practicing architect. Teacher after teacher and friend upon friend gave me just the right type and amount of encouragement. Although I had to do the footwork, there is no way I would have made it through without the cheering crowd slam dancing to the beat of the universe holding me up, doing for me what I could not do for myself, having faith in me.

And their faith was well founded. Architecture took me places I wouldn't have gone otherwise. I don't mean geographical places, I mean places in the mind, ways of thinking and of seeing things. For instance, it was through architecture I became interested in Buckminster Fuller, who by the time I came along was a very old man, but figuratively, he lifted me up. He launched me into outer space looking back at the earth when he coined the term Space Ship Earth. That is when I knew I would recycle whenever possible, and have done so ever since. His life touched and changed mine.

Likewise Philip Johnson. When I was a student of urban planning at Portland State as part of my architectural training, Philip Johnson, architectural icon, came to town to judge the Portland Building competition. There has not been such a competition like it before or since in Portland. Many admonish the judges for choosing Michael Graves' design, which later became known as “the birthday cake building”. It was a spatial planning and mechanical nightmare, that's true, but it symbolized something. It put Portland on the map architecturally speaking, and participating in that process, being in the same room with Philip Johnson, even as a spectator, made me feel important, part of something not just big, but internationally big. That helped mold my identity as a citizen of the world.

Most of the other teachers and architects who kept me buoyed were much less well known, some of them downright obscure. My first ever architectural teacher at PCC, a man by the name of Dick Kasal, to my great fortune came to the west coast from MIT and landed in the same classroom as me, he as the teacher, me as the bewildered, clueless student. For weeks, months, I sat in front of the blank white paper, terrified. Unable to even make a mark. But that didn't matter to Mr. Kasal. He pied pipered all of us willing to follow him. His vision was big. He was an amazing teacher, because he was brash and bold, said what he thought with his native New York accent, and he was interested in everything, including what his students thought. And he challenged us. What I learned from him was that I could do whatever I wanted to do, because he had done and was still doing just that. I did eventually make that first mark on the advice of another clueless student. Etched into the vellum with a 2H pencil, hard as a roofing nail.

Now I still make my mark with a pencil. Just in a different way. And I've learned to use softer lead. I'm glad of my years as an architect, and of late I've been having the feeling, I'm not done with that yet. It's so much a part of me, and I wouldn't have it any other way. In the mosh pit of my life, there have been so many people, I can't count them, and people are joining the slam dance still. For long after I became an architect, the knowledge I didn't do it alone has stayed with me. I like having had a mosh pit beneath me, it makes me want to do my part to lift others up as well. That's a good thing. How lucky is that for me? But I don't think I'm unique. No one is an island, especially where I live now, on an island. We all need one another. I think people who've been here a long time know that at a deep level. They are the ones who buoy me now with tips, suggestions, and encouragement. It's odd, because in reality, I never danced in, or was carried off by a mosh pit, the real thing's a bit too scary for me, but as a metaphor, to not a rock and roller, but an architect and a writer, the image of the mosh pit is an apt description of how people-rich my life has been, and still is now.

© M.E. Rollins

Baby Steps

I once said in this column that islanders have to "cling to the rock." Those were just words back then. It was something I said before, when staying on the rock looked much easier and more possible without tremendous outlay of effort and ingenuity. Now it's time to turn myself into a barnacle. When things get difficult, for example when I have to apply for a job, or when I've had a falling out with someone, or when everything costs more than I think it should and less money comes in than I think should be the case, I contemplate leaving the rock.

Then sometimes I think I don't have any place else to go. But that isn't accurate. I have many other places I could go. But as the old saying says, "Wherever you go, there you are." I'd have all the same issues anywhere else, less the money it would take to move. No, an alternative location is not the answer. When I say to myself, "I don't know what to do" or "doing what needs to be done seems too difficult", then I know I'm not thinking outside the box. And it's usually a box I've created in my own mind. When moving forward gets challenging, I try to remember to take baby steps. There are lots of times the next baby step is obvious, and that's very nice. Then there are times my mind fills with images of anonymous, as yet unidentified, awful next baby steps. That's when I turn on the TV and zone out. After a while, grace steps in and holds my head and tapes my eyes open until I see the baby step in front of me I couldn't see before. The next baby step might be getting a piece of information or making a phone call. It might be writing a column.

Writing this column is what has kept me clung to this rock. I have made my dearest friends on the island because of the column. I have been buoyed many times in a moment of doubt by a friendly stranger saying, "Don't you write for the Islander?" One of my favorite such moments was when I could think of no other baby step than to go to the transfer station with my recycling. The woman next to me looked over as we tossed in jugs, cans, and paper. "Are you the author?" she said. That moment made my day and the thought of it comes back to me often. 

It's really neat when grace forces me to see a baby step that's fun and unexpected. Like going on a first date. Fun??? I know, when I started the twelve first dates I was scared. But now it's fun. Who knew? What does dating have to do with clinging to the rock like a barnacle? I believe fate asks a little action of us, a little foot work in the form of baby steps if you will, in the area of love. And love is like glue (insert correct biological term for barnacle glue here, all you microbiologists out there) when one wants to be a barnacle on a place.

Remember Dr. Leo Marvin, the psychiatrist played by Richard Dreyfus in the movie What About Bob? He wrote a fictitious book called Baby Steps. It's a long book about one very simple common sense idea. When you're afraid, or when things seem difficult, take baby steps toward what you want. My mom used to call it "biting off small pieces." In the movie, Leo, a world renowned psychiatrist is about to make a lot of money and continue his rise to fame by selling his book Baby Steps.

It turns out the seemingly normal Leo really isn't the mega god his fans had turned him into and eventually he crumbles when stalked by Bob, a new client. Ironically, Leo is himself admitted to a mental hospital, while Bob, his super needy, super neurotic client, triumphs over all and wins the hearts of everyone including Leo's family. Bob's triumph is a result of following the advice in Leo's book which, ironically, Leo gave to Bob in an effort to get him to leave his office. Sometimes when I don't know what to do, I think of What About Bob?, and about taking baby steps. The brilliance of What About Bob? is that the kernel of truth is, you really can accomplish a lot and overcome your fears if you take baby steps.

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© M.E. Rollins

High School Redux

As a shy person, I mostly did not enjoy high school. It wasn’t the school’s fault, I was just shy. My high school was an "experimental school", a public school in Portland in the "late sixties, early seventies." Don’t you get tired of saying that, "late sixties, early seventies"? I do. Dang, why couldn't peace, love, and understanding have fit into one decade, it's so laborious to keep saying, "late sixties and early seventies." But yes, I was born smack dab in the middle of the baby boom, and new high schools were needed to digest the egg in the snake when we all hit puberty.

Our classes fit into what was called the modular system. Something like twenty-one twenty minute periods starting at eight am and ending at three pm. Two or three periods, or "mods" clumped together made a class that lasted forty to sixty minutes. It was very cool as new education theories go. Make high school more like college, teach responsibility by allowing free time between "mods". But what was great in theory did not work so well in actuality for kids like me who had a social phobia so bad, that one rude comment from a boy could send me to study in the girls' locker room, or to hide out in the ceramics studio with all the other social-phobes during those socially valuable "free" periods.

After many years and a goodly amount of therapy, I've discovered the only way to deal with shyness is to act not shy. Practice, practice, practice. I've had many years of practice, and now I can say I can walk into a room of strangers and only almost run back out the door, not actually run back out the door. The funny thing about this is, most people find me quite charming and warm. I've learned to be charming and warm. Because I know most people are kind, and phobias, are just that, phobias. Not based in reality.

So I had a hard time with the social aspect of high school. But what I've discovered recently is, apparently it's never too late for do-overs. Because all the social awkwardness I literally hid from in high school, then escaped again by hitting the books in college and pairing up and marrying young, has come home to roost now I find myself making a new life. Writing this column is another form of practicing not being shy. And here's a secret. Sometimes writers are like actors. Shy exhibitionists. Sounds contradictory, doesn't it? Well it is contradictory, but real.

Here I could launch into my theory of why some writers and some actors are shy exhibitionists. It's an interesting thing to ponder. But that wouldn't get me to my point for this week. My point is, moving to a small town is like getting a second shot at high school. Because all the characters I knew, or didn't know, in high school are alive and well right here in River City it turns out, and all the social situations I found awkward then are just here in another form as well. Maybe the reincarnationists are right. Maybe we do just have to keep doing it over and over until we get it right.

Hopefully, I won't be run out on a rail for making the observation that small town life is like high school. Surely I can't be the only one to have noticed we have the "popular" kids, the science club kids, the jocks, the Jesus freaks, and the drama club. Right now you're probably trying to figure out which of those groups you fit into. Here's a hint, it's most likely the same group you belonged to in high school. I for instance belonged to the quick witted intellectual snobs with social phobias group. Same as now.

Perhaps it's all this dating I've been doing that's got me thinking about high school. Well, to be honest, I've had about as many dates so far here as I had in all my high school years. That's why I tend to be pretty bad at it. That's why I've agreed to date twelve guys. See it is a do over of high school. High school, only better. Better because there are a lot of self aware, self accepting people here. The same cannot be said for high school the first time around. And this time I come better prepared to the proverbial lunch room table myself.

Not that coming better prepared necessarily makes it any easier to pick up where I left off forty years ago. In some ways it's harder. I feel like Kathleen Turner in Peggy Sue Got Married. An old person in the mind and body of a teenager. Well, maybe not the body, unfortunately, but the mind anyway. And you know what happened to Peggy Sue when she went back to high school? She discovered that although she thought she wanted to do it all differently the second time around, once given the chance to do that, she saw the wisdom in her original choices.

Not so with me. If this is my high school redux, this time instead of checking out in various ways, I'm choosing to be fully alive and awake, so I can learn the lessons I didn't learn then. Like finding out all my worst fears are not true. Like finding out I am smart, I do have good ideas, I can make decisions, I can support myself, and I can be happy. I must be a good student, because this time around it's only taken a year and a half to get those lessons. All the rest is just practice, practice, practice.

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© M.E. Rollins

Sunset

Sunset on the west side of San Juan Island is usually pretty magical. From any number of vantage points, it's possible to view the Olympic mountains to the south and Victoria, British Columbia across Haro Strait to the west. As the sun sets over Vancouver island, the lights of Victoria sparkle like jewels. The clouds on the horizon play with the light of the setting sun, changing colors and sometimes streaming beams of sunlight onto the water. At times the water is choppy like meringue on a lemon pie, other times it's as smooth as glass. Like it was the other night. 

 

My second annual first whale sighting of the summer started as a trip to the west side to view the setting sun. As we pulled into the gravel parking strip at Westside Preserve I caught sight of two fins made larger by being framed between the large rocks at the head of the trail and the horizon. Excitedly we exited the car. Like a child I made my way down the short winding trail to nature's viewing area, large flat rocks that make perfect perches for whale watching.

Last June I saw the whales on the eve of my birthday. It was morning and they put on a show by repeatedly breaching and spyhopping. We were at Lime Kiln State Park that day. The weather had just cleared, so there was a large crowd down by the light house and over at the lookout. In addition to the crowd on the shore, there was a large number of whale watch boats out in Haro Strait that day. It was very exciting to see the orcas for the first time since my move to the Island.

This year's first sighting was very different. It was evening and they'd come to the cove to feed. It was ebb tide, so the salmon were plentiful as they paused on their way north to their spawning grounds. As we sat down on one of the large flat rocks overlooking the bay, first two, then four, then more orcas appeared, stitching their way through the water like needles sewing a watery quilt. This time there was no breaching or spyhopping. Just surfacing to make the sound their blow holes make when they breathe, like a slow exhalation of the letter f.

Then we saw the calves, swimming with their mothers. Tiny from our vantage point, yet enormous up close I'm sure. Sometimes in sync with mom, sometimes out, they made their way south toward the cove. There were others around us perched on the rocks, some with cameras and binoculars. Most of them were quiet. There was one cell phone user, oddly out of place. When the cell phone was closed, the place settled down to the quiet sanctuary it is meant to be. The humans sitting on the rocks, watching. The orcas doing what they do naturally when left undisturbed.

This was a very different experience from Lime Kiln last summer. Nicer, quieter, more peaceful. Reverent even. Except for the sound of the whales exhaling, there was very little else. Time felt suspended, as though we on the shore had been stopped, frozen like mannequins so the large gentle creatures could pass in peace. I was happy to oblige. Given the almost constant human intrusion into their habitat, it was nice to see these majestic animals have the place almost to themselves. For sometimes I think we forget they are animals, not performers brought here for our entertainment. For over an hour we sat and watched, mesmerized by the slow progression of fins moving from north to south.

After most of the orcas had passed, a freighter just having entered the strait appeared in the distance. Silent at first, then the sound of it's engines gradually increasing as it drew near. Like the street sweeper that announces the end of a parade, the freighter headed north in front of us, signaling it was time to go home. Lingering long enough to listen to the sound of the engines, a slow and steady pulse, as the freighter passed by, finally we made our retreat. Up the gravel path to the car. A motorcycle speeding by broke the spell of the evening and snapped me back out of my reverie.

I turned to look down the hill and noticed a group of teenagers who'd joined the rest of us late in the evening, six or eight of them, all sitting in a row on one of the larger boulders, silhouetted against the dimly lit sky, quietly chatting and enjoying the view. Time to leave the place to them and their chaperone. Changing of the guard for the night. Then it was into the car and onto the road for the drive back into town. A beautiful evening. It was nice while it lasted, just us, the sunset, and the whales.

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© M.E. Rollins

Adventures in Dating

Since the fourth of July is fast upon us and I have yet to complete my assignment of twelve first dates by Independence Day, I've been granted permission to take an incomplete in Dating 101 this semester. My professor has agreed to the incomplete on one condition. I have to write a paper. The title of my Theme is: Finding twelve first dates – why it's a good idea. 
 

So here we go. When looking for a mate, dating twelve people is a good idea for five reasons. First, it's a good way to get comfortable with the whole process of dating. Second, it's a way to find out the different types of people with whom you might be compatible. Third, it gives you a much better chance of finding the next love of your life. Fourth, it puts you in contact with a lot of different people without getting too serious with any one person too fast. And Fifth, it beats watching reruns of The Bachelorette with your dog. 

Point number one. Getting more comfortable with the whole process of dating. First date one: Terrified. First date two: Less terrified. First date three: Starting to relax. First date four: Hey I think this might be fun. To quote the King of Siam in The King and I, Et-ce-terah, et-ce-terah, et-ce-terah. (Yes, I know that's not the correct spelling). 

Point number two. Meeting many different types of people to see with whom you might be compatible. Unless you're very unimaginative in your selection of first dates, if you go out with twelve people, there's no way they're all going to be Republicans (Or Democrats). Or all talk endlessly about Star Wars. Or insist on telling you all about the history of golf. It's only logical that somewhere in there, there'll be a couple with whom you actually have a shared world view, lifestyle, and mutual attraction. 

Point number three. Having a better chance of finding the next love of your life. Even with a methodical search for compatibility, there's always a little je ne sais quoi to every successful match. That one person where you just wake up one day and say, “He's the one.” Or, “I just can't live without her.” It's only by being willing to get to know enough people you have a good chance of finding that special spark that makes it right. 

Point number four. Taking a break from getting too serious too fast with any one person. My past dating experiences could be described as something like a two year old on roller skates. Getting up on my feet. Falling down. Getting back up. Hitting maximum speed by accident while going downhill backwards, and finally totally wiping out. A slightly slower, more leisurely approach has got to work better than that. 

Point number five. An alternative to watching reruns of The Bachelorette with your dog. I believe when watching The Bachelorette, it's much better to watch them the first time around, so does my dog. That's only on TV once a week, so that leaves a lot of nights free for dating. Unless of course you also like to watch Survivor, which along with The Bachelorette is also excellent for interpersonal training, and since it's only on once a week as well, that still leaves five free nights for dating. 

In conclusion, although it has been challenging finding twelve eligible bachelors on our tiny island, it is possible to find them and have fun in the process. Because, the five reasons not withstanding, if it's not fun, then what's the point? In the spirit of having fun I've thought of combining my search for gainful employment with my dating adventure by publishing the first edition of The San Juan Islands Directory of Single Men or even perhaps create my own reality show as a matchmaker for the Island myself: The Matchmaker – Quirky Men Edition. Now that would be fun. But what's most likely to happen is just more first dates. It's a great way to find out what beers are on tap at Haley's, to fine tune my newly acquired taste for red wine, at the very least make some new friends, and possibly meet the new love of my life.

© M.E. Rollins

Father's Day

Father's Day is coming, and even though he's been on the other side of the pure white light for almost eight years now, I still think of my father often. When it comes to writing about my dad, I've composed sentences, then asked myself, "Is that really true?" Not factual things like his given name, George, or the year he was born, 1915, or the color of his hair, jet black, then salt and pepper, then eventually white, but who he was, what he was like as a person. No one's the same all the time, people are complex, sometimes even contradictory. Character development is as tricky when you're talking about a real person as it is when creating a fictional one. 

When writing about other people, there's a fine line to walk. Tell too much, it's disrespectful and other people in your life wonder if they'll be next, tell too little, there's no grit and juice for the reader. And the story of my father is full of grit and juice. I've rewritten the following story many times so as not to make a bad guy out of either one of my parents, because everyone has strengths as well as weaknesses, that's just how people are, fictional or real. 

 

When my father was a young chaplain in the Royal Air Force in India and Africa during World War II he officiated at countless funerals, some for his closest friends. I'd heard my mother say how hurt she'd been when he went back into the service at the end of the war voluntarily, telling her he had to go, leaving her and my oldest sister to stay with relatives, and I had a hard time understanding how he could have done that. 

Many years later, when my dad was about eighty, one day out of the blue, he started to tell me what happened to him in Africa. A group of friends, among whom he was meant to be, got into a small plane. After waving a cheerful goodbye he watched the plane take off. Then he watched it crash to the ground, killing all on board. My dad recounted to me that when he was sent home for nervous exhaustion following the crash, he felt such terrible guilt, his only desire was to go back and take their place. He did go back, against my mother's wishes. Every story has many sides. 

If I were to pick one story of my own to recount about my dad, I'd pick a happy one from my childhood. Let's jump from World War II to twelve years and four more kids later, myself being number four of five. It's 1957. We're living on the outskirts of London, in a parsonage made of brick with leaded glass windows. I'm waiting by the front gate in a thin cotton dress and a homemade sweater, socks falling down, hand-me-down shoes on my feet, looking up the street. I see my dad on his Vespa come into view. Then I'm allowed to run up the block to where he has stopped, waiting for me to climb onboard. Now I'm standing on the floorboard just behind the windscreen and handle bars. We take off and slowly coast along until we get to the house. 

This short ride home with my dad at the end of his workday is a vivid memory, and one of my last of our home in England. At four years old, I had no way of knowing my father's plan to leave England and come to America was already in the works, that this was the reason my mother was selling most of what we owned and why they'd taken in a boarder, an American WAC named Mo. All I knew was there was a new baby in the house and when my dad let me ride on his Vespa, I felt like I was still special. 

On the whole, he was a good man and a good father, taking us to the drive-in theater on Friday nights, and every summer we went camping. He made us laugh at the dinner table with silly puns, and taught us to appreciate music. He said, "I just need five minutes", code for a short nap on the couch, then he slept until we jumped on him to make him get up. He loved my mother. 

There are lots of stories I could tell about my dad. He had blue eyes, and crows feet that crinkled when he smiled, he played the piano and the accordion, all self taught. He had a sharp wit. As a Methodist minister, he spoke honestly about his own beliefs and questions regarding religion, resisting the temptation to give people the simple answers to the big questions they often preferred. He made people think, and refused to preach anything he didn't believe himself. 

He dedicated his life to serving others. Perhaps that's why he valued his solitude so much, sometimes above all else, even the needs of his wife and children. In order to do his job, sometimes he had to close the door on us, literally. Wherever we lived, there was always one room designated as my father's study, not his office, his study, because that's what he did in there. He studied. Religion of every kind, Greek and Aramaic, scripture, modern theology, the crossword. 

But lest you think ill of him, and even though my sisters and I recall having to be quiet and not bother him when he was in there, he was a good father, although he didn't always think so. Late in his life, realizing how much of our childhood he'd missed, he admitted to each of us, his shortcomings and his regrets. Not an apology, just honest reflection. For he was an honest man with great integrity, an ethical person. Both my parents were. As honest as they could be, for everyone is blind to some things. 

It's the inconsistencies in my father I sometimes find most interesting. He was both humble and proud, selfish and generous, funny and serious, the life of the party and a solitary man. He was disciplined as well as occasionally undisciplined. A man who believed in the notion of peace on earth, but who could pitch a fit if my mother burned the toast. He often understated his own abilities, but in truth was a gifted writer. 

When my father died in 2002, aged eighty-seven, I bought a small medal that bears the likeness of St. George slaying a dragon, the symbol of courage and chivalry. I don't see my dad as a saint, nor would he want me to. But I do put that medal on whenever I have to do something requiring courage. It reminds me to live with integrity, that I have more courage than I think, and that I was loved. And am loved still, that's what I believe anyway. It's just a feeling I have when Father's Day is coming and I remember my dad. 

© M.E. Rollins

The American Dream

When my husband Jim and I first met, we decided to make a go of it together, in a house with a picket fence and some kids. What we started out with was a small rental in a rundown neighborhood. Over the years, we had several houses, none with a picket fence, and were blessed with a child. We both worked hard and saved our money. We leveraged our houses to build equity during a growing housing market. We were frugal. We used to call it "building our empire." It was fun thinking of it that way and we were a team, in it together. Jim used to say he was pretty sure as a baby boomer he'd never be able to retire. That turned out to be true, but not for the reason he thought. When Jim died, the period of our life called "building our empire" came to a screeching halt. 

We started out as hippies, Jim and I. But we, like so many other boomers, made a gradual shift over to the pursuit of the American dream. The practicalities of life made it clear to us we needed two incomes. Home ownership was a big part of the dream, and that takes money. Our first house purchase was in a blue collar neighborhood called Arbor Lodge in North Portland. We bought an old Victorian built in 1901 which had been turned into a tri-plex during the depression of the 1930s, and still had two front doors and an entry on the back left over from that time. In 1980, we watched Mt. St. Helens erupt from the front yard of our Victorian house. 

 

When gang violence in North Portland became a serious threat in the mid 1980's, we sold that house and moved to the west side of town, the side of town I'd grown up on. Our second house was a post World War II starter built in 1948. Our closing papers included CC&Rs that had never been changed to reflect modern anti-discrimination laws. I was shocked to see the illegal requirement we not sell our home to anyone of Jewish, African, Irish, or Asian descent. Fortunately over time those old conventions had been outlawed and the neighborhood we moved into was much more diverse than was originally intended. We lived on a tree lined street with a massive yard that measured 80 feet by 150 feet. The house itself was a very efficient 900 square feet in size. We soon outgrew it, and in a rising market, we had enough equity within a few years to buy a bigger, 1957 daylight ranch in a nearby neighborhood. 

Our daylight ranch was on a south facing hillside, in a neighborhood where many of the original owners still lived in the same homes in which they'd raised their families. It was a pleasant place to live with a mixture of younger families like ours moving in and retired couples, widows, and widowers still active enough to have a neighborhood party to welcome us. We hosted family gatherings and spread out happily in our 2500 square foot home. I planted the flower beds with coral bells and star jasmine. We had a mimosa tree in the back and a star magnolia in the front. Every Saturday from Spring to Fall, Jim cut the grass while I tended the hostas and the bleeding hearts in the shade garden in the backyard. We put up a basketball hoop and a picnic table. My father spent his last Christmas with us there. Our daughter graduated high school from that house. And that's where we brought Jim's ashes home two years later. 

 

Homeownership had its ups and downs. Over our many years of owning homes we had rats crawling up from a broken sewer line at our first house, and we had half the Mimosa tree come crashing down in an ice storm at the last house. No matter what happened, we weathered it together. Jim was out of town when the mimosa tree went. We were on the phone together when the most ungodly crash came from the backyard. Still on the phone, I ran to see what had happened. It was dark outside and I was too scared to go out and look. It wasn't until the next day I could see the extent of the damage. Jim, out of town in Seattle for work, had to wait until I gave him my report by the light of day to see if the house was alright. It was. The tree thankfully missed the house and landed on the concrete patio below.

The sewer rats were interesting. Our 1901 Victorian was built on two lots that were later subdivided. Neither we, nor our neighbor knew when we bought our houses that our sewer line ran through her front yard. It was news to us, and very unpleasant news to our neighbor when one day rats showed up in her yard having escaped the eighty some year old pipe, digging their way to the surface. We, or I should say, Jim laid a new pipe alongside our house and ended up digging a trench that sloped to over six feet deep at the property line where, thankfully the city took over and made the actual connection. 

Just so you don't get the wrong idea about me and Jim and homeownership, I'm not describing the kind of picture perfect houses you see in magazines. Our houses were like working laboratories full of in-the-works projects, constantly under the knife of remodeling and generally always works in progress. Even now, I often have a project going, though not so many and not so constantly as I once did. But still I've always envied people who's houses are "done". Maybe someday I'll come to accept I'll never be totally "done" with any place I live. I'll blame it on my being a curious architect. Like the plastic surgeon who can't stop doing one more cosmetic surgery on his wife.

Jim and I lived the American dream together, and for over twenty five years, we owned our own home. There was stability in that, even though things did not always go smoothly or turn out the way they were supposed to. Looking back now, I can see how much homeownership shaped our lives. It gave us a foundation so to speak, a place to hang our hats, a reason to go to work, and a reason to return at the end of the day. We had a good run. Now I've given up homeownership, at least for the time being, and I have to admit I feel somewhat untethered. All those years in houses meant a lot to me and Jim. It meant we were going somewhere, putting a paid off mortgage into our retirement plan. It meant we could do whatever we wanted within reason to our home without consulting anyone. It gave us roots. 

Perhaps living the American dream will always include home ownership. Even with all the maintenance and expense, there's just nothing quite like it. It's not for everyone. There are other ways to live for sure. My own parents only owned their own home once for a period of about four years. From then on, they rented. But as my father aged, he had one regret he mentioned occasionally. He said he would have liked to "have had a little house somewhere." 

For the time being, until I'm a homeowner again, I have to come up with a new dream, build a new kind of empire, based not so much on where I live, but more on how I live. Lots of people have had to give up home ownership in the last couple of years, and I can sympathize. I'm in the same boat, well not in a boat, literally, I'm in an apartment. But it does make me think. Maybe living the American dream isn't always about having a house. Maybe living the American dream is about something else, and what that is, is still taking shape. For me and Jim, we built our empire together, an empire made of memories. Not what we had in mind maybe, but an empire all the same. In spite of everything, I have an awful lot to be thankful for. And, as Roseanne Arnold famously said as the electricity was turned off when she and her fictional husband Dan couldn't pay the bill, "Well, middle class was fun." 

© M.E. Rollins

Olympic Paper Shredding

It's Memorial Day Weekend. So far my activities have consisted of waiting in a long line of happy vacationers headed to the islands as I returned from my trip, and bringing my things in from the car during dry patches between rain showers. It's colder than usual for this time of year, and it hardly feels like the kick off weekend for summer vacation season it's supposed to be. My plans for the weekend consist of refinishing a dresser recycled from my old house and some Olympic paper shredding. I need to get a life. 

Several weeks' worth of mail in hand, I get ready for the paper shredding. I usually toss all bulk mailing right away. But the picture on the front cover of the Island Rec Summer Program Guide catches my eye and I take a minute to look at it. All sorts of prejudices run through my mind. "This catalog is for young people", I think to myself. I envision a banner that reads "Sports Enthusiasts Only!" As I open to the first page. 

 

Years ago, I spent some time meditating the direction of my life at a Trappist Monastery in Oregon. When I consulted with one of the monks about how I might overcome the panic attacks that had taken over my life, he had a very simple suggestion. Why don't you try some new stuff. He said we have to try things if we want to find new interests. New interests are life affirming and are good for the soul, he said. You won't know until you experiment what could be a whole new area of interest for you, something that could prove to be very healing. It was on my retreat to the Trappist Monastery I began to write. 

I'm thinking of that sunny day in the middle of nowhere now, as I think of how I've been spinning my wheels for the past few months. The same feeling of fear I had then creeps back in as I think of how scared I was when I showed up at the Monastery. That familiar little edge of fear I feel as I contemplate the need for new direction now. Change is scary. But change has been a necessary part of my life. I don't know why. Not everyone needs as much change as I've needed. I've given up analyzing it. I just know it to be true. Unless I continue to change, I stagnate. And stagnation feels like torture to me. We all go through life in our own way. 

Yes, I'll be getting a job or starting a business soon. That will be interesting and challenging. Yes, I still have plans to build myself a tiny cottage as soon as I can get that going. Yes, I have lots of irons in the fire when it comes to writing. But I can feel it right down to the soles of my feet. I need more. I need some new interests. I need something different in my life, and I don't know what it is yet. 

So I flip through the Island Rec Catalog. I see some walkers in the picture that accompanies the description of the Friday Harbor 8.8K Loop Run. Hey, I know those people. They look like they're having fun. I read the description. Oh, it's linked to the San Juan County Fair. Well, that sounds good. And participants get a T-shirt and entry to the Fair. Well, I definitely want to do that. Something to aim for, 8.8K. If a kilometer is about five eighths of a mile, then that's about five miles. I can do that. 

I'm avoiding the sailing page. I know it's in there somewhere. Me, a sailor? Yikes, I'm too old, I think. I don't know the first thing about sailing, and I'm not a good swimmer, I think. Then I remember the IOSA class where I learned it's not the water that will get you, it's the temperature of the water. Somehow I feel better. Like hypothermia trumping drowning is a good thing? But at least I'm starting to challenge my negative thoughts. I think my friend the monk would approve of that. Challenging negative thinking it turns out can be very good for panic attacks. I learned that as part of my recovery. It's also good for overcoming fear when it comes to learning something new.

There's one thing I fear almost as much as hypothermia or drowning though, when it comes to learning how to sail. It's the fear of looking foolish. What would my friend the monk say now? What's a bigger problem, looking foolish, or sitting amongst the dust bunnies in your house doing nothing for fear of looking foolish? Those monks, they always have a way of challenging one with questions that have no good reply except the one they want you to give. Even the monks in my mind. 

As I continue to peruse the catalog, I think, Yes, I'll go to Music On The Lawn. I'll do the 8.8K walk. I may even sign up for Frisbee Golf. But none of those things have the one element needed to shake me out of my comfort zone and into something new. No, but sailing does. What's the element? It's fear my friend. It's fear. Ironically, all those years ago, a big part of overcoming the paralyzing fear that had a grip on my life, was doing things that scared me. And believe it or not, back then, writing something I cared about and showing it to others was a pretty scary proposition. And look where picking up the pen that day ten years ago has taken me. To a place where I feel passion, doing something I love. But I had to take that first step. I had to try stuff. 

And here I am again. Needing to try stuff. "Isn't going out on twelve first dates by July 4th scary enough?", you might say. Well, yes that is scary, but not as scary as sailing. And that's saying something because dating is very scary. Do I have what it takes to give it a go? I don't know. I just know one thing. When I've held onto fear instead of stepping into it in the past, it's overtaken me. That's what panic attacks felt like. Like being swallowed up by fear. And I refuse to let that happen again. Not if I can help it. 

It's Memorial Day Weekend, the kick-off weekend of Summer. It's gray and gloomy and yucky outside. That oppressive weather that dragged me down all Winter. Well, damn it, I've had enough, Northwest weather. I refuse to let you bring me down. I'm going to try some new stuff. I'm going sailing. Even if it scares the daylights out of me and freezes my buns off. Even if I feel as old as the hills and as un-athletic as they come. Yes, it's time to try something new and scary. And… there's one other thing about trying something new...it beats the heck out of Olympic paper shredding. 

© M.E. Rollins

The Times They Are A Changin'

Remember I told you I begrudgingly signed up with lala.com with the nickname Daffy Duck? Well, it's a good thing I did sign up because lala.com is about to go away, and the only people still allowed on the site are previous subscribers. Because I signed up so I could find Chocolate Coffee for you, I am one of the privileged users who can continue to listen to music on Lala until it is no longer on May 31st. Just about one week from today. You probably already know all about the demise of Lala. But I didn't, and I'll tell you, Daffy D. is a little sad.

I didn't set out to write about Lala this week. I wanted to write about some great road-trip music on an album by Bob Dylan my sister burned for me a while back called Modern Times. I'm on the younger end of the baby boomers, so Bob Dylan, who turned 69 yesterday, (yeah, I know, can you believe it?), was a little too before my time. But when I got this CD from my sister, I put it on in my car one day as I headed down the road. With nothing but freeway ahead of and behind me, I had a chance to find out Bob Dylan is and probably always was, a great song writer, a real poet. And either he's cleaned up his diction, or I just didn't listen carefully enough the first time around, but contrary to my expectations, I could actually make out most of what he's saying on this delightfully upbeat album of R&B songs for geezers from 2006.

As I began to research the lyrics so I could quote a few and sound cool, I went to Lala to find out the name of the songs, which I didn't have since it's a pirated copy of the album. Did I say my sister burned it? I meant to say I found it on the street. I went to Lala to look up the name of the songs on Modern Times, and that's when I found out Lala is going away. The message on their website is short and cryptic. Sometimes I don't appreciate what I have until I don't have it. With Lala, after that one search for Chocolate Coffee when I was writing Song of the Second Winter I never even used it again. But I was still shocked and saddened to see the news of its demise. Yeah, shocked, saddened, and curious. There was no clue as to the reason on the Lala website. So I had to Google Lala. Sounds funny, doesn't it, Google Lala. But really, I did Google Lala. 

 

That's where it gets interesting. Google gave me an array of choices for information about the death of Lala, but I picked usatoday.com because I knew they'd cut to the chase and the story'd be super easy to read. And it was. Here's a quote: "Lala is shutting down, just a few months after Apple purchased the online music service, reads an update on its website". Well, the website doesn't talk about the Apple purchase. But it's usatoday.com, what do you expect, great journalism? What they should have said was, "Lala is shutting down, reads an update on its website, just a few months after Apple purchased the online music service". Didn't those people read, Eats, Shoots, and Leaves? 

 

However poorly it was worded, I did have my answer. But I have to say, as evidenced by the comments below the usatoday.com article about Lala, everybody's a writer these days, and some of them are really good. You can go there and read them if you like. My favorite is the one that simply says "ta ta". The people writing the comments should have jobs writing the articles for usatoday.com. They'd do a better job. 

 

And on the subject of everyone being a writer these days, that brings me back to Bob Dylan, and a time when everyone wasn't a writer. Just writers were writers, and he was and is a damn fine one. And prolific. While I still can, and after getting over the shock of no more Lala as of this time next week, I looked Bob Dylan up on Lala. Opposite the word "songs" is the number 1,127. Opposite the word "albums", 72. Yes, 72. 

Wow, I thought, I want to know more about Bob Dylan. Did you know there is a website called bobdylan.com? The way things are going, I'm pretty sure everyone will have their own website soon. And it turns out Bob's is a pretty good one. You can click on songs and the lyrics come up for free. Oops, once this gets out, Apple may buy his website and start charging. But for now, they're free, my favorite thing in the internet research world. If you want to actually hear the songs, however, you'll have to click on "buy". Yes, sad to say, if you want to play his songs, the poet is charging. A far cry from the little I know about Bob Dylan's anti-consumerism early years.

Whatever I think of Apple buying up Lala, and Bob Dylan selling his songs on the internet, that doesn't take away from what I really wanted to tell you about this week, how much I like Dylan's album Modern Times. I've been enjoying it since I first listened in the car as I cruised on down the freeway. The arrangements are catchy and energizing, but the real treat is in the lyrics. According to brainyquote.com, Bob Dylan said, "I'm speaking for all of us, I'm the spokesman for a generation." Well, he's still speaking for us now, even if it is for a price and we're all geezers. Good for him. More good writers should make a living at what they love and do best.

That's the problem with everyone being a writer these days. The fear of good writers is that everyone being a writer cheapens the value of good writing and makes it harder to make a living at it. But that's another topic for another day. If you want to listen to Modern Times, you'll have to find another free online music provider, (let me know if you find one) or go to Apple's iTunes, and hope the rumor is true they are going to launch an affordable Lala-like subscription music service to take it's place. Or you can pay Bob Dylan. Wasn't it he who said, "And the times they are a changin'." 

© M.E. Rollins

Costco Nation

This week I'm on the road which gives me the perfect excuse to shop at Costco guilt free. Usually, I like to shop locally. In my travels the last few weeks, I've seen other small communities advertising the same slogan. "Shop local" But since I can't shop on the island this week, I've decided to save some money by shopping at Costco. It's a Friday afternoon and the place is packed. I wait my turn behind ten other shoppers in line to check out. "Oh yes" I think, "This is why I live on an island."

I often find perspective in the Costco checkout line, and if not that, then at least some mild entertainment. Today after procuring some modest, necessary items, and feeling pretty smug about it, I find myself in the checkout line behind someone purchasing the following: One large plastic flip top container of Tums. One economy pack of Alka Seltzer. One 1.75 liter bottle of Kirkland Vodka.

I can only guess at the reason for these purchases based on why I myself might buy them. And to be honest, on a bad day, I might be buying these very same items. It's a sign of the times. I know we are all supposed to be having a positive outlook to keep the great American consumer machine going, and I buy that. I literally buy that, by continuing to circulate money in the system, as every good American ought to do. But I don't think it's a big secret many people are anxious about the future including their finances these days. And that's the imaginary theme I assign to the purchases going out ahead of me at Costco. A pretty simple theme, but one with which I can sympathize.

My own Costco purchases today are as I said, modest and necessary, and thankfully different from those of the person ahead of me in line. Mainly, bottled water and, once I get outside and back in the car, gasoline. Can't get much more basic than that for a road trip. For now, I've given up those Starbuck's Frappuccinos in a bottle I could be buying at Costco for a dollar a piece. Despite that great price, water will do me just fine, even better than fine, actually. And gasoline, well it wouldn't be a road trip without that.

As I make my way to the gas pumps, I see there's a long lineup there as well. School isn't out yet in most places, but the sun is, and that gets people itchy to go someplace. Or perhaps the line can be explained as a sign of the times as well. I can't be the only one who drove past the other gas stations because I knew the price here would be a good fifteen cents per gallon lower. I know it has always been wise to shop this way, but I haven't always been so scrupulous. 

The line moves slowly, an impatient driver in front of me puts her car in gear and quickly swerves around to the forward pump. No time to waste. I don't mind, that puts me one car further ahead. I can't help thinking what a short time ago it was I made most of my gas purchases in Oregon where they still have a "no self-service" law. I pull forward and get out of the car. I have my routine down to a science now. And so does everyone else. It seems like an odd dance to me, all these people, four pump-stations across, four pumps per station, that's sixteen amateurs pumping their own gas at break neck speed. It brings to mind a scene from the movie Zoolander. I put that thought away and watch what I do with the nozzle. 

My two purchases complete, there's just one more task….making it out of the Costco parking lot alive. There are two things people do at Costco. One, they buy a lot of stuff. Two, after they're done, they get the heck out of there as fast as possible. I'm no innocent onlooker here. I want out of this place as badly as everyone else. Or perhaps it's a kind of mob mentality even I can't avoid, I don't know. 

Whatever the reason, it's a case of "gentlemen start your engines please", only without the please. I'm exiting the vehicle fueling pit, along with about eight other drivers. We maneuver ourselves into a single line that merges with another line of exhausted shoppers coming from the parking lot, and miraculously make it out onto the street safely. 

It might be the jitters I feel from the super cheap frozen coffee drink from the Costco canteen I just can't resist, or it could be Costco itself, or possibly it's the combination, but I find it necessary to do a little soul reclamation once I leave that place. I move over to the slower right hand lane of traffic and turn on the local smooth jazz station. 

But finding the Costco experience to be somewhat soulless is just me. I don't judge the shoppers I've run into today. Or, thankfully, haven't run into today. That new big screen TV will look mighty fine I'm sure on the family room wall. And when the cousins come over for a meal prepared on that new gas barbeque, family time together is the real pay-off, not how much money was saved today at Costco. 

It's just we all have to make a choice, either actively, or by default where it is we choose to live. And therefore, to some extent, how we choose to live. Today I realize I'm glad I've chosen slow, quiet, and for the most part a community where the emphasis is not on being a consumer. That's the life I like, with occasional reminder visits to Costco Nation. 

© M.E. Rollins

Even The Queen

I've been job hunting. I've come to realize lots of jobs may look glamorous on the surface, say for instance being the queen of England. But what I've learned from the Queen is now it's more important than ever when so many of us fear we'll never be able to retire, you've just got to look carefully at the retirement benefits before signing on to any job. Beware of jobs where you have to, oh I don't know, swear loyalty to the people of the crown for the rest of your life? 

Earlier this year, I watched a film on public television, a documentary made on Coronation Day in England on June 2, 1953. As I watched the film that was made so everyone in Britain could see the coronation up close and personal, I got goose bumps. And they say the royals are cold and uncaring. I think it was pretty generous of Elizabeth to allow all those cameras and mikes hanging over her while she got crowned. 

The about to be crowned queen looked cool, calm, and collected even with the entire nation looking on. When I remembered she'd been groomed from infancy for that very day, it made more sense she knew just what to do. But gosh, she was only twenty seven. She was married, had a couple of kids already, and was assuming the throne of England. What was I doing when I was twenty seven? Never mind. 

The coronation, it turns out, is part civil ceremony, part church service. That was news to me. Coronations are held in Westminster Abbey. There's a lot of moving around and saying stuff about loyalty to England while your ladies in waiting carry your super heavy robe around behind you, and then there's some communion in there, and some more walking around, taking off robes, putting on other robes, taking off your every day crown, accepting the scepter and orb, stuff like that, and then the actual putting on of the crown with all the jewels and fur and stuff, then sitting down on the throne, some guys with a canopy of purity or something, then some more walking around, some trumpets, and then it's done. I liked the part where Prince Phillip, the queen's ":Liege, man of life and limb" knelt down and swore his loyalty and service to her forever. I think she liked that part too. 

After the coronation, the royal family processed very slowly out of the church, the queen, her sister princess Margaret, the queen mother, all with long robes held up by ladies in waiting. The place was packed and the crowd was solemn. As they exited, each got into a horse drawn carriage for the parade through the streets of London. Hundreds of thousands of onlookers lined the streets. Every branch of the British military was represented by marching troops and military bands who led off the parade with much pageantry. There was lots of red and gold.

The troops and bands included Brits, Scots, Canadians, Australians, even the ":Colonial Troops". The bands played songs from each of their different homelands. There were many royals and dignitaries in horse drawn carriages and chauffeured cars. It was spectacular. All during the parade, it was raining pretty hard, but everyone just kept smiling and waving, especially the ones inside the carriages and cars. 

After the parade, as her majesty and the rest of the royal family stood on the balcony at Buckingham Palace to greet the masses below, I noticed little Prince Charles, not quite five, tentatively waving, and then he did something that might make me have to forgive the whole Camilla thing. He leaned over to his little sister, Princess Anne, and showed her how to wave to the crowd. He looked so sweet and innocent in that moment. And that got me thinking about Prince Charles and all the grief he's caused his poor mum since then. 

And that's when it struck me. All us baby boomers who are moaning about not being able to retire because of the crash of 2009 should take a cue from HRH. Buck up and quit complaining. Even the queen hasn't been able to retire, in large part because of that little rascal on the balcony. I take it back, I don't forgive the whole Camilla thing. As far as I know, she hasn't even had a day off. Yeah, there's all that walking around the countryside at Balmoral and everything, but you can't really take a day off from being Queen of England. Queen Elizabeth is eighty three, and she just keeps on going, even though I'm sure the thought of retirement must, at some point, have crossed her mind. 

At the very end of the film, Royal Air Force jets fly over in formation, spelling out E. R. in the sky for Elizabeth Regina. That was impressive. The new Queen was really smiling then. My dad was in the R.A.F., so that brought a tear to my eye for sure. 

So now, as I continue my job hunt, I'll be thinking of the Queen and holding my head a little higher, knowing the leader of my homeland has continued working into her eighties. I'm even thinking of starting a matching hat and handbag collection. Well, maybe I won't go that far, but watching the film of the coronation from all those years ago made me realize the Queen, even with her faults now all too familiar to the world, is a pretty cool role model. She makes me proud to be a Brit. 

© M.E. Rollins

Things That Matter

Now I've been here a while, I've made friends, am getting to know the place, and feel more and more I have a stake in what happens in the San Juans. That's what drew me to the grange on Saturday for an all day workshop called Rehab Green - Historic Preservation, Weatherization, and Sustainable Rehabilitation. 

"Rehab Green" was presented by The Town of Friday Harbor and The Town of Friday Harbor Historic Preservation Review Board. Additional financial support for the workshop came from the National Trust For Historic Preservation. 

Participants were local experts in the fields of ecology and green building practices, experts on code issues, a representative from OPALCO, commercial building developers, homeowners, design professionals, and contractors. Sandy Strehlou, Friday Harbor's Historic Preservation Program Coordinator facilitated the workshop. The main speaker was Alistair Jackson from O'Brien and Company in Seattle, a nationally recognized leader in sustainability and green building consulting. 

 

Alistair Jackson's presentation in the morning was educational for everyone and just technical enough to suit the geeks, including me, given the right setting I'm part geek. When you take into account who attended, you can see this was a presentation and discussion of some depth. I continue to be impressed with the number of intelligent, interested, involved individuals who live and work in the islands. Attending the workshop showed me once again what a rich and vibrant place this is. 

As an architect, I was most interested in the data pertaining to the performance of buildings both old and new when it comes to energy consumption and indoor air quality. "Old Is The New Green!" it says on the front cover of Preservation Magazine which we received as we walked in the door. Just think about that. When measured for energy consumption and indoor air quality, old buildings perform extremely well. Some of them perform as well as new buildings, and in the case of energy conservation, some of them perform better than new buildings. Not only are older buildings not sealed up and climate controlled like new ones often are, the materials from which older buildings are made are more likely to stand the test of time. 

And possibly most important of all, old buildings are already here. The carbon footprint of using what we already have is almost always much less than it is for demolition and reconstruction. That's particularly important now because addressing climate change is urgent, and is, thankfully once more on the national agenda. I like this news, since I'm a big fan of recycling, including old buildings, and of doing what we can to minimize our impact on the natural environment. Environmental responsibility is important if we're going to preserve what we have here. And preserving what we have here is what historic preservation is all about. If you are interested in historic preservation as it pertains to the environment, contact Sandy Strehlou at the town of Friday Harbor. She's great. 

Now for some other really important facts. For lunch we had a taco and salad feast catered by Chef Paul from Pablito's Taqueria, which convinced me I have to make this new restaurant in the location where Steps used to be a regular stop for food from now on. Since I'm pretty bad at providing myself with healthy and imaginative food choices which are delicious and affordable, such food in town is a very good thing. The tacos, both meat and vegetarian, were amazing, as was the salad. And he makes a fabulous brownie. For an all day workshop, having a nice big, dense chocolate brownie to nosh on during the afternoon panel discussion was perfect.

Besides being educational, "Rehab Green" introduced me to lots of people in the world of construction here and gave me a renewed sense of what I have to contribute to the community. I've been out of the saddle as an architect for a while. Getting back up to speed on building terminology reminded me how enjoyable it is to be in the company of colleagues. I love writing, which I'm pursuing in this place where I can get help from top notch teachers. That's going well. But spending the day speaking the lingo of the building trade was great too. It reminded me many people here wear more than one hat in order to make a living and contribute to the community.

When I topped off the weekend by going to the performance of The San Juan Singers on Sunday, that also reminded me this is a place where you can go meet with a bunch of technical experts on one day and the next day watch a very similar group of people singing Broadway hits for fun and entertainment. 

I love to volunteer at the San Juan Community Theater. For an hour of time helping with tickets and concessions, volunteers get a comp ticket to see the show. That's also the kind of place this is. Watching my pennies does not preclude me from seeing live theater.

If you're interested in helping out at the theater, contact Volunteer Coordinator Janet Ludwig.  It's such a good deal. Plus I get to see all kinds of people there, some I know, some I'm meeting for the first time, just like at the workshop.

I can honestly say, now I've been here a while, I've made friends, am getting to know the place, and feel more and more I have a stake in what happens in the San Juans. 

© M.E. Rollins