This is the chorus on beautiful Whidbey Island this summer.
We’re experiencing weather that’s more consistent with Southern California than the Pacific Northwest. It’s been dry and hot. We do get weather like this on Whidbey; it just usually shows up for a week or so in August, not from spring break until autumn.
The impact on our farm has been minimal since our goats are on sabbatical this year. Our water bill is definitely up from refilling waters. Our pastures are dry and crispy, which means our hay bill is higher because there’s no nutrition left in the field. As my friend Chris Williams says, “Risky business—farming!”
My grower farmer friends are feeling the heat and lack of rain much more acutely. I’m watching them experience entire crop failures. They are suffering bolting and burning plants. Stressed plants are dropping blossoms in the heat rather than setting fruit. Results of the hot, dry weather includes some plants coming sooner, but it also means veggies that wilt at market when customers don’t want to face shopping in the sweltering heat. Saturday, I overheard one of my farmer friends sigh under her breath as she packed up in the heat, “Risky business—farming.”
Note the dry grass 🙁 and the ice cream 🙂 (photo by the author)
If you’ve got a garden growing at home, you know this problem. I’m sure you can relate if you accidently missed a day with the hose and went out to find your garden too wilted or crispy for even the slugs to eat.
The goats’ sabbatical this year has left me time to find other ways to beat the heat, but it has left me without one of the main ingredients for my favorite dessert.
Peaches are my favorite fruit. They’re a sure sign of summer, and this year they’ve come early.
In all this spare time, I thought I’d whip up a new favorite dessert: fresh peach and dulce de leche ice cream.
Yum!! (photo by the author)
The recipe I used:
• 1 cup heavy cream • 4 cups whole milk • ¾ cup sugar • 8 egg yolks (save those whites for something fun like Angel Food Cake – not something boring like egg-white omelets!) • 4 tsp vanilla • 1 tsp salt
Heat the milk over medium heat, slowly and stirring constantly. Scalded milk will make your ice cream taste like burned cauliflower.
Mix the sugar and egg yolks while your milk is heating.
Once the milk is steaming, add it to the sugar and egg yolks. Reheat until it is steaming, but not boiling.
Take the entire mixture and place it in either a glass or metal bowl. Once it’s cooled. put it in the refrigerator to chill. The mixture should be refrigerated for at least four hours to chill completely.
For the dulce de leche:
• ¾ cup of heavy cream • ½ cup of sugar • ½ tsp of vanilla • Mix all the ingredients in a sauce pan over medium heat, bring to a boil, but keep stirring. When it starts to brown, pull it from the heat and let it cool. If you overcook this, you’ll end up with toffee, so keep a close eye on it!
Cut two to three peaches into small cubes. Ideally you want to end up with two cups, so it depends on how much you snack while cutting. Once you have your two cups, sprinkle the peaches with one to two tablespoons of sugar and let them sit covered in the refrigerator until you’re ready to start mixing.
Once everything is cooled, you can mix it in an ice cream maker if you have it, or you could mix it together thoroughly with a spoon in a big metal or glass bowl. An ice cream maker will make it come together a little smoother and a bit like soft-serve, but you want to reserve the peaches until the ice cream is almost set. Either way you’ll likely have to put it in containers in your freezer to firm up.
If you want it for dessert, get the ice cream mixed and into your freezer for two to four hours before you want to serve it. If you’re not using an ice cream maker you’ll want to freeze it in an airtight container overnight.
Once it’s firm, put it in a bowl. Add a spoon, and maybe a sprig of mint.
While you enjoy the cool, refreshing treat, could you do one favor for me? Hold a thought of a glorious overdue spring shower in your mind while you enjoy the bounty of summer.
Vicky Brown, Chief Milkmaid at the Little Brown Farm, puts her passions on the page writing about food, agriculture and the tender web of community. All photos by the author.
WLM stories and blogs are copyrighted and all rights are reserved. Linking is permitted. To request permission to use or reprint content from this site, email info@whidbeylifemagazine.org.
A full year on the island, Independence Day 2014 to 2015… (photo by the author)
BY LES McCARTHY July 15, 2015
As of last week, I am a full-fledged islander with one year of island living under my proverbial belt. I’ve learned a lot, but the Northwest—and especially island life—remain somewhat new to me.
It’s just different here!
I grew up in the ‘burbs of Chicago and, after college, landed in Denver. For 30 some years I lived my happy-married-kid-animal-friend-filled life. But—as life does—it changed my planned journey and took me down another path…
Expected: college temporarily claimed my kids.
Unexpected: cancer permanently claimed my husband. Then Chicago called me ‘back home’ for two years.
But, last year, on the Third of July—with Freeland’s “bombs bursting in air” and eagles soaring over a flag-draped barn—I was welcomed to my new island home. To put it mildly, this has been a change of epic proportions.
Change is scary. But realizing that somehow neutralizes the unknown, the scariness of it all. Change is needed, inevitable and constant; there would be no butterflies if no change. Growth happens when we get out of our own way and our comfort zone and say Why not? or What if? It miraculously leads to paths and journeys, people and places we never could have imagined. Change is good.
And with that said, from being on this glorious rock for the past 379 days…
I’ve learned:
• Though I knew no one, and had not seen my house before I bought it, all will be fine.
• “Island Time” is real—it means add on/allow for an extra hour, day, week or month.
• There are so many events (gatherings, concerts, parades, workshops, exhibits) going on on this island that it’s not possible to fit them all in in just one year! Trust me, I tried!
• Winter and Spring here are better than anywhere else I can imagine. You want to see a cold/wet winter? Go to Chicago. You want snow in Spring (and Fall)? Go to Denver.
• There are more artists, writers, musicians and people of talent here than probably anywhere else on the planet. And they share those talents, too!
Too bad I couldn’t find a DEER to photograph; at least this is a small picture! (photo by the author)
• Deer and slugs will eat just about anything. At least once. At my house, at least twice.
• It’s good to go walking in the woods above Greenbank Farm (not so good during hunting season. Well, at least not without proper “I’m not a deer” attire. Trust me on this, too!)
• One only needs to take 316 steps to reach another coffee shop in any of the towns.
• Riding the ferry continues to be delightful and exhilarating (yet always too short!).
This is how we travel, and it can be grand… (photo by the author)
• Whales and their friends do live in our waters even though I haven’t seen even one…yet!
• A leftover slice of pie from Whidbey Pies is a great way to start the day!
• If someone waves at you, it doesn’t necessarily mean you know them.
• Llamas and alpacas have really cute-creepy, whimsical, Dr. Seussian-type faces (and they live so nearby that I can see them whenever I want)!
Let’s take a vote: cute? creepy? both cute and creepy? (photo by the author)
• The drive up/down 525 makes my heart sing no matter what time of day or season.
• Ebey’s Landing and Double Bluff Beach are breathtaking walks! (Go see for yourself!)
Deception Pass is a mighty fine view. (photo by the author)
• Friends are truly just strangers you haven’t yet met. Thank you for such joy, new friends!
• Each town on this island is unique and varied in its people and offerings.
• I’m not afraid to try something new here—whether a class, hair style or business venture.
• I’ve never been around more involved, artistic, vibrant, caring people.
• I can’t seem to go a week without the fried chicken from the Star Store!
• The “can-do” and “let me help you” attitude is alive and well and thriving everywhere on this island. And, philanthropy isn’t just an idea or one-time donation; it’s a way of life.
• No one cares what you do, how tidy your lawn is or how much money you make. They just care about and are interested in YOU.
• Vitamin Sea is the best supplement I take every day! That Passage! Those views!
• “Welcome Home!” Those aren’t just words on my doormat. It’s what people said to me from the moment I stepped foot onto this island, and something I now say to others.
I forgot to mention the great markets! (photo by the author)
I’m old enough to know that people, however different, are fundamentally the same. In general, I think people want to be loved, accepted, respected, valued; we want to know that we matter and that what we do makes a difference.
I’ve found that on this island people are more open to expressing and challenging themselves (if one thing doesn’t pan out, they try another) and they make their dreams happen and help others do the same. They are open and embracing of ideas and each other; there is fierce individuality but also strong community spirit.
I’m still not sure what “it” is—but something SPECIAL is going on here. And everyone here seems to understand. Is it the air? The water? A bit of magic? I don’t know, but I think whatever it is infused itself into this islander’s soul immediately upon my arrival and life is just…better. I am so grateful to call this place my home.
One of our many beautiful sunsets (photo by the author)
So, if I had a glass in my hand, and not just my keyboard, I’d raise it and say, “Thank you, Whidbey Island, and its people and magic, and here’s to another 365 days on the rock we call home.”
Les McCarthy is an author, entrepreneur and IPPY bronze medalist for her yearly “Healthy Living ~ Healthy Life: 365 Days of Nutrition & Health for the Family” calendars. She’s been a year on the island and in the NW and loves every gorgeous bit of it. She joyfully tends to her geriatric fur factory and is rethinking her stand on how cute the snails and slugs are!
WLM stories and blogs are copyrighted and all rights are reserved. Linking is permitted. To request permission to use or reprint content from this site, email info@whidbeylifemagazine.org.
Author’s slippers, on her feet… (photo by the author)
Being a Whidbey writer means that you can work in your pajamas, or in your slippers. Or both.
Here, in Coupeville, my neighbors are gradually getting used to seeing me in PJs ’til lunchtime, or not seeing me in the morning at all. I make my husband answer the door, generally, up until noon. Mornings are when I write and think. And by morning I don’t mean when the sun rises at 5 a.m. (or earlier). By morning I mean more like 8:30 am.
I take my cup of coffee, go sit in a chair on our porch and look at Mt. Baker if it’s visible and at the fog if it isn’t. Or at a boat passing if there’s one or at the water and the trees if there isn’t.
Since it’s June I tend to see deer and deer babies (aka fawns) jumping around in the backyard. But since I’m not a gardener I can just watch them eat the grass. I don’t have any flowers. Which was lazy of me. But also lucky, as it turns out.
Cup of coffee (photo by the author—in the morning)
My friend Janet recently moved down the road; she’s a triathlete. So is her husband. I am personally more of an avid non-sportsperson. Still, sometimes you gotta busta move, as the kids say. Or as they said about 20 years ago.
So I go over to the Nordic Hall on Jacobs Road in Coupeville, and I take a Tai Chi class with some nice people, who are led by Lynne Donnelly. I took Tai Chi years ago in Riverside Calif. with Harvey Kurland (who is originally from the Pacific Northwest) and—while I’ve forgotten just about all the moves in the Yang short form—I can recognize when someone can really do them. Lynne has that soft energy that makes her movements liquid and relaxed.
She’s a great teacher. I spend most of class trying to learn how to raise my arms, and turn my right foot inward, after shifting weight over to my left foot. Then I do something called a “ward off,” which Lynne explains is what you do when a bunch of 6th graders try to leave the school building at the same time, just as you’re trying to enter it.
Tai Chi instructors tend to have a wry sense of humor. One time Harvey talked to the yoga instructor who was just finishing the class ahead of us and asked “how much energy do you use in yoga?”
Proudly, she answered, ‘30%.’”
“Oh,” he said. “We use about 10.”
Traffic sign (photo by the author—NOT in the morning)
After class my husband takes me to bayleaf for lunch outside. We observe that we need to have a business meeting soon, but it’s not going to be now because the sun is shining and our sandwiches taste too good. I go inside to pay. A group of people is ahead of me in line and the guys keep thinking of new things they want to buy.
“I’m sorry we’re taking such a long time,” says one man.
I could tell him “no problem—although I DO need to get home to try to figure out if there’s any way to make time travel, magic, Judaism, Christianity, Islam, Shinto, and the commedia dell’arte all work together in one novel about 17th Century France.”
Instead, I just say, “take your time…”
Stephanie Barbé Hammer‘s debut novel, “The Puppet Turners of Narrow Interior,” was published this spring by Urban Farmhouse Press. She is also a published poet and authors scholarly studies and creative writing books. A University of California professor emerita, she teaches at writers’ conferences and associations, dividing her time between Coupeville and Los Angeles. Read more about her work atwww.stephaniebarbehammer.net.
WLM stories and blogs are copyrighted and all rights are reserved. Linking is permitted. To request permission to use or reprint content from this site, email info@whidbeylifemagazine.org.
I had been posed in a shoulder stand during my morning yoga practice when the words: “constant inconstant” came to mind. The last I remember writing here, so many months ago, the cherry blossoms had just peaked, the air smelled of turning earth, and we began to imagine the days of summer beauty coming upon us, suddenly, like a deer crossing the road. (https://www.whidbeylifemagazine.org/minding-the-sky-dreaming-of-buried-treasure/)
Hidden jewels (photo by the author)
The sky has changed several times since then and now we are in the full bloom of it. The light lasts late into the day, the scent of strawberries drifts up from our tiny patch in the morning sun and I have already put aside some jam to capture their beauty for a winter’s remembrance. My feet pointed at the ceiling and blood rushing to my brain, I thought: “The upside down bat laughs at the topsy-turvy world, while the constant inconstant swirls all about” and I thought—perhaps that’s what I’ll write about for this solstice season’s blog.
The phone rang. I came down from my shoulders to answer it. By the tone of the caller, I knew something life changing had happened. And indeed it had. My husband’s work partner in the Firesign Theatre, Phil Austin, aka Nick Danger, had died in the early hours of that day. The loss—to his wife and closest companion for over 44 years—Oona, to his other surviving Firesign partner, Phil Proctor, and his wife Melinda, and to us, let alone the fans, the multitudinous, wonderful, motley and colorful assortment of fans who have loyally memorized and recited lines from over 25 albums and performances over the past 50 years, is quite frankly incalculable.
The question is: what loss isn’t?
And the follow up—will the grief ever subside?
Phil Austin, aka Nick Danger (photo from the Firesign Theatre Archive)
In our community, we’ve shared such losses that the whole town has turned out for—and each one of us, individually and alone, has had some loss that has left us topsy-turvy, upside-down and backwards, wondering, “How will I ever come back from this?”
Sometimes it sneaks up on you when you’re not looking. Sometimes you even think you’re ready for it. When my mother died, a year and a week ago this past Sunday, I had thought, while I held her hand, or just sat in the room as she slept most of her final days away, that I would feel a relief for the end of her suffering, for the end of the life in which she was bedridden, in pain and stuck between one reality and another. I thought I was prepared for saying goodbye and letting her go to wherever she was bound to from here.
In her final days, in a moment of luminescent alertness that comes in the process of dying, she told me she was excited because when she left here, she was going to go back to school. “A big school—well, more like a medium-sized one—but big enough,” she said, modestly pleased with the prospect. “What will you study?” I asked, curious as to what she saw for herself as her next course, after here.
“I’m not sure” she said, a little daunted, as I’d asked her to describe a place she‘d never been, “I think I’ll find out when I get there, but I’m sure it will be interesting. I’ll go on ahead and get things started—we can meet up there later on.”
Muriel Albers Walcutt Bittel toward the end (photo by the author)
I hoped that would be true, that we’d meet up again, later on.
She was 96 and had celebrated her birthday three months earlier surrounded by family and people who loved her, in good spirits, with good cake. I see now that for her, that was her ideal goodbye party—the one at which she smiled and nodded regally, then merrily waved us off on our way as she silently made up her mind to let go and die (which three months later, to the day, she did).
I was completely wrong about being relieved when she “checked out of the hotel,” which is how we in our family refer to the d-word. I was as distraught as anyone at any age might be, losing a mother who was, like Mary Poppins, practically perfect in every way. Never mind that in the last years of her life, she was a flat, paper-doll semblance of her former self. The memories I had of her were rich, 3-D, and filled in all the gaps. She was funny, she had moxie, she threw a good party and had a terrific laugh. She was the mother everyone wished they’d had.
In the patient slog up to death’s door, I tried to remind her of as many of our shared joys as I could, and while she seemed to relish the stories I told her of many great times we’d had together, she also seemed distracted by the world that was visible to her just past my shoulder, attending voices only she could hear at that exact moment.
As it turned out—no, I was not relieved when she was set free from her body. I was distraught, grief-stricken, and felt as though someone had stabbed me through the chest with a sharp implement. That feeling has stayed with me, to a greater or lesser extent, ever since. Recently, I have come to the conclusion that I will never not miss her. And so it is, I think, with those people we really and truly love, who are irreplaceable in our shared lives and hearts. How could we expect to “get over it”? Prepared for loss or not, ready or not, we grieve. It is the human thing to do.
This past week my husband lost his life-long friend and working partner, Phil Austin—aka Nick Danger, the fabulously funny faux detective who sent-up the noir genre in a conflagration of cellophane sound effects. His wife, Oona and he were what Kurt Vonnegut would have seen as a duprass—a life-team of two who, together, were part of the four-man karass of the Firesign Theatre; they—Phil and Oona—were in it together, for life.
In their forty-four-year-and-counting relationship, they spent only one night apart in that entire time, and when they did, they agreed never to do that again. The grief for Oona over the loss must feel insurmountable.
Phil’s departure coincided with the weekend of the first anniversary of my mom’s death. As a result, I felt it hugely, both coming and going. Floating in the tide pool of these deep emotions, I find that the only refuge from that sense of grief is to remember.
That’s right: remember. Not avoid—but remember what I loved about my loved one that I miss so much. Because if I avoid thinking about it, I will lose the sense of who that missing person is and what was beloved about them. And then I would really lose them—forever. So as hard as it is, (and I imagine it is very hard in Charleston, S.C., right now, and locally in Langley where Bob Giswold’s family gathers this week to honor his passing) let’s remember them, think of them, see them in our mind’s eyes, and love them still.
As for my mother, I remember she was quite simply magic. A real live Magic Mommy—she made magic with birthday parties with present trees and buried treasure and backyard carnivals—and she made magic at holidays with the sort of Santa Claus you could really believe in and an Easter bunny no one would doubt, and she made magic on plain old ordinary days, because what could be better on an ordinary day than a little magic?
I don’t know how she did it. Even when I was grown and gone and living on the opposite coast of the country, my mother could suss out what I needed most at that exact moment and somehow got it to me. In my twenties, which were pre-computer days, when—if you were a writer or trying to be a writer, you needed your typewriter with you at all times—I lugged my Smith Corona electric back and forth across the country on every trip, from one end of the airport to the other, on and off trains, in and out of subways, up and down six-floor walk-ups in downtown NYC, as I looked for that illusive writing job that would finally settle me down to one place, one job, one life.
My mother witnessed this struggle with the mechanics of my life, as she met me at an airport between flights, to share a quick meal, on the way to someplace else. Finally home in Los Angeles afterwards, I was amazed when a UPS guy delivered a package to me that contained an Olympic portable, the lightest typewriter made at that time, specifically for journalists and built to fit on fold-down airline trays. I was ecstatic. My mother—the true magic mommy—was a practiced genius of observation.
I miss that about my mother—the way she had of knowing her family’s needs and making sure they were met.
Now, I lean heavily on the constantly changing nature of the sky to remind me that however things might be at this exact moment, if I wait a minute or two, or a day or two, or even a week or two—it will change—it will all change and upside down or right-side up, the constant inconstant will be at work. But there are also the permanents, the eternals, the qualities that are outside of all time/space continuums—and I am certain my mother’s thumbprint is visible even there, on my understanding of what remains in the wake of the permanent impermanence of our lives.
In the last days, as my mother’s hold on the here and now began to weaken and the life force thinned out and away from her bones draped in the luminous transparency of her vanishing flesh, she had begun to speak in that kind of beautiful poetic, symbolic way that comes of trying to say big things, summarizing huge thoughts from a lifetime of experience, in a very few words. At such a moment, she looked at me with great seriousness, and said in one short declarative sentence everything she knew to be true in this life: “Love is bigger than a big sky,” she said, saying the exact thing I needed to hear at that moment.
Love is bigger than a big sky—and the sky is always changing. Let the big wings of the one carry you through the downdrafts and the bumpy air turbulence of the other. And believe me, because my magic mommy told me so and she knows—“It will all work out,” she said with a kind certainty, “Whatever it is, it will all work out—just wait and see.”
Muriel at 96—the day after the party (photo by the author)
____________
If I wanted to be a magic mommy like my mother, I would be sure to take a band of appropriately aged children and playful adults to the Meerkerk Garden’s Fairy House Festival between 11 a.m. to 3:30 p.m. on Saturday, July 11, where supplies will be available to build your own elf and/or fairy house. $5 admission charge, unless you are 12 and under, in which case admission is free. See http://www.meerkerkgardens.org/calendar.html for details.
The last time we went there, I took some old childhood friends of mine who were visiting the island and they had a marvelous time, enjoying the spontaneous magical buildings, photo opportunities, and a picnic on the grounds. In memory of my magic mommy Muriel—I share a few pictures from that outing below. (photos by the author)
Four old friends set off on their adventure at Meerkerk Gardens.
Odin and Agatha are excited to show their visiting friends Robear and Celeste the magic of Meerkerk Gardens.
“Where shall we go first?
Let’s tour the houses!”
That one is interesting…
Let’s get a closer look!
Very comfortable!
Here’s one with a roof top garden. Love the view!
The girls like this one!
I’ll snap a picture!
We’ll use this one for our Christmas card!
Picnic time for the four old friends at Meerkerk Gardens after visiting the Fairy Houses
That was fun! Time to go!
The author at work.
Judith Walcutt lives and writes on Whidbey Island. Her novel, “Memoirs of a Modern She-Noodle,” will be published in 2016 by NeoPoiesis Press. (photo by the author)
WLM stories and blogs are copyrighted and all rights are reserved. Linking is permitted. To request permission to use or reprint content from this site, email info@whidbeylifemagazine.org.
BY OLENA HODGES PHOTOS BY DEBRA CAMPBELL Whidbey Life Magazine Contributors June 24, 2015
The Island Shakespeare Festival kicked off their exciting 2015 season this weekend with the second annual Bard’s Ball fundraiser. This “Swashbuckling Soiree” featured delicious food and wine, fun activities, and some interwoven storytelling designed to build excitement for this season’s productions.
Board member Dayle Gray stands with volunteer Pam Schell, Managing Director Michelle Durr sits with volunteer Kathryn Stevens, ready to welcome revelers at the Registration Tent!
Local artists and businesses donated to the silent auction, managed by our Pretty Pirate Donna Hood. A beautiful hand-blown glass vessel by Robert Hodges was certainly an eye catcher!
Drew Christie, of Kalakala Co Mercantile fame, styled beautiful temporary henna tattoos, adding lovely body art to some fantastical costumes! Here, board member and Ball organizer Rene Neff chooses a design to complement her boho-chic attire.
Friends and foes alike challenged one another to duel in the sword-fighting tent! I was slain many times over. As you can see, Shelley Hartle bested me in our altercation. She had me running for the hills!
Chef Vince Nattress from the Orchard Kitchen created a moveable feast of culinary delights. These small plates paired perfectly with delectable wine from Ott & Murphy Winery. This season’s Rosé is especially delightful!
World renowned falconer Steve Layman was a hit with his majestic companion. Here he tells a bit of his tale to the flowery fairy Andrea Binder. Our favorite photographer, Michael Stadler, took portraits and candids throughout the evening but proved elusive to our other cameras!
From left to right, our actors for the evening and 2015 company members: Michael Robinson, Valerie Huntington, Ahna Dunn-Wilder, Zora Lungren, Anasazi Bhakti, Olena Hodges (me!) and Andrew Yabroff.
Michael and Ahna played thwarted lovers, unable to find each other’s arms until the end of the evening.
Ahna had her princess-sister Zora for comfort, while Michael valiantly challenged anyone and everyone to fight in Ahna’s honor—until the challenge was accepted and he ran in fear!
Andrew was commissioned to read Shakespeare’s sonnets to lovers. Here, Tim Callison asks him to serenade the lovely Robin Black-Callison.
Our other sonnet reader, Valerie, poses with the delightfully frightening giants of the evening, Matt Hoar and Siobhan Wright.
Anasazi Bhakti and Zora Lundgren spend some time on stage. Anasazi played a queen whose precious jeweled necklace was stolen by none other than ME! She spent the evening one step behind, trying to reclaim her stolen goods.
In the end, it was George Henny with the jewels, aptly stowed in a secret pocket no one dared inspect. If you see him, ask him where the necklace was hidden!
At the end of the evening, last year’s King and Queen, George Henny and Carrie Whitney, passed their crowns to the new royalty. Charlie Murphy and Robin Black-Callison will reign until next year’s ball.
Guests enjoyed a lively concert by 3 Cent Stamp to conclude the festivities.
A joyful evening for (from left to right) Artistic Director Rose Woods, Associate Artistic Director Eric Mulholland and Board President, Peggy Juve. We all had a fantastic time at the ball and excitement is growing for our sixth season!
Island Shakespeare Festival opens Friday, July 17 with “The Tempest,” directed by Rose Woods. On Thursday, July 23, we’ll add a world-premier adaptation of “The Three Musketeers,” adapted and directed by Gordon Carpenter, to our repertory. And don’t forget our Classic Conservatory for Young Adults production of “Antigone,” by Sophocles, directed by Kylie Soder, running Thursday through Saturday, July 9, 10, and 11.
Our tent is now located at 5476 Maxwelton Road in Langley. All performances are free! The house opens at 4:15 with performances beginning at 5 p.m. Thursday through Sunday. And remember, we pass the hat after each show!
All for one, and one for all!
Island Shakespeare Festival Acting Company Member Olena Hodges will be sharing her “behind the scenes” experiences of the Island Shakespeare Festival with WLM all summer.
WLM stories and blogs are copyrighted and all rights are reserved. Linking is permitted. To request permission to use or reprint content from this site, email info@whidbeylifemagazine.org.
For most of my life, I lived in big cities and drove crowded freeways with aplomb. In Los Angeles, I could maneuver my sensible, four-cylinder Volvo sedan on the insanely congested I-405 with the skill of a Maserati owner. I stuck to the inside lane of the I-10 and made it from my Santa Monica apartment to my job in downtown El Lay in half an hour. (That, sadly, is no longer possible, given today’s gridlock.)
After I moved to Dallas, I followed the advice of native-born Texans and stuck to the toll roads whenever possible. Drunks and the uninsured make the Lone Star State’s “free”-ways a free-for-all, I was warned. (Texans likes to brag about their low taxes, but they neglect to mention that they really soak you with tolls on their “un-free” ways.) On the toll roads you can go as fast as your Texas swagger desires, dodging in and out of Hummers, Lexuses, Escalades and Mercedes along the way. Scary but fun.
Since I moved to Whidbey Island six years ago, however, I have celebrated our delightful absence of freeways with loud hosannas. And today, whenever I must travel to America I feel my sphincter muscles tighten the moment I exit this beloved Rock on my way to the dreaded I-5.
The joy of seeing and hearing “The Divine Miss M” makes the trip off Whidbey worth the effort.
The worst I have to deal with on our two-lane Highway 525 (which, for no discernible purpose, changes its name to Highway 20 mid-island) is getting behind a 40-foot RV driven by an 80-year-old Canadian doing a leisurely 45 miles per hour while I’m hoping to get from Coupeville to the Bayview Farmers Market before noon.
Actually there is one thing worse than that: Having my bumper hugged by a tourist couple in a rented convertible, fresh from a romantic, bed-and-breakfast sojourn, anxiously egging me to do the 75 miles per hour they need in order to make the Clinton ferry, which boards in 10 minutes. Thanks so much for visiting our beautiful island! Slow down and feel the bliss!
Those agonies are quickly forgotten, however, when confronted by the sheer terror a Rock dweller faces in mainland crowds, traffic and congestion. Earlier this month, my spouse and I attended a concert by Bette Midler—the Divine Miss M herself—at the Key Arena in Seattle. The performance was supposed to start at 8 p.m. Figuring that we ought to give ourselves lots of time, we left our mid-island home at 3 p.m. We sped down our island highway and caught the 4 p.m. ferry. Things ground to a halt on the (misnamed) Mukilteo Speedway. Traffic on the I-5 was surprisingly light for a weekday afternoon until we hit the University District: gridlock and exhaust fumes all the way to the well-named Mercer Mess.
If you like people, Key Arena, with a “full house,” is the place to be.
We had been advised to park in one of the parking structures near Seattle Center. For a Rock dweller unused to anything other than the free lot next to the Red Apple, it was painful to pay $10 and spend 15 minutes to find an open space on the fourth level.
I must admit that it was exhilarating to be among the urban hoard flooding into the Key Arena, gawking at the overpriced Bette souvenirs, drinking a $7 beer and finding our seats among the sea of humanity. Being polite Rock dwellers, we took our seats 15 minutes before show time. How naively non-urban of us. Latecomers, undoubtedly rushing in from some Skyped meeting that ran late at their high-tech, six-figure jobs, were still streaming in at 8:15, and the show didn’t start until 8:20. By then the tiny amount of leg space was giving me cramps.
The only reason for this much Stage Lighting would be to see a star like Bette Midler
Miss M did not disappoint, however. We felt almost as young as we were when we saw her the first time in 1976. For two hours, we were transported out of the urban jungle to Bette’s unique corner of the universe. How good to know that some things really don’t change.
Then reality returned.
As soon as Bette sang the last, sweet, candle-lit note of “From a Distance,” all 15,000 of us jumped from our seats and rushed for our cars—desperate to be among the first to get the hell out of there. It made me ponder what God must actually think as she watches us “from a distance.”
Unfortunately, parked on the fourth level of the Mercer Garage, getting the hell out quickly was not part of the God’s plan. Lots of bad urban behavior ensued: cutting in line, horn-honking, middle-finger waving. Being Rock dwellers, we controlled ourselves with simple teeth-gnashing and mind visions of Ebey’s Landing, as the interminable line of cars half-inched forward.
It took 45 minutes to go one mile from the garage to the I-5 on-ramp. Then we began our anxiety ridden race to Mukilteo, praying that we’d make the last ferry. I kept a wary eye out for the state patrol as my spouse seriously exceeded the speed limit. For somebody from Whidbey, there is no dread worse than missing the last ferry and facing the long, dark-of-night drive north and back over Deception Pass.
The serenity outside the Arena ended abruptly with Bette’s final note.
We made it to the ferry dock just as cars were loading. I fumbled for the fare as we waited impatiently for a woman in a van in front of us to finish a long, loud conversation with the only fare-taker at that hour. We were next-to-last aboard, stuck on the upper deck incline, but we didn’t care. The minute our car’s engine was turned off, we both fell asleep.
Once back on Whidbey, we exhaled twice and then inhaled deeply. A nice, quiet drive on the deserted highway quickly brought us home. Ah, it felt so good to be safely back on the Rock.
Next time we may just download Bette’s CD and hope that HBO will eventually show the concert video.
Once upon a time, Harry Anderson made an honest living as a reporter, editor and columnist at the Los Angeles Times. He now lives in central Whidbey, where he spends his time gardening and ruminating on things that interest him.
WLM stories and blogs are copyrighted and all rights are reserved. Linking is permitted. To request permission to use or reprint content from this site, email info@whidbeylifemagazine.org.
I returned to Whidbey Island from a short trip to Amsterdam in mid-April. Although I was only gone for ten days, it seemed like everything had changed; the green was so alive it almost made me cry. Spring is full of such promise that it is also bittersweet.
How can we possibly survive such beautiful bursts of longing, as we stretch our arms out towards the sun, the green fields and the memories of past springs that wind their tendrils around our hearts?
Spring Green (photo by the author)
No, I had not ingested any of those “magic mushrooms.” I was simply home after a long flight across the sea, when suddenly I found myself driving along a winding island road amidst the green glow of spring, and the emanations of all of this new green growth made me feel as if I was in a dream. All these weeks later—no longer jet-lagged but still drunk on island beauty—I am farther down the spring road, and I can almost see summer just ahead.
I am beginning to find myself wanting to soak up every last bit of spring before I ride the wave of summer. That is why I took a spontaneous walk in the spring rain last week. I was in Langley and I followed the pasture roads as far as I could and then back again, until I was thoroughly soaked in spring rain and feeling alive and wrapped inside the warm jubilance of an elemental bath.
Late Sprng climbing clematis (photo by the author)
If you want to capture more spring I suggest spending as much time as you can outside, whatever the weather, and letting yourself wander these island fields with new eyes that were born in just this season.
Poets do love spring and E.E.Cummings* was a master of translating this amazing time.
Spring is like a perhaps hand
Spring is like a perhaps hand
(which comes carefully
out of Nowhere) arranging
a window, into which people look (while
people stare
arranging and changing placing
carefully there a strange
thing and a known thing here) and
changing everything carefully
spring is like a perhaps
Hand in a window
(carefully to
and from moving New and
Old things, while
people stare carefully
moving a perhaps
fraction of flower here placing
an inch of air there) and
without breaking anything.
Spring with hammock background (photo by the author)
A great way to appreciate the transition from spring to summer is to visit our fabulous outdoor markets: Second Street Friday Market in Langley from 2 to 6 p.m., Bayview Farmer’s Market every Saturday from 10 a.m. to 2 p.m. and South Whidbey Tilth Farmer’s Market every Sunday from 11 a.m. to 2 p.m. with a special South Whidbey Acoustic Music Festival at that location on June 28 from 11 a.m. to 5 p.m.
One of the things I have learned to practice in this life is to be particularly mindful around transitions, both big and small. Seasonal shifts are big transitions so before you find yourself chasing summer down the road, take some spring afternoons to lie in the grass and stretch your whole self out towards the moment at hand.
Foxglove up close (photo by the author)
Joni Takanikos has seen over twenty springs on Whidbey Island. She was a resident of Hedgebrook one springtime very long ago and—and for a few glorious days this spring. She believes that sometimes wishes come true, often in the spring.
WLM stories and blogs are copyrighted and all rights are reserved. Linking is permitted. To request permission to use or reprint content from this site, email info@whidbeylifemagazine.org.
So I had the incredible opportunity to attend the 68th Cannes Film Festival last month to support the film “Our Father,” of which I am an associate producer. But my experience wasn’t quite what I had expected, or what I had seen on “E!”
First of all, Cannes—during the festival—is an experience that is difficult to put into words! “It’s like Miami on Crack,” one producer joked with me, which is an excellent way to describe the electric vibe that exudes from every pore of this famous Riviera town for ten days.
Suzanne in all her finery, readying herself for the WALK! (photo courtesy of the author)
I arrived late on a Sunday night, expecting the world to be asleep, and drove straight into a street party—music, flashing lights and wall-to-wall people. As we crawled through the mayhem to my hotel that was, thankfully, a mile out of town, I felt like singing, “Put your shoes on Lucy—don’t you know you’re in the city.”
I have to admit, though, it didn’t take me long to get into the Cannes buzz; my days became a whirlwind of meeting people, cocktail parties, listening to celebrities, producers and directors talk about their films, more parties, and movies—lots and lots of movies. There are special movie editions of the Hollywood Reporter and Variety, movies on posters, movies on flags, movies on the beach and movies playing in theatres—all day and night. Meanwhile, millions of dollars are trading hands as movies are being bought and sold all around town.
And, of course, there are the red carpet events. To score a red carpet ticket was actually potluck. Every day, an email informed me if I’d managed to make the cut for the following day. It was on day three that I got the golden email and an invitation to the Lumiere Theatre to see Emily Blunt’s new film “Sicario” at the 3 p.m. showing.
I was overjoyed but, having had a few unfortunate experiences with sparkly Hollywood events in the past—like the time I left the bathroom at the Beverly Hills Film Festival with my ballgown caught in my Spanx—I really did not want a repeat of Kelman Klutz in France where everything is “oh, so chic!” So to prepare myself I went to study the carpet I had waited my whole life to walk.
The (Very Same) Red Carpet upon which Suzanne Kelman had the Amazing Good Fortune to WALK! (photo by the author)
The Red Carpet journey into the Lumiere Theatre is long—a vast walkway barricaded by security with hoards of photographers high on a lofty platform. And with forty-plus stairs to navigate, it’s a ballgown-and-heel-wearer’s nightmare. Film industry peeps are lined up in rows, and there is red carpet etiquette. No selfies, no bothering celebrities and the “heels rule” that caused a right-ruckus while I was there. Apparently, the carpet “police” had turned women away for wearing flat shoes at Cate Blanchett’s premiere the day before, (to which Emily Blunt had responded by saying “I think everyone should wear flats… to be honest.” She called it “very disappointing, obviously.”)
So heels it was. The day of the event I had meetings in the morning and later in the evening and, as my hotel was a mile out of town, I had no choice but to ride the bus that day with my ball gown over my arm and said heels in my hand. I couldn’t help wondering, as I gazed out the window, how Emily would be faring for her premiere. I didn’t see her on the bus, so I guessed she had it covered.
The Most Special and Most Prized (and Most Lucky) Ticket to the Red Carpet that Suzanne Kelman had the Amazing Good Fortune to WALK!! Oh, and there was a movie, too… (photo by the author)
There were other problems to overcome, too. For instance, with no bathrooms at the American Pavilion—where I spent most of my day—I had to use the bathrooms in the Marche de Film, or “the Market” as we called it. This is a vast exhibition hall where film peeps buy and sell their film wares. So with my glam rags in hand I tottered across the car park, through a bag and security check, then up three flights of stairs to stand in line for the bathroom. Then, like some glitzy Superwoman, I went into the cubicle in regular clothes and came out looking like Sophia Loren in a ball gown and sparkly jewelry. Then back down all the stairs to get ready to join the line for the carpet. I must admit I was pretty nervous, so I popped into the Pavilion to say goodbye to my friends before I headed to the theatre.
Okay, I was ready for my moment! Or was I? As I set off, prepared for my red carpet walk, I was suddenly grabbed by two producers.
Oh no, was it another Spanx moment? Was my makeup smudged or bra strap showing? No, I was off to the red carpet with the coat hanger from my dress still in my hand! Ah, a Kelman Klassic—it will go down in my film industry history along with the Spanx hitch and the time I forgot my best friend’s name at an awards ceremony.
The reason why “Heel-Gate” (as it became known among the press corps) is actually a problem for women who have to wear them. (photo courtesy of the author)
Well, I finally walked the carpet and I savored every moment. Unbelievably, I made it up all the stairs without a trip as I waved to adoring fans who seemed to think my name was Emily, for some odd reason. And as I sat in the Lumiere Theatre waiting for the movie to start, I thought about the stars who would float over from the grand hotel in their finery later. I was quite sure none of them would be sporting a coat hanger.
And as the lights went down and people cheered as the red velvet curtain was drawn to reveal the Cannes film festival logo, I was lost in the magic of story and thoughts of a girl who grew up in Birmingham, England and somehow had the good fortune to walk the red carpet in Cannes.
Suzanne Kelman is a screenwriter and author of “The Rejected Writers Book Club.” Her writing voice has been described as a perfect blend of Janet Evanovich and Debbie Macomber. Some of her accolades include best comedy feature screenplay at the 2011 LA International Film Festival, a Gold Award at the 2012 CA Film Awards and a Van Gogh Award at the 2012 Amsterdam Film Festival. She can also sing Puff the Magic Dragon backwards! You can learn more about her on imDb. Image at top by Kim Tinuviel
WLM stories and blogs are copyrighted and all rights are reserved. Linking is permitted. To request permission to use or reprint content from this site, email info@whidbeylifemagazine.org.
I am a rambler. Oh, not the automobile that my grandparents had that they drove every other Sunday, if the moon was full or the sun was high…the car that still had that “new car smell” 15 years after it rolled into their garage for the first time, back in the early ’60s. That is, until my brother purchased it, took the plastic covers off the seats, stuck a doll’s head on the front hood ornament, rearranged (and deleted some of) the letters on the face grid from RAMBLER to MABEL and then subsequently drove it into the ground.
And that, my friends, was 100 words. It goes quickly. A lot or a little can be said in just a paragraph of that length.
Just last week I attended Chris Spencer’s 100 Word Short Story Smash contest at WICA—my second time attending this event and it did not disappoint. The premise of the contest is that people from our island community are asked to submit one or two original stories of exactly 100 words. No more, no less. These (roughly 60) stories are read on stage (think theatrical performance), given fabulous faux book covers that are shared on-screen while the story is read (always a thrill!), judged and, at the end of the night—after all the stories have been read—prizes are awarded.
The Wordy Rambler (photo by the author)
I don’t go to hear great literary works (though some are pretty darn good!); I go to hear creativity. I go to gather inspiration. I go for the sheer wonderment of the human brain. What makes people think these things? What sparked this idea? Where did this story come from? It’s simply marvelous what people come up with and share in a mere 100 words!
I’m of the ilk that if someone said—“Les, your job (for the next century or so) is to come up with 500-1000 words every day on whatever trips your trigger”—I’d be ecstatic! I’d give them a big, not–so-PC hug, take that job and run with it. License to ramble! How fabulous would that be! But no one is saying that to me. And, most of the time when I write, I am reminded that I need to EDIT. CUT IT BACK. In other words—slash the words that spill from my brain via my fingers onto whatever page (be it paper or screen). Mincemeat comes to mind.
Alas, that is hard for me to do. So, consider telling a story with a very restricted word count!
Last fall, I entered the contest. Somehow (sheer beginner’s luck, I’m sure) I walked away with Second Place. This year no such luck—however, the thrill of someone reading my words, ON STAGE, is just such a rush that I’ll do it again and again, for as long as this event keeps going on.
Listening to the stories sparks emotions; was the story based on some true/real event? Some, I hoped not. But, they were all amazing and shared a commonality…they are all 100 words and all creative…whether sad or funny, out-there or thought-provoking.
These sheep look like they’ve been lost. (photo by the author)
That night there was one story about Little Bo Peep. It made old, storybook images come to mind and I found myself wondering, too—what did happen to those sheep? Did she find them? Did they finally come home? And for that matter, what color and kind were they? Was it a large flock? Where were they when they disappeared—in the meadow? Was there some sort of weather condition (fog, heavy rains, blizzard) that made them lose their way? Or did they simply veer off course and fall prey to a cliff or predators? I would like to know!
And there are another 100 words. Albeit, my first rendering of that paragraph was 132 words! See? Rambler!
In any case, before my thoughts turn to the chickens outside my window learning how to squawk or how the sound of the lawnmower in the next yard has taken me back about 50 years to my childhood home, I query you to think about this exercise in creative brevity. I urged a friend to give this a whirl. She kept saying she wasn’t a writer. I kept telling her she is.
Everyone is a writer. We all have something to say. Put your pen to paper. Speak into your recorder; are there really recorders still around today? Type something up.
A few who found their way home… (photo by the author)
Let your thoughts flow. Try it. Give it a shot. And if you really want to challenge yourself, say it all in a mere 100 words…or you can just ramble on like me!
Les McCarthy is an author, entrepreneur and IPPY bronze medalist for her yearly “Healthy Living ~ Healthy Life: 365 Days of Nutrition & Health for the Family” calendars. She’s been almost a year on the island and in the NW and loves every green bit of it. She joyfully tends to her geriatric fur factory and is happy the slugs are back!
WLM stories and blogs are copyrighted and all rights are reserved. Linking is permitted. To request permission to use or reprint content from this site, email info@whidbeylifemagazine.org.
In the late winter of 2014, my family and I moved from a two-bedroom, 950-square-foot apartment near Lynnwood to South Whidbey Island. I chose a 2400 square-foot house in the woods on the bluff in the Scatchet Head community for the greenery and quiet vibe.
Right from the start my excitement was high—nature all around me, the sweet smell of grass when I got off the ferry, no traffic to speak of and space to spread out, all for the same price we had been paying.
The first thing I noticed was how my relationship to myself changed as I expanded and inhaled the beauty around me. I felt more generous and less compressed. A drive to my daughter’s school was a quick 15 minutes through the woods and past the glorious Maxwelton beach where I would always slow down to see the magnificence of the view, envious of the people in their houses there. From there—a drive through the woods and meadows of Maxwelton Valley, where I contemplated the delicate balance of the sun and shade: how the ferns needed the shady evergreens and the wildflowers needed the sun.
“Raccoony” (photo by the author)
As the months rolled by and we settled into our new way of living, my family became happier. Being this close to nature, tied into land and water, the communities that welcomed us, made us see each other differently. I realized that having our needs met was not only about what we did daily but, more importantly, how our values were being reflected in our new lifestyle, the environment outside the house and our interaction with others, both human and non-human.
I work from home and treated myself by positioning my office desk against a big window that looked out into the trees and a large deck where I placed bird feeders. I catalogued over 30 bird species on our feeders through the year. Predators like the Sharp Shinned Hawk keeping his eye on the feeder, the Great Horned Owls hooting in the night and the Bald Eagles that soared above us daily. And then the prey—Raspberry Finches, Yellow Finches, Red Breasted Nuthatches, three species of Woodpeckers, Grosbeaks, Evening Grosbeaks, Red Crossbill, hundreds of hummingbirds (Rufus and Annas), and the shy elusive Western Tanager. Each of these living creatures was having its moment, each having its season and each having interactions with everything around them.
We tend to think of relationships as interactions with people we know and our pets. Yet we are having a relationship with every aspect of our lives, our breath, what we see, hear, smell and taste, what we experience, where we live, the weather and the land on which we live.
__________________________________
When Raccoony brought
her three little babies to me,
our relationship shifted…
__________________________________
The raccoon family that found its way to the deck was a wonderful source of inspiration on the family front. “Raccoony,” as we called her, would go to the bird feeder and I would run her off and feed her some grapes instead. Soon she would go to the feeder and put her hands on it and turn her head to see if I was looking. I would get up and go and get grapes. Next thing I know, she is at my backslider sitting watching me; I gave her grapes. The day I was super busy and couldn’t get to her right away, she laid down at the back door and waited, head on her outstretched paws.
All of our relationships are patterns and programs, which make up the dynamic of how we interact— a dance that can be complicated or easy depending on the strategies we use, our needs and communication we learn to have. Raccoony and I had a very uncomplicated relationship; she wanted to eat and survive—I wanted to enjoy her intelligence and our interaction.
When she brought her three little babies to me, our relationship shifted and I understood she had an even greater need now, not only for her survival but for theirs as well. That made our relationship more complicated because now I had increased her babies’ odds of survival while increasing her workload to care for them and I had to assume some responsibility for that.
Relationships are messy, they always will be. Everything connects to something else and we don’t always take the time to look out ahead and see how our actions will ripple across the pond to influence others. I understand that, so I am not afraid to go all in.
South Whidbey Island is rich in relationships. From the flora and fauna, to the interesting colorful characters who live here, its tapestry provides an immense experience for witnessing the beauty of growth and change in ourselves and others.
Many residents of “The Rock” have told me they moved here to get away from things that were not working in their lives. I found out we moved here to get something—more harmony with each other in our family through our connection to the natural land and community.
Tanja Diamond is a Master Life Strategist and bestselling author, dedicated to helping people get unstuck in life, love and money. She has fallen in love with South Whidbey Island and plans to be here awhile. Tanja is currently working on designs for a floating office.
WLM stories and blogs are copyrighted and all rights are reserved. Linking is permitted. To request permission to use or reprint content from this site, email info@whidbeylifemagazine.org.
Take the entire mixture and place it in either a glass or metal bowl. Once it’s cooled. put it in the refrigerator to chill. The mixture should be refrigerated for at least four hours to chill completely.
Once everything is cooled, you can mix it in an ice cream maker if you have it, or you could mix it together thoroughly with a spoon in a big metal or glass bowl. An ice cream maker will make it come together a little smoother and a bit like soft-serve, but you want to reserve the peaches until the ice cream is almost set. Either way you’ll likely have to put it in containers in your freezer to firm up.
