Except for an old jacket and an even older daypack labeled LL Bean, from back in my former life as an easterner, ALL our outdoor gear is REI, either their own brand or bought there. The Mate and I are faithful citizens of REI Nation. Which is why I’m extra pumped to feel so proud of Recreational Equipment Incorporated for their recent announcement:
The #OptOutside movement speaks for itself, so I don’t feel the need to say more here.
Except this: how about supporting the idea? Save our shopping urges for another day? Anyone who can, let’s all go outside on Friday, November 27–anywhere outside, just nowhere near a mall– eating our Clif bars and wearing our REI gear proudly.
I’m not a rugby fan (unless you count the movie Invictus). But I am a huge New Zealand fan, and therefore, logically, I am a fan of the New Zealand All Blacks’ Haka.
Don’t know the Haka? Think war dance. Think Maori ritual. Think rhino pawing the ground before charging. Then watch this:
The team the Kiwis are threatening, their historical nemesis the South Africa Springboks–they look a little scared, don’t they? You can see that one guy swallowing. (I always wonder why the opposing team doesn’t just look away while they’re being “haka’d”, whistle a little tune, y’know, like, “dum de dum, I’m so bored…”)
But they don’t. They stand there and watch as if hypnotized. They can’t look away. Just like I can’t. Which reminds me of the U.S. presidential election. Specifically, the debates. More specifically, the Republican debates.
(Note: not saying I couldn’t use the Democrats as an example here, it’s just that this year, with the huge Republican field, and with Donald Trump, well…let’s just say that civility has gone out the window a bit faster, and with a slightly larger crash, than it has with the Democrats.)
They’re calling each other names on Twitter. They’re using words like “dummy” and “low-energy guy” (code for unmanly). Now, to you this might not seem parallel to the foot-stomping, chest-slapping, “I’m coming for you with my war club” violence of the haka, but…think about it. Isn’t the maturity level about the same? How about the overall effect on the viewer’s emotions? Or, conversely, how about the effect on rational discussion focused on solving problems?
Right?
I keep thinking about the mesmerizing quality of the haka, its compelling force. And I wonder: what if, prior to one of our national political conventions in 2016, some group performed a haka threatening, say, poverty? “We’re comin for ya, poverty! We’re gonna raise that minimum wage!” Or global conflict? “Aaargh!! We’re going to take in more refugees and stop secretly torturing political prisoners!”
Ehh–it’d never work. Might as well have a bake sale to fund the air force, like those old bumper stickers said. Meanwhile, I’ll watch the haka when it comes on, and the debates, and afterwards I’ll go take a shower and engage in rational conversation with someone.
What do you think? Does raw, animal aggression play any kind of role in our politics? Is there an upside to our political hakas?
Do you believe that eating local will save the world? If yes, read on and cheer. If no, just read on…with thanks to my friend Iris for writing this wonderful post on Lopez Island’s Bounty Project.
Most Sundays after Quaker Meeting, I go shopping. That means walking a few yards from the house where we gather at Sunnyfield Farm to the self-serve refrigerator at the farm’s licensed goat dairy. There I pick up a tub of chèvre. A couple of weeks ago I also found jars of feta in the fridge and chose one of those as well. To “check out,” I note my purchases in a spiral-bound notebook that sits on a nearby table and deposit cash or a check in the payment box there.
Andre and Elizabeth Entermann of Sunnyfield are among the Lopez Island farmers I know and rely on for my household’s food. Over the past year, I’ve had the pleasure of getting to know more about twenty-eight local farms (like Sunnyfield) that are participating in BOUNTY – Lopez Island Farmers, Food, and Community.
Forget multivitamins or fish oil, or whatever’s billed as the secret to longevity these days. The REAL secret is not just to live long, but to live long HAPPILY. Right? And I know the secret to that: puppies.
It’s true; I have proof. The other day I called back home to North Carolina, expecting a nice long chat with my 80 year-old mom. My dad picked up, but instead of the usual, “Hi–let me get your mother,” he said, “Martha’s at a meeting.”
“Oh.” OK, this is going to be a short phone call. “Well, how are you? What’s been going on?”
Plenty, apparently. He started talking–mostly about the two new puppies he and my mom just brought home. They’ve been sending pictures, so this wasn’t news.
“We couldn’t choose between them, so we got them both!”
What WAS news was how much OTHER news my dad had to share. We talked about his recent trip. My recent trip. The puppies. A book he loved. A book I loved. The puppies. My children/his grandchildren. My cousin. Puppies.
When I hung up, my phone informed me we’d been talking on the phone for FIFTY-FIVE MINUTES. For my practically phone-phobic, 85 year-old, serious scientist dad? That’s a world record by more than double.
At first I couldn’t figure out what had made him so chatty. Then it came to me: he’s happy! He’s practically giddy with joy. And why wouldn’t he be? He has these guys to play with:
Don’t you just feel happier already?
I KNOW, right?
I’m not really suggesting anyone give up vitamins or fish oil. But I do think it’s worth considering the power of something utterly charming to boost the latter years of a long life. I’m going to remember that when I’m 85.
Most of us know folks who LOVE to travel, taking off every chance they get–whether “taking off” means a weekend jaunt or an international tour.
And most of us also know folks who really, REALLY don’t want to go anywhere.
Guess what: I’m both those people. Nice to meet you.
All the way home from my recent trip to Germany and Switzerland, Stay-Home Gretchen was happily making lists of how she’ll spend her time this week. (Grocery shopping. Revising Chapter 7. Making soup…sorry. Won’t bore you.) Meanwhile Stay-Home Gretchen’s brain kept up this chorus: “No more international travel! This is way too distracting for work, not to mention expensive! And what about your carbon footprint?”
But it’s…so…BEAUTIFUL out there!
And then Travel Gretchen looked out the plane window: “Oooh! Iceland!”
Wanna go!!! (Photo courtesy Wikimedia)
Anyone else experience this tension? I LOVE going away: new adventures, amazing scenery, old friends, culinary delights…And I LOVE staying home: comforting routine, old friends, culinary delights, amazing scenery…
Hey, wait a minute. I just realized those two lists are almost identical.
But home ain’t no slouch either, right?
So…win-win for both Gretchens? Certainly sounds that way. Y’all know what I’m talking about?
Anyone else out there have a special childhood home-away-from home nestled deep in their hearts? Mine is southern Germany. Die Schwartzwald. The Black Forest. Because I am one of the luckiest creatures alive, I got to spend a large portion of my childhood there, inside what still feels like a fairy tale.
Here’s how that came about. My zoologist father had a zoologist counterpart at a German university, who came to North Carolina one summer to follow Monarch butterflies. He brought along his little daughter. She was eight, I was seven. I lived on a farm with horses. We’ve been pretty much sisters ever since.
From 1969 through 1975, we mostly alternated summers at my place and her place. Only where “my place” constituted a fairly rag-tag compound of pastures, horse stalls and goat pens, “her place” was…this:
(courtesy bo.de)
Gotta admit, that’s not my photo–last time I was there was eight years ago, when I did not yet own a digital camera. My friend’s folks have passed on, and the mansion’s sold now. But, as you can tell, she was part of an old, wealthy family. Besides this “house,” there was an adjoining one for caretakers (once upon a time, servants), a formal rose garden, a botanical garden of rare trees, and acres and acres of fruit orchards and berry fields. Not to mention the deep, black forest surrounding the creek below the house, where she and I would play our days out by the barn she built for her (plastic) horses.
If that weren’t enough, a mile’s walk down the hill took us into this adorable Dorf, or village, where we bought the day’s wurst und brot, always saying “Guten Tag!” as we entered each shop:
(courtesy Wikimedia)
When I first came to the Pacific Northwest, my soul instantly connected with its dark forests and bright fields, its mountains and berries and soft skies. I’m convinced some of that was my inner child happily calling out to its habitat–“Hallo! Wie geht’s?” (Well, and there’s also the ocean, and Mt. Rainier, and I like our political system better. And Germans don’t make good sushi.)
My friend still lives in Germany, and we’ve stayed in touch over the past decades. (I call her my “longest friend”–we’re not THAT old!) In these next two weeks, The Mate and I are journeying back to see her. Our plan is to kidnap her and take her traipsing through the Bavarian and Swiss Alps for a week or so. (You know, that civilized kind of European hiking where you walk a few miles up to a high mountain valley, then sit down to a terrific beer. Forget trail mix–I’ll have a schnitzel.)
So, I’ll be back in Wing’s World in a couple of weeks. Meanwhile, picture me here, with my Mate and my Longest Friend:
Beer in sight! (courtesy Wikimedia)
But if you’d like to share the special place where YOUR heart resides, if it’s somewhere different than where your body is–I would love to know.
Look who’s at it again with a review of my second book, Headwinds! Yes, it’s the amazing 13 year-old Erik Weibel, a.k.a. This Kid Reviews Books, who’s been blogging book reviews since he was NINE. Read what he has to say about mine! (Spoiler alert: he likes it a lot.) And just in time for the Books By the Bay Book Festival in Bellingham, where I’ll be signing copies of my–ahem–award-winning YA novel The Flying Burgowski next Tuesday afternoon, Sept. 29, at 2:30. Tell all your Bellingham buddies to stop by the Hotel Bellwether and get a signed book! Now–take it away, Erik!
In case your vision of mariachi is limited to portly gentlemen in tight-fitting suits, take a look at Flor de Toloache, the only all-women mariachi in New York City:
(Courtesy latino.foxnews.com)
OK, the tight-fitting suits part was correct.
Flush with the glory of their recent Mexico tour–the only all-female US mariachi group ever to do so–Flor de Toloache has thrown themselves into their new project, playing both warmup AND backup for The Arcs, the new band formed by Black Keys’ Dan Auerbach.
What’s funny is, Mr. Auerbach had no idea he was about to change his whole band’s sound when he asked his manager to hire a mariachi band. Beth says no one told him the band was all-women–not to mention all-gorgeous. Even funnier, he hired them to play. Only after realizing he dug their instrumentals did he happen to ask, “You guys don’t happen to sing, do you?”
Do they!
So now The Arcs are scheduled to play for Mr. Colbert and his shiny new Late Show next Friday, and guess who will be featured? I’m not really a Late Show person (though I do love Stephen). I’m not really a mariachi person either. But these women are DYNAMITE, so not only will I be watching them and cheering them on, I hope a whole bunch of you guys tune in too!
Then tell me what you think, eh? Ai-ai-ai-ai-ai!!!!
The Mate and I are not grandparents–unless you count our grandsnake (although Son One gave him to a school a couple of years ago). Or the grandgarden Son Two planted at our place this summer. Maybe I should just say, we don’t have any grandkids…yet, anyway. (No pressure, guys. Really. No, REALLY.)
But this is all the more reason why I’m looking forward to joining my Mate down in the Bay Area this weekend. Yesterday he flew down there to see his nephew through hip replacement surgery. I’m joining him this weekend. Oh, the nephew’s not that tough a patient. It’s just that he’s the dad of two year-old twins.
Two year-old. Twins.
Said nephew’s wife keeps telling us how happy she is that we’re coming. And I actually believe her. Did I mention she has two year-old twins?
Lucky for us, they are SUPER CUTE. Oh, I know they’ll probably be pretty shy at first. We might just end up doing errands and cooking for the time that we’re there, or taking care of Dad while Mom takes care of kiddos. We are thrilled to be able to finally participate in something we’ve always watched from afar: being there to help our adult “kids” take care of their kids. A.k.a., grandparenting.
Except for one grandma, my family was always strictly nuclear, no extended family around. I always felt a little envy when I heard my friends say, “Oh, we’re just leaving ’em at grandma’s for the weekend,” or, “Oh, my folks’ll stop by to help.”
Now we get to be the “folks.” And I can’t wait!
How many of you have played the grandparent role for your family members, or had them do it for you? Would love to hear.
Before you ask, “Mark who?” I’ll refresh your memory: Dire Straits. You know–“Money for Nothin”? “Sultans of Swing”? That band. That guy. Those guitar riffs. He’s always been my favorite singer-songwriter–and not just because his weird last name is nearly identical to the one I was born with (Klopfer–but that connection helps).
I clearly remember the first time I heard Dire Straits. I was a junior in high school, back in 1978, cleaning up my room, when “Sultans of Swing” came on the radio. I stopped dead and asked aloud, “Who’s that?” Maybe it was the guitar licks, maybe the unusual lyrics: a song about under-appreciated jazz musicians in the time of rock ‘n’ roll? Whatever. I was hooked. I still am.
This weekend I got to see him live (for only the second time), and my admiration’s only grown. First of all, he’s superbly professional. He walks onstage with no fanfare and no warm-up band, and plays a straight 140-minute set with only one break to introduce his fellow musicians, most of whom have been playing with him for 20-35 years. Secondly, he’s a guitar master, someone who single-handedly converted me to the idea that an electric guitar could make music as complex, nuanced, and, well, classical as a violin.
And then there are his songs. MK tends to write from the point of view of working men, in an astounding array of roles. Off the top of my head, I can think of Knopfler songs in the POV of a trucker, a sailor, a boxer, a racecar driver, a farmer, a bricklayer, a ballad-writer from the 1800s, a pawnbroker/Holocaust survivor, a painter, and a sculptor. Some of his songs are from the mind of the bad guy: a snake-oil salesman, a mobster, a bank robber. He’s written songs about historical figures: Elvis Presley, Sonny Liston, even Mason & Dixon. One of my favorites, “Baloney Again,” presents the perspective of a Black, staunchly Christian musician on the road in the segregated South.
Ironically, Knopfler’s most popular mid-90s numbers, like “Money For Nothin,” are my least favorite, but even that one’s misunderstood. If all you hear is “money for nothin’ and your chicks for free,” you might think MK’s a chauvinist pig, when in fact that song’s written from the POV of a working stiff, who has to “install microwave ovens/custom kitchen delivery,” complaining about rich rock stars.
Songs as short stories, with a range of instruments like Irish pipes and accordion playing background to jaw-dropping guitar-picking? That’s why MK’s my guy.
I am not the type of audience member to take pictures, much less video, during a concert. I prefer to be fully in the moment. But if you want to hear for yourself, this shaky video captures MK’s finale song pretty well: “Piper to the End.”
Favorite Knopfler song you’d like to share? Or do you have your own guitar–or piano, or whatever–hero or heroine? Tell me why.
Wing's World 