Life Goes On

Divorce - Published 12/27/11

2012-01-06T11:14:00.000-08:00

My husband and I have what is called a “blended family.” In describing our brood, we sometimes say, “We have a yours, mine, and ours family.” When we married twenty-two years ago, Jerry had a ten-year-old daughter and I had a six-year-old-son. Two years later, we had a daughter whose lot in life has been to bind us all together. She does a good job.

In a blended family, there are extensions to it, the parents of the children from the previous marriages. In my case, I’m proud to say that my ex-husband and his wife, J. Robert Leach and Vickie Norris, are two very good friends of ours. We have spent holidays together and celebrated many events concerning our lives and those of our children.

My ex-husband’s wife, Vickie, calls herself my son’s “wicked step-mother;” however, she is anything but. She is an accomplished lawyer, a good friend, a life-enthusiast, and hilarious person. She is a joy to be around.

About twelve years ago, she and I went on a trip to Europe with nine Stanwood High School students, one being our son Fred. It was billed as “London, Paris, and Rome,” and we had quite the time together.

It was a very eventful trip, to say the least, and one of the funniest moments happened on the bus, just after we had left Assisi in Italy, St. Francis’s home, and I heard one of the chaperones from one of the other schools with us exclaim, “You’re KIDDING! I don’t believe it!”

I turned around to see our son Fred grinning. He had been calling Vickie and me his “two moms” the whole trip, so people assumed Vickie and I were “a couple,” “not that there’s anything wrong with it,” to quote Jerry Seinfeld.

The chaperone said, “Are you really a wife and an ex-wife traveling together?” and we said, “Well, yes,” and again she said, “You’re kidding!”

We thought it was funny—and quite interesting--that people seemed to find two gay women traveling together much more acceptable than a mom and a step-mom traveling together.

Maybe that shows how far we have come in gay rights, something I believe is an important step in society. However, I think it may have more to do with how we still view divorce. Often, people seem to like to think that divorced people hate each other and find it hard to accept when they don’t.

I give credit to my ex-husband for our post marriage relationship. He was a lawyer (now I’m proud to say a State Appellate Court Judge), and he had witnessed several sad stories of marriages gone awry. He said, “Let’s never say anything bad about each other in front of our son,” and I think that rule led to our friendship.

For both my husband and me, being stepparents has had its challenges and rewards. My stepdaughter Chalen and I probably have had the rockiest relationship, though today, it is great. She has just graduated with a Masters in Teaching and of her four parents—my husband Jerry, her mom Carole, and step-father Michael, I was the one who cried from happiness for her throughout her graduation ceremony.

She is a phenomenal teacher and is in her third year of teaching now. Her intelligence, empathy for others, and sense of humor are valuable assets for Central Kitsap High School where she is also the Debate Coach.

My son Fred and husband have had a wonderful relationship, starting from the day we got married. Jerry taught Fred to swim and water ski and coached him in soccer and football. They get along great, and I believe Fred has been lucky to have two accomplished men in his life.

Fred and his wife Jamie live in California, and when Jerry had surgery a little over a year ago, Fred took time off from work to come and help me bring him home. He said that he just wanted to come and “be with Jerry.”

And our daughter Jerae who ties us all together has been such a blessing. The two older kids have helped us raise her and have been wonderful role models for her. They both have been her confidantes and counselors. Fred has helped her understand me, and Chalen has helped her understand her dad. Jerae is a very lucky kid to have them in her life.

With divorce comes pain. There’s no denying that. The sense of failure and sadness can be overwhelming, and it can be even harder with people’s judgments. But the pain, after a while, can give way to something pretty nice—simply put, it’s friendship.

Divorce is a fact of life today. Neither Jerry nor I regret our former marriages at all. They are part of our past and we both had some wonderful times with our ex-spouses. Things just didn’t work out, but in the end, we both were blessed with terrific children, and we wouldn’t be who we are today without those experiences and past relationships.

And the simple acts of forgiveness and refusal to place blame have helped life go on without regrets and anger. While these acts are simple, I believe they are the most profound gifts we can give each other. I do know it’s hard—but if you’re in a situation like divorce or a family squabble or work-place disagreement, try them. They’ll make all the difference.

Moving into the Family Home - published 11/29/11

2011-12-09T17:20:00.000-08:00

During the last couple of months Jerry and I have been moving into a new home. Well, actually, it’s not new; built in 1945, it is about twenty years “newer” than the house from which we moved, so this one ain’t exactly “new.” This house I knew as my grandparents’, where my family came to every summer and most weekends of my life growing up. It’s ironic I live here now. As a teenager, I didn’t like coming here because I missed my friends in Kirkland, but now I can’t imagine living anywhere else.

For the last twenty-two years, the house has been my parents’ home, and I feel so fortunate--my kids had the privilege of living next door to their grandparents who are both gone now. My son and my dad were particularly close, often spending hours playing cribbage and watching “Matlock” reruns on television together. They refinished an old boat and Fred loved to talk to “Grandpa” about his WWII experiences and as a volunteer fireman in Kirkland. Dad had great stories about the Depression and growing up in Mount Vernon too.

My daughter, Jerae, also loved her grandparents, toddling over next door as soon as she was able. One time when I disciplined her for something she did (I don’t remember what it was!), she ran to her room, exclaiming, “I wish I had a NICE mother—like GRANDMA!” My poor mother. She had quite the time keeping up with her grandchildren. One time when she was playing soccer with Jerae at the bus stop, she chased the ball, battling against Jerae and somehow fell. She had the worst bruise I’ve ever seen on her leg, but after it healed, she continued to play, only not so competitively.

As I have moved our things into this old house, I see moments from my past and they always make me smile. When I see our television in the same spot my grandparents had theirs, I remember watching my cousin Bill on ABC News after the Alaskan earthquake in 1964. While Bill was being interviewed by the correspondent, I heard my Uncle Jack yell, “Blankity Blank Bill! Get down here and help me with these lamps!” Then I saw my tired, haggard uncle come up from a hole where their house had been. I yelled and yelled to my parents and grandmother, “Bill’s on T.V.! Bill’s on T.V.” and they ran in, amazed to see him and my uncle. We had just received a telegram stating that they had all survived, but lost their house.

I remember the Saturday nights we spent watching Lawrence Welk…“And a one and a two and a …” and then we’d hear the bubble popping and the unmistakable theme music. I loved the Lennon sisters. My favorite was Cathy, but I always got a kick out of Peggy, too. She had such animated facial expressions. I remember a tenor who always sang with Norma Zimmer, the “Champagne Lady.” For some reason, my dad didn’t like him and called him a name I can’t repeat here. Oh! And I LOVED JoAnn Castle. Could she pound the piano. She played songs on those ivories with such zest, happiness, and enthusiasm. My dream was to grow up and play the piano like she did. Too bad my piano teacher wanted me to only play Mozart and Bach.

When I walk upstairs, my favorite part of the house, I enter the “big bedroom” which takes up half the second story. I remember many a stormy night up there in bed! Today I have pictures of my son and daughter when they were little along with pictures of my grandmother grandfather, mom, and dad. My grandfather Fred Woodland is my son’s namesake, and I look at their two pictures together seeing a faint family resemblance. And I see my daughter with her beloved grandma and the great grandmother she never knew, and how I wish they could see her now.

Moving into this house has not been easy, however. We left our beloved home, the place we raised our children, my home for 35 years, the last 24 with my husband. It was more of a cabin than this home, but I loved the living room view and all the cupboards in the kitchen. Even though it was a bit funky, I had come to know the rhythms of the house and how to live in it. When I cooked, I knew where everything was and would open a drawer and get out the rubber spatula so easily, cooking like a maestro. Now I have to open at least four drawers to find one and I feel more like Mr. Magoo. I still don’t have all my own things in the kitchen, and I have to figure out what I want to keep and give away. My mom made me promise not to have a garage sale after she was gone, and consequently, many charities have been the recipients of duplicate items.

The dining room table brought over from the Philippines in the big dining room (I didn’t have a dining room in the other house) reminds me of many Christmases, Thanksgivings, and family celebrations. I still see my grandfather carving many turkeys or serving up his MYMers (Melt in Your Mouth pancakes). Now Jerry is there, resembling more and more the older we get, my big, tough, renegade of a grandfather who loved to fish, hunt, and serve food, just like Jerry.

And, for the first time in my life I’m living in a house with TWO bathrooms! Jerry took the one off our room, and mine is upstairs and I have cupboards for my make-up and toiletries, and most of the time no one is making it dirty again after I clean it! I love it.

I miss my parents and grandparents very much. So many times I wish I could talk to them. But my life will go on keeping them and their spirits in my heart and my home. My kids can come home to a house with two bathrooms and plenty of space for them to be comfortable. No one will have to sleep on the couch. And they will remember all the times with their grandparents too. I don’t mind searching a cupboard or two for a spatula in trade for that.

My Sister, Penny - Published October 25, 2011

2011-11-04T10:44:00.000-07:00

Growing up, I was the middle of three children, all daughters, and I’ve noticed a lot of books and articles about birth order in the media lately, but one thing I know without reading them is the oldest sibling is the trailblazer, often being the leader of whatever pack follows. My older sister, Penny Hutchison Buse, was certainly that for our family.

Being the next in line after her, I watched Penny deal with my parents through grade school, junior high, high school, and college. My father was unusually strict with her; by the time my younger sister and I came around the rules were quite a bit more relaxed. Thanks Pen!

Having Penny for an older sister was interesting. She always was dreaming up new games for us to play. Sitting on our front porch in Kirkland, she dreamed up the game of “school” where she would be the teacher, teaching me and the neighborhood kids lessons she had learned in school. I don’t know if she thought this up, but we played “Rock School” too, where the class would all sit on the bottom step, holding a rock we had placed in one of our hands when the “teacher’s” back was turned. The “teacher” would then face the class and choose one of the students and then touch the hand she thought held the rock. If she chose the wrong hand, that student moved up a step. The first student to the top became the teacher for the next cycle. I think we played that one for hours.

During our summers at Warm Beach, she created the “Warm Beach Choir” consisting of me, our little sister Marya, my cousin Lauri, and most of the younger Zeigen kids: Ann, Mary, and George. She taught us all sorts of songs, many Scottish for our father’s heritage, where we would sing, “I’ll take the high road, and you take the low road, and I’ll be in Scotland before yee!”

Another idea she had was to build a life-sized monopoly set where human beings would be the game pieces. It never was built, but the thought of it always fascinated me. Her head was always teeming with project possibilities.

Later on in life, Penny would create a life-sized chess game, with the help of her husband Mike, still at Port Susan Middle School, to honor the memory of one of her students who loved chess, but tragically died. To explain all the amazing projects my sister did during her forty year teaching career is daunting, but I’ll try to remember a few.

She and her middle school students created a book entitled What to Do When There’s Nothing to Do in Deadwood, a charming little “how-to” book for kids. Her husband Mike built a coffee stand outside Stanwood Middle School to raise money for field trips. She brought the African Children’s Choir to Stanwood, and she put on the “Possibilities” seminars for Lincoln Hill High School girls as well as “Day of the Dead” celebrations for the entire school.

She loved to help her students produce books, two I remember created with her love of history in mind. The first was a book of cemeteries. My sister loves them, because of the history they contain, so her Lincoln Hill High School students created a Cemetery Tour booklet highlighting the many cemeteries in our area. One Saturday they held a tour where students were available to answer questions people had who were touring the gravesites.

My favorite project she created was the Vanishing Voices book where her Lincoln Hill students set out to find all the area men and women who served in the military during World War II or whose lives were affected by it. They found many, many men and women, and the students met and interviewed them, and then wrote their stories in the book. At the time they wrote the book, nationally, a thousand servicemen from World War II were dying everyday. I know many people, including my parents, who are now gone, were very proud to have their story’s told.

Penny’s latest project, however, is perhaps her greatest accomplishment. Since Penny moved to Warm Beach after she and Mike were married in 1970, she has had a fascination of our beach’s history. Perhaps because some of the old pioneers of the place like Chuck Keitel, Don and Fran Geer, Dunk and Gwen Gainer, and Eva and Damon Ross were still alive, she was able to glean stories from them, and she started collecting bits and pieces of our local history.

She became an expert on platting and began to speak to surveyors when she studied the way C.D. Hillman, platted the lots of Warm Beach. Hillman also platted various places in Seattle, among them, the Greenlake area. She became fascinated with legends, like the one about a gold school bell that was discovered in the Warm Beach mudflats when our mother was a child. She literally traveled the world—to Australia and England--to discover our area’s secrets; for example, who Susan was in “Port Susan Bay” or how Vancouver’s boat became stuck in the mud flats down by Kayak Point.

Finally, after this 35 plus year quest a few years ago, Penny finally put her research to words and after a few years of writing, re-writing, checking, scanning photographs, learning to use a computer, my sister has published her 40-year project into a book: Stuck in the Mud: a History of Warm Beach. It is unlike most history books (read that “boring), in that she tells fascinating stories about her quest to discover events and tidbits about Warm Beach’s founders.

The book is available at the Snow Goose Bookstore and the Pearsoon House Museum. Proceeds from the book’s sale will go to the Pearson House Museum.

My life has gone on as the younger sister of Penny Buse. Fortunately for everyone who lives at Warm Beach and in the greater Stanwood/Camano community, she wrote this book to help all our lives go on with a sense of history and the knowledge of who we are and how we came to be.

Father Knows Best - Published October 4, 2011

2011-10-20T08:53:00.001-07:00

Sorry this is a late post. First I forgot my deadline for the first time in the four years I've been doing this, so the September column was not published until October 4 (too much going on--teaching, my husband's surgery, etc., I guess) and THEN, I forgot to publish to the blog. So, with apologies for my forgetfulness, here is the "end of September/first of October's" column~

When summer used to come to an end, I’m a bit ashamed to admit this, but I'd get quite depressed about going back to school. As much as I enjoyed teaching, I liked summer better. It was just hard to leave a life of no stress, getting up in the morning when you wanted to, having your biggest dilemma be deciding what to have for dinner to well, school. Up at 5:15AM, out the door after packing a lunch by 6:45AM (more often 7AM), rushing down Marine Drive, parking, running to my room, building up enthusiasm for the day, greeting the kids, being on my feet, using my voice. I didn't realize how physical teaching was until the end of the first week when my feet were killing me and my voice was gone. But usually by the end of the second week, I'd get into the rhythm and be fine. It took a little longer when the kids were young.

I do know most of you wouldn’t have felt sorry for me, especially those of you with full-time jobs who get very little time off, but such is the life of a teacher—especially those of us who were women with small children. I’m not going to apologize for teachers’ time off—most work ultra-hard and literally thousands of unpaid hours during the school year. Ask English teachers about their weekends—they’re usually correcting papers. But, I digress.

It's funny how tiny experiences can have such a profound impact on us. My tiny experience involved a single program of "Father Knows Best." Did you ever watch that show? It was about the fictional family of Jim and Margaret Anderson and their children Betty, Bud, and Kathy a.k.a “Kitten.” In this episode, Jim was working with this "career woman" and being a little too enthusiastic about it for his wife, Margaret. Margaret felt very dowdy and uninteresting and worried that Jim would be taken with the "career woman." She invited the "career woman" to dinner, and she felt very "out of it" while Jim and the "career woman" were talking and laughing away while eating Margaret's pot roast. She got up from the table and rushed into the kitchen, all sad and crying, and the "career woman" followed her to make sure she was all right. (Jim just sat at the table with a bewildered look on his face).

The "career woman" said, "Margaret, what's wrong?" and she said, "Oh, I'm so dull, and you're so bright, and I'm so sad," and the "career woman” said, “Oh Margaret, you have everything I want: a husband who loves you, three beautiful children, a lovely home. All Jim talks about is YOU. All I have is my work. You have a LIFE,” or something to that effect, and Jim rushes into the kitchen, and kisses her passionately and all is right with the world. Maybe I’m imagining the kissing part. In the 50’s, I’m not sure that they allowed passionate kissing on t.v., especially on a situation comedy.

I think I was eight years old watching this thinking, “Man, I don’t want to be a ‘career woman.’” I read somewhere that women born between like, 1947 to 1957 were the most likely people in the history of the world to get divorced. I think it’s because the rules changed midstream for us.

When my ex-husband entered law school, I remember wanting to join the “wives’ club” and we’d make cookies for “the guys” when they were studying. Ack! Every time I think of that I cringe. It turns out that over l/3 of the class members were women, and most of them were pretty tough broads who were at least 10 years older than I was and quite savvy (I was going to say hardened, but that’s too harsh) about the ways of the world in 1973. I learned a lot from them and got quite a personal education that challenged and changed my view of the world. I appreciate the time I spent with them.

I became a career woman, not necessarily by choice, but by necessity. Eventually, I became a single-mother, and it was hard, but I was proud to be able to support my son and myself. As stressful as teaching could be, I loved to plan lessons and for every student who was a disciplinary problem, I had ten students who were joys. My job was always intellectually stimulating, and the friendships I forged with staff members have been strong and life-long.

But, when the kids were little, I did hate to leave them. One woman in a grocery store said to me when I had my son in the shopping cart, “How do you leave him everyday? I could NEVER leave my children.”

I wanted to say, “I’m a heartless witch,” but I just sort of wilted and said, “It’s hard.”

Young women today “seem” to be able to handle it all, and husbands seem to be more aware of the need to share the duties, but my guess is it’s still very difficult. I just know that most people are trying to do the best they can.

My life has gone on, during the early years of the women’s movement and the questioning and difficulties change brings. I survived. The vast majority of us do. But life brings us challenges and sometimes they can be compounded by the times in which we grow up. My challenge was to realize that yes, I ended up a career woman, but I’m better for it—and my family is, too.

Mrs. Ordal - published August 24, 2011

2011-08-31T07:47:00.000-07:00

Life Goes On - Mrs. Ordal

As a former teacher, I hate to say this, but I was not the greatest student. I have always felt I had a glitch in my learning abilities, especially when it came to memorization and math. I struggled at both.

But, reading and writing were another matter. It wasn’t that I was the best at either of them. I just didn’t, as kids today say, “suck” at them. That is, until I had Gladys Ordal, my favorite high school English teacher, probably my favorite teacher ever.

Mrs. Ordal’s first job was actually here in Stanwood. Because she knew my family spent a lot of time at my grandmother’s in Warm Beach, she always talked about how much she liked it up here. When I had Mrs. Ordal, I think she was probably in her 40’s or 50’s. She had a daughter who got married the year after I had her. But I thought back then she was in her 60’s or 70’s.

She had five different suits in almost the same style (a jacket and skirt), one in pink, one green, another blue, another black, and finally one that was red. She would wear one suit for the whole week, changing only the blouse. She wore very sensible black shoes. I was fascinated with her wardrobe.

She wore black, maybe brown, glasses that had rhinestones in the rims and every hair was in place. She wore it short, parted in the middle with these two curls coming off that part, turning in to create bangs. I don’t remember her smiling a lot, but when she did, it was like the room interrupted in sunshine.

She was very no-nonsense—the opposite of me—but I just loved her. Everyone talked about how tough she was, but I didn’t think she was—how could she be? She always liked my writing. On one of my papers she gave me an A++. I couldn’t believe it. I stared at that grade forever, thinking it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. I couldn’t believe someone would think I was that good.

Of course my mom and my dad always told me I was beautiful and funny and smart and talented, but they didn’t count. They HAD to tell me that. They were my parents. But Mrs. Ordal counted. She didn’t have to tell me anything, and of all my teachers, her encouragement meant the most to me.

She taught me the importance of plain old positive reinforcement. She made me feel safe, and I loved being in her class. I kept trying and I wanted to improve for her. Even the tough guys with long hair (remember, this was the 60’s) liked her and respected her.

I remember one sixth-period class when I was the teacher and a sophomore boy gave me the biggest compliment of my career. He said, “Oh. Sixth period. I love it here. I feel safe in here.” Wow. I wanted to cry.

It’s funny. I was a teacher for 33 years, and I spent time in countless in-services and classes studying the latest educational fad when really, all I had to do was remember the lessons of Gladys Ordal. Not so much the English lessons, though those were excellent, but the lessons in the importance of nurturing, dignity and respect, encouragement, and in feeling safe.

Today we live in the age of “RAISE THE STANDARDS.” Teachers are told to RAISE THE STANDARDS and GET RESULTS. I worry that sometimes this dictum forgets that we are working with human beings. Fear and worry and stress do not lead to superior educational outcomes.

One time, a very wise, older teacher told me, “Hey. Get over here. I’ll let you in on the secret.”

I said, “What’s that?”

She whispered, “Lower your standards.”

I howled. But I understood what she meant. No standard is worth instilling fear into a human being. No standard should take away from the dignity and respect of a human being.

Don’t get me wrong. I do not believe that we should reward students for something they did not earn. And Gladys Ordal was a taskmaster. The thing is, she taught so well, she made it easy and fun—or it seemed easy.

I was often told that I was an easy teacher, and at first I felt insulted, but then I would view it as a compliment. Just as much, kids said that I gave too much WORK (for you older readers, pronounce that as Maynard G. Krebs would). One student said, who had sniffed earlier in the year that I “was easy,” (Hmmmmm. Maybe I should have taken more offense after all!), later said, “Mrs. Kelly—you never let up!”

I said, “I thought I was easy.”

“You are, but you’re not, too.”

I just said, “Well, thank you.” She rolled her eyes. She also was one who earned an A++ later on in the year.

So much has been made about “raising the standards” in education over the years—and all those tests. Sometimes I think “No Child Left Behind” left everyone behind. But instead of talking standards all the time at kids, life would go on better if we didn’t worry about them so much, and instead worked on making kids feel that they can do anything they want to accomplish, and that schools and teachers are here, not to hinder in their goals, but to find ways to achieve them. Just like Gladys Ordal did for me. No one can ever take that A++ away from me.

Have a great start to the school year everyone!

Joining Organizations - published July 26, 2011

2011-08-19T07:50:00.000-07:00

I am not a very good “joiner.” At various times in my life, I have been asked, and even tried myself, to join various organizations. I often join them, but my enthusiasm wanes when people start calling me to get active.

I think it goes back to Blue Birds and Camp Fire Girls. “Girls” isn’t in the name anymore since the organization went “Co-ed” in 1975 with the advent of Title 9, but back when I was a member, it was girls only. We had fun, meeting at various houses where mothers took yearly turns as our leader.

We made crafts and did different projects to earn beads to sew on our little navy blue felt vests in various designs. I loved the beads and worked hard to get the ones that represented the different “crafts” and areas of expertise: orange for home craft, the main color of the fire because the home is the center of life; red for health, or red blood (kind of an unsettling thought there); brown, camp craft, the color of the woods (though I thought green would be a better color for the woods); green, hand craft for creation and growing things; blue for nature crafts, representing blue sky; yellow for business representing gold; and red, white, and blue for patriotism and citizenship.

The prettiest beads were the blue ones and also seemed hardest to get. As I recall, they were more “science-oriented” and I struggled to earn them.

In fifth grade, I remember attending the greater Kirkland Council Fire in the gym at the old Kirkland Junior High School, the school above the terraces next to the corner of Kirkland Avenue and Market Street for those of you who know the area (Sadly, the school and gym burned down a few decades years ago).

Our job, before we went, was to sew all our beads on our felt vests and being a procrastinator, I was struggling to get it done before the 5pm start. My mom, who had just started her first year of teaching, had been too busy to help me—at least I thought so, and besides, I believed that I should to do it myself.

I have always struggled with small motor skill tasks and had a terrible time just threading the needle; tying the knots at the end of the thread where I secured the beads was impossible. So, I came up with the ingenious idea of using scotch tape to secure the ends of the thread.

It worked—until we started dancing around the Council Fire. There we all were—with every Camp Fire group from all the elementary schools in Kirkland dancing around the fake fire with this very large woman singing the Wohelo (Work, Health, Love) song in a big, booming, operatic voice, while my beads began to fall all over the floor. I learned the hard way that Scotch tape and felt do not mix.

Instead of doing the dance, I was down on my hands and knees trying to pick up my beads as they fell off my vest. It’s quite funny now that I think about it, but it was so sad then. Hearing the clatter of those beads fall to the floor was just horrifying. My mom and older sister, up in the audience, thought it was the funniest thing they had ever seen, but they did feel sorry for me later.

Not one bead was adhered to my vest at the end. Thank heavens I had pockets in my skirt because they were “filled to the gills.”

I’d like to think this incident has made me afraid of joining organizations, but in actuality, as a middle-aged adult approaching senior citizenship, I think my reluctance has more to do with a desire to just stay home—or maybe laziness, but I like to think it’s the latter. I just don’t want to go to meetings. Ah!! Maybe that’s it! Meetings!!

Let’s say I’m not a fan of them. I think that goes back to my years as a teacher. Once, maybe twice a month, we were in meetings and I never remember one that really accomplished anything. I was on several attendance committees, and our efforts were never put into place. We rewrote the Language Arts curriculum countless times in my thirty-one years at the high school. I’m not sure we ever finished.

I do have hope for my organization-avoidance though. A little over a year ago, Jerry and I joined the Warm Beach Community Club, and I love it so far. We play Bunco once a month and have worked at Summerfest. I told Gordon Riggs, the then-president, “I want to join, but don’t ask me to head a committee. I just want to be a worker.”

Lots of organizations make life go on better for so many people—the Relay for Life, Kiwanis, and the Lions Club are good examples. I even learned some things in Campfire. But as I’ve grown older, I’ll leave the leadership positions to others—and please, don’t ask me to sew beads and take part in a ceremony of some sort. I’ve already done that!

Teaching Again - published June 28, 2011

2011-07-07T06:52:00.001-07:00

The last two months, I have had the pleasure and honor of substitute teaching four classes combined of juniors and seniors (“Sports Literature and Composition” and “Speech and Debate”) in addition to a Freshman English class. At first I was pooped and tired and there were some adjustments, but by the end of the year, I was enjoying teaching again, and feel I bonded with my students, er, well, most of them—98% of them! There have been those moments teaching where I’ve wondered why I ever chose the profession in the first place (a few discipline problems, kids testing me), but those truly have been rarities. When people say kids aren’t like they used to be, I’ve found they are very much like they used to be; maybe even better.

They’re fun and funny, and some are downright hilarious. What I like about teaching is that I know I’m going to laugh sometime during the day. Alec Althusias, a senior this year, gave a hilarious speech on not legalizing marijuana. I had tears in my eyes from laughing so hard. It ranked right up there with Leigh Armstrong Danielson’s (Class of ’91) Potato Speech. I almost died laughing playing a game of Pictionary with Trever Pedroza who was unbelievably, but hilariously competitive. I also had Dexter Charles, the football player attending the UW next year. I challenged him to an arm wrestling contest and won by default. He was afraid I might beat him and refused the challenge! Some might argue that he feared breaking my arm, but what do they know?

When I was a “real” teacher, I was never asked to give a graduation speech, and secretly (well, it’s not so secret anymore, is it?) I always wanted to. While shy, for some reason, I like to give speeches, perhaps because I was originally a speech major and I do love to talk, a good trait for a teacher! I’d like to give one now. If I could, this is what I’d say to my graduating seniors:

My mom always used to sing a song to my sisters and me. “There are two little magic words that will open up the door with ease. One little word is thanks and the other little word is please.” That song has served me well in the world. If I could give you any advice as you graduate and go (travel?) out in the world, it would very simply be, “Be nice. Say “please.” Remember to say “thank you.”

Being nice to people—all people—will take you far. For those of you planning to attend college or any type of school for further training—be nice, and yes, even be nice to your college professors, teachers, and mentors. Some of them may come across as being unapproachable and a little scary. That’s o.k. Just smile and be nice anyway. Even compliment them. Ask them questions; show them you really value their knowledge and wisdom. Learn from them. They are there to teach you, to help you, not serve as an obstacle to your dreams. If you treat them with courtesy and respect, ironically you’ll also learn to even like them, and you’ll be rewarded with their praise and encouragement. Your reward will be a further belief in your own worth.

Be nice to your fellow students; they are your colleagues. Help someone who doesn’t understand an assignment. Offer your notes to someone who was sick and may have missed class. They’re not your competitors. To use a metaphor my dad used to say, “We’re all in the same boat. We sink or swim together.” You never know when a fellow student might help you obtain a job down the line, but more importantly, it’s just the right thing to do.

If you secure a job right out of high school, good for you! Be nice to anyone with whom you work or who might serve as your supervisor. The smartest person is not always the one who advances. More often it’s the person who is polite, courteous, respectful, and diligent. Acting in such a manner, you’ll be seen as a leader and a person who motivates people and brings them together toward a common goal.

And should you plan on entering the military, be nice as well. I suspect even the most obnoxious drill sergeant can be brought around with kindness and courtesy. However, having never been in the military, I can’t be sure of that. Just do what they tell you to do!

My life has gone on with those two little words, please and thanks. Please use them.

So, that’s what I might have said had I been asked to speak. However, a few weeks ago I had an epiphany of sorts. I was leaving school when I ran into one of my debate students, Meghan Verbarendse, who was starting a run with the cheerleading squad to get in shape for next year, when she said, “Mrs. Kelly! Are you doing better now?” (earlier I had been having a physically challenging “senior” moment) and looking at Meghan so happy and full of youth and life, I said, “Don’t get old Meghan.”

Then driving home I thought, “No! No! Get old Meghan! Get old! Get very old!”

So that’s another piece of advice I would give them. Get old.

Of course I mean, “Get old gracefully and take care of yourself, etc. etc”. But my wish for all of my students would be for them to get old and be nice. That’s how I hope my life goes on.

Being around these kids after four years away has been a bittersweet time for me. I don’t think I ever want to teach for an entire year again (I have too many other things to do), but this little stint has been fun and rewarding. So, I’d like to thank ALL my students for putting up with me and being who they are. I’ve learned from every one of you. Special congratulations to the Class of 2011!

I’d also like to make a correction to last month’s soccer column! In the list of fellow players, I left out Faye Richardson, our wonderful goalie who contributed immensely to our team’s success!

Playing Soccer - Published May 31, 2011

2011-06-08T06:13:00.000-07:00

Last summer with the world cup going on, I went through a period of time when I really missed the days when I was a soccer player. Today it’s worse, because it’s spring (I think. You wouldn’t know it from the weather lately), and March through June was the Over-30 women’s soccer season. I first started playing soccer in 1986, a year after a group of women in Stanwood started playing on an Over-30 team called “The Silver Streaks.” Jerry King was our coach, and what a fun time we had.

It was the first time I had ever had the experience of being part of a team and wearing a uniform, and I was just happy to be on the sidelines watching, but Jerry often kept putting me in as a defensive player, and while I was nervous as all get-out, it was exhilarating and thrilling, even when we lost, but oh, so much better when we won. I loved our silver and purple uniforms the best—just putting it on was a rush for me.

Graduating from high school in 1970, I didn’t get the benefits of Title 9. I never got to participate in a sport like soccer or basketball or volleyball, other than in P.E. class. I didn’t know what I was missing until I got to wear that uniform. It was so much fun! And I loved the camaraderie that developed between me and the other players. While I have never been a fan of exercise, this exercise was fun and thrilling. I remember when I first started playing, I thought I was going to die, but the more I played, the more my body adjusted, and at times, I felt I could play forever.

When a day at school had not gone well, I remember getting on that field and visualizing an administrator, parent, or kid with whom I was having trouble, and every time I kicked the ball, it was like I was kicking them. It felt good, and I hope allowed me to vent my frustration in a positive way.

But the best part was the friendships I made playing soccer, and by the way, I married my second coach, also named Jerry!

After our Silver Streaks season, more and more women wanted to play, and so we split into two teams, one playing in the “B” league, the other in the “D” league. I played in the “D” league. At the time adult soccer had these different leagues, depending on the players’ abilities, with “A” having the best players. You get the picture, I hope.

I stayed at the “D” level because while I did love the game, I’m still not fond of exercise, and I didn’t feel I ran fast enough or was skilled enough to play at a higher level. So, we “D” players started searching for a coach. I had just happened to begin dating a P.E./Coach person so my friend Pat Logen called me up to ask if Jerry Kelly would consider coaching us. I asked him and he said, after a bit of hemming and hawing, that he would!

Our first practice took place in a field behind the old Thrifty Foods store. It’s also where we played games. I loved it there. We all showed up: me, Pat, Audrey Elefson, Colleen Pearson, Jody Malean, Debbie Rice, Wendy Hessler, Randy Kalendarian, Judy Ovenell, Mary Oserhoff, Shirley Bucholtz, Beth Beck, Trish Parks, and Gail Olsen.

Jerry put us through a variety of running and ball handling exercises and after practice I was in my car sitting in the driver’s seat, having a coughing fit, thinking I might have a heart attack, when my friend Audrey, who I had just met in one of the funniest parent-conferences I had ever had as a teacher, stood outside my car, smoking a cigarette. She said, “Man, I smoke, and I’m older, and I’m doing better than you are,” and I wanted to say, “Shut up, bi…” but I just managed something like, “Yes you are. Cough! Cough! Cough!”

Actually, I thought Audrey was so cool, and I wanted to be her friend, so I never would have called her the bad name I was thinking.

Eventually, I got over my coughing fits and started to get in shape, at least the best shape a “D” Over-30 women’s soccer player can get. What fun we had. Our team’s name was the “Sea Goals,” a tribute to seagulls, the “Seagals,” (who we all resembled-hah!) and all the goals we scored.

One time when we were about to start a game, we were in a circle talking when I confessed that I had a problem on the field. When I got excited I tended to well…leak, evidently not doing my kegel exercises, my nurse practioner friend Peggy Svendsen encouraged me to do.

One of the players said, “Oh, I wear a pad for every game. It gives me so much confidence,” and for some reason, we all burst out into laughter. She was sooooo serious. Maybe you had to be there. But I did wear a pad the rest of my soccer playing days!

Hope that’s not too much information!

Playing soccer was exhilarating, and I loved being part of a team with women I loved. We actually won the Snohomish County “D” league that year!

My life has gone on not playing soccer, but I do miss playing it myself. In subsequent years, I did get to enjoy it again vicariously through my daughter who played for several select teams and the high school. Her high school team lost the state championship game her senior year, but what a season that was! It’s a wonderful game. And my life has gone on much better for having played it and learned it.

American football? Nah! Futball rules!

Warm Beach Agate Angel - Published April 26, 2011

2011-05-07T16:38:00.000-07:00

During the 35 years I’ve lived at Warm Beach full time, agate hunting has always been something to do when walking along the water. In the last few years, our neighborhood has developed a friendly agate rivalry and about a year ago, I found the biggest agate I've ever seen. I had always dreamed of finding an agate as big as my fist and this was it. Weighing in at seven ounces, I showed it to everyone I could, mostly because I knew they would be green with agate envy.

I bragged and boasted and was not a gracious "Biggest Agate Finder of the Neighborhood" title-holder. To make matters worse in terms of my bravado, shortly after I found the biggest agate, I found another one, this one three and a half ounces, but still grand, and I continued to boast. People tried to be happy for me, but now that I look back, it must have been hard for them. Frankly, it would have been very difficult for me.

So, of course time has a way of making "corrections" in matters pertaining to the universe, and one day, I heard my neighbor Debbie and her friend Samantha screaming my name with excitement and I looked out my kitchen window and saw them holding this gigantic rock. I thought, "Oh poop," ran outside and over the fence saw the biggest darned agate I have ever seen. When we weighed it, it was nine ounces, beating my measly one by two ounces.

I half-heartedly, but in good neighborly spirit, said, "Well, good for YOU!" To make matters worse, she had found it at the base of our stairs to the beach. The sun was high in the sky, and Debbie had walked past our stairs, but Samantha was behind and called her for what reason we don’t know, and Debbie looked back, seeing the sun hit the agate right at a chipped spot, showing an iridescent glow. How many times I had walked over it, I don’t know.

Have you ever seen that old movie, "Journey to the Center of the Earth"? I'll never forget the part where James Mason takes his fellow earth journeyers to a spot in the mountains at exactly the right time of the century when the sun marks the entrance to the center of the earth. From what Debbie described, finding the agate was like that. It seemed like God led it to her.

Tim Teague, another friendly hunter, also found a gorgeous, beautiful yellow colored agate that, while three ounces smaller than mine, was more pure in its translucence and much smoother to the touch. I was jealous of that one too.

But, regardless of translucence and beauty I became "Second and Fourth Biggest Agate Finder of the Neighborhood." I came to terms with it. And I learned how to be more gracious in my agate finding, because Debbie was certainly more humble than I. Tim not so much. (Just kidding Tim!)

In February, Debbie called me again, this time saying she had a gift for me and asked me if I could meet her at the fence. Well, Debbie is the best gift giver ever, and so I got a coat and shoes on and bounded outside.

I wondered what on earth she could give me.

When I met her in the freezing cold, but gorgeous day, she reached into her pocket and brought out undoubtedly, the clearest, gold colored, gorgeous, glorious agate I have ever seen. She gave it to me. I held it like I might hold the Hope Diamond if I ever got the opportunity. I said, "Debbie," with wonder, and then I continued, "you want to give this to ME?'

"I do. I found it on your property and I couldn't believe it when I found it. It was just peaking out of the sand, completely alone, and the sun just shined down on it. I knew I had to give it to you."

I almost cried and said, "I can't take this..."

And she said, "Yes you can," and then I immediately said (before she could change her mind), "O.K.!"

It weighs five ounces! But I do believe of all the agates, it is by far the most beautiful. So now, I own the second and third largest agates of Warm Beach again, a translucent beauty, and while I didn't find this one in the sand, it came from the heart and generosity of my wonderful neighbor, and I've been on a high ever since. It’s my favorite of all my agates, even though I didn’t find it.

Debbie had been telling others in the neighborhood about the agate, and one of our other agate hunters, Ann Smith, said laughing, “I suppose Jennifer will be on my beach with shovels looking for them!” (Actually I've thought of a bulldozer, but don't tell them.)

However, I have decided that Debbie is not JUST the “Biggest Agate Finder of the Neighborhood,” but the “Warm Beach Agate Angel.”

My life goes on with neighbors like all of these wonderful “hunters.” I often wonder--how could I be so lucky? I guess it’s like those signs on the houses around here—“If you’re lucky to live at the beach, you’re lucky enough.”

A Post Script: Shortly after I wrote this column, Ann Smith called me up very excitedly and brought up a small boulder for me to see. It was so big, we put it on a searchlight and it gleamed with that glorious agate glow. We took it over to Debbie, and in her ever-present graciousness, she was thrilled for Ann. I, however…well…imagine Gollum in The Lord of the Rings. “We wants it, we needs it. Must have the precious.” Just kidding, sort of. By the way, that rock weighed two and three-quarters pounds! Ann keeps saying, “We just have to think BIG!” Ain’t that the truth?!

The Library - published March 29, 2011

2011-04-07T10:32:00.000-07:00

I remember my first visit to the library. I was about five years old, and that place was a wonder. The Kirkland library was small at the time. It was in the Old City Hall downtown, but all the walls were nothing but bookshelves filled to the brim with books, and I thought it was a miracle that we could go in there and get books for free! I checked out “A Fly Went By,” by Mike McClintock, and oh how I loved that book. I read it over and over again. My mom, bless her heart, took my sisters and me to the library all the time.

My aunt, Geneva Hutchison, was actually the librarian at my elementary school, and her influence still resonates with me today. I remember in second grade, after viewing the movie, “The Wizard of Oz,” on television, I just had to read the book. I checked it out, read it, loved it, and both my aunt and my mother thought I was a genius. Another book my aunt recommended when I was older was The Pink Dress by Anne Alexander. That was my first teenage-girl book, where the heroine, Sue falls in love with Dave and I just went to another world of “big girl” (junior high!) romance. I looked for it on Amazon.com recently, and it sells for $250 to $750! Don’t think I’ll be buying it soon!!

My aunt started a Norkirk Elementary School Library Club and we had so much fun talking about books and working in the library for her. My best friend of 54 years, Sharon Turpin, is an elementary school librarian today because of Aunt Geneva’s influence.

When my nephew was around ten years old, he entered a local radio station’s essay contest. The theme? “What the Constitution Means to Me.” He gave many answers in his essay, but one of the most profound ideas he wrote was, “I can go to the library and check out any book I want.” I remember reading that statement and thinking, “Wow. That’s so true,” and I thought about how amazing it was, living in a country where the government not only encourages free thought, but provides the books for free, borrowed of course, to all of its citizens to promote it!

That thought led me to think about all the librarians and what they do as protectors of our ability to think and speak freely, how they support the exchange of ideas and protect our right to know by their fight against censorship and people who might like to limit what people read. It makes me realize our librarians are some of the most powerful, as well as the most important people in our society.

I worry about our libraries lately. With the funding crisis in our schools and government, unfortunately, our libraries have been affected. Our elementary schools don’t have full-time “Aunt Genevas” to inspire and encourage our students to read. Our middle schools don’t even have any “Aunt Genevas.”

Our town library struggles to keep up with our population’s need, and almost miraculously they have done do, but not without the Sno-Isle staff taking a one year wage freeze rather than sacrifice the collection. Talk about dedication! Our community did pass a levy lid lift issue, but the trustees have kept the budget tight—so while funds are not necessarily dwindling, it doesn’t extend to extra programming; however, they have been able to acquire extra computers and materials for job seekers.

The job of extra programming has been adopted by The Stanwood/Camano Friends of the library, a group that has traditionally funded children’s programming, updated furniture in the children’s and teen’s sections, and provided toys like Mr. Bear. They would like to do more adult programs.

This group, spear-headed by the dynamic, energetic Bonnie Thielke, the “Friend’s” President, has done an incredible job of supervising an on-going book sale and a spring book sale that brings thousands of dollars to our local library. She and other “Friends” volunteer at our library, helping to ease the work burden of our library staff. Since Camano Island now has its own “Friends” group, our Stanwood library’s group has dwindled. They are looking for more “Friends” to help support our town library.

To that end, they are sponsoring a free, fun activity for all you poets out there and just for those of you who like or love poetry—the Stanwood Community Poetry Slam being held 7PM April 12 at the top floor of the Leatherheads Pub and Eatery, 10209 270^th St. N.W., Stanwood WA. Interested participants may perform as an individual (or with a team) your own, original poetry judged by people pulled from the audience. Judges will score your performance and poetry on a scale of 1-10 and hopefully the audience will join in with yays or boos—to the judges, not the performers! It should be a rollicking good time. Information on the Friends of the Library will be provided. I sure plan to attend.

My life has gone on, for the better, thanks to the role libraries have played in my life. By the way, my nephew won first place in the contest—a trip with his parents to Washington, D.C. I can’t help but believe it’s that line about libraries that won it for him.

Please email me at jnnfr.kelly@gmail.com if you have any comments or questions!

Gardening and Sewing--Published February 22

2011-03-07T06:15:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I think there is something wrong with me and that I’m not “normal.” I don’t like to spend my past time doing the hobbies other women do, specifically gardening and sewing. I often times think I should have been born in New York City and been an apartment dweller, who never has to worry about a yard and doesn’t have room for a sewing table—just a chair where I can watch television and read books and a few other incidentals.

Both my mom and grandmother were gardeners. I loved my grandmother’s snapdragons. I thought they were the prettiest flowers, and I used to sit on the edge of her garden and imagine they were little dragons, each with their own personality. They fought with each other, complained about having to be so close to each other all the time, and I would take the “mouth” part of the flower and open them up to imagine fire breathing out of them. I loved to play with them; I just didn’t want to weed them.

My mom used to spend hours on her knees, her back bent over, weeding the garden at our house in Kirkland. She hated slugs. I secretly loved them—not the slugs so much, but the killing of them. Mom killed them in two ways—cutting them in half with scissors-- which was a little too violent for me--and putting salt on them. Now I liked that. Seeing those creatures shrivel up with that salt coating was fun and amazing. However, I was banned from that job after I used up one Morton Salt container on a couple slugs.

I do love flowers. I love a well-manicured garden and appreciate the end products of gardening: fresh produce to eat and just the beauty and colors of dahlias, daisies, daffodils, tulips, lilies, and roses.

My husband is a gardener and a tomato grower-extraordinaire. For three months each year, we eat the most heavenly tomatoes in all kinds of different shapes and sizes, all in amazing colors of red, yellow, and orange. He also grows beans and onions. He cans the beans along with several jars of pears from the tree each year. I feel I should be doing that and more importantly, LIKING to do it, but I don’t. I’d just as soon buy a can of beans and pears at the store. However, I do admit I love his tomatoes. The store tomatoes cannot compare.

I actually have tried being a gardener, working in the dirt. It happened in the 80’s when Claire Huxtable came home on “The Cosby Show” with a bunch of seeds and plants, and she eloquently made a speech about how wonderful it was to dig in the dirt, plant a seed, and nurture it until it grew into a splendid plant, fruit, or vegetable. She got me going with her dulcet tones. I went to the store and bought seeds and perennials and spent a day burying them into the ground and trying to feel that “Earth Mother Claire Huxtable thing.”

I mostly got a backache. It’s also when I learned I had a “black thumb.” I either watered too much or not enough. Some plants became mildewed; others dried out into a brittle mess. Instead of reaping what I sowed in the fall, I became the “Plant Grim Reaper.”

So rather than killing more innocent plants and seeds, I decided to leave the garden to my more nurturing husband.

Sewing is another thing I have tried several times and not necessarily failed at, but just not enjoyed doing. I think it started with my high school Home Economics class. When we made our first sewing project, an apron, I accidentally cut mine in half.

Don’t ask me how. I was just dangerous with scissors. My teacher, a very kind woman, helped me fix it, and mine just had a VERY big extra seam, but I just felt like such a big loser next to the other girls and their seamless aprons.

We also made “a shift,” a straight-styled, sleeveless dress. My mother and I shopped for material and I bought this kelly green cotton with PINK polka dots on it. I still don’t know what I was thinking. When I put it on, the darts made it look like I had one of those Madonna cone bras on, and simply put, it wasn’t the most attractive dress I’ve ever worn!

Today women are really getting back into sewing and material in a big way with the popularity of quilt making. I have several friends who are “quilters,” and I love to go to quilt shops with them and look at all the beautiful fabric, but other than two quilts I made with 12-inch squares, I really haven’t gotten “into” the movement.

That’s not to say I don’t have opinions on the subject. I go crazy at the Stanwood/Camano Fair because I never understand the quilt judging. Some of the most absolutely, gorgeous quilts get second place red ribbons, and I know they must not have clean, square corners somewhere, but come on! Anything that looks “sew” beautiful (sorry, I couldn’t resist the pun) and takes that much work should get one of the super duper big ribbons with “Best in Show” printed on them.

I guess I’m just “an appreciator.” I appreciate a beautiful garden and wonderful sewing projects, and that’s just the way my life goes on. Which is O.K. I think. Someone has to do it, and that’s just fine with me!

Facebook - Published February 1, 2011

2011-02-09T11:40:00.000-08:00

About a year and a half ago, my daughter signed me up on Facebook. I was with her the whole time, giving her answers to my interests, favorite books, and whatever else they asked, but I felt a little uncomfortable. It was like I was giving away secrets to the world. Like, who cares that To Kill a Mockingbird is my favorite book, although a couple thousand students I taught over thirty years already know that!

When I was a little girl, my friends, Lisa and Patty, and I went down to Juanita Park to play for a day and when we walked home, we did a bad thing. We took a pencil we found on the ground and wrote our names on the side of Art’s Food Center in downtown Juanita, a “suburb” of Kirkland.

Lisa wrote, “Lovely Lisa,” and Patty wrote, “Pretty Patty.” I wrote, “Jennifer Junkyard.” I guess that tells you something about my self-image at the age of 11! We felt so devilish, being harbingers of today’s graffiti artists, though you could barely read our names in the faint pencil script.

My mom, however, could. When she and I drove to Art’s one afternoon a few days after our vandalism, Mom parked right at the spot where we had scrawled our nicknames. She turned and looked at me as only a mother can and said, “Fool’s names and fool’s faces always appear in public places.”

Maybe that’s why I feel like an exhibitionist on Facebook.

My kids say, “But Mom, you write a column—and even have a BLOG now.” But that seems different. I don’t know why.

Another problem with Facebook, at least for me, is that I become dull when I try to write something on it. Some people write such clever, cute things. My niece Katie for example, wrote during a hot spell we had in the summer, “Dear Summer Heat Wave – Don’t get me wrong, I’m a huge fan of yours, but as for sleep, I’d rather chill with Mr. Cold,” and I just write something like, “It sure is hot.”

As a former English teacher, I feel compelled to make sure I write grammatically correct sentences, and one time I posted a sentence with a misplaced modifier. I just freaked, and of course immediately corrected it with another post. Like my friend former high school librarian JoAnn Olsson says, “It’s interesting how you find all kinds of things wrong with your postings after you push that button.”

People post pictures of their families and trips and adventures. I love seeing them. But I feel uncomfortable publishing mine. I have published a few, but I still feel weird. Maybe it goes back to my graffiti experience.

One great experience I had, though, was when I found a moth on the beach during one of my walks. I took a picture of it on my cell phone, sent it to my son, who was able to send it to my email; then, I posted it on Facebook, asking my “friends” if they had ever seen anything like it. It was a fantastic moth—an orange body with white wings and brown and black spots.

My cousin Lauri from Alaska who is a retired school librarian suggested a site in Mississippi of moth and butterfly photographers. I sent the picture to its web master and within two hours I had an answer! It was an Arctia Caja, not common around here, but not unheard of either.

I’ve also found it to be a fast news source. I have heard about accidents, sadly four deaths of local people, a fire in town, but some great things too: friends on trips, births, new houses, new employment, movie recommendations, exercise information, and accomplishments of my Facebook friends and/or their children.

My son and daughter have kept their friendships from high school due to Facebook, and I have reconnected with many of my high school and childhood friends. That’s been fun. I’ve found out about their jobs, families, homes, political beliefs, and seen pictures of them. In a couple cases, we have corresponded via the private chat feature.

I’m also in contact with several of my former Stanwood High School students, and I love to hear from them and to learn about what they are doing and thinking. I found my favorite student from my first year of teaching at White River High School and she had just received her doctorate in education from Harvard! She became a teacher, and I was so proud when she was thrilled to hear from me.

As a baby boomer, I have been slow to embrace technology. During the first word processing class I took as a teacher, my hand literally shook from fright when I went to put that old, black floppy disk in the hard drive slot. I don’t know why I was scared—maybe that it might explode or something.

I took so long to learn things. Some people just got the hang of it right off the bat. They’d try to teach me. “Here. Just type this command and then push this button and after you see that, type “A” and put the cursor here and push that….” AURGH!! I just couldn’t keep up.

It’s like some brains are just hard wired into the computer age. Watching my son and daughter whir around the computer is amazing, and I’m not bad for an old broad, but I still have a ways to go.

I just went to sign up for Twitter. They asked me what I wanted for my Twitter name. All I could think of was “Jennifer.”

Oh. Oh. Brain Freeze. Life will go on whether I become an expert at these new communication tools or not, but I can’t help thinking that it might be more exciting if I keep trying!

In the interest of full disclosure, my son now works at Facebook, but he didn’t when I first wrote this column. Also, again, I’d love to hear from people about the column. Please email me at jnnfr.kelly@gmail.com if you have any questions, comments, or thoughts!

"Our Town" Moments - Published December 28, 2010

2011-01-07T05:50:00.000-08:00

My favorite play is probably one of the most sparse, simple plays ever produced—“Our Town” by Thornton Wilder. The play has no scenery--only tables, chairs, and ladders to represent the homes and scenery of the play. Wilder wanted the audience to see their own homes and neighborhoods when they watched the play.

It has stuck with me ever since I first read it in 1968.

The play is told from the view point of a “Stage Manager,” who makes comments to the audience about the goings-on of two families: the Gibbs and Webbs. The main character, Emily Webb, is the person we watch growing up, falling in love, and finally, dying. In the third act, the Stage Manager allows Emily to go back and relive her 12^th birthday, and while all the dead people surrounding her in the Grover’s Corner cemetery tell her not to do it, she goes anyway.

And it’s just too much for her to bear. She’s sees her little brother, knowing he dies of appendicitis on a camping trip. She tries talking to her mother who is busily preparing for the day. Her mother goes to give Emily her birthday gifts and all she wants is for Momma to stop and look at her. She hears her poppa yell, “Where’s my birthday girl?” and she suddenly pleads to the stage manager to take her back.

She asks the Stage Manager, “"Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it?—every, every minute?" and he tells her, “No. The saints and poets, maybe—they do some.”

And ever since I read those lines, I hoped I would realize life “every, every minute.” But it’s hard. I realized that when I looked at people and contemplated their death, for example, it WAS too much to bear. I couldn’t go around crying the rest of my life. However, I have learned there are moments when I felt I’ve truly realized life, and I cherish them.

The first one happened after my cousin Judy died. She lived down the street from us, and her son Aaron was my son’s age. They grew up together from the ages of seven to fourteen. Judy had been divorced from Aaron’s dad, and after she died, Aaron lived with us for a couple weeks before he went to live with his dad and stepmother in California. I remember standing at our gate, the last day he was here, watching all the neighborhood kids playing out in the street, riding their bicycles, just as they had thousands of times before, and suddenly, I realized this was the last time I’d see it, at least with Aaron in the picture. I stayed out at the gate smiling and crying, making myself watch, trying to imprint it in my mind, but after awhile, it was too much. I just had to go into the house and have a good cry.

Another time happened at a Port Susan Middle School choir concert. When my daughter Jerae was in 8th grade choir, she was singing next to a little boy with Down Syndrome named Jesse. Jesse was singing at the top of his lungs much louder than any other singer, totally off key, constantly stroking Jerae's arm and looking at her with total adoration. Jerae, while mostly concentrating on the director, would occasionally look down at Jesse and smile at him, and every time Jesse saw her smile at him, he sang louder. It was one of the most precious, wonderful moments of my life. Everyone in the audience was also totally enjoying the moment, and the applause after the song was over was deafening. After the concert, Jesse's caretaker said, "You have the most wonderful daughter. She takes care of Jesse and looks after him." I choked back, "I know she's wonderful—and Jesse is wonderful too." And when we got in the car, I blubbered to her, "Jerae, you'll be doing a lot of things in your life, but I think while I might be AS proud of you in the future, I'll never be prouder of you than I am right now." And I also thought, “This is one of those moments.”

My most recent moment was in San Francisco with my son, his dog, and my husband. We were at the ocean during a “small dog walk” where people in the Bay area who have a dog under 20 pounds, walk a section of the beach while they and their dogs socialize. There I was at the ocean with my son, hundreds of dogs, and my husband Jerry sitting on a log watching Fred and me play with my granddog, Zoe. Dogs were barking, Fred was running and laughing, the sun was shining, the ocean waves were crashing, and I thought for a second I might be in heaven, but then I realized I was alive, and I just started to cry. Fred said, “Mom, are you O.K.?” and I just said, “I’m just so happy.”

I’ve had so many wonderful moments: watching parents greet their sons after a winning football game, any high school graduation, marrying my husband, the births of my children, seeing my cousin Lauri or my friend Kari for the first time when they have just flown in to Sea Tac Airport, seeing a friend I hadn’t seen for 30 years across a parking lot, watching a Warm Beach sunset, witnessing my friend Audrey catch an 87 pound halibut.

And I’ve realized that while those moments are wonderful, it is so hard to realize life every single minute. If I did, I’d be breaking down in crying fits all the time (or like when Audrey caught the halibut, jumping up and down yelling, hooting, and hollering!)

Life goes on in our everyday humdrum lives. But it’s those moments, when I do “realize life every single minute,” that I live for. Thanks to Thornton Wilder I get to hold on to those moments and cherish them. So, I think at the cusp of the New Year, it’s appropriate to say, here’s to many, many more!

Christmas Newsletter - December 16, 2010

2010-12-16T15:18:00.000-08:00

Dear Human Friends of Jennifer & Jerry:

Once again, Jennifer is too lazy to write the Christmas letter and once again the other dogs wouldn’t (read that couldn’t) write it. Bruno’s brain is too small and Bonnie is too optimistic and all she would say is “I had a great year! I love to fetch sticks!” so Jennifer just said, “Bobo, you’re it.”

One of the best parts of the year was the two months that Jennifer’s cousin, Lauri Woodland Packebush lived in the house next door. Those two had a ball making up for thirty years of not seeing too much of each other. They cooked and played and shopped, but the best part of Lauri living there is she loved me (and admittedly the other two dogs in the family) and she always had treats for us. I would go over to see her every morning and she let me in and I sometimes sat on the window seat while Lauri did her artwork and gave me treats. She was NOT stingy like Jennifer is in the treat department. Jennifer continues to tell me that I’m too fat, but I don’t see her rear end shrinking too much.

When Lauri left the end of March, Jennifer cried and cried, but was consoled by the fact her cousin Bill and his wife Judy stayed in the house for a week and they got to reconnect. Bill and Judy flew down in his plane!! He has Sky King’s plane, and he buzzed the beach. It was so much fun! I was running all around with Jennifer who was jumping up and down watching Bill fly by and go all the way out toward Camano Island and come back over the house. It was better than squirrel chasing.

In May, Jerrry and Jennifer left us to go visit Jamie and Fred in San Francisco. I guess they have a beautiful home. I wouldn’t know because they didn’t take me. Jennifer & Jerry had fun touring the city, going to art galleries, and seeing parks and where Jamie goes to dental school now (though she wasn’t going then). Fred also got a new job at Facebook and he travels a lot. He’s been able to come up here twice since he got the new job and Jennifer likes that. He’s nice, but I don’t know him too well. He and Jamie have a cute little Chihuhau dog named Zoe, and I love her. She plays well with me.

Things quieted down for a while and we went on our occasional walks until Jennifer and Jerry left us for Jennifer’s favorite place in the world, Ocean Falls. They caught loads of salmon, but Audrey didn’t catch a halibut this year. They had lots of fun with the Elefsons and all the Ocean Falls people, especially the party girls. Jennifer always looks older and a little haggard when she comes home from up there. She also says, “I’m never going to drink again,” but then she has to. You gotta drink at least some water, you know. It’s my second favorite thing after food.

Jennifer then left Jerry and us dogs the end of September until the first Sunday in October when she went to Maine with Penny and Mike to see the end of Tug’s trip. Oh my gosh. When she got home it was “Maine this” and “Maine that.” She got to go to some house where her favorite artist (Andrew Wyeth) painted her favorite painting (Wind from the Sea”). She wants to go back. She loved it there.

And then, BOTH of them left AGAIN! They went to Washington D.C.! They were watching a t.v. show with this guy named Jon Stewart and he announced a Rally for Sanity and then another guy named Stephen Colbert announced a Rally for Fear and Jennifer said, “Oh. Come on Jerry. When can we do something like this again? We’re getting old! Let’s go!! Please? Please? Please?”

So of course poor Jerry didn’t want to be nagged and he gave in to her. Why he gives in, I don’t know. I would just say “NO Jennifer!” just like she always does to me. They did have fun seeing the Vietnam Memorial, Lincoln’s Memorial, Arlington Cemetery and Kennedy’s grave, the Ford Theater, the Washington Monument, the WWII Memorial, the Capitol, the Smithsonian, and the National Art Gallery where Jennifer saw the REAL “Wind from the Sea” picture! How many times I had to listen to that, I don’t know.

Jennifer and her friend Denise Eichler even got on national t.v. on something called CSPAN. Jennifer was going to the bathroom when Denise and Jerry saw it on t.v. which I thought was poetic justice, but she did see it later online. They did like that rally.

Jerae turned 21 this year. Jerry and Jennifer took her out to dinner and they had martinis in honor of Jerae’s Grandpa Jim. It was fun. Jerae didn’t want Jerry and Jennifer to go out with her and her friends though. I didn’t understand that, because Jennifer is quite funny when she “drinks,” but I was glad because they got home earlier. I don’t like it when they’re gone—especially Jerry.

Chalen was “riffed” from her job last spring, but she got recalled to Central Kitsap High School and this year is mostly teaching history with one English class. She likes it there and she was so happy and thankful to have a job in this economy. I love Chalen. She always laughs at me.

Jennifer is still substitute teaching and writing her column, and Jerry continues to take care of all of us—our yard, Jennifer’s parents’ yard, the bulkhead, and he cooks up a storm almost every night, giving me, Bruno, and Bonnie treats from his plate. Jennifer is so stingy. She doesn’t give us anything, and let me tell you, she could afford to.

But, it’s been a good year. Jennifer’s mom is still at the Warm Beach Care Center, and sometimes even I go up to see her. I’m still chasing squirrels, going for walks every single day but one, and life is good.

Hope you all have a good 2011. Give your pets plenty of food, water, and treats, and take them for walks! I LOVE my walks!

Love,

Bobo Kelly

Family Stories - Published 11/30/2010

2010-12-08T21:29:00.000-08:00

Left, my dad Jim Hutchison; Below, my grandparents, Margaret and Fred Woodland

I love family stories. You know the type. They occur when the older generations take it upon themselves to enlighten the younger, present generation. In my family’s case, they were usually told around meals and at family get-togethers where my grandparents, parents, aunts, and uncles would tell us kids about the antics of our ancestors. I loved those times. They gave me a link to my past, helped me get to know those I never knew or didn’t know well, and often led to a greater understanding of who I am, why I think the way I do, and even perhaps, why I do the things I do. They taught great lessons. With Thanksgiving just past, and the holidays coming, I’ve been thinking about them a lot.

Three of my favorite stories involve my grandfather, Fred Woodland, Grampy to me, a man who once received two write-in votes for sheriff of Warm Beach. First, he always used to say, “When I first came to this blankity blank beach, I could have bought the whole blankity blank place for fifty bucks.” Of course, fifty bucks was a lot of money in the 1920’s, but I remember asking, “Why didn’t you?” and he said, “Who else would want it? I couldn’t see any blankity blank reason to.” I still thought he should have bought it.

Grampy was quite the hunter, and on one of his trips when his friends were off hunting, and he was back at the camp cabin cooking, Grampy tripped over a shotgun. It fell over, went off, and shot himself through the chin, just missing his spinal cord and exiting out the back of his neck. He passed out and when his friends came back they thought he was dead.

They put him on a stretcher, took him down the mountain, and got him to the town doctor who took one look at him, pulled the sheet up over him, and pronounced him DOA--dead on arrival. Well, Grampy had none of that. He sat up just like a one of those zombies in a horror movie, grabbed the doctor by the throat, and wrung his neck. Several operations with a steel plate replacing much of his chin and eating mushy food for most of a year, he was back hunting and cooking. And except for a Kirk Douglas type dimple in his chin, you never would have known something had happened to him.

The other family legend concerning Grampy took place in Pioneer Square in Seattle. Evidently a friend of his dared him to climb the totem pole there. He did, but couldn’t figure out how to get down. The Seattle Fire Department eventually helped him get down, but every time I see that pole, I chuckle and think of my young, goofy grandfather.

My dad, Jim Hutchison. told great stories. He had so many from growing up in Mount Vernon in the 1920’s & 30’s to World War II and beyond. His dad John Hutchison was a bricklayer who built Mount Vernon High School, the courthouse, the Co-op building, and Lincoln Theatre. Sadly, he was killed in an accident at one of his building sites when Dad was fourteen.

My dad was a bit of troublemaker in his youth and he had quite a temper. One day his older brothers, Al and Ian, locked Dad in an outhouse. Fortunately for Dad, but unfortunately for those who owned the outhouse, there was an ax in there, and Dad took the ax, and chopped the outhouse down. Everyone thought my grandfather would whip Dad, but instead my Uncles Al and Ian got in trouble because they locked Dad in the outhouse, in the first place. They had to rebuild it. I always loved that story because it showed such a sense of fairness and made me love my grandfather, even though I never met him.

Dad also told his share of war stories, but one I remember was when he wrote a play based on Uncle Tom’s Cabin when he was a P.O.W. in prison camp In Barth Germany, and every man in his section of Stalag Luft I had a part, whether it was Uncle Tom, Little Eva, the window of the house, or the sun coming in through the window of the house. Dad said he was the only one in the audience and all the prisoners were playing their parts, all laughing, all having a wonderful time, and I remember thinking, “My dad can make the most horrible place wonderful,” and in later years when I watched Guido in the film “Life is Beautiful,” or Andy in “Shawshank Redemption,” I thought of him and what he did with his fellow prisoners of war. Dad was only 23 years old then.

So these are just a few of my family stories. I wonder what my children might tell. We tell them the story of when Jerry, my husband, said to me, “We should go out some time, “ and I said, “How about tonight?” Jerry tells the kids scuba diving stories, how his dad left home at thirteen years old, football stories, the fights he got into as a teenager, National Guard stories. And Jerry can tell a story like no other.

I mostly tell stories of high school, my early childhood growing up in Kirkland, my one year as a sorority girl, my first job, and then thousands of teaching stories. During the end of my teaching career, I felt like an old sage telling stories, partly to illuminate the younger teachers, but also to make them feel better if they were having a problem, discipline or otherwise, because I had my share of them as a younger teacher.

My life goes on with stories. I’m not even sure they are all true, but who cares? How about you? What are your family stories? I’d love to hear about them! But if you don’t tell me, tell your children and grandchildren. They’ll love you for it!

The Things We Do for Dogs - published 11/2/2010

2010-11-10T10:27:00.000-08:00

Do any of you remember a song called, “The Things We Do for Love”? I remember the lyrics had to do with “walkin’ in the rain and the snow and there’s nowhere to go and…” and that’s about all I remember. I think it came out in the late 70’s. I guess I could look it up on the Internet, but I don’t really want to—I just like to remember it – especially the refrain—“The things we do for love, o-oh, the things we do for love,” repeated over and over again.

I thought of them the other night when I was outside at 3AM, not in “the rain and the snow,” but I sure was in the rain, waiting for my dog Bobo to “go to the bathroom.” I must have been quite the sight. I was wearing my nightshirt, emblazed with the words, “She who sleeps with dogs,” my red beach parka, and tennis shoes with no socks, imploring Bobo, “C’mon. Just GO will ‘ya?”

Here’s how I happened to be there. Bobo had been whining and whining, and my husband Jerry got up and tried to get him outside, twice. I finally woke up and said, "What's wrong with that dog?"

Jerry said, "I don't know. I tried to take him out twice."

I said, "Did you get off the porch?"

"No."

I got up, rummaging in the closet for a coat, and said, "You gotta get off the porch."

Finally he showed signs of “going.” I did take him across the street to the neighbor’s mailbox, where he lifted his leg for at least one minute straight. My husband says I embellish things, but I don’t think so in this case.

We came back in the yard with me urging him to finish, and I saw that positive sign of him doing that circular dog thing, just before he finds the spot to let loose. He did. I wanted to let out a hoop and holler, just like when that goal was scored in the last seconds of the USA vs. Algeria World Cup Game, singing “Ole, ole, ole, ole…we are the champs! We are the champs!” but I restrained myself due to the late night/early morning time.

We went back in the house, Bobo beating me to the bedroom, having a new jaunt in his step, jumping up on the bed triumphantly, while I tried to rub him down with a towel. I got in, fighting for space and covers with Jerry being perplexed. “He wouldn’t go for me.”

I said, “He wants you to go with him. You gotta get off the porch.”

It’s like when Susan Sarandon playing the wife of the Richard Gere character in that Jennifer Lopez dance movie. She tells some guy in a bar, very poignantly and profoundly, that you get married because you want “a witness to your life.” Bobo wants a witness to his. Every single blankity blank bit of it.

But I do love ALL my dogs, even though Bobo gets the most attention. He demands it.

Everyday I get up and the first thing I do is feed them. I can’t believe how cheerful they are. They get up, stretch, come out to the kitchen, and tell me to get with the program.

After that, I usually go outside and shovel poop, searching both our yard and our neighbor’s yard. Fortunately our neighbor is my mother who is in the Warm Beach Care Center, but Marya and Tim, my sister and brother-in-law from Bellevue, stay there a lot, so I try to keep it clean.

Then, everyday in rain, sleet, snow, hail, or 80 degrees plus weather, we go for “the walk.” Our dogs KNOW the word “walk.” They even know how to spell it now, so now we try to come up with different words like stroll or mosey. Some days, I don’t feel like going but they just get so excited at the prospect of it, their enthusiasm a joy to behold. My sister Penny says, “I wish I liked exercise that much!” I always laugh and say, “Me too!” (Dislike of exercise runs in the family.)

Since Jerry’s ankles don’t work so well, he drives his truck down our dead end, about a quarter mile down the road to the public access. I take the dogs directly to the beach, and we walk down to meet him and then another half mile or so to a special stump I have to touch everyday. Don’t ask me why but I do think the days I touch the stump are better.

Then back to the pick up where I get in the back to make sure Bobo doesn’t jump out with Bruno, the Min Pin, on my lap and Bonnie, the lab, sitting happily, and Jerry takes us around the block while Bobo roams on either side of the truck, happily putting his face in the wind and viewing walkers and other dogs, feeling superior because his big “guy” human is driving him around to view his “subjects.” It doesn’t do much for my “pack status” by riding in the back, but I have to admit, it’s my favorite part of the day.

And then we get home; they drink tons of water, and lie around, exhausted from their adventure.

Jerry and I have left 4^th of July and New Year’s parties early to get home “for the dogs” due to fireworks. We try to go on vacations in our camper so they can go along. If we take trips we hire a friend to take care of them, adding significantly to the cost of whatever trip we’re taking, but they’re worth it.

The things we do for dogs!

I do wish they would live longer. I’ve found that though it’s hard, my life goes on, even when they go to “dog heaven.” A veterinarian once sent me a card, after one of our pets died, and it read, “Animal lovers are the luckiest people, even when their hearts are breaking.” I couldn’t agree more.

High School/Class Reunion - published 9/27/10

2010-10-06T16:57:00.000-07:00

Usually I’m not at a loss for words, but for the last few days I’ve been looking at a two inch by two-inch square where I’m supposed to write one thing I have learned since high school for a class reunion memory book. One thing. How on earth can I decide what the one thing is I’ve learned since high school?

It’s for my fortieth class reunion. I could steal my friend Brian Twelker’s answer: “I should have bought Microsoft”! Hilarious!

But to quote Charles Dickens, high school for me was “the best of times and the worst of times.” For some, maybe it was close to “the best”; for others, “the worst.” For me, it was both, evenly divided.

One of the questions I used to get asked as a high school teacher was, “Mrs. Kelly—were you popular?” I never knew how to answer that, so I usually answered it with, “What do you think?” and then there would be a class debate.

“I think she was because she’s funny.”

“I don’t. She’s weird.”

“I don’t. She’s a nerd. Were you a nerd in high school?”

“I do. Wait. Mrs. Kelly, did you weigh as much as you do now in high school?”

I used to laugh at all their observations and thoughts and usually told them, “I was and I wasn’t. I was in the sense I was very active in the things girls could be involved in then, but I wasn’t in that I didn’t date at all.”

Then that would unleash a flurry of questions. Most common was, “Did you turn out for sports?” Then I explained that since Title IX didn’t go into effect until 1975, the only sports girls could turn out for were gymnastics and tennis—two sports I did not excel at. They were always incredulous. “Then what did you DO?”

“I painted pep signs. I worked on homecoming floats. I went to slumber parties. I wrapped packages to send to soldiers in Viet Nam. I made decorations for hospitals. I worked on the annual. I was in a few plays. I planned dances I didn’t go to—painted signs for them too. Sold tickets to dances and plays. Oh yeah. I occasionally studied, and I ALWAYS did my homework.”

“Why didn’t you date?”

“I wasn’t asked. I did get asked to the senior prom. By the second half of my senior year, I had a boyfriend, but my freshman, sophomore, and junior years, Saturday night for me was Tom Jones.

“Who’s Tom Jones?”

A singer. He sang, “It’s Not Unusual to be Loved by Anyone.” For me it seemed quite unusual in those days.

By then, they’d get bored and it would be, “What are we doing today?”

I’ve thought of many of those conversations since then, and I’m always surprised by how profound an experience high school was for me, how I spent 33 more years of my life in high school, but also how high school didn’t define me or anyone else for that matter.

Many of my friends have not wanted to go to our reunion, and I’ve wondered why. For some, I know that high school was too painful, that they just don’t want to go back, but for others, it might be because they think they have “outgrown” high school, that they’re “above” it.

But I don’t feel that way. While high school for me was very lonely at times, it was where I got to try things out and see if they worked for me. I made wonderful friends where we will always share a common, unique experience. We went through a lot together. With one, the death of her mother. With another the loss of her father’s job. With another, a devastating illness.

My high school years gave me many experiences--I had my first Big Mac, taught my first lesson in a speech class, wrote my first short story, wrote my first editorial, read books and plays that still affect me today, told my first dirty joke, smoked a cigarette, got an A++, got a few F’s, acted in a play, attended my first football game, and fell in love for the first time—I could go on and on.

And since then? What have I learned? What’s the one thing I’ve learned?

I can’t boil it down to one.

My life after high school did not go on as planned. As a little girl, my dream was to attend college, get my teaching degree, marry a banker, retire from teaching when I got pregnant, and live on Rose Point Lane in Kirkland, raising not one, but four boys.

I’ve learned so many things from countless experiences in forty years. I have survived cancer, earned two college degrees, gone through a divorce, remarried a wonderful man, given birth to two kids and raised three, been on a soccer team, lost and gained weight too many times, been a mother of the groom, put my first floppy disc in a hard drive, watched a music video and said, “Music is meant to be listened to—this will never last,” started and ended a thirty-three year teaching career, learned to “text,” lost my dad, put my mother in a nursing home, made countless new friends and a couple enemies, and become a once a month columnist for the local paper.

Just like high school: I’ve been through the best of times and the worst of times.

But how can I condense all of that into one thing? I guess I’ve learned that I’m O.K. I’m a survivor--like we all are. I still like my high school friends. That I’m not embarrassed I want to go to my reunion. That the pain, as well as the happiness of high school, both played a part in making me who I am.

And for me, most importantly, “It’s not unusual to be loved by anyone.”

And finally that whatever happens, life does, indeed, go on. I guess I’ll just write that!

Ted Jansen - Published 8/26/10

2010-09-08T11:30:00.000-07:00

When I taught English at Stanwood High School, I had a reputation for being the “go-to girl” when there was a problem with an administrator, and I tangled with many superintendents and principals over the years. Unfortunately, that seems to be a large part of the traditional relationship between faculty and administration.

But there was one principal I was fortunate to have worked with whose professional relationship with me as an administrator had a profound positive impact on my career and who was one of the best teachers I ever had. His name is Ted Jansen.

I call him a teacher because I have come to believe good administrators have to be good teachers, and that a school is really a microcosm of a classroom with the principal as teacher and coach and the teachers as students, all learning together. Just like students, teachers occasionally need to be disciplined and refocused, but also like students, they are always learning and need to be encouraged, to feel safe.

Ted was an imposing figure when he first came. Standing six feet six inches high, he can appear quite intimidating. He also has a bit of a no nonsense attitude and does not suffer fools gladly. But that’s what I liked about him. He also treated everyone the same, while still taking into account individual differences.

The year after he came, when I still was a little intimidated by him, I ended up coaching a U-8 co-ed soccer team with Ted’s wife Terri. Their daughter Lindsay and my son Fred were on the team, and Terri, a beautiful brunette, 5’4”, and a bit of a spitfire, showed me that Ted, in spite of his size and manner, was very understanding and respectful of where others were in charge and was willing to cooperate and give them space to do what they do best. I think he learned this from Terri. In fact, I’m sure he did.

One time when we were practicing behind Stanwood Elementary School, Ted came walking across the field toward us, and Terri, in the middle of giving the kids coaching instruction saw him coming. She looked up, and said to me, “What’s he coming here for?” and walked toward him, saying, “Scat! You get out of here! This is my territory,” and I watched him turn on his heels and go back to his car, with a little smile on his face. I thought I was going to die laughing watching this little woman direct so lightly and easily the big, scary principal, and frankly, he wasn’t so scary to me after that.

After a post conference from an observation, or if you were in his office discussing something, Ted had a funny habit at the “end of subjects.” He would turn around and start typing on this black manual typewriter. When he started typing you would know that it was your time to leave.

Ted is one of the smartest men I’ve ever met. He could speak Dutch (He was born in Holland) and German. While observing the German teacher when he first came, she made a remark to her students in German about the tall principal, and he responded in German, and was she surprised!

While Ted was at Stanwood, he really wanted to implement the four-period day and for a few years he tried to convince the staff of its effectiveness and benefits. He respected the staff enough to not force anything on them, and we never did do it. That was not the case in subsequent administrations’ decisions.

Ted was Stanwood High’s principal from the 1986-87 school year to 1994-95. When he came, I was probably in the low point of my career. I had just been through a divorce. I was tired.

Ted challenged me to find the fun in my job again and to take classes to perfect my craft. He believed that teachers should be facilitators of learning and that students should be “in” on what they were learning. I went from thinking I had to lecture everyday to using cooperative learning strategies and structuring lessons so the kids took more of a part in the research and questioning of themselves.

Rather than being a disciplinarian all the time, I became more like a co-worker with my students and I started to like to come to work. The classroom took on less stress. I became happier and friendlier with the kids. I took classes that helped me with positive discipline in my classroom, cooperative learning with students, focusing on the students as individuals (a constant challenge with budget cuts and increased class sizes).

During Ted’s last year at Stanwood, we went through an experience that bonded us as friends for life—the death of the Advanced Placement English teacher who happened to be my cousin Judy. He was so understanding during that time, giving me time off when I needed to be with her, helping me find the courage to help the kids and staff, and I will forever be grateful to him for that time.

Life has gone on for me after Ted Jansen left and while teaching continued to be a joyous profession for me, I missed him every day. Ted’s last school as principal, after a stint at Hillsboro High School and a district administrator in Hillsboro, Oregon was North Mason High School from where he retired this year.

My teaching was transformed because of his influence and I’m sure I am not the only teacher who feels that way. And when a principal can influence a teacher in that way, just imagine what happens for countless students: joy in learning, feeling safe, experiencing success, understanding consequences (and learning from them), and feeling motivated to try.

So as one career ends, another school year begins and life goes on. I hope today’s administrators can take the lessons of Ted Jansen and incorporate them into their “teaching” for the success of their teachers and students.

Warm Beach Mudflats - Published July 27, 2010

2010-08-03T20:15:00.000-07:00

“Mudflats. Hmph. I wouldn’t live at Warm Beach if you paid me. Grade three waterfront,” said a “friend” several years ago to me. (I have no idea what Grade Two is!)

I was incredulous. “You mean you don’t like mudflats?? That’s half the fun of living here!”

People’s reaction to our mudflats is interesting. You either love ‘em or hate ‘em. My Uncle Hutch, who bought a place at Lake Sammamish in the early fifties, just could not understand my dad’s love of the place. He kept protesting, “Your boat is high and dry fifty percent of the time, Jim! I don’t get it.”

I guess what people don’t get is the mudflats represent a different kind of beach life. True. You don’t get to take your boat out whenever you want. You have to really watch and know the tide for any boating you do.

But again, that’s what makes us Warm Beachers. Ask about anyone who lives here, especially in the summer, when high and low tide is on any particular day, and they can tell you.

The mudflats for me were where I had some of the most fun times of my youth. For one thing, I have never been to an area where there is more space. It’s like you’re totally free—you can run and run for miles, and other than an occasional river channel you might have to cross, you can walk and walk or run, and still see where home is.

You have to be smart about it though. If you get out too far, you can get stuck by the water, and there has been more than one “tourist” who has gone out there and had to be rescued by a “native.” It only takes six hours to go from high to low tide and vice versa. If you do get trapped out there when the tide comes in, you have to remember to walk north, not straight in.

Those of us who live here feel a bit of superiority over the rest of world, in that we understand our flats. Without fail, almost every spring and summer, a big boat, probably from Seattle or thereabouts, comes flying up the bay with the motors going full bore and we all watch from our yards, thinking, “I wonder when this one is gonna stop.” Then we invariably hear a high-pitched whirr of their motor, and they’re stuck, usually for the day, on an out-going tide.

My dear husband often walks out to offer a hand, after I sniff, “They should have known better,” (he hasn’t lived here as long as I have) and offers them a phone or some kind of assistance. One time he brought in a “stuck” family and drove them to Kayak Park to wait out the tide in their camp.

When I was between the ages of six to ten, the neighborhood kids and I used to play for hours in the mudflats. One of our favorite games was to build a mud boat out on the flats, where we would draw the outline of a dinghy in the sandy mud, and then proceed to build the “walls” of the boat up around us with the mud. The kid whose boat was last to fill up as the tide rolled in, was “the winner.” The prize was the pride felt just knowing you were the superior mudflat engineer for the day.

We also built mudflat cities creating mud houses with streets and river tributaries running through them with trees and bushes made of sticks and seaweed. I always thought those trees looked like palm trees, and my city was in the tropics and so beautiful.

We’d take sticks and draw baseball diamonds in the flats and play baseball out there with plastic balls and bats. Even our parents would get in on the game and we’d play as long as we possibly could. Sometimes running the bases in two feet of water, as the tide always gulped up our “field.”

We’d also play a game where we would draw a big circle in the flats, again with a stick, and then draw two lines splitting the circle in half like a bull’s eye target, and we would play “Tag, you’re it” with the stipulation that you had to stay on the lines when “It” was after you. The center of the crossed lines was “safe,” but you could only stay there until the next person ran to it.

There is also no better place to have dogs. Watching our dogs run with pure unadulterated joy on those flats just makes me cry from happiness. A neighbor, Loren Larsen, who moved to Warm Beach a couple of years ago, never saw the tide flats when he was buying his house. He walks the beach everyday with his Boxer, Gladys, and he said to me when I first met him, “You know, I couldn’t believe it when I saw the mudflats. They’re such a bonus!”

And if we didn’t have our mudflats, we wouldn’t have the warm water that makes Warm Beach, well, Warm Beach! I love the days when the summer sun heats up those flats and the water comes in “like bath water,” as my mom used to say.

My life has gone on celebrating the mudflats of Warm Beach. I can’t imagine it any other way.

Grade three water front? Puhleez! Grade A+ #1 if you ask me!

Modern Art - Published June 29, 2010

2010-07-07T13:02:00.000-07:00

Recently, my husband and I visited San Francisco to see my son and daughter-in-law and while there, we visited the city’s Museum of Modern Art. In the museum’s store I saw a t-shirt I wish I had bought. On it was a drawing done in color crayon of a little girl happily pronouncing, “I love the SFMOMA! It makes my brain happy!”

I pointed it out to my husband Jerry because, as we were finishing lunch on the top floor, after touring the four floors below, I had just said, “I LOVE modern art! It blows my mind and makes my brain happy!” I really should have purchased that t-shirt.

I do love art--old art, any art, any medium, but art considered “modern” is my favorite. It makes me think about life and the universe in new and different ways. It allows me to see life through the eyes of a person who sees life completely different from my perspective and/or beliefs.

It never ceases to amaze me how personal one’s taste in modern art is. What might be one person’s beauty is another person’s disgust. Whatever it is, you have to be open to it and be willing to accept whatever feeling it brings. What might bring outrage to one person might bring peace to another or perplexity to someone, enlightenment to another.

I remember my first experience with modern art. When I was around ten, my parents took us over to the Seattle Art Museum, and a Mark Tobey exhibition was being displayed. My parents had not known that; had they, judging from my dad’s reaction to Tobey’s splattered paintings—“Harumph—how’s that art? It’s just a bunch of splattered paint. A five year old kid could do that!” we might not have gone! But I just loved them and never forgot them.

I loved the colors and the shapes and the splatters. I knew there was more to each splash, even at the age of ten, than my dad did, but even Dad’s reaction was fine. I don’t mean to disparage it. I just think modern art in some cases is supposed to make people mad, make them question, “Why is this art?”

I remember one time when I was talking at a party about Andrew Wyeth, one of my favorite artists. I mentioned his painting, “Wind from the Sea,” and how it was one of the first paintings I had ever seen where I could sense movement. The curtains in the old Olson house blowing into the old room with the muted colors of brown, green, beige, and white haunt me—in a good way.

At the party, after I finished describing my reaction to the picture, a woman said, “Tsk. Tsk. Wyeth is SO sentimental.”

“Huh?” I thought. While his paintings for me are incredibly beautiful, they also are disturbing. “Christina’s World,” the painting of Christina Olson (although Wyeth’s wife Betsy was the model for the painting), a paraplegic, lying in a field, trying to get back to her house, makes my heart ache. I saw it in the Museum of Modern Art in New York, and I will never forget it. Is that sentimental? And by the way, what’s WRONG with being sentimental?

In San Francisco, we saw so many wonderful things, but one of my favorites that just made me laugh hysterically was a room where, the artist, Richard Serra, placed long bars made of steel (I think) and took in pots of molten lead and threw it at the bars and walls in the room. Entitled “Gutter Corner Splash: Night Shift” because they had to make it at night due to the metallic smell and danger, it was a sight to behold. Jerry had a quizzical, “What the blankity blank is this?” look on his face.

I laughed because I thought, “Man, this guy had to have…well, gumption, to talk the curators of the museum into doing this to the room. What was he thinking? What were they thinking??” Serra said, “You’ve got to convince the people who view it that their efforts (his and his helpers) were worthwhile.” I’m still not sure, but I’m still thinking about it, so that’s good, isn’t it?

My favorite piece in the museum was “Blue Clamp” by Jim Dine. It was a painting of purple, pink, blue, and green drips and swishes forming a giant heart with a royal blue metal c-clamp right in the middle of it.

What I love about this piece is that it makes me think about love—about how sometimes people and things clamp onto our hearts and it’s not always fun—it can just plain hurt, like when someone you love doesn’t love you back, or when someone you love is in pain and you can’t do anything about it, or when you love someone or something so much, and you don’t understand why you do—like, for example, my love for my Bulldog/Boxer mix, Bobo. He’s an idiot. Always whining and getting into trouble, yet every time I look at him, my heart melts.

So, that’s what I immediately started thinking about when I saw “Blue Clamp”! My brain starting whirring, and thinking and just working, and ultimately, it became happy.

Pablo Picasso said, “Art is a lie that makes us realize truth.” I love that. Life could go on without modern art, but oh, how drab that would be. Modern art makes us think and it brings beauty and truth into our world and sometimes it just plain stirs us up! I can’t imagine life without it and the wonderful artists who create it.

Brenda, Bob, Cody, Linda, & Mom - Published 5/26/10

2010-06-01T17:35:00.000-07:00

This column is about a teacher, a husband, two mothers, and a high school senior. Their lives were connected, but they didn’t even know it.

For the last thirty-three years, I have been friends with a woman who I believe is one of the finest teachers to ever work at Stanwood High School – Brenda Taylor. When Brenda closes the door to her classroom, she’s all business, but she still teaches with knowledge, compassion, and just plain grace. There’s no other way to describe it.

She was hired as an English/Reading teacher in the beginning, but many years ago, transferred to the History Department, teaching Contemporary World Problems, Civics, and Economics to high school seniors.

Brenda and I have been good friends since the day she was hired. We have had our moments, especially when talking politics, but somewhere over the years, our relationship changed to more than good friends; we became teacher soul sisters.

A few years ago, Brenda’s husband Bob began to show signs of early onset Alzheimer’s. It has been a sad and devastating journey for my friend, but like everything in life, she has faced it head on with courage, truth, and grace. There’s that word again.

She has turned her experience into a lifetime lesson for her high school seniors, sharing stories about Bob and his days in the San Francisco newspaper business, his military service and now, how he lives with Alzheimer’s.

Recently Bob was hospitalized, and Brenda had to take time off work—something she is loathed to do. Other than taking time off fifteen years ago when her sister was dying from breast cancer, I can’t think of any sick leave days that Brenda has taken.

Countless students have visited her and Bob at the hospital. One group brought the cutest card—addressed to “Bob and Mrs. Taylor” signed with kind, caring, and concerned notes to them.

The high school has so many wonderful kids who don’t get coverage in the newspaper because they aren’t star basketball players, Hi-Q team members, awesome artists or National Merit Scholars. But here’s a story about one. Now I’ll tell you about “the senior.”

While waiting out one of Bob’s hospital tests, Brenda told me about a senior in this year’s graduating class, named Cody who saw Brenda and Bob at the Camano Plaza Market one Sunday when they were having lunch. He came over and sat down and started talking to them. Brenda had wanted to do some grocery shopping, so Cody said, “You go ahead Mrs. Taylor. I’ll sit here with Bob,” and so Brenda went shopping, and Cody sat with Bob, sharing conversation with him. Bob still is a great conversationalist and a wonderful wit.

Monday morning, Cody walked into Brenda’s classroom, and handed her a crumpled-up piece of paper with his name and telephone number written on it. He said, “Mrs. Taylor. I only live a couple minutes from the plaza. When you bring Bob here and need to shop, just call me. I’ll come down and sit and talk with him. I mean it. You call me.” By the time Brenda told me the end of the story, we were both crying.

O.K. So now you’ve heard about the two teachers, the husband, and the high school senior. Now, I’ve gotta get to the two mothers.

My mother, a resident at the Warm Beach Senior Community Health Care is cared for my many wonderful people there, but there is one woman in particular that my mother, sister Penny, and I have gotten to know and love—a nurse’s aide named Linda. The devotion and care that Linda shows to my mother is just incredible--and full of grace. There’s that word again.

My mother adores her. Linda hugs and kisses Mom, transfers her with such care, listens to Mom’s stories, combs her hair, brushes her teeth, and does so many things for her. My mom just “lights up” when she sees Linda and looks at her with such adoration. Linda goes so far beyond her job description-- I just can’t even find the words to describe it.

Now back to the teacher, the husband, and the senior. At the end of her story about Cody, Brenda, knowing my mom lives at Warm Beach Senior Community, said, “Oh, by the way, Cody’s mom works at Warm Beach.” My brain went “click.” I thought back to conversations with Linda about our children and the high school, and I knew one of her sons was named Cody. I said, “What’s his last name?”

Brenda said, “Landau.”

I said, “OH MY GOSH. LINDA is Cody’s mother!”

Mother’s Day was earlier this month, so I would like to wish a belated, but very heart-felt “Happy Mother’s Day” to Linda Landau for raising Cody, such a wonderful young man (and of course, for her care of my own mother)!

And I’d like to wish Cody a very happy graduation and special congratulations for being such an awesome young man. You might not have sunk the most baskets, made the most touchdowns, or gotten the highest grades, but you have scored where it most counts—with compassion and kindness—and I just have to use that word again--grace. You have an awesome future awaiting you!

Life goes on for Brenda and Bob, and we still don’t know what their journey will be or when it will end. However, I know my friend will lock Cody Landau’s kindness in her heart for the rest of her life, as will I, along with my thanks and gratitude to Cody’s mother, Linda. What wonderful people they are.

Mr. Rye - Published May 4, 2010

2010-05-14T06:55:00.000-07:00

Left, Mr. Fred Rye, at my son's wedding in July of 2004

Have you ever noticed that there are some people in your life that you are just “better” around? They’re people who make you laugh, who make you feel smart and witty, and who just give you a natural “high” in their presence. I have been very lucky to have many of those people in my life. One of those people was the late Fred Rye.

Most Stanwood High School graduates might remember Mr. Rye as a curmudgeon, a stuffy, tyrannical chemistry/science/physics teacher who accepted NO late work and no excuses. When the kids would hand in their homework, Mr. Rye would take his sturdy stapler and pound the papers together and say, “If it’s not in by now, it’s no longer chemistry; it’s history.” My son used to say, “If every teacher taught like Mr. Rye, there would be no late papers and everyone would behave. He’s a genius.”

Fred Rye was a genius, just absolutely brilliant. He was a bit of a folk hero to us teachers at Stanwood High School, too. At faculty meetings, he would bring in his paper and do the New York Times crossword, most of the time to the consternation of many an administrator. We would always watch in awe, like kids in a classroom, wondering if the passive aggressive kid would get in trouble. He never did.

And every single day, he would finish that crossword puzzle, even as they got harder as the week progressed. I always feel lucky if I know one word in that blankity blank puzzle.

Mr. Rye started every year lecturing his students, saying, “I’m not here to blow your noses or wipe your butts. I’m here to teach you, and you’re here to listen, read, and learn.” I always used to wonder how long he could say that. I knew things were changing when the first parent called to complain. He stood his ground, though the kid was transferred from his class. And I think he did alter his first lecture in subsequent years.

When kids would come to him and complain that they had a “learning disability,” Mr. Rye would say, “Do you have your driver’s license?” When the kid invariably answered, “Yes,” he would say, “Then you can read. You can’t pass the written test without reading.” You NEVER could beat Mr. Rye in an argument.

When my son (who, by the way, is also named Fred--for my grandfather, but also for Mr. Rye) went to the UW, his two quarters of chemistry were a breeze and he earned 4.0’s in both classes. He had to work a little harder in the third quarter, but he still aced the class. He said it was due to Mr. Rye.

Mr. Rye was a gifted, wonderful teacher, especially for college-bound kids. I’m not sure I agreed with all of his methods, but I do know that he was also a great friend and not only one of the smartest men I ever knew, but the funniest, and I often received the brunt of his humor.

Fred loved, shall I say, “off-color” humor. One time I bet him that he could not get through a day without telling some offensive, sexually themed joke. He said that he could and when I said, “I bet you $5.00 you can’t,” he sat back with a gleam in his eye, all smug, and said, “Yes I can.”

Of course he did it, and when I wrote him out the check, in the section that said “For:” I wrote, “My stupidity.” That wasn’t enough. Fred blew it up to ten times its size and posted it on the faculty room wall. He also never cashed it, but just kept it to taunt me.

Another funny story was when Darlene Knutson, the Hi-Q advisor at SHS was looking for Dick Ambrose, her co-advisor. She walked into the faculty room and said, “Hmmm. No Dick, huh?” and Fred looked down at his lap and said in a mock-horrified tone, “I certainly HOPE NOT!!”

I guess I’m exposing the fact that teachers have other sides to them, sides kids can never imagine, (thank heavens). Though he was a brilliant, strict, unyielding teacher at school, in “real life” he was a good friend, a very funny man, and an old softy.

Fred Rye died suddenly and unexpectedly four years ago this month of a heart attack. I think that was one of the saddest days of my life.

Since then, life has gone on, but it’s not the same. I think of him almost everyday, but particularly at this time because the Relay for Life is coming up. He walked it every year in honor of his ex-wife Linda who died of breast cancer. It is partly due to Fred’s inspiration that I took on the job as Survivor Chair for the Relay for Life. He never missed it.

So next month, on May 21, I’ll be working on the relay, in honor of not only the survivors, but the caretakers as well. And when I walk around the track, honoring those who have battled cancer, I’ll remember my hilarious, wonderful friend for all the times he walked in honor of those he loved and the fact that life does, indeed, go on.

Cancer Survivors and Caretakers! Please attend the opening of the Stanwood/Camano Relay for Life at 6PM May 21 at the Stanwood High School Track! This year’s theme is a birthday party, and I can guarantee you a fun time for all!

Dan Wickman - published March 30, 2010

2010-04-06T12:43:00.000-07:00

Life Goes On – Dan Wickman (left, holding a prize "catch"!)

You know—there are people—and then there are people. I’m sure many of you are wondering what that means. Frankly, so do I!

I guess I’m trying to say that there are some people who go through their lives doing their jobs in a perfunctory manner, just carrying them out, not really caring about whether their work is any good or not. They’re just doing what they’re told to do and collecting their paycheck.

And then, there are other people. Those are the people who do their jobs, not because they have to, but because they have a sense of pride and they care about how their work affects others. They are not only competent, but they’re special, because they carry their work to new heights that go above and beyond the simple job description.

This year, a man who simply soared beyond his job description retired from the Stanwood/Camano School District. His name is Dan Wickman.

Dan worked for our maintenance department. A Native Alaskan of the Tlingit Tribe and Viet Nam war veteran, Dan came to Stanwood with his wife Paula and their family in 1990.

In Alaska, Dan was captain of the Wrangell Fire Department, an EMT, an EMT instructor and member of the Southeast Alaska EMS Board. He was a licensed electrician and HAVAC person for 17 years and Maintenance Supervisor for the Wrangell School District for five years before venturing down to the “Lower 48” where our school district was lucky enough to hire him. He also volunteered for three years on our local fair board.

Dan was a marvel with our electrical and heating systems. If we had a problem with anything, he fixed it right away. He was always careful to do his work with as little intrusion into the teaching and learning as possible. And fast. It was like, “We have a problem!” and minutes later, “We don’t have a problem!”

Dan could zero in with what was wrong and have it fixed before a lesson was started.

I’ll tell you-if every teacher taught with the manner, expertise, and competence Dan showed in his job, the National Teacher of the Year would come from Stanwood/Camano School District every single year!

Our students would all be National Merit Scholars and eventually go onto jobs that cured the nation’s infrastructure and literacy problems. Nobel Prize winners in Science, Economics, Literature, and Peace would all come from Stanwood and Camano Island!

Juvenile detention centers—even prisons—would be calling our vice-principals and counselors to learn their behavior secrets.

Well, maybe I’m exaggerating just a bit.

But I do believe our school system would be better if all people worked with the extraordinary knowledge of their subject, concern for their constituents, and just plain old “elbow grease” that Dan put into his job.

Two years ago, Dan fell off a ladder and sustained head and brain injuries. It was touch and go, but he fully recovered and as they say, “got right back on the horse,” or in his case the ladder, making sure the school district had heat, lights, electricity, water, and the everyday comforts we all take for granted.

He also is just the nicest man. If he knew someone was having a problem, he’d always stop and ask how you were. Even though he worked at lightning fast speed, he took time to say hello and to treat everyone—administrators, teachers, students, co-workers—with dignity and respect.

He is quiet, but when Dan Wickman talked, people listened. There is not one person at the high school who would speak with anything but admiration and respect for Dan.

His family also adores him. He has a beautiful wife, Paula, and together they raised two wonderful sons with families of their own. His son Darren, spoke about his dad at a little retirement party for Dan, and he talked about “moments” his dad had given him—moments of time, love, knowledge, wisdom, and inspiration. There was not a dry eye at the party.

Jackie Kennedy once said, “If you bungle raising your children, I don’t think whatever else you do matters very much. “ Well, I can attest to the fact that Dan Wickman did not bungle raising his children, and what he did definitely mattered.

Dan retired January 1, 2010 from his job in Maintenance specializing in Heating, Air Conditioning, and Ventilation in the Stanwood School District. He will be starting his own business and also doing quite a bit more hunting, boating, and fishing.

Too many people like Dan go to their jobs everyday doing excellent, exemplary work in their field without recognition or million dollar paychecks. And like with everyone who retires, life goes on in the place they previously worked, but it’s not the same.

Dan Wickman is a remarkable man who personifies the best kind of person who makes life go on better for everybody. A veteran, an exemplary worker, a community volunteer, a great father, a wonderful husband, a doting grandpa, a super friend—would it be that we were all the kind of citizen and person Dan Wickman is. Have a great retirement Dan! You deserve it!

Questionnaire for those survivors NOT profiled in 2009

2010-03-17T13:19:00.000-07:00

Survivor Questionnaire for Survivor Book (For those not profiled last year)

Name:

Phone #: Email:

**An email is being sent to all survivors from last year and if you can do it online, it is MUCH easier. However, if you would prefer, please write out your answers on the sheet and use the back if necessary. Answer only those you wish to answer. You don’t need to write complete sentences! If you have any questions, please call Jennifer Kelly at 360-652-7506 or email her at jnnfr.kelly@gmail.com, and she will email you the questionnaire!

**Your answers will be incorporated into a story written by Jennifer Kelly.

**If you would prefer to write your own story, please do so and submit that!

** Please send the questionnaire to Jennifer Kelly, 18830 Soundview Drive N.W., Stanwood WA 98292 if you do not do it online.

1. What kind of cancer did you have and when were you first diagnosed?

2. What were your first thoughts and feelings upon diagnosis?

3. Describe the course of your treatment.

4. Who are the caregivers you would like to acknowledge? Please explain how they helped you. (Remember on the second lap of the walk, your caregivers join you!!)

5. How are you feeling today?

6. How has cancer changed your life?

7. Do you have any advice or a phrase or motto for those who are newly diagnosed?

8. Is there any background information in order to help describe you that could be used in the article? (Married? Single? Children? Profession? Education? Hobbies? )

9. Is there any other information you would like to add?

******** Please enclose a picture with your questionnaire. It will be returned to you at the Survivor Tent the first day of The Relay. Emailing a picture is GREAT as well!!

Relay for Life Questionnaire for those profiled in 2009

2010-03-17T13:15:00.000-07:00

Survivor Questionnaire: Update for those profiled in 2009 book

Name:

Address: Phone:

Email:

Like last year, please answer the questions below and submit a picture or write your own story about your year if you would prefer! Please send to Jennifer Kelly at 18830 Soundview Drive, N.W., Stanwood WA 98292 or email the picture and answers/story to jnnfr.kelly@gmail.com. Thanks!

1. How many birthdays have you celebrated since your diagnosis?

2. Please tell again what your diagnosis was:

3. What treatment, if any, have you had this year?

4. Please tell us about any challenges you have faced.

5. Please tell us about the fun times you have had this year. Trips? Children? Grandchildren? Great-grandchildren? Accomplishments? New job? Same job? New pets?

6. Please add any other information of your choice.

The Davis Carlson Fund - Published 2/23/10

2010-03-02T06:08:00.000-08:00

Left, Gail Larson, Trudy Abrams, Garry Carlson, and Gail Waters enjoy the prospect of filling those unfilled baskets for "Hoops for Davis" that will now be held April 10!!

Life Goes On - The Davis Carlson Fund

Two months ago my column was about getting old, and in it I stated that the good parts of life far outweigh the bad. My friend Gene Elefson challenged me on that. He simply said, “No, they don’t, but it doesn’t matter. The good parts are still good.” I’m not sure I agree with him completely, but it gave me pause, mostly because when I wrote the original statement under discussion, I worried about it. I knew that for my life it was true, but I wasn’t sure if it were true for everybody.

That’s because I have not lost a child. As a teacher and simply as a person who has almost reached senior citizen status (in fact, in some restaurants, I’m already there!), I have attended far too many funerals and memorial services for children. They make me ache for the parents and the loved ones left behind, and it just seems such a cruel and heartless thing for God to allow it.

About five years ago now, a friend of mine was in the midst of losing his eleven-year old son. My friend, fellow teacher and former student, Garry Carlson, had just learned that his son Davis had leukemia. All of the Stanwood-Camano School District ached for Garry, his wife Merry, and their daughter Taylor, as well as Davis himself, who showed us all what true courage is.

Davis was quite a remarkable young athlete and student in the Stanwood-Camano community. There wasn’t a sport he didn’t enjoy, but like his dad, he was a basketball player and golfer. He always had a basketball in his hands. When he was diagnosed with leukemia, he still loved his sports, but the chemotherapy wore him down making him unable to participate. He continued to be an avid fan. Garry took him to Seahawk football, Super Sonic basketball, and Mariner baseball games, not to mention local athletic events, right up to the end.

Davis was also able to meet some professional athletes and he enjoyed life, despite whatever treatment was ravaging his body. He loved school, and he hated missing it; however, his friends were always there for him, some shaving their heads, like Garry did, in solidarity with him.

After a year of fighting the disease, Davis died on December 25, 2005, Christmas Day. We all mourned his loss.

Had I been Garry, Merry, and Taylor, I’m not sure I would have allowed my life to go on. I certainly would not have believed that the good parts of life outweighed the bad.

But, I’m not Garry Carlson. Garry has channeled his grief into a cause in Davis’s name. He created the Davis Carlson Memorial Fund to raise money for an annual community service scholarship and a kids’ community center called Davis Place.

One of the most remarkable events to raise money for the Davis Carlson Fund was “23 Days for Davis” where Garry took off on a bicycle and traveled 23 days east, starting at Davis Slough on Camano Island on August 12, 2007, to the small town of Davis, South Dakota, pop. 104! Why 23? It is the Carlson family number, worn by Davis and Garry, as well as his grandpa and sister in their sports activities.

He traveled through Spokane, Montana, Wyoming, and South Dakota, seeing Yellowstone National Park, the Black Hills, Mount Rushmore, the Crazy Horse Monument, the Corn Palace, and finally Davis!

He has also raised money for the fund with three annual events: Hoops for Davis, the Texas Hold ‘Em Poker Tournament, and the Double Eagles for Davis Golf Tournament. Another project, the community sign by McDonald’s, also brings in funds.

“Hoops for Davis” is a wonderful, rollicking basketball tournament between staffs of schools in the Stanwood/Camano School District. Held this year on April 10 (Please note change from newspaper column!) at 5PM in the Stanwood High School gym, a silent auction is usually held where baskets of goodies donated by local businesses are auctioned with all proceeds benefiting the fund. This year, the auction will be held as always, but with just a little different twist.

Because our local community has been so supportive of Garry as well as several other causes, Garry thought of a wonderful idea to thank them. He contacted several of his friends and supporters and asked them to solicit five to ten friends to donate five to ten dollars to then choose a local business to purchase items for a basket.

It was a win-win situation. With the power of friendship, it isn’t too big an “ask” to solicit five to ten bucks. Getting $25 to $100 to make a basket choosing your favorite business is fun! One basket captain said it was like Christmas to get to go in and purchase items from her favorite store.

Over forty baskets will be auctioned at the “Hoops for Davis” event. Even if basketball is not “your thing” the auction alone will be worth your time. I was going to write it would be worth the price of admission, but the event is free!

So, I’m not going to write that the loss of Davis has been outweighed by the good of his father’s work. It hasn’t. I would rather have Davis here. But like my friend Gene believes, the good is still good—and life goes on due to this brave, young boy’s brief stay on this earth as well as his family’s courage and love for him.

For a list of the items being auctioned, please see the blog post below. You can also go to www.23daysfordavis.com to learn more about the Davis Carlson Fund.

Hoops and Baskets for Davis

2010-02-22T16:04:00.000-08:00

In this week's Stanwood-Camano News, the "Life Goes On" column is about Garry Carlson's fund he started in his son's memory--The Davis Carlson Fund. It tells about Garry, Davis, the fund, and a new twist for gift baskets that will be auctioned off at the "Hoops for Davis" basketball tournament held March 6 at the high school starting at 5PM. CORRECTION~THIS JUST IN! THE "HOOPS FOR DAVIS" WILL NOW BE APRIL 10 BECAUSE SHS'S BOYS' BASKETBALL TEAM WILL BE PLAYING IN THE STATE TOURNAMENT! GO STANWOOD SPARTANS!!

Above are basket team members Gail Olsen, Trudy Abrams, Garry Carlson, and Gail Waters with one basket already filled and several others awaiting their treasures!

The following individuals and organizations raised money to buy baskets. Many, many thanks for their efforts! Be sure to go and enjoy the games--and bid on the baskets!

Annie Houk - Stan Elementary - Furniture

Bill Gum -"STAN THE MAN Rack-Um-Up" Bat Rack and 1958 Stan Musial Baseball Card - This is an original bat rack that was first offered in 1964. Not only functional, it presents the career statistics of one of the best baseball players in history. This rack is in its original package and has never been opened in 46 years! This is as MINT as it gets for baseball memorabilia. Estimated value: $100

1958 Topps All Star Card of Stan Musial in "Good to Very Good" condition. The card has been part of a collection since coming out of the wax pack with a stick of bubble gum 52 years ago. Estimated value: $50

Ben Luce –Yale Items

Carla Verbarendse - Cup Cake

Cindy TD – Port Susan Middle School Basket

Christy Connors - Morgan’s Booktales Book Basket

Connie Majors - Girly Basket

Carol Upton - Christmas basket - nice green and red basket with cute cookie jar, two coffee cups, cream and sugar--VERY CUTE!

Crystal Titus - Sounders

Cheer Squad - Spartan Stuff

Denise - Relaxation

Garry Carlson - Tulalip Resort One-Night Deluxe Stay

Garry Carlson - KJR Studio Tour-2 Mariner Tickets

Garry Carlson - DCMF Golf

Garry Carlson - Desert Canyon Golf

Garry Carlson - Sahalee CC 2 Day Pass

Garry Carlson - Ken Griffey Jr Baseball Cards

S.H.S. Secretaries - Karen's Kitchen - Pillow, Crab Mixer

Gail Waters - SHS - Rustic Impressions

Jane Gum - "A Day of Rejuvenation" at skin/spa in Stanwood. Includes European Facial, one hour Massage, and Manicure. 2.5 hours Value: $165

Jimmy Greirson - Baby Basket

Judi Bloom - Wedding Planner

Trudy Abrams - Character Traits Sports Basket (Includes sports toys, beer ice mugs)AND a TWILIGHT basket (a wonderful assortment of "Twilight" items you can only get in Forks!!!)

Jennifer Kelly – Z’s: All Things Good Basket This includes a teapot, tea, eye pillow, candles, and all sorts of things to help with relaxation. Estimated cost: $150.00

JoAnn Olsson – Book Club – Book Basket (All kinds of books and a wonderful fruit/nut tray--books include Thousand Splendid Suns and more plus Microsoft Office supplies)

Penny Buse – Lincoln Hill High School – Girl Power Basket

Jeff Dutton - Home Blanket/Quilt

Jon Rosen - Silvertips Tips Jersey

Jean Shumate - Stanwood/Camano School District Office – Picnic Basket

Karen Hushagen Cedarhome

Laura Courtney - Basket

Mark Wayland- SMS - Home Improvement

Max Davis - Alabama Items

Molly Lee - WSU Items

Mark Bedker - Gerry Andals $200 Gift Card

PSE - Basket

Poker Group - Elger Bay Grocery

Staci Lauinger - Aaron Curry Helmet

Staci Lauinger - Freddy Montero Jersey

Staci Lauinger - V-Mac Tour

Shirley Lanum - Kitchen Staff - Coffee Basket

Stacey Schuh – Chocolate Basket

Susan Koetje - Utsalady Elem - Mariner Basket

Theresa Metzger - Park Pickets for Park

Theresa Haugstad - UW Basket

Tony Mosteller Home Massage

Wendy Roope Lotto Tree

Petula Clark - published February 2, 2010

2010-02-10T21:35:00.000-08:00

Most of you music purists are going to groan at this column; some of you may even decide not to read it anymore because you’re going to be reviled at learning my music tastes.

You’ll be like one of my favorite students, Daniel Johnson, after he had retrieved something for me in my car. He said, “Mrs. Kelly. I have always had utmost respect for you, but I may have changed my mind. You have a MARIAH CAREY C.D. in your front seat!”

Well, Daniel, and to the rest of you--to quote a common popular phrase, “It is what it is.”

Every generation seems to have its superstars—Frank Sinatra, Elvis, the Beatles, Michael Jackson. They’re all O.K., but for me, other lesser-known artists have been what has, for lack of a better phrase, “rocked my boat.”

I have always simply liked what’s called “Soft Rock.” For many of you, my favorite artists will be too “bubble gummy” or sugary. I did, however, draw the line myself at “Sugar Sugar,” and at the height of the “Honey” phase—“See the tree how big it grows, but friends, it hasn’t been too long, it’s just a twig,” I thought I’d strangle myself if I heard that song one more time.

But others—the Captain and Tenille, the Beach Boys, the Fifth Dimension, Cornelius Brothers and Sister Rose, the Doobie Brothers (they’re as edgy as I got), even the Bee Gees, are my favorites.

But there is one artist who transcends them all—Petula Clark, or Pet Clark, as those of us “in the know” call her.

I first fell in love with “Pet” in seventh grade when I was going to Kirkland Junior High. “Downtown” was the rage that year, and whenever I had some setback—a bad grade, a party I didn’t get invited to, a boy who didn’t notice me—well…when I was alone and life was “making me lonely,” I “could always go—DOWN TOWN.”

I’d imagine myself saucily walking down Fifth Avenue in Seattle, just listening “to the music of the traffic in the city,” lingering “on the sidewalk where the neon signs are pretty—happy again.”

Pet sang, “The lights are much brighter there, you can forget all your troubles, forget all your cares and go DOWN TOWN—where are the lights are bright—DOWN TOWN—waiting for you tonight—DOWN TOWN—you’re gonna be all right NOWWW.”

I don’t think I would have made it through seventh grade without her! Now, you probably think I’m done with Petula. Oh no. Next came her hit, “I Know a Place.” “Everyday when the work is behind you and the shop and the store put the lock on the door. Just get away where your worries won’t find you. If you like, well, I’ll tell you MOOORE!”

My guess is you probably don’t want me telling you more right now.

Well, I won’t go into all of her songs, like “My Love,” “Color My World,” “A Sign of the Times,” and “Don’t Sleep in the Subway” to name just a few, but I will tell you about one of the highlights of my life.

One of the nice things about being a lesser-known artist fan is that they often now come to fairs and casinos in our area. I took my son to see the Doobie Brothers at the Monroe Fair and my husband and I saw Tenille, of the “Captain and” at the Skagit Valley Casino.

And guess who else was there a couple years ago. Petula!

As soon as I heard she was coming I thought I was going to die from excitement. I remember it like yesterday. I was on my way to school and a radio advertisement announced the news, so I called Jerry (who had retired by then) and said, “You have to go to the casino NOW to get tickets,” and he did.

It was “a dream come true.” When we walked into that “Showroom” I felt I had found my people. There was one woman from Canada, who was more overtly excited than I was (I can be quite shy), but I noticed that I knew FAR more lyrics (like all of them) than she did.

I was in ecstasy when she came out on stage. She looked absolutely beautiful with long curly, blonde hair, in a slinky, sparkly black dress, and keep in mind--this lady is in her 70’s!! She sang all of her songs and then some. She recited poetry, told stories, and even danced. I sang. I wept. It was an experience to remember.

But the best part was the end. Her fans were rushing the stage and my sisters, husband, and brothers-in-law urged me to run up—and I did!! I put out my hand, and I have to tell you, it was like she was waiting for me. She grabbed it and I grabbed hers, and she looked into my eyes, and I just said, “Thank you.” She nodded and said, “You’re welcome.”

I thought I had just looked into the eyes of a combination of Glinda the Good Witch and the Snow Queen. Truly. She was the most beautiful woman I have ever seen in my entire life.

The big generational music icons have left us now—Frank, Elvis, two Beatles, and Michael—and life goes on, but for me, I’m really lucky. Life goes on and Petula is still in it!

Getting older - Published 12/29/09

2010-01-05T17:16:00.000-08:00

I’m not crazy about New Year’s. I have trouble staying up until midnight; I don’t like to eat and drink that late at night; I never feel differently when the “ball drops,” and it reminds me that I’m getting old.

I guess we all are. Somebody once said, “The only time you’re not getting older is when you’re dead.” Lovely sentiment. But I guess it’s true. From the moment you’re born, until the moment you die, you’re getting older.

Wow. I bet those of you still reading are glad you started this column!

When you’re young, old age and all the accompanying aches and pains that come with it seem so far away and you just put it out of your mind. What’s amazing to me is that I didn’t realize old age hurts! I just thought people got wrinkles and couldn’t run as fast. No big deal. I’m not that vain.

I didn’t realize you couldn’t run as fast because your joints and muscles ached. And they ache and slow down because they’re old. Like the pistons in my ten-year old car, they wear out!

And just like my old car where I have to take it to “the shop” more and more often the older it gets, I’m starting to do the same with this body God gave me. Substitute “the shop” for the “doctor’s office” (or the dentist—I just had a crown fall out!)

Below the corners of my mouth, I’m starting to resemble my bulldog more and more. There seems to be a turkey “waddle” under my chin. My lipstick sometimes seeps into the cracks above my lips when it doesn’t make it onto a tooth or two. My eyeliner drifts off. When I’m done putting on my make-up, I think I sometimes look like Heath Ledger’s Joker in that Batman movie!

My body is like a snowman, halfway through the melting process. It’s shorter and wider!

I won’t even mention what age has done to my sphincter muscles! Sheesh!

And my back—aye yi yi!

It takes me longer to do things. I used to whip up a dinner for friends, making all the courses and cleaning the house all in one day. Now I have to think about inviting people for a day or two, clean the house for a day, make the dessert another, and set the table on the day before. Then clean the house again.

When we go out to eat, I like to eat before six o’clock. Those early bird or “Sunset” dinners suit me just fine. By the time I get home, my hangover is done and my food is digested.

When I was young, I used to love to go to the latest new restaurant and pay a zillion dollars for a meal. Now, I love those buffet places. Good food. Good prices--and no flowers in the salad.

I like to go to bed early and get up early. As I write this column, it’s 5:18 A.M.!

I also love afternoon naps. I don’t take them a lot, but when I do, it’s heaven. I usually curl up with my little dog, Bruno, and sleep away. Sometimes when I wake up, I think it’s morning, but when I hear Oprah’s voice, I know it’s not.

A great night to me is when I curl up on my couch, snuggled in a blanket (with Bruno again), and Jerry in the recliner next to me, watching T.V., usually what we recorded the night before, or sometimes a DVD from the video store. Half the time I fall asleep before the program has finished.

I’m not going to say I’m perfect in this department, but I don’t lose my temper as much. I had to laugh during one of my last years of teaching. I had a student tell me, “Mrs. Kelly, I don’t understand it. I think you’re really nice, but my dad told me that when he had you, you were just a bitch.”

I howled, and said, “Well, yes, I was. I was a little nervous and scared during my first years of teaching, so I thought being stern and grumpy would help.” After a while, I learned that it didn’t.

I never thought about it, but I guess old age brings courage. When you’ve made it to the time you can call yourself “old,” you’ve had to face many things—the death of a parent, relatives, or friends. A hospitalization. A change of jobs. Arguments. Money problems. Retirement. Illness. All those life tests everyone eventually faces.

And you realize that you survive and the good parts of life far outweigh the bad. I realized early in life that God doesn’t think life should be easy. It’s sort of like mountain climbing with peaks and valleys.

I’ve found that it’s in the valleys where I struggle the most, but it’s also where I gain wisdom that leads to the peace I feel when I climb up to the peak--and a particularly hard climb seems to yield the best view.

Well, this column has been interesting. It’s gone from lipstick in the cracks above my lips to a lofty mountain climbing metaphor! But hopefully it all leads to the fact that life goes on.

To quote Truvy Jones, my second favorite character in the movie, Steel Magnolias, “Time marches on—and pretty soon it marches across your face!” I’ll get used to it! I don’t have a choice! And like a friend always says, “It’s better than the alternative!”

Merry Christmas from Bobo Kelly!

2009-12-19T08:04:00.000-08:00

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year from....Bobo Kelly!

Hello Human Friends of Jennifer & Jerry,

Jennifer is making me dictate the Christmas letter again this year because she said I was a “hit” last year, whatever that means. Personally, I hate hits, but whatever rocks your boat, I guess. I thought Bonnie, my lab sister, would be better because she’s always so happy and optimistic, but I can understand why Jennifer wouldn’t want “the baby dog,” Bruno to do it. I don’t think he can put a thought together because his brain is so small. He’s also very grouchy. Every time he’s in Jennifer or Jerry’s lap, he growls at me.

This year was all right except for the times Jennifer & Jerry left us. They went to something called Mardi Gras in the New Orleans area and came home with boxes and boxes of these bead things. I’ve heard how women get those beads, but Jennifer assures me that in reality they throw beads at everyone. They had a great time eating and going to parades with the Bourgs and Rivets while we stayed home with our dog walking friend who played with us and fed us.

After Louisiana, they went to the St. Louis area to see friends who live there, and they got to go to Springfield, Illinois to see some guy’s museum and library. Jennifer went on and on about how much she LOVED this Abraham Lincoln guy. I don’t know what he’s got that I haven’t got, but he must have done something because she STILL talks about how brave and amazing he was. I’d like to see him take on the squirrels in our yard. I doubt he could run as fast as I can.

Then, they came home and stuck around for a while until July when Jerry’s niece Shannon got married in Bozeman, Montana. Jennifer went on and on and on about how much fun she had driving over there with Jerry and his brother Larry and how beautiful the wedding was.

The next month Chalen and Jerae took care of us while Jerry & Jennifer left us for a long time. They went up to Ocean Falls in British Columbia to stay with friends Audrey & Gene. Jennifer keeps saying how much she loves it up there and it is a place I might like because it has lots of fish, mountains, water, and critters. I would love to scare away one of those bears they saw. They wouldn’t have a chance with me. Occasionally Jerry throws me a piece of the luscious salmon they caught. Jennifer won’t give me any because she says I need to lose weight. Talk about the pot calling the kettle black….

At the end of August everyone was so excited because Chalen got a job. Jennifer kept saying, “I can’t believe with all the teacher layoffs in this state that she got a teaching job!” I figured Chalen would do it. Jennifer is one of these people who sees the glass half-empty. I love Chalen. She constantly laughs at me. She is an English teacher at Olympic High School in the Silverdale area and I would like to see more of her.

Jerae left us for a LONG time in April and May. I love Jerae. When I see her come home, I just run out of the house and jump up and kiss her. She went far away to two places: Cairo, Egypt and Amman, Jordan. She worked in Egypt with a Bedouin community on water issues and she is learning to speak Arabic. She had, according to her, an unbelievable time, and some interesting experiences, and it hasn’t dampened her love of travel and adventure at all. However, she says she appreciates life “here” much more than before she left. I don’t have to go anywhere to know I have it pretty good.

Oh! In August, we had fun at Warm Beach’s “Summerfest” celebration. Jerry decorated the float with a Mardi Gras theme, and Bonnie, Bruno, Jerae, Jennifer and I rode in the back throwing Mardi Gras beads at people. Bruno didn’t like it, though. He kept trying to take his costume off and was shaking almost all the way. He ended up in the cab with Jerry. Jerry always takes care of us. He’s a really good guy. I love him.

September started and Jennifer is substitute teaching again. She missed her friends at the high school. Why we are not enough, I don’t know, but it seems to make her happy, though on the days she subs, she falls asleep on the couch at 8pm.

The end of September, she went back to Missouri by herself to meet up with her nephew Tug who is going on a 4,000 mile adventure from Souix City, Iowa, down the Missouri and Mississippi Rivers to the Tenn-Tom Bigbee waterway to Mobile, Alabama, around Florida to the intercoastal waterway, all the way up to Maine. Again, they went to see Abraham Lincoln’s museum and enjoyed their time with Kari and Neil. Jerry was home, so I didn’t care that she was gone. (Don’t tell her—I WAS glad when she got home. Jerry especially was glad, so that made me happy.) (Typist’s note: he forgets I’m typing this, but he IS a dog.)

The end of October, Jerry went back into the hospital because his ankle replacement failed! We were very upset. He had been walking around on a broken foot all summer!! He has had to stay off his foot for two months, and he hasn’t been happy about that, but this coming Wednesday he may get a “boot” and he’ll be able to walk then. Why they didn’t give him the boot in the first place, I don’t know!

Jerae also had a second knee surgery the day before Thanksgiving. Boy, was Jennifer complaining about “the timing.” But, they came home very happy because the doctor said Jerae could play soccer again as long as she uses a brace. I don’t know how many times we had to listen to Jennifer say, “Now, Jerae, I don’t care how far you travel to play soccer—if you don’t have your brace, you don’t play, blau, blau, blau.” Poor Jerae. She just kept saying, “Yes Mom. Yes Mom.”

Jamie and Fred, who I don’t see nearly enough, came home to help at the Relay for Life in May. Jennifer is the Survivor Chair and Jamie’s parents were also very involved in it. Fred also came home to help when Jerry had his surgery. They still live in California and are doing great. Fred works at “Better Place” researching electric cars and how best to use them, and Jennifer is jealous because he gets to travel to Paris and Copenhagen. However, the big news is that Jamie got accepted to dental school this fall! I am hoping she will take care of my teeth because I hate it when the vet prods them, but Jennifer tells me she’ll only work on humans. Bummer. Oh! I almost forgot. Jerry & Jennifer went to see them the first of February to have Christmas 2008 because they didn’t make it up here last Christmas during the snow. Jennifer was so sad that they couldn’t come, but the February trip made up for it.

Jennifer’s mom, Peg, is still at the Warm Beach Care Center. I love her. She is so nice, and sometimes I get to go see her up there. The people up there really like dogs and their slobber. That’s a good thing.

Jennifer still writes her column for the Stanwood/Camano News. I wasn’t in it enough this year. You can access it, if you want to read it at her blog. She nagged me to put the address in. But if you're reading this, you're at it!

So, I guess this is it. I’m hungry. By the way, I’m fine. As long as I get a good walk and plenty to eat and drink, what more is there to life? Oh. I know. The squirrels. I live to chase them. And naps. I LOVE naps.

Jennifer says to wish everyone a “Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.” O.K. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

Love,

Bobo Kelly

Thank You to Warm Beach Care Center - 11/24/09

2009-12-01T19:36:00.000-08:00

One of my favorite movies when I was a kid was, “To Sir With Love.” Wow! Sidney Poitier! What a handsome, handsome man! I loved the lyrics to the song Lulu sang for “Mr. Thackery”—“But how do you thank someone who has taken you from crayons to perfume? It isn’t easy but I’ll try.”

In this week of Thanksgiving, I would like to thank a group of people, and like Lulu sang, “It isn’t easy, but I’ll try.”

While it’s been “a few” years since someone has taken me from “crayons to perfume,” the person who did was my mother, Peggy Hutchison. And while I will thank her the rest of my life, I now want to thank those who take care of her now—the staff at Warm Beach Senior Community Health Care Center.

To be honest, I had not wanted my mother to go there after she broke her hip because my family was involved with the Warm Beach Stewards, a watchdog group of sorts that has monitored growth in the greater Warm Beach area, one being the Warm Beach Senior Community (WBSC) and the Camp and Conference Center. It isn’t that we had something against them; I enjoy the Lights of Christmas and their youth activities at the camp are great. It’s just that we loved Port Susan Bay enough to fight for its ecological health when WBSC wanted to build an addition we thought would hurt the bay and land.

Since then, the Stewards and WBSC have come to an agreement in terms of the growth, but back then I thought our involvement might cause the staff to resent Mom and us. How wrong I was. I never should have doubted the staff and caretakers there. “Wonderful” doesn’t begin to describe the work they do. They are a supportive, loving, caring group of people. They have not only welcomed her, but they have loved her and shown her that though she might be in a nursing home, life goes on.

They laugh at her self-deprecating sense of humor, talk to her about the “old days” of Warm Beach, take her to dinner, give her baths, pick out her clothes, dispense medicine, help her get stronger, and take her shopping. She tells them about her 28-year teaching career when she was named Teacher of the Year in the Lake Washington School District and chasing salmon in the Warm Beach river channels when she was a child. They make her feel like she is important, that she still has something to offer, that she matters.

When Mom entered WBSC, she weighed 91 pounds. This is not much for a woman who was 5 feet 7 inches. Since she has been at Warm Beach, she has gained twenty pounds! Through physical therapy there, she has become stronger, making her transfers from her wheelchair to our car much easier.

Last year, Mom told my sister that she had been to the mall buying “some clothes.” We thought, “Oh. Oh. This is the beginning of the downhill slide.” You see, my dad had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s at the end of his life, often resulting in delusions. However, a few days later, my sister ran into a friend and said, “Hey! I saw your mom at Target yesterday—she looked great!” It turns out the activity directors at the center had taken Mom and other residents on a trip to Target. They go on a few trips a month—out to lunch, shopping, and site seeing!

Last summer I went on a trip with them, and I witnessed a miracle of sorts—residents, wheelchairs, walkers, lunches, snacks, and drinks all taken to the San Juan Islands via the Anacortes Ferry. Two buses loaded up with residents on one, and walkers, wheelchairs, and supplies on another. What a fun, memorable, joyous day! Seeing my mom and her fellow residents enjoy the sites and sounds of the San Juan Islands was a day I’ll never forget.

Mom has enjoyed breakfasts at IHOP, Chinese and Mexican food out (and brought in), speakers, movies, exercise classes, birthday parties, and other special events related to the holidays. She had her favorite dinner of salmon for her birthday. She is brought books to read and games to play.

So how do I thank the wonderful people at Warm Beach Senior Community? My first inclination was to name those so important to my mom and to my sisters and me. In the first version of this column that’s just what I did. But I decided against that in the final draft. I might leave someone out--and that draft went over my maximum word length by a several hundred words!

So, I guess I will just thank them with these simple words: Thank you! To all of you at Warm Beach Senior Community: Thank you from the bottom of my family’s hearts. You are truly unsung heroes. You don’t get paid enough, but you go to work everyday bringing joy and happiness to those who need it—and not just to the residents but also to those who love and visit them.

Warm Beach Senior Health Care Center is a wonderful place filled with laughter, joy, and hope. Life goes on in nursing homes. Warm Beach Senior Health Care Center is a testament to that. We are lucky to have a facility of its caliber in our neighborhood.

Tug Buse - Hero's Journey - published Oct. 27, 2009

2009-11-09T11:10:00.000-08:00

Ever since I watched Bill Moyers interview Joseph Campbell in their conversations entitled “The Power of Myth,” on television almost twenty years ago, I have been intrigued by the idea of “the hero’s journey.” I like the idea that we are all heroes, battling through life to find meaning and purpose, not only for ourselves, but for others as well.

Few of us, however, really get out of our everyday ruts to truly confront danger and obstacles to become enlightened. But, I am lucky enough to be related to someone who is: my nephew, Michael James Hutchison Buse, “Tug” to those of us who know and love him.

Tug is currently on an adventure, both literally and figuratively, in that he is sailing and rowing a fourteen-foot sailboat he built from scratch, named “Adventure,” starting (and occasionally motoring) down the Missouri River from Sioux City, Iowa to the St Louis area and on down the Great Mississippi.

Today, he is on the Tenn-Tombigbee waterway, making his way to Mobile, Alabama. After Mobile, he plans to go the route of the inter-coastal waterway around Florida, and then all the way up to Maine. Total distance: 4000 miles!

He also will be making a film of the journey, interviewing people he meets and recording the scenery—and weather!

Named for the type of boat his parents cruised in, Tug is Warm Beach born and bred. Born a month early during the day of my Auntie Ann’s funeral to my sister and brother-in-law, Penny and Mike Buse, Tug has always had a sense of adventure.

He grew up listening to his Grandpa Norm talking about the early mill days of Everett; Chuck Keitel expounding on his fishing exploits and the birth of Birmingham, later named Warm Beach; and his Grandpa Jim talking about flying B-17 bombers and his time in a German prison camp during World War II.

These stories gave him a love of history and adventure, and he was fostered by a couple of great history teachers at Stanwood High School, Phil Telford and Don Hanna, both of whom helped him discover the Civil War, General Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain, and Abraham Lincoln.

When Tug was a little boy, he often made rafts out of logs and scrap lumber. Just like Huck Finn, he and his friends ventured out on Port Susan, and up the Stillaguamish River with only oars, primitive sails, and long sticks. He always came home yearning to go just a little bit farther.

As Tug grew older, he became interested in recording his journeys and making up stories for the neighborhood kids to reenact on film. Aaron Hill, Fred Leach, Cameron Kane, Garrett Smith, Derrick Buse, and Arlen Hill, all grown up now, pursuing their own adventures, were often actors in his films.

Tug’s interests after high school eventually led him to Brunswick, Maine to Bowdoin College where he received a Bachelor of Arts degree in history and won the Class of 1875 American History Prize. From there, he went to Chapman University and received a Masters in Media and Film.

This background landed him a job as a media professor at Morningside College in Sioux City, Iowa. After a couple years there, the calling of the sea was too much, and he launched his idea of “adventure.”

With boat plans designed by a Master Boat Builder, William Garden of British Columbia, and the help and guidance of Alan Thomle, Master Boat Builder of Warm Beach (as well as that of his dad and mom) Tug began building the hull of “Adventure” four years ago.

He spent those years working on “her”--putting the hull together, varnishing the wood, crafting the mast, making the sails, fiberglassing over the finished woodwork, picking out gear, choosing hardware, painting her. It was pain-staking labor.

He got most of the work done in his Grandpa Norm’s garage during the summer, but he trailered the boat between Sioux City, Iowa and Warm Beach, Washington for all those years to work on it in both summer and winter!

He had a boat launching the summer of 2007 at Kayak Point with his Grandma Peggy christening it with champagne, while both his grandpas looked on with pride, admiration, and happiness in addition to dozens of friends and relatives. Afterwards, guests were rewarded with a wonderful party at Chuck and Annie Shigley’s beautiful home.

The next summer here in the Northwest, he took the boat on several long sails, one up through the San Juans, across the Strait of Juan de Fuca, and up to the British Columbia islands, sailing in front of the home of his hero (and designer of “Adventure”), William Garden. Tug had corresponded with him a couple times, knew where his home and workshop were, and was thrilled to see the 89 year old gentleman out on his dock when he sailed by.

“Mr. Garden!” he yelled, “I’m Tug Buse!”

Mr. Garden yelled back, “I know! I recognized the boat!” He invited Tug into his home on Vancouver Island—a dream come true for Tug, and they talked and talked--boats, of course.

Just last August, “Adventure” was finally launched in the Missouri River (with a grand party of Sioux City friends, colleagues, and students from Morningside), and so began Tug’s long journey and ultimate river trip.

Life goes on—until next week, when I’ll give you an update about Tug and discuss an adventure of my own!

My Journey - Visit to see Tug - published 11/3/09

2009-11-09T10:52:00.001-08:00

Last week, I told you about my nephew’s hero’s journey, sailing down the Missouri and Mississippi Rivers from Sioux City, Iowa to Mobile, Alabama by way of the Tenn-Tombigbee Waterway, then around Florida via the intercoastal waterway, all the way up to Maine, a journey of 4000 miles!

Five weeks ago, I had a hero’s journey of my own. I call it a hero’s journey because I am afraid to fly. Twice I have had panic attacks on planes, but with the help of anti-anxiety pills--and new-found meditation techniques, thanks to Susanna Mantis of “Z’s: All Things Good” (I love to “plug” local business!), I boarded my “steed,” a Boeing 750-something, to St. Louis to surprise Tug in the town of Kimmswick, Missouri.

Because my friends Kari Estes and Neil McDonald live in nearby Festus, a suburb of St. Louis, I was able to go, find Tug, and stay with them. Kari and Neil had known Tug was coming, and he had planned to stay a few days with them. He didn’t know I was coming. I planned my trip to fly into St. Louis the day he got to Kimmswick, about thirty miles south of the airport.

Kari said that Tug had called her cell phone, and that he was at Hoppie’s Marina, so with Neil on the cell phone giving us directions via Mapquest on his computer at home, we navigated our way through the dark Missouri night and found the marina and Tug. He had told Kari he was on a boat called “The Solstice.” Better call that a yacht!

Seeing Tug’s jaw drop when he saw me through the yacht’s glass door was one of those moments in my life that I will “lock” in my brain and never forget. Getting to give my big, handsome nephew a hug after he had traveled alone for 800 miles in a 14-foot sailboat-- and after I had spent 4 hours in a “pressurized metal tube” going 500 miles an hour at 35,000 feet high--was wonderful.

We spent the next few days enjoying the company of Kari, Neil, and their son Connor, the Mississippi River, and some of the joys of being in the Midwest. We dined twice at the famous Blue Owl Restaurant in Kimmswick, the home of the best bakery I have ever experienced, a place where Paula Deen occasionally cooks.

I rented a car, and we drove to Springfield, Illinois, home of the Abraham Lincoln Museum and Library where Tug knew more than many of the docents! I stared at one of Honest Abe’s stovepipe hats, and enjoyed the high-tech experiences there, my favorite one being a four minute film of the Civil War, with each second representing a week of the war, watching a map depicting the battles and a ticker tape counting the casualties—over 1.3 million by the end. We also went to Lincoln’s tomb and I felt humbled to be only ten feet from Abraham Lincoln’s body.

We sat on “The Adventure” moored on the old Mississippi with Tug and friends, taking in Mark Twain’s river, and I remembered all the years I spent teaching The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and remembering his river descriptions. I understand better how Huck felt peace on the river.

We visited St. Genieveve, an absolutely beautiful, quaint French Colonial town for lunch where I had liver and onions for $5.95!

Tug, who has called me Buba or Bub ever since the age of two when I mimicked the “buh” sound back to him, said, “Bub, I don’t know when we’ve been able to spend three whole days together, and I said, “Tug, I haven’t gotten to spend three days with my own kids, let alone my nephew.” We talked about his hopes, future, and dreams. One thing’s for sure; he wants to come back to the ocean, whether the Atlantic or Pacific. I’m lobbying for the Pacific!

Tug has created a work of art in his boat—not just in the building of it, but his honoring of its purpose: taking it out on waters to sail away and discover the people and places of our great land. Like the heroes in Joseph Campbell’s journeys, he is encountering dangers, meeting new people, making friends, feeling lonely, but ultimately enlightening most of us who only dream about adventures.

Life goes on whether we ever realize our dreams, and those who do are fortunate because they’ve figured out how to accomplish them and then had the courage to live them. Tug has endured Midwest thunder and rainstorms, a broken motor, blisters and calluses on his hands from rowing, isolation, loneliness, and sheer exhaustion, but he’s met wonderful people and seen amazing, beautiful sites, all recorded for the film he will be making.

I have eclectic musical tastes, and I like Bobby Darin, and I know what you’re thinking! What does THAT have to do with Tug’s journey? Well, Bobby sang a song with these lyrics:

The world is full of beautiful things

Butterfly wings, fairy tale kings

And each new day undoubtedly brings

Still more beautiful things

The world abounds with many delights

Magical sights, fanciful flights

And those who dream on beautiful nights

Dream of beautiful things.

My nephew not only dreams of beautiful things, but he lives the days that bring them. What a wonderful, inspirational young man! I’m proud to be his aunt. Stay tuned for more adventures!

Food, Fun, and Friends - Published September 29, 2009

2009-10-07T08:55:00.001-07:00

Food, fun, friends, fjords, fish, and family are my very favorite “F” words, some more important than others, but still words that represent as Julie Andrews would say, “My Favorite Things.” The last month, these words have played a special importance in my life.

Even though I always think of food (love food, hate food, celebrate food) I had started relating to it in a different way earlier this summer because I learned that the Community Reads committee had chosen the book, Plenty: Eating Locally on the 100 Mile Diet by Alisa Smith and J.B. McKinnon, a memoir of sorts telling the story of two people, from both their points of view, about choosing to eat food only produced within a radius of 100 miles from where they lived (in their case, Vancouver, British Columbia).

I read the book and was intrigued by the idea

The authors wrote about “traceability,” how we can’t always trace the origins of our food. I had started to think food comes from a box. I just went to my cupboard and got my favorite full-of-fiber pancake mix. Some of the ingredients include mononitrate, riboflavin, polydextrose, folic acid, dextrose, and tricalcium phosphate. Yeeks. Maybe a scientist knows what that stuff is and where it comes from, but I sure don’t know!

I’ve always loved the idea of the Indian Totem, a religious icon symbolizing the gods, which also happened to be the things native people ate: birds, bear, fish, plants, and whales. These gave our native ancestral friends life, and they in turn honored them. I’m not sure that we honor our food anymore.

I’ve just returned from the land of the Totem. In August, Jerry and I went on an eleven day adventure to Ocean Falls, British Columbia, a ghost town 160 miles south of the Alaskan border, where our friends, Audrey and Gene Elefson live three months each year in one of the most beautiful places on earth. Ocean Falls is at the end of a fjord fed by Pacific water guarded by 4000-foot mountains hugging the water below.

Ocean Falls is a ghost town. In its heyday 3600 people lived there supported by a lumber/paper mill run by Crown-Zellerbach. The company closed the mill in 1968, and the British Columbia government ran it until 1981. Then the mill closed and with it went almost all the people. A few remain, and they are an interesting lot to say the least.

Audrey & Gene found Ocean Falls while cruising the B.C. waters in 1989. They bought one of the abandoned houses for $9,000, and with major work, sweat, love, and care made it more than livable. Now the houses there sell for around $140,000 despite the fact no police department, fire protection, or medical care is there.

Having just finished Plenty, I was struck by how at Ocean Falls, we lived a little like our ancestors with food gathering and preparation being our major activities. We spent four days fishing, crabbing, and shrimping. While there, we caught countless shrimp and crab, 17 Cohos (average weight about 12 pounds), one humpy we gave away (to one of the original mill’s workers), and one 87-pound halibut. Audrey, one of the funniest, most talented women I have ever met, with fishing being just one talent, caught the halibut and 19-pound Coho!

Audrey is a trickster, not just as an uncanny fisherman, a crazy comedian (she one time dressed in a burka of all things, bringing me flowers to school for my 40^th birthday--I could tell you other stories), and fantastic writer (I treasure her letters from Ocean Falls), she’s a fabulous cook. After fishing, she and I would sit and chop vegetables for salsa and salads, and I remember thinking, “This is so much fun.” Before Ocean Falls, I didn’t like to chop. Now I do.

Remember my pancake box? Audrey made pancakes from scratch, something I haven’t done in years. Believe me, there is a difference—they were “M.Y.M-ers” as my Uncle Jack used to say—“Melt in Your Mouth-ers.” Much better than any mix I’ve used.

When I got home after a week of fishing, eating, drinking, and fun, I tried going on the 100-mile diet, but to be truthful, it only lasted about four hours. I’m afraid I’m too lazy.

However, I did cook a meal for several women from my high school class with 90% of the principles. We get together every so often, and what fun. Forty years melt away and we revert to our high school selves, but with the comfort that we all survived our childhood trials and life’s tribulations.

While I did serve non-local coffee, but roasted and packaged by Camano Roasters, we had salmon I caught in Ocean Falls, Skagit potatoes with Camano Basil and Samish Island cheese, rolls made with Oso honey and Essex Farm flour, Skagit broccoli, roasted Stanwood corn, and Jerry Kelly tomatoes with Samish Island cheese and Camano Basil.

For dessert, I prepared Twisp peaches (admittedly 125 miles away) and Lynden whipped cream. To drink, we also had Warm Beach water, Lynden milk, and Cedardale Apple Cider from Mount Vernon. They all took home a little Camano Island soap bar, bag of pears from our trees, and a dozen Monroe eggs brought by our very funny classmate and female farner, Kathy Pratt. The celebration of food and friends was fabulous, fantastic, and fun.

Life goes on even if we don’t always eat locally, but I do believe we need to get back to eating foods as close to their natural state as possible. However, as a former working mother (and a lazy retired person!), I know that is not always easy. I say just do the best you can!

Ocean Falls and 100 Mile Lunch

2009-09-26T21:08:00.001-07:00

The September 29 column will be about the Community Reads book, Plenty: Eating Locally on the 100 Mile Diet, my trip to Ocean Falls visiting our friends Audrey & Gene Elefson, and a 100 Mile Luncheon I made for my high school friends.

Here are pictures of the "100 Mile Lunch" I made for my friends from high school as well as pictures of Ocean Falls.

Top picture was a typical view fishing up near Ocean Falls, British Columbia.

First picture below, you will find from left to right, me, Kitty Hawkins Guinan, Gill Wood-Gaines Paulson, Jan Setzer Batt, Paula Lincoln Peterson, Kathy Pratt, Pam Horrobin Weittmeier, Lisa Hurd Bate, and Becky Caskey Von Rotz.

Second picture below, right, are the same women, except Sharon Turpin replaces Lisa Bate.

Third picture below, is my friend Audrey Elefson with her 87 pound halibut.

Fourth picture below, are my high school friends at the lunch.

The rest of the pictures are various views during our Ocean Falls trip.

Community Reads Information!

2009-08-27T07:26:00.000-07:00

Hey everyone! Please read the book, Plenty: Eating Locally on the 100 Mile Diet by Alisa Smith and J.B. McKinnon, and participate in these upcoming events!

September 17 – Book discussion at Camano Island library

September 19 – Harvest Jubilee kickoff – Celebration of farming and tours of area farms

September 22 – Book discussion at Snow Goose Bookstore

October 8 – “Together We Eat” at the Floyd Nygaard @ 7PM – a discussion of two food experts, a chef, a farmer, and a produce manager about buying, preparing, and eating local foods

October 10 – Pumpkin Carving at Williams’ Pioneer Pumpkin Patch

October 14 – Book discussion for the Stanwood Library @ Merrill Gardens

October 26 – “Good Food” film premiere @ Stanwood High School Performing Arts Center

Teaching Speech - Published August 18, 2009

2009-08-26T20:14:00.000-07:00

When I was a teacher, at times in my career, I used to teach “Speech.” I loved teaching it because the kids’ speeches were hilarious, informative, and fun. I also liked it because my high school speech teacher had made a big difference in my life.

I was one of those kids who would rather take an “F” than give a speech; although, I usually mustered up the courage to get up in front of the class and do it. One time I was crying myself to sleep worrying about a speech I had to give the next day when my dad came in my room and gave me a tablespoon of what I believe was Scotch Whiskey!

I know parents today will be horrified at that, but it just makes me laugh and love Dad all the more for trying to help me.

I literally started crying in front of my eighth grade class while giving a speech, but pulled myself together when a kid in the back was laughing at me. He made me angry because he seemed so cruel, and my anger helped me get through it.

When I spoke, my knees used to shake, my top lip would quiver, and I literally felt like I was having a heart attack. My dad used to tell me, “Imagine them naked.” I still don’t understand that, and really, it just made me all the more nervous.

At my high school during our sophomore year, Speech was a required quarter class. My speech teacher was very kind, but demanding, and he helped me get over my fears by working with me after school and assigning us speech topics that helped me forget I was in front of the class.

I really enjoyed a demonstration speech where I taught the class how to make an origami box. I gave everyone in the class paper, and had the students follow my directions. It actually was fun, and perhaps helped lead to my teaching career.

I graduated in education with a double major in Speech and English from the U.W., and lucked into a speech job during my first year of teaching. Periodically at Stanwood High School, I was assigned a speech class or two, and those classes were so much fun. I got to know the kids even better, and I discovered their interests, hopes, pet peeves, and dreams.

The student speeches I remember most were the type I excelled at, the “Demonstration Speeches.” I never knew what to expect. One highlight was when Greg Ovenell brought his dog to demonstrate dog training. His dog lifted his leg on Greg in the middle of the speech and I thought the class and I were going to split a gut laughing. Greg was, needless to say, not happy.

Another hysterical one was when this kid brought his chain saw to explain how to use it. Of course, a student today could never bring a chainsaw to school, but remember--this was during the age before school violence and we didn’t even think twice about it.

I can’t remember his name, but he spoke with a twangy southern accent. He did a good job of explaining what a chainsaw can do, and he showed us how to keep it working properly. He oiled it and sharpened it and I was very impressed with his knowledge and demeanor—that is until he began to start up the chainsaw. I had no idea he planned to do that, even though I had his outline in front of me. As he started to pull the chain, I began to stand, and I only got the “n” sound out of the word, “No!” I kept sputtering “nuh, nuh, nuh,” as he pulled and pulled on the chord.

Then the funniest thing happened that was quite inappropriate and completely unexpected. The kid stopped, looked out at the room with these big, incredulous eyes, and blurted out, “The ‘F-er’ (polite way to write the real word) won’t start!” I don’t know if it was his look or being startled with his use of “the “F”word,” but the kids and I just burst into laughter while he finally got the thing started and the room turned blue with smoke as he lifted it in the air in triumph.

I had to dock him 10 points in “Word Choice” but he was absolutely thrilled with his A- and he was cool when I explained that a speaker would never utter a profanity during a speech. The class thought it was the best speech they had ever heard.

I’ve learned that life goes on whether you can be brave enough to speak in front of a group or not, but it can be empowering when you can. I’ve often found it ironic that a young girl petrified of public speaking made her living for 33 years speaking in front of five groups of people a day.

“Speech” isn’t taught as a formal class in school anymore. When English teachers have the time sometimes they incorporate it, sometimes not. I think that’s too bad. While nerve-wracking, “Speech” can give kids moments to shine and feel proud. I’m certainly glad I got to take it!

Have a great start to the school year everybody!

And while this has nothing to do with speech, be sure you get a copy of Plenty: Eating Locally on the 100 Mile Diet by Alisa Smith and J.B. McKinnon, this year’s Community Read book available at the library or the Snow Goose Bookstore. I’m going on the 100-mile diet this month and next month, I’ll report back to you, as well as tell you about up-coming events for our community “read”!