20th Century Woman

Oh frabjous day, callooh, callay.  My computer works again.

The fence outside my computer window

Here’s the story of what happened to it.  About a week ago when I was working on my blog the virus protection screen came up suddenly and said the computer had been infected with a virus.  The virus protector had cleaned up the virus, but the connection with the internet had been turned off, and to fix it I should ….. and there followed directions that might as well have been in Urdu.  So I did what I always do when I have problems with the computer; I turned it off.  Big mistake.  After that there was no way to get through to the internet.

Well, I made a plan.  I have recently become a great grandmother.  My great grandson, Julian Henry was born in Seattle on the 10th of September.  His father, my grandson, works for Microsoft. My daughter, the happy new grandmother, had flown in from England to help with the new baby and I was to drive to Seattle in a few days to view the latest progeny and to fetch my daughter for a visit to me.  She felt that by that time her son and daughter-in-law would be tired of a third person in their small apartment.  I would take my computer with me and get my clever grandson to fix it.

But crisis intervened.  Many of my blog readers who have children and will be surprised to hear that the crisis was this: the baby sleeps all the time. These are new parents.  They are worried because the pediatrician and a lactation adviser, who weigh the baby before and after feeding, say the baby may not be get enough nourishment, even though the baby is gaining weight.  I feel sure that everything will be fine, but my daughter felt that with so many professional advisers she was superfluous.  So she left and went to party quietly with her two sisters on Whidbey Island.  We are all going for a baby viewing on Saturday, but my computer remained unfixed.

Jerry and I went to The Artisan Wine Gallery last Saturday afternoon.  There, tasting wine, were just the people I wanted to see: the computer experts who had helped Wine Gallery host, Rich, set up his blog.  When I described my problem they shook their heads sympathetically.  Oh dear, they said.  Bad problem.  Sorry you’re having this problem.  If only you had a Mac.  Probably the only thing you can do is wipe out your entire operating system and reinstall.  Oh dear.

Sipping wine and sampling some very fine home-made dark chocolate (with ginger cream filling) candies helped dull the pain of this dire diagnosis.  Besides, we were to go out to dinner at my cousin’s house that night for freshly caught crab, a real treat.  But when we got home we found that the dinner had been postponed until Sunday because my cousin’s wife had a migraine.  What to do about dinner?  Off to the Beach Store Cafe for a pizza.

The Beach Store Cafe

At the Beach Store Cafe we saw Mike, the father of the jumper (see a previous post, Riding the passenger ferry).  He was alone, so we invited him to sit with us.  I told him how sorry I was about his problems with his son.  He thanked me, and said, “There’s my other son, making pizza.  I come here to visit him some evenings.  He’s doing very well, studying at the Technical College.”  After a bit Brady, the pizza cook, came over to greet his father and chat.  I asked him what he was studying.  “Computer science,” he said.  I asked if he could fix my computer.  “Sure,” he said, with the confidence of youth, “I’ll be over tomorrow after church.”

Brady, a tall, husky, good looking lad, arrived promptly the next day with the lovely petite blond Ashley in tow.  Ashley is the daughter of Marilyn, (active in the island church), and Ernie, (one of the ferry captains.)  Ashley is a waitress at the Beach Store Cafe. She sat in the kitchen and chatted with me while Brady went to work on my computer.  Jerry watched what Brady was doing.  Time passed, and I began running out of small talk with 19 year old Ashley.  “Let’s of check on the computer,” I said.

Brady, sitting at the computer and Jerry, hovering over him, both looked discouraged.  Then Brady began examining in the virus protection software. I said, “What are all those little red x’s marking?”

Brady said, “Oh, those are all the things that are turned off,” and then, suddenly, he said, “Okay, it’s fixed.” The virus protector had turned off the connection to the internet. We asked Brady what we owed him and he said nothing. He said he was sorry it took so long, he was unfamiliar with the software.

So it’s fixed, I can use my own computer again.  And I am now using Firefox and not Internet Explorer.  I hear there are fewer viruses on Firefox.

Sunday evening I ate too much crab and drank too much wine with Jerry and my cousin and some new friends who recently moved to the island.  But we had a good time. One new friend has had experience with fitness training, and I urged her to start a weight training group here.  We have a very good yoga teacher on the island, but I have become convinced that strength training is important for old ladies.  A strength training group would be a great addition to island services.

I started this blog one year ago.  My daughter helped me; in fact she suggested it.

I have tried some writing in the past.  (Not counting scientific papers.)  Since I was a kid I have occasionally written short stories.  At one time I even thought I might write a novel.  I composed novels in my head while driving alone on long trips.  When I lived in Atlanta I sometimes visited my friend Penny who lived in southern Virginia.  The drive took about 6 hours and during those trips I concocted a long yarn, most of which never got written.

The novel was to be set at a school like Florida Southern College where I had taught biology when I lived in Tampa, with characters imported from the job I was currently working in Atlanta, a research job at Emory University.  At the Atlanta job I had the worst boss ever. He was a professor of physiology and I was hired on his NIH grant to study stomach ulcers.  Funny thing, I was diagnosed with an ulcer myself while working there.  I planned to make the boss the villain; the novel was to be my revenge. 

At that job I used a computer for the first time to write and I learned WordStar, the first commercially successful word processing program.  I wrote scientific papers, one of which still comes up early when I Google my name along with my boss’s.  I was captivated by the computer and I declared my intention to stay after work and write a novel.  My boss, who guessed he would be a central character, had a fit.  He forbade me from using the computer in my office for anything personal, even on my own time.  I bought my own computer.  My boss darkly threatened libel suits if I included any character that resembled him.  But, alas, I never wrote the novel.

A few years later I took some poetry classes in Washington, D. C. where I worked at the Department of Agriculture.  The classes were at Glen Echo, a place that had been an amusement park when I was a child, and still had some of the old carnival structures.  It was converted into an artist’s colony; it was a suitable setting for artists.  Though the Writer’s Center has since moved from Glen Echo, it still exists.  It is a small press that publishes books of poetry.  I often went to poetry readings there. 

The first class I took at the Writer’s Center was really good, and I had a wonderful time.  The teacher was a young man who taught classes at George Washington University (where it happens I got my bachelor’s and master’s degrees.)  He was a poet himself, and he may have been a fine one; I couldn’t judge because I never understood any of his poems.  He was, however, an excellent teacher.

We had to read our poems aloud to the class.  Then he and the class would critique.  This system scared me to death at first, but I found that it resulted in rapid improvement of my writing, and I learned a lot from the comments on the poems of others, as well as my own.

The next class I took at the same place had a teacher who was far less effective, and he yeilded to people in the class who were afraid to let their peoms be publicly read.  The class was boring and I stopped going. 

After I retired from biology I went to art school, and most of my creative energy was spent in making prints and painting.

The blog is an exercise in writing.  I read the blogs of others whose writing is more elegant than mine, and I try to learn from them.  When I wrote scientific papers in which I wanted to convey information I felt that brevity and clarity were the operative principles.  When I wrote poetry I was looking for harmonious sound and cadence, and I tried to choose words and phrases that evoked images and emotion.  Prose writing can combine these things if it’s good.  When I read blogs I want to be able to enjoy and understand.  If the writing gets too abstruse and wordy I can’t be bothered and I go on to the next one.  I feel the same way about poems.  I am willing to read a short poem 3 times.  If I can’t figure out what it’s about on the third reading, I give up.

Besides being an exercise in writing, the blog is a way to record some parts of my life.  Much of what I have written is memoire, and I hope someday one or two of my great grandchildren will enjoy reading it to find out a bit about the world of their ancestors.  I hope there’s a bit of history here.

This blog has been a record of my year.  It has recounted major and minor events, trips, births, deaths, parties, conversations, projects.  Of course, there are things that happened this year that are too private to tell about.  My descendents are not getting the whole unvarnished truth.  They will understand that nobody tells everything.  I tend to tell more than most; sometimes a bit too much.

While writing my blog I have explored the blogs of others.  On other blogs, besides some excellent prose writing, I find poetry, sometimes exceptionally good.  I find drawings, prints, photographs, painting.  I find recipes, gardening tips, history, life stories, political essays and more.  There are videos, and music and jokes.  It’s great entertainment.

Three of my island neighbors have blogs.  They are Rich and Pat of Artisan Wine Gallery, Cathy of IslandCAT’s blog and Wynne of Lummi Island Living. The blog has been a way to make wonderful new friends.  This was an unexpected happy surprise.  I have met interesting people and found kindred spirits through reading their creations and the exchange of comments.  Some of these fellow bloggers live nearby, others are in far away places.  I have met two bloggers in person.  Natalie of Blaugustine, and Marja-Leena of Marja-leena Rathje.  Both were a great treat and adventures.

To meet Natalie I traveled from Oxford to London by bus, and then took the tube to find my way to Natalie’s flat.  From that meeting and from our web exchanges I feel she is my friend for life.  I was able to look at and hold some of the beautiful books she makes, and to see where she lives and to give her a hug. 

I went to Bowen Island in British Columbia to meet Marja-leena.  She is a printmaker, and some of her work was in a show at the Bowen Island Gallery.  Jerry and I went for the opening.  I am sure we will meet again.  I want to visit her in Vancouver, and I hope she will come to my island as well.  And I got to see her interesting work, which I had also admired on the internet and to give her a hug.

Other blog friends I plan to meet soon are Dale (Mole) and Naomi (A Little Red Hen), both in Portland.  When I get back to England I want to meet Friko (Firko’s Musings) and Dick (Patteran Pages.)  I have spoken to Dick on the telephone but did not have the chance to meet him.  Someday I want to meet Ruth Pennebaker (The Fabulous Geezer Sisters), Darlene (Darlene’s Hodge-podge) and Jan (Jan’s Sushi Bar.)  I wish I could meet both of the Annies, (Canyon Cottage and Mzodell’s Page) and Mary (Red Nose.)  Perhaps someday I will visit my sister in San Diego and I wlill meet Maggie (Postcards.)

There are bloggers in places I am unlikely to go, such as Spain, Australia, and Montreal.  But one never knows.  And I hereby invite you, my bloggy pals, to come to my island.  I have a nice guest apartment and I would love to have you stay — one and all (just not all at the same time.) This invitation is real and standing as long as I am well.

During my year of blogging I have occasionally written about politics.  Obama was elected president and I celebrated.  Health care has been an issue and it is one I care about, so I have posted a couple of times on it.  Ted Kennedy died and I said goodbye.

I have posted some of my art; only what I consider the best, of course.  I have posted a couple of my poems, though I find that most of the poetry I have written is lost (or at least, I can’t find it.  Once, when my grandson was looking for his cell phone I, said, “Have you lost it, Tom?”  He replied, “It isn’t lost.  I just can’t find it.”

I have made some mistakes with the blog.  The biggest one was, I think, that I was too open about my identity and location, given the material I was writing.  I used some conversations with a friend in a tongue in cheek post about writing a murder mystery; someone who knew about my blog showed the post to the friend; the friend was offended.  A controversy arose in the comments, and some really unpleasant things were said.  I apologized to the friend I had offended, and I withdrew the post. But the moving finger writes.  There is again an angry comment on my last post.  I think it is symptomatic of the lapse of civility that characterizes current public discourse.  It is a sad trend.

My blog, like that of many others, is personal.  I express my opinion about a lot of things, and I have a lot of strongly held opinions.  I welcome constructive criticism and I am glad when there is some disagreement and some real discussion.  That’s what makes the blog interesting.  That is not the same, however, as attacks that are purely personal and not about a topic.

The whole experience of writing the blog has been rewarding and educational.  I am glad my daughter fixed me up with the chance to do it. 

So here’s the beginning of the second year.

Jerry and I had dentist appointments on Thursday.  We took the foot ferry to town early so we could get some errands done before the dentist.  After the dentist we like to go to Barns and Noble for a treat.

Passenger ferry

First errand was to Lynden to pick up a faucet for the new bathroom tub.  We passed through fertile farmland stretching out to the mountains of the Cascade range 50 miles away.  This fine land was settled 100 years ago by farmers from Holland, rib-rock conservative, narrow minded, hard working, prosperous people.  Their cows stood placidly in the morning sun.  Their corn fields and rows of berries and grapes looked green and fruitful. 

On the other side of the fast food and RV sales district of Lynden we obtained our faucet, then drove back to Bellingham and more errands: those accomplished we had our teeth cleaned.  At Barnes and Noble besides coffee and goodies and the New York Times I bought The Lonely Planet guide to New Zealand.  I have already bought our tickets.  We go in November.

We were too late for the 1:10 ferry: just missed it.  We couldn’t walk onto the pier because they are doing some construction on the dock.  There were a lot of construction vehicles, cranes, workers in hard hats and a worker whose only job was to keep ferry passengers off the pier.  We had an hour to wait so I wandered around taking pictures of the dock and fishing boats and stacked crab pots. 

I asked the pier guard what they were doing to the dock.  He told me they were replacing the pulley ropes that raise the ramp.  There are 4 of them on each side and they cost $100,000 each.  Wow! 

I chatted with another waiting passenger, a tall blond lady who used to manage a lot of vacation rentals on the island, but who got into some trouble with her clients and also the tax people over money.  She seems to be back in business, and she looked great.

Then Felix, a retired physics teacher and dog enthusiast, came.  He had taken his dog, Bailey, to the vet.  I remembered that we intended to give him our old Science magazines (I hate to throw them away).  He said he would like them.  Felix has a million projects going, so he had been to a junk yard for parts.  I asked what kind of junk he was interested in at the moment, and when he replied (I can’t remember what — some kind of cables) Jerry said, “Oh, I have lots of those.”  So we can unload some more junk.  Yay!

Next Beverly came.  She is an island lady, around 10 years younger than me, who is active in the community and knows all the interesting news.  Here’s my chance, I thought, to find out all about the jumper. 

For this story I have to go back to Tuesday when my daughter, Clare, took the ferry.  She and her husband caught the ferry back to the island and they wondered why, though loaded, it was waiting at the dock.  Then they heard the sound of a police siren.  Next, a young man jumped from the upper deck into the water and began swimming across Hale’s Passage toward the island. 

This was a poor plan to evade the police.  Felix, as an athletic feat, had swum it a few years ago.  He said it took him about an hour, and he had started from the post office to gain the advantage of the current direction.  He had done it in August, but even so had worn a wet suit top, for warmth. 

The young man was clearly a strong swimmer.  He was alternating strokes, freestyle, backstroke, breast stroke, but still, he began to flounder.  The police were calling to him to come out, and a life preserver was thrown to him.  He grabbed it, but when he realized that it had a rope attached and he was being pulled in he let go and began swimming away.  A coast guard boat arrived and cruised along with him.  He remained in the water.  An orange Homeland  Security boat had recently passed by and it was called back.  Then another coast guard boat arrived on the scene; now he was surrounded by 3 boats.  He was cold and out of steam.  They pulled him from the water and took him away.

I asked Beverly who the jumper was.  She said it was Mike’s son.  That according to the news report he had had an altercation with his father and the police had been called.  Mike is a good man.  He is a retired teacher, a biologist and I like him.  He lives alone, except for his dog.  I feel sorry that he has a child who is a problem.

The hour of waiting was up for us and the ferry came.   Our neighbor, Duncan, helped us carry all our stuff.  Duncan is the fire chief, and he is on our water association board.  I asked him when we would be charged for water according to our newly installed water meters, rather than our present flat hook-up fee.  I am eager for that to happen, since the association manager says that Jerry and I are among the lowest water users on the system.  Duncan said soon, when they figure out an average usage in order to get a median price range. 

As we disembarked we saw the truck of the septic tank inspectors.  The county has decreed that every household on the island has to have its septic tank inspected for leaks.  I have been meaning to set it up.  I asked Duncan who was going to inspect his system.  “That one,” he said, pointing to the truck.  So I arranged with the driver to have ours inspected on the same day as Duncan. 

I always say that you get a lot accomplished riding the foot ferry.

Seasons change slowly here in the Pacific Northwest. 

Not like in Alaska where it’s hot and never dark in summer.  There flowers erupt sequentially in frantic bursts: wild irises, bluebells, wild roses, delphiniums and finally fireweed, together with sudden swarms of monarch butterflies and dragonflies.   And always, always mosquitoes constantly pursued by darting iridescent swallows.  The fireweed turns orange and red and fall lasts a few days. Then, lickety-split, it’s winter; it’s cold and white and always dark.

Here on the island day by day there is a gradual change.  Days get shorter, cooler, it rains a little more often, birds, except for jays, are quieter, blackberries ripen and fall, rose hips turn from yellow to red and the flowers make seeds by the thousands.

The reefnetters are still fishing.  Out in Legoe Bay their long boats are lined up facing the incoming tide flow, buoys stretching the long nets between them.  The fishermen stand watch on tall platforms waiting to see schools of migrating salmon swim into the artificial reef.  This way of fishing is derived from an ancient native practice, in which the boats and nets were made of cedar.  Lummi Island is one of the few places where reefnetting is still done.

Reefnetters watching for salmon

Reefnetting is said to result in fish of higher quality because there is less trauma incurred in catching them, and thus less of the bitter tasting lactic acid released into their muscle.  In addition, protected or unwanted species can be separated and released without harm, so it is considered to be an ecologically sound method.

reeling in the net

Reefnetting is all that is left of commercial fishing here on the island.  At the turn of the 20th century there were two busy canneries, and the population of the island was about 2000.  The canneries are gone.

remains of the old cannery

Summer may be slipping away slowly, but not so the ferry.  A ten minute walk from Legoe Bay, where we can watch the fishermen, is the ferry dock.  All of a sudden, tomorrow, our faithful car ferry, the Whatcom Chief, will chug off to Seattle for her annual overhaul, and we will have only a passenger ferry for the next 3 weeks.

Dry dock is a special time on the island.  The tourists vanish.  There is hardly any traffic.  That’s because there’s no place to go.  Jerry and I are lucky to live within walking distance of the ferry dock, so we won’t have to hunt for a parking place there.  Parking near the ferry dock on the mainland is at a premium now.  Everyone who needs to go to town during the next 3 weeks keeps a car in the parking lot on the mainland.

The Whatcom Chief

The last days before dry dock are a rush of getting all the heavy stuff one needs for 3 weeks stored up.  Delivery trucks are all over the place, and the construction people frantically lay in supplies.  And we all plan the best time to get a car on the other side.  There are always those who wait till the last minute, and they are sorry.

the ferry line the day before dry dock

This is how the ferry line looked at noon today when the ferry crew were having lunch. 

We like drydock.  We have parties.  We meet neighbors we haven’t seen for ages on the foot ferry.  Everything slows down. 

Last year when the ferry came back the trim was painted black and yellow.  The big question is: what color will they paint it this year?

I have been thinking a lot about death lately.  Not in a panic or a depression, but in a more analytical or contemplative way.  Perhaps I am coming to terms with death’s finality and its reality.

Lily

There are a lot of reasons for this thinking.  First of all, I am getting older and closer to the day of my own death.  Then the public political discourse on health care has taken an odd turn of arguments about whether doctors should consult with patients at government expense about end of life treatment, and there is the ridiculous assertion of the whacky right that the Obama administration is trying to set up “death panels” to euthanize senior citizens.

Another reason I am thinking about death is that a man I lived with for 20 years has just died.  I am still getting my head around his death.  For 6 years after we were divorced we lived in the same town and I watched over him, taking him to the hospital when he was sick or when he had indulged alcohol to the extent of needing medical intervention.  From time to time we went out to dinner, to the theater, or to the opera together.   Three years ago he finally retreated from my life when I remarried. He went back to his home town to be near his sons.  After he left we communicated by phone quite often until he found a new love and had less need to talk to me.  

Yesterday I discovered I needed a certificate of his death.  There is a small sum of money which is to come to me.  I have no way of knowing whether this was his intention, or whether he just forgot to take my name off as beneficiary.  I cannot call him to ask: he was cremated and no longer exists except as ashes.  I would like to think he meant me to have it. 

After he died I had a conversation with his oldest son, executor of his estate, who was uncertain as to where to place the ashes. I was able to tell this son of a family plot in a lovely old graveyard in South Carolina, his home state, where his father and grandfather are buried and where he owned several gravesites.  He and I visited the place about 20 years ago and had a marker put on his father’s grave.

Roses

I thought about death again when, in the last few days, I found an old address book and some old photographs.  Many of the names in the book are of people now dead; many of the pictures are of loved ones gone.  I remembered thinking, when I was about 25, how remote death seemed.  At that age I didn’t personally know anyone who had died.

Thinking about death is not new for me.  It is a gradual process that continues in a bumpy course. Sometimes I think that nature is barbaric, and how terrible it will be not to be.  Sometimes I drift into a sort of oneness with nature: my genes will continue, and I, as a unique being with my own consciousness, am unimportant in the grand scheme of things. 

But consciousness, my own, is my only real treasure.  While I live I see art and flowers and sunsets, I hear music, I taste oysters and tomatoes, I touch my husband’s body and feel him touch mine.  When I no longer exist other humans will know such things, but I, Anne, will be gone.  Well, not completely gone for a while.  Those who have known me, especially those who loved me, will remember me, and some of me will remain as memory in their worlds.  Some of the art I have made will remain for a while; some of my words will live for a while.  Eventually all of me will disappear from the earth.  Eventually the earth and all the living things on it will be gone.

When I get to this stage I stop myself.  Though I am not a believer in any religion or in a “life after death”, I am certain of one thing:  I don’t know much, if anything, that I can be certain about.  I don’t understand this universe that I live in a tiny part of.  In spite of the years I have spent studying living things I don’t understand the essence of life (nobody does), and I am not even sure what “reality” is.  There is so much true mystery.  I am so little equipped to solve these mysteries.

Artichokes

That’s when I start to think about funerals.  All cultures have some kind of ritual about death.  Why?  I think it is because of love.  We need to affirm that we loved the one who died, and that we who are still alive love each other. 

Some people specify that no ceremony should accompany their departure.  I think that’s a mistake.  Those who are left behind need to have a way to say goodbye.  My youngest brother was killed in an automobile accident, and my step-mother and father, devastated, decided not to have any sort of remembrance.  I felt an emptiness; that something was missing and the gap is still there 50 years later.  I dislike the overused word closure, and I don’t think it really expresses what’s lacking when there is no funeral or memorial.  It isn’t that one needs a finish, but rather that one needs to find a unity or a continuity; an affirmation that the living are connected to the dead and to each other. 

Some people plan their own funerals, as Ted Kennedy did.  Some have only the traditional ceremony of their religion, some improvise.  Some just have a party.

After my divorce I had an intermittent relationship with an Englishman who had many women in many countries, most of whom had born him children.  I went to England to take care of him while he was dying of cancer.  When I asked him what wishes he had for his funeral he said he would like his children, who ranged in age from 45 to 6, to be there.  I managed to collect 6 out of 7.  There were 3 from England, 1 from France, 1 from Germany, 1 from the United States.  The youngest, a little girl, lives in Seattle and her mother couldn’t afford the airfare.  Some of them had not met until that day.

At my mother’s funeral her step-son encountered his brother’s widow. They had not spoken to each other for 35 years, since the brothers quarreled over their mother’s possessions after her death.  When they met they were civil, and were even friendly late in the day, when we had a family gathering at my sister’s house after the service. Although this amity did not last, it would have pleased my mother to know that, in remembering her, an old feud had been suspended.

I have thought about my own funeral.  I want children, grandchildren, great grandchildren there.  I want whatever friends are left alive to be there.  I want them all to be nice to each other.  I’ll have some music, some hymns:  Fling out the Banner (I loved it when we sang it in school), Our God our Help in Ages Past (another favorite from school), Abide with Me.  I’d like a traditional Episcopalian service.  I’d like a chance for anyone to speak.  Then I want a grand party with laughter and lots of good food and wine.  At the end I want some fireworks.

I hope the people who are there will remember that they are connected together through blood and love; that they will carry on in their lives together and separately, thinking of me sometimes and remembering that I loved each one.

Lobelia and fuchsia