Final Curtain—Her Way

The music seems to be rising in the background, and I can vaguely hear Sinatra’s voice—little snippets like, ‘and now, the end is near,’ ‘regrets, I’ve had a few,’…’Yes, there were times, I'm sure you knew. When I bit off more than I could chew.’…’To say the things he truly feels...’

   Upon closer listening, I believe that is George Le Mesurier’s voice telling us it’s time to leave gracefully and welcome the words and wisdom of a new set of guest columnists.

Yet, I had a few more things to say. As I shuffle through scraps of paper filled with ideas yet unexplored, wrongs not righted and clever tales untold, I panic and can’t choose the most appropriate exit essay.

What’s on those notes jotted and saved this year? I’ll share a few:

Calculate the odds of a blind, deaf, paraplegic getting hit by a falling airplane while exercising his dog. Follow that by saying the closing of the dog non-park says more about the paranoia of a litigious-leery society then it does about safety, dogs, the FAA or parks. The problem is bigger than this small community can tackle. (Still, what a pathetic solution!)

Use the SUV to illustrate the folly of stereotypes based on visual stimuli. Explain that although I drive an SUV, I am not an egotistical, testosterone-crazed, red-meat eating knuckle-head. Nor am I a pompous, narcissistic, pretentious, terrorist-supporting soccer-mom, and I’ll beat the kapok out of anyone who suggests I am.

Create a guidebook of civility and common sense for use of cell phones in public places. Call it Cellivity.

Trash D.M. Recycling for whimping out and jerking neighborhood plastic recycling stations. Point out that a community that penalizes itself for the misbehavior of a few, ends up with nothing of quality.

Ask why we continue to carp about the aroma of Tacoma when the scent of sewage at Jerisch Park is on par with rotting salmon in January in our creeks and not near so politically correct.

Ruminate on the many possibilities of how to make the most of the recently acquired Skansi property on Harborview. Begin by moving the sewer vent?

Praise Gig Harbor Rotary for purchasing and installing benches, and picnic tables along Cushman Power Line Trail. Also give credit to the Pierce County Parks and Recreation, Talmo, Inc. and others who saw this project through. Suggest that the idiot who dumped his pick-up canopy along the trail should be assigned life-long duty on a highway clean-up crew—don’t issue him a reflective vest.

Ponder the future of the beautiful, new, but closed, marine gas-dock. Explain why it would be an asset, but ask why it was approved if its location was unsuitable.

            Challenge myths that all business owners are rich and greedy. Suggest that better understanding of  basic accounting principals might lead to more sympathy for the difficulty of running a profitable enterprise. Remind people that healthy, growing businesses are necessary for jobs and a vigorous economy. Do not suggest that business-haters might be happier in Cuba. Furthermore, resist temptation to offer bag packing and airport transportation services.

Discuss dilemma that has divided man for centuries: Power versus Sail. Follow with discussion of the difficulty of naming a boat without resorting to cutesy, clever or incomprehensible. Not to mention tacky, tasteless or tongue-twisting.

Rail about the county crisis of car theft and meth-drug labs. Scream ‘do something, do something, do something’ until somebody does something. Meanwhile, buy a kryptonite wheel-lock, three-hundred yards of razor-wire, and hire a body-guard.

Go way out on a limb, and suggest people should stop whining about paying taxes; point out the many benefits everybody receives from a diversity of government agencies and, propose that the ability and willingness to tax ourselves is what made this country great. Conveniently, and strategically leave town for three weeks.

Folks,  that’s just an example of the flotsam in my brain, and the rights I might have wronged. I started the year hoping to make great changes in our community, or at least convert one soul to my way of thinking. But, at year end, I am humbled. After all, if I can’t even get a post-office box moved, what hope was there for changing the world?

Miss Perfect 

I’ve been thinking about this resolution thing, and I’ve decided to make a 2003 New Year resolution to be perfect. I mean, how hard can that be?

 Looking over my life, I can see that as a daughter and a mother I’m already so close that with a few small tweaks, those are a slam dunk. I’ll visit my dad, and my mother-in-law a few more times a month, and bake some cookies to mail to the boys. Yep, those two are nearly in the can.

 Then, I need to work on being the perfect wife. Hmmm, that list is a bit longer. Maybe we’ll move on and come back to that one later.

 Alright, next I need to make some improvements so I can be the perfect citizen. I already vote (most of the time) and pay my taxes. Next time I’ll smile while I write the check. What else?

I drive the speed limit—which apparently makes me less-than-perfect in some driver’s estimation. I already recycle, but during my daily walk—gotta have the perfect body, too—I could pick up litter and hand-out doggie-doo scoop-bags to those less perfect than I. If I really wanted to be the ideal citizen, I would give blood. I don’t know. That’s a bit over the top for me. I’ve got turnip genes or needle-phobia. Perhaps I could offer something else instead. I’ll make sure my driver’s license designates me as an organ donor.

 In the interest of saving fuel and frustration, I could drive less and ride my bike more. Consolidate my errands, carpool, and patronize local businesses. Learn to use a roundabout.

 When it comes to saving water and electricity, I have some hold-over habits from previous droughts. I don’t think I can get by flushing or washing my car less often. Nevertheless, there is more that could be done, and this is the year some sacrifices may be required. I could shower with a friend (put that on the perfect wife list), and invest in one of those high-efficiency washing machines. Those are usually front-loaders, so I will be strengthening my abs while loading and unloading.

 I could become better informed by reading the Gateway cover to cover, and not only my own column. I could attend some of those community meetings, you know, the ones we hear about the morning after, when they complain because nobody showed up? I could be the ideal blend of mediator, cheerleader and public watchdog. Kind of what you would get if you bred a Labrador a Chihuahua and a Pit bull terrier. Or, Pat Lantz, Shirley Tomasi and Randy Boss.

 This past year my husband and I made donations to the library, Homestead Park, Cushman Powerline Trail, and played Santa for a foster child.  We also volunteered at the Courage Classic to raise money for the Sexual Abuse Clinic at Mary Bridge Children’s Hospital. But there is always room for improvement. Next year maybe we could also clear streams to help spawning salmon; give to the Fish food bank, and establish a scholarship.

 In fact, the volunteer opportunities available through the local service organizations such as Rotary, Lions and Kiwanis, are varied and exciting enough to give this kid a sugar high. In addition, the Cultural Arts Commission, Friends of the Library, or the Gig Harbor Peninsula Historical Society all need helping hands and willing hearts—donor card not required. Whew! Being a good citizen takes time and energy. Lots of energy. 

My husband has that kind of energy, much of which he pours into community projects, so he probably deserves a perfect wife. Hey, recently I actually heard a man say he had the perfect wife. So, thinking I could pick up a few pointers, I inquired a little further. Turns out she’s dead.

 Maybe I‘ll postpone this perfection resolution for a few more years.

Not Just for Bookworms

You won’t notice the impact right away. It will be gradual and hidden from public view. But, slowly, there will be fewer new books, furnishings will show more wear, hours will be reduced, and staff will have less time to assist you. 

The cutbacks to the Pierce County Library system are the inevitable result of the passage of Initiate 747 which limits growth in regular property tax levy increase to 1% or the rate of inflation, whichever is less. The Peninsula Branch is one of the most heavily used of the 17 branches in the system, and therefore gets a corresponding share of the budget. But, eventually, even we will notice the effect. Inflation and increased demand will accelerate the downward spiral. Unchecked, what will that mean ten, fifteen, twenty years from now? I don’t know, and don’t want to find out. 

Thirty-seven thousand cardholders use the Peninsula branches. The cheerful and tastefully furnished building and the friendly staff make the branch on Pt. Fosdick Dr. a pleasant place to hang out. The Key Center Branch is smaller, but also enjoyable. 

Visiting the library on a regular basis has always been a part of my life. My parents could never have purchased all the books their four children consumed. I tried to estimate how much the library has saved me through the years—it proved incalculable. The purchase price of fiction books alone constitutes only a fraction of the total. I would have to factor in thousands of non-fiction books used as reference material for cooking, traveling, investing, recreation, and quilting. I would have to take into consideration videos, periodicals, and reference materials. I’ve no idea how many meetings I have attended, which, held elsewhere would have required a room-use fee. The full amount, whatever it is, certainly outstrips my share of taxes allocated to this marvelous community resource. 

Nearly fifty-percent of Pierce County residents are regular library users, which is pretty impressive. Still, there are some people who don’t appreciate all the library has to offer. I wish they would stop in and look around. They would see students preparing their school assignments, senior citizens reading magazines, children listening to stories, and patrons enjoying one of the frequently changing art displays. I wish they would realize that this is theirs, too, to use and enjoy.

What can we do to assist our library in the upcoming years? I put this question to Lynn Zeiher, Managing Librarian for the Steilacoom, Peninsula, and Key Center Branches. She sighed and said, “That’s a tough question.” The Pierce County Library is not going to put a levy to the voters this year to request funds to replace the half-million dollars they had to cut back this year, nor the $1.2 million for 2003. Levies are expensive, and sometimes they fail. That is a cost they don’t care to risk, yet.

Property taxes are the foremost source of funds for the county library General Fund Source—which is why I-747 will be so devastating. Although you might feel you are single-handedly financing the library when you pay an overdue fee, Fines, Forfeits & Charges makes up only 2.6%. Gifts and Miscellaneous Income make up less than 15%.

So, what can you do to help? Supporters may volunteer at selected branches, but must be reliable and able to commit specified blocks of time—just as if they were paid employees. Monetary donations to the Pierce County Library Foundation are generally used to supplement the book budget. Contributions to Friends of the Library bring high-quality, free-admission lectures and entertainment to our community, provide amenities for the staff, and fund selected refurbishing projects. The Friends use donated, used books for their book sales.

For more information about contributing to the Pierce County Foundation visit www.pcl.lib.wa.us/foundation/index.html, or call the Foundation Office at (253) 536-6500.       Each branch has its own Friends group, ask at the desk for membership or donation forms.

Finally, support future library-related levies and view with caution future initiatives which might further erode community assets such as public libraries.

Don't Bet on It-Gambling vs. Investing

Investing is not gambling. Because both involve money, risk and probability, they can feel like the same thing and some folks behave as if they are. Likewise, both commuting and racing involve drivers, cars and fuel, but the two are fundamentally different in purpose and scope—and woe is sure to befall the person who confuses them.

Investing is the act of committing capital (money), by loaning it or purchasing stock, for the purpose of increasing that capital. The process involves assessing the credit worthiness, or management skills, of the institution in which the funds are invested. That is not the same as a game where the results are based solely on chance. The former is active participation in the free enterprise system. The later is entertainment—not that stock market investing can’t be entertaining.

Putting your money in the hands of a either a CEO, or a croupier, is an act of faith. The CEO has the obligation to either pay out interest or dividends, or attempt to increase the net worth of the company. The croupier’s duty is to keep all the chips in sight then pay the winner.

One non-profit organization committed to empowering the individual investor is the National Association of Investors Corporation (NAIC). Best known for its support of investment clubs, the organization teaches people to be successful, strategic, long-term investors through analysis of fundamentals, instead of hot tips, persuasive ads or hype.

I am especially enthusiastic about investment clubs and NAIC because of how it has empowered women. Historically, and traditionally, women have not taken an active roll in making the larger scale investment decisions that determine their lifestyle and control their future. Sitting back and allowing others to make financial decisions is like refusing to participate in the election process. A single woman who trusts her finances to a man only on the recommendation of his gender, is as reckless as one who picks up strangers in a bar.

Investment clubs have offered novice investors a safe, comfortable venue for learning and practicing the four basic investment principles recommended by NAIC: Invest regularly, reinvest all dividends, diversify to reduce risk, and invest in quality growth companies. Even for seasoned investors, clubs also social interaction while sharing risks and expenses.

Investment education should be a part of every person’s education and can begin early. NAIC offers a self-study program aimed at teenagers called Investing for Life. Wouldn’t it be appropriate for financial fundamentals to be taught in school with as much emphasis as health, art, music and history? Our children graduate from high school knowing more about birth control options than how to select a mutual fund. Surely financial planning is as critical to their futures as family planning.

About 380,000 investors belong to NAIC. The Puget Sound Chapter, at over 12,000 members, is the largest chapter in the nation. There are six registered investment clubs in the Gig Harbor area. They meet in of public meeting rooms, or in homes. Due to SEC regulations, clubs can not advertise publicly for members. But if you ask around, you are bound to find someone who belongs to a club, or knows someone who does. 

The point is investment knowledge is vital to everyone’s future. NAIC is just one resource. It doesn’t supply the silver bullet. But, it does provide the tools helpful when you need to recognize the difference between a wager and a golden opportunity.

United--One Brief Moment

It was one brief moment. Did it last a day, a week, a month? For that short period, the bell curves we use to differentiate ourselves—political views, religious beliefs, racial heritage, economic status, to name a few—seemed to flat-line. Very few were left standing outside the standard deviation of zero. Shocked, confused, horrified, frightened and angry, we were—for the first time in my lifetime—truly united. 

What a strange, yet welcome, sensation. To think there were as many U.S. flags waving in Canterwood as in Salishan. To read that the opposing representatives in our Capitol joined to speak as a single voice. To look into the eyes of individuals on the street and see—not an old man, a young Republican, a fat lady, a black child, or a homeless drunk—but another grieving soul. To see that which has always been there: another American. 

There have been times our diversity was our weakness. Could the environmentalist, the capitalist, the farmer, the migrant worker, the investor, the teacher and the baseball player ever agree? We seemed locked in hell for an eternal onslaught of bickering, strikes and lawsuits. So the memory of that breathless moment of harmony is precious and to be treasured.

Our internal peace lasted at the most until the new year dawned. By the opening ceremony of the Olympic Games in Salt Lake, our nation was deep into the introspective grief phase. What did we do to bring this on ourselves? After that, we advanced to the current, distressing phase.

It’s like breathing polluted air while waiting to cross the bridge after an afternoon at Mount Rainer. The disgusting name-calling and finger-pointing—the “he did it,” “it’s their fault”—as each faction tries to elevate itself by placing blame for an event that is greater than the sum of its indefinite parts. As if one could, by finding a single cause, profit by making it public knowledge. Who cares, really, if they find twenty causes?

Speaking of profit. You have purchased your Statue of Liberty painting, your commemorative 3D Twin Towers Suspended in Crystal (made in China), the Springsteen album, a memorial pin, and a Twin Tower Tee-shirt, haven’t you?

It is difficult to avoid clichés when discussing Nine Eleven, because it in itself has become a cliché. “Since Nine Eleven…” has been used to explain or excuse everything from rising unemployment to spousal abuse. It has been the opening phrase of more speeches and dinner conversations than, “Did you watch ‘Survivor’ last night?”

 As the towers collapsed, the Pentagon smoldered, and a handful of truly courageous individuals aborted yet another attack, it was clear it would take a decade, or more, for recovery. The impact on the economy, people’s lives, and our national psyche will last for a very long time.  What will that effect be? Will we be a stronger or weaker nation? A nation admired or vilified? A population more, or less, generous? More or less tolerant? More or less wasteful? Will the economy continue to suffer? Or was this exactly what was needed to rescue the stock market from the casino phase?

This week, Americans brace themselves for an overwhelming “anniversary” media blitz. We need to realize that September 11^th wasn’t about the United States. It was an attack on civilization, not civilians of a specific country. Yet, Americans have come to symbolize everything wrong with capitalism, Christianity, and unfettered freedom—greed, self-righteousness, self-absorption, and blight. To the have-nots of the world, our conspicuous consumption must appear unbelievably—no, unbearably—crass. 

The United States may not be the only brute indulging its insatiable appetite on Mother Earth’s largess, but it is the most obvious. Perhaps we could reign-in the excesses that trigger the hate and envy, while retaining the values and attributes that attract the affection and admiration of others.

        Orchids are like children, but, are children like orchids?

Orchid growers treat their plants like children, but it had not occurred to me to compare children to orchids until I entered my son’s bedroom and discovered what the little devils had been up to.

The first three orchid plants entered our home in long boxes marked perishable and fragile. They survived the trip from Oahu with blossoms intact, which surprised me. The plane ride from Honolulu to SeaTac is enough to strip the bloom off my cheeks. I unpacked them, purchased special orchid pots and orchid fertilizer, and checked dozens of orchid books out of the library. So far this exercise paralleled my behavior twenty years earlier with my newborn son.

To my further amazement the orchids retained most of their blooms for several months and I was hooked. Not only did I buy more orchids—I began purchasing them as gifts. (Friends and family are grateful I did not parallel this activity with newborns.) I doubled, then tripled my orchid population—but the kid population remained at two. Thankfully, I am well past the fertile stage and my sons are grown.

Most or all of the orchids began “shooting up” so to speak, much like young boys do – growing quickly, that is. All this activity on the plant’s part excited me and I joined the Tacoma Orchid Society—much as I had joined the Voyage Parent Organization. Every once in a while I would stop by Peninsula Gardens or Ace Hardware and visit the more exotic and expensive kin of my own orchids—much like I might watch a junior talent show. 

Orchids require exacting environmental conditions, and in case you have not heard, some perverts find them sexy and even erotic looking. They sometimes smell delicious. Sometimes they smell revolting. They come in a variety of colors, sizes and temperaments. Some are hardy, some are defiant, while others are delicate and tender. Some are showy and bizarre. Some are diffident and nondescript. Some hang upside down in trees, others live in the dirt. Some attract pests like a kindergartner attracts lice.

I began to hope I might be able to nudge my babies into producing new blooms. I watered and fed them “weakly weekly,” turned a fan on them and changed their soil, especially if it began to smell. 

Shortly before Christmas, they all began to die. In fact, they didn’t “begin to die”—they pretty much all kicked the bucket in the same week. Disgusted, I banished them to my son’s deserted bedroom so they could finish their death march alone, but with dignity. I couldn’t bear to toss them in the trash.

Shortly after Christmas—okay, around the first of February—while packing up the ornaments and putting away the last of the holiday decorations I suddenly remembered them. I felt this painful constriction in my chest as the guilt hit home—I had sent them to their room with out dinner, thereby essentially euthanizing them by withholding food and water. I slowly opened the bedroom door, expecting the worse, and I got it. More brittle dead sticks on Chris’s desk than on a forest floor in August. But, two green miracles stood proud above the other. Two stems boasting tiny buds which would burst forth as orchid blooms by March.

After I buried the corpses, and watered the survivors, I realized that my son, Chris, had disappeared into this same room about the time he entered high school. Although we didn’t exactly neglect him, he was so “out of sight” that we occasionally left the house without remembering to tell him. Being somewhat nocturnal, he fed himself after we went to bed. Every week I restocked freezer with frozen pizzas and Phish flavor ice cream.

He emerged just in time to go off to college where he seems to have bloomed quite nicely. So, indeed, children are like orchids. They are temperamental, demanding, and infuriating but, if nurtured and nourished in the beginning, then properly neglected, some of them resurface as exotic, and astonishingly appealing, individuals.

Going Postal

Would you intentionally install an outhouse under a hornet’s nest? Of course not. You know from logic and experience that, eventually, someone will get stung, and it won’t happen at a particularly convenient time. 

Sometimes the hornets arrive after the outhouse is built. But, if for some reason the hornet nest can’t be moved, then the privy must.

Relocating an outhouse is not a simple task. One needs to consider drainage, accessibility, convenience, and privacy. But, still, if it’s got to move, there is little to be gained by procrastination.

I’m suggesting the drive-up mail boxes in front of the Gig Harbor Post Office in the Peninsula Shopping Center are an invitation to a catastrophe and need to be moved. However, like the privy, we don’t want them eliminated completely.

Recently, having nothing better to do I conducted a non-scientific survey. While standing in line to buy make-up stamps valued at what it once cost to send an entire letter, I calculated that approximately 57.93% of the cars that turn off of Stanich Ave. into the lane that passes between the sidewalk and the first lane of parked cars, used the drop box and drove on through. This means that roughly half of the traffic in front of the Post Office, Rexall, the Harbor Barber, the Harbor Video and Ace Hardware passes by there—a busy pedestrian zone—for no other reason than to drop off mail.

Perhaps you are not familiar with this location and can not imagine what the problem is. I can best explain by saying if it showed up in a television commercial, they would include a subscript warning, “Do not attempt this maneuver. Filmed using professional drivers and gymnasts.”

I love driver accessible drop boxes—they are convenient, easy to use timesavers. Perfect for the busy mother with twenty errands to run in as many minutes. Life savers for employees on a short lunch break. I can remember when it seemed all postal drop boxes were located on the passenger side of the car—a huge hassle. So, let’s not give up on the driver-side drop. 

On a good day my “To Do” list has stops at the grocery store, post office, bank, pharmacy and library. On a bad day it includes an appointment with a physician or an errand which can only be accomplished by crossing the bridge—in which case I try to figure out how to get by without. But thinking about convenience and saving fuel led me to wishing I could order my groceries online for home delivery, that physicians still made house calls and that the book mobile carried a larger selection. I can remember the good old days when my mother—stranded at home with four children—had the milk delivered to the door step. Wouldn’t it be cool if the pharmacy, the hardware store and the USPS made home deliveries?

Wait a minute. I almost forgot. The USPS does! Of course, we have been repeatedly warned not to leave anything of value in the box, effectively negating the value of this service. Until I break down and invest in a two-hundred dollar, almost but not quite vandal-proof box, I’m back to driving into town to post my payments.

Which brings me back to the original concern. Moving the drops may call for “thinking outside the box” so to speak, as the possibilities are limited. One needs to consider accessibility, convenience, safety, and security. The location is hemmed in by a virtual hornet’s nest. Nevertheless, I am optimistic that a city with our brain-trust of intellectuals and common sense thinkers can accomplish this task without appointing a blue-ribbon task force or commissioning a multi-million dollar study.

Whatever it takes, let’s put them some place where the traffic generated won’t be in such close quarters with heavy pedestrian usage.

Somebody Famous

Somebody famous lives near me. This is simply a rumor, you understand. It came from a credible source in a high government position--but I'm going to let myself believe it anyway. This is not the first of the rich and famous to discover Gig Harbor, but this is the first one who might actually drive past my house.

Famous people don’t impress me, but this does put a different spin on going to the mailbox in the sweats I wear while scrubbing the toilet with bleach-fortified Soft Scrub. I was going to weed the stretch of yard along the road anyway—but now I’m thinking I’ll wear my new Chico denim jacket with its sexy-red lining while swinging the hoe. 

What do you suppose he drives? I haven’t noticed any chauffeured limos on our street. I could pretend to be bird-watching and inspect each passing BMW for famous faces. Perhaps he doesn’t drive during the day—too chancy. Might get noticed. Last night someone impatiently accelerated with a roar when I finally pulled into our drive. Could that have been him? Not that I care.

 During my new found interest in weeding, I’ve been musing about the meaning of this new-to-me news. I realized that I find it startling, yet affirming, that a celebrity has discovered my little corner of the world. If I could live anywhere, where would I choose? A villa in Tuscany? A grass-roofed bungalow in Tahiti? Gosh,  is it possible I already live like the rich and famous?

 Of course I do. Heck, a hut in Gig Harbor is better than a mansion in Manhattan, or a cottage in the Cotswolds—any day. Who would choose Palm Springs if they could live where The Mountain greets you at sunrise, and the morning mist wafts among the cedars reminiscent of a Japanese painting?

 We live in a spectacular place. Most of us don’t need the verification or validation of a famous neighbor. However, there are those snowbirds. They can be a bit boring. It really irks me when they not-too-subtly imply that spending the winter somewhere sunny is the obvious choice any sane person would make.

 We have wonderful weather—want to argue with that? I have a theory: only those who sit inside and judge the weather by looking out the window think it rains all the time. Ask someone who works outside how much good weather we have. Often overcast? Yes. Actually raining? Not often. Chilly? Sometimes. Truly cold? Are you kidding?

 Yep, we have a little piece of heaven. I thought so when I was twelve and my family started camping. I knew it for a fact when we started sailing. When I visited friends in Dallas, I discovered that—for those who love out-door activities—hell on earth does exist.

 Judging by the Hollywood-style homes built around here lately, this little backwater has been discovered—as well it should be. I wish it hadn’t been though. Most of us can’t resist broadcasting the local virtues, yet we decry each new housing development. Not so much because we  are selfish and resent sharing with others, but because we see and value this extraordinary space and see each chunk of converted real estate as one more marring of the canvas—as if someone had defecated on a Renoir.

It all started with Dale.

 Dale is a nurse in the Special Care Unit of Allenmore Hospital in Tacoma. We met Dale when our mother was admitted for pneumonia and renal failure. He was caring, supportive, kind and above all, our favorite word, clear. Picture the five of us, standing in the waiting room slack jawed and in shock, and Dale trying to explain to us how our mother—who five days earlier had been in Arizona cheering on the Mariners in Spring Training—came to be in such serious condition.

 Our natural reaction the next day was, “we want to do something special for that nice man.” But Dale became the first of many patient, caring and occasionally “clear’ doctor’s, EMTs, nurses, therapists and personal care technicians, who cared for mom—and us—over the following weeks. By the time mother’s ordeal is over, the number of health care professionals for whom we wish we could “do something special” will probably reach one hundred. They work at Allenmore, Tacoma General Hospital, Cottesmore of Life Care, St. Joseph Hospital, Pierce County Fire Department, and Gig Harbor Medical Clinic.

 I spent many hours trying to come up with something special to do for them. I quickly discarded sending flowers, or baking cookies. They see plenty of bouquets come and go, and, frankly, more cookies they don’t need. Interesting though, this urge to send them “comfort food.” I don’t know of any equipment or supplies that might make their jobs easier or more pleasant—although I’m sure they have needs. I thought about trying to find out their favorite charities and make a donation in their honor—but as the number grew and grew and I began to lose track of names, that idea lost on the basis of practicality.

 Some say to me, don’t worry about it. You pay your bill. They get paid. It’s all in a day’s work. Perhaps. But, somehow, I’m left feeling I haven’t done enough for them. They did more than their jobs—they touched our lives.

 Mostly, I want to make their jobs easier and more pleasant. One way to do that is to pay more attention to political developments regarding the health care field. In the past, it was too far removed for me to get emotionally involved. Now I have a better idea how powerful insurance companies and legislation can make a difficult job unbearable and might cause valuable employees to look elsewhere for less stressful occupations.

 We can’t risk that. Next time it might be me in that hospital bed. When it happens I want the Dales of the world there for me, and my family.

Basketball vs. Music? It’s Debatable 

A few years ago, a group of local students threw stones at one of their classmates after school. Why? Because she scored 100% on a math test. This incident, while a bit extreme, is indicative of a troubling attitude pervasive in our community, and our nation.

More recently, some members of a local high school pep-band approached the band director, assured him they enjoyed playing at, and attending, the games, “But…,” they asked him, “Why don’t the basketball players come to our band concerts?”

 Our children learn that exceptional achievement in academics, non-competitive, or non-physical activities may earn them abuse and rejection from their peers—and only polite applause from the community. On the other hand, if they excel in any sport involving a ball, they will gain hero status.

 Sure, there are exceptions, but overall you know that what I’m saying is true. How did this problem come about? Could something be done about it? If so, how might we begin to bring about change?

 The roots are in our caveman history. The fastest, strongest, meanest man survived. Those who attached themselves to him (his fan club) survived along with him. We have evolved from caveman status, so perhaps appreciation of higher level survival skills is in order. That would mean indoctrinating our youth with some different values early on.

 I have a photograph of our youngest son, taken when he was three months old, posed with a football. That is probably the only time Chris touched a football, but it shows how early the brainwashing begins—even in a household that doesn’t unduly worship sports heroes.

 My boys say they encountered teachers who not only encouraged sports participation, but not-too-subtly scorned students who lacked athletic coordination or enthusiasm. As a family, we encouraged physical activity, but ridicule for ineptitude was taboo! The same should be true in our schools.

 Sometimes I wonder, “Are sports really news?” But they are ‘entertainment’ and, as such, belong in the newspaper—but what if we gave comparable coverage for other activities?

 In the media, the space and time devoted to competitive sports is out of proportion to the time and effort students (and adults) spend other activities, but rarely do we notice or comment on the discrepancy. For example, last week this newspaper devoted over four pages in the Sports section to wrestling, swimming, basketball, football, baseball and golf; plus an article in Section A titled “Fourth-graders get to ask pro footballer questions.” For comparison, I had planned to count the number of column inches devoted to competitions in debate, Knowledge Bowl, music, art, or achievements in a variety of other programs such as the culinary program, or science. But all I found was a single sentence announcing choir auditions, and an article on woodshop.

 Let’s use debate for an example. Last week the Peninsula High School Debate team competed in a prestigious competition in Berkeley California. Was it in the Gateway? No. If they win a big contest, it will get in. But, imagine if debate were given more equitable coverage. We get blow by blow descriptions of each football game—win or lose. Why not get weekly updates on the debate teams? Where was the competition? Who participated? What was the topic? What points were especially well argued? Who won? Student names would be come familiar. People might start following the teams. More students might sign up for debate.

 The blame for spotty coverage lies only partially with the media. The sports people have a mechanism in place for timely and thorough coverage, advisors for other activities could do the same.

Addiction or Philanthropy?

Some people wake up to a hangover the morning after. I wake up to treasures. Looking them over, I might ask my husband, “Do you remember bidding on this?” Worse yet, he might ask me, “Why did you bid on that?”  Good evening. My name is Linda. I am an Auction Addict and this is my story.

My parents introduced me to auctions at the Renton Auction Barn. Although my sibs and I were minors and should have been left at home with responsible caretakers, they often took us along. We fell asleep, curled on the floor at their feet, or draped across their knees, only to be awakened well after midnight to help them carry black and white TVs, or sealed “mystery” boxes out to the station wagon.

There were several dry years after I left home, but when my children hit preschool temptation in the form of a fundraising auction slithered in. In a sad parallel of Days of Wine and Roses, I dragged my husband down with me.

I’ve even taken a turn on the brewing end—planning and organizing auctions—hoping involvement in the administrative details would slake my thirst. No dice. Foreknowledge of the bargains to be had only heightened my anticipation.

Our home is a shrine to auction fever. The gravel in the driveway, the Japanese Maple by the front walk, and the breezeway door itself, are only aperitifs. Throughout our home paintings, furniture, fixtures, and books, are examples of the depth of our dependence on bidding as a way of life. Of course, we prefer to think of them as tributes to our philanthropic generosity.

Which, of course, is what fundraising auctions should be about. Not that bargains can’t be found. We practically stole a Sea-foam-green, square-seat toilet with matching sink and bathtub at a Rotary auction. Evidently we were the only attendees building a house who were undecided about color, and broad-minded about shape.

The prospect of finding a bargain is what attracts people to auctions. There is no thrill in purchasing a fifty-dollar gift certificate for fifty dollars. But, buying a twelve-hundred dollar gazebo for six-hundred dollars can be quite a rush. It was for me—until I discovered it would be delivered at 8:00 a.m. the following morning. Talk about buyer’s remorse.

            It is wise to budget in advance. Determine the amount you would donate to the cause, regardless. For me the auction is simply an amusing means of execution. A little food, some conversation, a tingle as I make that first bid—and I’m well on my way to feeling no pain.

I keep a reserve fund in case I see an irresistible item, such as a “Tacoma Narrows Bridge Pass”—the Gig Harbor equivalent of a Get Out of Jail Free  card, or a “PWC Stun Gun”—guaranteed to stop a jet ski in its wake at 200 yards. I shy away from offerings such as  “Low-Income Housing” built by United Infrastructure Washington, or “Adolescent Tutoring” donated by Anonymous at Purdy’s Women’s Prison. There is a limit to my benevolence.

We have been known to pick up Christmas gifts at auctions. One year Peter got a dolly (slide under the car kind) and Chris received a table. And, yes, the boys might be a bit surprised when they find matching gift certificates under the tree this year, but hardly anyone was bidding on the “Buy One Get One Free Colonoscopy.” We couldn’t let that one pass.

Before each auction, we review these principles: if it’s for a good cause, be generous; take both the checkbook and the pick-up truck; and approach each table one bid sheet at a time.

I do love auctions. Is it an addiction? Or philanthropy? Only my accountant, Arthur Anderson, knows for sure.

Personal Watercraft

Our friend Dave lives on the waterfront and his next-door neighbor has a jet ski. Many a pleasant summer afternoon has been ruined by the incessant snarl as the neighbors “enjoyed” their jet ski. Finally a day came when the neighbors hosted a lawn party in celebration of their daughter’s wedding. It occurred to Dave that this was the perfect opportunity to fire-up the chainsaw and turn a recently fallen tree into a cord of wood.

Dave’s experience is not unique. The arrogance and self-centered recreation of a few robs many others of the peace and enjoyment they used to take from simple outdoor pleasures. The roar of personal watercraft (PWC)—more commonly known as jet-skis—is driving many people inside and forcing them to close their doors and windows. If you planned to spend the afternoon gardening, reading a book or visiting with friends—forget it. The problem isn’t limited to those with the good fortune to live on the water. Anyone who goes boating, picnicking or camping at waterfront parks may find their outing ruined by a thoughtless minority. Not only are they noisy, but the speed and unpredictable maneuvers of PWCs make kayaking or canoeing in the same waterway hazardous—and swimming unthinkable.

Pierce County enacted some Personal Watercraft Laws which outline when, where and how PWCs may be operated. But the under-funded and understaffed PC Sheriff Marine Service Unit has very few officers available to enforce those laws. Remember when certain behaviors were considered ‘civil’ and most people observed the Golden Rule? What happened to the concept of—and penalties for—unsportsman-like conduct? Too many jet-skiers use their craft as if they were toys—and they behave like spoiled children.

Sadly, the PWC assault isn’t limited to summer, nor to weekends. In many popular lakes and bays the chaos begins by ten in the morning and continues until the sun sets—any day of the week. Although PWC laws ban operation in darkness (between legal sunset and legal sunrise), there are those who ignore that. Our only consolation is knowing that they are, by their own nature, an endangered species.

The primary problem would be solved if the PWC operators obeyed navigation regulations, and practiced common sense. But, PWC users typically have no training in, or knowledge of those rules. Because they ignore them, there is serious discussion of enacting licensing requirements for operation of any motorized watercraft. Not an unreasonable solution—after all, proper vessel handling and knowledge of navigation rules are as essential for water safety as the corresponding traffic rules are for highway safety. Regardless of the laws, common sense suggests that operators be at least sixteen years old and have the maturity to make the snap decisions while operating high-speed craft in treacherous situations.

Because it is unrealistic to abolish PWCs, I have three suggestions. First, that  ‘jet-skiers’ stay out of bays and lakes where the echoing noise is especially obnoxious. Second, if they must make “doughnuts”—the single most annoying PWC activity—that they do so away from other boats, people and wildlife. Third, that they take navigation and boat handling classes. If they were informed of their responsibilities and restrictions, and had the knowledge to intelligently anticipate the movements and limitations of other watercraft, everyone would be safer.

             By the way, as tempted as Dave was to use his chainsaw to make a point, he did not. Dave is a good neighbor, and a good sport.         

Ten Things Jet Ski Riders Think (when and if they do think.)

 10. The faster, and louder, the better.

 9.   So? Buy earplugs, Bozo!

 8.  I’m so cool, those people on the shore are saluting me.

 7.  Ma, what does one finger mean?

 6.  Anchored boats make great slalom course markers.

 5.  Hey, see that kayaker waving his paddle? I think he wants to race me.

 4.  If  God intended man to swim, he would have painted his head bright orange and put a flag on his butt.

 3.  Hey, look at that guy walking on water! (While approaching a small ski boat in order to jump it’s wake.)  

 2.  Rules? What rules?

 And, finally, the Number One thing Jet Skiers Think is: __________*__ .