Peter Shaw
Bob Dreisbach on a brief break.

At Large In Ballard: The Dreisbach Whiplash

By Peggy Sturdivant

At first glance it might seem like just one of many interesting pairings on the dance floor for the Monday night Waltz, Etc. at Lake City Way Community Center. A woman about whom absolutely nothing is ordinary, widely known for her real-time reports from the police scanner dancing with the shorter 100 year-old man. Interesting doesn’t even scratch the surface.

At the invitation of Ballard’s Lauri Miller, better known as Silver, I left Ballard after dinner on a Monday to witness just one of many birthday celebrations for Bob Dreisbach’s 100th birthday. She’d hooked me with the words, “He wrote the book on poisons.” I was hoping that would be written on the Larsen’s sheet cake.

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Pat's View: Eventually


By Pat Cashman

I showed up for an afternoon meeting a few weeks ago and immediately apologized. “Sorry I’m late,” I told the other five people sitting around the table. I was 25 minutes late for the 1:30 meeting. I tried to blame Siri.
“No problem,” said the guy who had called the meeting. “It’s actually a 2 o’clock meeting---we just told YOU that it was a 1:30 meeting.” That hurt---but that’s the way it is. I am the late Pat Cashman.

I was born almost three weeks past my due date, and have been trying to catch up ever since. My mom said, “Frankly, by the time you finally showed up, your dad and I had pretty much lost interest. We had a really nice name all picked out for you, but forgot what was by the time you were finally born.”(What a lucky break for me---I found out later the name was Tiffany.)
I was so late in fact, that by the time of my birth I had sideburns.
I began crawling within weeks, was walking at six months, starting skipping at ten months---and then went back to crawling until I started school---late, naturally.

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Amanda's View: Inner cityscape

By Amanda Knox

In middle school I was instructed on how to construct a physical timeline of my life so far using beads, shells, trinkets, and yarn. On one end of a single line of yarn I knotted a great, glassy, purple bead that represented my birth. A couple inches down the line I knotted a similar, pink bead that represented the birth of my sister, Deanna. A few more inches down, a small, plastic, blue bead designated my first day of kindergarten. And so on.

It was up to me to decide what happenings in my life deserved recognition. For instance, I didn’t mark my parents’ divorce—with a dramatic black feather, say—because I had no memory of their marriage, and it in no way seemed relevant to my life. I did mark—with a gold-colored charm-bracelet star—the miraculous goal I kicked all the way from the half-line when I was twelve. Only some inches past that, the line dangled bare—my future.

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