Greetings from the Yard Waste Monster

Imagine having a house guest that litters the floor every single day with little pieces of this and that which are difficult to sweep, annoying to the feet, and worse, allergenic to most.  Imagine allowing the guest to stay and inviting more like it to come on in and join the party.  Most of us can't get away with being that kind of houseguest, but I know someone who gets away with it en masse in the American Southeast.

That someone would be the Live Oak, trademark tree of the South, a specimen that is as stunning in its breadth as the coastal redwood is in its height.  Its canopy, though nowhere near as tall as the firs, cedars, and redwoods of the west, can stretch as far as half a football field, providing condominiums, apartments, and various other housing arrangements to diverse species of birds, squirrels, and other small animals that roam the South.   As the live oak matures, Spanish Moss will drape itself across the tree's massive branches, creating a look that many describe as romantic and most will capture in a photograph or two or three or seven or more.

The Live Oak is more than just a pretty addition to home landscaping.  Its wood is so dense that it is rumored to have earned the USS Constitution the Nickname "Old Ironsides" during the War of 1812. Apparently, cannonballs will just bounce off the side of a live oak. For the more ordinary person who doesn't regularly shoot cannonballs at trees in the yard, the Live Oak serves as a windbreak, protecting homes in the South from all too frequent tropical storm and hurricane winds.   They are cold resistant, deer resistant, wind resistant, and growth resistant.  A live oak can grow up to 60 feet tall, but don't hold your breath.   While slow growing, it will host many a guest during its lifetime, from bird to squirrel to Spanish moss to fern and to other air plants.  The South would simply not be the same without this majestic tree.  

But like most things that bless our yards with beauty and presence, the live oak has a downside, which Southerners graciously put up with in exchange for its shade, protection, and beauty.   Though few live oaks lose all of their leaves every year, they are still technically deciduous and the leaf shedding cycle can extend for months through relatively warm winters.   While holding on to some of its leaves throughout the year, the live oak nevertheless specializes in shedding something during every month of the year.  Whether leaves or moss or limbs or twigs, there is always something on the ground under a live oak that irritates the feet and invites the rake.

This is especially true after hurricane winds have blown by parts of the South. During this special time, the Live Oak takes on another persona -- that of Yard Waste Monster.  A single Live Oak tree has been shown to produce more yard waste per cubic inch than any other tree or combination of landscaping plants in the history of the world.

And since hurricane season comes during the hottest and muggiest months of the year, cleaning up what the Yard Waste Monster dishes out can be quite the adventure in sweat, perspiration, dirt, grit, and the like. But, as many who have cleaned up after a hurricane will tell you, having the opportunity to clean up after one or more Yard Waste Monsters implies that a home remains standing under the canopy of the live oak.  And, when considering the darker consequences of a hurricane, that blessing is worth its weight in well... Yard Waste.

This blog was written a week after Hurricane Irma when I returned to my home in Florida and found that the greatest burden I needed to bear was cleaning up 1.2 million leaves and twigs from my postage stamp yard.   My gratitude for Tampa Bay being spared from the eye of the full force of Irma is immeasurable.   

BEWARE of the weather channel

If you don't know what spaghetti models are, move to Florida for a year.  You will soon learn what they are.   In fact, during certain times between June and November, you will sit for hours, staring at the television, entranced by ever shifting spaghetti models, marveling at the gap between American and European versions of this strange form of colorful pasta draped, laced, and curved around, over, and through the Florida peninsula.  And, depending on what channel you are watching, you may experience anything from escalating panic to chronic anxiety to pragmatic determination.   If you are not a huge fan of the first two emotions, stay away from the national news outlets, especially the Weather Channel.

Spaghetti models are a cluster of potential paths that a hurricane or other tropical disturbance may take as it approaches land, landfall, and damage, destruction, and drama.   Florida is the lucky winner of much of this unique form of pasta during hurricane season.   Seeing your town or city with a piece of pasta draped over it will prompt you to check the weather a little bit more often.  Seeing a whole plate of pasta blotting out your town or city will prompt you to check the weather more frequently than your text messages.   Watching these models shift east, west, north, and south can unravel your nerves like... spaghetti.

Watching the Weather Channel can take those raw, unraveled nerves and turn them into mental disease and defect.  Watch the Weather Channel during an approaching hurricane and be prepared to experience high blood pressure, adrenaline cocktails, and any number of unhealthy physiological responses that not only endanger your health but can prevent you from doing what needs to be done during an approaching hurricane -- diligent, strategic preparation.   As for me personally, I have trouble distinguishing between C and D size batteries (think flashlights and power outages for extended periods of time) when someone is preaching doom, gloom, and apocalypse in my ear.   Listening to the weather channel while putting storm shutters up has also been associated with significantly higher rates of cut, bruised, and smushed fingers (think hammers, sharp metal edges, and other artifacts associated with protecting houses from nasty winds and storm surges).   Catch a whiff of the Weather Channel while filling sandbags and say hello to a stubbed or worse, broken toe.  

Other national news outlets are not off the hook either.   While others around the country might be drawn to the shock and awe of photos and videos of the most dramatic damage a hurricane or tropical storm has dished out over its existence, those who are still predicted to experience that storm showing up at their doorstep don't want to see or hear it.   The emergency beacons emitting from cell phones to evacuate, take shelter, and other such emergency measures are sufficient to stimulate more than enough adrenaline to catalyze action. No further adrenaline is necessary.  Go away Weather Channel, New York Times, and the rest.

Which brings me to the local weather channels in Tampa Bay.   Until Irma came, I had no idea that meteorologists could do double time reporting the weather and providing masterful counseling to a population panicked and anxious about being in the bullseye of an approaching hurricane.   However that is exactly what a gifted local meteorologist like Paul Dellegatto (Fox 13) does.   I am not singling out Mr. Dellegatto as the only excellent meteorologist in the Bay area -- he just happens to be my favorite, because he also manages to be funny in the face of approaching disaster.

Hour after hour, he stands in front of a map of Florida, as the familiar shape of the peninsula is gradually covered by the ragged edges of green, orange, and red rain bands that mark the outside perimeter of an oncoming hurricane.  He explains each band in detail, remarks on the slightest shift east and west of the eye of the storm, switches seamlessly over to a detailed prediction of wind gusts, hour by hour.

Interspersed among all the details of what it means for a hurricane to pass over your head, he calmly explains, when there is no longer any hope that the eye will suddenly turn away and pass your city, what will happen next.   Rather than pushing the many available alarm buttons in your body chemistry, the best of meteorologists in these situations gradually and masterfully draw you to a point where you can accept that "When you wake up tomorrow and walk outside, what you see may very well be completely unfamiliar to you."  Then, they add  "..but we will be here with you."

It's as if you will stare at the foundation where your house once sat and somehow, a meteorologist standing by your side will make it all bearable.   At the time before the winds come up and the power goes out, whether sheltered in place or elsewhere, you believe that it will all be OK.

If hurricanes ever go extinct, some of our local weather reporters and meteorologists should become counselors and therapists.  I have no doubt that they would have a gift for it!

Alternatively, they could go work for the Weather Channel and lay waste to the the ongoing alarmist reporting and video that draws national ratings and viewers but neither praise from nor peace for the locals impacted by these weather calamities.

Bunker Hunkering

When my mother passed away, I had to decide whether to keep her house or to sell it.  It didn't take long to figure out that my heart wasn't going to let me sell it, so we moved forward with the only other option of keeping it.  And, not surprisingly,  holding on to mom's house involved quite a bit of work.  In Florida near the coastline, many of the choices regarding upkeep and care weren't simple. A few were fun, like converting the house from white with black trim:

to roasted squash (yes, that's orange) and cream trim:

You can't get away with those colors in most areas of the country, but in Florida, almost any color goes.  So, orange it was. Pumpkin had arrived!

Other decisions were more serious, like how we were going to protect this cute little house from hurricanes.   The original windows were out of the question.  Not only did they put the house structurally at risk during high winds, but they leaked enough air conditioning to make Duke Energy even more wealthier than they already were.  At the time, it made perfect sense to get hurricane windows (windows that theoretically could withstand projectiles hurled at them at speeds of up to 165mph).   There was no guarantee that we would be there to board up the windows or to install storm shutters, so the windows seemed like a wise solution.

Until the hurricane came and we found ourselves at Pumpkin, preparing her other vulnerabilities for what seemed to be a direct hit from a nasty hurricane whose name doesn't need to be repeated.  Then, we realized there was no way, no how we were going to sit inside a house with the windows uncovered staring at all hell breaking lose outside.   I completely missed the threat to mental health and stability posed by bionic windows that needed no visual barrier to perform their protective function.   

So, when the hurricane knocked, we left.   We stayed with friends, several miles further inland, who had boarded up their house with the type of custom made, perfectly fitted boards, that turned a comfortable middle class home into what felt like the perfect bunker, despite still being above ground.   

Shortly, before the storm hit its peak near midnight, the power went out, lines stripped away by wind and trees, transformers popping like Redenbacher popcorn on steroids in the microwave.   With the house in total darkness, except for a minor plethora of flashlights, there was little to do but talk or listen to the wind outside.   Some go to sleep during hurricane winds.  I was not going to be one of them. I get a little distracted by strong winds, falling trees, and other accoutrements associated with the standard hurricane process.   

I lay in bed, imagining I was one of those people who could sleep peacefully through a hurricane.  I listened to the wind, loud but not threatening, as little of the full force made it past the perfectly fitted hurricane shutters.   I thought of Pumpkin, the house we had left behind that was now alone in what was now a ghost (neighbor) hood, a couple of blocks from the coastal waters.   

Turning my thoughts away from the what ifs and the what nexts, I stared up at the ceiling, trying to focus my attention on the immediate sensations associated with bunker hunkering.   The wind whipped the boards outside the windows, the noise amping up a notch with the 90 mph or so gusts above the more subdued, 80 or so mph sustained winds.   The sound was a cross between a quiet howl and a whistle.  The softness of the sound, while comforting, provided no accurate sense for what was going on outside.   

I looked out into pitch darkness that was now the ceiling and the air in between. I didn't feel my pupils expand, but rather felt the sensation of cold on the surface of my eyes.  As I kept my eyes open longer, seeing absolutely nothing in the darkness, my eyes continued to feel colder and colder, until I shuttered my eyelids to take away the disconcerting shift in temperature.   

With eyes closed and sounds muted, I did what I thought was not possible.  I slept. 

Soundly.   In a pitch black, muted, above ground bunker that felt like the safest place in the world to be, wholly impervious to the storm thrashing outside.   

Sorry Seattle... who you are doesn't work for me anymore.

On September 5, 2017, I boarded a plane at Seattle Tacoma International Airport (otherwise known as a zoo with airplanes) to Boston, Massachusetts (otherwise known as enemy territory -- if you are a Seahawks fan, you know what I'm talking about) with the blissful intention of driving into Maine and then New Brunswick, Canada for a week-long vacation.

Last night, I deplaned at Seattle Tacoma International Airport from a flight that originated in Tampa, Florida, having never stepped foot nor passport in Canada.   A week long interlude with Hurricane Irma not only changed my vacation plans but quite a few things on the inside of me that aren't too apparent to anyone but me.

As I strolled through the airport, I felt like I'd landed on another planet.  How quickly I'd forgotten the endless rush that most of those who live in Seattle adopt as if it's the new normal.   As one after the other busy person crossed in front of me, behind me, over me, under me, and any many of prepositions around me, I didn't change my pace. Because, I'm sorry Seattle. I don't want to be a part of you anymore.

I don't want to sigh impatiently if I have to wait 10.8 ms for someone in front of me to move. Not only is that 10.8 ms irrelevant to my quality of life, I may also miss an opportunity to help that "slow" person in front who has caused such an alarming delay in my daily progress.  I might miss the opportunity to smile, and in the process, make sure the smile goes well beyond my mouth and into my eyes.  I could miss a lot of things in the here and now because I am too busy focusing on how quickly I need to get to the there and next.

I don't want to check my phone more often than I take a sip of water or a moment to notice the sky or a second to breathe clean air.  I'll get the extra dopamine elsewhere, thank you.

I don't want to be available to my employer 7 days a week and shoulder the possibility that I'm the world's biggest loser if I don't answer an e-mail in 24 hours or less.  I don't want to face serious concerns about my loyalty if I miss one meeting out of 246.

I don't want to rely on the horn of a car as a beacon proclaiming the importance of my time.  If you need to get ahead of me because you have an appointment to get to, please feel free; just leave enough space so that our encounter doesn't involve a tangle with our car insurance companies.

I have a secret to share Seattle.  I went without internet and the use of a computer for several days, while still surrounded by pavement and cars and people.  You know what happened?  I lived.  Made it through the "ordeal" of loss of connectivity just fine.  No urgent medical care or concern resulted from my lack of connectivity.

Don't get me wrong Seattle.  You are a beautiful city with many nooks, crannies, and places to enjoy that make urban living good living.

But, somewhere along the line, the frantically increasing pace of building, buying, selling, and competing got out of hand and the speed control on the treadmill broke on the red line setting.

Pardon me, Seattle while I step off this treadmill and try to figure out another life that makes a wee bit more sense than the Amazon/Microsoft model.

The good news is that Seattle won't miss me.  Why?
Everyone will be too busy to notice I'm gone.  

A Walk on the Beach

For those that live in a landlocked state, it is probably sufficient to simplify the walk on the beach as... a walk in a sandy locale, ocean rolling to and fro in the background, a breeze of tolerable temperature touching some measure of bare skin, and with it all, a certain promise of relaxation to the mind and heart.

However, if you've lived on one or the other coast for most of your life, you know a walk on the beach bears subtle but important distinctions from one iteration to the next. There is a certain although not overly complex taxonomy to walks on the beach, that draws out differences in experience and purpose for such walks and makes for a sophisticated palate from which the feet and spirit consider, choose, and indulge.

Of course, there are always the substandard walks, which while fruitful in other ways, deliver minimal benefit pertaining to that expected of a Walk on the Beach.  For example, some walks on the beach have the audacity to require you to look where you are going as a result of frequent occurrences of rocks, uneven terrain, squishy once living blobs, muddy puddles, erratic patterns of seaweed, or other such nonsense. While these walks may be enjoyable, they technically belong in the category called hikes, because a significant part of whatever is going on in the brain has to be dedicated to avoiding a twisted ankle, a face plant, or similar undesirable ending to what would otherwise be a lovely excursion.

There is also the substandard Walk on the Beach incurred by inappropriate clothing or otherwise missing outdoor accoutrements.   How was I supposed to now that by the time I got to the beach, the 40 mph winds were going to drop the temperature by another ten degrees?   How could I possibly forget sunglasses when I have at least three pair strategically placed so that I wouldn't dare get to the beach without passing by at least one?   What do you mean I can't walk on the beach in high heels? After all, I had an hour for lunch at this or that conference and the beach was just a few blocks away, so why not?  The list goes on, but substandard, whether induced by terrain, weather, or my own stupidity... is still substandard.  

One step up from the substandard Walk on the Beach is the perfunctory one.   That's the walk where your inner yuppie forces you to take the walk solely for exercise.  While there is nothing fundamentally wrong with exercise, a Walk on the Beach taken only to get exercise is a little too goal oriented for this category of activity and is to be avoided. So sayeth the elves who live among sandy toes and salty kisses.

Moving upward in the extensive Walks on the Beach classification system, some of us who've adopted a canine variety or two, can testify as to the value of the dog Walk.   As long as no rotator cuff is torn as part of the antics that go on when dogs find themselves both on a leash and on the beach, the dog Walk is typically laced with simple joys.  Play at its best, frolicking in the surf, and stopping and sniffing to the delight of the canine heart can only infect the owner of such dogs with the same.  

When times are hard or grief lingers, it may be time for a Healing Walk on the Beach. This one has many variations, but my own is simply to walk until it hurts no longer. And, returning to my starting place, I may find the hurts of my heart have ebbed, but the pain in many of my muscles has made up for it.   Soreness and ache of the muscles are simple pains, though, compared to the deep, troubled, and complex pains I sometimes carry on my own heart.  

Sometimes, friendship requires a Chatting Walk on the Beach.  This one happens when two people, typically but not always two women, indulge in non-stop conversation while strolling along the sand. While the sounds of the rolling surf may be hard to recall after one of these walks, warm memories of friendship and of sharing one another's lives are often many and memorable.  

When one is alone, the Walk on the Beach may turn into an Incubation. This requires that no attention is given to where one is going, so that the mind can wander in and out of La-La land at its leisure.  In so doing. the mind can relax enough to find a solution or creative approach to one of life's dilemmas that would have otherwise remained tucked away in an untouchable crevice in the brain.  While incubation can happen in many places unencumbered by the crazy busyness of modern life, a Walk on the Beach, under the right circumstances, is one of the most promising.  

And, finally, digressing back to the simple.  Sometimes, a Walk on the Beach is just a walk.   No purpose.  No category.  No end result.  Just a Walk. Warm sunshine.  Gentle Breeze.  Soft or wild wave.  It doesn't matter.  Walks on the Beach, in all their forms, on any coast... are one of life's greatest treasures and often, are a sure remedy to many an emotional or spiritual ailment.

State of Emergency declared in Seattle

A state of emergency was declared by the mayor of Seattle on the afternoon of Sunday, October 16.  The mayor wisely took action after a major emotional event occurred in downtown Seattle on a large, nationally televised field of grass embellished with horizontal white lines at five yard intervals.

It was estimated that the event was witnessed by over 400,000 residents in the Seattle area.  The mayor quickly called on the National Guard to patrol the streets of Seattle to prevent a potentially unthinkable and largely unstoppable spread of emotional expressiveness throughout the Seattle metropolitan area and Puget Sound region.  Among many disastrous consequences of such a widespread show of emotion would be an unfortunate acknowledgement to the nation that Seattle residents are actually human.  

The mayor warned residents of Seattle and surrounding areas to remain indoors, turn their televisions off, and seek shelter in reading Atlas Shrugged or The Canterbury Tales to prevent the sideline event at Century Link field from triggering further emotional outbursts.   Amazon, Microsoft, the University of Washington, and other major employers in the Puget Sound region were prepared to close their doors on Monday to minimize the possibility that water cooler and other side conversations might consider the unmentionable possibility that expression of emotions is actually healthy.  Such seemingly innocuous conversations, even if scattered and localized, could lead to a widespread coup of the long standing Pacific Northwest culture which forbids emotional expressiveness in favor of intellectual prowess and economic expansion.

Scientists at the University of Washington confirmed on Sunday, after considering a limited set of data that suited their agenda, that expressing emotions at a consistent and intentional level was statistically unlikely to produce significant gains in economic or intellectual advancement for which the city of Seattle is nationally and internationally regarded.     Given the potential downsides of an ensuing culture coup, these researchers recommended that actions be taken to further stigmatize the expression of emotions in the Pacific Northwest. 

With any luck, the impact of Sunday's event at Century Link will be limited to the sports world, specifically to the poor, afflicted Seattle Seahawks who were subsequently forced to spend the entire week deflecting local and national media attention regarding the sideline outburst of one of their most talented players.   Such media attention understandably took precedence over discussions of how the team could advance its performance and position in the NFC west. 

In related news, the approximate 15,240 transplanted southerners living in the Puget Sound region, were found in sidewalks, parks, and other public spaces on Sunday evening, in various states of laughing and giggling.   Their seeming lack of concern for the seriousness of the situation triggered some observers to make anti-Southern statements that linked the consumption of chicken fried steak as well as biscuits and gravy to emotionally expressive moments and similar behaviors regarded as inappropriate in the great PNW.  

A quick review of  the eating habits of Richard Sherman (the Seahawks cornerback who triggered this crisis) confirmed that Mr. Sherman had neither looked at or consumed chicken fried steak or biscuits and gravy for approximately 47 months before Sunday's incident. As a result, some question whether Mr. Sherman may be genetically predisposed to expressing emotions as a result of his chronic passion for his craft.  Many years in the spotlight of the Pacific Northwest have not ousted these emotional tendencies from Mr. Sherman's psyche.  As a result of his success and resulting evidence that invoking emotion in one's career can be a good thing, it is with some regret that the leaders of Western Washington must now consider that a coup of PNW culture designed to drastically increase and favor emotional expressiveness may very well be appropriate, healthy, and productive to the region's national stature.

Or, according to those laughing southerners in the streets and parks of Seattle, such a coup might simply be... AWESOME! 

A Birthday Present measured in Touchdowns and Field Goals

The sky weighed in heavy with dark, turbulent cloud cover.  The ominous blanket of gray hanging over my head was threatening to turn into yet another cloudburst on this dreary, wet, dismal day that clearly marked the end of summer and embraced the beginning of months of nasty weather to come. Dragging my gaze away from the sky, I picked up my pace, pulling my roll-aboard behind me, daring the sky to drench me on today of all days, September 29.  Today was a big birthday for me, one whose corresponding number I dare not utter, lest I have to face the fact that I am getting old.

I was a mere twenty steps from the entrance to cover and the subway station when the rain began.   I assumed it had held off for that long because of my threats to each and every bloated cloud overhead. I was grateful for only 20 steps that left me damp and uncomfortable but not drenched in a downpour that wasn't particularly welcome on this afternoon.

As I boarded the underground train, I breathed a sigh of relief.  Onward from the wrong Washington to the right one, at least in my limited view of the world.  I was happy to leave the D.C. version of Washington behind and head back to the sweet, peaceful Evergreen State. With any luck, I would arrive there before my birthday ended.

Bless Alaska Airlines' heart.  Their wonderful spiffy airplane sped across the country with the greatest of ease, depositing me at SeaTac one hour before our scheduled arrival.  Although the parking shuttle did not come with the greatest of ease (or efficiency), I nevertheless coasted into the ferry parking lot, several minutes before the departure of the 11 p.m. ferry and was grateful to set foot on Whidbey Island half an hour before midnight.

I had requested a quiet birthday, one without parties or big celebrations, because I'm an introvert, and THAT'S OK.  You got that, ye masses of extroverts out there?

Friday began with a trip to a new nursery.  More trees than I could possibly hug on the way home but that didn't stop me from trying:

A quick lunch, a swim, a ferry ride, and then.... Barry pressed the button, the TV came on, a ridiculous assortment of dips and dippers were laid out on the table, and... the University of Washington Huskies football team marched onto the field on a beautiful night in Husky Stadium to play a slightly better known, nationally recognized team, that had of all things, a TREE as its mascot.  There is only one tree in the world I want to cut down, and the Stanford Cardinal is IT (at least in the world of football).

Truly, I expected a nail biter... a fight to the finish.  An adrenaline roller coaster that went on for three hours, before maybe, just maybe, the Huskies pulled it out and won a difficult game on national television between two top-10 teams.   It didn't go that way at all and I spent most of three hours with my jaw on the floor trying to pick it up so I could actually eat from the buffet before me.

In the end, there is something very sweet about the public school in the little known or recognized pacific northwest winning out against an elite private institution in a very BIG way.  44-6.  That was enough birthday present for me.  All day long, I had been advocating for 'pee'ing on the tree' but I never thought we would actually fell the Stanford Cardinal (Tree).  

I was grateful.  I love to watch the common folk win the battle over the elite.  I know it doesn't often happen, but being a common folk myself who just happened to go to Stanford, I still prefer being the common folk.  Personally, I think we (the common folk) are funnier, but I digress.

44-6 was awesome.  Really.   REALLY.  44 points were enough, all by themselves.  But, I didn't anticipate another 97 points to follow:  27 by the Seahawks two days later and 70 by the Huskies the following week against those pesky Ducks at Oregon.

141 points in touchdowns and field goals for my birthday.  What a present!  I'm still trying to figure out how Barry managed to finagle such football-induced bliss for this very memorable birthday!

Yay Huskies!  Yay Hawks!