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