Listen

Hear the hush
lost
in the rattled rush
of frenzied lives.

Stand still
for sound
to surround
and soothe my troubled mind.

Pause in the Presence
and feel the essence
of perfect love
given by God.

Let the Word fill—
gentle and still—
until all I want
is Your will.

Living the Dream

    I remember weeping as I walked through my sister’s house.  I knew that the cancer was winning and that she would never come home.  I also knew she wasn’t ready to give up.  I knew something of her dreams.

    Pausing at the beach terrarium with its cherished collection of shells and sand from Baldhead Island, I wept as I said good-bye to Anne’s dreams.  How she loved the ocean and the beach.  How she wanted someday to take a Caribbean cruise.  How she enjoyed her home, her hot tub, her two cats.  How she wanted to help find a cure for ovarian cancer.  How she looked forward to retirement and travel.

    I continued my walk through her house, which was filled with her presence simply because she was still alive.  In each room I prayed a blessing.  To each room I whispered good-bye.

    Just six weeks later (only four days after Anne’s death), I was flying from Raleigh to Tulsa to see my grandson.  Sitting there on the plane, I prayed silently.  I knew that Anne would want me to go on.  I knew that even as I grieved, she would be cheering me on to live my dreams, especially since she didn’t get to live all of hers.

    It took a long time to let go of her, to get myself from the two months with her at her bedside to the present.  Holding my infant grandson soothed me.  Being with my daughter and son-in-law helped.  And then I was traveling home to Whidbey Island, a place of refuge that became my grounds for grieving.  Anne ushered me right into my life without her, enjoying, I’m sure, every astonished moment I experienced when her death benefit, her life insurance, and her retirement benefits came in.  Suddenly I was financially independent.  Suddenly I had the opportunity to be generous with my church and my children and cancer research.  And myself.

    So I live my dream:  this quiet island life filled with writing and music, plus frequent visits with  my children and grandson.  Every day is a gift.  Anne told me not to wait for my dreams but to live them, and I do now every day, by God's grace.

Orthoepically Challenged

    It’s true.  I am orthoepically challenged.

    Students in my college English classes could attest to that.  It was especially bad in literature classes.  When confronted with a French author or character, I invariably pronounced the names with a German accent.  Germans like to have consonant endings with sharp, defined sounds.  The French prefer to let muted vowels end their words even when the spelling shows a consonant.  It took years for me to figure that out, but it still didn’t help my pronunciation.

    The problem with being an English teacher was that everyone expected me to speak English perfectly when, in fact, I am an expert mangler of the language, and my talents are not limited to mispronunciation.  Subjects and verbs occasionally came out wrong when I was deep into my discourses about the topic for the day.  It’s embarrassing to say something like “He were in a lot of trouble” or “They is still there,”  especially when you are discussing subject/verb agreement.  Sometimes my syllables simply got slurred, and students wondered what I was REALLY drinking from my water bottle.

    It’s amazing what a missed or extra syllable can do.  That brings me back in time to Freiburg, West Germany, spring of 1976.  I was telling my landlady about giving blood, and all I did was add a measly syllable:  instead of saying “Blut spenden,” I said “Blut spendieren.”  That’s the difference between saying “giving blood” and “extravagantly lavishing my blood.” 

    When I first got off the plane in Frankfurt, it amazed me how fast everyone talked.  After two and a half years of college German, I couldn’t understand a single word.  It was disconcerting, to say the least.  Right away I came up against my lack of vocabulary.  Memorization hadn’t seemed so pressing back in college in Iowa, but now my lack of words had a huge impact on my life.  For example, once I had to resort to ordering an omelet for dinner because it was the only word I recognized on the menu:  "Omelette." 

    Within the first month in Germany, I learned that “winging it” in German was not an especially good idea.  Sometimes, though, one must improvise.  There is not always time to pull out the dictionary and spend ten minutes looking for the words you need.  Another example:  our group with the Institute for European Studies did some bus touring.  There was a problem the first night we stopped at a hotel:  there needed to be one coed room to match the location and number of beds.  Noticing, I guess, that I had hung around with another American student by the name of  Fred, the directors asked me if I would mind sharing a room with him.  The question panicked me, and I didn’t know exactly how to say that I absolutely did NOT want to share a room with him.  So I blurted out a question in return.  What I meant to say in German was “Do I HAVE to share a room?” (meaning I really did not want to).  What came out of my mouth was something quite different, the English equivalent being “Do I HAVE to sleep with him?”  After the uproarious laughter subsided, someone else volunteered to room with Fred.

    By the end of my six months in Germany, I was feeling more comfortable with the language (but not with Fred).  I had gotten to that gray area where I didn’t exactly think in German, but I could usually understand without consciously translating.  One day I was looking at clothes in a department store and decided I wanted to try on a few items.  Not really sure of how to ask where the dressing rooms were, I decided to wing it.  The clerk gave me a rather strange look when I made my request in German, which got the point across but not exactly how I intended it:  “Where can I take my clothes off?”

    By the time I got back home to Douglas, Michigan, I had developed the habit of concentrating hard before I said anything.  I remember bringing my film to the local drugstore one day and puzzling over how I was going to ask to get my film developed.  Then it occurred to me:  they speak English here!  That summer, I missed hearing German and found myself using it automatically.  Instead of “excuse me,” if I bumped into someone, “Entschuldigen Sie mir, bitte” popped out.  And one day, sitting in our living room, I spent a long time trying to puzzle out the English for Fernsehapparat (television).

    I’m not sure how to bring all of this back around to my original subject, and I blame my lengthy digression to the influence of Dave Barry, whose latest book I read the other day.  So I’ll simply stop here and look up the pronunciation of ”orthoepy” and “orthoepically” again.
   

Pain Referral

(written on August 24)
    One of the delightful things about fibromyalgia is the ability to feel like I’ve been working hard lifting heavy objects even when I’ve not lifted a finger.  Pain without effort.  It’s sorta like hangover-worthy headaches without the bother of drinking.

    Sometimes I can trace the muscle strain back to particularly strenuous activity:  unscrewing a tight lid, holding the phone to my ear, sleeping on one side too long.  But today I’m not tracing the pain path to any specific activity other than being alive.*

    Well, it’s nice to know I’m still here and that tomorrow is my monthly massage, which reminds my muscles to relax.  In the meantime, anyone out there who has done strenuous work today can refer their post-exertional pain to me since I’m experiencing it anyway.

*Since writing this, I picked up my purse.  There’s the culprit.

Slight Confusion

    I get alpine and lupine mixed up.  My problem is not with alpine:  I read Heidi and all the Heidi sequels enough times to get the association with the Alps.  My problem is in my first reaction to lupine:  I think of it as a type of reclining Alps.  (as if the Alps could lie down or flatten out into a meadow!)  Lupine is too-nice-a-sounding word to have anything to do with ravenous wolves.  The image of a wildflower-studded meadow straight from The Sound of Music persists.

    Of course, alpine/lupine is not the only paired confusion from which I suffer.  Another Alps-related set of terms (as in loosely connected to the Alps in the form of the Alps being in a part of the German-speaking world) dates back to 1976 when I lived in Freiburg, Germany for six months.  At this very moment, the German for knife and fork elude me.  I would get the two words mixed up even though they do not sound the same at all.  Oh!  Now I have it:  Gabel (fork) und Messer (knife),  I think.  The odd thing is that the German language confusion followed some circuitous path in my brain right into English.  To this day, when confronted with a knife and a fork, I have sort it out in my mind which is which.

    While I’m into this Dictionary.com-inspired confession, I might as well admit my problem with spoonerisms as well.  I even wrote a linguistics paper about it in graduate school (spoonerisms, not my personal problem with them).  The rule seems to be this:  say it wrong once, and the spoonerism will forever stick.  As a freshman in college, I referred to a wall hanging as a hall wanging, and to this day, I have to stop and consider before I know which one is right.  The same goes for my mom’s old saying, which I cannot remember right now.

    That is a little scary when I can’t remember what confuses me.  But a gruesome image has just saved the day for my lupine/alpine problem:  scary cartoon wolves chasing Julie Andrews across the meadow.

Blogging Blues*

    Daily posts are in the past,
    Days go by without a word,
    My life is full, my mind half mast,
    I have the blogging blues.

    You should be glad
    Few words will come
    To tax my weary brain
    I’ll spare you, then, the very best
    Of my silly blog refrain..

*I really am not blue.  What can I say?  “Blogging Blues” popped into my brain, and I am in somewhat of a rush to get Mom to her appointment, so you are spared any further bad rhyme.

Their Devotion

    Their devotion to God wore me out.  After years of trying so hard, I couldn’t try any more.  It was enough to bumble my way through each day.
    What I didn’t fully realize at the time was that I was depressed and angry.  Depressed due to situations beyond my control:  I believe the official term is reactive depression.  Angry because I felt betrayed by God.  My former faith seemed hopelessly naïve.  And I was just plain worn out from too much trauma in too short a time.

    I listened to them talk about God.  I watched them read their Bibles and devotional literature.  I saw them participate in worship that left me cold.  To save face, I guess, I tried to pretend I understood, for at one time I had understood.  But when they or I would leave, I was back in the sinkhole, still angry and still depressed, still slogging my way through each day.

    When I finally took the action I could, I didn’t bother to consult God because I was done second-guessing what he might have to say.  I decided to go with my gut feelings.  I decided to start listening to my inner self. 

    That was the beginning of freedom.  I started making decisions without worrying them to death, afraid of making some terrible or even miniscule mistake.  I started reading recovery literature and started recognizing the codependent craziness I had lived with for so long.  I started to trust God as I also learned to trust myself.

    I took drastic action, quitting my secure job and moving cross country.  It looked crazy, but it felt right.  I would never know unless I took the risk.

    And it turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to me.  Once I acted, I was more free to be open to God’s action.  He gradually worked His way back into my life again.  He plowed through unbelief with music.  He opened up closed doors through writing.  He got my attention through reading.  And, without me really noticing how it happened, He opened up my heart to the Scriptures again.  What was dead became alive.  What I had doubted showed itself as truth.

    Now when I see them (my daughter and son-in-law) we share the joy of God’s astonishing love.  Devotion is not the effort to try to get in the Father’s good graces; instead, it is joyful response to the grace He has already given.  And, we have found that God has a great sense of humor, speaking to this proper Presbyterian through both Salvation Army sermons and Pentecostal prayer services lest I try to stuff Him, the Uncontainable, in another box. 
   

Job Description

    Every so often at Colby Community College, faculty were asked to update their own job descriptions.  As I was out watering the garden tonight, I started thinking about writing my current job description . . .

    Position Title:  Janis Lussmyer, Early Retiree

    Duties:  The position is completely full-time:  24 hours a day, seven days a week.  (Eight to nine hours of sleep each night plus optional midday naps are included.)  Basic duties, many of which are listed below, can be divided into seven areas.  Each subset of duties is equally important and more than one is often carried out simultaneously,  especially regarding the relationship of number seven to the other six categories.

1. Household Helper:  Prepare daily lunch and dinner for mother and brother.  Provide high-calorie snacks, particularly Tillamook ice cream, in the evening for Mother.  (Restrain self from eating ice cream every evening.)  Do laundry for all persons, plus towels for indoor cougar cage.  Assign folding and sorting of laundry to Mother.  Perform basic household cleaning duties as needed.  Answer all questions, especially the repeated ones, patiently.  Water the garden each evening after dinner and be sure to sample ripe fruits and vegetables.  Surreptitiously deliver items to trash can or compost bin as needed.  Perform grocery shopping duties for both households. 

2. Caregiver:  Oversee prescription medications and vitamins for mother and for self.  Post written reminders of where I am and when I will be back each time I leave the house.  Suggest showers when forgotten.  Check on Mother and bring her beverages every hour when she is working outdoors.  Make medical appointments and take her to them, except for the vitreo-retinal specialist appointments in downtown Seattle—those should be referred to brother for everyone’s highway safety.

3. Writer:  Stop to write whenever an idea presents itself.  If no ideas are forthcoming, write anyway.  Post regularly to blog, submit monthly columns to church newsletter, and make hard copies of everything.  File by month in notebooks.  Take frequent walks, especially on the beach, for inspiration.

4. Musician:  Practice concert and alto flutes daily, mornings preferable.  Attend weekly flute lessons and be prepared for rehearsal schedules and performances for Enchanted Flute Choir at First Reformed Church, Tradewinds and Chancel Choir at Whidbey Presbyterian Church, and Silver Tones Community Band at the Oak Harbor Senior Citizens’ Center.  Try to remember to sing alto, not soprano (which is too high, anyway) in church choir.

5. Mother:  Use free minutes on cellphone to speak at length with son and daughter at least once a week.  Listen well and refrain from giving advice.  Give daughter instructions to hug her husband and her son for me.

6. Grandmother:  Be prepared with picture prints at all times.  Share freely and often about my wonderful grandson with anyone within shouting distance.  Make trips every three months to Oklahoma to see him. 

7. Contemplative Christian:  Cultivate relationship with the King.  Come into His Presence with praise.  Read and pray and write every day.  Repent and rejoice often.  Joyfully participate in church fellowship, worship, and ministry.

Panache Regained

    My peanut butter has lost its panache.  [Note:  my brother Robert is responsible for this opening line.  I am responsible for the ensuing details.]

    I’ve turned to almond butter for its nutty nutrition and Nutella for its chocolate satisfaction. 

    Who was it that brought up slug butter?  Was it my nephew Richard or brother Robert?  Surely, it could not have been me.

    But if I were ever to sell slug butter, I believe it would be made from the brown variety for aesthetic reasons.  Eating yellowish-green butter with black spots would be too disgusting.  And, if I have my facts straight, the brown slug is the destructive type that eats fresh vegetation, so the production of brown slug butter would be an ecological advantage as well.

    However, the production problems are overwhelming.  Is there a humane way to kill slugs?  Whom could I find to taste test slug slime?  Should the butter be sweet or salty?  I like the sound of Cinnamon Slug Spread, but would anyone like the taste?  After adding sugar and cinnamon, would a thickening agent be necessary?  Should I go organic, or would it be too expensive to raise slugs on organic vegetation?  Could it be advantageous to market slug spread as a gluten-free product?  Would allergy warnings be necessary?  And is there a market (other than pre-teen boys who want to gross out pre-teen girls) for slug butter?

    A peanut butter sandwich with blueberry-lavendar jam is sounding better by the minute.

From Finish to Start

    The microwave died tonight.  Its last meal was Chinese leftovers from yesterday, and its final drink was Mom’s coffee.

    Mom couldn’t remember ice cream terms this afternoon.  She asked for ice cream covered with chocolate, which she normally calls “paddle pops,” and which I call ice cream bars.  We were out of that particular treat, so I suggested an ice cream sandwich or orange crème bar and showed them to her when she asked what an ice cream sandwich looked like.  She chose the orange crème, and I did, too.

    After church, Mary and I went out for lunch at Yummie’s Eats and Treats and had a grand time.  We browsed through a few shops downtown, too.

    During fellowship hour, I got to visit with quite a few people.  The old, stifling shyness seems to be lifting more.

    I was worship assistant for the second service today.  It’s both joy and privilege to serve in that way. 

    From finish to start, it’s been a lovely, though hot, Sunday.
   

Contemplation

    Ideas come and go.  They seem to be gone now.

    With no first line idea to guide me, I’ll plunge into the blankness of this white page.

    Last week at an impressive used bookstore in Port Townsend, I found a copy of Thomas Merton’s New Seeds of Contemplation, which happens to be one of the Merton books I have wanted to own.  I am in process of desecrating it with my pink highlighter—there are so many passages that beg to be marked for future reference!

    Merton’s musings on the contemplative life match my recent experience, recent meaning my two years here on the island.  (Perhaps I should obtain a copy of No Man Is An Island next).  He puts words to inner spiritual workings.  He explores concepts that I have only haltingly considered but which resonate within.  Reading his words is akin to reading Henry Nouwen’s words:  a type of homecoming of the soul.

    How fortunate I am to live in a setting conducive to contemplation.  How blessed to be removed from the busyness and bustle of a working life.  How lovely to finally have the time to write, to play my flutes, to be part of a caring church family.  How freeing to find joy again and share that joy with you.

The Absquatulation of Words

Absquatulate:  to flee; abscond

    The problem with new words is where to use them.  If I drop a casual “absquatulate” into a conversation, I don’t know if anyone would understand me.  Anyway, I don’t think I’ll be able to remember it well enough to use it. 

    I love getting a new word every day from Dictionary.com, but my brain can’t keep up.  Even after I write about a new word, my long-term memory still hasn’t captured it.  In other words, the new word absquatulates right into thin air.  Looking back through my computer file names, I am intrigued by terms such as “heliotrope” (or was it “heliolotry”) and  . . . well, I can’t remember another one. 

    On paper, my vocabulary looks great.  In practice, it leaves something to be desired.  When I write, I can refer to my handy Pocket Oxford or Dictionary.com—but that doesn’t work the same in conversation.  (“Excuse me, but could you wait a minute while I look up the word that I think I know but am not sure of enough to actually use?”)

    Might as well confess.  I spend a lot of time second-guessing myself, even looking up common words that flow out of my fingertips onto the keyboard.  I go back to make sure the word is right.  Today, for example, I looked up “ironically,” “blossomed,” and “bloomed.”  Happily enough, I discovered that each word was an excellent fit for the subtleties I had in mind.

    Well . . . not exactly in mind.  That’s why I have to look up so many words.  For me, words come with flavors and textures that I don’t exactly consciously identify.  I feel them instead; their sounds slide in and fit the sense of what I’m saying.  I write with the flow of things and go back later to check the dictionary—unless someone has absconded with it, of course. 
   

A Week on Whidbey

    A week of fun and laughter.  A week of memories shared and made.  I believe we did it all.

    Sally Jo and I picked up as if 26 years had not passed since we last saw each other.  I learned again that she is an adventurous, unafraid extrovert.  She forged the way through our days, getting me to see and do things I hadn’t before here on Whidbey Island, taking my basic outline of places to go and making them into new adventures.

    We started out with Deception Pass Bridge on Sunday right after church.  Undeterred by the heavy fog, we headed across:  me, conquering my fear of heights and walking across for the first time (it helped not to be able to see a thing) and Sally tromping ahead, busily taking pictures of the mist and leaning over the bridge to peer at the water directly below.

    The Sunday evening early show at the Clyde Theater in Langley was a must.  Marmaduke was as corny as Disney films come, but John, Mom, Sally, and I enjoyed it.  We topped the experience off with pizza at the local pizzeria:  half slathered with meats and extra garlic, the other with feta, artichokes, and pepperoni.

    Monday kept us fairly close to home because John was at work.  We previewed Coupeville in the morning and, after lunch with Mom, headed out to Double Bluff Beach, doing some good walking even though the tide was halfway in.  Little did I know that I was slowly getting broken in for the exertions of the next two days.

    Sally said that she had really nice hotel accommodations complete with washer and dryer in the room.  Thinking she was referring to her impending overnight at the Hampton by the airport, I said, “Wow!  I didn’t know they had washers and dryers in the rooms!”  With no lack of humor, she had to explain she meant HERE in the shop guest room. 

    I am glad that Sally is an excellent flutist because we put her sightreading skills to the test Monday evening.  She filled in the missing part at our church rehearsal for Sunday’s special music (“For the Beauty of the Earth”) and a series of missing parts for Enchanted Flute Choir rehearsal.

    Introvert that I am, it wouldn’t have occurred to me to talk with the staff in the Fort Casey State Park office Tuesday morning, but it did to Sally.  A delightful visit ensued followed by the Admiralty Head Lighthouse experience and a steal of a deal on a reversible jacket for her.  Before that, as we tromped over and through all the fort bunkers, she was drawing on her Army background to educate me about everything to do with forts.

    Coupeville turned out to be a culinary experience.  (In my two years here, I have easily fallen into the ruts of habit and forgotten to explore.)  We previewed downtown on Monday morning after Sally successfully navigated me through my courthouse errand, so we were ready for Tuesday.  At Toby’s Tavern, she suggested sharing the one pound serving of steamed Penn Cove mussels.  I even tried a sip of the signature microbrew.  Though I really hate beer, this red ale tasted alright.  A little later, at Knead and Feed (which I invariably remember as “Knead and Breed”), we  had coffee and shared a piece of perfect rhubarb pie. 

    Heading on up the island, we hit the heady aromas of Lavendar Wind Farm.  I fell in love with lavendar in all its lovely variations.  Ah, the wonderful gardens:  gaze out on subtly shifting blooms and very busy bees.  And with every step, breathe deeply.  Stepping into the gift shop after wandering the gardens was a deeply lavendar experience as well:  the whole shop was fragrant with the dried bunches hanging from the ceiling.  We looked at honey, jams, and spreads; hand soap, shampoo, and massage oil; tea sets, sachets, and bar soaps; cards, pictures (my favorite the watercolor of a sheep standing in the middle of a lavendar field enjoying the harvest) . . . and tried the lavendar-enhanced ice cream bars.

    On the way home we stopped briefly at Greenbank Farm.  Sally was on the mission to have me experience my first wine tasting at a wine cellar.  (In some ways, I have led a rather sheltered life.)  A dollar for a scrumptious sip of sweet Riesling—what a delight!

    Sally, digging through her purse, wonders aloud at what law of physics  makes whatever she’s looking for hide at the bottom.  I say a sympathetic “Yeah, I know what you mean.”  Mom pops in with her apt reply:  “Gravity.”

    And then Wednesday was here, my 55th birthday and Barb’s arrival.  (Barb, Sally, and I met at Blue Lake Fine Arts Camp in August 1970 and hadn’t spent my birthday together since.)  The three of us laughed and talked our way from one end of the island to the other.  Coffee and scones at Mukilteo Roaster Café:  we beat the morning rush and had our choice of seats out on the patio.  Langley, as I knew it would, reminded them of Saugatuck, Michigan where I used to live:  tourist town plus waterfront.  We walked the downtown, carefully scoping out our eating choices and deciding on the Swiss bakery for lunch.  More conversation and laughter there at an outdoors table.  Double Bluff Beach:  we walked the beach and witnessed a one-man air show of a bi-plane twirling and twisting and diving above us.  A quick stop at the grocery store in Freeland provided us with refreshing Steaz iced tea and water.  We were ready for Meerkerk. 

    Ordering drip coffee at the Mukiteo Roaster Café:  “We’re the three drips.”

    And here I must digress to the subject of phone booths.

    I am used to seeing the old phone booths on the island, but they provided entertainment for Sally.  I guess phone booths are extinct in Austin.  A phone booth sighting meant picture time, so I was sure to stop at the phone booth midway between Freeland and Greenbank.  The three of us clambered out of the car, Sally armed with her wet wipes to disinfect the receiver so she could pose for Barb and me.  Now, I’ve seen tourists pull off the highway to take pictures of eagles, but never phone booths.

    We had Meerkerk Rhododendrum Gardens all to ourselves, still lovely even with no rhodies in bloom.  We oohed and aahed over the monkey puzzle tree, Sally educated us on names of flowers, Barb was enchanted by the honor system at the nursery, and as tour guide, I led us astray to the service road in my search for the rock garden. 

    How did we do so much in five hours?  I don’t know.  I kept thinking of various women’s fiction I have read—rather wistfully--over the years, stories of long-time friends off on some vacation or trip and having the time of their lives.  We were those women.  I was living one of my dreams.

    But Wednesday was far from over.  Driving past the Naval Air Force Base landing field near Coupeville, we were duly startled by a series of touch and goes in progress.  We headed for Deception Pass, hoping the sun would be shining this time.  And it was.  All of one mind, we wanted to park by the bathrooms, but that lot was full, so we parked on Pass Island between the two bridges.  It might have been sheer need that propelled Barb and me across that bridge, but I prefer to think it was bravery on our part.  Sally led the way, happily snapping pictures and leaning out over the bridge to get the best views.  Barb followed, carefully holding on to the steel guard rail on the left and the wire line on the right, looking straight ahead with that particular intense focus that those of us who are afraid of heights use, and I followed behind with a similar focus on Barb’s shoes in front of me. 

    Later, back home at Casa Del Gato, we took Barb on the tour:  shop, houses, dogs, cats.  I gave her and Sally and Mom a brief alto flute concert, and then it was off to China City in Freeland along with my brother John, our token male, for a scrumptious meal.  My consumption of walnut shrimp was unparalleled, as was my embarrassed delight when the server appeared with birthday wishes:  a single candle stuck in a frozen custard with fried banana slices artfully arranged around it.  We said our good-byes to Barb, who needed to catch the 8:30 p.m. ferry.

    At 6:45 a.m. the next morning, my phone rang.  It was a sleepy Sally (calling from our shop guest room), suggesting we skip our planned Seattle trip.  Later, we texted Barb, who was doing the Seattle sightseeing with her family, to let her know she would not run into us at Pike Place.  Sally and I got a later start, deciding to do a day in Port Townsend instead.  It was a fortuitous choice:  lovely, sunny skies; smooth ferry crossing; no waiting; no crowds.  We had the best salmon quiche and best coffee in the world at Better Living Through Coffee; window-shopped our way through downtown; enjoyed a scrumptious truffle (chocolate, not mushroom); wended our way through the downtown museum; ate a late and healthy lunch followed by a delicious dessert; and power-walked to the ferry . . . well, Sally walked fast.  I dragged along behind, all my energy spent.

    After dinner at home,  Mom and John headed off to pick up friend Debra for the movies.  Sally and I stayed home to pack up her stuff and put up our feet.  Then, realizing it was my last chance, I rounded us up to go buy some of that wonderful sweet Riesling for me and a Malbec for her.  Well, I didn’t know about the Malbec, but Sally gladly gave me another wine lesson as we scoured Payless for the perfect under-ten-dollar wines.  Back at home, we each enjoyed a glass (yes, just one) with the obligatory cheese and crackers.  We used the good crystal and had to keep shooing Orie (Mom’s cat) away from the cheese.  He didn’t show any interest in the wine.

    The week would not be complete without a trip to the senior citizens thrift store in Freeland.  We both snagged a few bargains Friday morning, had lunch at home (leftover Chinese) with Mom and John, and then it was time to take Sally the half mile down the road to the Greenbank Store where the Whidbey-SeaTac Shuttle picked her up.  I went home and took a nap.

    A carefree week is good medicine for the soul.  Barb is back in Detroit and Sally in Austin.  I’m holding down the fort at Casa Del Gato, having spent this rainy day (Saturday) relaxing and ruminating while Mom and John are picking up more cougar caging from a friend down near Mount Rainier.  The solitude of the day and the writing about our adventures are just what I need to top off a perfect vacation week with good friends right here on Whidbey Island. 
   
   

"Erudite" Is Not the Answer

  I missed a lot of good words on Dictionary.com this week, probably due to my mojo, which brought company from Austin and Detroit, resulting in less time to improve my vocabulary.  Even though I am a cheechako to Whidbey Island,  I know more than a minim about yeuk due to stinging nettle, biting ants, and hungry mosquitoes.  However, though I was not prepared to spatchcock the dead hens left at my brother’s door, I don’t mind spatchcocking words into this paragraph and taking the risk of unknown and unforeseen connotations that could reflect poorly on me, erudite as I am.  (And if you think I am serious, cease and desist.  This is just a small sampling of the verbal wit I used to inflict on unsuspecting students who would respond with blank stares rather than uproarious laughter.  Yes, those same blank stares that are erupting on faces of my readers at this very second.)

    Note, please, that I have deliberately used one of the week’s words somewhat inaccurately, and it’s not the first one, even if you are sure I do not have an ounce of mojo.  Can you guess?  Cheating is allowed.

Chicken

    I draw the line at dead chickens. 
    While I was out this morning, someone left a couple dead chickens in a cardboard box inside the perimeter fence next to John’s back porch.  I discovered them when I went over to his house late in the afternoon to pick up some printing.

    Perhaps I should explain. 

    Evidently, a friend of John’s sometimes drops off dead chickens for his cougars.  But John and Mom won’t be home until late tonight—they left after supper yesterday to drive down to friend Steve’s place near Mount Rainier to pick up more cougar caging.  So I was left with feeding Precious Fluffy Butt (John’s house cat) and Worf (John’s African jungle cat, who is house-cat size and totally tame and timid).  Note that I do not have to feed the cougars and bobcats.  When John is gone, they fast.

    I really didn’t think that Worf, who eats out on the back porch, would bother the chickens.  After all, he is very old and doesn’t have a full set of teeth.  Naturally, I was wrong.

    It could be worse.  All Worf did was to remove one chicken and deposit it on the ground near the box that still has the other dead chicken and a nice fat brown slug in it.  Momentarily, I considered using a shovel to move the chicken back into the box, so I could carry the box over to John’s basement freezer where he keeps the cat food.

    However, then I noticed Radio, our mutt who is part coyote, nosing around near the fence.  If I carried the box of chickens around to the basement door, Radio would surely steal them from me.  She’s very quick and really likes feathered chickens.  The other option would be to carry the box of chickens through John’s house to the basement, which somehow seems unsanitary.  Plus, it wouldn’t be polite to carry whole chickens past a hungry cougar.  (Talina’s indoor caging is right there in the living room next to the stairs.)

    So, I simply left the chickens where they were after I let Worf back into John’s house.  I feel a little guilty about leaving them there, but not guilty enough to venture out in the rain and the dark to move them.  Sorry, John.  I’m chicken about dead chickens.
   

A Prayer

God, I want to be whole in You,
Wholly Yours and
Holy, Yours.