Daily I view some of humanity’s finest instincts: the desire to learn and know and serve. I can see firsthand the commitment to look after each other—the willingness to place one’s self at risk for the sake of the common good. This is the essence of civil society.
My house is not for sale. I’m staying.
The view is priceless.
5
The Longer View
My new house was an old house. Built in 1906. And “just a little remodeling” turned into . . . need I go on? So I moved back out—into an apartment across the street—and the contractors moved into the old house. The most exciting part was the invasion of the company called “THE DESTRUCT DOGS.” Five jolly three hundred-pound Samoan men with wrecking bars and sledge hammers. They even let me whack a few walls.
A major remodel of an old house in the city of Seattle requires an earthquake retrofit. And that involves an engineering analysis and a geologist’s opinion. Serious business. We live in a zone where “The Big One” is long overdue. And there are occasional forewarnings. I was actually sitting in the living room of the old house planning the remodel when a small earthquake shook the city, so I’m a believer. Damage control usually involves bolting the house to the foundation with steel plates that run up into the second story. And I’m in favor of that.
The geologist came. I anxiously followed him around. When he was finished, he said, “There’s good news. You are on the top of a hill that was left behind by two or three major glaciations over a period of thirty thousand years—the last one left just ten thousand years ago. Called the ‘Vashon glacier,’ it carved up this area coming and going. It was a tongue of a great ice sheet more than a mile thick, running from here all the way to Alaska.”
He went on to explain that Queen Anne is a huge mound of cross-bedded layers of sand, gravel, rocks, clay, and soil. Where my house stands was covered by more than a thousand feet of ice. The weight packed all the loose rubble down nice and tight. In other words, my house sits on a superb shock absorber. The best place to be when “The Big One” comes.
“Is there any bad news?” I asked.
“Well, yes. The glaciers will be back.”
“You mean . . . that someday . . . ?”
He gestured toward the surrounding city. “All of this. Someday. Scraped off and ground up and shoved into Puget Sound. We’re in an interglacial age now. Just another phase of the cycle.”
He laughed and went on to say that, unlike earthquakes, we’d have a lot of warning and could get out of the way. Geologist humor.
The long view.
The glaciers will be back.
And we . . .?
6
Moon View
Here’s a picture of several hundred people gathered on the high brow of Queen Anne Hill at dusk. A full Seattle cast, a marvelous mongrel mix of everything—old and young, male and female, white and black and brown and red and pink and freckled.
They’re all staring in the same direction—a few are pointing. Almost all have an open-mouthed expression as if they are saying “Oooooohhh” at the same time.
It’s the twenty-first century and the twenty-first day of July. What could possibly be astonishing enough to get them outside and so united in their attention? Explosions? Fireworks? A comet?
No, only this: The Magnificent Man in the Midsummer Moon has just lifted his orange eyebrows up over the rim of the Cascade Mountains. You can’t see him in the photograph, but you can see him in the faces of all the people. “Oooooohhh.”
_________
“The Moon, the Moon, the Moon!”
And we’re going back, or at least the planning is already underway at NASA. If the Chinese don’t beat us to it.
It’s heresy to say, but I’m not one who feels exalted by the first Moon landing, the orbiting space station, or the shuttle’s yo-yo trips. Exciting? Yes. An indulgent diversion from reality? Yes. But that’s about it.
The entire manned space program has not truly improved the quality of life on Earth, nor has it added anything of great value to the prospect of keeping Earth habitable and a happy place to be, which would seem to have priority.
Nor has it added one iota to the possibility that there is anyplace in space that is better for human beings than Earth. Superpower Pride was served and very little else. Ours is bigger and better than Yours is not a sign of advanced intelligence.
The Moon.
I liked it better when it was cheese.
However, on second thought . . .
There was a moment I wish the entire human race could have shared somehow. When astronaut Alan Shepard stood still on the surface of the Moon in 1971 and looked back at Earth, he wept. His tears came from seeing the fragile beauty of home—this lovely, shining, blue and white ball floating in the vast darkness of space. So rare in its habitability for human beings.
“Gorgeous,” he said.
And I wonder. How would it feel for all of us to be able to stand on the Moon on some amazing summer night and look back? Imagine that.
Staring, speechless, mouths open in amazement.
“Ooooooohh . . ., ” we’d say.
“The Earth, the Earth, the Earth.”
7
The Way It Has to Be
End of August. Downtown Seattle on a Saturday morning. Six young women carrying multiple shopping bags are standing in front of NIKETOWN. They are uniformly dressed in what an old grumpus like me thinks of as The Refugee Camp Look: Teeny-tiny T-shirts, bare midriffs exposing plump rolls of adolescent skin, worn and shredded skintight jeans that would better fit a little brother.
At the bottom of “the look” are the shoes, but not what I expected. The shoes are new, in a style I’ve not encountered before. Nikes? Oh, no. Clearly I’m a lap behind in the fashion race. All six girls are wearing brand-new, old-fashioned high-top canvas gym shoes in black, white, or red. The shoes are laced halfway, and the top half folded down into a cuff. No socks. The shoes are, they explain, “way, way cool. It’s what everybody at school will wear.”
Way, way cool, indeed!
“I haven’t seen this style before. Whose idea was this?” I asked. “Did you come up with the shoe thing yourselves?”
They gave me blank looks.
“Well, like, you know, everybody knows. It just happens.”
“But somebody must have thought of it first. Where and how did you decide to go this route instead of what you were wearing when you left school last June?”
They didn’t know. “It’s just the way it has to be.”
I would have given you the same line of thinking in late August of my senior year in high school when I had to have the mandatory outfit: a new, white, button-down dress shirt; some old farmer-boy overalls, and new, white buck suede shoes, which must be made as dirty as possible before school starts. Haircut: flat top with a duck’s ass in back. Way, way cool. The way it had to be.
Do not misunderstand. No pejorative intended. The eccentricities of the dress code of the young are always harmlessly amusing. Especially fifty years later.
Fashion fascinates me. It’s the easily visible confirmation of how concepts and ideas move into, around, and out of the culture. Somewhere there is an Alpha Girl who first folded her canvas gym shoes’ tops down. And somehow it caught on. And if my teenage shopper sample is accurate, in no time at all, this style statement will travel the world. And on the edge of the scene, the next fad is already coming.
Some truly deviant ideas get around, and prevail. It’s not all just the fashion of the moment. Take just one example. This morning I put out three different garbage cans for pickup: one for glass, one for paper and plastic and aluminum, and one for disposable garbage. Recycling. Fifty years ago, I would not have known the word or understood the concept. What? Are you kidding? If asked, the young women I met could have told me all about recycling. They know. They do it. It’s the way it has to be.
And did I mention the racial mix of my six young fashion consultants? Thre
e White, two Black, one Asian. Fifty years ago they could not have gone shopping together or eaten together or gone back to school together. But now, it’s the way it has to be.
I’m often pessimistic. Most of the incoming news of the world seems foully negative. And the smog of “same old, same old” stains my thinking. As an antidote, I look for any sign of any trend toward good news.
My early morning walk coincides with “Walk the Dog Time.” This morning I counted eighty-three people walking ninety-one dogs. Every dog was on a leash. And every one of the dog owners—every single one—was carrying a plastic bag or some form of pooper-scooper. As unpleasant as the task seems to me, every time a dog dumped, their owner picked up after them. It still jars me a little when someone waves at me with a sack of poop held in the waving hand. I cannot remember the last time I saw dog poop left behind anywhere I walk. It didn’t used to be that way. But it’s the way it has to be.
Compared to larger human issues—war, famine, disease, cruelty, capital crime—controlling and cleaning up after pets is small potatoes. Yet here is one more readily observable proof that the habits of societies and the minds of people can change in favor of the common good. I repeat: It didn’t used to be that way. I repeat: It’s the way it has to be.
It’s important to notice these things. Some good ideas get around and the world gets changed. I’m not always sure how or who sets it in motion, but there was a tipping point somewhere. . . somehow . . . someone. . . .
I know why, and it’s not fashion:
It’s the way it has to be.
8
Otters
The otters are gone. Good news. And sad news.
Backstory: My office and writing studio are in a houseboat on Lake Union in Seattle. (Houseboat here means, “Small old cottage built on a raft of huge cedar logs.”) Despite the urban setting, we have raccoons, beavers, possums, and otters as part of the floating community, along with the usual ducks and geese and migrant water birds.
Live and let live. We like it this way.
Usually.
The otters, though shy and seldom seen, are sleek, graceful, and playful creatures. That’s nice. But they crap a lot. An amazing lot. Not nice. And their toilet is the top of logs under my houseboat. Because otters eat fish and craw-dads and clams, their feces really stink. Moreover, they like to pull out the insulation from under the house and make nests. When summer comes the smell is truly rancid.
And so. The otters had to go. First I tried repellant. Many kinds of repellant. Even coyote urine. The otters were unfazed. Then I was told if I saved my own morning pee and splashed it on the logs the otters would go away. Oh, sure.
But, out of desperation, I actually tried that. Employing a small porta-potty designed for boating, I hauled my own urine from home day after day. The otters were unfazed. The neighbors were unamused.
Next method: A high-pressure, motion-activated water jet. Though some kayakers were driven off with that one, the otters were not. Then I tried trapping the otters with humane catch-’em-alive traps. Caught three young inexperienced otters. And one small beaver. (Don’t worry. All were taken away to live in the country.)
But the word got out in Otterland, and no matter what bait I used, no more were caught in the traps. All I got was more and more crap. Worse, now that winter was coming, the nest-building began. At night I heard them bedding down in my insulation. Happy sounds—like laughter.
Finally, I resorted to a two-wire, electric-shock fence around the perimeter of the houseboat, just above the waterline. Said fence, by the way, rearranged the prowling habits of several pussycats. (Cats can swim. Did you know that?) After several shrieks from unseen but clearly surprised otters, they packed up and moved on.
Victory is mine!
Maybe.
In truth, I feel bad about this.
First of all, the otters have probably only moved on to some neighbor’s houseboat. Otters have been around a long time and can adapt to the situation. They’ll no doubt be fine. And instead of a sense of triumph, I’m left with a hollow sense of regret. I haven’t won.
Something lovely has gone out of my life. There’s the image of otters running across a dusting of snow on my dock last winter, sliding on their chests into the water and coming around to do it again—clearly playing.
I remember the large and tiny tracks in the morning dew on my porch last spring—mother and babies. I remember seeing them floating on their backs out on the water while eating crayfish off their chests—the otter style of family picnic. To have creatures still living wild and free close by should be an honor.
I saw them as my problem.
But I am theirs.
And I am mine.
9
The Chair Men
We say the young have much to learn, but I find they know and do things unfamiliar to me, so I am pleased to learn from them when I can. Example: Two young college men asked me for a ride, because they were late to work. Their summer construction job was near my office, so I was glad to oblige. On the way I asked, “Besides working hard and playing hard, what’s happening in your lives?”
They exchanged glances. Then one said. “We’re eating a chair.”
What?
Yes. It seems that their college philosophy teacher gave them an extra-credit assignment: Do something unique and memorable—not dangerous or foolish, but something creative, inventive, and instructive. Write it up, and explain what was learned and how it might apply to their philosophy of life.
So. They are eating a chair.
They bought a plain wooden kitchen chair at an unfinished furniture store. Using a wood rasp, they have been shaving away at the chair, mixing the dust into their granola for breakfast, and sprinkling the dust on their salads at dinner. So far they have consumed most of a leg, two rungs, and a back piece. And while they don’t want to overdo it, the pace is picking up. Still, the project may not be finished before summer’s end, so they may enlist friends, who, it seems, are enthusiastically willing to help eat a chair.
And yes, they consulted a physician to make sure the wood dust was not harmful. And no, it doesn’t taste bad—especially if they mix in a little cinnamon at breakfast and a little lemon pepper at dinner. And yes, they have learned a few things along the way.
“Like what?” I asked.
Like how amazing long-term goals can be achieved in incremental stages. Like how something seemingly idiotic affects your thinking about other things you do. For example, they routinely run about fifteen miles a week to stay in shape—around and around a lake. They wondered where fifteen miles a week would take them if they ran in a straight line. So they got a road map and have been marking off the mileage, headed south. They could be in Portland, Oregon, in a couple of weeks. But that’s boring, so they have a European map now and are starting out in Vienna headed for Athens. Using guidebooks, they’re figuring out what there is to see and do along the way. They’re touring the world in their minds.
And, of course, they’re very pleased with themselves. They’re sure they’ll astound the professor when he asks for their report. “We ate a chair.”
“It will blow the dude away,” said one.
For all the goofiness of the project, these young men are learning patience and perseverance. Some things cannot be had except on a little-at-a-time, keep-the-long-goal-in-mind, stay-focused basis.
Love and friendship are like that. Marriage and parenthood, too. And peace and justice and social change. As wonderfully silly as it seems, eating a chair may lead my young college friends to wisdom and nobler aspirations.
In their foolishness lies the seed of What-Might-Be, little by little.
10
Watch Out for Trucks
A friend of mine, Brie, who was twelve at the time of this story, is willing to go anywhere with me that involves dressing up. She likes my company. I like hers. And we both like looking good and laughing hard. She’s my kind of guy.
Technically speaking she is
my grandchild, but I emphasize that we are friends out of mutual admiration, not merely blood kin. She is old and wise beyond her years. I am young and goofy behind my years. She aspires to adulthood but hasn’t quite got the hang of it. And I know what’s required of adults, but I just can’t get used to being one.
With regard to dress-up occasions—one in particular: Brie went along with me to a wedding where I was the ministerial officiant. A very romantic occasion that went off much better than expected. Both the mother-of-the-bride and the mother-of-the-groom were perfectly pleased. Miraculous!
The bride and groom lived happily ever after—at least as long as the reception. Laughter, tears, hugging, dancing, eating, drinking. Whoopee!
A very lovey-lovey, kissy-kissy, happy-happy affair.
Home run with the bases loaded.
During the ride home, Brie was unusually quiet. I parked the car and we walked hand-in-hand toward my house, where she was spending the night. Still quiet. Suddenly she said:
“I wonder where he is tonight.”
“Who?”
“You know—Him—the man I’ll marry someday, the father of your great-grandchildren. He must be out there somewhere. Where is he?”
“I can’t imagine. Why do you ask?”
“Well, I worry about him. . . . I hope he’s OK.
” “Well, if he’s going to meet up with you somewhere down the road, then I’m sure he must be fine—safe in the hands of destiny.”
(Silence.)
I looked down at her and saw trembling lips and teary eyes.
“What’s wrong?”
“What if . . . he got hit . . . by a truck? . . . What if . . . he’s hurt?”
I felt tears in my own eyes.
“That would be awful,” I mumbled.
“Yes,” she sobbed, “he will be so sad and lonely without me.”
Just then we went through the kitchen door. My wife saw our distress.
What On Earth Have I Done? Page 2
