Our First PNW December – All it’s cracked up to be

   The warnings had come often and consistently since moving to Fidalgo Island in late February: “Wait ‘til winter arrives. Then we’ll see how you like it in the northern 48s.”
   In a way, the warnings were correct, though not in the way intended. 
Fowl Weather

Click to enlarge

   First, in early December, we suddenly found it important to drop everything we were doing and hop into Wes in search of migrating Tundra Swans (a.k.a. trumpeter swans) who, the locals claimed, could be spotted in the nature preserve ponds just outside of La Conner, the tulip capital of the world United States.
   After searching and searching in every cove we could find (I exaggerate), we gave up, and drove toward town for a beer and noshes at the Trumpeter Public House, which we considered fitting.
    On the way, however, we came across a little turkey farm, where we learned that turkeys can be extremely friendly. In fact, when I got out of Wes and said hi to them so they’d at least turn around and smile for the camera, they all thronged toward me like I was a vision of the Virgin Mary here to grant them clemency and peace. Really! Enlarge the picture. It was hilarious. They wouldn’t stop talking to me. Blah, blah, blah. Something about getting gobbled up, or whatever. I snapped my pictures and quit the scene in a flash. Turkeys. As you probably know, can fly.
   Now we really needed a beer.

   But, then, as if guided by fate herself, we spotted white flashes yon across the freeway, in Farmer Sven’s freshly furrowed fields, which, because it had rained wildly the night before, were brim full of water. It was in those lake rows we spotted our loot. Millions or hundreds, take you pick, of pristinely white tundra swans were floating in the furrows, some with their necks tightly craned, their heads submerged, others flapping their wings to dry them out or to stake a claim.
   Now we really needed that beer, which we indeed had, before deciding to press our luck and search for bald eagles catching salmon along the Skagit River shoals up the highway near Concrete, maybe thirty miles.
   We found no sign of the eagles because the river was flooded due to Thanksgiving's snow being followed by a forty-two degree heat wave.
   The whole flooding phenomenon, however, did hold our interest. SoCal’s rivers, which we are used to, are lined with concrete, not because it goes with the rest of the décor so much better, but because in urban settings, flooding understandably needs to be controlled in a highly efficient and predictable manner. Since Skagit County is the antithesis of urban, the natural river banks are what contain and channel the water down to the Sound. If there’s too much water, then the river floods, and the county puts up signs reminding motorists that driving in flooded areas is the major cause of storm-related deaths, which seems obvious, except . . .
   So we’re driving along the road, and I’m watching the GPS, and David asks, “What’s the name of that lake out there?” And I have to say, “It’s not a lake. It’s a farm.” So we understand why the locals may need to be reminded to not drive on their driveways during inclement weather and thaws.
   In Sauk Park, where we looked for the bald eagles, we got another picture of Davy inside our favorite tree (left, middle).
   Also at the bottom of that trio of pictures on the left is a gorgeous sunset taken on a stormy afternoon off the Coupeville Pier, after a JustWrite session. Two fellow writers and I were hiking along the pier to our cars, talking about how, as expats from California, the constant visuals the Puget Sound area provides never gets old, boring, or normal. It’s still been ages since I’ve seen graffiti.
Beat Army

   I have no idea why the Army-Navy game is no longer played on the same first weekend of December as the USC-UCLA game so you can land a spot in a sports bar and squat there all day to hopefully watch USC and Army writhe in misery.
   It matters not, because we had a fabulous time with Hank and Sandi Siebert at NAS Whidbey’s Officers Club watching Navy totally trounce Army with such plays as an almost-ninety-nine yard touchdown at the game’s start. Yahoo!!!
   As far as officers club decor goes, and I’m no connoisseur, NAS Whidbey's has walls thickly lined with paraphernalia and mementos, such as part of the rudder (above left) of the EP-3 Surveillance aircraft that went down in China in 2001, an incident, interestingly enough, which was assuaged by David’s USNA classmate Joseph Prueher, then Ambassador to China.
   There were also plenty of squadron plaques from this century’s war sorties. All we could do was imagine how the pilots got names such as Baggy, Hose, and Gramps, for our last visit to NAS Whidbey taught us that the names are earned by misdeed, rather than physical mutation or endowment. 
   Unlike the usual sports-bar environments in which we usually watch The Game, Whidbey officers brought the whole family, so there were tons of little kids tearing around the place, playing catch with midget footballs and running for passes between the formally set tables ready for the evening festivities. Besides being hilarious, it was bittersweet, for we knew this squadron, who’d been flying practice runs over the Sound for the last couple of months, would be leaving their families for Iraq and/or Afghanistan around Christmas. As I write today, the skies are silent and waiting for the new crew to rev up the engines and get to their practicing.
The Plasses

   Jane and Norm Wolfe, who’d been to Seattle to watch Lindsey’s dance recital, were supposed to visit the second week of December; sadly, plans went awry. Another time.
   But after Christmas, Beverly Plass (who’s still in my Louella Nelson Critique Group that I miss SOOOO much) and her family (husband Howard, son Tyler, and friend Jason) came up for the day from Black Mountain, Enumclaw, where Howard was raised.
   We went to the Adrift, a local restaurant that serves locally-grown food from the county and the San Juan Islands. It was great catching up with Bev, and I have no idea what the guys were talking about, but they seemed to be having a great time. Then we drove them around and showed the highlights of the island, except we didn’t take them to the top of Mt. Erie, because it had snowed that day, and we weren’t sure we could make it to the top on the icy road, or make it down alive.
   p.s.: For reference’s sake, in the picture of just Bev and me, I put a red arrow pointing to the hill upon which we live.
Postcards from Whidbey Island

   As Harry Anderson wrote for the Whidbey Examiner, “What would it have looked like if Garrison Keillor and Ed Sullivan had moved to Whidbey Island and started producing live, monthly variety shows together?”
   Anderson's question sparked our curiostiy, so David and I set out to discover just what this was all about on Dec. 19, a chilly Sunday afternoon.
   We drove over Deception Pass Bridge that links Fidalgo Island to Whidbey, past Oak Harbor and Penn Cove (home of Penn Cove mussels) to southwestern Coupeville, where we found the (now-heated) Historic Crockett Barn, lying west of Crockett Prairie (Whidbey Island has three prairies!), and south of Fort Casey.
   Inside the packed house, we enjoyed the recorded matinee, where, fun of fun, people from the JustWrite (on Whidbey) group I attend each Wednesday took part. Mary Rose Anderson read a stirring memoir about her enormous cat Harry who helped mother her daughter until his death. Sandra Pollard-Snowberger lamented about the trevails of being married to a Norwegian, and therefore having a Norwegian mother-in-law. And William Bell and Elizabeth Herbert who run Local Grown at the end of the Coupeville Pier emceed the production, as well as overseeing it all as producer/director. Listen! And here's part 2.
   AND there were cookies and a raffle to help the local animal shelter. Bayview Sound 
provided the music, which was amazingly good. The guy sounds like Neil Young and the fiddler had heart. Who can ask for anything more? Listen!
The Bus Stop: An update

   As promised, we’ve uploaded a picture of the maringally famous  Rosario Road bus stop, with its revolving holiday displays. Wonder what next month will bring!
   The other two pictures were taken at the insistence of Davy’s car, Wes, who likes to have his picture taken with the local scenery, perhaps as a testament to the fact that he’s in fact been out of the garage and in the weather. We, of course, cow-tow to his wishes because, frankly, we want him to start every morning.
   The middle picture shows him patiently waiting while we make our futile attempt to find swans in the wild-life preserve.
    The bottom photograph is a particularle favorite shot of his from Washington Park looking toward Skyline and its marina (where we almost lived, except the owner died and his daughter wouldn’t go through with the transaction so we live somewhere on the hill we pointed out in the Bev and Joanne picture).
Cold Sand

   Another surprising delight winter provides us are the beach walks. After a storm, it’s an adventure to spot the new logs that have banged onto shore, adding to the bone pile already gilding the sand.
   We shot this picture because we loved the little kid’s shoe prints juxtapositioned against his or her dog’s. If only we were around to see more than the footprints they left behind.
Where the Tulips Meet the Ferries

   Anacortest literally sits between the ferry landings and the tulip fields, the San Juan Islands and the Cascade Mountains, and the shipping lanes and the railroad highways. 
   Thus, ferries are vitally important, especially since they're a whole lot easier to build and maintain than a bunch of bridges connecting a natural archipelago in a windswept environment. 
   So it has been interesting to venture down to the harbor, which is like ten little blocks from the grocery store, to watch what the local ship industry's up to.
   For the last month, since they shipped the Cade Candies platform off to the Gulf of Mexico, they've been fixing ferries, which means they've dismantled them and set the top parts, where the cars and passengers travel, up on the dock, and left the rest in the water. It’s actually rather disorienting to drive by and see some ship’s superstructure in a lot next to the sidewalk. 
   One of these days, David and I will stop one of the workers on his way to his car and ask what they're doing to the ferries. Almost always the guys are thrilled and proud to describe their current projects and the part they play, which we think is fabulous. Very neat energy!!!
   The last picture on the left shows the local marina wildlife. Down in Alamitos, where Always is moored, the sealife clinging to the docks is either bright orange like a well-marketed orange or slug brown. These up at Anchor Cove Marina I think look quite festive, especially with the snow-covered Mt. Baker in the background, which you cannot see because I cropped the photograph.
Glade Jul

   Last, we had a delightful little Christmas, our first up here. Since we knew none of our kids would be making the trek northwest, we celebrated Christmas Eve with friends and spent Christmas recuperating.
   We had prime rib for dinner, which was a bit tough for my taste, but I'll figure out the meat shopping up here by next year. That's for sure! The chocolate souffles were delish, and so was our company: Linda Page, Carl Bergan, Ellen Kaiser, Bob Lane, Kim Adams and Bill Monteforte--all fellow members of the Fidalgo Yacht Club. 

We're still alive!

Birdy toes in the snow and a local quail (Lave's photo)

It has been a long time since we’ve last posted on this blog, but I have been writing like crazy. So crazy, in fact, that I’m proud to announce that I completed the novel I wrote for National Novel Writing Month, which means I won because I wrote a minimum of fifty-thousand words between November 1 and November 30. Actually, I completed the book the day after Thanksgiving at 4:47 p.m. and will pick it back up in a week or two, because it needs extensive polishing. Its working title is Finding Irene, but that will change. It’s about a woman who finds her birthmother, and it’s narrated by her younger sister who died at birth. 
   Why did I do this? 
   Because the hardest part about writing a book is the fanny time, the actual sitting down and writing of the book. I knew I was going to have to write it sooner or later because it had been knocking on the side of my head for months, waking me in the middle of the night, and dictating portions of itself to me. When I heard about the contest, I thought: I can do this, but I’ll need to negotiate this with David first. After all, having a novelist in the house is not that easy. You ask her how her day has been, and she tells you what’s currently happening in her book, because that’s the world in which she’s living. You want to ask her a question, and she’s got her door shut so you know she wants you to wait and tell her later. But, David, being the fabulous husband that he is, agreed. So I wrote like crazy, often three thousand words a day, and got done early, because frankly, I don’t know if I’d be totally thrilled if the tables were turned.
   Still, a lot has happened since we last wrote about our coast-to-coast-to-coast road trip. We had guests the weekend of October 23, it has snowed a lot, we went to Friday Harbor to be with our club friends on their cruise, and we got to go inside the IMR (Installation/inspection, maintenance and repair vessel for deep water oil rigs) Cade Candies that was built here in Anacortes. We did other stuff too, but I can’t quite remember because, as I hinted before, I was lost in my story world.


L2R: Joanne, Marily, Lin, Dan, David, Lave

Company’s Coming!

   In August, after working around two couples’ ultra busy schedules, we finally settled on a date for right after our road trip for them both to visit. Bless the angels, everything worked out. On the brisk Saturday morning of Oct. 23, Lin and Lave Gustafson (she’s been a friend of mine since 1985) and Marilyn and Dan Wilshin (Dan is David’s brother) drove up from Issaquah to spend the weekend.
   We had a wonderful time touring Fidalgo Island, driving up to its best scenic spots, where Lave captured some super shots of the area’s geography.
   The pictures on your left were taken on Mt. Erie. The top photograph looks south to Whidbey Island, while the bottom shot focuses on one of Fidalgo Island’s many lakes, this one being Lake Campbell. Honest to Pete, the skies up here can take your breath away, and as you will see in other photographs Lave took, the sky’s reflection in the Sound magnifies this beauty. It reminds me of Wallace Steven’s poem, “Sea Surface Full of Clouds.”
   The top-right picture was taken atop Cap Sante overlooking one of the town’s marinas on the island’s north-east corner. Just looking at it makes me drool for the day Always sells and we can purchase a power boat. Then the fun begins!! The bottom two pictures shows a house in town that totally intrigues me. A couple owns a warehouse next to the house, in which they manufacture everything for the home. The luxury of time.

   The time just flew during their visit. I thought for sure we’d be able to get in a little bowling at San Juan Lanes, but alas, our stomachs growled for dinner. Then I thought there’d be time for some Balderdash, because with such a witty crew captured in our house, there’d be sure to have some hysterical bluffs. But we just kept talking and talking and enjoying the heck out of ourselves, that bedtime seemed to arrive way too early.
   Next time!
   The photographs to your upper left are more taken by Lave. Aren’t they something!!! The bottom one is of the Deception Pass Bridge, which Marilyn requested we cross. The water really is that color! The bridge, built in the thirties by the Conservation Corps, connects Fidalgo and Whidbey Islands, and provided Whidbey Islanders an alternative to taking the ferry to reach the mainland. After the bridge was built, agriculture on Whidbey Island flourished, for the farmers now had an easier access to their markets. The water under the bridge is always aboil, like the Potato Patch between Santa Cruz and Santa Rosa Islands off California’s Santa Barbara Channel.
Boo!

   Halloween was the next weekend, and while we did nothing to celebrate it, we enjoyed how the townspeople decorated the kids’ bus stops. Actually, this one changes its décor monthly. When they get it all ready for Christmas, I post another picture. The town, by the way, has an annual Halloween party in the wharf’s big warehouse. Next year!

   October and November provided us glorious fall days and trees sumptious to behold. The middle photo captures the maple that grows by our kitchen in its fall dress. Reminds me of sherbet ice cream.
Cade Candies
   Last weekend on a shivering cold Sunday, Dakota Creek Industries held an open house to show off the completion of one of its most recent projects, the IMR Cade Candies. Naturally we were intrigued by such a huge vessel having such a sweet name, until we realized that it was built for Otto Candies LLC, which provides transportation and towing for marine industries. We took two cars so I could take a peek before getting back to my writing, and David could stick around as long as he wanted, which was a very long time, made longer by the fact that they served enormous cookies at deck level.
   Of course David was in seventh heaven with the whole ship and the harbor and the marine hardware store in the background, which happens to be the oldest marine hardware store on the west coast if local myths are to be believed, but I too found delight. For one thing, in the moon pool, the dark oblong swimming pool kind of thing amidships, floats a couple of rubber duckies (middle picture, left), which seemed both fitting, and not. On the dock, there rested a superstructure (top picture right), minus the rest of the ship, kind of like a bust of a ship. And of course there were the other boats being built, like the tug boat which is a million times larger than David, who can be seen between the witch’s hats. (Here's somebody else's great blog entry about the vessel.)

   The 309’ Cade Candies, for those of you who are interested, runs on a roomfuls of yellow Caterpillar engines and generators and is stabilized Schottel electric azimuthing (anti-rudder) thrusters. It’s set to head off to the Gulf Coast for, you guessed it, supporting offshore drilling operations.
Brrrr.

   The next day, and for days after, it snowed! When the snow level hit an inch, David decided we better get the van down to street level, because we have a very steep driveway. It was fun being inside, nice and warm, watching David back down the driveway, his foot on the brake, the wheels not turning an inch, and the van slowly sliding down to the street. He did survive that, but he almost did not survive what happened next.
   Because it really wasn’t supposed to snow that much, “just flurries” is what the weatherman had on the menu for the day, David did not put on the chains. But, because he had a very important letter that had to be mailed in a post box, he had to drive to where one was. Not far in route, he realized that if he wanted to stay alive and not slip over a cliff, he needed to put on his chains. So he spread out his tarp, got the chains out, and began the arduous task of attaching the chains to the rear tires first, before realizing the van is a front-wheel-drive vehicle, and then taking them off to put them on the front tires.
   During all this, a woman in another van, one similar to ours, arrived to where David was at the same time a large truck also reached that location. She could not stop, so, without even aiming, she skidded into our van, which then moved forward approximately fifteen feet. The MOST fortunate thing about this, of course, is that David was graced with seeing all this coming, and he got out from under the van before it could either run over him or drag him down the highway. Egad. Praise the fates! All is well. And we’re both a little smarter.
   Because of the week's snow and the new snowstorm that passed through Thanksgiving Day morning, we most regretfully had to give up any attempt to make it to Clinton, on the southern tip of Whidbey Island to feast with the entertaining Sandi and Hank Siebert and their also very entertaining tribe. Instead, we had the great fortune of being invited to Carl and Linda's home in Skyline and sharing a very fun day with their family and the Yorks.
Boatless in Seattle
   As previously mentioned, we are still boatless, in that Always is still on the block in Long Beach, California. So we own a boat, but cannot sail her. That will change, of course. In the meantime, we had to take the ferry to Friday Harbor in order to meet up with our yacht club buddies who were there on a weekend cruise and had lots to do, including a treasure hunt and a visit to the local historic museum. 

  

Trail's End

   Oct. 9, 4:30 p.m. Dave clicked on Amana's right-turn blinker for the last time on our trek across the country and back, and drove up our driveway on Seaview Way. Home at last!

   We'd driven 7900 miles in twenty-seven days. Our big accomplishment, though, was our trip home. 3190 miles in four days.
   Working to our advantage were the facts that we gained an hour every day and that Colorado, Wyoming and Idaho have go-ahead-and-break-your-neck speed limits.
   Our big-number day had us driving 900 miles from St. Louis to Cheyenne. We saw a lot and missed a lot, all at the same time.

   David and I would like to salute several things which added to our trip.

   First, our twelve-year-old steadfast steed Amana, who made it all 7900 miles in great shape, though she did throw a shoe in the middle of an Iowan cornfield.
   We salute our decade-old US map book, which was relatively up-to-date. With a newer edition we'd have known the northeast section of Denver's turnpike had been completed.
   Fortune has it that our Blackberry GPSs were up to date, so we made it through Denver with aplomb, but got a bit lost in Ocean City, MD, where the satellites were taking the day off. 
   Lastly, we salute the highway patrolmen and state troopers of every state we drove through for ignoring our frequent uses of excess speed. Hospitality means a lot to us!
Two Days to Go
   The Wednesday before David's Towson High School Class of '60's fiftieth reunion had us spending a miserable time holed up in the Irvington house, for an Amazon-hot torrential storm drenched Virginia in four inches of rain. We couldn't drive anywhere because the Irvington property has a gravel, rather than paved, drive way. Remembering our last downpour in Irvington when Aunt Kathy suddenly needed medical care, and the ambulance got stuck in the grassy mud half-way between the house and the street, we parked Amana way away from the trees and securely on the gravel.
   We couldn't do our normal thing of enjoying the storm from the porch either, because the rain poured horizontally. Nor could we watch TV, because one didn't exist in the house. Nor did broadband. Or cable. Or even a slow-motion modem.
   You'd think we'd settle in and read, but the air was sticky hot. We just sat around and bitched and looked forward to Thursday's visit to Williamsburg and Friday's drive up to Ocean City, MD, for the reunion festivities.

   Our main reason for going to Williamsburg was because I decided I had nothing to wear and needed to visit the nearest Chico's. Which is also a great excuse to also visit one of our favorite little haunts, the Blue Talon Bistro! The bistro's right across the street from College of William and Mary, where David's daddy went (I kept imagining Ed Wilshin and John Stewart sitting in class together!), so it's filled with university profs and ladies who do lunch. Julie and Julia was on the big screen.
   David had the meatloaf sandwich, and I had a winter-crisp chopped salad.
Blast Off!
   From the get-go, David's reunion was a scream! Even the hotel staff was struck by the high energy level and pure glee the alumni expressed upon seeing each other.
   Happiness de-ages people, I think. After all, doesn't the idea of a fifty-year reunion conjure images of shaky old people propped up by canes? Not this crew. Plenty of them were still in their professions in one form or another. Or they were active doing something. I tell you, they were a contagious bunch. Kudos to the reunion committee: Helen Perkins Berry, Jane Dodson Brewer, Kathy Ensor, and John Carpenter.

   I do have to sneak in here the fact that David was class president, and so there classmates aplenty came up to him with fond memories of putting on all the class-cabinet activities. Other classmates, Kathy Ensor and John Lang (bottom left), reminded him they were in the same primary classes together. Still others had neighborhood memories. It was, for me, just lovely to behold.
   Note: Kathy Ensor remembered the elementary-school incident when their class, on a field trip to Washington, D.C., witnessed Puerto Rican nationals shooting up the House of Representatives. Here's the newsreel.
   We spent much of our time hanging out with professors/authors Linda Loeb Clark and Bill Weber (third down, left), two of the many people we miss terribly since moving to Washington. I hope Bill and Linda don't mind us saying this, but for a couple of overbrained eggheads, (Linda wrote Social Darwinism and French intellectuals, 1860-1915 and The Rise of Professional Women in France. Bill wrote The Great Transformation of Musical Taste: Concert Programming from Haydn to Brahms and Music and The Middle Class: The Social Structure of Concert Life in London, Paris and Vienna Between 1830 and 1848) the four of us have had some mighty raucous and inspirational dinners in our homes and aboard Always!
   We also spent warm, happy time and a great crab-cake lunch with David's good bud, fellow lawyer and lacrosse player Stewart Baird (top left), once of Marin County, and now of New Hampshire. 
   It was also great to spend time with Susan Linde, student-body prez Carvel Payne and his wife Anne Sartorius Payne, and June and Bruce Taylor (second down, left). Bruce was a USNA classmate of David's.
   As class president, David was called upon to give a talk, and he did just great! Not too long, not too short. Just right, interactively recalling the highlights of the seven decades he and his classmate have lived through.
   Wowzer!
   Sadly, we did not get to visit Frances Meginnis, David's English teacher. She was feeling like hell and didn't want to see anyone. Sometimes it's just not right to force someone to see you, though we were duly tempted.
   P.S. We did not get the prize for coming the farthest for the reunion. Someone else drove from Germany!
Bobby

   We stopped in Annapolis to see Robert Timberg and revere his entryway sentry on our way home from Ocean City. Bob was David's roommate at the Naval Academy, and they share a wonderful comaraderie. For me it was great to see David light up in Bob's presence for these guys go way back.  
   Bob talked about his current project, which is writing a book chronicling his time at USNA, to Vietnam where he was injured, to his days as Washington bureau chief for the Baltimore Sun, to publishing The Nightingale's Song and other books, and serving as editor for the Naval Institute's Proceedings.
A New Scape Finds Us

   I've been coming to Irvington since 1994, and David's been coming all his life to the home he and his dad built overlooking Carter Creek upon his return from Vietnam in 1968.

   During my sixteen years' worth of visits, I've come to expect the calming sameness of the creek view from the porch. My many photographs back this up. They all look alike, except maybe one year's leaves are a little greener or redder than another's. Always Widgeon is tied to its dock, seemingly unsailed; the riprap lining the corner home's shore retains its deep mahogany dark hue; and the roof lines remain evenly spaced against the sky's background. Every fall the Canada geese migrate through the cove, the squirrels fly from oak tree to oak tree collecting their winter cache, and nearby church bells ring out melodies at noon and four.

   But this year, some things were different.

   First, the house across the way had a new maroon (!!) roof and pillars.
   Then, when we got home from Annapolis, we looked across the creek and noticed that Widgeon (left) had sunk in her slip! Egad!
   And third, well, the third thing that was different has to do with geese, and David's writes about that.

A Gander at the Geese (by David)

   Sometimes the geese come quietly, flying aloft in their characteristic vee-formation, the kind that ostencibly wrecked havoc for Sully Sullenberger's Flight 1549. Sometimes the geese come hooting and honking in pairs, flying low over the tree tops. 
   But this day was different.

   We noticed them first on the water in our small cove off of Carters Creek, a tributary of the Rappahannock River about 10 miles from its mouth on the Chesapeake Bay.  A few geese at first, then more and more.  Quiet they were, except for an occasional one-note cluck.  They paddled slowly but intently, not a random movement did we see.  The vanguard crossed the cove and angled closer to us as we watched from our porch, about sixty-five feet up hill from the water’s edge.  The vanguard then wheeled together and veered right at our pier below us.  Eight geese in a perfect vee formation, with wakes fanning out astern like a squadron of destroyers.  An occasional low call from the goose on point, then soft calls from those on the wings of the vanguard. Then silence.  It was as if they were confirming their safety as they continued their patrol toward the headwaters of our cove.

   The main body of the flock was visible now, swimming just yards behind the vanguard.  Two groups of ten geese, each group separated from the van and from each other.  They were followed by the rear guard, a group of six more.

   The van stopped, appearing cautious.  The main body and rear guard stopped as well, all maintaining position.  Some soft clucking in the vanguard between the point and the wings.  Then they continued slowly, intently into the headwaters of the cove, all disappearing from our view except for the rear guard. 

   A dog barked somewhere deep ashore on the other side of the cove from us.  The closest goose spun and paddled out to deeper water.  Silence.

   Finally the rear guard relaxed.  Some started to preen and feed in the water.  Then a honk from the headwaters of the cove, as if a command, and the rear guard, too, moved slowly up stream out of our view.

   We were fascinated as we watched what had been without question a precise military operation.  Did they learn it from us?  Did we learn it from them?  Or are such military-like operations inherent animal behavior? 

   The waters of the cove were swollen and brown with runoff from the deluge that had pummeled the East Coast for days.  We speculated the geese were tired from battling winds and weather on their southerly September journey and were seeking refuge in our quiet cove.

   They remained in the cove for a time, quiet except for an infrequent low honk, as if resting or feeding or both.  We returned to our conversation on the porch.  But then, perhaps a half hour after they first arrived, we were stunned by a cacophony of honks and noise, as without warning half of the flock took off from the headwaters of our cove.  They flew low and loudly, south out of the cove and turned west over the water to join the wider part of Carters Creek near where it joins the three-mile wide Rappahannock.  We could hear them still after they rounded the turn heading west, and as they seemed to settle down in the wider part of the Creek, now with just an occasional honk.

   Our cove was quiet once again.  But soon we saw the leaders of the other half of the flock swim silently and with measured caution into view, followed by the rest.  We counted sixteen in all.  One raised up out of the water and flapped her wings before settling back in.  We knew that they, too, were getting ready to go.  Then without a warning or signal we were able to perceive, all sixteen were instantly in motion in a wild, blusterous take off.  Amazed, we watched them disappear from view, following the first fourteen south and west out of our cove, honking and flapping their way to join their companions in the wider waters of Carters Creek.

   The maneuvers we had witnessed were impressive, majestic, mysterious, and they were clearly military-like in their execution.  We have read that geese mate for life, and that when a hunter shoots one down his mate will search for him for days.  Perhaps that explains why each of their groups, van and rear guards, main body, and departing groups, consisted of an even number of birds.  And perhaps the wonder of our experience explains why bird-watchers do what they do.

Farewell to Irvington

   We had our farewell dinner at the Tides Inn, the resort hotel down the street from the Irvington house (and a short walk from the Hope and Glory Inn and the Trick Dog Cafe), for tomorrow afternoon, after a great visit with our sassy, lovable, independent Aunt Kathy Wilshin in Fredericksburg, our feet and fates would be pressed to the metal in our effort to hightail it home to Washington by Saturday the ninth.
Heading West
   Heading West was a bit of a blur, but not entirely. 
   - God bless our GPS, which brought us to the very steps of UVA's rotunda! Gorgeous!!!
   - We ascertained that Staunton, where David's naughty daddy spent some time in their military school for not taking off his hat (my guess is that he probably did about ninety other naughty things before the hat incident), is pronounced Stanton. 
   - West Virginia is damned beautiful if you take the 64 west, and its capital is a little nugget as you come around the bend and see the gilded dome. It was like driving through a Thanksgiving calendar page. 

   - Wait staff in every state we passed through expressed surprise that we didn't want flavors enhancing our lattes.
   - In Kentucky and Missouri, cows like to stand atop hay mounds and flat-tired trucks, and knee-deep in watering holes. We saw no oreo cows, which we have in Washington on Rte. 9.
   - Most road kill along the way consisted of raccoons, but the Virginias' had deer by the roadside. I don't know why seeing a deer that way is so darned sad to me; maybe it's how humiliating death can be.
   - Just outside Kansas City, the 70 is what I call a railroad highway because it makes your car's wheels sound like freighttrain. In some places the sound was so synchopated, Amana sounded like she was tap-dancing her way across Kansas.
   - West of Cheyenne is unbelievably dry. No creeks. No cattle. No birds. But if you venture nearer the Utah border and  find yourself in Green River, Wyoming, stop at Penny's Diner for a good meal in a clean establishment. 
  - Still, driving across the country on interstates is a catch-as-catch-can culinary adventure; the roads, generally speaking, go through B.F. America. 
   - People driving north from Ogden and Denver appear to be in an outrageous hurry. I admit I'm a hurry pot, but these folks are on whites! 
   - Ontario, Oregon, looks like a no-nothing town on the map, but it was a big, wonderful relief after we discovered there were few hospitable places to spend the night on the Boise, Idaho, side of the border. We had a great little steak feast at Brewsky's Broiler.
   - Gas is significantly cheaper east of the Rockies.
   - It's much harder playing state-license-plate bingo than it used to be.

   - Most of the country was hot the first part of October, except the snow that fell in Wyoming and Utah stuck to the mountain tops. Skier alert!

   - I consider our Vietnam Vet license plate a lucky piece of hardware, capable of innoculating us against tickets of all sorts we frankly deserved. I have no idea if this is really true. All I know is one day we did 900 miles between sun-up and sun-down. You do the math!
   - Crossing the country made me very nostalgic for good friends I've left in California, friends who've lived in Boise, St. Louis, Charlottesville (UVA), Denver, Kansas City, Nebraska, Wisconsin, Oregon, Kansas, Maryland, Indiana, and Iowa. I kept imagining you living your early years in the middle of our country and wondering what it must have been like for you. Very poignant for me.  
   - It was good to be home to Puget Sound's crisp, fall coolness. Honestly, home never looked and smelled so good!

A Little Latitude Adjustment

   On Monday morning, Sept. 13th, Davy and I left for the east coast in Amana, our white 1998 Toyota minivan which bears a striking resemblance to a kitchen appliance. Instead of playing license plate poker in my head, I decided I would use my observational powers to test the theory that you are where you live. After all, the United States is a huge, diverse country whose disparate population has got to be made even more so by the country’s ever-changing terrain.   This, of course, would be a flawed test, since we weren’t spending much time in any one environment.
Day 1: Getting the heck out of Dodge

  Because we missed our 9 a.m. departure time by several hours, we were forced to make a choice. Do we continue as planned and take the 20 over the Cascades to the Grand Coulee Dam and yonder to Spokane, or do take the 90 to Butte and arrive in Yellowstone on schedule?
  We took the 20.
  Which was a good thing because the Cascades are gorgeous! Steep, green, and winding, with in-your-face mountain walls and gasp-inducing drop offs. Wowzer! Alas, it was a slow trek, what with the street-line painters hogging the road, but as we are wont to do, we made up for it on the long desert flats.
  After a quick tour of the Nez Perce’s arid and barren Colville Indian Reservation (that’s David standing next to a Chief Joseph monument), we arrived in the impossibly-green town of Grand Coulee at five p.m. Gotta admit It was very difficult for me to truly enjoy the technical feat of building the dam when all around me I noticed and read about the devastation inflicted upon the Indians.
  Yes, the dam and its web of sister dams create enormous amounts of hydroelectric power for Washington and Oregon. Personally this means our home, which is a third larger than the one in Newport Beach, has an electric bill that is half our California bill. We love that. 
  But we do not love knowing that when the dam gates initially opened, it utterly destroyed numerous Indian tribes’ fishing grounds and ways of life. Either/or thinking, in my eyes, shows a lack of imagination. It all still haunts me.
  And, yes, we made it to Spokane for dinner, with plenty of energy and anticipation for tomorrow’s destination: West Yellowstone.
Day 2: Warmer, warmer, but not hot.
  Had to smile at Spokane’s inventive neighborhood names I read on highway signs: Morning District. Compressor District. Or was that in Coeur d’Alene?
  We had a too-big-to-eat breakfast in pretty, pretty Coeur d’Alene; four-egg omelets are de rigor. (I hope the people of Cd’A realize not everyone has it as beautiful as they.)
  While crossing the Continental Divide somewhere in Montana, it started raining plops the size of heron scat. The heavens provide!
  We got to Missoula in time for a lovely little lunch over a creek, where, upon making a few phone calls, we realized West Yellowstone was fully booked. Eek! Thank the lord for broadband. After much handheld Internet research and disappointing phone conversations with motel desks, we found lodging in Big Sky on the beautiful Gallatin River, site of one of many U.S. Cavalry attacks on the fleeing Nez Perce Indians. Big Sky’s a good hour north of West Yellowstone, but it was close enough for us.
  And what a great place Big Sky was. Surging mountains, grassy meadows, and alluring fly-fishing ponds and streams. It’s better than its calendar pix. I can only imagine how it looks in its winter white. Made me feel small and big at the same time. A guy came in and announced there was a dead bear cub down by the stream, and, hint, hint, you fishermen, momma bear ain’t gonna be too happy if she sees you down there.
  The next morning we were glad we’d left the ice scraper in the car because we needed it to clear our window enough to get out of the parking lot without incident.
Day 3: Who’s in the zoo?

  We entered Yellowstone’s West Gate at 8 a.m., in time for Old Faithful’s next eruption, which wasn’t as excellent an experience as many of you have had, for it was cold and foggy, despite the sunny picture. So when the geyser erupted, we saw the billowing clouds that instantly formed in the morning’s weather. (For great Yellowstone videos check out this link.)

  We took in the Old Faithful Lodge, which carries a sentimental meaning for David since his mother Blanch and Aunt Beulah worked in the gift shop as college girls. Frankly, the lodge is irresistible. The wood looks like barely a thing was done to it before it was hammered together. And the insides itself must have inspired Escher, at least for a moment. Or vice versa.

  What did we love about Yellowstone? The falls. The rocky out-croppings. The vistas. The multi-hued mud pots. Steam escaping from everywhere. And the animals. I know I’ve often mentioned how the deer on Fidalgo and Whidbey Islands think they own the place. The same applies to the buffalo and elk in Yellowstone. The critter above just sauntered down the middle of the road, holding up everyone and thing. Then, with but a couple of inches to spare, he walked up to David’s window and tried to sell some trinkets. Remembering the guy on Catalina Island who got gored because he made eye contact with a buffalo (jeez, what WAS he thinking?), David wisely averted his eyes.
  This buffalo was one of many streetwalking buffalo that day, so it was almost ho-hum when later we ran into a herd of free-range cattle clogging the two-lane artery traversing Wyoming’s Big Horn Mountains.

  We were also quite amazed at the bull elk who camped out on the North Gate’s little village lawn while his harem preened themselves a few yards away on the front porch of a home that once housed army-post soldiers. I was glad we weren’t spending the night there!

  At the same time, I wasn’t that pleased with staying in Cody, WY, where we bedded down in the second worst dive of the trip, but paid the second highest price for that privilege. (Like West Yellowstone, Cody was totally booked.) I’m sure another part of my problem with Cody was that it rests in the flatlands, and I’m always disappointed when I descend a mountain range and realize all that beauty is now behind me.
  But Cody has fabulous public art (think Buffalo Bill Cody), if you’re into the whole cow-person fantasy thing as I am. The top picture reminded me of Charlemagne in front of Notre Dame in Paris, which I LOVE and took thirty pictures of. Anyway, dinner was a hit. We ate at Wyoming Rib and Chop House, where the baked potatoes (duly imported from Idaho) were the size of footballs and the steaks were sink-your-teeth-in fine. We got there around 5:30, and the place was packed. They stuck us in a back corner I think because we were wearing our usual sandals instead of their usual boots. We didn’t care. It gave us a great people-watching view!
Day 4: Ups and downs
  Our plan for the day: scoot across Wyoming, drop down into South Dakota to see Mt. Rushmore and the Badlands, and then get as far east as possible.

  I admit my impression of Wyoming was tainted by the fact that I spent most of my time there eastbound on Hwy. 14, which smells like its primary road kill: skunk.
  But Wyoming does have the ultra-scenic Big Horn Mountains, and crossing them was like stepping back in time. Free-range cattle. Cowpokes and their hard-working dogs rustling up longhorns for a move to lower pastures. Practically no traffic. Few commercial interests (snowmobiling).
  Entering South Dakota at the vibrant little college town of Spearfish jolted our senses after miles and miles of Wyoming. From Spearfish, we drove south through Deadwood,

a town currently making the most of its fifteen minutes of fame (casinos everywhere!). A half hour further south we arrived at Mt. Rushmore, which is hidden from the road, forcing us to pay a ten-dollar parking fee in order to see it at elevation, a small price for such a pleasurable experience.
  Mt. Rushmore far surpassed my expectations. The impression I’ve held most of my life is that the heads were carved out of an ordinary, cone-shaped mountain top. But, no, that’s not how it is. The mountain itself is a combination of perfect-for-sculpting rocky outcroppings and stilled molten flows, which amplify the site’s energy. The craftsmanship, composition, and evoked meaning, of course, are powerful, rendering the site the national treasure that it is. I feel fortunate to have seen it for all that it added to my experience.
  From Mt. Rushmore, we descended the Black Hills and headed for the Badlands. Like most desert landmarks are for me, it was at once fantastic and depressing. I wanted to leave in the worst way, but I also wanted to stay, for it was a site Davy had seen forty-five years ago on a solo trip across the country and wanted to share it with somebody. But the desert’s bleakness caused my spirit to shudder, and I couldn’t help fretting about where we’d spend the night.
  We ended up in the sweet, tiny town of Kadoka, South Dakota, which is very much like you’d imagine it to be. A wind-blown, white-clapboard motel. A family-owned diner (Club 27) unprepared for the onslaught of travelers who for whatever reason just happened to be out this week. The feeling that time doesn’t pass and that things really don’t change.

Day 5: Lead feet.
  Our first real lead-foot day. We drove from Kadoka to Sioux Falls, where we were shocked to re-enter civilization. Or rather, what the International Council of Shopping Centers has transformed into our idea of civilization. Chili’s. Barnes and Noble. Target. Abercrombie and Fitch. Payless Shoes. Everytown, USA.
  From here, we dropped down to the 80, with a short stop in Sioux City, where I got out of the car in the old part of town and stood on the street to imagine what it would be like if this city had been a natural part of my life. For Sioux City is where my birth father William Roscoe Jepson was born, and where his family established itself. For all the wonders of adoption, there is always this weirdness about being legally disconnected from one’s gene code. It was a poignant moment for me, and I’m sure I’m not finished with it yet.
  Our next stop was in Des Moines, Iowa, where we made a Costco stop to get David’s glasses fixed, and where I got some Blistex for my blooming cold sore.
  Back out on the highway, I got the surprise of my life. Des Moines drivers are faster and more erratic than L.A. drivers. Cripes, I thought we were going to die. An SUV decked with a “Pray for Peace” sticker cut us off twice. Twice! A truck going 80 in a 65 zone attempted to merge into our lane, thinking we might move over for him, even though there was no other lane for us to take.
  (Did you know, based on our driving across the whole country, that Americans generally drive 75 mph regardless of the speed limit?)
  We spent the night in Grinnell, Iowa, where we had the pleasure of having the high school football team a floor above us pull an all-nighter, which oddly didn’t bother us. We also had a fine little dinner at the Grinnell Steakhouse, which had a great concept (you pick your own labeled cut and grill it yourself), but only executed the concept by 75% (they forgot to decorate the place).
  On our way back to the motel, we heard a scraping, gnarling sound coming from Amana’s right front. Being optimists, we thought it was nothing. Amana had a stone in her paw. It’ll work its way out.
  But . . . .
Day 6: Stuck in a corn field amid piles of knowledge
  The noise was not a passing thing.
  We clanged our way up to the tire store (fortunately Grinnell was not as small as it looked), got Amana lifted up, and listened to the mechanic inform us we needed a new wheel bearing, which they couldn’t do because they didn’t have a hydraulic press to install the bearing, but Arnold’s had one. But today, being Saturday, Arnolds Motor Supply didn’t have the man power to work on the car, but after a long search, they sold us a bearing and told us to try Morrison’s on the other side of the highway.
  Turned out Morrison’s was not only on the other side of the highway, it was in a corn field, of which there are a lot in Iowa.
  We sat in Ron Morrison’s Auto Repair for almost five hours, reading 2007 issues of Car and Driver and American Farmer (which is a fascinating magazine highlighting do-it-yourself solutions to common and rare agriculture problems like refitting your chain saw to work off a Mercury V-8 engine).
  Why’d it take so long? First, he said we had the wrong wheel bearing. Second, they had a hell of a time getting the broken one out, and Mr. Morrison wouldn’t say a single word to us until he figured out how he was going to solve our little problem. Grace had stepped into our lives, though. Mr. Morrison was a man of experience, which he drew on this Saturday morning.
  To get the bearing out he remembered back to a time when he was a young mechanic working on a back hoe that needed a frozen axle bearing removed. His boss told him to weld some beads on the inside of the bearing race. When the welds cooled after expanding in the welding process, they’d shrink enough to draw the bearing race loose from the seat.
  So that’s what Mr. Morrison did to get our old bearing out.
  By one o’clock, we were on our way, only to have to turn right around and return to Morrison’s because the heat shield was hitting the brake rotors, causing a horrible noise. He fixed it, or so it seemed, and we headed east once again.
  By two o’clock we were on our way and magically made it to what seemed to us a freeway-town in Hammond, Indiana, (SE of Chi.) in time to have both the worst meal and sleep of the trip. I know YOU’LL never need to store this tidbit for future use, but I’m going to warn you anyway. Do not eat at Best Western’s Orion Restaurant! I had a chef’s salad that had slivers from a slice of American cheese and some bacon crumbles. That’s it. David had tacos filled with something truly unrecognizable. We went back to our room and slept upon a noisy, coily bed.
Day 7: On a tear
  Here’s what I remember about Sunday, Sept. 20th. We drove over 700 miles from Gary, Indiana; through Illinois and Ohio; and eastward to Stroudsburg, Pennsylvania, a stone’s throw from the New Jersey border, because we needed to be in NYC by Monday morning to see Lisa and Kim, because they were on a time schedule too. In Indiana, Ohio, and Illinois, we passed silos, farm houses, corn and sorghum fields, and grasslands. Pennsylvania’s 80 offered the most beautiful drive of all. As far as our eyes could see were ancient hills painted orange, yellow, green, red, and purple by the trees’ changing leaves.
  All along the way, and really all the way from Washington to NYC, there was lots of highway work going on, due to the American Reinvestment and Recovery Act providing much needed repairs to rough roads. What’s the fuss about Recovery money not being spent?
  Stroudsburg was fun. Our motel had an indoor pool, of which we did not partake. Dinner was at Grace O’Malley’s sports bar. Americana!
Day 8: Honk, honk, beep, beep

  We made short work of New Jersey and added ourselves to the pile of cars pushin’ and shovin’ their way toward Holland Tunnel. It took an hour with eight (I think) toll booths. Then suddenly it was eight lanes merging into two without adult supervision (David calls it the Holland Tunnel Funnel), followed by a half hour subterranean creep into NYC, where we found ourselves in a five-exit traffic circle that spun us off into the dead stop of trans-Manhattan traffic.
  Indeed, travel then picked up, and in no time we were in the Prospect Park area of Brooklyn for a visit with Lisa. Her boy cat Hunter was happy to see us, but Olympia and Agogoboots hid in the closet. It was a good visit. We walked the park (pic is of Arch of the Grand Army of the Republic), but really didn’t do a lot because then we couldn’t talk. Kim joined us for dinner after work, at Santa Fe Grill. The next morning we’d be up and on our way to Reading, PA and Virginia, for Mici (UCSC ’98) was due to arrive in NYC in a couple of hours.
  Too bad Amana broke, or we’d have had a longer visit. Alas, I’ll take a flight east in the next couple of months.
Day 9: Almost there.
  OMG, another day with a bajillion miles to go! But we did it and it was totally worth the effort.

  In Reading, Pennsylvania, we had a delightful lunch with Ginger’s husband Tony’s mother Antonette and his brother Frank. We hadn’t seen them since the Formando wedding two years ago in San Diego. They hadn’t changed a bit, and it was great to see them in their own neck of the woods. They were great and welcoming hosts to us!
  After Reading, we took the 83 South toward Baltimore. It was our chance to see Francis Meginnis, David’s 89-year-old high school English teacher. Alas, she didn’t want us to come. Her eyes. Her legs. The overwhelming emotion of a visit. We were still tempted. But highway signs lit up, telling us that the off-ramps to Towson were closed due to an accident, so we’d never make the visit anyway. With sad hearts, we skirted Baltimore and headed to Virginia, making our usual dinner stop at Capt. Billy’s Crab House on the Patomac’s northern shore.
Day 10: There.

  Our original idea for this trip was to spend time relaxing in Irvington, Virginia, in the home David and his father built in 1968 on Chase Cove of Carter’s Creek off the Rappahanock River. Our cousins live next door in the older home built by David’s grandfather in 1902, and in which David’s father Ed was born in 1903 .
  But before we left Washington, David and Dan decided to sell the home, which meant a century of goods had to be cleared out and a garage sale held. It took three days of non-stop work to clear things out, another day for the garage sale, and another couple of days to get rid of the rest of the stuff.
  No one bought the deer head, which shocked me. I thought it’d be the first to go. But then its nose and jaws fell off and I knew its value evaporated. The Boy Scouts got Dan’s canoe. An early bird purchased the ten-foot church pew. A contingent from the Chickahominy Indian tribe acquired the plaster turtle; I gave it to them because it was their tribal symbol---how could I not? A guy driving a patent-leather black ’71 Bonneville paid through the nose for David’s personally painted keg of marbles. I could feel Blanche smiling from above when a shopper would pick up something of hers and say, “Isn’t this pretty. Look how lovely this is!” And all I had to do was say “David’s back in the shed,” and a shopper would head past the huge magnolia hiding Ed’s shed from view. “You have a shed!” they’d sing in delight. One person didn’t though. He said, “Oh, no, I already have a shed.” He must attend Shed Owners Anonymous, if they have such a thing.

  A special shout out to our cousins for ALL their help. Julie, Bill, and John helped trek stuff from the house to the yard sale area and arrange it. John and Kristie’s kids Harper and Katie provided comic relief. (Kristie, being four months pregnant, stayed in resting and out of the scorching, humid heat.)

  Afterwards, Julie and Bill put on a traditional crab feast (see picture), which was so divine we were a tad late to the Steamboat Era Museum’s rendition of James Adams’s Floating Theatre (1913-1937). The now local Roger Mudd (yes, THAT Roger Mudd) guest hosted the event. Very fun.
  We had a WONDERFUL bonding weekend with our counsins!
Day 14: Feeling there.
  It’s taken two days to write all this and prep the pics. I’m really ready for a rest! Oh, and the noise from Amana’s front? It was the heat shield rubbing againt the brake rotor, but not because it was bending, but because the wheel-bearing nut had come loose and the wheel was wobbling. Eek!