Bliss in Seattle?

The brand new cruise ship Norwegian Bliss arrived on the Seattle waterfront this week to much civic fanfare. It carries 4,000 passengers, many of whom will drop a few bucks at the Pike Place Market and Space Needle.

Bliss will cruise to Alaska for the first time on June 2, the largest cruise ship ever to sail in the state.  The entire community of Ketchikan would fit inside-- the locals must run for the hills when these behemoths cruise in for trinket shopping and shore excursions.



Just in time, the Space Needle has completed an extensive renovation featuring a new glass observation deck and a glass floor on the revolving restaurant. (Don't drop your fork!)

The construction wraps are finally coming off and for better or worse, the iconic exterior shape is forever changed.  The price to ride the elevator is still $30, but that's expected to go up significantly for the summer tourists.

Finally, in other news, the 3.4 billion? (no one really know the final cost) tunnel through downtown Seattle is expected to open to traffic this fall.  Tolls yet to be determined.  As you remember, this turned out to be a daunting task when Bertha the drill broke down early in the process. A two-and-a-half year rescue mission raised Bertha to the surface, where she was repaired and eventually put back to work.  Progress marches on.  

May 30, 2012

This is what I posted this on Feathers and Flowers six years ago today.  It is still true.

 Nova

Excerpts from "How to be Perfect" by Ron Padgett
Courtesy of the Writer's Almanac

Get some sleep.
Eat an orange every morning.

Be friendly. It will help make you happy.
Hope for everything. Expect nothing.

Take care of things close to home first.
Straighten up your room before you save the world.
Then save the world.

Be nice to people before they have a chance to behave badly.

Don't stay angry about anything for more than a week, but don't
forget what made you angry.
Hold your anger out at arm's length and look at it, as if it were a glass ball.
Then add it to your glass ball collection.

Wear comfortable shoes.

Do not spend too much time with large groups of people.
Plan your day so you never have to rush.

Show your appreciation to people who do things for you, even if
you have paid them, even if they do favors you don't want.

After dinner, wash the dishes.

Calm down.

Don't expect your children to love you, so they can, if they want to.

Don't be too self-critical or too self-congratulatory.

Don't think that progress exists. It doesn't.

Imagine what you would like to see happen, and then don't do
anything to make it impossible.

Forgive your country every once in a while. If that is not
possible, go to another one.

If you feel tired, rest.

Don't be depressed about growing older. It will make you feel
even older. Which is depressing.

Do one thing at a time.

If you burn your finger, put ice on it immediately. If you bang
your finger with a hammer, hold your hand in the air for 20
minutes. you will be surprised by the curative powers of ice and
gravity.

Do not inhale smoke.

Take a deep breath.

Do not smart off to a policeman.

Be good.

Be honest with yourself, diplomatic with others.

Do not go crazy a lot. It's a waste of time.

Drink plenty of water. When asked what you would like to
drink, say, "Water, please."

Take out the trash.

Love life.

Use exact change.

When there's shooting in the street, don't go near the window.

A dry May

Can you grow olives in Seattle?  You bet your martini.  The little olive stick we bought in 2010 at the West Seattle Nursery finally outgrew the pot, so I planted in a flower bed on the sunny south side of the house.

 Then

 Now

Olives are beautiful, silvery, ornamental trees that eventually reach 25 feet or so. They like sun and well-drained soil, and once established don't need much care at all.  Yes, those are real olives.  Not enough to harvest yet, but time will tell.

Parts of the country are drowning in rain, but it is extraordinarily dry in western Washington.  Seattle had only 1/10th inch of rain this month, a record.  I've never seen anything like it so early in the year.  The grass is already turning brown. But it was the nicest Memorial Day weekend in memory. We have 15 hours and 38 minutes of daylight now, and the sun sets about 9 pm.

We had a relaxing weekend at home with some nice highlights. Betsy and Paul came over for brunch on Sunday morning. We took a walk around the peaceful neighborhood-- everyone was sleeping in or off doing other things.  It always seems to be quiet when they visit, and we have a hard time convincing them how hectic the urban village is with traffic and construction projects. They love West Seattle, and it's interesting seeing what you take for granted through other people's eyes. 

The Bewick Wren babies left the nest early Monday morning and were fluttering around the yard in that clueless way of nestlings. I watched the worried parents give frantic last minute encouragement.  Fortunately, the crows were not up yet.  I hear baby birds now in the holly tree, so hopefully they all made it.  No sign at all of my possum friend.

Finally, we spent most of yesterday morning doing a thorough clean in the bedroom:  John moved stuff and I vacuumed behind the furniture and under the bed, washed the curtains and mattress pads, etc.  Amazing how much dust accumulates in a year.  All day long I was looking forward to that blissful moment of crawling between clean sheets in a perfectly fresh room.

A big ruckus

Late in the day yesterday, when the birds settle down for the night, the crows suddenly got all agitated and set up an obnoxious cawing-- which usually means an eagle is passing over.   But this ruckus went on forever, and I was upset seeing "my" pair of white-crowed sparrows make that piercing parental alarm call, and flying back and forth like crazy things. I'm sure they have a nest hidden in the holly tree, and my worst fear was the crows had found and raided it. 

Nope, mystery solved.  All the avian fuss was about this cute little guy.  I spotted him poking around in the dense border under the trees, probably looking for worms and beetles.  And he wouldn't say "no, thanks" to an egg either, if it happened to fall from a nest.

But who knew birds detested possums to that extreme?  There's a little tunnel going under the shed, too big for a rat and too small for a racoon, so perhaps they made a summer home there.  Good luck to them in this harsh town.

Yesterday we went to an amazing hidden garden in Federal Way (of all places) called Powellswood.  The 3-acre property was purchased by a couple in 1993, the hideous site of an old garbage dump with soil so sterile weeds wouldn't even grow.  The smart owners partnered with the county on a research project testing the effectiveness of different mulch preparation on soil restoration.  Needless to say, it worked. The plants are so abnormally large, it felt like Jurassic Park.

 No, not paint splashed-- a stunning verigated hardy kiwi.
Garden envy rears its ugly head.

 

Foxglove

Digitalis purpurea 

Digitalis means "finger-like" in Latin, because the flower can slip easily over the finger.  This one showed up as a pretty volunteer by the back gate, since I've never planted foxglove in the yard.  The digitalis plant produces effective cardiac medicines, approved fairly recently by the Food and Drug Administration.

Use of digitalis is in decline, no doubt because the pharmaceutical companies have developed much more expensive alternatives for congestive heart failure, like the pills we see advertised on the evening news with the terrifying side effects. I wonder sometimes who is brave enough to take those drugs.

So here we are, looking ahead to a welcome 3-day weekend.  Monday is the first official day off work for John since New Years. No, Boeing does not give its workers a holiday on Presidents Day, or Veterans Day, or even Indigenous Peoples Day (as we must call it in Seattle.)

We rarely stray far from home on Memorial Day weekend; the traffic is horrendous and you need to make reservations far in advance to stay just about anywhere.  The weather looks decent, not especially warm, but dry with our friend the marine deck hanging around in the morning.  The hardworking man of the house has been forewarned about my long overdue cleaning project in the basement.  Knocking down cobwebs and actually vacuuming behind stuff for a change.  Hopefully we'll find a few fun things to do as well.

Summer reading list

View of "Lake Bill"

from the Library

Microsoft Campus, c. 1990

When I was a research librarian at Microsoft, we jumped into action when any request came in from the executive office. For example, Bill Gate's tech assistant would come to the library and pick up books for his annual "think week" vacation.  Putting together Bill's reading list was a plum assignment for the senior researcher, but quite a bit of work before the Internet made everything so easy.  It was stressful, too, and hours were spent hashing out things Bill might find interesting. Wasting Bill's time with irrelevant material was a cardinal sin, and we would hear about it later.
 
Bill was a fast, indiscriminate and greedy reader, and he would plow through hundreds of newspapers, magazines, technical reports, company reports, along with history, philosophy, fiction, etc. from the library. Yes, in those days, Bill Gates actually checked out books from his corporate library.

To make a long story short, I think it's interesting (not to mention, rather sweet) that Bill Gates, still a voracious reader, publishes his summer reading recommendations like a good, old-fashioned librarian.

These are his books for 2018:

"Leonardo da Vinci," by Walter Isaacson

"Everything Happens for a Reason and Other Lies I've Loved," by Kate Bowler

"Lincoln in the Bardo," by George Saunders

"Origin Story: A Big History of Everything," by David Christian

"Factfulness, " by Hans Rosling

Garrison Keillor

I still miss Garrison Keillor's "Writer's Almanac," a daily radio program featuring poetry and historical interest pieces.  It was a regular source of inspiration from 1993 until November 2017, when Keillor's contract was terminated by Minnesota Public Radio.  

You cannot keep a good writer down, and Garrison Keillor now has an excellent blog. I was happy to find the poetry archive from the Writer's Almanac there.  (I put a link to his blog on my favorite list so you can check it out.)

Each week he writes a different essay on random topics.  This week, he talks so poignantly about the challenge finding purpose and meaning late in life. I copied it below in full, I hope he doesn't mind.

From Garrison Kelllor's Blog
May 2018

"The lilacs are in bloom out at the old family homestead and it’s pleasant to stand by the bushes and smell them and recall that the outhouse used to stand a few feet away. Who does not feel his faith in resurrection strengthened by this news? We’ve all been stinkers at times but once we leave the body behind, we shall bloom in the life to come.

My ancestors settled on that land in 1880, and my father once drove a manure spreader in the field near the lilacs, pulled by a team of four horses. They were heading downhill and he maybe forgot to apply the brake and the spreader clipped the hind horses’ legs and they bolted and took off down the road, my dad hanging on for dear life. The spreader tipped over when the horses galloped around a corner and my father leaped clear and landed in a ditch, no bones broken. He wrote a clear account of this in a letter to the city girl he hoped to marry, a harrowing story about the fragility of life and how death waits for us when we least expect it and so we should take hold of love and happiness when it presents itself. It was a well-written narrative and it won her heart and that’s where I come from, a rare venture into journalism by a taciturn man.

I’ve found love and happiness, thank you, and what I’m looking for now is a new vocation, a purpose, a mission. A man can’t just lie in a hammock and identify birds. The birds don’t need us to tell them who they are. Travel for travel’s sake doesn’t interest me, nor sack races, sock hops, secular humanism, or psychics. I turn 76 soon and so there’s no time for retraining. I once wanted to be a waiter or a bus driver but those doors, I’m sure, have closed.

Meanwhile, something dreadful is surely waiting for me up ahead. Over the years, I have filled out thousands of forms and always checked the little box saying I accept the terms and conditions and never have I read those terms and conditions. Eventually those terms and conditions will come due. I know it and you know it.

Searching for a new purpose in life, I depend on my wife for guidance, as I do in so many matters. She tells me, “Smile at people. Offer your hand. Ask them how they are today and listen pleasantly as they tell you.” Somehow in my old age I’ve taken on a grim expression without meaning to. I’m happy as can be, contented and serene, and friends ask me if something’s wrong. Evidently my default face is that of an ogre.

My generation was not a lighthearted bunch. We produced Bob Dylan, who is not a guy you’d willingly go on a long car trip with. We were a skeptical, brooding, cranky bunch, and I can see that now when I hang out with my grandson. He is congenial and so are his friends and people his age. Totally. I see them walking around with their smartphones, which contain a GPS app that beeps when a friend is in the vicinity, and this app guides them to each other — the electronic lady voice says, “Coffee shop, 100 feet ahead on your left. Outdoor table by the door.” And the two friends sit down side by side and they text each other, “Hey how R U?” while checking their e-mail, Twitter, and Snapchat to see what their other friends are up to. If they are boys, they play a video game in which hooded assassins dash across a devastated landscape and wreak destruction and attempt to kill each other. If they are girls, they exchange pictures of their cats.

I don’t have the dexterity to do those things so I am limited to personal contact. But friendliness is a good enough vocation, I think, for these twilight years. I come from separatist fundamentalist people who sincerely believed that you are going to hell because you don’t accept the truth that was revealed to them. So it goes against my principles to befriend you but I’m going to do it anyway. I have nothing to sell you, don’t worry. I don’t care whom you voted for last time. I’m going to be friendly because my wife told me to be. When you’re loved by a person as good as she, you pay attention to what she says.

Have a wonderful day, friend. Thinking about you, wishing you all the best."

Garrison Keillor

Honey or pharmaceutical?

On impulse, I bought a big jar of Maunka honey at Costco for $39, which seemed crazy expensive, just for making John's granola. Then I saw this tiny jar at Trader Joe's for $14!  It was in the vitamin section, apparently considered a supplement and not a condiment to spoon on toast and oatmeal. 

Manuka honey is produced in New Zealand by bees that pollinate the native Manuka bush.  I didn't know this, but hydrogen peroxide is produced in all honey, which gives it an antibiotic quality that can stop the growth of bacteria.  In fact, honey has been used for thousands of years to fight infection.

But they claim that Manuka honey has other components with stronger antibacterial qualities, such as dihydroxyacetone -- that is found only in the nectar of Manuka flowers.  Honey producers have developed a scale for rating the potency of Manuka honey called UMF, which stands for Unique Manuka Factor. Talk about smart marketing.

If you feel a sore throat coming on, a spoonful of Manuka honey supposedly gives instant improvement. It might be just another health fad, but here's a list of other claims:

1. Helps with SIBO, Low Stomach Acid, Acid Reflux
2. May Help Treat Acne and Eczema
3. Combats Staph Infections (MRSA)
4. Treats Burns, Wounds and Ulcers
5. Prevents Tooth Decay and Gingivitis
6. Aids IBS and IBD Treatment
7. Improves Sore Throats and Immunity
8. Helps Allergies
9. Beauty Treatment and Health Booster
10. Improves Sleep

The magic Manuka flower

Let it be

Amazing how pretty things can get when you just leave well enough alone.  All of a sudden, the succulents have filled out their pots again. They are so easy to grow in everything from old boots to baskets.  Nurseries have expensive, beautiful containers of mixed succulents, although the fancy varieties won't make it through the winter. I'm probably going on the 20th generation of tough old hens and chicks, and haven't bought a new succulent for years. 

Did you hear about the small, country wedding in England?  I shouldn't be cynical, but the media build-up was so all encompassing I couldn't wait for the dang thing to be over.  Then I woke up at 4:30 on Saturday morning, our usual ungodly time, and went downstairs with a cup of coffee to watch on the big television. I was hooked. It was beautiful. The castle, the dress, the cute kids who almost stole the show, and the horse carriage parade on a sparking day in Windsor. 

For some, also a ridiculous display of extravagance and taxpayer waste. But it was nice watching something happy for a change, that had nothing to do with politics (i.e. Donald Trump.)  They did not invite any political figures (unless you count Oprah) to their wedding. Royal marriages don't have a good track record in the happy department, but despite all their celebrity and privilege, this couple seems different. Good luck to them. 

We didn't do much this weekend. As they say in England, the weather was "dull." It can be cloudy in a pleasant way, with the sun shining through, but "dull" adds the idea of gloomy, grey clouds. The weathermen call it the marine deck, which drifts inland overnight and may (or may not) burn off by  afternoon. It is very typical in May and June. People start freaking out when it gets over 75 so they like the marine deck in the summer.  Yesterday we shared the same high temperature with northern Maine, the coolest spots in the country.  The sun did finally show up late in the day and I made a teriyaki steak on the grill for dinner.  There was another big weekend construction project on I-5, and it didn't seem worth the trouble to stray far from home.

Holding down the fort

Hardly a week that goes by that we don't get a letter from someone asking to buy our house. Sometimes they even send along a picture, in case we forgot where we live. In real estate parlance, this modest old bungalow, built about 1915, is now a "Historic Craftsman." There are tens of thousands of "Historic Crafstman" houses in Seattle, most with with pokey little rooms and kitchens that people like to remodel. Owning something so coveted should make me happy, but instead it feels creepy, like wolves at the door.  Not to mention, too reminiscent of the 2008 housing bubble.   

But they claim this is different. Seattle has the hottest real estate market in the country: low inventory, skyrocketing prices, high demand.  In terms of affordable housing, it's a nightmare for moderate income people. The cost of living in Seattle is 36% above the national average. Many long-time Seattlelites have had enough of this crowded and expensive city and are moving away.  But thousands of newcomers still flow in every month, attracted by good tech jobs and the Northwest lifestyle.

Most houses sell above the asking price so prospective buyers compete in bidding wars. Buyers also try to sell themselves to the seller with appealing letters. Begging to buy, in other words. The houses in desirable areas of town (even dumps) sell within hours.

All of this sounds humiliating and exhausting if you are looking for a house, which thankfully we are not.  At least not now.  I still have that dream house in he back of my mind: spacious but not huge, single level with an entertaining kitchen, large deck, master bedroom, real closets and a view of something other than houses.  But it isn't going to happen, at least not right now in Seattle.

In the meantime, our bungalow (excuse me, Historic Craftsman) is nice and the yard is a private paradise as the city springs up around us.  Still, driving around Seattle, I see the gorgeous view houses we could have bought for a song (relatively speaking) not that long ago. But I am practicing gratitude instead of coulda, woulda, shouda.  And when all is said and done, it not so much what you have, it's how you see it.

Hope you have a nice weekend.

Photo credit J.T.

Happy Birthday, Marji

Remember that birthday card I sent you a long time ago? It went like this:

Roses are red,

Violets are blue,

Whatever your age,

I'll be younger than you! 

Ha ha, and it's still true!  But don't worry, it's just another number. OK, a big number. Hope you have a wonderful day, dear sister.

We play for food

A few of my fellow "Ukes"

We had a good turnout at the Mother's Day lunch yesterday. Sixteen Ukes played and sang for an audience of 75 ladies, with the usual sprinkling of elderly men in for a hot lunch.  Thankfully, Charlie cut the most troublesome songs from the playlist, although we had to play longer than we planned.

The regular Senior Center chef was on vacation, and the person filling in was running seriously late. I wanted to put down my ukulele, and make myself more useful in the kitchen.  So we had a captive audience, as hungry people waited patiently for their plate of dry chicken almondine and green beans.  By the time The Ukes were finally served, the kitchen was running short on food, but everyone got a little something.  (I always eat before I go to these things, because you never know.)

The Senior Center is at the West Seattle Junction, ground zero for big development.  I hope it isn't true, but there's a rumor the entire block including the Senior Center will be demolished. This to build, you guessed it, more multi-story apartment buildings with expensive retail space at street level. That drives out the small independent businesses that make the neighborhood interesting, and we're left with chain stores and restaurants.  It's such a perfect, central location for the vibrant, busy Senior Center. If they lose the building, where could they afford to relocate in West Seattle? 

Cute kids

Here's Nova and Maya making friends with some goats this weekend at TwispWorks.  They both love animals, but are already opinionated about where they want to live when they grow up.  Nova says she's a country girl, but Maya likes city excitement and says she wants to live in Seattle. 

So this week has that getting back to normal feel.  I enjoyed talking to my sister Marji yesterday and hearing about the birthday cruise she took with her daughters. They sailed from Long Beach to Vancouver, Canada on an enormous ship. Except for the part about being 40 miles out on the Pacific Ocean in a sea-sicky gale, it sounded relaxing, and they really did the town in Victoria.

The Ukes are playing today at a luncheon at the Senior Center.  No one is very happy with the playlist that Charlie (our de facto leader) put together. It's filled with songs we can't play well, and never will, even if we practice to the end of time.  I hope they winnow out the selections that sound just awful on the ukulele, like Patsy Cline's "Crazy." We play it so slow it sounds like someone just died, kind of depressing at a Senior Center.

The Ukes gained new members in the last year, which is good, although some of the strong personalities have sure changed the vibe of the old, laid back group.

I'll let you know tomorrow how it goes.  Our payment for the gig, as usual, is a free lunch.

The darling buds of May

I had a peaceful Mother's Day spent entirely at home. Why fight the crowds for a mediocre (at best) restaurant meal? We had waffles with bacon for breakfast, leftover fried chicken for lunch, and a big steak for dinner followed by fruit tart from Metropolitan Market.  Thank, you, John.  But after a week of indulgence, it's back to food reality in this house.

Even after just a few days, the garden starts to look tatty without my constant puttering, so in between cooking and eating I worked outside yesterday.  I'm always amazed how fast the soil dries out in May. The grass will soon turn yellow, and I'm already watering sections of the flower garden.  You might wonder how can this be, after so many months of drenching? For one thing, we have very sandy soil here...

And Seattle is surprisingly dry in the summer. Precipitation declines rapidly and the solar radiation is reaching peak intensity now.  We are approaching 16 hours of daylight.

The peonies and iris are back, like big old dependable friends. Nothing dainty about these guys.

Desert crab

It's a beautiful morning, with a brisk, almost chilly wind blowing at sunrise.  Las Vegas will only be in the mid-80's this weekend.  Seattle might actually hit 80 tomorrow, when people start complaining about the obsessive heat. Down here, they are pulling out the jackets.

I've never made crab cakes quite like this. I just followed the recipe on the can, with a few additions like green onion and parsley.

They turned out quite tasty, especially with spicy Thai sweet chili sauce on top...

And, vegetable fried rice to round out our dinner.  Sadly, all nice visits come to an end, and I fly back to Seattle this afternoon.  I love a cooking challenge and told Dad to start thinking about the next time!

Geese, wine and iPod magic

Floyd Lamb Park was quiet and peaceful for our early morning walk.  The temperature has cooled down to the low 90's, just about perfect for the desert.

The goslings have learned a thing or two from their elders about handouts.

Hoards of hungry teenage geese.

A stop at Trader Joes' to replenish the home wine supply.  Happy Mother's Day, Marji!

Oh yes, Dad put in a special request for crab cakes.  I will follow the recipe on the back of this big can of "fresh" crab from Trader Joes.  Wish me luck.

Last but not least, I introduced Dad to the magic of the Apple iPod and my Bose noise cancelling, Bluetooth headphones. He was excited because they fit comfortably over his hearing aids.  I went out yesterday afternoon to do a little shopping and left him alone with his favorite music, Beethoven's Ninth Symphony.   Two hours later when I got back, he was in the same place with the same rapt expression on his face. The iPod was on repeat, and he was so entranced with the sound he listened to it twice without realizing it, until the Ode to Joy came around for a second time.