OLD Whidbey Life Magazine

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Minding the Sky | With Angels About

BY JUDITH WALCUTT
January 14, 2015

The holiday season came and went in a blur of twinkling lights and crumpled tissue paper, didn’t it? Time at this time of year has an eerie, Dali-esque, melting quality—the days are short and sometimes don’t ever change from a dusky shade of twilight, which makes getting out of pajamas on a Sunday almost impossible to do.

Visibly Invisible Day (photo by Judith Walcutt)

Do I wake or sleep? Is it dawn or late afternoon? The sky is showing us her cloak of invisibility; she is appearing and disappearing the things of this world, before our very eyes—and we are seeing that which is and that which isn’t at the same moment, a mental koan to challenge us like a crossword puzzle for the soul.

Like snow, these thicknesses of fog seem to me now a physical manifestation of the invisible world that is with us all the time. My friend Joni Takanikos the poet, quoting Li-Young Lee, came to mind today, when she told me, paraphrasing Lee from an interview, that the true, most important job of the poet is to “chart the invisible.”

I would venture to say that it is also the work of writers and artists in general in all media—to bring to light the invisible—to, in fact, enlighten the subject which is always invisible, until it is revealed in lights, camera, action on a screen or seventeen syllables on a page. I guess that’s my job, these days, making that which is invisible—an idea, an inspiration, a concept, a story—visible, discernible to the body, the mind, perhaps even the soul.

I mean, let’s face it––everything we humans know about was originally invisible until someone thought of the ways and means to make it visible—whether poured in concrete or words on the page, smeared across a canvas, or carved away from some beautiful piece of stone, until the shape of the thought in the mind of the artist is revealed or, some would say, the shape that the stone contained was cut away from the rest—whatever way, the invisible becomes visible in the rendering, through the hands of the artist, the dreamer who makes things up and then makes them real.

I suppose I am bringing this up now as I have just spent a good bit of time over the holidays with our one son Preston, a soon-to-graduate philosophy major at Bard College. At the moment, he is very keen on discussing invisible ideas as though they were things you could hold in your hand. Also, being a Son of the Firesign Theatre, he is delighted to ask and try to answer that age old query: What is reality?

Meanwhile, our other son, Orson who was also home for the holidays, is trying to build a career around his ability to simply make up any reality, out of any materials necessary or available, to make whole worlds exist, but on screen only, through a cine-magic light show. How’s that for making the invisible visible––in the most literal sense of the words! While others have been gnawing on actual candy canes, we have been savoring the sweet and sour flavors of entwined ideas.

Speaking of that which is visibly invisible here, at the beginning of the year, many of us, myself included, are wondering what invisible thing will come to be a visible reality for us in the coming months. For people like my husband and myself who work project to project and, as with many other non-profit organizations, must raise funds out of thin air to do so, I am looking into the fog and trying to see the future—the job, the work, the idea, the medium for the idea, in which my capacity to make invisible things visible will best be used, for the highest good, this year. Because until we actually make things happen-—put the words on that page, build that platform, make that show—until the thing is somehow tactile, what we have is about as real as the fog obscuring the trees, whiting out the water, and vanishing the sky.

I have been in discussion with myself for some time on the topic of “work” and “jobs” and the difference between the two. They are sometimes the same thing and, as often, are not. How many artists have had to have day “jobs” to support their “work”? The very idea is so clichéd, we can hardly speak of it! How many artists can support their “work” on their “work” alone? And how much of one’s “work” is in fact just like a “job”?

Charting the invisible day (photo by Judith Walcutt)

As a writer, I know my main job is to show up for myself and do it. Natalie Goldberg has written elegantly on that subject in the past, “Writing Down the Bones” and has done so again in her most recent book, “The True Secret of Writing” (Atria, 2014). In a chapter called “Entry: The Opening Point,” she captures for me that moment when the job is transcended and the work emerges: “In writing, in sitting, in slow walking, a flash moment appears when we fall through and what we are fighting, running from, struggling with becomes open, luminous––or, even better, not a problem, just what is.”

This is part of the business of making visible, the invisible—the moment at which the job becomes the work. I have been wrestling with this issue for some time now—well, truthfully, all my working life. I have had some real “doozies” for jobs and I have also done some real work, stuff I am actually happy to have my name on or be known for. But the job question, particularly in the last six or seven years has been a most irksome one. When funding went out of arts and education like the air out of a popped balloon, I, and lots of other marginalized workers in those fields, had to wonder where the next “job” would actually come from.

It became such an issue, particularly after a “job” I put all my chips on, turned out to be a doozie, instead of a deal, I was left wondering if I would ever have a job again, or if I would be doomed to doozies from there on out.

Just for the record, I define a “doozie” as a job that seemed to be, but never really was a reality. I’ve had a lot of them like that in my lifetime and while they have not amounted to what could be called “a career path,” they have each and every one of them given me something to write about—which means they have been my career path—living a life that can be storied, living tales that need to be told. Because I have learned something from each and every “job,” that learning becomes part of the “work” in its articulation in words. The making visible of the invisible path of one’s true work, then, however helter-skelter it may seem, finally emerges as one’s “destiny.”

Layers of obscuration open to emptiness (photo by Judith Walcutt)

But I digress. The notion of job—some job, any job—became so troubling a topic after one doozie too many put me away in bed with a very bad cold, I took it to my nighttime dream life and, as sometimes happens, the dream I conjured became a revelation—an invisibly huge one.

In the dream, I am in a room which is like a black box theatre, small, intimate, minimally lit—sort of a no-place place. Before me is a man dressed in a somewhat tattered golf shirt—the kind with a tiny alligator embroidered on its front. It is of a faded pinkish color, stained, barely covering a beer belly hanging over his braided belt, which holds up a pair of madras pants—the kind golfers in places like Palm Beach or Palm Desert used to wear. He has kind of a horsy smile, with biggish, crooked teeth and his hair plastered in a comb-over. His name is Bob and, as he explains to me in a kindly, gravelly voice, he is my guardian angel.

As you might imagine, I was delighted to learn I had a guardian angel, never mind it was this kind of faded, slightly sweaty-looking old golf pro of a guy with funny teeth, a big belly and a bad comb-over––he was an angel and he was mine! Still, I kind of gasped out, questioning, as though I had misheard his words, “You’re my guardian angel?”

“Oh yes,” he said, with a kind of avuncular jocularity, “I’ve been watching over you for some time now! Is there anything you’d like to know?”

“As a matter of fact, there is!” I responded with enthusiasm and a kind of disbelieving relief. “I’ve been wanting to know what my job is—whatever it is, I’ll do it! I just want to know what it is! Please–– just tell me what my job is and I’ll do it!”

“What’s your job?” he asked, stifling a little guffaw of laughter, “Is that what you want to know? What’s your job?”

“Yes,” I answered, “I want to know what my job is, so I can do that and skip the rest of this stuff that doesn’t seem to go anywhere, ever!”

“Oh” he said, a little embarrassed for me but just as much amused, “That’s such an easy question. Are you sure you don’t want to ask a harder one?”

“No,” I insisted, “Just tell me what my job is! That’s all I want to know!”

I was clearly frustrated and wanted a straight-up answer, plain and simple.

“O.K.,” he said, “Here goes–– your job is to love and be loved.”

“What?” I was startled into a “think different” moment.

“Your job is to love and be loved,” he repeated patiently, sweetly, like he was talking to a small child.

My mind did a funny leap at that moment, like when you “get” a pun, or figure out the step clue in the NYT Sunday crossword and the job—the real job of this life, my life or anyone else’s––became clear, really clear, visibly invisibly clear.

So for this new year, as the sky begins its enlightening emergence from the still, dark heart of winter, made heavy with so much inky sadness from our collective mourning of murdered children, murdered teachers, murdered artists, I send you this one saving grace, this one question answered by Bob, my visibly invisible guardian angel: What is our job here? Answer: Our job is to love and be loved.

I guess if you or I or anyone can manage that, after witnessing the recent heart-breaking examples of humans at their worst, it certainly puts the word “job” into another category of understanding. It’s a hard job, but somebody has to do it.

***

Here, on our magic island floating sometimes visibly between the sky and the reflection of the sky in the water, we are so fortunate to have whole community organizations dedicated to helping people love and be loved. There is Hearts and Hammers, for instance, the local non-profit dedicated to serving people who need home repairs but who are physically or financially unable to do the work alone. If ever there was a fleet of angels visibly stationed among us, it would be them—the H&H crowd. In fact, they are looking for homes to repair and people to help right now, so that the love they have to share won’t go unused. If you are such a person or know such a person who could use that helping of loving kindness, call (360) 221-6063 or visit www.heartsandhammers.com for more information.

Judith Walcutt is a writer striving to love and be loved on Whidbey Island, while making invisible worlds visible in words. She is an alum of Hedgebrook, a veteran of public radio, and a maker of unusual flavors of jam.

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CLICK HERE to read more entertaining and informative WLM stories and blogs.

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.

January 13, 2015
The five things I’ve learned about writing from watching Downton Abbey

BY SUZANNE KELMAN
January 8, 2015

It’s the beginning of 2015; for some of you that means renewed exercise or healthier eating practices. Or maybe you’re planning on finally writing that book or screenplay. For me it is all about the return of my favorite British period drama: Downton Abbey, which follows an upper crust household now in the 1930s.

Downton Abbey cast (photo courtesy of the author)

So, as we stand on the crisp precipice of 2015—I thought I would share with you five things that the “world according to Downton” has taught me about my craft.

Lesson One: It’s all about the preparation.

With a swish of her hand, her ladyship announces there will be a dinner party and, as if by magic, two weeks later—there it is. But that magic—as all of us adamant watchers know—takes days, if not weeks, of painstaking preparations from the folks downstairs.

There are carpets to be rolled up, silver to be polished, flowers to be arranged, attire to be pressed, bread to raise and pheasants to pluck. Not to mention table settings that have to be measured—because God forbid that a dessert spoon be half an inch too far to the left! I get tired just watching it.

But, this is also an important lesson for me about writing. Seamless writing takes a great deal of work. Researching, reading and rewriting can take months if not years. In my last book I rewrote some sentences not once but 30 to 40 times until they flowed as seamlessly as a Downton Ball.

Lesson Two: Know your place in the scheme of things.

In the British class system, everybody knew his or her place. Someone from upstairs never dallied with one from downstairs, and if one did— as a chauffeur did in the first season—that person never really fit upstairs or downstairs again. I’m not saying it’s right; it’s just the way it was.

As writers, I think it is important to know our voice in this world. Know your strengths and stick to writing from them. I’m not saying you can’t pick another genre to write from occasionally, but on the whole, in a world with so much coming at us from every online direction, it is important for young writers to brand themselves early and write to their strengths. There is always a chance later to try something new; at least then your readership will know it is new for you, because they know what “you” means.

Lesson Three: Know who you are but be adaptable.

In this week’s episode, the Butler Carson uttered the ominous words, “I feel a shaking of the ground I stand on. That everything I believe in will be tested and held up for ridicule over the next few years.” He is, of course, feeling the spirit of that decade; along with the now-bobbed hair styles and shorter dress lines, a new and modern approach to living will, in fact, leave many of his ways back in the last century.

So the next lesson from Downton is: as writers we need to know who we are but also need to be flexible and ready to change. Pieces you wrote in the 1970’s may need to be modernized to bring whatever important message you have to a brand new audience. Don’t get stuck back in dogma or antiquated thinking and language. If you want your work to be poignant and relevant to this generation, you have to get hip to this. Dig?

Lesson Four: It’s all about the characters.

Julian Fellowes, the creator and screenwriter of Downton, has done a superb job of creating characters we care about—people who are always growing, yet staying the same. The test of great characters for me is knowing them so well that when a story problem arises you know who is going to react. The key to really good writing is knowing this, yet constantly being surprised by the direction the character goes with that information. There is a huge difference between this and knowing exactly what that character is going to do or say. The key for us as writers is to keep notching it up, so the audience connects but is also oblivious to the next twist or turn of the story.

Lesson Five: Create work that is timeless

The stories that last the tests of time have universal themes that we all can relate to. There will always be room in our lives for stories that challenge us and connect us. We basically all struggle with the same issues. In Downton, they have their issues too. But, while Lady Mary is contemplating an advantageous marriage as she carries the pressure of continuing her family’s place in the world, the maid downstairs wants to learn math in order to not feel stupid. Worlds apart, they are both wrestling with the same issues: self-worth and independence. Even though their problems are antiquated to us in our modern world nearly 100 years on, we still identify with the needs of these characters. As a fellow writer I encourage you towards writing to timeless themes.

So if writing is one of your goals in 2015 I suggest that watching Downton Abbey may be a good place to go for inspiration… like we needed a reason.

Have a wonderful New Year everyone!

Suzanne Kelman is an awarding-winning screenwriter of a screenplay that has recently been optioned.

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CLICK HERE to read more entertaining and informative WLM stories and blogs.

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.

January 7, 2015
Play That Song Again: Music, Weather, and the Spoken Word—Austin Road Trip Diary, #2 of 2

BY ERIK CHRISTENSEN
January 8, 2015

As mentioned in a previous blog post here—for me, there’s always been an attraction to Texas music. When I was given a chance last summer to attend a conference for English teachers in Austin—ground zero of country, folk, and singer-songwriter music—I jumped at the chance. Let’s call it research for my own music and writing.

My first part of this diary was published in WLM on the auspicious date of Dec. 25 of last year and you can find it

HERE!!!

if you’d like to catch it before continuing on now. (SUE!!! or rewrite this part …..)

Day four or five: I steer the car out west towards Fredericksburg—supposedly a quaint, historic town that’s getting some notoriety as a wine and foodie destination. OK, I’ll bite, but I’m really looking forward to taking the back roads out through the Texas hill country. Willie Nelson’s ranch is out here somewhere, I recall from some old issue of Rolling Stone.

Lots of scrub brush, gnarled oak trees, low water crossings and, as I daydream about how heavenly this road would be on a motorcycle, I start to keep score: two roadrunners, three longhorn steers and two anti-Obama signs. (“Gas was $1.84 when Obama was elected! Think about it!”) Yes, I’m thinking about it—how global commodities can’t really be affected by one guy, and why did you buy a full-size billboard, you over-simplifying, reductionist jerk?)

According to an article in the Austin Chronicle, everyone in Texas is either proud or insane, and possibly both. The Texas state motto should be just that—“Insanely proud and proudly insane.”

As a self-proclaimed smug northwesterner, I get it…I am so thankful to call Whidbey home and I brag on it constantly. I fully understand local pride, yet I ponder the proud/insane paradox the next day in class when two teachers mention they had to take a language test for teacher certification in Texas. Since they were from outside the United States, they had to prove themselves capable of writing and speaking English well enough to work in Red Rock School District.

Their country of origin? Canada.

My first question: you’re from Quebec, right? Dual language?

Nope, Abbotsford, BC and somewhere in Saskatchewan. That’s right, from a country where English is the official language, and they had to take a test. To check. Their English.

Ah, well.

Another day into another sweltering night, and I’m out to hear more music. This time, a full-blown, noisy rock and roll show: Alejandro Escovedo, elder statesman of the Austin music scene. I wait in line in the heat outside the club, the modern skyline rising up in the distance, all neon and polished metal into the sky on the other side of the Congress Street Bridge. Alejandro, who recently played Benaroya Hall in Seattle, is again just another local—his name is printed in mismatched plastic letters on the Continental reader board. More musical lessons—heartfelt, polished music delivered with tons of confidence and soul. Not wanting to fight for a good spot on the main floor, I watch from the side of the stage. My band and I play lots of his songs at my shows, but I’m struck again at the simplicity and power of the five-piece rock band. This ain’t brain surgery, but the lyrics I’ve known for decades weave in and out of the twin guitars in a magical blend, and the room seems to lift. The encore? The Rolling Stones “Beast of Burden.” Pandemonium in the crowd.

Second to last night: Astros versus Toronto Blue Jays, Minute Maid Park in Houston, a few short hours to the east. Hmmm. What to do? Take the quicker interstate—direct line, or the smaller highway, more scenic and just a bit longer. No brainer—gimme the scenic route. Fueled up on migas and dark coffee, I’m off. I’m excited to visit an unfamiliar ballpark, and put it on my list of ballparks I’ve visited out of the 30 in the major leagues.

Two summers ago, while visiting Los Angeles, my daughter and I saw former Mariner knuckleballer R.A. Dickey pitch for the Mets on the day we happened to be at the park. Tonight’s starting pitcher? R. A. Dickey. What’re the odds? Never saw him pitch while playing for Seattle, but now I’ve seen him twice in other cities. Beautiful ballpark, a breezy and tolerable 80 degrees in the early evening as they open the retractable roof and a nice southern twist to the concessions and souvenirs. A Nolan Ryan brisket sandwich? Don’t mind if I do.

Minute Maid Park

On the way back, under darkening skies, I flip on the radio, listen to some Zydeco—probably from Galveston or New Orleans—and, as I touch the “seek” button, I catch a Spanish-language cover of a song I recognize from Doug Sahm and the Texas Tornados. I almost drive off the highway as the song ends and an unfamiliar voice goes into a very familiar speech pattern: “FM 104.5! Mas musica! Mas emocion!” Holy cow, it’s the exact same deal as the Austin station, hundreds of miles away! Who knew? I had no idea screaming Mexican DJs were a radio staple in this part of the country. Love it.

As I check out at the desk of the hotel lobby, I’m blessed with one more phrase I’ll carry forever. Two suited business types, probably from some conference, are needling each other ahead of me in line. One flaunts a plaque, some sort of award from their business meeting. The other is not impressed:

“Man, put that away. You as country as a dozen brown eggs.”

On the way to the airport: LBJ Presidential Museum. It’s on the UT campus, but still too dang hot to walk it. Free parking, air-conditioned rental. Check.

I know my history and during the late ‘60s, I was a fat little kid with a baseball mitt and horn-rimmed glasses, vaguely aware of the current events and watching Walter Cronkite with my folks. I am struck right away by all the LBJ memorabilia and the duality of the time—he did so much for civil rights and social programs, yet sat on top of thousands, tens of thousands of deaths of young Americans as the Vietnam war escalated.

And maybe that’s the take-away from this musical, flat, parched, intriguing landscape: The duality. Traditional Hispanic music punctuated by hysterical DJs. Sweltering heat above the rolling hills and scenery to die for. Simple, folk-rock music, but of such depth and quality it wafts out from every open window on South Congress Street and Lamar Avenue. High intellect and educational innovation at the University of Texas, but you have to pay for an internet hook-up to check your email. The headquarters of our best president, or perhaps our worst one.

Roll to the airport, click on the radio, and here it one more time: “Mas! Mas musica! La musica de los Freddie Fender!” A magical place.

Erik Christensen teaches English at Oak Harbor High School, writes songs and poetry, and prefers the green chili salsa to the red stuff.

Erik plays with the Jacobs Road Band on New Year’s Eve at the Oak Harbor Tavern in Oak Harbor and the Erik Christensen Band plays at Blooms in Bayview from 3 to 5 p.m. on Sunday, January 25.

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CLICK HERE to read more entertaining and informative WLM stories and blogs.

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.

January 7, 2015
Three Little Words…HAPPY NEW YEAR!

BY LES McCARTHY
January 1, 2015

HAPPY NEW YEAR…2015! It seems just like yesterday that it was 2014!

No other three little words bear such potential and promise as HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Well, none other than…Seize the Day! Go For It! You Look Mahvelous! I’m So Sorry. Let’s Get Married! I Love You!

I stand corrected! When you think about it, there are a LOT of powerful three words phrases!

However, HAPPY NEW YEAR—the image it brings to mind is one of newness and rebirth (in a multitude of ways). It’s the basic “do-over” and we get to do it EVERY YEAR!

A rainbow leads the way into a new year on Whidbey Island (photo by David Welton)

The New Year lies before us like a pasture after a heavy snowfall, a blank page, an empty canvas, a fresh lump of clay, a package of yeast—you get the picture. The year is new and open and ripe with possibilities and potential. It makes all those above sayings come to mind…along with—Be the Change! Just Do It! Carpe Diem!

And, carpe means to pluck and doesn’t that sound luscious? Like plucking a ripe fruit? The year is ours to do just that! Carpe Diem!

So, now that it’s here—what do we want to do with it? A whole year is ours, again, hopefully—all twelve months, 52 weeks, 365 days, 8760 hours, 525,600 minutes or 31,536,000 seconds.

What shall we do with all that time?

If you are like 45% of the country’s population you make resolutions. And if you are like the majority of those people you have infrequent success! So, perhaps (myself included) we are going about this all wrong.

Resolutions, according to Merriam-Webster, are acts of solving problems. That sounds pretty negative to me. Why is life—and what we do with it—a problem?

Full moon rising over Langley, promising fulfillment in the new year. (photo by David Welton)

Instead of finding things to resolve or change, like losing weight or quitting a habit, maybe we need to give our thinking a positive twist and shake things up a bit. We’ll get the end result—a more healthful life, a more stable financial outlook, pride in our work, stronger relationships, a new artistic outlet—but we can acquire those things in a better way, perhaps, than how we’ve tried in the past.

Instead of resolutions—maybe we can think of giving ourselves challenges, or goals, or the allowance to try something new. I don’t want to live by what I should do;I’d rather see each day as a chance to move my life forward…to make that difference, to be that change, to think global and act local…all while allowing myself to grow.

And if I “fail”? Big deal!

I’ve tried something new and I’m failing forward. And I’ll try something else!

Want to lose weight and/or get more fit? Instead of focusing on deprivation and calorie-counting or cutting things out of your life (which is never fun and has never worked for me!) maybe, just maybe, it would be better (and certainly more fun) to add something new to it…like taking a Pilates or Yoga class, or walking along the miles and miles of beaches that are outside our back doors here on the island. Join a gym, join a dance group, join a kayaking club. You’re bound to lose some weight and get more fit. Seize the Day!

Improved circulation is a benefit from not just physical activity but from laughing, too…so, why not join some group that does laughter classes? Or join an improve group? There are such things! Maybe this is the year you find your inner artist…take a class, pick up a brush, make some jewelry, cook like Julia, write those poems! Go For It!

Healthful living isn’t just kicking up the physical aspect of your daily life…it’s nurturing the mental, spiritual, and emotional sides, too. Try replacing some of your daily intake (consumption of any substance you want to limit or stop) with something else, buy a new vegetable at the grocery, pick up some lentils, join a worship service, plant a garden, establish a routine of a walk after dinner with a friend or loved one, meditate. All good things for your body and soul.

“Beach Sunrise”, painting by Sandy Byers

On Whidbey—wonderful, wonderful Whidbey— there is a plethora of new things to try, see, do, join, accomplish, taste, visit, experience—all here on the island—all mere moments from home; things we can do solo or with our neighbors and soon-to-be new friends.

Not quite sure what you want to do or where to start? Pick up a local Island County guide and get started. And then check in with Whidbey Life Magazine to see what is going on around the island. There are groups that discuss books, knit together, work on stained glass, critique writing, host wine pairings. There are jam sessions and sing-alongs, theater and hiking groups, whale and bird watchers, beach combers, boat builders, dancers, musicians, gourmet diners, pottery throwers…and the lists go on and on and on.

I’ve said it before…Whidbey is like a fabulous Day Camp for adults (and kids, too)…there is just SO MUCH to do here!

I think my only resolution this year will be not to make resolutions. And, instead, vow to explore what this lovely island has to offer. I think everyone benefits when they stretch themselves a bit…not just physically, but mentality, too and it’s time to do just that. Brush off the old year and get on with the new. Organize. Support. Volunteer. Grow. Learn.

So, let’s stretch our bodies and our minds and let’s get out and walk some of the 196 miles of shoreline in Island County and perhaps we’ll see the orcas, gray whales and pairs of bald eagles that share this gorgeous natural area with us.

Let’s learn something new! Spend an hour or more at one of the local libraries or local book shops and pick up some books on something that you’ve been meaning to look into more closely. Perhaps you’ve been dreaming of wine making. Read up and then go visit all the local wineries (there are nine at last count).

Or maybe you have a nose for coffee? Read up on Juan Valdez and then go tour the (four) coffee roasters on the island that annually roast nearly 800,000 pounds of coffee. Want to learn more about mussels? You’ve come to the right island as over 2,000,000 pounds of Penn Cove Mussels are grown and harvested each year and are readily available in our many restaurants and grocery stores!

As the quote from Etienne de Grellet states, “I shall pass this way but once…Let me not defer nor neglect it, for I shall not pass this way again.” So, grab this year by the horns and instead of saying we are going to “do something”…be specific. Spell it out. Take a leap and sign up for that class in glass blowing or piano, painting or writing. You might be surprised at what comes out at the other end of that instrument!

Don’t listen to the voices in your head that say you can’t do it. Prove them wrong! Give something new a try!

However, that said, not quite ready to start dabbling on a canvas or tickling the ivories quite yet? How about easing in and going to a gallery or special exhibit and learning about a new artist or medium or going to one of the many venues around the island that showcase musicians on a steady and very regular basis.

And thinking you need someone along for the ride to share your walks and life with? Adopt a pet! You’ll both benefit! Or are you feeling like you need to give back? There are hundreds of places that would love to have your volunteering spirit (time, expertise and/or financial backing)!

So, here we are…the New Year is ahead of us just waiting for us to do something with it! There are no guarantees in life, so make each day special. Mae West said, “You only live once, but if you do it right, once is enough.” So, make each day count. Go to bed at the end of each day knowing you made a difference—however small. That smile you shared with that person in line might have made their day.

If you don’t love what you do—perhaps now is the time to change that. Or at least start taking those baby steps towards that goal. What you think about, you bring about. So, Go For It! Just Do It! Seize the Day!

As for me, I’m going to go seize the year…Carpe Noctem … one glorious day at a time on and around this beautiful and bountiful rock that is our home. HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Les McCarthy is an author, tutor, life coach, and IPPY bronze medalist for her yearly “Healthy Living ~ Healthy Life: 365 Days of Nutrition and Health for the Family” calendars. She is a recent transplant to the island and is busy loving every glorious moment while tending to the needs of her geriatric fur factory and local deer, squirrels and slugs.

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CLICK HERE to read more entertaining and informative WLM stories and blogs.

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.

December 31, 2014
Play That Song Again: Music, Weather, and the Spoken Word—Austin Road Trip Diary, #1 of 2

BY ERIK CHRISTENSEN
December 24, 2014

As mentioned in a previous blog post here—for me, there’s always been an attraction to Texas music. When I was given a chance last summer to attend a conference for English teachers in Austin—ground zero of country, folk, and singer-songwriter music—I jumped at the chance. Let’s call it research for my own music and writing.

The first hint of something in the air: Dallas Cowboys jerseys (Mark Witten and DeMarcus Ware) in the security line at Sea-Tac Airport. Unlike my daughter and her boyfriend on a recent trip to California, I did not wear, nor pack, any Seahawks gear. I don’t want to provoke—although, in her defense, tweaking 49er fans in California does have a certain attraction.

It’s clear and sunny in Seattle on this late July day, and they’re predicting 100 degrees in Austin this afternoon. Cruising at 34,000 feet, Mount Rainier is looming outside my airplane window, and soon the Great Salt Lake is floating by slowly below us; the clouds change and bunch up as we get into southern Utah and closer to Albuquerque. Stacked up thunderheads, pillowy, mountainous, rise up from the heat radiating off the ground below us.

Is it my imagination? I can feel how hot it is in the brown landscape below us, even though I have no idea of the real temp out there. Behind the mass of clouds, a vast expanse of low-lying clouds spreads to the horizon. The world is so huge—I’m going 500 miles per hour drinking a Ginger Ale, looking out an airplane window. I open my airline peanuts, thinking about wagon trains, Lewis and Clark and how people have walked this barren landscape. The Austin-Bergstrom Airport rental parking lot checks in at a mean 103 degrees.

First morning: I have a pleasant walk of less than a mile planned from my hotel through the University of Texas campus to my workshop, but I’m assaulted as soon as I step out of the sliding door of the air-conditioned lobby. 7:20 in the AM, 81 degrees—“feels like 84!” says the smiling icon on my phone’s weather app. No, it FEELS like being wrapped in an oven-warmed, damp sweat sock, thank you very much. I ditch the pleasant walk idea and bolt for my air-conditioned rental car. There’s free parking and I don’t need to arrive sweat-soaked, I tell myself.

University of Texas Campus (photo by Erik Christensen)

The workshop itself is great—it’s for Advanced Placement Literature and Composition teachers but some of that Texas culture shines through; when a laptop-toting colleague asks about Wi-Fi passwords, we’re informed that there is Wi-Fi for purchase—that’s right, for PURCHASE—at the reasonable price of $4.99 per day.

For purchase!

Again, not wanting to flaunt my northwest-ness, I bite my tongue instead of telling them that free Wi-Fi is a God-given right in my part of the country. Heck, the oil-change Jiffy Lube has free Wi-Fi in western Washington. I decide not to say anything, but can’t help picturing governor Rick Perry saying, “Hey, we’re just not giving away the internets here. You should pay for it.”

And what about the Common Core State Standards that is in the education news almost daily in the northwest? Turns out Texas is one of the four states that has not adopted Common Core.

“There’s nothing common about Texas,” my instructor tells me. Check. Got it. Biting my tongue again.

On a funnier note, at the second session, my table partner and most others are putting on coats and sweatshirts against the air conditioning of the conference room. By now, we’ve talked and she knows I’m from the Seattle area. Do I detect an accusatory note in her voice when she says, “So?” and zips up her jacket. “You’re not cold?”

“Nah, I’m fine, “ I say. “Sorry.” Again, some decorum prevents me from saying that the air conditioning on this second day is a blessing from the gods after walking outside in heat and humidity that can only be classified as “dumpster fire.”

The first evening excursion is to the famed Continental Club to see Jon Dee Graham and Will Johnson. Jon Dee is one of my all-time favorite Texas songwriters; grown-up folk rock with a real literary bent to the lyrics, percussive, bluesy guitar work and funny between song banter. No wonder he’s been named Artist of the Year at the SXSW music festival, no surprise at his devoted following.

What is surprising is seeing him out on the deck having a cigarette in the still-warm evening before the show. Instinctively, I raise my hand, and he waves back. “Hey, man!” he says. And, I just stroll in and buy a Shiner Bock and find an empty barstool. I’ve marked his Seattle dates on my calendar months ahead of time and waited in line on the sidewalk outside Ballard’s Tractor Tavern. I’m on his turf now, there’s a modest crowd, and he’s just one of the neighborhood musicians. Amazing.

South Congress Street, Austin (photo by Erik Christensen)

Opening act Will Johnson is a revelation—I’ve never heard of him, but his songs are very compelling, his guitar work really sparse and tasteful and his voice can rattle the walls. For an acoustic show, he’s peeling paint off the walls of the small club. It’s effortless looking and more remarkable that this rich, resonant sound is coming out of the scruffy, skinny guy in jeans and a truckers hat. He’s about 5’7” and maybe weighing a buck-thirty.

More than any musical lessons or specific songs or licks to pick up, my takeaway is this: you have to be GOOD to play in this town, Bubba. There are amazing musicians falling out of every doorway and the level of songwriting and musicianship here is incredible. Also, you need to get out there and perform; there are tons of venues in Austin and solid musicians lay it out there every night of the week.

Third day: Recommendation from the teacher workshop: Chuy’s Mexican Grill. Three words: jalapeno queso dip. Dear Lord.

And speaking of music, the voices, the accents, the lilting way people talk…it’s in the air. At Matt’s Mexican Grill (another dinner recommendation that lived up to the hype) an elderly gentleman, a regular at the bar, greeted a familiar waitress with, “Darlin’, I jest drove one hunnert and eighty-fahv miles to see your purty face.” Oh, this guy’s magic, I think. He is a 62 year-old embodiment of the wise old cracker stereotype.

I try to eavesdrop on his conversation without being rude and it’s difficult in this noisy restaurant. I make out something about catching red snapper on a fishing trip—“we wur goin’ to git some o’ that rid snapper; come to find, you can only kip two apiece.” I could listen to this guy spin yarns all day.

I was worried that writing about the accents would be inappropriate or seem like I’m making fun…I’m not, honest. I love the musicality and the twists of phrase in the spoken word down here. Besides, at least it wasn’t as bad as a story I heard about a visitor to Texas being asked, “Do you want ass in yer drink?”
“Uh, excuse me?” he replied.
“Ass. Do you want ass in your drink?”
Awkward pause. “Umm…if you say so.”
He was brought a soda with ice in it. “Oh, ICE. Ok.”
“Thet’s wut I said: Ass… I—C—E— Ass.”

Leaving the restaurant in my trusty rental, I engage in a ritual I do in every unfamiliar city: spin the dial and find some weird local radio! 107.1 FM is presenting traditional Mexican music—mariachi, corridas, Tex-Mex and big band. It seems to be pretty modern and smoothed-over, stylized versions, kind of the difference between El Cazador in Oak Harbor—a fine establishment in it’s own right, but not very gritty and perhaps less than authentic—and a family spot in Culiacan.

The Road to Houston (photo by Erik Christensen)

I enjoy the music, but am blown away as the between-songs announcer is right out of the monster truck commercials: screaming, dramatic, and completely over the top: “Mas! Mas Musica! Mas Noches Extremis! Mas! Mas! MAAAAAAS!” Then, back to the safe, slick music. Throughout my time in Texas, I could switch on the car radio, and it was an instant Mariachi party—accordions, castanets, and chirping trumpets right out of Johnny Cash’s “Ring of Fire.” Then, hysterical screaming announcements for some upcoming event. “Un traffic mix! De la 107.1! Mas Suerte! Mas!”

(Erik’s Austin road trip diary will continue in his next blog update on Whidbey Life Magazine!)

Erik teaches English at Oak Harbor High School, writes songs and poetry, and prefers the green chili salsa to the red stuff.

He plays with the Jacobs Road Band on New Year’s Eve at the Oak Harbor Tavern in Oak Harbor and the Erik Christensen Band plays at Blooms in Bayview from 3 to 5 p.m. on Sunday, January 25.

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December 24, 2014
Sirithiri | Love in the Time of Plethora

BY SIRI BARDARSON
December 17, 2014

This 2014 holiday season, my country is full of civil unrest. There are many real life dramas that are wrenching and violent and fueled by legitimate passions.

Citizens in the streets storm for the dearth of human rights, and consumers at the mall buy a plethora of stuff.

I have an itchy, unsettled feeling about life, in general—and our collective future, specifically. I’m casting about for my power and place as I wonder if we can be something more than backseat passengers in this head-on collision of human ideals with the voracious machine of power and money. Are we doomed to ride with forces so grim and loveless?

_______________

Change is in the air
as the New Year approaches
and I am ready for my part
in this large drama.
_______________

The other evening, I was invited to a “table read” of an original play. The event was held on the day after the big windstorm and I drove down from Oak Harbor to Clinton. The north end of the island was unscathed compared to what I saw when I reached the phone booth at Classic Road. Debris from the storm littered the highway and fallen logs, piled brush and newly cut stumps were everywhere.

It was dusk when I rolled up to the late afternoon affair and the air felt especially chilly when I stepped out of the car. The air felt raw and scrubbed clean as I called out to my fellow playgoers in the dark. We greeted each other’s black shadows and together we went inside.

The heat had been off and the building was cold as the guests, a dozen of us, milled around in our jackets, some sitting down on the few pieces of furniture. The room was inviting, although austere and poorly lit. The playwright welcomed me and made introductions. He is a man, both affable and intense, earnest and fun. We mingled for a bit. There were a lot of guys there—that was cool, and they were young, which was also cool. There was one young woman also, a girl with big glasses and a sideways smile.

It was great to be with all ages as I am old and work with the very young. I was impressed by everyone’s willingness to just show up for something different; maybe cabin fever had set in but mostly we all seemed happily curious about the play. We sat around; wine was poured and there were yummy cheeses and crackers and a plate of cookies.

Our host, the playwright, called us to the table and we shifted over, still in our coats and jackets. More wine was poured and pens passed around to mark our parts.

The playwright explained his plot premise. He had fallen head over heals in love with a woman, and one morning—so he said—when they parted (she, off to work, and he, staying behind) he said he didn’t know what to do without her.

“Write a play,” she said.

Sometimes I think the spark is that simple.

When she returned that evening, he sat in the same spot with a finished play. In it he wanted to explore one idea as a truism: true love would never judge a book by its cover and would always identify its beloved even if disguised.

Ah, love, where is it, and what does it look like and do I recognize it as mine?

We started in; the players voices ricocheted off the edge of the wedge of light that hung over the table and then bounced off the concrete floor. We all leaned in, eyeing our upcoming parts, listening to the strength and tone of the previous players’ lines. The scripts rustled on the plain wood table and we finished the first act. There was more water and wine in plastic cups and a little philosophizing about contemporary love. Youth and age both have lots to say on that matter of looks and beauty, knowing that sex sells and that we are all drawn to it.

The play turned out well. The soulmates were tested but remained faithful in their devotion to the other’s best attributes and nature. We congratulated the playwright; he deserved it and I drove back up the island.

* * *

Once I get as far up the island as the Au Sable Prairie, I love the drive. You burst out of the dark canyon of trees and the sky expands. You can sense, even in the dark, the powerful tides of Puget Sound to your west. Across the water, a rime of frosty blue sits on the Olympics, a pale blue outline that follows the sun into the next time zone. This time of year the Big Dipper is low on the horizon, tilted on its ear, but otherwise reliable when so much in this crazy life is not.

So what I want to tell everybody is that in your personal drama, on stage with you in your life, there are many reliable fellow actors. Life’s setting and scenery are excruciatingly beautiful, even where you don’t expect it and—like the Big Dipper on its ear—there is always the undeniable power of love.

We have so much and too much of everything else but not enough of this gorgeous force; love free and plentiful with the potential to heal the downside of human drama. Its expression might be most accessible when it is inspired, like a man in love at the breakfast table, but we all can find the willingness to state it profoundly with an understanding of the larger forces at play and the threats to love.

Happy New Year. Write a play for someone you love; say it plainly and attempt to say it perfectly and that will be plenty.

Illustrations by Siri Baradarson from her iPad

Siri Bardarson is a musician devoted to creative projects that synthesize her classical and popular music background via her cello. She is ecstatically happy when she is making stuff! Special thanks to Ian Bage, multi-genre artist, for his play, “Lissema and Ani.”

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December 17, 2014
On the Road Again, with Pigment, Perspective, and Pandas

Dec 10, 2014

On the Road Again…

When I make comics, it’s hard sometimes not to feel like I am engaging in a lesser form of art making, if indeed it is even part of the art world at all. Comics? Puh-leeze! Is that what you went to art school for? If comics were serious art they would have their own museum!

Panda Satire, explained.

Um…wait a minute, actually there is more than one museum dedicated to the practice and process of making comics, and on my recent trip to Brussels, Belgium, I got to visit one.

Europe is chock full of marble monuments to the so-called finer arts, and Brussels is no exception. Grand museums crowd the street corners of the neighborhood in which we lived. But I was both delighted and surprised to discover Centre Belge de la Bande Dessinée, or in English, The Belgian Comic Strip Center: an entire museum dedicated to the art of cartooning.

Inside the Belgian Comics Museum

Little did I know that Belgium has long been a hotbed of creativity when it comes to telling stories with pictures and words. Hergé, the creator of the legendary Tin Tin, is right at the center of it all. (So are the Smurfs, but you know, I’m just not a Smurfs kind of gal.)

We arrived bright and early, just as the museum was opening. Several exhibits were waiting for us in the former Waucquez Warehouse, a gem of Art Nouveau by grand master designer Victor Horta. These included an exhibition titled 100 Years in the Balkans: The Comic Strip in Resistance. Seeing this exhibition reminded me of a recent exchange between myself and one of my readers who was irritated by the political slant of one of my cartoons. Far from being inappropriate fare for a comic strip, comics have been pontificating political points of view almost as long as they have existed.

An exhibit titled Picturing Brussels depicted recognizable locations in all parts of the city. Even as a recent first-time visitor to Brussels, I identified landmarks and neighborhoods that I had visited. Brussels in Shorts (short stories, not short pants) is an international competition that gives three artists the opportunity to discover the city and then create short graphic works that drew on the location. The resulting works ranged from an Alice in Wonderland in Belgium fantasy to more realistic autobiographical stories.

Permanent exhibitions include a brief history of comics starting with Egyptian hieroglyphs, moving through early political cartoons and ending in the present day.

My favorite display was about all the phases of the working process involved in making a comic. (Anyone interested in comics should read Scott McCloud’s books of comics theory, “Understanding Comics, “Reinventing Comics” and “Making Comics.”) The exhibit we saw put many of McCloud’s theories into action, with a gaggle of artists showing their works in progress to help readers realize just how much work goes into something that seems so simple.

From written scripts and synopses and rough pencil sketches to more finished pencilled and inked works, to some different ways to add color to a work, this exhibit gave a fascinating look behind the scenes. This showcase went on to give examples of more than a dozen different genres within the realm of comics, including one of my personal favorites: talking animals. (Actually I work in a subset of the talking animal genre: smarty pants talking animals.)

As we left the museum, we stopped in one of the many large and ornate cathedrals in Brussels, with a series of stained glass windows. As I looked at the pictorial windows in sequence, I realized it was nothing more, and nothing less, than an 18th century graphic novel.

If you find yourself in Brussels, The Belgian Comic Strip Center is well worth the time for a visit.

The Belgian Comic Strip Center – Museum Brussels
Rue des Sables 20
1000 Brussels
Tel.: + 32 (0)2 219 19 80
Fax: + 32 (0)2 219 23 76
visit@comicscenter.net

Open every day (except Monday) from 10 a.m. to 6 p.m.

Anne Belov is painter, printmaker, cartoonist and pontificator on Whidbey Island. You can see her paintings at Rob Schouten Gallery at Greenbank Farm and find her books—”Pandamorphosis” and all the “Panda Chronicles” series books at Moonraker Books in Langley. “Pandamorphosis” can also be found at The Feather and Fox at Bayview Corner.

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December 10, 2014
Walkin’ in a Thrift Store Wonderland

BY MERI McCORMICK
December 10, 2014

I love design. Any kind of design—and when I heard about Langley’s “Deck the Doors” holiday contest, I thought it might be fun to challenge my design skills and maybe even win.

The contest is a brilliant way for the city of Langley to decorate its entire town for the holidays. Artists and store owners are matched and the artist is given the opportunity to create a holiday decor for a business storefront.

I was the artist matched with Langley Antiques, which is housed in an old bank building with exquisite woodwork, vintage windows and a beautiful glass inset front door. In order to preserve the surrounding moldings and trim, I was asked to use just two nails in the entire design—hidden in the outside molding above the front door.

Okay. There are always design constraints; this is common. But this one really made me think.

Langley Antiques, decorated by Meri McCormick for “Deck the Doors 2014” (photo by Lorinda Kay)

I managed to map out an overall look using just the two nails, with dowels to hang ornaments, and tiebacks to secure the rest. I received approval from owners Laurel and Jackie and I was on my way. The bank building had a lot of detail to consider—the front door, side panels, three windows, the planter, the old bench and the antique scale perched in front. The theme for my design was old fashioned holiday motif, but buying all the materials for the design seemed likely to cost a fortune. How could I pull this off?

I happened to be driving in Oak Harbor later that week and passed Island Thrift Store. Stopping in, I quickly located a wall of holiday possibilities—bin after bin of garland, bows, ribbons, wreaths, stockings and ornaments. I started filling my cart. After paying just $15 for all of my finds, I was hooked.

Suddenly Thrift stores on Whidbey Island became my passion. I visited Good Cheer in Clinton and found a huge handmade Santa stocking and a massive white beard, which I glued onto the Santa face.

Santa grins with a special beard from Good Cheer in Clinton! (photo by Meri McCormick)

My search then brought me to Community Thrift in Freeland; I nearly passed out when I found a dozen 24-inch candy canes made out of PVC pipe for only 25 cents each. They were ideal for the planter and for the front door garland.

At the WAIF Thrift Store in Freeland I found a fantastic french horn for my garland focal point. But I wasn’t stopping there. At Good Cheer Thrift in Langley I bought $1 teddy bears to stuff my stockings and white, red and green beads for 50 cents that I strung together, plus more balls and ornaments.

As the days passed, I noticed that the thrift stores kept bringing out more amazing holiday decorations. So I returned, again, again and again. I combed the island from Clinton to Freeland, Coupeville and Oak Harbor. I wanted more, but I finally had to curb my festive frenzy as my living room quickly became a mass of glitter, ribbons, angels, balls, Santas and glue. I had turned into a thrift store addict and my only hope was to tie myself to my house and get to work.

A french horn from WAIF Thrift Store in Freeland gets the star treatment in Langley Antiques’ holiday decorations. (photo by Meri McCormick)

Thanks to all my thrift store finds, my design is now finished and displayed at Langley Antiques along with all the other beautifully decorated doors in downtown Langley. Stop in and take a look. Then, get to your nearest Whidbey Island thrift store and go crazy. You can decorate your home—and even a whole town—for pennies.

For more photos of “Deck the Doors,” see this photo essay from Lorinda Kay.

Meri has remodeled and staged hundreds of homes and offices. A resident of Freeland, she is a lover of all things design.

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December 10, 2014
The Chief Milkmaid | And then there was PIE.

BY VICKY BROWN
Dec. 3, 2014

Shirlee Read of The Kitchen Door makes pies and other goodies for the Bayview Farmers Market.

The minute I learned about her pie class I knew I had to sign up. I’m grateful I was so decisive because it quickly filled up. The class was so popular Shirlee decided to extend it to a second session on the next day.

The Kitchen Door

The holiday season is certainly upon us. In our family the holiday season actually starts the week before Halloween (my daughter’s birthday) and runs through January 2. By the time Thanksgiving comes along we are primed for the delightful gratitude and gluttony of the holiday.

This year I decided to celebrate a little differently. Instead of ordering pies this year, I decided to make them myself. The only problem was—as accomplished as I am as a cheesemaker, candymaker and even a baker and cook—I don’t make pies (at least not unless it has a graham cracker crust, the only crust I’ve been successful at creating). But this year I was enrolled in a Pie Making Class.

I arrived at the Deer Lagoon Grange at 1:30 p.m. on Nov. 16 for the class. I showed up a little early in case Shirlee needed a hand. She didn’t. She welcomed the company, but it was clear she is a pro and had things well in hand.

Shirlee teaching and cooking. All of us smiling!

One by one the other students arrived. The class included many types of folks, from a young Georgia orchard farmer (Think Georgia PEACHES! I knew we would become friends) to retirees enjoying this new phase of their life on Whidbey Island.

We sat down with coffee, tea and pie to sample some of Shirlee’s expertise and to learn a bit about each other, why we were there and what we could expect from the day. I should just add a note here about her raspberry/rhubarb pie—WOW!

“Baby’s bottoms,” we learned, are very important for making pie.

Once Shirlee had given us the basics we went to the kitchen. She helped us prepare some fillings for some savory pies and taught us some tips and tricks. Then we got to practice what she showed us.

Shirlee made these beautiful round pie crusts, set them in the pans and created the crust designs in moments. She did it again and again, while we laughed and cheered at how easy this process would be.

The laughter and chatter got a bit more boisterous as we tried to duplicate the simple dough mixing and rolling (not one of us got a circle on the first try) techniques.

Fortunately Shirlee was there to coach us and sometimes coax us into creating the almost perfect pie crusts.

And “baby’s bottoms,” we also learned, take more than a bit of practice.

By the second crust we all still needed hand-holding. But by the third crust… well, let’s be honest, we still needed a bit of input to make a great crust. But we did it.

We rolled out crusts, flour flying! Shirlee took eight self-admitted pie flunkies and coaxed beautiful, delicious pies out of us, pies that we could all comfortably claim we made.

We learned techniques that were repeatable in our home kitchens.

We learned ways to adjust recipes to our personal preferences.

We learned tricks from cutting onions to creating flaky dough.

Shirlee reviewing her students’ work.

And then we sat once again, to eat. We enjoyed a delicious dinner featuring savory pie, a fresh salad, a glass of wine to toast our respective successes and each other’s company.

The class felt more like an afternoon spent with friends in the kitchen than structured class. That is the beauty of a gifted teacher. Shirlee kept the class running smoothly forward, engaging and informative. We all achieved our objectives. We learned more than we had expected to, in a way that we barely even realized we were learning.

Luckily for me Shirlee is still making and selling her pies at Bayview Farmers Holiday Market in the greenhouse at Bayview Farm & Garden (Saturdays 10-2 through 12/20/14).

We made THESE!

Apple Cranberry Pie – I made!

I enjoyed making pies with the class but am happy to know that I can simply purchase them as needed from The Kitchen Door. Her slogan is “Pies for Breakfast, Lunch and Dinner!” Having enjoyed her pies for each of those meals, I can heartily endorse that idea!

There are so many interesting classes available in our beautiful community. I encourage you to avail yourself to the riches of this remarkable Island. They are available in all budget ranges, all skill levels and everything from cheese to ceramics… and of course, pie. You can find classes in the Whidbey Life Magazine calendar.

When you do see a class you want to take, sign up fast, they are often small and fill up quick!

All photos by Vicky Brown

My reward: I ate both of these slices!

Pumpkin pie crust made in class, filling made from Willowood pumpkin, LBF chevre, honey and eggs. Delicious!

• • •

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.

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December 3, 2014
The New Kid on the Block | November and the Art of Giving Thanks

BY LES McCARTHY
November 26, 2014

Ahhh, November. The autumn season is deep upon us and almost gone; nature is readying to pass on her seasonal baton, once again.

I don’t know if it was the thank-yous I learned in kindergarten while asking for paste, or the Pilgrim stock that I’m from—but something stuck, and I am grateful.

_______________________

“Feeling gratitude
and not expressing it
is like wrapping a present
and not giving it.”

_______________________

I love everything autumnal…the fluttering leaves, the thick sweaters, pumpkins marching down front porch steps, the last of the garden spilling over its container. I love watching the fat squirrels with their question-mark tails scamper amongst the now bare branches—in full sight where once they were hidden—stashing treasures, in the form of my newly planted bulbs, in the lawn and under my (until recently) still-blooming hydrangea.

Morning Frost in the Garden at Useless Bay Coffee Company (photo by the author)

And, as much as I love the brightness of autumn, I really love November—and not just its late-month left-overs. It’s a softer, quieter month. Gone are the splashy colors of October; the reds and ambers have been replaced with muted shades of grays and plums and browns.

I’m finding, here on the island, that November is a bit like being in the Land of Oz. I’m not in Kansas, anymore. Never was. But, I’m not in Chicago, either. Things are just so different here.

Crisp, clear mornings, complete with frost on the pumpkins on lush still-green lawns, transition into warmer-than-expected afternoons. Twilight seems to come sometime after lunch and the gathering dusk takes on a time frame all its own. Nightfall comes early to my corner of the island and with its inky blackness—on a clear night—a diamond-studded sky. It all makes me want to shout out, “THANK YOU!” but I don’t want to break the silence or scare the deer.

I like to think of November as not just the month in which we celebrate the Thanksgiving holiday—the day when we customarily gather together and share the 4F’s… feasting, family, friends, and football—when we celebrate our harvests, our good fortunes, our lives, and when we give thanks for that which we are grateful—but, also, as a month when we can leisurely gather our thoughts and reflect on those things that make that end-of-month celebration all that more meaningful.

November is the time of year when we can hone our skills in the art of giving thanks.

I’ve been on the island now for almost five months. How time flies when you’re having fun! I’ve experienced the Island’s summer and am enjoying her autumnal splendor. Every day brings a newness. I am not jaded (yet) by the days and days (and so I’ve heard…days) of rain and gray. I am enjoying the soft beauty of everything around me.

Thankful Turkey (photo by the author)

The drive up and down the highway changes from week to week. I drive it for the sheer pleasure of seeing the melding of the shadows and the wind through the grasses and the changing hues. The prairies now wear varying shades of gold, the waters—depending on the light or time of day are deep, deep blue or steely gray, and beyond are the snow-capped peaks of our nearby mountain ranges. I find myself in awe…every day…whether I’m on the beach or in the forest, driving the highway or watching for whales on the ferry. I thank my lucky stars for that day I drove over the north bridge and found my way home—to a place where I can put down roots and spread my wings.

And as glorious as the surrounding scenery is, it also makes me feel a bit melancholy, but more in a wistful way. It reminds me to take stock and to slow down before the commercialized frenzy of the holidays.

And that has been a good thing, as I’ve taken to walking into town before sunset. It is my favorite time of day and I get to soak up the views of the Passage and watch the people of my town do what they do in their ordinary, extraordinary ways. The sheer beauty of the island is enough to make me sigh but it’s the community connectedness that I am constantly reminded of that I am so thankful for on this rock I now call home.

Island spirit and pride are sprinkled everywhere and surface as a deep caring for each other—whether it’s to safely bring joy (and candy) to costume-clad children, by the helping hand given over a curb by a moment-ago stranger, the abundance of goods given to Good Cheer, the sharing of ideas at a writer’s workshop, the gathering together to say good-bye to a long-time friend, the genuine sense of joy at the unsheathing of the statues in downtown Langley on a mizzly afternoon. All these things add depth and grace to our towns. The towns are unique and connected and charming but it’s the people who make them so.

I am reminded, once again, how thankful I am for all the artists on this island—whatever their medium—whether it’s glass or jewelry, antiques or music, poetry or hair styling, farming or stonework, and all the rest—for sharing their talents and for those that bring those talents to the public. I am thankful for the performers and the workers and the educators and the shopkeepers and my neighbors who give so freely of themselves, in so many different ways, to make where we live so very special. I am so thankful I am here.

As I walk home, heart full of gratitude, I can hear in the swish-rustle of the leaves, Mother Nature whispering, “Winter’s coming. Cozy in. Relax. Stretch. Breathe.”

November is nature’s yoga studio. It is the month for shifting gears, settling in, stacking firewood, counting blessings.

And, yes there is that one day when we toast each other, the turkey (or tofurkey), our teams and those who are with us now only in spirit. We say our thanks for health and happiness, and some of us take naps.

As the earth quiets and settles in for her nap, something within me stirs and as I go through each day I find myself giving silent thanks for the small, gentle blessings of my life. I am thankful for the soft snore of my pug, the brightness of moonlight, the sweet, sticky warmth of honey on a toasted English muffin. I am grateful for the shy smiles of babies, waves from strangers and the magic and memories of fireflies. And so it goes.

I am thankful for the generosity of spirit of my old friends and family, my parents and children—all of whom are now so far away and whom I miss so very much. And, as corny as it may sound, I am so very grateful for this beautiful island. I searched a long time for a new hometown—a place that was equally naturally beautiful and that had an energy, a caring population, a creative side, a nurturing element—and I found it that day I drove over the pass. Thank you Whidbey and thank you to all my dear new friends and all of the warm and gracious people who have embraced me with such heartfelt welcoming.

One November, years ago, I started a list of things I was grateful for…marbles, music, children’s books, laughter, art in everyday life…the list now has thousands of things on it and I know I will continue to add to it. I don’t ever want to stop being grateful or finding new things to be thankful for.

As we slide on into the holiday season, remember these words from William Arthur Ward, “Feeling gratitude and not expressing it is like wrapping a present and not giving it.”

So, this Thanksgiving and in the final days of lovely November, give that gift—to yourself and to others. I ask you to join me in counting our blessings—the obvious ones, yes, but the small, gentle ones, too. Share your gratitude with those you love, start your list, and practice the art of giving thanks.

Les McCarthy is an author, tutor, life coach and an IPPY bronze medalist for her yearly “Healthy Living ~ Healthy Life…365 Days of Nutrition & Health for the Family” calendars. She is a recent transplant to the island and is busy loving every glorious moment along with tending to (what seems to be on an hourly basis) the needs of her geriatric fur factory and neighborhood deer, squirrels and deck slugs.

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November 26, 2014