Deeds & Words

Wednesday was my last day on Orcas.  My step-sister Joan and I were going to attend the Senior Center’s monthly High Tea with Faith, my step-mother.  I was going to pick them up at the house about 1:30, for the 2:00 pm event. 

After a leisurely breakfast at the hotel I drove east, through Eastsound, along Crescent Beach, and turned right, heading for Moran State Park.  I had corrected the music situation and I had two Carlos Santana CDs (Supernatural and a “Greatest Hits”) and Pink Martini.  It was about 9:30, cloudy but not rainy, and probably fifty degrees.  The park was open.  I turned left and started up Mt. Constitution.  

There are two turnouts on the road that let you see the San Juan Archipelago spread out in front of you, always in shades of blue and violet.  I was looking forward to reaching the first one and taking some pictures.  My favorite track of the Pink Martini CD came on and I was just starting to relax into it when my cell phone rang. 

I don’t talk on the phone while I’m driving, especially not my personal phone which doesn’t have blue tooth. This call could only be Joan, and it probably wasn’t good.  She couldn’t be calling to ask me to pick up pancake mix or something.  By the time I got to the turnout, the phone had stopped.  I re-dialed, but even though I was two-thirds of the way up the tallest point on the island I had no reception.  Twenty seconds later the phone chirped to alert me that I had voicemail. 

Just the night before we had been talking about cell phones and Joan had mentioned how much she hates to leave messages because she never knows what to say.  Now she’d left one; that really wasn’t good. 

So, I could go back down the hill and try to find a place with reception, or continue to the top on the assumption that there would be reception at the peak.  I went for Option Two.  I was trying to drive carefully because I didn’t know this road, and my mind was scurrying off in a dozen different directions, not wanting to focus on the road.  Maybe she really did just want pancake mix.  Maybe they needed to take Faith to the hospital.  When was the next ferry?  What if they airlifted her?  Then I told myself to stop imagining the worst.  Then I started again. 

At the top of the mountain, in the parking lot, I had three bars.  I played by voicemail and it was Joan, saying, “Um, Mother doesn’t feel quite right.  I left a message for Jay.  I thought maybe you were in town. . . Call me when you get this.” 

I tried twice and even though I had bars I could not connect. 

Faith, my step-mother, was just released from the hospital about five weeks ago after a serious episode.  She has COPD, which is controlled, and is recovering really well from a cracked pelvis.  For me, though, the words, “Not quite right,” are always code for “stroke.” And Joanie had sounded tense, frightened. 

I drove down the mountain, trying not to panic, thinking hundreds of thoughts, many of them, I’m sorry to say, selfish.  At Cascade Lake—no reception.  I drove on, finally glancing down at the phone as I drove past Crescent Beach the other way, seeing I had four bars, and pulling into a turnout.   This had taken twenty minutes from the time I listened to the message, and probably half an hour from the time Joan had left it. 

She answered on the second ring and I could tell from her “Hello,” that things were not as bad as they had sounded.  “Oh, hi.  I thought maybe you were in town.  Mother wasn’t feeling quite herself when she got up, and we were afraid we’d have to cancel the tea.  I wanted to catch you.” 

I asked what had been wrong.  Faith had complained of shortness of breath while eating breakfast.  Joanie said she was going to call the doctor, but Faith said she didn’t need one. She was sitting up with her feet elevated, and said she was feeling better.  Joan sounded calm and relaxed.  “Did you go into town?” she said.  “Town” is Eastsound. Faith and Joan live out past the ferry landing, about twenty miles  southwest of Eastsound. 

“I was driving up Mt Constitution,” I said, trying not to grit my teeth.  Of course Joan could sound calm now; she had already been through the half an hour of fear when she couldn’t reach her brother who lived on the island, and her step-sister who was visiting the island, both of whom had cell phones.  She probably pictured me frolicking among the mounds of melting slow on the mountain, chasing deer with my camera. 

“Oh, no!  Well, we haven’t made up our minds about going to the tea,” she said.  “Do you want to go ahead up the mountain, and call back in an hour maybe?” 

“I’ll stay in town and call in an hour,” I said.  “And then, seeing how things are going, maybe I’ll go back up the mountain.” 

I wandered the streets of Eastsound, disconsolately spending money, and called back in an hour, to find out that Faith had rebounded and was eagerly looking forward to High Tea.  They would come into Eastsound, where the Senior Center is located, and meet me, which meant I wouldn’t have to drive across the island again to pick them up.  It was about 11:30.  I went back up the mountain. 

These photos are  six views from Mt. Constitution.

I just finished Sarah  Vowell’s new book Unfamiliar Fishes. Once again, Vowell reads a lot of books so that we don’t have to.  She is  master at synthesizing massive amounts of research into short, clear, readable books that teach a lot and still can qualify as a vacation read.

Unfamiliar Fishes  is about Hawaii.  I bought it in Anacortes.  Every time I come up here for a visit, I meet someone who grew up in Hawaii.  When I go to Hawaii, I inevitably meet someone who spent time in the San Juan Islands.  I thought this was just an island connection, but maybe it’s more than that.

George Vancouver, of course, is connected to both archipeligos.  He sailed to Hawaii (The Sandwich Islands) with Captain Cook.  Later, he explored the Pacific Northwest looking for the Northwest Passage.  As the ferry was sliding across the dark green water of the sound, paced by the Coast Guard gunboat, I was reading in Unfamiliar Fishes about his time in Hawaii.

In Anacortes, I stopped for a coffee drink at a kiosk in a parking lot.  The lively young woman who was working asked me where I was from and I told her.  She said she vaguely knew where Sonoma County was, but she also knew about a place called Sonora because her husand was from there.  I told her I had been to Sonora.  I asked where she was from and she said. . . (wait for it). . . Hawaii.  Which island?  The Big Island.  She grew up in Hilo.

This is not a review of Unfamiliar Fishes, which I plan to do later.  I recommend the book though.

The ferry pulled into the Orcas landing shortly before noon.  The Coast Guard boat slowed to a stop.  It looked like the guy in the cabin was talking on the radio.  Then the guy in the back (with the gun) waved to the ferry guys, they powered up, made a huge turn and motored away.

I used to take the third floor landing-view suite at the Orcas Hotel, but this trip I asked for the Hollyhock Room.  It’s on the second floor right at the top of the stairs.  The hotel doesn’t look different, but the Orcas Store, across the street, looks completely different.  They are remodeling; adding about 200% to the size of the store.  It is now two-story and twice as long.

Here’s my room. I scrunched back in the doorway of the bathroom and held the camera next to my ear to get this picture.

They came on the intecom and reassured all the ferry passengers that having a Coast Guard boat pace us was not cause for concern. This was just a random, routine escort because we are in a waterway that’s an international border.

I get lost a lot.  Once I got lost on a straight stretch of road with no cross streets.  True story. I get lost so frequently that I’ve decided it’s a weird kind of gift.  A knack.  I have a knack for getting lost. 

I got lost on Sunday.  This was the perfect occasion to get lost.  I was on vacation, I had no place to be, no connection to make, no ferry to catch, and I was on an island, which, theoretically at least, meant that I couldn’t get too lost.  

So, I had planned to go to Oak Harbor and spend money at their enticingly-named “harbor-side shops.”  Who can resist harbor-side shops?  I can’t.  The roads at the harbor-side, however, were torn up.  One of those big signs with the lit-up letters proclaimed, “Businesses Open!  Sidewalks Open!  Plenty of parking!  Ask a flagger for help!”  It sounded a little desperate.  I turned right instead and went down to the Windjammer Park and walked along the boardwalk.  I debated trying to go back and find a way to those seductive shops, but gave it up. 

Heading back, I missed a right turn.  At least, I think that’s what I did.  I still don’t really know. Soon I was driving on a road that looked kind of like the one I’d come in on, except none of the businesses looked the same. Then the road curved left and took me across the lowlands with a left-to-right view of Puget Sound—blue ocean, blue sky, white clouds and islands as far I could see in either direction.  There was a spit of land beyond the pastureland, lined with houses.  They didn’t look like new expensive homes; they looked weathered. 

I knew I hadn’t been here before.  I drove a while longer and found Whidbey Island Park.  George Vancouver named the island for Joseph Whidbey, who had led a small boat expedition and found Deception Pass.  After all, it wasn’t Whidbey’s fault that the pass was evil and deceitful and stomped on Vancouver’s dreams. 

The road veered right, so I knew I was heading back toward the town of Oak Harbor.  Now houses started appearing on either side of me.  They were single family dwellings that had a certain sameness to them.  Ahead of me I could see a very tall tower with at least a dozen satellite dishes sprouting from it.  Somehow, I didn’t think it was Dish Network.  The tower was surrounded by a tall chainlink fence hung with signs warning me that this was a government installation and there was to be no trespassing.

Have I mentioned that there is a strong military presence in this part of Washington?  Naval, mostly, which shouldn’t come as a surprise.  There is a Naval Air Support base in Oak Harbor.  I think I was driving along the western edge of it. 

After that, though, I passed a sign that said Town Limits.  Hurray!  Back in Oak Harbor. . . somewhere.  Since I have the X chromosome, I have a secret weapon when I’m lost; I can ask for directions.  Before I did that though, I made about three U-turns.  Then I made a right turn, heading south, back into town.  There were no familiar landmarks, like the Kasteel, a baroque restaurant/banquet center I had passed on my way in.  (Kasteel may be Dutch for castle, but it sounds like a science-fiction alloy you’d make space ships out of.)  There was a strip mall on my right, with a used book and comic store.  It had to be fate. My only fear was that it would be staffed by sneering seventeen year olds who had never left Oak Harbor, or just wanted to mock the lost tourist, and I thought I could probably survive that.

 The shop was a big barnlike space, with eight-foot high selves carving out U-shaped alcoves along the walls, filled with books.  There were lots of fantasy and science fiction, lots of thrillers and mystery, lots of romance, and some non-fiction, mostly historical, some (not much) political. These looked like true used books, books that had been read. The register and counter were to my right and down the center of the store ran a line of shorter shelves and tables.  At the back the owner had DVDs and maybe even some VHS, I’m not sure.  On the center shelves were some new books, even some hard-covers.  Serendipitously, the shop had the first six Harry Dresden novels in paperback.  I had agreed to review the early Dresden books for fanlit, and I need to re-read them.  Here they were!  I scooped up two.  While I was browsing, the person behind the counter was helping a trio of people looking for a comic book series called, they thought, “Witches.”  The counter person wasn’t able to help them, although she did find Witch Hunters.  She explained the system for the comic books, which were boxes on the tables behind the new books.  There was a numbering scheme and a catalog and it was clear that if she had the book, she could tell you which box it was in, in about two seconds.

 I also found quilted book covers, a completely frivolous thing you find at craft fairs; I bought one with lighthouses on it for Faith and one with roosters for Sharon.  When I got up to the counter I was surprised to see that the counter helper was probably five years older than me, with nicely coiffed gray hair and severely plucked eyebrows.  She picked up the Butcher books and said, “I hated that the show went off the air!  What was Syfy thinking?”  (A whole post could be devoted to that question.)  I agreed.  She said she thought the actor who played Dresden captured the role perfectly.

Then I asked her how to get back to the Highway 20 spur. 

Her eyes widened.  She tried to stifle her laugh, but couldn’t quite.  “Okay,” she said.  “Go left out of the parking lot.  There’s a light about half a block up . . .” 

“Oh, no,” I said.  “I came that way.” 

“Anyway, turn right, and there you are.”

 I had done that, just before I’d ended up here.  Turning off that road to come back into town had been my third U-turn. 

I picked up my purchases, thanked her, and got back on the road.

Deception Pass is about 20 miles south of Anacortes.  George Vancouver named the pass out of his disappointment.  He thought he had an inland passage, but the currents were so treacherous that a ship couldn’t get through it.

The engineers built a staircase where the bridge touches the little island.  Pedestrians can cross under the bridge to the other side.  Views from either side are stunning. 

But it’s so tempting!  I mean, look!  The bridge is right there!

There is an artist in Anacortes who paints figures on wood and mounts them on the walls of downtown buildings.  Many small towns do this; it’s a whimsical archive of the town’s history.  The Anacortes artist copies many of the murals from local photographs, and cites them next to the picture. 

I expected horseless carriages, World War I soldiers, green-grocers and the like.  I was not expecting canoe-paddling drag queens.

I think, really, it’s the hands.  Those white-gloved hands so exuberantly extended.  I never did get a good photo of the face on the left, which means I have a reason to come back.

*

Some towns have an art-walk.  Anacortes has a quilt-walk.

On casual count, Old Town has six antique malls.

Saturday, 4/16/2011

 The drive from Eugene to Anacortes, Washington, was half-hellish.  The first stretch, to Portland, was fine.  Then it went downhill. 

Portland is called the City of Bridges.  Heading northbound on I-5, you cross a bridge to enter the city.  If traffic is light, and you can look to your left just as you come onto the bridge, you will see the gentle curve of the Columbia River, and four bridges.  Two are rust-red, low and utilitarian looking, one is much taller, as tall as the bridge you’re on, and the farthest one out is chicken’s egg green, riding high above the water, with twin arches like bicycle wheels rising on each side. 

*

Within ten minutes of crossing the Oregon-Washington border—the river is the border—I was in thick traffic, and a persistent drizzle, just enough to keep the road nice and slick. The rest of the way to Anacortes, I had to deal with the following four things:

• Heavy traffic
• Rain/drizzle/rain/drizzle/rain
• Drivers doing rude and stupid things
• Bad music

I take responsibility for the last one.

*

Seattle is a beautiful and historic city that I don’t like as much as I like Portland.  Most of the issue is association.  Portland is associated with a couple of writers’ workshops I took, in the 1980s, and rose bushes, and one really nice vacation.  Seattle is associated with my mother’s unsuccessful heart surgery, and dying; leaving this life the very way you never want someone you love to have to do.  It’s not Seattle’s fault.  It wasn’t even the hospital’s fault—but there it is.  Still, I can appreciate that the city is beautiful.  There’s a point on I-5 about five minutes north of the airport where the city unfolds in front of you, brown and black glass towers dwarfing the Space Needle.  I-5 winds down around the base of the newish downtown like a trail through a redwood forest.  I do like that.  I also like that when you are driving under one of the overpasses, if you look quickly, you will catch a glimpse, between the smooth cement walls, of red brick and maybe a 1930s vintage neon sign saying “The Cambridge,” or something.  It’s like looking through a tunnel into the early part of the last century.

*

The ferry landing exit is about one mile past the town of Mt. Vernon.  This town was the childhood home (maybe even birthplace) of one of the loudest voices of the Radical Right, Glenn Beck.  I have read that in the past few years, Mr. Beck has donated money to the Mt Vernon Chamber of Commerce and various municipal programs.  They must be pleased that their local boy has done so well.  

I did notice that the three-story high smokestack, painted with tulips, that is my personal landmark for Mt. Vernon, looks like it could use a touch-up.

* 

The road to the ferry landing used to be lined with fir trees.  Now it’s lined with condos.  The Ship Harbor Inn is on the water side, about a mile and half from the landing.  It was there before the condos, but I’ve never stayed there before.  In fact, I never used to stay in Anacortes, until I came up three years ago and realized what I was missing. (Oh, and in Anacortes?  Not raining.  Not drizzling.  Cool, and sunny.)

It looks like the units for the Inn might have been built originally in the late 1950s or early 60s.  The main complex is a long two-story building overlooking the water.  There are suites upstairs and single rooms downstairs.  I’m staying in a singe room.  Two short walls extend out past the door, creating a lanai, complete with Adironack chairs, where you can sit and sip your coffee or your wine, and watch the white-and-green ferries glide in and out of port.

I got my stuff into my room and went to get ice.  My room is right next to the laundry.  I walked up the three steps to the driveway, where an employee was mowing a stretch of velvety green grass.  For a second, I could smell bleach, hot linens just out of a dryer and freshly-cut grass, all at once.

Friday, April 15, 2011

The elk were out by Highway 20.

This part of California reminds me of Ursula LeGuin’s book Always Coming Home.

*

From Northbound Interstate 5, Southern Weed looks like a science fiction forest, a surreal blend of tall evergreens and strange growths with colorful logos on top:  Shell, Burger King, Chevron.  Metropolitan Central Weed is much more demure.

*

North of Weed, in the high flat stretch before Yreka, someone has put a trailer out in a field by the freeway.  “His blood, your sins,” is painted on the side in red, along with a drawing of an outstretched arm, palm out, a nail driven through it. Blood drips down from the nail.  “Your sins,” not “Our sins.”  Apparently the owner of the artwork was not included in the sacrifice, or has no sins.

*

At 98 miles from Eugene, I was thinking, “Yaay!  Fewer than 100 miles to go!”  At 54 miles to Eugene I was thinking, “Less than an hour!  Yes!”  At 37 miles to Eugene I’m thinking, “I can’t do this!  How can it take so long?” 

I’m such a baby.

Dr Wendy cooks!

Asia, who makes really cute kids’ toys, clothes, and headbands.

Ingredients

Always tip the guitar player.