Happy Back to School, Y’all: You’re all Fresh-men

Posted on August 30, 2014 by gretchenwing

This month marks the start of my fifth year out of the classroom. I can no longer recite the schedule of my former high school. I don’t know whether teacher workdays are this week or next, or whether they’re calling them LIDs or PRADs or some other ~~stupid~~ fun acronym.

I still don’t miss it. And I still miss it.

I DON’T miss the stomach-rocks at the thought of losing delicious summer freedom. It’s not that teachers don’t work in the summer. Most teachers I knew actually took only about three weeks completely “off.” The rest of our summer included workshops or meetings or curriculum development, or all three. But we could generally schedule that work at our discretion–no ringing bells telling us where to go. That made all the difference.

If I let myself, I can still feel those stomach-rocks. I’ll bet most of you former students and teachers can too.

I DO miss that happy adrenalin of “THIS-year-I’m-gonna-try_____”; of fresh, new, empty lesson plan pages waiting to be filled; of that first packet of “Dear Ms. Wing” letters I’d make my students write on Day One. (At the end of the year, I’d write back.)

What other job is as cyclical in nature as teaching? What other job follows such a prescribed rhythm, allowing what’s new to stand out in such beautiful contrast?

(orig. image courtesy Wikimedia)

I can’t think of one. Can you? What jobs out there have you had which allowed such a lovely sense of starting fresh?

Good Pie, Good Pie, Until We Eat Again

Posted on August 26, 2014 by gretchenwing

“Let me give you my card.” That’s a sentence I never thought I’d hear myself say.

It’s not that I didn’t think of myself as a professional when I taught high school. It’s just…who needs a teacher’s card, for goodness’ sake?

“For all your Shakespearean quotation needs…”

Right.

And now that I work at Holly B’s Bakery (“Holly’s Buns Are Best”) I need one even less. Everyone who’s ever been to my island, and many who haven’t, knows Holly B’s.

But last fall I was invited by a friend to bake pies for her daughter’s wedding. Since I am a Pie Maven, and since pie is one of the few items Holly B’s does not bake, I happily said yes.

The wedding’s in August? Sure, no prob. What else could possibly be going on in August?

I worked with the bride to create a list of a dozen pies with assorted fillings and crusts. Then I pretty much forgot about the gig for the next several months. Until we received a wedding invitation for the son of a dear friend in Oregon, for August 23. At that point it occurred to me that I’d never written in the actual date of the pie-wedding.

Sure enough: August 23.

OK. We can do this.

Remember: pies aren’t cakes. Sure, you can make a wedding cake a day or two ahead…even weeks, if you freeze the layers. Pies? No way. Gotta be FRESH. At least my pies do. I had to be able to deliver them that morning, then somehow get myself onto a ferry early enough to drive the 6 1/2 hours to Eugene for the 3:00 ceremony.

The Mate, of course, wanted to drive down a day to two ahead like a civilized person. But after investigating various combinations of bus, train, and even plane rides to get me to Eugene, we finally concluded that the only way was to take the 6:25 boat together, then drive down together (otherwise we’d end up driving home separately as well).

Did I mention what a great guy The Mate is? He accepted the mission.

So I made my shopping lists and got my materials together. Then, just a week before Pie Wedding Day, I had this thought: maybe I should have a business card!

It’s not that I really want to start a new business venture, baking on commission. It’s just…well…if someone really liked my pies, and that someone wanted to order one, well…I do hate disappointing people. Right?

So. Cards. Let me remind y’all that I am not only a techno-wuss, but extremely…let’s see, what’s the opposite of gifted?…in the graphic arts arena.

Luckily I AM blessed with two valuable gifts: punnishness, and good friends.

The tag line for the card came easily to me. And the design came easily to my friend Susan. The proud result:

Oh, and the pies? Yeah, I got this.

Fillings prepped–check.

Blackberry lattice, Strawberry-Apricot, and…oh shoot, what’s that other one?

Add a little lovin’ from the oven…

To conclude this non-story: all 12 pies were delivered safely in the baker’s hours of the wedding morning. The Mate and I made the ferry, and he did most of the driving so I could catch up the sleep I’d missed from baking late and rising early. He is still speaking to me. And we made the Oregon wedding with no problem, and much love.

…et voila! Pack those babies up!

And now–will I start practicing saying “Let me give you my card?” I’ll have to get back to you on that. I really have no ambitions to start a new business.

But if it happens–I’ll be ready.

So here’s a fun question for y’all to chew on: if you were ever to dream of having your own business, what would it be? What would your card say? If you already have one, what DOES your card say?

K Cups: Does The K Stand For Are You KIDDING Me?

Posted on August 23, 2014 by gretchenwing

This is one post where I actually expect to get some hate mail, because I’m about to spew some hate myself.

I hate K cups. I hate the IDEA of K cups. I hate that they seem to be charming our convenience-hungry society backward in the ecological march, just when I thought we were starting to make some progress.

For those of you who don’t know–bless your hearts–the K stands for Keurig, the owner of the Green Mountain Coffee Company, based in Vermont. The actual cup contains a single serving of YOUR CHOICE of coffee, or tea, or cocoa, with YOUR CHOICE of flavoring, price range, or political correctness. You stick it into a machine, press a button, and the contents gets flushed with steaming hot water, giving you YOUR CHOICE of delicious hot drink without having to argue with your office mates, or roommates, or just plain old mate, about what to brew.

And K cups are made of plastic. So every time you have that specially-made, personalized cuppa whatever, you create a miniature yogurt container of garbage. Except that yogurt containers are recyclable. According to Mother Jones, only 5 percent of K cups are currently made of recyclable plastic, but even that plastic has to be separated from its aluminum lid, and from the wet grounds within. What are the chances THAT cup will ever actually stay out of a landfill?

(Orig. image courtesy wikimedia)

I have three concerns here. One is obvious: the increased trash.According to Mother Jones,

Journalist Murray Carpenter estimates in his new book, Caffeinated, that a row of all the K-Cups produced in 2011 would circle the globe more than six times. To update that analogy: In 2013, Green Mountain produced 8.3 billion K-Cups, enough to wrap around the equator 10.5 times. If Green Mountain aims to have “a Keurig System on every counter,” as the company states in its latest annual report, that’s a hell of a lot of little cups.

The second one is the creep of thoughtlessness these little cups-o-convenience represent. For a busy office, yeah, I get it. No more fights over who let the coffee pot sit there and burn. No more horrible instant. (I’m a tea drinker myself, but I do “get” the gourmet coffee thing.)

But families? Couples? Individuals? Day after day, creating piles of unnecessary plastic trash? Really, people?

For tea, even! A little plastic cup instead of a tea bag?? REALLY?

(Orig. image courtesy Wikimedia)

I also hate that this Vermont-based company–Vermont, for Pete’s sake!–trades off that P.C. “Green Mountain” name to lure and lull folks into getting comfy with a product that is anything BUT green.

But hey. It’s YOUR CHOICE.

OK. I’ve ranted enough. Let me hear it, people. Can anyone convince me of the value this insidious device? (Humph. Just try. )

Play Ball! And, Oh Yeah, Break Down Some More Barriers…Meet Mo’ne Davis

Posted on August 20, 2014 by gretchenwing

You won’t often find me quoting People Magazine, but here’s what’s up:

At 13, Mo’ne Davis boasts two assets any baseball player would covet: a killer arm and fierce confidence.

“Throwing 70 miles an hour – that’s throwing like a girl,” the star of the Philadelphia Taney Dragons told CBS News of her famed fastballs. On Friday, the South Philly native became the first girl to throw a shutout in Little League World Series history, allowing only two hits, striking out eight batters and walking none against Tennessee.

“It’s the Mo show out there,” Philadelphia manager Alex Rice told The New York Times.

I’m not much of a baseball fan. I’m certainly not a Little League fan. But I’m becoming a huge Mo’ne (pronounced Mo-NAY) Davis fan.

She didn’t just play. She pitched a SHUTOUT. In the WORLD SERIES.

The coolest thing about this clip? Mo’ne isn’t the lead. She’s just one great pitcher being praised in classic baseball announcer style, just like the boys. “She was dealin’…that’s some SWEET motion.

The People article also notes that Mo’ne is “humble:”

When it comes to her status as a trailblazer, “it does mean a lot to be the first American girl, but more girls should start joining boys’ teams,” Davis told the Philadelphia Daily News. “The attention should not just be on one girl; more girls should join boys’ teams so it is a tradition and it won’t be so special.”

I LOVE this kid!

“How’s she doing?” I kept wandering through the TV room to ask my Mate during the next game. (Ye gods forbid that I should sit down and actually watch a baseball game!) Mo’ne’s Philly team won again, without any heroics from her this time, but I don’t care. Her team’s alive to play on!

And the best news of all? Baseball’s not even her favorite sport. It’s basketball. Now THAT I will sit down and watch.

But meanwhile, how ’bout a shout-out to all those people out there pushing themselves in activities that don’t traditionally support them? Here’s to baseball-playing girls, ballet-dancing boys, small Asian basketball players, heavyset cheerleaders…

How about adding some more categories? Whom do you know who’s breaking ground in a new field, sports or work or arts or…anything? Tell me about a trailblazer you know who makes you feel proud.

Wave of the Present: Do You? Don’t You? Why?

Posted on August 17, 2014 by gretchenwing

When I drive, I have twitchy fingers. Every time I pass another car, person or bike, I wave a couple of digits in their direction.

It’s not just me. All locals do it. Lopez Island is known as The Friendly Isle. Most of us use the one-or-two-finger approach; some go whole-hog and use all five. I even know a couple of folks who’ve installed a floppy glove on their dashboard, vertically, which takes care of all their waving needs.

It’s the Lopez Wave.

You can tell it’s summer by the low percentage of folks who wave back. Takes tourists a while to get the memo. But when they do, they join in enthusiastically–all five fingers.

Off-island, though, it can be a little embarrassing. When you wave at other drivers in Seattle, they tend to think you’re warning them about something. “What? What? Did I leave my latte on my roof again?”

And off-island on rural roads? It always takes me about three days to quit waving at folks. I guess they don’t mind. They even wave back sometimes.

So I’m wondering: is this a rural thing? No one waved on the dirt roads where I grew up in North Carolina. Maybe it’s Midwestern? There are a lot of Midwestern roots in the Pacific Northwest. Do folks wave at each other in Hawaii? Or just give the aloha sign?

I really am curious. Please weigh in with your thoughts. The only other thing I’ll ask of you is…when someone waves, wave back.

Thank You, Robin Williams: Ooh, Me Too, I Wanna Share My Favorite Scene

Posted on August 13, 2014 by gretchenwing

It’s not from a movie. It’s from Inside The Actor’s Studio. James Lipton asked Robin how his mind worked…and…he was off.

To my peers, he’s Mork. To my kids, he’s the Genie from Aladdin. But to me, he’s the man who took the top of his head off and let us all glimpse inside.

“Why is tonight different from all others? Because we are gonna dance.”

Rest in peace, man.

Care to share yours? Go ahead: you’ll feel better.

Thistle Wars: A New Dope (Me)

Posted on August 10, 2014 by gretchenwing

It’s August, and the war is raging.

No, I’m not talking about the one in the Middle East. Or Syria. Or Ukraine. Or…*sigh*…Can we move on, please?

I’m talking about the War on Thistles. I think of this as my own private war, Woman vs. Nasty Prickly Invasive Plant. When I’m out removing thistles from the National Monument land adjacent to my house, however, I invariably meet dozens of folks who stop to share their own thistle-war stories. So I know I’m not alone.

First of all, let’s be clear. I’m not talking about native thistles, the kind that decorate your hiking trail up in the mountains:

I’m talking about Cirsium Vulgare, better known as Bull Thistle. Don’t let me hear you calling THIS beast “pretty.”

It’s invasive. Deer, sheep and cows won’t eat it. It’s prickly as a porcupine. And it produces about a billion seeds per plant every August.

To remove it, you have to remove the WHOLE PLANT. Just cut off the flowers at the top? Hah–the plant will just sprout out more from the sides. So why not just cut the plant down and leave it to rot?

This is why:
The damn thing just dries out and pops its seeds right on schedule, posthumously. Once those fluffy little bastards are loose, the plant has won.

Some people cut their thistles, cover them tightly with a tarp, and let them degrade for a year or two. But I can’t exactly do that on public land. So here’s my routine. I cut ’em with long-handled shears, make a small pile (picking them up with the shears), then use my boots to fold the stems and mash the pile into a kind of mat, like so:
Then I use a towel to take hold of that thistle-mat (leather gloves alone aren’t enough), wrestle it into a garbage bag, and stamp on the bag. The stamping helps to compact ’em further, but it’s also a kind of war dance.
Did I mention this whole stupid endeavor is also a great workout?

Yes, I often tell folks who wander by and ask ~~annoying~~ earnest questions, yes it WOULD be better to uproot the whole plant instead of cutting it. But that would probably kill me instead of just exhausting me.

On a good day, I can cut, mash, and stuff for two hours. Then I have to drag the heavy yard-cart full of ~~kill~~ thistles back to my house and load it into our truck to take to the dump. So, yeah. Workout city.

But before I leave a site, I stop to enjoy the Before and After view:

I’d like to think the dream of ridding my beautiful big “backyard” of bull thistles is not an impossible dream. Gotta admit, when I’m out there cutting, it’s hard not to feel more like Sisyphus than Hercules. Especially when a handful of thistledown floats past my nose, looking about as fluffy and innocuous as a baby duck with a machine gun. But I just sigh and remind myself that, hey, this year there were fewer to cut than last year!

At least I think there were.
Anyone else out there have your own personal battle with invasive anythings? Plants? Animals? Neighbors? Tell me all about it. I’d love the excuse to sit down for a while.

A Shout-out to Twenty-Somethings

Posted on August 5, 2014 by gretchenwing

When’s the last time you told someone you were proud of them?

When’s the last time you said that to an entire generation?

I’ve been meaning to do this for a while. Back in April, having just spent time with my then-21 year-old son, I wrote a song expressing both my regret at leaving him a world with so many problems to deal with in his adulthood, and my pride in his ability to do just that.

Yes, I said April. And it’s now August. But hey, I finally got that song recorded. So today’s post is going to be the words of my song, “Launched.” I couldn’t say it any better in prose.

Here’s your chance to share your own pride in the 20-somethings in your life. Tell me about them! Then go tell them how proud you are.

Are You Highly Campetent? (Stephen Colbert Would Be, If He Went Camping)

Posted on August 2, 2014 by gretchenwing

Like my new word? Thanks, so do I.

Since I really will backpack for chocolate, and since I just got home from doing just that, I’ve been making mental lists of the little extras that, over the years, have made ordinary camping trips extraordinary.

Though they’re most effective in backpacking, where luxury is harder to come by, I see no reason why these tips can’t be adapted for car-camping too.

Ready? Here we go:

Campetent campers pack mac & cheese. Highly Campetent campers do that too, but they add a small, chopped-up brick of real, extra-sharp cheddar…and some fresh greens. (Mustard greens are the best!)

Campetent campers pack a sleeping pad. Highly Campetent campers pack a chunk of carpet padding, 4 inches thick, 18 inches wide, long enough to pad a tired body from shoulders to knees, compressed in a sack to the size of a small sleeping bag. (I give all credit to my Mate on this one! Best camping sleep EVER.)

Campetent campers bring rope to hang their food out of reach of critters. Highly Campetent campers bring bright orange rope, so they don’t trip over it at the edge of their campsite.

Campetent campers stay fully hydrated. Highly Campetent campers stay fully hydrated in the knowledge that they can safely enjoy a small box of Cabernet after dinner and still be ready to hike next morning.

Campetent campers pack biodegradable soap. Highly Campetent campers make sure that soap is lavender, or peppermint, so when they take that icy, delicious creek-or-lake bath at the end of a hot trail day, not only does their body thank them, their fellow campers do too.

Campetent campers pack a change of clean clothes. Highly Campetent campers leave a change of clothes in the car to change into when they arrive, sweaty and dusty (or cold and wet).

My dad used to mix Tang into Cream of Wheat to make camp breakfasts more fun. Not necessarily recommending that, but…Got any tips of your own?

Fighting Fire With Obliviousness: When One Person’s Disaster is Another’s Inconvenience

Posted on July 30, 2014 by gretchenwing

If I’m dying of heat stroke while you’re reading this, don’t feel sorry for me. I died in full, happy understanding that it was MY choice to go backpacking where the forecast called for 99-degree days.

I’m not here (again). I’m out on my annual pack trip with my Ironwoman goddaughter Allison. This year we’ve been shut out of our favorite destination by some of the most horrific wildfires Washington has ever seen.

“Oh no! The air quality in the Enchantments is horrible. We can’t go there! OK, so…let’s try somewhere new this year…”

We’ve had our brush with fire before, Al and I. Four years ago we had to literally outrun one. When a huge column of smoke suddenly blew up between us and our campsite, we spent an agonizing half-hour trying to decide whether to race down the mountain before it raced up, or whether we ought to hunker down by a little lake and hope for the best.

We raced. We and the fire passed each other like a pair of escalators–up and down. We saw treetops exploding. That’s as close as I ever plan to get to a wildfire.

The folks who LIVE near those fires on the east side of our state don’t get to plan. At the very best, if they have no friends or family to stay with, they have to find a way to safely breathe that particle-filled air, day after day. At worst, they’ve lost everything.

As of last week, according to the Methow Valley News, the Carlton Complex fire had burned through 390 square miles, making it the largest fire in Washington history.

The Community Foundation of North Central Washington has established a relief fund for victims of these fires. Click here if you want to help. Those folks need…everything.

Meanwhile, all Allison and I “need” to do is find a place where we can walk among the wildflowers for a few days. We’re on vacation. That strange parallel of our “needs” and those of the eastern Washingtonians has me thinking in general about the relationship between tourists and natives.

Tourists are “we.” Our lives are what really matter. Natives are not even “they;” they’re backdrop. Scenery.

I know this because, after decades of being a tourist in other people’s pretty backyards, I’m now a native myself. Tourists overrun our beautiful island in July and August. For the most part they are very respectful. But their obliviousness–riding their bikes down the middle of the road while we’re just trying to get to work; asking “What time do the whales come by?” –reminds me uncomfortably that I probably have exhibited this same behavior to some other eye-rolling community in my past.

But…back to me and Al for a second. Not only has our past trip been interrupted by fire, it’s also been interrupted by ice. One year we climbed up to our favorite 7,000-ft., wildflower-covered mountain lake area only to find it still under snow. Yeah, I know this isn’t exactly relevant to my theme, but discussing our pack trip gives me the excuse to share this wonderful video Al took of a goat stuck on a rock in the middle of rushing stream about to plummet over a waterfall. The log it wanted to cross on was covered with ice, so it jumped onto the rock, and…

Don’t worry. That goat finally made the leap safely across. And Al and I are probably just fine right now, camping somewhere in clear air. But wherever we are, I am thinking about the folks in the path of that giant fire, and hoping their lives will recover.

So right now, maybe you too could spare a thought for the “locals” in your favorite vacation spot who might be suffering. Are you a “local” yourself? Have you ever found a way to be a more tuned-in tourist than I have been?