Author Archives: gretchenwing

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About gretchenwing

A high school English and History teacher for 20 years, Gretchen now lives, writes, and bakes on Lopez Island, Washington.

Heavy Lifting: What Mushrooms Have to Teach Us About Democracy

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For the past couple of weeks on this beautiful island where I get to live, I’ve been enjoying the appearance of some rambunctious fellow inhabitants.

Foot included for scale. If this is a Fairy Ring, those must be some hefty fairies!

I would call them visitors, but it’s obvious that these Short-Stemmed Rusula have been here all along…at least in spore form. Underground. Waiting…for some signal inaudible to the rest of us, which must have been given—suddenly, urgently—about three weeks ago.

Come on up, the air’s fine!

I’ve been walking these trails for fourteen years now. Mushroom seasons come and go, but I’ve never seen anything like these: so many, so huge, so close together.

Hahaha, the forest is ours!!

These shroomy monsters come bursting through the crust of the soil full-sized—no cute babies that you get to watch grow or unfurl. And in their thrust, anything on top simply gets lifted: soil, rocks, even good-sized tree trunks.

Like this.

Which, of course, sets my brain along its favorite metaphorical paths.

Next week, I am heading to my home state of North Carolina to join a host of volunteer canvassers already spread out around the country. They—we—knock on doors, talk to folks, try to energize them to vote and help them over any voting obstacles they might face. Sure, we’d prefer them to vote like us, but the real goal is democratic participation, which is…

…not such a heavy a lift!

The organization that I canvass with is Common Power, founded in 2018, headquartered in Seattle. I’ve blogged about it before; click here to read more about CP, especially if you’re interested in volunteering yourself.

But my point here is how much CP is suddenly needing to act like the mycelia beneath those mammoth mushrooms: it’s calling for heavy lifting.

You mean like this? Oof.

See, before, when I canvassed in 2022, we knocked on “friendly” doors: registered Democrats. People whose only beef with us, if they had any, would be that they’re tired of being nagged, or maybe we woke up the baby when we knocked.

But these days, given the potential suddenly presented by the 1-2 combo of 1) Trump-fatigue (or outright revulsion) among traditional Republicans (especially women) and 2) the big-tent welcome of the Harris-Walz ticket (hey, they own guns!)…these days, I say, CP is being asked by its on-the-ground state partners to knock on doors of registered Republicans. Even homes with Maga flags out front.

Which means my time in NC might be more challenging than I was expecting. (See previous photo)

The other day I attended a training for folks like me, headed into the field. A handful of volunteers fresh from the white suburbs of Philadelphia and some even-whiter counties in Montana had this to say:

“This is about talking to people. We’re all Americans. We have to start there.”

“Every conversation an invitation.”

“After you knock—listen more than you talk.”

“Folks are looking for any excuse to vote for a person whose character they respect.”

They cited example after example of folks who might have appeared “hostile,” based on their yard signs or their vehicles, actually opening up and talking.* Maybe not agreeing to vote for Harris/Walz, but finding common ground on a certain issue with a down-ballot candidate.

*[Sometimes, if a woman answered the door, these volunteers said, she might murmur, “Come back when my husband’s not here.”]

I thought: wow.

That’s a lift I can handle!

I also thought, Not only is this good canvassing advice, this is good human being advice. This is the kind of human I want to be–able to knock on any door and hold a conversation with almost anyone. (Note the “almost”: folks who are outright hateful to your face? Nope. See ya.)

I don’t know where those mushrooms get their power. But I do know that when I head on out there next week, I’ll be using those volunteers’ advice as my own heavy-lifting mojo. Every conversation an invitation.

Let’s see where that takes us, shall we?

The Power Of Words And Dreams: One Hamas Hostage

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The other night I woke from a vivid dream about Keith Siegel.

Keith graduated two years ahead of me from Carolina Friends School, in Durham, NC–my sister’s class, 1977. Even at such a tiny school, we didn’t hang out. Except for the occasional fragment of nostalgia, I hadn’t heard his name since then.

Until he was taken hostage by Hamas.

I learned about Keith’s terrible status in April, when Hamas released a video of him. https://youtu.be/obQ7vpgWHiU?feature=shared

Shocked into action by this connection, I immediately wrote the White House and my Senators, begging them to keep the pressure on Israel to negotiate a cease-fire in Gaza that would bring the hostages home AND stop the wholesale slaughter of Palestinian innocents.

Then I forgot about the hostages again, for long stretches. I certainly wasn’t dreaming about them.

Photo from The Atlantic, submitted by Aviva Siegel

Then, a few days ago, my sister (the one in Keith’s CFS class) sent me an article from The Atlantic. THAT’s what inspired the dream.

In “I Survived Hamas Captivity, but I’m Not Yet Free,” Keith’s wife Aviva Siegel writes:

The last time I saw my husband, Keith, was on November 26. He was lying on a filthy mattress on the floor of a darkened room and could barely look at me. We had spent 51 days together as Hamas’s hostages after being violently abducted from our home on October 7. I had been told earlier that day that my name was on the list; I was to be released and sent back home to Israel. Keith was to be left behind.

Keith, Aviva reminds us, “is an American citizen…born and raised in Chapel Hill, North Carolina—also the hometown of James Taylor, his favorite singer.” (I remember him liking Jackson Browne too.) He’s a gentle man, she writes, someone who learned Arabic in order to communicate with Palestinians living across the nearby border. A vegetarian so committed he wouldn’t even eat a morsel of chicken in the little food provided by his captors. A peacemaker.

Yes, I thought. Sounds like a 1970s CFS grad, all right.

As I forced myself to read Aviva’s horrific descriptions of captivity–on a lovely, sunny day, heading to a farmstand to buy some flowers–I felt more and more surreal. “I think about Keith all the time,” Aviva writes,

…but I feel a particular pang whenever I drink water, when I take a shower, when I eat something delicious. As a hostage in Gaza, these are not things I could do. The most frustrating part is that I don’t know anything about Keith’s condition: Is he alone? (I’d love for someone to tell me that he’s not.) Is he sad, or crying? Is he in a tunnel with no oxygen? Is he sick or being tortured? Has he eaten any food at all today? Is he alive?

In my dream the other night, I think Keith was trying to answer his wife’s desperate questions. He was still captive, sad and weary, wearing a white T-shirt, but he was philosophical. Reassuring.

I woke up feeling I wasn’t doing enough. I read Aviva’s article again.

“Keeping the hostage issue at the top of people’s minds,” she writes, “is the only thing I can do.”

I’m asking the United States government not to give up on them. I’m asking Israel’s leaders to bring our hostages home. Don’t abandon them. Don’t let our loved ones be killed.

I wrote the White House again, and my two Senators. I don’t know what else to do, to stop this terrible war. Except not forget, not give up. Maybe we can all try not to give up on peace.

If I dream of Keith again, I want to be able to tell him we’re trying.

BC, Canada = Back to Campering? Best Campsite? Or just Be Cool?

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Maybe I should drop the whole finding-a-better-meaning-for-the-initials-BC thing. It’s called British Columbia, Gretchen. Get over it–and get on with your blog post.

We took Vanna back to BC. Because we Could.

Mt Robson Provincial Park, Kinney Lake

This was what our departure looked like, ferrying east from Lopez Island:

Red sun in the morning…

If that red sunrise was a bad omen, it was a day late. We’d actually tried to leave the day before, but a) missed the 6:15 ferry b/c we didn’t realize how many trucks depart the island on Thursdays, leaving few overheight spaces for our tall Vanna Grey, and b) they cancelled the 9:30.

So we awarded ourselves a “free day” at home and had one fewer day in BC. Best Choice.

We went straight to a park we’ve usually passed by on our way to the better-known Jasper National Park: Mt. Robson Provincial Park. Named for the tallest of the Canadian Rockies.

Fun fact: Mt. Robson’s glaciers are rare “live” glaciers, meaning they are growing rather than retreating. Go Mt. Rob! Go ice!

Despite our campsite’s thick shelter of trees, we still had a view of the mountain’s peak:

Rob, meet Vanna

There’s really only one MAIN hike in the park, so, saving it for our longer day, we spent our first afternoon checking out the falls of the Fraser River. Hard to believe something this bright becomes the familiar brown body of water passing by Vancouver.

Oh, this old thing? It’s just something I threw on.

The weather was dry and hot (for Canada, and for The Mate & me), but that didn’t stop the mushrooms.

OK, who ordered the mushroom bagel?

Too late in the season for most wildflowers–but I did manage to find a few ripe thimbleberries to add to my yogurt.

The hot new flavor!

Mt. Robson appeared to soaked up all the sun he could; can you blame him?

“I mean, it’s probably gonna rain tomorrow…”

Next day we headed up the trail, following the Robson River to its source, Kinney Lake.

Kenny at Kinney.

That incredible mountain seemed to follow us every step of the trail, even in what seemed like a pretty dense forest. I guess it’s just THAT tall (just shy of 13,000 ft…close to Mt. Rainier height!).

Up top, the trail skirts the lake in ridiculously postcardy vistas.

…or ridiculously Christmascardy?

It was hard to make ourselves turn around and go back down. But even more impressive to follow that wild river, imagining the calm from which it came.

After two full days at Mt. Rob, we headed back south on the Yellowhead Highway (5), stopping to check out the small part of enormous Wells Gray Prov. Park that’s accessible to a big van.

Can I just say, it’s worth seeing? These falls are barely 10 miles from the highway.

Wells Gray’s campground was on a rougher road that we wanted to drive Vanna on, so we opted for a private site down below, in the town of Clearwater.

I guess this will have to do.

Next, we left the boreal forest behind, heading back into BC’s dry region, in the rain shadow of the coastal mountains, west of Kamloops. Some of it bore signs of last year’s terrible wildfires.

I believe the word I’m looking for is “stark.”

Not only did we score a campsite at a rafting company that was preparing to close for the season, but the owner let us camp for free.

We had the place to ourselves…including our own personal canyon.

Yes, that’s the same Fraser River as in the waterfall shot, above. Getting a little darker…still blue enough.

Oh, and those trains? There are tracks on both sides, demonstrating the stubbornness of capitalists, as we learned from this sign:

Well, hey. It only took 100 years for us to learn to share.

Here’s where I should note that those trains did a mighty good job of keeping us company. All night. Both directions. Bad Choice.

But how can you not choose your own personal canyon, at sunset?

Beautiful Canyon

Our last day, it was back to the wet: both in terms of ecosystem, and weather. We went to Hope, close to the US border, just an hour or so east of Vancouver. There we discovered an old friend: the Kettle Valley River rail-trail.

Well hello, buddy!

Unfortunately for us, construction work prevented us from riding all the way over to the Othello Tunnels, which we’d visited on a past trip. But Vanna took us there.

This kind of engineering brings to mind words like “chutzpah”…or “hubris.” Or: “really?”

In under a week, we were back home. Too short a trip? Not at all. Vanna’s whole raison d’etre in our lives these days is to keep us reminded what’s in our big backyard.

Better Closer. Back to Canada! By Choice.

What Do Thistles, Advanced Degrees and Kale Have in Common?

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This is going to be one of those participatory posts. Ready? Show of hands: who’s familiar with the term Opportunity Cost?

That’s a term I had to learn about 35 years ago, when I took my first public school teaching job, in North Carolina. I was sentenced to given five sections of the same class: 9th Grade ELP, or Economic, Legal and Political Systems. Thanks to my undergrad classwork, I was pretty up on the Legal & Political part, but Economics? I studied hard to keep a step ahead of those kids.

And I learned about opportunity cost, a.k.a. “the loss of potential gain from other alternatives when one alternative is chosen.” (Thanks, Oxford Dictionary Online.)

In other words: you do one thing; what you don’t do = opportunity cost.

Get up to see the sunrise? Your o.c. is sleep. Sleep in? Your o.c. is…wait for it…sunrise! But also a TON of other early-morning things.

Obviously, for every action, there are a LOT MORE o.c.’s. So you don’t want to let them get the upper hand, right?

The trick is to recognize the opportunity costs, give ’em a friendly nod…and keep doing what you’re doing. That way they can’t blindside you with their secret weapon, regret.

The other day while walking in my Big Backyard, part of the San Juan National Monument, I came upon this particularly beastly lovely flower arrangement:

*shudder*

Bull thistle, seed pods popping. Invasive as hell. I vaguely recalled writing a blog post about my personal war with these devils about a decade ago. Back then, I was actually optimistic about ridding this stretch of public lands from thistles by my own sheer persistence.

So what happened? Opportunity cost.

Choose to save your back & knees by withdrawing from the Thistle Wars? The opportunity cost is living with thistles.

The more I think about it, the more I see opportunity cost at work in my life. Move across the country for the beauty of the Pacific Northwest?

Fine–but your o.c. is a full (expensive) day’s travel away from your folks.

And Dad may still rack up the miles on his e-trike, but he’s not riding to Washington State.

For that matter: move onto an ISLAND? OK…but you better be ready to give up HOURS, waiting in ferry lines.

Because this really isn’t a commuting option.

I chose to devote time (and money) to pursuing an MFA in fiction, so I can write a better novel…

…but my songwriting Muse has taken these past two years to decide to visit some other songwriter. THAT was one o.c. I hadn’t considered.

[not pictured: my songwriting Muse. “Hmph. I can tell when I’m not wanted.”]

On that music theme: I only get to play with friends who are willing to be informal & flexible, rather than join an ongoing band…

Me with “flexible” Justin & Lance!

…because I leave the island WAY too often, for places like this:

(to choose a recent, random example–the Chiricahua National Monument in AZ)

I’ve had to give up Spanish lessons because of (pick one): bakery work/neighborly commitments/ political phone-banking/spending down time with The Mate

OK, that last one: always worth it! No cost!

Choosing not to plant an organized garden gives me extra time, and saves my back…and my o.c. is a Kale Forest (vale of kale) masquerading as a garden.

Hey, at least this o.c. is edible.

Getting exercise means I’m always moving around this beautiful corner of the world at TOP SPEED…which means I’m not LINGERING.

That last one really caught my attention. So the other day, I took my journal, my lumbar support pillow, and a peach with me out to the Point, and we LINGERED.

Do I dare?

What did I journal about? Opportunity cost. I duly noted a long list of things I haven’t been doing, making, accomplishing or experiencing lately, because of all the other things I’ve been doing, etc. I read the list. I thanked it. I whispered promises to a couple of the o.c.’s on there that I might be back at a later time, so don’t give up on me.

And on we go. No regrets. (Or at least none that I feel like sharing in a blog. 🙂 )

Just keep looking at the view…don’t give that o.c. any power!

So here comes the participatory part again. What are some of the opportunity costs you’re currently noticing in your life? How about acknowledging them here? Then wave ’em adieu.

So

S

Campering vs. Backpacking, Or, One of the World’s Most Strained Metaphors

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Here’s the thing: I ended my last post with a promise to get back to work on my novel.

Here’s the other thing: I did just that. Which is why that last post was almost a month ago.

Which is why I find myself with a teensy dilemma: use my limited non-novel writing time to blog the easy way–basically just “Look at my travel pics, now with witty commentary!”–or do I use this medium to deal more thoughtfully with current events or Big Ideas?

Ooh, did somebody say travel pics?

Then this thought occurred to me: the back-to-back camping trips I most recently took might function as a metaphor for this dilemma of the comfortable, “look, pretty!” vs. the more weight-bearing “let’s think about something” blog post.

Trip One, with The Mate, involved Campering in Vanna Grey.

Vanna, meet Silver Springs Campground, at the base of Mt. Rainier!

Silver Springs Campground proved to be more than hyperbole, as we found this large and yes, silvery spring springing straight out of the mountainside above our campsite.

Cue the Stevie Nicks

We also got an up-close view of where the White River got its name, as some overflow met the clear water of the springs.

On your right, ladies & gentlemen: the White River.

But…you see what I’m doing here? I’m narrating pretty travel pictures. How easy, how convenient! Just like Vanna Grey. Drive, park–congratulations, you’ve arrived. Nothing much to think about.

And this view? We just drove up here. Twice. Because we could.

Don’t get me wrong: I’m not saying campering is shallow. Beauty abounds, even from a camper, and beauty is moving.

Especially at sunrise.

What I am saying…I think…is that campering, by dint of being so easy, does not tap into the kind of thoughts that spring from having one’s body fully committed. Yes, we went on some fabulous day hikes, which made me think about stuff like…

…why do I insist on making The Mate take my picture with flowers all the time?

…or even ponder the impact of global warming on the nose of a glacier…

Oh dear…pretty sure last time we were here, the ice reached all the way to that gravelly wall 😦

But putting your entire camp + food on your back and humping it up a pass, as I did with my Ironwoman Goddaughter Allison…

…who, lucky for me, takes even more pictures that I do!

…that kind of effort delves into a whole different level of thought. (Which does indeed feature a good deal of “what’s for dinner?”)

Why is this? I wonder. Is it that being away from vehicles leads to deeper, more stripped-down conversation?

Hayes Lake, near Kulshan (Mt. Baker). Allison pumping water in the background

Is it the braggadocious joy of thinking “I got myself to this beautiful place!”?

…where your Ironman T-shirt matches the wildflowers?

Is it the relative quiet of roadlessness that allows one to sink more deeply into the stark reality of melting glaciers?

…which still look so stinkin’ pretty as they melt

It’s not like you can’t see cute animals while campering.

Someone say cute animals?

Of course, it IS true that some wild animals are generally further out of reach than others. We were actually pretty shocked to meet this many mountain goats only a few miles away from the Mt. Baker ski area parking lot.

But generally speaking, while I spent nearly equal time campering as backpacking a couple weeks ago, the backpacking trip felt more CONSEQUENTIAL.

Meaningful. Harder but more rewarding.

Yes, this patch of paintbrush was easily accessible from the parking lot…
…but this half-frozen tarn was not.

Now, August is coming to a close, and so, for me, is backpacking season. Because we now own Vanna Grey, The Mate and I will continue to “camper” as the weather turns harsher.

Hopefully with occasional vistas like this of Mt. Shuksan. Look carefully: you can actually see the road & parking lot in the background!

But as the political season enters its autumnal stretch, I feel the need to use this blog for more than showing off trip pictures. (Even though I LOVE showing off trip pictures.)

So much is happening in this country. So much to think about, talk about, work for. What joy to throw some of that in my blog-pack and see where we end up. See you down the trail!

Consequential? Is she talking about me?

About That Trip to Sacramento: Oh, So THAT’s What Everyone’s Complaining About

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My 89 year-old mom’s record-setting performance on the track–mid-July in triple-digit heat–was the culmination of rare summer road trip for me & The Mate. Here’s the rest of the story.

What?! I’m not the one who has to run a 1500!

It was hot. That SO goes without saying…except for people like me & The Mate, who live on an island surrounded by a nice, chilly Salish Sea. On Lopez, our summer temps rarely make it into the 90s. So this drive was a bit of a shock to our systems.

First stop, seeing old friends in Eugene…where it was a mere 94.

I resisted the urge to plunge into the Willamette, but later I regretted that choice.

As we drove, The Mate & I made use of our Toyota’s A/C. Again: DUH. But again: We are NOT summer road-trippers. We haven’t used A/C regularly in DECADES. I can see how that stuff might catch on.

Next up: Redding, CA.

Our favorite bike path along the Sacramento River, which we rode @ 7:30 am, due to the 104-degrees we’d driven into town on.

Down in San Jose (more old friends), the mercury fell to a blessed 80 or so. Thanks, San Francisco Bay! We rode along Los Gatos Creek, where I was heartened by this sign at a homeless encampment:

Of course I wouldn’t violate the privacy of the inhabitant, but she didn’t mind me sharing her sign.

California never ceases to offer up visual encapsulations of itself. Like these citrus fruits left to be picked up by the San Jose Sanitation Department:

When life gives you lemons…have them driven to the landfill???!!

From San Jose, we made our way up to Marin County, where our Oakland cousins scored a dog-sitting gig for the summer. Well…we THOUGHT it was a score, till we learned that Marin is actually a good 10 degrees hotter than the northeast side of the Bay. Guess all that water really does the trick.

Pretty, yes…but pretty HOT, being so far from that nice big body of water!

Walking was better in the evening, we found.

…especially with a full moon rising next to Mt. Tam

Next up, of course: Sacramento, and Mom’s meet, which you’ve probably already read about. Thank GOODNESS her final event ran @ 7:30 in the morning…after which we hugged, took pictures, made sure her plans were secure, and hit the road before the sun could get too high.

Quick, back to Redding!

the famous Sundial Bridge, where the bike path takes off from

Get the bikes out, there might still be some shade!

Amazing how much difference shade makes when it’s 100 out.

This time I played it smarter, hopping off my bike to stand in the nice cold Sacramento before riding on.

Ahhhh….

In the week between our southbound & northbound rides on this path, though, wildfires had ballooned. Compare the sky in this picture with the one near the start of this blog post:

Oh jeez. Get me back to my island!

Worn out from a hot day of driving (but energized by a certain lightning bolt of political news, July 21), we spent the night in Roseburg.

*not pictured: Roseburg & their darn good pizza

Our final day took us back into Washington, where the sky clouded up, the temperature sank back to a nice, “normal” high 60s…and we celebrated by going for a long walk down the incredible boardwalk of the Nisqually Delta.

Well yes, that’s the Delta (reclaimed for Nature, from previous dikes)…but what’s that about a boardwalk?

Oh, you mean THIS boardwalk.

We spent that night catching up with Son Two, enjoying wearing shirts with sleeves again, and snacking on quintessential Pacific Northwest snackage in his Seattle-area neighborhood:

YES. Home.

Now, in case you’re wondering, “Gretchen, didn’t you just blog about earning your MFA in Creative Writing and working on your novel? so what the heck are you doing road-tripping? Shouldn’t you be getting BACK TO WORK?”…Mother Nature had the same idea.

Waiting for the ferry to take us back to Lopez, I took a walk along the shore, where I was greeted by these stunning goldenrods. Since “Goldenrods” is the name given to my graduating cohort at Antioch (they’re doing flower names now–Hydrangea, Iris, Lilac, etc.), I took these flowers as a sign.

Get back to work, Gretchen!

This blog post is a down payment. Back to the novel tomorrow! But good luck out there, all y’all non-islanders out there dealing with “normal” summer heat. Stay safe, stay cool. (Go wading!) And thanks for riding with me.

Mamma Mia: My 89 Year-old Mom Sets An American Track Record

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(Spoiler alert.)

Also, I need to correct a mistake from my previous post, wherein I stated Mom was going for the WORLD record. That one, turns out, is WAY beyond reach (a ridiculous 3+ minutes faster, currently held by an amazing Japanese woman). But the US 1500 meter record for women 85-89? That’s the one Mom had in her sights.

Yes, my attendance at the US Masters Track Championships in Sacramento was part of a mini-road trip with The Mate. But you don’t want to bother with the road trip now, right? Let’s cut to the chase.

That record: 10:55. One year ago, Mom ran 11:06. But she’s been training.

Up first, though: the 800, not her best event (Mom was always more of a 10k or marathon-type gal). It was scheduled for Saturday afternoon. At 2:15. In Sacramento. In July.

At race time, it was 104.

*not pictured: bleachers that were too hot to touch, let alone sit on*

That’s Mom’s friend Jackie–they’ve known each other for over 8 decades. (The Mate actually took this photo next morning…it was MUCH too hot for posing.)

Actually, she was lucky–by 5 pm, the temp had risen to 109. And we were pretty shocked to find that the organizers had no cooling tents set up for the athletes–no fans, no misting machine. Nothing. Welcome, Senior Athletes: you’re on your own!

“Are we really doing this?” (actually this is a post-race pic, I just couldn’t resist)

But Martha Klopfer is smart; she played it cool. Stayed indoors all day. Stayed hydrated. No need for warmups, right?

Let’s get this party started. And FINISHED. (They run all the women, 70 and up, in the same race.)

For the 800, I took videos, not stills, but really I was just praying Mom’s North Carolina-based heat tolerance would be kicking into high gear. And it did.

She ran a 5:33…breaking the American record by 35 seconds! HOWEVER, that woman in the green up there? That’s Lynne Hurrell. She ran 23 seconds FASTER, and she’s the same age! So extra kudos to Lynne, who got the gold.

Next day, thank GOODNESS, the 1500 was scheduled for 7:30 in the morning. There was SHADE on the campus of American River College, where the meet was held.

Where were you yesterday?

The 1500 is harder to keep track of (no pun intended), as it starts on the far side of the track, just past the curve, so you can’t quite tell when they’ve run exactly one, or two, or three laps. I spent the race alternately narrating the action to my dad and my sister on the phone in NC, and cheering so loud Mom said she could hear me on the back stretch.

Coming around the turn for the bell lap. (Both those ladies she’s passing are in the 80-84 group.)

Her splits seemed even…but slowing slightly. Would she break 11:00? Not without a kick.

Mar-THA! Mar-THA!!!

Just in case it made a difference…I screamed myself hoarse. (j/k; I couldn’t help it.) And Mom crossed the finish line in 10:54.45. She broke the record by less than a second.

YES!!

I had to give up running before 60, thanks to my knees and back. My mother has literally outrun me. When I’m asked about her ongoing running prowess, I sometimes say, “Good genes, good habits, good fortune.”

But usually I just say I how proud I am to be the daughter of such an inspirational lifelong athlete.

Way to go, Mom. Now how about those 90-94 records, next year?

[Next post: the actual road trip!]

Mamma Mia, Here She Goes Again, Again! My 89 Year-Old Mom Goes For a World Record

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Some of you may remember a post from last summer about my mom racing in the US Masters Track Nationals.

Well, Martha Klopfer is headed there again. Only THIS time, unlike last year, she’s been training pretty seriously.

Oh, these old medals? I can totally do that again.

My dad’s reading of athletic stats gives her a good shot at the world record in the 1500 for women 85-89. Despite being at the top end of that age group, Mom’s going for it.

This year’s championships are in Sacramento, July 18-21. While my dad is no longer able to travel, The Mate and I, along with Mom’s oldest friend from grade school, will be there as her cheering section.

Oh, the weather forecast next Saturday in Sacramento? 103 degrees. LUCKILY, the 1500 will be Sunday morning, the 21st. If you’re reading this before then, send out a little cheer: Mar-THA! Mar-THA!

Believe me, she’ll hear you.

While you’re at it–send out a cheer (and a prayer?) for ALL the impressive Masters athletes braving next weekend’s heat. They’re tougher than most of us. And stay tuned to Wing’s World to find out how it went!

O Say Can You Feel the Mixed Emotions: Independence Day, 2024

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When it comes to July 4th celebrations, our little island goes all out.

Ooh…

Since over the years I have a) successfully conquered my fireworks phonophobia (i.e. fear of loud bang-bangs) and b) made friends with someone who lives directly across from where our incredible, community-supported show is lit, I am now all-in on this once-a-year explosion of beauty.

Ahh…

But even as I’m making up for decades of fireworks avoidance, oohing and ahhing, I can’t help thinking about…you know. The flip side of this tradition.

What about the pollution? Doesn’t a bunch of crud rain down into our beloved Salish Sea?

Is blowing stuff up really the best way to show our joy? Could all that money be raised for something more peaceful?

What about people who suffer from PTSD? What about the poor animals?

The hour before the show…see how peaceful! Isn’t this a show in itself?

Hey, I GET it. I’m not a killjoy. It’s taken me six decades to experience the joy of fireworks–I’m not about to smother it with a wet blanket. I just can’t help thinking…

In the summer of 2024, what exactly are we celebrating?

I HOPE it’s our common love for our land and our social contract. But right now that love feels more like a tender flame to be guarded than a big, happy explosion.

Boom.

Riding my bike home after a bakery shift on July 5, I looked up to see this Great Horned Owl staring down at me from a fir tree.

Whoooo goes there?

It was 2 pm. Not owl time. And yet there it was, huge golden eyes fastened on me like an interrogation. Like, Were you the one asking what should be celebrated?

Soon I’ll be leaving Lopez again for another foray into the land of interstates–a.k.a., California Roadtrip. But as this small island community slips behind me, I’ll be looking for the equivalent of daytime owls all along our way.

No explosions–just a quiet celebration of what is available to us if we have enough sense not to mess it up.

“Sit In This”: Best MFA-dvice Ever

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“Sit in this.” That’s what Lisa Locascio Nighthawk, Dean of Antioch LA’s Masters in Fine Arts in Creative Writing program, told us graduates the day before our ceremony.

Here on Lopez Island, some of my own writing group, the Women Writers of the Salish Sea, had the same advice: “Celebrate your achievement. Write it all down–everything you did!”

I decided to heed all of them. I sat in my achievement for a whole week. I wrote it all down, on a big piece of butcher paper. And I celebrated–with my writer friends, and with cake.

Note my grad tassel as centerpiece

The cake, I made. But the Orange Twists were a special request from me to Iris Graville–as noted in her memoir Hiking Naked: A Quaker Woman’s Search for Balance.

Here’s what’s written on that butcher paper:

  • 17 chapters—232 pages, 67,000 words—of my novel-in-progress Who’s a Good Girl (revised multiple times)
  • 50 books read (mostly novels; some short stories, nonfiction, and craft books)

  • 30 x 3-page literary analyses of fiction

  • One 5-page research paper

  • One 20-page research paper

  • One dozen (approximately) poems translated into English, plus commentary on peers’ translations

  • 20 (approximately) critiques of peers’ 20-page fiction submissions in workshop

  • 20 book group discussions (of which I led 4)

  • 80 weekly email check-in discussions

  • Five 3-page self-analyses of learning

  • Five 7-page summaries of learning from residency classes

  • One 30-minute PowerPoint presentation/seminar
  • One 12-minute public reading
  • Four 3-page annotated bibliographies
  • One 12-page annotated bibliography
OK, enough of that! Let’s eat.

While we were noshing & drinking, my friends asked me to reflect on my main takeaways from the past two valuable, packed, and expensive years. Here’s what I came up with:

  1. My instinct to immerse myself among a community of diverse writers–diverse in EVERY SENSE of the word, from age to class to life experience to race to gender identity, and more–was 100% correct. As a writer, I need to be around people different from myself. (As a human being, it doesn’t hurt either.)

[not pictured: all the diversity at AULA. I don’t like violating people’s privacy in showing photos]

2. Confidence is good, in art. Pride is not. I had to have the latter stripped painfully away before I could soothe the raw spots by applying the former. That’ll be a lifelong engagement.

3. Novelists need the help of other novelists. Poets and nonfiction writers can offer EXTREMELY valuable critique. But in the end…see sentence one.

OK, we got it. You worked hard. Now, about that novel-in-progress…

After a week of “sitting,” though, I’m ready to get back to work. Of course, it’s high summer now–a season that always has other plans for me than writing. But the last thing I learned will get me where I need to go, and that is:

4. Writing is writing. JUST DON’T STOP.

(You other writers: right? Feel free to chime in here with your own Writerly Takeaways.)