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Next Chapter

09 Thursday Jun 2016

Posted by in Home Improvement, Mount Vernon

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Thursday, June 2, 2016

I’m on a flight to Tampa, FL to attend AAMI (Association for the Advancement of Medical Instrumentation), the biggest trade show for Fluke Biomedical. Fortuitously, I got a window seat, after swapping places with my associate, who preferred my aisle seat, further back in the plane.

I love being by the window.

Waiting to take-off, my mind wanders back to the scene in the movie 2001: A Space Odyssey, where the ape throws a bone into the air and it transitions to a spinning space station. I see the bone morphing into an airplane. How did man go from living in caves, and foraging for food to building magnificent machines that can hold hundreds of passengers, communicate with people on the ground, generate electricity to power the lights and mechanics, and use fuel that’s been pumped from the ground, refined, and then judiciously feed into engines to propel it across a continent (or oceans) within hours?

Amazing.

This trip also marks the end of a chapter in my life. When I return, Rich and I will rent a U-Haul truck, and move the rest of our furniture and belongings from our Kirkland to our Mount Vernon house. We’ll return for a day to clean, and finish up last minute projects, and then the house will be listed. With a shortage of houses in Seattle and the surrounding area, we expect to receive multiple offers, and sign sales papers within a week.

This is what we wanted. This is what we’ve been planning for years, but it comes with mixed feelings, and tears.

In 2007, when we were looking for a house near Microsoft, so I’d have a short commute, there were few on the market, and most were selling for considering more than our budget allowed. We visited 5 or 6 houses, and Rich settled on our Kirkland house after a few hours of looking. I was deeply disappointed, having previously lived in a spacious, recently refurbished house in Round Rock, Texas on 1.7 acres with hardwood and tiles floors throughout, large kitchen, two covered porches, covered second-floor balcony (all with ceiling fans), and many amenities, including a hot tub, creek along the back of the property, electric gates, garden shed, and magnificent dogwood, magnolia, crepe myrtle, and oak trees.

Nevertheless, Rich promised to make many improvements to the Kirkland house. The evening the house closed, and we were handed the keys, we started ripping out the carpet, and strategizing on our initial projects.

Two years after moving, the top floor had lovely bamboo floors, we’d removed the popcorn ceiling, painted every wall off-white, replaced the dingy wooden doors and baseboards with white six-panel doors and white baseboards, replaced most of the dated light fixtures with modern ones, replaced the windows, and added elegant white molding and windows sills.

A few years later, Rich cut a large hole in the kitchen ceiling, adding to large skylights, which allowed light to pour into the kitchen and stream into the living room, and dining room. He also added a kitchen island with butcher block on top, and ample storage below. Additional storage was added with new shelving in several closets. Last year, we added granite counters and stainless steel appliances.

Rich’s next project was to remodel the two upstairs bathrooms, adding tile floors, maple cabinets, chic lighting, new toilets, sinks, and faucets. The master bath took several months because he removed a wall, and made the shower considerably larger with tile from ceiling to floor, and a snazzy glass shower door.

There was a break in remodeling while we cared for my mother, and adjusted to reduced income after Rich was laid-off from IBM, and I struggled to find steady work after leaving Microsoft. However, after purchasing a house in Coupeville on Whidbey Island, and selling our lot in Anacortes the vision for our future was solidified. Instead of building a three-story house on the lot, with its shrinking view of March Point due to fast-growing fir trees, we’d be spending the rest of our “mobile” years in a one-story house with an unobstructed view of the Puget Sound!

The Final Push

While Rich was hoping to start on the final remodeling of our Kirkland house in January 2016, he had to wait until the start of March, after working an additional two months for Microsoft as a contract test engineer. A few weeks into February, he was side-tracked when his step-father Ted passed away, leaving a large estate to deal with, including a house that was “under water” and three mobile homes, each with numerous problems.

In between dealing with lawyers, tenants in the mobile homes, insurance and utility companies, and other issues surrounding his step-father’s estate, he demolished the downstairs of our Kirkland house. The entire time we lived in the house, we scarcely gone downstairs, except to do laundry, and tend to our cat’s needs. The laundry room had a large, grungy sauna, where we’d placed the cats’ food and water, and blankets for sleeping. The laundry room also featured dingy cupboards, and a windows that was partially blocked by our washer and dryer, which were stacked on top of each other to make room for a large litter box.

The rest of the downstairs was a hallway with dark brown panel on one wall, leading into a large family room, also partially paneled with two high windows. In one corner was a 70’s bar with dark brown cupboards, large mirror against the back wall, and glass shelves.

Rich’s first task was to remove everything from the laundry room. The space once occupied by the sauna was cut half, with the back half forming a closet, accessible from the family room. Rich built a wall to form the back of the closet. On the other side of the wall, where the laundry room is located, he added a cluster of cabinets with a counter for sorting clothes. The washer and dryer were then placed against the back wall with a cabinet in-between, opening up the window.

To further bring light into the laundry room, he added white molding around the windows, and a large window sill.

At the front of the laundry room, opposite the new cabinets, he did extensive plumbing and electrical work to create a small vanity with a small-profile toilet, mod lighting, and a dainty mirror.

He also installed a pocket door into the laundry room so there’s no door opening into the laundry, taking up valuable space.

At the end of the hallway, he installed a door, turning the family room into a “suite” complete with a fireplace, and mini kitchen. The former bar has new maple cabinets and small sink with room for a small refrigerator, small microwave or hotplate. Using several types and sizes of tile, he created an attractive backsplash in the mini kitchen.

The flooring in the laundry room, and mini kitchen is an oak-like laminate. The family room, and hallway is now beige carpeting (fast, and somewhat cheap).

Finally, he installed new light fixtures, including bucket lights over the kitchen so there’s plenty of light for cooking.

The resulting house is fantastic! I thoroughly enjoyed the bright kitchen, new counters and appliances, and garden windows, which looks out onto the deck, and backyard, shaded by a large oak and three majestic cedar trees. I relished the wildlife that visits from perky stellar blue jays and bossy crows to humorous squirrels and inquisitive raccoons. We’ve delighted in seeing several litters of raccoon grow from awkward, playful bundles of fur to mature adults who respectfully knock on our French doors, requesting a handful of dog kibble.

Our master bedroom has been restful with a pretty ceiling, tiffany lamps, and shabby chic bedspread and pillows.

Another bedroom was for guests, its walls covered with needlepoint my mother did. A second bedroom, we turned into an office with Rich and I having matching desk. On his side of the office were several computers, along with maritime paintings and instruments on the wall. My side had painting and needlepoint pictures of cats, and trinkets that made me happy like miniature red VW bugs, a Mary Engelbriet daily calendar, small wooden mannequin from my cousin, and inspirational books.

The door of the fourth bedroom was removed, and we turned it into a mini den with futon, TV, and small desk and cabinet for my sewing and art projects. Most of our evenings were spent in this den or our office. It was a cozy gathering spots for humans and felines alike.

The living and dining rooms, of our Kirkland house were off the kitchen with a large picture window in the front, and French doors at the back. To let more light into the house, we replaced the ghastly amber windows over the top and along one side of the front door with clear glass windows with adjustable blinds. The dated front door was replaced with one having a mosaic of different types of glass, some of which created rainbow patterns on the walls when the sunlight shined through the front door.

Nine years after purchasing – and remodeling – our Kirkland house, it became a wonderful, restful oasis.

Unfortunately (or maybe fortunately) are days in the house are down to a few hours. When I return from my Tampa trips, I’ll spend one more short night, before all of the furniture is moved, and what’s left is cleaning.

It’s bittersweet.

Sweet in that it will be sold for a substantial amount, and the proceeds used to pay down the mortgage of our Coupeville house to $50,000 or less. Rich relishes the idea of having a very low mortgage on a house we intend to live in for the rest of our lives. And sweet in that Rich is looking forward to ending the push to remodel the house, and list (and sell it) while the market is strong.

Rich is also looking forward to not cleaning off the roof every few weeks because of the never-ending shower of debris from the cedar and maple trees.

Bitter in that it’s been a pleasant house. While not my dream house, it’s been comfortable, convenient, and somewhat free of issues. We’ve enjoyed watching kids sled down the hill in front of the house when it snowed. The yard has been easy to maintain with plenty of flowering bushes and bulbs, including narcissus, daffodils, irises, peonies, hydrangea, and rhododendrons. And Rich has taken pride in the groomed lawns in the front and back.

Our furniture has nicely fit in the house, and our walls hosted our large collection of paintings, needlepoints, and pictures.

Next Steps

I’m not elated about moving to our Mount Vernon house with its 70’s shag rugs and worn-out linoleum floors, old counters and cupboards, and smaller rooms. While most of our furniture and belongings have already been put in storage, we have a cluster of antiques squished in the living rooms, and we’ll need to use every closet to accommodate our clothes. There’s a box of toiletries in the bathtub of one bathroom, many of our canned goods, spices, and other packaged foods are on a shelving unit in the laundry room, and the entire downstairs is housing my collectables, painting, and other framed artwork in boxes… along with furniture, and stuff we never brought to Kirkland!

All-in-all, however, we’re going to have a great summer in Mount Vernon. There will be no need to drive between Kirkland and Mount Vernon or work on pressing home-improvement projects. We fully intend to spend our weekends hiking, biking, kayaking, sightseeing, and simply relaxing.

I’ll continue to work at Fluke Biomedical, until I find a job closer to Whidbey Island (Oak Harbor) or a role that can be done remotely. Rich will spend his days fixing our motor home (the section over the cab got dry rot), painting the trim on the Mount Vernon house (most of the house was painted last summer), repairing the deck, and light refresh projects to get the house ready to rent in 2017.

Our Coupeville house is leased through September; although the tenants could leave earlier. Once they’re gone, we’ll launch back into remodel mode… replacing the carpeting, updating the kitchen… turning the dated bar into display cabinets… and much, much more!

With a bit of luck, we’ll be moving into our “forever” house by October. We’re looking forward to matching rocking chairs, dentures in glasses of Polident, and lamenting where we left our glasses and canes, as we gracefully age-in-place.

Thursday, June 9, 2016

I’m sitting at my PC, having moved to Mount Vernon a few days ago. Rich is staying in Kirkland another few days to finish up a last minute projects. He’s left with a bed, box on a stool with a clock and small lamp, a handful of clothes, desk with his PC and a few other electronics, paper plates and plastic cups, cleaning supplies, and tools in the garage.

The day we rented a Budget Truck, Tuesday, the thermometer climbed to the high 80’s. Fortunately, we didn’t have a lot to move, having packed and placed most of our belongings into storage or the bottom story of our Mount Vernon house. Even so, we need to unpack our clothes, the kitchenware I couldn’t live without (i.e. Cuisinart food processor, Kitchenaid mixer, ceramic casseroles, etc.), office equipment, and much more. Our Mount Vernon house is crammed with furniture, boxes, food from my sizable Kirkland pantry, and of course, closets of clothes.

Today, I returned to work, thinking I’d be taking a bus to work, necessitating I leave at 5:20 every morning, spend 25 minutes driving to a park-n-ride, and 45 minutes traveling to Boeing, then walking a quarter mile to work. However, I bumped into a friend who hooked me up with a vanpool, which will be significantly more pleasant to take, and drives directly to work, starting at 6:55 in the morning.

Moving to the country, and this fall to Whidbey Island, closes a chapter of Rich’s and my life. Suburban living with the traffic, crowds, and constant stress has come to an end. We have sunsets, migrating trumpeter swans, miles of farmland, access to just-picked produce, and weekends of hiking, biking, kayaking, and sightseeing ahead of us.

It’s a great start to the next chapter.

Invocation #48: A Plea

19 Thursday May 2016

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O Lord, we have again come together to spend a few hours of companionship with our fellow members.

In these days of unrest and violence in the world, we ask that you help us to maintain our inner peace and tranquility, a rightfulness of purpose, a tolerance of others so that we may ever remain people of goodwill and intent.

This innovation was written in 1983. At the time, a terrorist explosion killed 237 U.S. Marines in Beirut, a South Korean plane was shot down by the Soviets, killing 269 people, and the United States invaded Grenada. Counteracting these acts of violence, a leap for mankind (or rather womankind) occurred when astronaut Sally K. Ride became the first American woman to travel in space on the Challenger. At the time, Ronald Reagan was president, and George Bush was vice-president.

Little has changed.

Yesterday, an Egypt Air jetliner, carrying 66 passengers disappeared on approach to Cairo. Terrorism is suspected. It’s the third Egypt Air incident this year. Meanwhile in Iraq, an angry hornet nest of violence since it was unjustifiably invaded by George W. Bush in 2001, has been experiencing suicide and car bombings. Yesterday, 46 people died in an explosion, bringing the number of dead in the past few weeks to over 200.

The Soviets, led by the irrational hothead Vladimir Putin, has been engaging in empire-building with their incursion into Ukraine, Georgia, and Moldavia. Their precarious finance situation, precipitated by a fall in oil prices, however, has quelling their aggression, at least for now. Back in 1983, their saber-rattling led President Reagan to propose a Strategic Defense Initiative missile shield, which came be known as “Star Wars.”

In turbulent times, the only escape might be to seek inner harmony, rather than hope the world quiets down, becoming more peaceful and tolerant. There’s no pleading with people determined to cause chaos in the name of the causes.

Invocation #47: Mother’s Day 1982

05 Thursday May 2016

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We thank thee, O Lord, for bringing us this day so we may celebrate another Mother’s Day with our fellow members.

We are grateful there is this day of recognition for those of us who give of their time, effort, and selves in the fulfillment of the role of motherhood.

There are also among us women who have never known biological motherhood, but in their own way have earned the title of “mother.”

They have mothered sisters and brothers, and other people’s children, and whenever a helping hand was needed, they were there. To them, we extend a special Mother’s Day accolade.

Now we ask your blessing that we remain in good health and spirit so we may continue to function as helpful mothers and friends.

My grandmother had three sisters, and three brothers. All three of her brother’s married, but only two had children. Two of her sisters each had one child. And one never married, having no children.

My grandmother’s husband, Morris, had seven sisters. All of them married. One, however, never had children. And several of his sister’s children never married or had children.

It makes me wonder if my grandmother was referring to her extended family when she wrote, “women who have earned the title of mother.” Having been the first born in her family, she naturally became the one to lend a helping hand, especially when it came to caring for your younger brothers and sisters.

After she married, she had to deal with the drama surrounding her husband’s sisters and their children, along with continuing to emotionally support her siblings. Shortly after marrying, her brother Teddy, temporarily moved in until he was old enough to care for himself. Later, a nephew stayed with them after his mother had a nervous breakdown.

My grandmother was more of a mother to me than my mother. She worried about my health, stressed the importance of doing well in school, and emphasized I could become whatever I wanted. Nearly every Saturday from the time I was nine until seventeen, my grandparents visited, bringing the Sunday comics, boxes of Cracker Jacks, and a respite from my mother’s lunacy and constant demands.

Happy mother’s day to my grandmother, and all the women in the world who loving care for others, enriching their lives, and bringing joy and comfort.

Birthday Surprise Weekend

06 Wednesday Apr 2016

Posted by in Entertainment, Food and drink, Travel

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Every year, Rich surprises me with a get-away for my birthday. This year, he upped the game, keeping a tight lip until the last possible millisecond.

The weekend started on Friday evening with Rich telling me to pack a light bag for the weekend. We then visited Qdoba, where I had a burrito bowl with flavorful brown rice, tequila chicken, roasted vegetables, and corn salsa. Yum!

Coldstone was our next stop for my favorite: Coffee ice cream, crushed Health bars, almonds, and caramel syrup. It doesn’t get any better!

After arriving in our house in Mount Vernon, our weekend get-away, I took a quick look around the yard, delighting in my emerging peonies, blooming spring bulbs, and other plants, starting to awaken in the warmer weather. I then scurried into the house, plopped on the futon, and l waited for Rich to select that evening “important” TV viewing. We’ve been watching the British series, Happy Valley. Following tradition, Rich and I both snoozed through the program. The older we get, the more Friday nights are for napping with the blaring TV as a lullaby.

Meanwhile, Lolitta (Lynx-point Siamese) and Lila (Angora), who are seasoned car travelers, race down the hallways, excited to be the only cats in the household. Our other four cats, left behind in Kirkland, probably break out the catnip and tuna juice as soon as Lolitta and Lila are loaded in the car. Cats can be catty, and ours are extra bitchy.

Saturday morning, we went to McDonalds’ for our ubiquitous Egg McMuffins and iced coffees. Rich then aimlessly drove around downtown Mount Vernon, while I kidded him that my surprise trip was to camp in our motorhome, parked in the driveway of our Mount Vernon house. Not a word escape from his lips.

He then turned into the Amtrak station, and I screamed, “We’re taking a train. We’re taking a train!!! Are we going north to Canada or south?”

Not a word came from his inscrutable lips.

After a short wait outside the station — because the guard hadn’t shown up that morning to open the stations — we went inside where we struck up a conversation with a man from Canada. The day before he had driven down to attend a Bernie Sanders event. However, his car conked out, and he was trying to get back to Canada since the repairs couldn’t be made on his car until Monday morning.

It should be noted. The Washington caucus coincided with my birthday week. I’d registered to attend, and had looked forward to casting a vote. I made it very clear to Rich that my celebration better be fabulous to miss out on an opportunity to vote for Bernie!

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Riding a train evokes simpler times when people weren’t tethered to electronic devices, and entertainment was watching the passing scenery, reading a book, playing a game of checkers with the person opposite, or busying your hands with knitting or crocheting. Travel took days and not hours. It was a cherished opportunity to get dressed up, sit back, and relax.

Even though most people today start the journey with a smart phone or tablet tucked in their pocket, purse or bag, within a few minutes, stretched out in a wide seat, with plenty of leg room, and no one fussing over the size of their carry-on luggage and where to stash it overhead, they loosen up, talk to the people around them, peek out the window, walk around, or get something to eat from the dining car.

The porters in their perky Pullman caps greet each passenger, collecting tickets, assigning seats, and moving people to make their journey more pleasant. On our way back to Mount Vernon, the porter assigned us two sets of seats. Going to Seattle, we were on the east side of the train, and then switched to the west to watch the sunset as slender-legged herons swooped over the Puget Sound, sea birds bobbed in the water, and an occasional seal popped its head up, perhaps observing the people on the shore, parents with their kids, pet owners with happy dogs frolicking in the water.

Unlike plane travel, people on trains become more amiable as the hours pass. Going to Centralia, we were seated behind a young couple with a young son, and bouncy 2-year girl who kept peered around the seat, stretching out her hand so we could shake or playfully grabbing the sweater off my lap. The family was heading to Kelso, Washington for Easter.

Across from us were two young boys, traveling with their grandmother. Unlike the parents in front of us who pointed out interesting landmarks to their kids, the boys missed the sites, along with the rumbling and swaying of the train. Both were wearing headphones and watching a cartoon on a laptop. When they weren’t tuned-out, they were eating copious amount of store-bought food, dropping the wrappers on the floor.

With numerous stops at cities and towns along the way, it took nearly four hours to reach Centralia, 84 miles south of Seattle.

With a population of less than 17,000, Centralia was founded by George Washington, an African-American free man who was the adopted son of Missourian J. G. Cochran who in 1850 filed a donation land claim on what is now Centralia. Two years later, he sold the town site to Washington who filed a plat for the town of Centerville, offering lots for $10 each.

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The town as officially incorporated as Centralia on February 3, 1886. The largest employer in the area was TransAlta Corporation, which operated the Centralia Coal Mine. In November 2006, they eliminated 600 coal mining jobs. Fortunately, the cuts didn’t impact the town longer-term, and today, has one of the lowest unemployment rates in Washington, bolstered by the opening of a Millard Refrigeration Service facility (temperature-controlled storage, warehousing, and distribution) and Lowe’s Distribution Center, along with the rejuvenation of the downtown area.

Smack dab in the middle of downtown Centralia is the Union Depot, which has undergone extensive restoration and has vintage wooden benches, oak trim, bright white subway tiles, ornate plasterwork, and framed vintage photos. You need a token to use the restrooms, and in my excitement of having arrived, I used my token to enter the men’s room. I quickly realized my mistake, but decided to continue with the matter at hand…

Then I heard a token being deposited into the door. I was relieved when Rich walked in, and not someone else! He guarded the door until I could safely exit, pretending nothing unusual had happened.

Cattycorner to the train station is McMenamin’s Olympic Club. Once considered a “gentleman’s resort” where loggers, miners, gamblers, and miscreants could get a shave, haircut, shoe shine, good meal, Cuban cigar, liquor, game of pool or seat at a poker table. Adding to the allure was opulent mahogany bar and paneling, ceramic-tiled floor, tiffany-style lights, and Belgian crystal glassware. At the adjacent Oxford Hotel, men could partake in the company of working women.

The Club survived prohibition with bootlegger shipping liquor from Canada, and smuggling it in through a tunnel running from the train station to the basement of the club. When the club was renovated by the McMenamin’s, they found a pickle barrel with a hidden compartment.

Today, the Olympic Club consists of a hotel, restaurant, two bars, brewery, movie theater, billiards room, and event venue. For many years, I longed to spend a weekend at the club, and my birthday was the perfect excuse.

Upon arriving, we found a cozy booth in the restaurant for a late lunch. Rich had a McMenamin’s Hammerhead beer with an el diablo sandwich, consisting of grilled chicken, avocado, pepper jack cheese, lettuce, and tomato, on a squish bun with chunky fries. I opted for fresh-pressed apple cider and a scrumptious West African bowl with veggies (squash, onions, peppers), brown rice, and tasty spicy peanut-tomato sauce.

Burp.

We couldn’t check in until 3 p.m. so we wandered the downtown area, darting into the many antique shops, selling everything from fine furniture to 1970’s schlock. I purchased an ornate doily with pink roses for $4 from an Ace Hardware store, which devoted part of its space to selling collectibles!

We also visited the historic library, built in 1912 with a grant from Andrew Carnegie. Between 1883 and 1929, 2,509 libraries were built in the United States with money from Scottish-American businessman and philanthropist Andrew Carnegie.

As the afternoon progressed, we returned to the Olympic Club to check into our room. The hotel consists of 27-guestrooms, each with a small sink, bed, night stand, a chair or two, and hooks for hanging clothing. We were in the Lester Weber room, which was conveniently across from one of the communal bathrooms. It was cozy with an extra surprise on the bed, a bottle of sparkling wine, two keepsake champagne flutes, massage oil, and small box of chocolates.

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Also on the bed was plush white robes for trips to the bathroom. Although, it didn’t really matter because it was Easter weekend, and few people were at the hotel.

After dropping off our bags, we trotted back outside for more sightseeing, including watching numerous freight and Amtrak trains zip by, visiting a blown glass studio, and surveying where we wanted to eat dinner.

If you stay at the Olympic Club, admission to the theater is free. We opted to see a 9:40 p.m. showing of Star Wars: Episode VII. To whittle away the time, we returned to the hotel, and popped the cork of the sparkling wine, drinking most of the bottle before we waddled down the street to the O’Blarneys Pub for dinner.

I enjoyed a warm Ruben sandwich, while Rich has pot roast with carrots, garlic mashed potatoes, and dense soda bread. We skipped dessert, and dodged under awnings to avoid the light rain, before dashing across the street to the theater. After settling into two comfortable chairs, Rich ordered cups of coffee to keep us awake during the movie.

McMenamin’s theaters are outfitted with sofas, easy chairs, and small tables so you can enjoy food and libations while watching a flick. Rich’s and my second date was at the McMenamin’s Bagdad Theater and Pub in Portland, OR, after initially meeting at the McMenamin’s Sherwood Pub… following several weeks of corresponding on Matchmaker.com. Our wedding rehearsal dinner was at John Barleycorns, a MeMenamin’s restaurant in Tigard, OR. You can see why McMenamin’s pubs, theaters, and venues hold a special place in our hearts!

We thoroughly enjoyed the Star Wars flicks, and closed our eyes 30 minutes later, with the smells from the restaurant wafting into our room, gently patter of rain, and occasional whistle of a train. Even though ear plugs are provided in the rooms, neither Rich nor I are bothered by the sound of trains. In fact, I told Rich that several trains passed throughout the night, and he didn’t recall hearing any of them!

The next morning was overcast with no rain in sight. We walked two miles to the McDonald’s off Interstate 5. It was an enjoyable jaunt through neighborhoods of older, nicely kept homes, and light industrial. On the way back, after our routine Egg McMuffins and latte’s, we walked through an urban area, which seemed to be shorter.

With it being Easter Sunday, most places were closed; however, after retrieving our bags from the hotel, and checking-out, we meandered to the Station Coffee Bar, one of the coolest coffee houses I’ve ever been in! We’d seen it the day before, and walked in, thinking it was a furniture store.

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Located in a large storefront with two sizable display windows, an expansive area on the lower level, and two second-story spaces, Station Coffee was furnished with gorgeous, black leather sofas, black tables with black-leather upholstered chairs, shorter, stylish coffee tables, and shelves filled with books.

In the display window where we sat – me with a chai, and Rich with a frozen caramel coffee – was a cushy, black sofa with decorative pillows, coffee table, and off to the side was a smallish round table and four high-back stools. Some of the walls were painted deep red, adding to the ambiance.

It was so much fun to sit in one of the display windows and watch the world pass by on the sidewalk outside!

Our tummies made happy with our drinks, we headed back to the Olympic Club Theater to watch an 11:40 showing of Kung Fu Panda III. It was better than expected, but probably more thoroughly enjoyed by the handful of kids in the theater with their parents.

Following the movie, with plenty of time on our hands, and few places open, we wandered through a residential area, watched a coupled of trains pass, and then headed to the grocery store to purchase food for a late lunch, and dinner on the train.

I think our expected appetite was larger than reality because we walked out with two large burritos (we thought they were healthy wraps), cheese sticks, day-old pastries, container of macaroni salad, six hard-boiled eggs, box of Triscuits, oranges, and mango/orange flavored fizzy water.

We definitely had enough food to last us until we arrived at close to 9 p.m. back in Mount Vernon. On the way home, we once again enjoyed the ambiance of the train, ever-changing scenery, and chance to just kick-back and relax.

It was a fabulous, fabulous birthday weekend to remember for a very long time. Thanks Rich and the McMenamin’s Olympic Club!

Pursuit of Happiness

27 Sunday Dec 2015

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The Saturday before Christmas, Rich and I watched Hector and the Search for Happiness, a movie starring Simon Pegg who plays a psychiatrist stuck in his daily routine for which he experiences little happiness. He sets out on odyssey to unearth what makes people happy.

By the end of the film, he’s experienced fear, elation, wonderment, and many unexpected adventures, which lead him to the path of happiness and contentment. The film is worth watching in that my saccharine description glosses over his journey across several continents, people he meets, and lessons he learns.

For our recent trip to Bullhead City, Arizona, I decided to take notice of the genial people we encounter, and harvest their zeal, optimism, and outward happiness.

Early Sunday morning, we boarded a shuttle at the Bellingham International Airport. The driver was jovial, sharing that he had five daughters (two were twins), nine grandchildren, and two great-grandchildren. He laughed, recalling the many pranks he’d played on them, including insisting a large, gaudy-painted sphere was an alien egg. He commented that one of his daughters still displays the “egg” on her mantel, and eagerly tells visitors how her father tricked her as a kid.

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His favorite prank, which he’s been reenacting for his grandchildren, is using wire ties to secure bananas to his cherry tree. He then invites his grandchildren to harvest the bananas, confirming his tall tale that cherry trees can indeed grow bananas!

We wished him a merry Christmas, and the joy of dreaming of new antics to entertain his daughters’ children.

As we went through the security line at the airport, we commented to the TSA agent it’s a pleasure flying out of Bellingham with short lines and easy parking. The agent added the security personnel are also nicer. While they’re certainly nicer, Rich had to go through additional security screening because he left his wallet in his pants pocket when he went through the body scanner.

Our flight to Las Vegas was pleasant. Halfway through, we struck up a conversation with one of the flight attendants, a 26-year old woman who said her job is super fun, and that I should consider becoming a flight attendant. I was sold after she told me the oldest person in her class was 68, training is just 5 weeks in length, the benefits are great, and after a year, you can choose how much you want to fly. The drawback is that I’d need to commute to Seattle, which is one of Alaska Airline’s bases.

Julie the flight attendant? Maybe.

After landing in Las Vegas, we drove to Laughlin and Bullhead City, which are on opposite sides of the Colorado River, straddling the Nevada and Arizona borders. After seeing Rich’s step-father, enjoying Mexican food, and settling into our room at the Tropicana in Laughlin, we walked to a quickie mart for soda and nibbles. Two women were behind the counter. One was an older woman. The other, a younger, heavy-set woman with a man’s haircut.

No doubt, working at a quickie mart isn’t the most enjoyable job, especially if you work the graveyard shift. However, both were affable, and eager to help me overcome my indecisiveness about the best “snack” to purchase. After deliberating, and enjoying the lighthearted banter, I settled on Tic Tac mints.

The exchange was so amusing, the next evening we returned, hoping to find the same clerks. This time, there were two men who were equally pleasant, but lacked the joie de vivre of the women.

One of the reasons for our visiting Bullhead City was to check on several rentals overseen by Rich’s step-father, who’d been hospitalized since September. There’d been several issues with one of the renters – a woman and her two young daughter – so we prepared for a confrontation. Instead, we arrived to find them in the midst of moving out.

The woman overseeing the move was a relative, dressed in a tank top with crude tattoos on her arms and chest, cigarette dangling from her yellowed fingers, and hair in a scraggly ponytail, emphasizing the blemishes and wrinkles on her face. Her looks, however, were deceptive.

She was courteous, conscientious, and cooperative, working with Rich to identify issues with the rental (a double-wide mobile homes that’d seen better days), and discuss what needed to be done to lockup the property to prevent vandalism.

In the property next door – also a rental owned by my father-in-law – lived a woman and her mother. They had six small dogs, four cats, and several cages of birds in their single-wide mobile home. While they obviously had way too many pets, it was hard to overlook their soft heartedness. They no doubt had to stretch their meager welfare and social security payments to provide for their furred and feathered companions.

Difference between Happiness and Meaning

Viktor Frankl, a prominent Jewish psychiatrist and neurologist in Vienna, who wrote the bestselling book, Man’s Search for Meaning, which details his experience in Auschwitz and other concentration camps, champions the difference between those who lived and those who died while imprisoned hinged on whether they had “meaning.”

Research has shown that having purpose and meaning in life increases overall well-being and life satisfaction, improves mental and physical health, enhances resiliency, enhances self-esteem, and decreases the chances of depression. Whereas simply pursuing happiness doesn’t result in consistency of happiness.

Many of the people we met during our trip had challenging lives, but they had meaning. We learned the woman who was helping moved the family from my father-in-law’s rental was an aunt who’d previously been instrumental in raising the mother. For the past eight months, she’d cared for the woman’s children who worked 45 minutes away. She explained how she’d walked the girls to the school bus stop every morning, and ensuring they had what they needed at night. The meaning of her life was to care for others.

Perhaps the meaning for the next-door neighbor with the multitude of pets is to take in unwanted and abused animals. The shuttle bus driver at the Bellingham Airport found meaning in delighting his grandchildren with playful antics.

A study in the upcoming issue of Journal of Positive Psychology associates leading a happy life with being a “taker,” while leading a meaningful life correlates with being a “giver.” Kathleen Vohs, one of the authors of the study explains, “Happy people get a lot of joy from receiving benefits from others while people leading meaningful lives get a lot of joy from giving to others.”

Because a “giver” may have to sacrifice happiness in order to achieve meaning, they tend to experience more stress and anxiety than happy people. On the other hand, happiness without meaning can result in a person being shallow, self-absorbed or even selfish, continuously seeing ways to satisfy their needs and desires, while avoiding unnecessary entanglements.

The Declaration of Independence states the unalienable rights of “Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.” Happiness isn’t guaranteed, just the freedom to pursue it. But like Hector in the Simon Pegg movie, a more satisfying goal might be to find ones meaning, and thereby, lead a more caring life.

Invocation #45-#46: Doors

08 Tuesday Dec 2015

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In life, there is only one true ending, all others are but transitions to new beginnings.

Living, from the moment we are thrust into the world becomes a series of doors, closing (endings), and opening (beginnings).

The first closing comes at our expulsion from the womb. That phase of development is complete and final. The door shuts tight, no re-entry allowed.

At that instant, we must take that first breath to send us through the open door called life to begin that continuous task of learning how to adapt to ever-changing locks and keys so we may survive.

One door leads to another, and generally we can’t reach a particular door until we’ve gone through another.

The infant can’t learn to chew until it has suckled, or walk before standing, or become an independent being before learning to control and coordinate all mental and physical functions.

Going up the ladder from elementary school to junior high, to high school and college may seem simply a continuation of studies, but at each step we start afresh with new teachers, new subjects, classmates, competition, attitudes, social pressures, and problems. That means having to accept change and make adjustments.

Getting married closes the door on singlehood. Being divorced doesn’t put one back to the same singlehood. It will be different. Widowhood is equally different.

Changing jobs, retiring, coming into money, losing money, an illness, an accident, all create whole new situations, needing new rules, new planning.

Sometimes, an opening or closing is so subtle we are unaware of the change. Sometimes it’s obvious. Or it’s so unexpected, we are caught short, and end up floundering around for a while. Or too many close or open at the same time, we are overwhelmed. Or hold a door open too long, we find it difficult to let go. Or let go too soon, and we are not ready. Or there is no new door to open, and we are stuck behind the old one.

Yet, for seniors in particular, as the years advance, and there are fewer and fewer new doors to open, we must hold tight to keep old doors from slamming shut. We mustn’t let go of too many activities, and interests, even if need to jam a foot into the doorway to keep it open.

Each opening and closing, beginning, and ending, contributes something to what we must learn in order to exist. Each offers challenges and opportunities, another chance or problem to solve.

For better or worse, that is life.

My grandmother, Rose, passed away in her Burbank bungalow, a month after her 90’s birthday. Her husband, Morris, died 13 months later, in the same bed he’d shared with his wife for over 60 years. Together, they’re opened and closed numerous doors, life in New York, and then Southern California, austerity during World War II, contentment after retirement, adventure in travels, sorrow from disappointments and deaths, and joy from children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren.

They lived a pleasant life. Throughout their marriage, my grandfather worked as a taxi driver, chauffeur, car salesman, and eventually an assembler at Lockheed. He retired with a pension, which afforded them an opportunity to travel to across the United States, Israel, Japan, and other far-flung places. For most of their lives, they lived in a tidy bungalow in Burbank with a vegetable garden in the back, Meyer lemon tree by their bedroom window, and hibiscus bush in the front.

While on the outside my grandmother appeared happy with her life, she felt a disappointment of having never gotten her work published. She was a dedicated, determined writer, who left several boxes of her work, some of it written on the backs of form letters, scrapes of paper, loose-leaf notebooks, and small flipbooks.

If she’s looking down, I hope she’s pleased that her writing is finally getting an audience!

Invocation #44: Pep Talk (continuation)_

29 Sunday Nov 2015

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Good knows, our spirits are willing and eager. If only our bodies would respond in like fashion!

If only we could jump out of bed in the morning rarin’ to go and keep going. If only the sun setting beneath the horizon, wouldn’t take our energies with it.

If only we could regain the enthusiasm of yesteryear, to find everything as important or they once were. Or as exciting. Or necessary.

If only then we seniors would be standing at the lectern, and not sitting in the audience.

O Lord, what we seniors don’t need is a pep talk. What we do need is a pat on the back, a word of praise that we are doing as well, and as much as we are. And that would spur us on to do even better.

Perhaps the young can imagine how it is to walk in the shoes of the old. But they can’t, nor should they know how painful the pinches.

I was so caught up in writing my response to invocation #43, I hadn’t realized it went onto another page. Reading the rest of the invocation, I’m struck by the statement “Perhaps the young can imagine how it is to walk in the shoes of the old. But they can’t, nor should they know how painful the pinches.”

This assertion is especially relevant today with politicians on one side quick to propose extending the retirement age and cutting benefits, and employers on the other unwilling to retain older workers, or expecting them to ramp up their productivity as they implement lean policies. It’s a losing proposition. 

Older Workers and Age Discrimination - infographic Older workers that aren’t shuffled out the door are expected to keep up with peers’ decades younger with more energy, health, and conceivably, more relevant education. Maturity, experience, and foresight become irrelevant. Once unemployed – from lay-offs, forced retirement, and other circumstances – older worker are faced with few choices. Employers prefer younger workers, and if an older worker finds a comparable job it’s often for less pay, and possibly no benefits because it’s a contract versus full-time position.

If an older worker has the financial freedom to retire, they may be chastised for becoming a drain on society by collecting social security and signing up for Medicare. Many older people, especially single and divorced women, who don’t have the financial means to retire are forced to overcome their “painful pinches” and work at low-income jobs at fast food restaurants, retail and grocery stores.

Older workers in America don’t need a pep talk, they need compassion, acceptance, and the ability to retire with dignity.

Invocation #43: The Pep Talk

23 Monday Nov 2015

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She came, as a volunteer worker in a service group, to address our club meeting.

Charming, sparkling with health and vitality, she could easily have passed for under 40, although she boasted she had just crossed the half-century mark.

But interesting as was her talk, she did not say what we wanted to hear.

Her main thrust was to encourage our seniors, a full generation or older than she, to put more action in our lives. More zest.

“Don’t shut yourselves off,” she urged. Don’t sit home enslaved to the TV. Get out. Keep moving. Go places. Do things. Get out into the community. They need your talents and your time. You have much to give. Give it.

And don’t ever say, “I can’t,” because you can. Whatever you still want to do, you can. Just go after it. Stretch your vision.

Certainly she meant well. She just didn’t understand.

Who of us seniors doesn’t want, nay, yearn to do more? Go more. See more. Work more. Help more. To take a long drive, to hop a plane to hear and there. To visit and be visited. To still do all we once did. To be part of the crowd-on-the-move.

It’s been months since I’ve posted one of my grandmother’s. Her thoughts on a “pep talk,” strike a familiar cord. While, I’m up-and-about working, cooking, doing yard- and housework, shopping, and other day-to-day chores, I’ve starting to feel the drag on my energies. A symptom of age.

This is the first year in decades that I haven’t baking a dozen or more different types of holiday cookies and candies, then packaged, and sent them to friends and family. The gifts I usually purchased in October, so they can be given to people by Thanksgiving, are a mirage.

I started to write my holiday letter a few days ago. If I’m lucky, I’ll make copies and get it in the mail by early December. Although, it’ll probably take me a week or so to address the cards. Groan.

This year, I procrastinated in trimming bushes, and preparing them for the winter. Only half of my grasses, lavenders, and other flowering bushed received their obligatory haircuts. With the nights now dipping into the 20’s, it’s too late to trim them.

Last week, I pulled some carrots out of the garden, and realized I never pulled out the tomatoes, cucumbers, and other vegetables, which long ago stopped producing. The large rose along the back fence, which had phenomenal growth over the summer, is still loosely tied to the fence. It should have been cut back so the branches don’t break if it snows are they get covered with ice.

I don’t think I need a pep talk. I need the energy and motivation I had a few years ago.

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Tricked-out, Fast Cars

30 Sunday Aug 2015

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Several weeks ago, Rich and I went to the NHRA Northwest Nations drag race at the Pacific Raceways in Kent, southeast of Seattle. It was the first time I’ve attended a National Hot Rod Association event; although, I’d heard Rich talked about it since we’d met.

When Rich was at Sequent, prior to it being acquired by IBM, he worked on dragsters and funny cars driven by Cristen Powell, Jim Epler, and Bob Vandergriff, Clay Milican.

His being a part of the race car team started off innocent enough when he introduced himself during a company picnic to Casey Powell, the CEO of Sequent and father of Cristen Powell. They started talking, and Rich was subsequently invited to fly on the Sequent corporate jet to Cristen’s next race.

He continued working on cars for the next few years, being an engineer at Sequent during the week, and flying to races on weekends to change tires, service motor heads, change oil, and do other miscellaneous mechanical tasks.

Until I went to the NHRA race, I found racing somewhat yawn-worthy. Occasionally, Rich would flip to a sports channel, and watch half an hour of a race. I’d immediately find something else to do.

However, when Rich said he really wanted to see the NHRA races, I said “okay,” even though the idea of sitting on bleachers, baking in the sun, while watching cars do burn-outs then rocket down the track seemed mind-numbing and unpleasant.

Happily, the day we went, the week’s heat had subsidized, and was replaced with overcast skies and cool breezes. We arrived within an hour of the track opening, and immediately zipped over to the pits, where the cars were being unloaded, and the crews were setting up.

I was intrigued by the trailers that transport the cars. They’re split into two horizontal levels, with tool chests, parts, tires, and “delivery” vehicles on the bottom, and the race cars, and less used parts and tools on the top. The back gate of the trailers can be folded down, and then raised up like an elevator to the top level. A race car can then be eased onto the gate, and lowered so they can be pushed into the pit area.

The delivery vehicles, ranging from motorcycles to golf carts and very small cars like Fiats and Mini Coopers, are used for moving the racecars onto the track, getting parts, removing and bringing drums of fuel and oil, and carting drivers and crew and from the track.

Once the race cars enter the pits, a team of technicians work on optimizing and testing their performance. Hydraulic stands are used for elevating and keeping the cars in place when they revved up. Because the nitro methane, the fuel used in the cars, is an irritant the pit crew wear gas masks when revving up the cars.

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Next, we headed over to the Harley Davis tent, where Rich and I hoped onto several motorcycles to check ‘em out. After talking to the representative about our desire to do day trips — with me sitting behind Rich — he recommended we consider the Fat Boy Lo since it is stable, can accommodate two people, and has lots of horsepower, but doesn’t have all the extras of a touring bike – which we don’t need.

I was titillated with a small sportster, but know I’d never have the concentrate or coordination to ride a motorcycle by myself.

For Rich’s birthday, he wants to get his motorcycle license, and edge a bit closer to getting a Harley, and zooming around the Puget Sound!

Exhilarated from sitting on Harley’s, we breezed through the vendor area, then found great seats in the bleachers, half-way down the track. The lightly overcast sky kept the sun at bay, and my large hippy hat shaded my eyes.

The first set of cars were pro stock, which were fun to watch because each one is different, and it was entertaining to wonder whether the clunky, ‘70’s station wagon – tricked out with decals – could beat the zippy souped-up Toyota sedan. It was the amazing the breadth of stock cars from El Caminos and small trucks to muscle cars, sedans, traditional sports cars, and itty-bitty Fiats.

After I thought all the stock cars were done racing, a crazy fast Corvette with a custom silver body, owned by Martin Motorsports zoomed by. I screamed with delight, and turned to Rich, “Holy shit, that was f*cking awesome!”

Rich just smiled and said, “You ain’t seen nothing yet.”

Next up were the funny cars. Fast, but not particularly interesting. They look the same! Although, Rich was intrigued by them since he’d worked on a couple in the past.

While top fuel dragsters all basically look the same, they’re totally awesome. Totally! Cartoonish in design with two giant tires in the back, a moderate-sized, exposed engine, and a ridiculously long front that stretches 15 or so feet in length, balanced on two small, go-cart tires, they go over 300 miles in less than four seconds. To win, they need to accelerate to 100 miles per hour in less than 0.8 seconds.

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Dragster drivers experience an average force of about 39 m/s2 (meter per second squared), nearly five times that of gravity, the same force a space shuttle leaves the launch pad at Cape Canaveral. They accelerate faster than a jumbo jet, fighter jet or Formula One race car.

In addition, a dragster consumes 1½ gallons of nitromethane per second, the same rate as a full loaded 747 plane, although with 4 times the energy volume. However, because they travel a very short distance, they use between 10 and 12 gallons of fuel per race – at a cost of $30 per gallon — including the burnout and return to the starting line. Their fuel pump can deliver 65 gallons of fuel per minute, which is equivalent to eight bathroom showers running at the same time.

According to Rich, the fuel is injected into the engine with 16 or more injectors, one for each cylinder, plus 8 for the blower.

The end result is a screaming fast car, which we found nearly impossible to photograph (or videotape) using our smart phones. The next time we go, we’ll bring our digital camera, which has a faster lenses, and can take multiple photos within seconds. Nevertheless, we did capture some great photos by anticipating where the cars would be, and then being prepared to quickly tap the shutter release.

Around 2 o’clock, having brought no food, and a small water bottle of water, we decided to buy a very expensive hotdog, which we shared, along with a coconut ice cream bar. Not only is the food at sports events very unhealthy, but ridiculously expensive.

Our bellies a little fuller, we found seats on the other side of the track. However, it was farther away and more difficult to take photos. As the afternoon progressed, the overcast sky turned to light showers, and hence the races were temporarily stopped until the weather conditions could be properly assessed. They started up half an hour later, but we decided to leave, avoiding the mad rush of traffic when the races concluded for the day.

In spite of my apprehensions, I truly loved going to NHRA… and can’t wait until next year!

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Melancholy Weekend without Suki

29 Saturday Aug 2015

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In 2010, I’d found a tiny black and white kitten while picking blackberries in Mount Vernon. We named it Suki, but from day one he was lethargic, and after a few weeks and many visits to the veterinarian, he was overtaken by feline infectious peritonitis.

We were devastated, many months later, we started noticing dead rodents and rabbits, strategically left in our front yard and by our vegetable garden. We also occasionally spied a young black and white cat dashing through our yard.

I was convinced it was Suki, reincarnated.

Slowly the cat became a regular visitor. Even though he was very feisty like a feral cat, he allowed up to pet him, and wasn’t opposed to coming into our house for food. Rich called him Mr. Mustache because of the white blob under his nose. I called him Suki.

At least a year passed, before we discovered Suki actually belonged to the person living in back of us. He was a barn cat from a farm in Burlington, Washington, and had been given the less-than-distinguished name of Kitty.

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Much of the time he lived outdoors, honing his hunting skills. Our neighbor to the east was convinced he was catching and killing the gophers in her yard. When my mother lived in our house, and had a bird feeder, Suki evidentially caught quite a few birds (not so good). We continued to receive his gifts of dead rats, moles, and mice. I’m sure he also swept his owner’s yard for vermin.

Every Friday, we’d arrive in Mount Vernon, to find him waiting by our garage or on our deck. During the warm months, he’d assist with gardening, walking among the plants, rolling in the dirt, and running between our legs until we pet him.

In the cold month, he’d happily come inside for several hours, wandering through the house or finding a warm place to sleep. His owner said he usually slept during the day, and was outside during the night.

Suki also enjoyed spending time with Lila, even though she would chase him. She’s wait at the sliding glass door until he arrived, and then admire him from on top of a counter. When outside, they’d be within a few feet of each other, exchanging glances, coyly flirting.

Sometimes, he’d spend the night in our house. Most times, he’d eat and run, dashing outside, and then running back to the open door hissing and pawing at Rich or me before he’d turn and leave for the night.

When outside, he was fairly docile, but inside, he’d angrily bat out our feet, hiss, and if you lowered your hand to pet him or pick of his dish, he’d slap with his claws extended. His owner reported the same behavior. He could be a perfect gentlemen in the house, and then turn into a wild animal, hissing, batting, and biting.

But, we adored him. We looked forward to seeing him every week, whether assisting us outside, rolling in catnip, assaulting a cat toy or sitting in our front window.

A month ago, I felt like he was slowing down, even though he was probably only four or five years old. Last week, he didn’t show up, and hasn’t been seen this week.

Often his owner would open his slide glass door, and Suki would race out, hop over the fence between our yards, dash across the grass, and scamper up the stairs to our deck. Many times, I’d stand outside, shout his name, and he’s show up a few minutes later.

Today, I’ve seen our neighbor open his sliding glass door, but no Suki rushes out. I’m heartbroken because I know he’s dead. Something has happened to him. I’m afraid to ask his owner because I already know the truth.

Suki, little Suki, the reincarnation of our deathly ill kitten is gone.

Lila keeps looking outside, but Suki isn’t going to come any more.