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

The Accidental Hairdo

Occasionally, fate hands me an ace. This week I felt like I got a handful of aces. My hair, the bane of my existence, is behaving itself. I guess it is the universe's way of paying me back for making me bald during chemo. You would think that after going through that life changing experience, I would just be grateful every day for having hair, but no, it turns out my vanity was just on vacation.

Every morning since I was fourteen, there has been a battle between me and my hair, waged in front of the bathroom mirror. The battle lasts about fifteen minutes. From the other side of the bathroom door can be heard a cacophony of yelling, cursing, grunting, the blaring of the blow dryer, and the clamor of combs, brushes, and containers of hair products being thrown around. After the battle, I emerge from the bathroom, either victorious, or bloodied. The outcome of this battle has a serious impact on the quality of the rest of the day, both for me and for the people around me. Some women blame their bad moods on hormones, my bad moods come from hair moans. That's a tribute to my dad who loved a good pun and had great hair. 

I have an ongoing debate with my hair stylist. She insists there is no such thing as a no maintenance hair cut. I am still in pursuit of one. I have had short hair, long hair, no hair, and everything in between. I have had symmetrical dos, dos to the side, bangs and no bangs. In high school I spent at least half my waking hours trying to get long straight hair parted in the middle. See 1971 senior yearbook picture. Embarrassingly bad photo with someone else's name under it (that was a blessing), but the hair is long, relatively straight, and parted in the middle. I ironed it, set it on orange juice cans, (empty ones, the weight of full ones would have broken my neck), and used a whole tube of Dippity Doo to get it that way. It was the crowning achievement of my high school years. The other half of my waking hours in high school were spent either avoiding high school or writing long, eloquent term papers meant to salvage the grades damaged by all the time spent on hair battles and avoiding high school. I developed a permanent dent in the middle of my forehead from those giant curlers with the plastic pins stuck through them, the pins wedged against my scalp so I could sleep, perched high above my pillow like a poltergeist. 

Once I found a way to make a living and entered the adult hair world, I at least had some money to throw at the battle. I have found that a good stylist can do better than a wait in line till your name is called stylist. I have found that going back to the same person so they can have another crack at it helps too. As an adult, you might think added maturity would console the I hate my hair blues, but no. While other people were getting on with their lives, my secret, shame filled battle continued. I went through the wear a bandana so it covers most of your hair, starting low on the forehead phase. That was great until being a cute little hippie girl wasn't cute anymore. Bret Michaels is apparently as yet unaware that this look is no longer cute. The hair emerged once again, this time starting to turn gray, in my twenties! This was adding insult to injury, but I was not ready to throw in the towel yet, unless they were towels stained with hair dye that is. 

It was at this time I entered into what I call the "what the hell, let's see what happens if I let it go curly" phase. Everyone else was getting poodle perms, so at least this plan had a chance of succeeding. It actually lasted quite a while. I continued to rack up the hair care bills, justifying them by being discontented with the rest of my appearance. It is easier to face a husband who wants to know where all the money went if you are crying about how big your nose is. It costs a lot to take naturally curly hair and turn it into a hairdo that is both curly and attractive. Women tend to have a better understanding of this principle than men do. 

I made it through the 80s and into the 90s, continuing the daily battle, thankfully more often than not exiting the bathroom triumphant, thanks to Madonna and Olivia Newton John. Then, wouldn't you know it, straight hair would make a comeback. Damn. Not wanting to be one of those women who has hair that dates her like carbon dating dates a relic, I moved forward with courage. And cut off most of my hair. If I wanted to keep the routine to fifteen minutes in the morning, I was going to need less of it to deal with. I was not ready to give up yet. I cut my hair short, gelled it, and set the hairdryer on high, blasting my hair back like it had been in a wind tunnel, short, and most importantly, straight. 

While other mothers were baking cookies and getting ahead in their careers, the battle waged on with my hair. Finally, when my daughter got old enough, at least there was the comfort of having a second voice in the morning in the bathroom that shared a wall with my own, cursing and singeing with curling irons and hot curlers and hair straighteners. That's singeing, as in burning, not singing as in oh isn't this fun. My daughter, alas, had inherited "the hair". As an adult, she has, as much as one can, made peace with "the hair", embracing it like a normal person. I, on the other hand, have struggled on. 

For the chemo phase of my battle of the strands, I refer you to My Winter In Flannel and Baby Curls. What a whiner. First she hates her hair, then she hates losing her hair. Make up your mind woman. Well, the fact of the matter is, I am glad to have my hair back, and actually my post chemo hair is much nicer. Finally, decent hair. I knew ordinary chemicals weren't enough, although I had given them every chance to succeed. You can imagine my satisfaction this week, when finally, after 41 years, (14+41=55) I blew my hair dry and it fell into place. I'll call it the accidental hairdo. And I didn't pay a penny for it. Maybe a little gift from above is what it is. Whatever it is, I'll take it, and pray that it lasts. 

© M.E. Rollins

The Divine Secrets of the Webcam Sisterhood

As I sit before my computer, looking into the combination camera microphone I've just mounted above the monitor, I'm thinking of my sisters. I'm the last to join Skype. I don't want to miss anything. The bond I have with my sisters was forged when we were little girls in England. Being minister's children, we were of course mischievous. We had no brothers, which deprived us of certain vital information about boys all girls should be privy to growing up, but the upside was, having no brothers made the world limitless to us, with no one saying certain behaviors, whether it had to do with achievement or with being naughty, were to be the domain of the boys in the family. Our delight in one another started early on and often came from escapades we carried out, frequently on the second floor of English parsonages, since we were usually sent to bed very early so the first floor could be used for small gatherings of my father's parishioners. People who came to be known to us as "the noisy people." 

Wide awake for hours, we'd creep about in our nighties, thinking up ways to entertain ourselves. At the height of our childhood bond, we ranged in age from two to thirteen, so our little army was made up of master minds and pawns. No one questioned rank back then, all jobs were necessary, since we all had the common goal of carrying out the mission of passing the hours creatively. 

Since our operations were covert, all communication was done in whispers, as my parents had very sharp ears and any infractions were usually met with a call up the stairs, "What's going on up there?" I remember striking odd poses and whispering, "I'm going to sleep like this." Then we'd stand on our heads, or drape ourselves dramatically off the side of the bed. 

We'd clap our hands over our mouths to suppress our laughter, as that would give us away and we'd have to comply with the rule of silence until our parents once again became distracted downstairs. I say rule of silence, but since my parents were, I'm sure, savvy to our carryings on, the real rule was as long as no one fell out a window or did any significant damage to our borrowed home, all bets were on as long as we kept the volume just below that of the noisy people. 

Since there were five of us in a family with parents who meant well but were often short on time and patience, our competitive natures were amped up as we made every attempt to capture attention whether it was from our mum and dad or from one another. Being the most creative at this type of game became very important. I was on the younger end of the family and was often outdone. The approval of the big sisters was like gold. 

One night when the noisy people were at our house, the master minds decided it would be a good idea to trick them into thinking it was snowing outside, probably in an effort to get them to leave. We gathered up all the paper we could find and lined up in front of the window just above the room below where they were meeting. The pawns methodically tore all the paper into tiny pieces, while the master minds scattered handfuls out the window. We held our hands over our mouths to suppress the giggles that might give us away. The ploy didn't work, but the story became legendary among us and is still told to this day. 

We all turned out to be very creative people, maybe in some part due to the combination of competition and a desperate need to pass long hours left to our own devices. The bonds of our childhood have also kept us close through thick and thin. As with any family, there have definitely been disagreements, but we have always abided by the rule, "no one beats up on my sister but me." And being mischievous has never really gone away. While no one but a sister can bring a tear of hurt more rapidly, no one but a sister can evoke peals of laughter and delight more readily either. 

If you've read The Divine Secrets of the Yaya Sisterhood, the story of a sisterhood of friends, or if you are a sister among sisters in your own family, you know how strong the bond can be. Men enter the world of an all girl family at their own peril. Many have tried, a few have succeeded at standing the test of the sister bond over time. The bond is a force not to be underestimated, but for those who stick around, it can be upon occasion a source of entertainment and occasionally wonder. My late husband Jim came to appreciate each of my sisters for different reasons.

As sisters, when times get tough, we pull together, either as a whole or in clumps. When The Satellite Sisters had their short reign on NPR, I thought, "that could be us." They were all very different, yet bonded and they were funny, and they loved to talk about anything and everything. Now we get to have our own version of Satellite Sisters with Skype. At last I've got my camera working and I'm ready to make my first call. It's time for The Divine Secrets of the Webcam Sisterhood. 

© M.E. Rollins