Opinion

At Large in Ballard: I choose scissors

bryanz — Wed, 22 May 2013 16:15:57 +0000

I do not have fine motor skills. I cannot cut a snowflake out of paper, even using a pattern. I abuse scissors by cutting inappropriate materials or opening wooden crates. But from when I saw the first poster for the Nordic Heritage Museum’s “Scissors for a Brush” exhibit I was like a fly in a paper web.

On March 21, I limped home from back to back days of draining events. It was 4 p.m. and my goal was collapse … until a friend’s email referenced the opening night reception for the first ever U.S. exhibit of Karen Bit Vejle’s paper cuttings. “How do I get an invite?” I queried.

“Members only,” she replied. “You’d have to join quickly.” By the time Martin got home at 5 p.m. I had purchased a family membership to the Nordic Heritage Museum online. Ignore the fact that I’ve lived within blocks since 1988.

“We’re going to a reception for a new exhibit,” I informed him. “We need to leave in 45 minutes.” I made it clear that comparing hardships of our respective days would be futile.

An hour later, after the stunning Karen Bit Vejle had used her mother’s sewing scissors to cut the ribbon to the exhibit gallery, guess who was the first person to approach the artist with a question? That would be Martin, who had to ask whether she sharpened her own scissors.

I won’t attempt to describe the artistry in the paper cuttings that Bit Vejle envisions and then cuts freehand. The works encompass fairy tales and mythology, Nelson Mandela’s prisoner number and secret messages for her daughter. On the walls, and suspended from the ceilings in glass, the works are whimsical and wise, mysterious, astounding in their very durability and fragility, but mostly beautiful.

On opening night I wandered and absorbed the works, three rooms with a passageway that includes four of Hans Christian Andersen’s original works. Although the art of paper cutting, known as psaligraphy, dates goes back centuries in Japan and China, there are also traditions surrounding the art throughout Europe. In Bit Vejle’s native Denmark, holidays such as Christmas and Easter involve many such works, from snowflakes to the appearance of snowdrops.

In person and in the exhibit guide notes Bit Vejle discusses her revelation that paper cutting could be an art form year round, although it was mostly her secret passion, with wall length works kept under rugs for safety. Her past career, her travels, her discovery by a coworker who saw paper scraps is almost the stuff of another fairy tale. Working now on commissioned pieces (one which took six months) and as artist in residence worldwide, Bit Vejle’s finished pieces make me think it would be easier to spin straw into gold. But looking at her work, there is always a grit and reality that encourages a reinterpretation of the fantastical.

Within a day of the opening reception I had taken a Danish friend to the exhibit and started directing people to “go” with an evangelical fervor. I practically ordered an entire class to visit; for that occasion we arranged a docent tour with museum staffer Stina Cowan. I watched the video of Bit Vejle at work and observed adults and children patiently trying their hand at creating with scissors.

I wanted to visit “Scissors for a Brush” every week for as long as the exhibit’s run. After all, as a member, I could do that -- plus get the 10 percent discount at the gift store where I shop anyway. Did I do it? Not every week. Did I send at least one person there per week, who then joined the museum? At least.

I can’t count how many times I’ve heard people say, “It’s only four blocks, but I’ve never been to the Nordic Heritage Museum.” Or else, “I thought they moved.” The museum does have plans for a new facility on Market Street, but they’re still fundraising. They haven’t moved. The admission is still very reasonable. They host events too numerous to list.

On the night of the reception Karen Bit Vejle stood near her works, graciously answering questions. Regular copy paper. Lots of folding. Visualizing the entire work first; tracing a few guidelines. She was as impossibly beautiful in-person as her works in paper. If I had not seen the paper cuttings up close, I would not believe they could exist. Yet here they are. Not in the Royal Museum in Copenhagen. “Scissors for a Brush” is right over on NW 67th through June 16.

The exhibit is also Bit Vejle’s story, of her work being discovered after 33 years of paper cutting for the sheer joy of it, what she calls “still an exciting gift” every time. I felt the same way every visit, each time a gift. In answer to my husband’s question about sharpening, she held those self same scissors and said, “Always cut toward your heart and they never need to be sharpened.”

The Nordic Heritage Museum is at 3014 NW 67th St. www.nordicmuseum.org Hours are 10-4 p.m. daily, Tuesday-Sunday. Exhibit guide available online.

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At Large in Ballard: Ballard Days, Turkish Nights

bryanz — Wed, 15 May 2013 15:14:44 +0000

A little over a year ago I ran into then Ballard News-Tribune news reporter/online editor Anne Marije Rook at the Ballard Bartell’s. I pulled out my camera, already considered vintage digital, and showed her a photograph of the Egan’s Ballard Jamhouse marquee from the night before, upon which was written in large, “Ballard Writers.”

“I feel like a proud mama,” I said. Inspired by friends who would mention other friends who were writers, I had launched the Ballard Writers Collective. Despite the events already under our belts, nothing means more to a writer than seeing their creation in really big letters.

“Are you going to write about it?” Rook asked. It hadn’t occurred to me. I just wanted to show everyone the photograph. Contrary to what my family and neighbors may fear I really don’t write about all aspects of my life. I happened to be present at the birth of Ballard Writers but they don’t belong to me; however, I am exceedingly proud of the connections that happen when we share our stories.

The first Ballard Writers’ event was billed as “The Writer Next Door.” Subsequent years have proved that not only is the writer next door to where you live, they are beside you on a yoga mat, in the same line at the grocery store and have been walking their dog past your house for years. It turns out their mothers work with your friend’s husband or they are Facebook friends with someone on the same Masconomet High School French exchange trip in 1977. It is wonderful and a bit frightening to learn we are all connected in more ways than we knew.

I have regularly mentioned that I am a believer in making lists, but I think the most important list is the one that documents what gets crossed off the to-do list. I like to take stock occasionally of what’s been accomplished and list that instead. Since Ballard Writers began meeting in person, online books have been published that might not have otherwise been completed (at least according to Claire Anderson and Alison Krupnick); and collaborations have come about such as that between Ingrid Ricks and teacher Marjie Bowker resulting in not one, but two anthologies of stories by teenagers.

,Joshua McNichols, of The Urban Farm Handbook, has not only helped connect stories with KUOW producers and create a relationship with Egan’s, he has come to my house on a half-hour’s notice for a cherry tree consult. (Even though I didn’t have any more wood shavings for his chickens.) Ballard Writers Collective members have trooped to my porch to drop off items for Ballard Senior Center auction, Sunset Hill Community Center and our own lending library, and even forgiven me when a bottle of wine intended for a book basket was deemed too good to donate.

As with things given the most freely, we don’t think twice about lending our time or efforts, offering to help with a website or review a draft. It’s a delightful surprise to see our names in the acknowledgements but even better than an individual’s name is those words on the signboard. We exist as an entity, if only for a Tuesday night on Market Street, Ballard, USA.

On a night that was too warm to be early May in Seattle, I circulated through the tables at Egan’s, querying the twelve people who had prepared new short pieces about travel. I was trying to decide the order in the way I think bands must create their playlist, a fast song, a slow song, a new work, one that everyone knows … but my choices included “heavy & depressing,” “Summer of Love,” “wartime” and “revenge fantasy.” Having only heard one of the pieces I just had to leap.

For the next two hours, as an overworked server wove through the tables with food pronounced delicious, Ballard Writers took us on a wartime island hop looking for General MacArthur, to a county in Ireland, two Greek islands, a nude beach in Italy, a surprising number of Turkish nights, a diner and finally onto a motorbike, lost in Ho Chi Minh City. It was twilight as we finished and the words were shining even brighter on the marquee. Inside, two distinct themes had emerged, “travel at your own risk,” as Alison Krupnick put it, and how often we realize the meaning of home when we travel.

Based on the stories just heard, yet more people were connecting, unwilling to break apart on the twilight sidewalk. Carol’s husband had obviously been stationed near Roselle’s father; by coincidence another chaperone from an Istanbul trip was in attendance. The next morning, words from the night before were still taking precedence over thoughts in my head. So yes, I did feel like a proud mama once again, for bringing together more people, for encouraging others to share their stories who in turn encourage others.

A friend once said I wouldn’t be able to stop until I had connected everyone in Ballard. I can’t cross that off my to-do list yet, but with every Ballard Writer’s event I feel a bit closer.

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Planting A Life: How Keeping A Garden is Good for the Soul (May)

bryanz — Fri, 10 May 2013 17:53:42 +0000

By Rev. Judith Laxer

As a gardener, you engage with seeds twice during the year. Late Autumn for the gathering from what is dying and late Spring for the sowing of what will grow. You’ve been preparing the beds for the last few months, removing weeds, adding compost. You’ve walked around deciding exactly how you will rotate your crops this year, deliberating whether or not you will get the best yield if you plant the same crop in the same place as last year where they did so well. Some say never do that, some say all that matters is that the soil is amended, so plant at will. You’ve changed your mind again and again, but that’s part of the fun.

Though it’s a safer bet to plant vegetable starts here in the short Northwest growing season, and you do, there is something about the mystery of seed that is too intriguing and exciting to ignore. So you get the sweet pea, pumpkin and nasturtium seed you harvested last year, and walk from bed to bed holding them in your green-thumbed hands, imagining their fruition, listening as they silently tell you which ones want to grow here, which ones there. Now is the time to get them in the Earth.

In an attempt to keep the neighbor’s cats from using them as their litter box, you’ve been taking your time removing the dried maple leaves from your garden beds until the very moment you need the space for planting. This is a bit of a new experience for you because usually by now you have cleared all the spent leaves in that first garden-spring-cleaning frenzy. You notice that you have to keep telling yourself that this is an intentional choice, that you are not behind schedule, that it’s okay to keep some dried brown among the moist green.

And then you find yourself on your hands and knees and you remove the crispy top leaves to find the slimy ones beneath, and there are earthworms ( good!) and spiders (yikes!) and then the potato bugs (or are they called pill bugs?) and who knows what else is there, too microscopic to see. But it smells like home. Clean. Sweet. Comforting. And then you shovel in the compost you’ve made during the colder months, with its occasional chip of egg shell that never quite broke down, and you toss in some organic fertilizer and use your hands to mix it all up and aerate the soil, relishing the sensuous feel of it all. And then you draw the edge of your trowel in lines through it, making the rows ready to receive seed. And no matter how carefully and slowly you go, too many will surely fall in one place which will later have to be thinned, but right now you know you are planting the future. Your eyes watch your fingers drop a seed but your mind sees a beautiful flower and your nose gets a sweet whiff of fragrance. Your eyes watch your fingers drop a seed but your mind sees a delightful orange winter squash and your mouth waters at the thought of pumpkin pie. Your eyes watch your fingers drop a seed but your mind sees a spicy edible flower gracing your salad bowl.

It causes you to ponder. What seed will you leave for others to gather when your life is through? What seed of yours will get planted and bring itself to bear long after you have gone? Will your now lived life help make a future generation’s life easier or more difficult? Bring inspiration and wisdom, or indifference and foolishness? Cause a chuckle or a tear? Inspire awe or derision? Will the seeds you leave behind heal or harm?

Suddenly, the seeds planted, the soil tamped down over them, you return from your cultivating reverie to where the clock is ticking and it must rule the day. Standing up, you stretch the stiffness from your muscles, thinking there will come a time when you are too old for this. But not today. Today you know you have left the world a bit more beautiful. The month of May invites beauty to be a priority. And you feel grateful for a priority such as beauty. You just never thought it would make you feel so seedy.

Rev. Judith Laxer is a modern day mystic who believes that humor, beauty and the wonders of nature make life worth living. She is the founding Priestess of Gaia’s Temple, an inclusive, Earth-based Ministry with over a decade of service. www.gaiastemple.org, www.judithlaxer.com

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Write On: Get back on the horse

bryanz — Fri, 10 May 2013 14:40:45 +0000

By Corbin Lewars

I, like many other adolescent girls, had a fascination with all things equine. I was fortunate to have a best friend who owned a horse and had access to a stable of horses. One day, this friend and I were living our dream of galloping free along endless trails. The dream turned to a nightmare when my horse spooked, tried to buck me off, and instead dragged me for several hundred feet along rocky terrain. My foot finally freed from the stirrup, releasing me to the ground. Although I was scared, shaken, and possibly only semi-conscious, I knew I had to get right back on that horse otherwise I would fear horses forever.

Thirty years later, therapists and scientists have proven what I intuited as a girl—the best way to overcome fear is to do what we fear. The principle of “exposure therapy” is to have patients face their fear in a gradual and easy way in hopes of reducing the negative impact it has on their life. As the brain fills with neutral, or ideally positive experiences, the traumatic experience becomes diluted. By remembering all of my joyful, non-concussion inducing riding experiences, I was able to overcome my resistance to getting back on to my bucking bronco. The idea isn’t to attempt to forget the experience or rid ourselves of our fears entirely because some fear keeps us safe, but rather to learn how to stop being paralyzed by our fears.

Almost every writer I work with is afraid. And their fears vary from the ubiquitous fear of criticism, to fear of being emotionally vulnerable, to the tricky, elusive fear of success, not failure. All of these fears, and more, are valid and I would dare to say being an artist is the riskiest career path anyone can choose. It’s not physically dangerous (as far as I know no one has ended up in the ER after writing), but it’s emotionally terrifying, and our brain sometimes gets these two things confused. You probably won’t die from writing, but you feel as if you will. Even when you understand this and tell your racing heart and sweaty palms that it’s just words and you’re safe, your body shouts back, “I’m falling off a cliff, help!”

Needless to say, this can cause writers block. The only way to overcome the block/fear is to replace our skydiving without a parachute experiences with some nice picnic in the park experiences. If your palpating heart is due to some harsh criticism you received on a piece, replace that memory with praise. Send an essay or poem to a publication you are familiar with and respected by. If this “publication” is your grandmother, so be it, we all need praise. Search through your emails and facebook page to find every nice thing anyone ever said about your writing (and you for that matter) and paste all of these words into a document. Read this document every day if you can, ideally before writing. Read it several times and tape it on to your computer on days that you’re blocked by fear.

If your fear is based on what others will think when you expose them for the lying, stealing, abusive, or maybe just nasty when they aren’t winning an argument person that they are, tell yourself they will never read your story. This may not be true, but it is always an option, so believe it with all of your heart. Our writing does not need to destroy relationships or humiliate others, but it must be our emotional truth. Trying to hide this emotional truth leads to dull writing, so never deny your truth. But over time, and many drafts later, the truth can often be revealed in a way that is safe for everyone. Trust that this will happen after you say every thing you need to say uncensored.

If you’re working on a piece for the NY Times, The Sun, or Random House you are probably afraid of two things: getting accepted and getting rejected. Those are valid fears, seeing as one of these two things will most certainly happen, but either outcome is good. If you are rejected, you will become a member of the million member strong group of other talented, witty writers who have been rejected by these organizations. Relish the camaraderie and know you’re amongst the finest and the bravest. If you are accepted, thousands, maybe even millions, of people will read your work and maybe, just maybe, one or two of them will not adore every word you wrote. Sure criticism is hard, but it’s even harder when we fixate on it. Don’t read your bad reviews and comments, read your good ones.

And remember, you accomplished the goal of staring your fear in the face and not cowering. OK, maybe you cowered a little bit, but you kept writing, and that’s what matters. You overcame your fear and you wrote. Even better, you submitted that work which takes courage. Being a writer is scary, I will never try to tell you otherwise. I won’t even try to tell you to rid yourself of your fears, because they are part of the package. But I will tell you to write anyway, even when you’re trembling. As Cheryl Strayed said in her “Dear Sugar” column, “You want me to give you permission to write your truth with honesty and heart because doing so scares the living crap out of you. I’m here not only to give you permission, but also to say that you must. There is no other way.

Corbin Lewars (www.corbinlewars.com) mentors other writers in her office in Ballard and virtually. She is the author of Creating a Life: The memoir of a writer and mom in the making, which was nominated for the 2011 PNBA and Washington State book awards and Divorce as Opportunity (Summer, 2013). Her essays have been featured in over twenty-five publications including Mothering, Hip Mama and several anthologies and she teaches writing at The Richard Hugo House and at national conferences. She lives in Ballard with her two children.

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At Large in Ballard: Travels with Ralph

bryanz — Wed, 08 May 2013 15:14:00 +0000

By Peggy Sturdivant

It’s possible that Ralph Paulette has not been holding court at the counter of Three Girls Bakery on 15th Ave NW any more than usual in the last months, but he has been there every single time I’ve stopped in over the last six weeks. Which is not infrequent given that in our household we’ve pronounced Three Girls’ granola “the gold standard.”

It also may or may not be coincidence that Ralph has been sitting in exactly the same seat in the corner, facing out from the current exhibition on the great wall as though he is its docent. Where usually art is displayed, from jewelry through acrylics, the current display is of maps. Specifically Ralph’s maps, inasmuch as he became their curator many, many years ago after an estate sale find.

It would definitely not be a coincidence to encounter Ralph at a garage sale, or making his near-daily rounds at Goodwill and Value Village. I haven’t seen his vehicle but I suspect that when Ralph Paulette pulls up to a sale his car is already packed with treasures. When I asked him what he collects, he countered with, “What don’t I collect?”

Let’s start with the maps. Perhaps 20 years ago Ralph was invited to an acquaintance’s estate sale for her grandparent’s home in Magnolia, both of them artists. The garage was completely decorated in maps from all over the world, each embellished with mementos. A Metro and Louvre ticket pinned onto Paris. Envelopes containing the local currency, receipts, photographs … when he asked about the price the granddaughter told him, “Take it all.”

Those maps along with extra accoutrements, such as luggage tags and baggage stickers, have formed an exhibit the last two months at the Three Girls’ retail bakery location in Ballard. “We thought we’d do something a little different,” owner Atarah Levy said. “Take a break from monthly art and really change it out.”

Customers were invited to use pushpins to identify all the places they had visited. A black-and-white photograph of a group in Paris asked, “Is it Julia?” It certainly looked like it could have been a photo of Julia Child. I will have to check on the final vote tally.

On another wall, over the bakery counter, hung an almost garishly green and blue map, the colors more dated than the actual neighborhoods. But on that map of Puget Sound, there’s only one bridge across Lake Washington and no I-5 at all. Another of Ralph’s treasures.

Three Girls Bakery has been part of Ralph’s life for a very long time. He remembers doing some work at the 100 year-old Pike Place location when owner Jack Levy was still in high school. Now retired, the Ballard location is part of his daily rounds. On one visit Candace Bergerson had baked him a Southern-style corn pone (he was originally from Georgia). He had given her quite a bit of his cast iron collection.

When I asked him what he does with all his finds, Ralph mentioned at least one rented garage that needs to be cleaned due to a leak. Also that he and his wife of 35 years both had full households when they married and are still trying to consolidate. He’s never had a plan for collecting; it’s just whatever interests him. And a lot interests him.

Hence the collection of maps that have been a delightful backdrop and vicarious destination for customers during the two-month run. The exhibit has been almost interactive, especially with Ralph in his corner at the intersection of the Mediterranean and 15th Ave NW.

“My brother just arrived in Paris for three weeks and my son is in Northern Spain,” a man offered when he saw me looking at the pins on the world map. He shook his head at the suggestion he might be jealous. “I’m content to be right here,” he said.

Mother’s Day is coming and Atarah Levy is ready to start displaying art again, hers and those of fellow artists and jewelers. I didn’t want to ask what would happen to the maps once they are no longer inspiring dreams of travel at Three Girls. But I am sure that Ralph Paulette will keep them safe, along with too many other collections to name.

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21st Century Viking: Goodbye, Viking Tavern!

bryanz — Mon, 06 May 2013 21:06:17 +0000

By Brian LeBlanc

On Wednesday April 30, 2013, the Viking Tavern closed and went to Valhalla. I don’t want to make this article one of those Viking funerals where I merely lament about the demise of another piece of “Old Ballard.” Instead, I want to celebrate the “sisu” of our community.

Sisu is a Finnish term that, according to Wikipedia, is defined “as strength of will, determination, perseverance and acting rationally in the face of adversity.” My paternal grandmother came to America from Finland. When I moved to Seattle and heard there was a Scandinavian neighborhood, I checked Ballard out and haven’t left since. I arrived just in time to experience a couple years of the vestiges of Norwegian Ballard, before the bowling alleys, troll knickknack shops and Scandinavian food stores went to Valhalla as well.

Through it all, there was always the Viking Tavern.

The first time I walked in, I knew their motto was “It’s the best place ever -- it just is” was absolutely true. The owners took exquisite care of their vintage 1950s bar. While I can’t say it was my “local,” it was a great place drop in every so often to have a couple of rounds and split some Nordic Nachos with some friends.

When I heard that the property had been sold and they were going to close The Viking to make condos, I reflexively rolled my eyes. The more I looked into it, however, I discovered that the Viking’s owners were the ones who owned the properties that were sold, and the profits from the sale will no doubt afford them a well-earned and comfortable retirement.

Luckily, there was some advance notice about the closure, so there was time for a couple of more visits over the past few months until, finally, I was there for Happy Hour on their last day in business. The Viking was as crowded as I had ever seen it, but everyone was there for the same reason -- even if we didn’t come here every night, we needed to come in one last time and pay our respects.

The next evening, I put on my Viking Tavern hoodie before my wife and I headed over for our first visit to Populuxe Brewing on NW 49th St. Populuxe is one of the newest breweries in Ballard to join the growing ranks. As we sat on the picnic tables behind a barbed-wire fence sipping our nanobrewed beer while the sun set, it hit me.

Life is all about growth and change. Indeed, it’s one of the only constants. In less than 150 years, what we now call Ballard changed from being a Shilshole village to a thriving maritime city to a neighborhood of Seattle. It has had its ups-and-downs, but now Ballard is considered to be one of the Top 10 Neighborhoods in America not yet discovered by tourists, in addition to all of the other local and national publications naming it as a destination. This happened because Ballard has changed but had the sisu to forge ahead while retaining some of its character and history.

The Viking Tavern has closed, but its passing is a great time to celebrate the past and resolve that even with all the change -- welcome or not -- we must make Ballard a great place to live. We should be glad Ballard is changing and growing rather than stagnating or slowly dying. At the same time, instead of letting change happen to us, we have to be active participants in it. Let’s honor the traditional industries that made Ballard what it is today, support the newer businesses that are making an impact on the future and make sure that our neighborhood gets the infrastructure improvements it needs to accommodate all this growth.

Most important of all, let’s continue to honor Ballard’s past as we step forward into the awesome future that we are creating. C’mon Ballard, show some sisu!

Brian LeBlanc, AKA the 21st Century Viking can be reached at brianleblanc76@yahoo.com. You can see more of his writing at his blog, http://www.brianleblanc.info

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Psychic View: Soul Mates

bryanz — Tue, 30 Apr 2013 17:46:59 +0000

By Marjorie Young

The quest for a ‘soul mate’ can prove a driving force (or distraction) for many. Some believe without this almost mythical -- and frequently elusive -- ‘other half,’ our lives can neither be fulfilled or fulfilling. Clients frequently bring up the topic during psychic readings, often with a measure of frustration, demanding when he or she may be expected to make an appearance.

I think the concept itself may be misleading. Is there truly only ONE ‘destined’ for each of us? I’m hardly convinced (though some romantics may heatedly disagree). The world is filled with amazing individuals, and if we alter our path (where we live or work), we are not doomed to ‘miss out’ on encountering someone extraordinary.

Furthermore, true ‘soul mates’ may be cloaked in a variety of guises…including close friends, children, siblings -- certainly not confined to an amorous role. There are those who have enriched my life immeasurably, with whom I share a marvelous, moving kinship; not having them in my life would be unimaginable. Yet, romance plays no part in the matter.

Undeniably, there exists a breathtaking, even uncanny affinity between human beings which may materialize, almost as if summoned by magic. I vividly recall arriving in India from Sri Lanka, and going to a café for tea. Almost immediately, a young American girl approached, asking if she might take a glance at my guidebook. Within moments, it seemed as if we’d known one another forever. We traveled together for a month until she had to return home, and we’ve maintained our bond for several decades.

On that same trip, in Nepal, I ran into an acquaintance from India who was traveling with a Swiss youth on his first solo adventure. Though I was a good deal older, and we seemingly had little in common, we hit it off instantly and as friends, trekked the Himalayas, journeyed to Burma and Thailand, and have maintained our memorable, vivid association in all the years since. Now married to an exceptional woman, with three stunning daughters (I am godmother to one of them) I experience the same unique, life-enhancing kinship to the entire family. We often marvel at this, having no ‘explanation’, yet without doubt the connection has altered our lives and we ponder the fact with wonder.

Another example is my young great-nephew Sam. Almost since birth, we have shared a striking affinity, causing him to occupy a somewhat baffling place in my life -- eventually even inspiring my fantasy/adventure series “The Boy with Golden Eyes.” It is undeniable that, without him, I would never have become an author.

Thus, ‘soul-mates’ may come in a multitude of guises, but will undoubtedly enrich our reality, while we nurture the best in them in return. (Never confuse an abusive or debilitating relationship for the genuine article). And whatever or whomever is behind the ‘matchmaking,’ we should give heart-felt thanks while remembering never to put our own lives and talents on hold until they are fated to appear.

I look forward to your comments and questions. Please email me at: ballardpsychic@gmail.com

Marjorie is available for readings at the Ballard Sunday Market, her Ballard home, or by phone. Please visit her award-winning fantasy/adventure series website: http://www.theboywithgoldeneyes.com/

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21st Century Viking: What would Joseph Coolidge say?

bryanz — Mon, 29 Apr 2013 20:29:51 +0000

On Friday, April 19, 2013, the suspects in the Boston Marathon Bombings were confronted in the East End of Watertown, MA. One suspect was killed during a shootout with the police while the other escaped. Later that day, Dzokhar Tsarnaev was found hiding in a boat and arrested. While millions of people watched these events unfold on TV, they had a special significance for me: the gunfight and the boat are located within three blocks of my parent’s house in the neighborhood I grew up in.

Watertown is, in many ways, very similar to Ballard. Founded in 1630 (the same year as Boston), it is a few miles away from Downtown Boston, yet it is its own distinct place with a proud history. Not too far away from where the gun battle took place is the grave of Joseph Coolidge, a Minuteman who died in the Battle of Lexington on April 19, 1775. Watertown also served as a temporary headquarters of the Revolutionary War forces during the Siege of Boston and markers commemorate the fact that Gen. George Washington himself once passed through there.

When my brother told me on Thursday night, April 18, that the suspects were having a shootout and throwing explosives at police going on blocks from where our parents still live, my blood froze. When it started, there was no indication of where the second suspect had gone, but our parents’ house was in the immediate area. International news crews were setting up their cameras in the middle of streets I had gone down thousands of times and showing scenes of hundreds of police descending upon the neighborhood to prepare their response. It was impossible to sleep; all I could do was watch the news coverage and exchange texts, phone calls and emails with family members, concerned friends, and my parents. My parents described how there were military vehicles parked on the street, including a Humvee with a machine gun turret was parked outside of their house.

I was on the phone with my father when there was a knock at the door. When my mother answered it, there were eight SWAT team members armed with machine guns on their porch who asked my parents if they could search their property. My parents were grateful they were protecting them and gave them permission. Thankfully the suspect was not there and had not left any explosives. Other people I know from my neighborhood had their whole houses searched.

The Boston Marathon Bombings were a horrific and senseless act of terrorism and I am glad that the authorities were able to quickly discover who the suspects were and were able to capture at least one of them alive. It saddens me to think of those who were killed, maimed and injured, either at the Marathon or in the days after, allegedly by these two. I am grateful for the efforts of the police in Watertown who kept my parents safe that day.

That being said, I want to respectfully ask whether the Fourth Amendment rights of my parents, friends, and former neighbors were violated by the searches. After all these years of seeing such searches happening somewhere else, it happened in the neighborhood that I grew up in, to people that I love.

Imagine turning on the news and seeing hundreds of police and paramilitary vehicles on Market St and officers in SWAT gear conducting house-to-house searches on NW 60th St. Yes, the suspect was definitely in the area, but was the justification? Why was it permissible to not have search warrants in this particular instance? I certainly hope a situation like this never happens again, but it could, which is why the question should be asked now.

We should ask these questions just as we should appreciate that Dzokhar Tsarnaev, the living suspect, will be tried in court as an American. Despite being accused of despicable crimes, Tsarnaev is an American citizen, and has a right to due process and a trial. Joseph Coolidge died on an April 19th 238 years ago so that the rights of all Americans would be protected. Let’s not let Joseph Coolidge’s sacrifice, nor those of the victims of the Boston Marathon Bombings or the lives of the officers who fell bringing them to justice be in vain.

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At Large in Ballard: Looking at Boston from Ballard

bryanz — Wed, 24 Apr 2013 16:09:02 +0000

A few months ago a woman in my Cancer Lifeline writing class described crying at an oncology appointment. The nurse tried to comfort her but my friend said, “You don’t understand. This is good. Yesterday I couldn’t get enough breath to cry.”

I thought of my friend this week, if only to keep my own discomfort in perspective. The particularly cruddy virus that made the rounds in Seattle this winter/spring finally got me. The more I cried reading accounts of heroism and injuries in the wake of the Boston Marathon bombing, the more that I sneezed. When I tried to watch the Interfaith Service on my laptop, my inability to breathe through my nose got me coughing. Yet being personally, temporarily miserable seems indulgent.

I haven’t left the house for days. Yet from my Kleenex strewn nest next to our newly plugged fireplace I have watched my old stomping grounds by live feeds on Boston.com -- and daily life from my picture window.

My neighbor’s older Volvo, parked within my line of vision, is often filled with boxes of prosthetics. Once when I got a lift from him he instructed me to just push aside some of the legs. He works for a non-profit called Prosthetics Outreach Foundation and he specializes in lower limbs. POF trains locals how to make and fit economical prostheses based on available resources in developing countries. My neighbor’s work generally takes him to places affected by civil wars or natural disasters, Sierra Leone and Haiti. This week I kept thinking about those limbs in his passenger seats.

When the manhunt intensified after the FBI released photos of the suspects and police officers were shot I knew that my mother would not be able to tear herself from news reports even though she lives 20 miles north of Boston. My sister’s next-door neighbor was covering the Marathon for Associated Press, while at home the kids were roasting marshmallows in the backyard. The week of Patriot’s Day is always the same week as spring break. This year it was Seattle’s spring break too.

On a normal week I would investigate a strange noise, but either my ears were too plugged or my senses too dulled by an overdose of online media coverage. It wasn’t until I watched a tug push a conveyer freighter into Puget Sound that I noticed a car at an odd angle and another on the parking strip, on my very own block. Compared to the further insanity beginning to unfold in Boston the collision outside my window looked almost innocuous. No injuries, just dented metal and a toppled stop sign.

As Boston stayed in lockdown on Friday morning, Ballard neighbors touring colleges on the east coast sent out a Facebook message asking about alternatives to Boston. At last something I could do from my perch. Alerted to their proximity my daughter soon spotted them on a tour of her campus in Western Massachusetts and sprung them for a look at the astronomy tower.

Friday morning I watched Angelo Sacco walk to work with his unfurled umbrella held straight overhead. How will I tell time when Angelo no longer walks to and from his salon on Tallman Avenue when it closes after a quarter century at the end of April? I’m sure The Viking regulars will ask similar questions about their routine when the tavern also closes its doors at the end of business on April 30th. I wonder how many people are left to ask. “But where will I get my eggs now?” Or even what that means in association with The Viking.

All week I’ve turned my eyes to the street and then back to the computer screen. I hate that I can’t stop watching. Are there people watching without any connection to Boston? Or are we all connected this week? Logan Airport is where I land when I return to what was home. It’s where my mother’s car approaches the curb at baggage claim. My dad, so small now in the passenger seat, asks, “How was your flight?” offers me a Dunkin’ Donut and then criticizes my mother’s merge onto Route 1. In Boston I’m a child forever in the back seat.

I couldn’t cry on the day that l learned my student had died, my friend, my fellow writer, the one who couldn’t cry because her lungs were filling up with fluid. Because the house was full of contractors, the writing class needed to be facilitated without her at the table, the news broken, the collage exhibit unveiled at Cancer Lifeline without Jama Thomas there to meet “her artist.”

So I have been sitting here all week too miserable to go outside, mourning all of it. The children at the finish line watching their parents, the four sisters who lost their youngest one first, the media tracking every movement of the police, me tracking them. The hail that blew away this year’s bloom of fragrant azaleas in what might have been a precursor to a week in which we admit, “It could happen to any one of us.”

We lose students, we lose friends; innocents lose limbs. The new leaves got torn off the Japanese maples before they’d even finished uncurling. Whether from outside or inside, it has been a harsh week. Only the robins seem blissfully unaware. Evening falls in Boston and in Ballard. The second suspect is taken into custody. The robins are singing up a storm as Angelo walks homeward, his closed umbrella tucked jauntily under his arm.

Let the healing begin.

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At Large in Ballard: This Old (New) House

bryanz — Wed, 17 Apr 2013 13:39:36 +0000

By Peggy Sturdivant

My daughter seconded an earlier comment that our cold house was “one step above camping.” But the upside of living in such a drafty house is that there was so much room for improvement when we committed to Seattle’s energy upgrade program.

As of Day 12 of the energy retrofit of this old house, the project was emerging as one the greatest successes to date for authorized contractor SustainableWorks. They had reduced air leakage by half, thereby lowering our future heating costs and reducing energy needs.

To recap, our latest adventure with the house began innocently at last September’s Sustainable Ballard festival. It progressed through the drama of the audit (without a way to seal the damper-less chimney from simulating 25 mph hour winds into the living room), through determining the scope of the work, acquiring a home equity loan, and a project manager’s walkthrough. Work started on March 28. (But not until we cleared pathways in the basement.)

The start day was a Thursday. Crew supervisor Zach Hoiland said they might be done the following Tuesday. In later weeks he was willing to admit, “I don’t know why I said that.”

SustainableWorks’ motto is “Conserving Energy, Creating Jobs.” Hoiland is certified as a Building Analyst through Building Performance Institute. Personally and professionally, he believes in helping homeowners to reduce their carbon footprint, thereby reducing reliance on fossil fuels. “The important thing is to do it right,” he said several times, unable to ignore fixes that he could see would do right by the house.

He and his crew of three were working at a formidable pace but this house built by a ship captain kept revealing secrets and areas not accessed for 90 years. Throughout the process I was fascinated by a second-hand course in older home construction and the relatively new field of building science: the analysis and control of physical phenomena on buildings.

Every dwelling needs to have the right combination for air exchange -- too much and it’s impossible to heat; too little and there could be issues with mildew or carbon monoxide poisoning. Optimal air changes in a house are about one-third per hour, or .35. The auditor rated this house’s air change as almost double that at .69 (very poor). As part of the city’s Community Power Works program we qualified for incentives available for becoming more energy efficient.

The infamous blower door test set our starting number at 5,500 cubic feet per minute of air circulating. The goal was to reduce that by at least 30 percent.

The plan seemed simple: blow insulation into exterior wall cavities, do lots of air sealing in the ducts, attic space, basement, house and step back. Well-trained SustainableWorks employees mounted ladders to temporarily remove pieces of siding, drilled and removed 2.5 inch round pieces of the house and then blew in a dense-pack cellulose material (like newspaper shredded into dust). The very first “blow” revealed that, despite visual inspection in the basement, our open wall cavities opened into the basement. Wearing Tyvek suits and respirators, the crew looked at the house anew.

The scope of work didn’t change much but the house became an obstacle course. They needed to rent scaffolding for the alley side. The 1920 siding didn’t budge without an occasional crack. The wall cavities and roof bays sucked in an unimaginable amount of insulation, a hose snaking up from the truck to wall crannies, accessed outside and inside. Another Tuesday came and went. “We’re getting serious now,” Zach said, as though the drilling, roof vents, foam board and tubes of clear caulk had just been a warmup act.

The crew stopped to take lunch, and the newest employee Vernon Hill simply asked for a bowl of water to heat up noodles in the truck. On the wettest day they worked until 6:30 p.m., just so they could finish with the scaffolding. By morning the paint didn’t look right, so Zach went up and re-painted the siding.

Finally it was close to the end of the tenth day. The crew went to the last target area: knee holes, or crawl spaces in the eaves. For the next two hours I heard horrible thuds, grunts, knee bones on wood in a mystery area between the living room ceiling and the floor upstairs, a full floor below the attic. A sound strangely similar to someone sneaking whipped cream from a canister as insulation pumped over my head. Then a near scream, “Get me out of here.”

They finally emerged in Tyvek suits, each looking like the Abominable Snowman, quieter than usual. The knee holes had a sub-floor where they found a trap door into an even lower crawl space with open bays between ship builder-size beams, needing to be filled. They sent in the smallest man (Angel Gerardo) with a spotter. Zach told me later, “We’re trained to work in confined spaces.”

After this the worst was over. The blower door numbers tested lower. Another day of smaller fixes, looking for the last leaks, “Like an Easter Egg hunt.” Zach didn’t allow himself to check the monitor for hours at a time, while my house stayed depressurized, cold. In the end it was Zach alone, weather-stripping his way to the target. He rechecked the target number. It was lower than he’d let himself remember.

“We had hit it by yesterday,” he said, and smiled. At 2,500 cubic feet per minute, this old Ballard house was beating the average for its volume; no matter what year it had been built. SustainableWorks had reduced the air exchange by over 50 percent, without any change in our costs.

On the 12th day of work, midday, it was suddenly so quiet, so warm. The house better fortified than it had ever been, ready for its next 90 years. The last SustainableWorks vehicle pulled away, and with it the last of my 21st Century superheroes.

Information at www.sustainableworks.com or about the City of Seattle’s program at http://www.communitypowerworks.org/

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Write On: When is a story done?

bryanz — Fri, 12 Apr 2013 15:18:12 +0000

By Corbin Lewars

I recently had the opportunity to host a woman and her two sons for a week and a half. They were in Seattle under difficult circumstances, the death of her mother, who happened to be a writer. During one late night discussion, the woman told me her mother had been working on a memoir and it would be published posthumously.

“But how do you know it was finished?” I asked.

“Oh, it’s done,” she said with confidence.

I thought back to all of the times I claimed I was “done” with a book or essay and shuddered at the thought of anyone believing me and publishing those pieces. For me, and I believe many writers would agree, “done” has many meanings. The first phase of being done is a draft. Sure, it can be two hundred pages of incoherent spewing to a reader, but somewhere in there are all, or most, of the key elements that I wanted to address. The original goal of writing a book about (insert idea here), in order to (insert reason why to write said book and who cares about such topic here) is accomplished.

Three years ago I started to write a memoir about my divorce. Why? Because I was able to do so in a non-acrimonious way and thought that was worth sharing. I wrote about two hundred pages of dating drama, soul searching, fretting over my kids, obsessing over my kids, more dating drama, some hot sex (to counteract the constant fretting and soul searching), and many, many stories sharing my gratitude and appreciation of my friends. It wasn’t necessarily chronologically coherent and it didn’t have a reliable narrator or theme, but is contained the key components I wanted, so I deemed it “done.”

I took a break from that draft and then tackled it again months later. This time, I took a rambling memoir about my divorce and started to turn it into a divorce guide book, with a heavy influence from my own life. After several months worth of dedicated writing, the book had a beginning, middle, and ending. It flowed relatively well, had a wide variety of references to back up my points, and it had a narrative arc, which ended with a conclusion. I once again claimed I was done. This wasn’t a proclamation that my work was ready to be published, it just meant I was taking another break from it. I knew it was time to do so because my edits started to resemble rearranging furniture. This means I’m tinkering, which means I’ve lost perspective on the book as a whole because I’m fixating on a certain word or scene rather than remembering why I’m writing the book. It is crucial that I take a break at this point and visit the “I’m writing this book because” question.

Six months later, I revised the book once again. Chapters were added, references were changed, characters omitted, characters added, characters changed so they wouldn’t be recognized, and the tone and theme were altered. Each chapter was revised to include a balance of my story and other women’s stories along with “expert” advice. New insights were added, outdated thinking was revised, and the audience changed from people I knew to people I didn’t know.

I once again announced that I was done. The manuscript then passed from my laptop into the capable hands of a developmental editor, who will once again reveal the “undoneness” of my book. It will be returned to me with many suggestions on how to improve it, flaws pointed out, and clarifying “What are you trying to say here?” questions. I will revise the manuscript again, claim it’s done when I’m finished and this time be held to that statement. Not based on its “doneness,” but based on the publishing schedule.

All in all, I claimed I was done for over two years. And that’s nonfiction, which I have an easier time claiming doneness too. I’ve worked on a novel for seven years and currently claim it’s a mess, but at least I know how I want to change it to make it done. As for the memoir that was published three years ago, it was far from being done. It was a first draft, but it’s in print. Go figure?

The catch about “done” is I’m still learning and growing, so feel the desire to add that new reference or insight or at least alter my work with my new intelligence. And with time comes clarity (hopefully), therefore time can improve my work. This is solid reasoning, but it can also set me on a perpetual cycle of revising. And sometimes revising is merely rearranging the furniture. Waiting to be done can also be detrimental because I may lose sight of the original story I wanted to tell and muddy it with a different story. I can also burn out on the topic and by the time it comes to print have absolutely no desire to read it or speak of it.

Even if your book is incoherent and lacking an ending, claim you are done before you burn out. Let it sit for a year, or two. Do not visit it with a grimace on your face. No one, including books, appreciate a begrudging visit. Let it have the space it needs and work on something else for a while.

You’re also done if you find yourself changing your young adult novel set in Spokane to a fantasy book set in the middle ages. That’s not revising, that’s writing another book. Do not combine the two, you’ll be left with nothing. If your revisions are helping your book be less raw, scathing, incomplete, jumbled, or inaccurate, they’re probably a good idea. But if these finesses are stripping the original story away and leaving a finely polished book that isn’t revealing or provocative, you just revised yourself away from your original story. Again, it’s time to stop and ask yourself, “Why am I writing this book?” “Do I want this book to be about questions or answers?” “Do I want to leave it messy, because that’s life, or do want to leave it wrapped up?” And most importantly, “Is this the story I’m trying to tell?”

You probably have many stories to tell, but is this the story you are currently trying to tell? Become clear on what that story is and keep yourself to that story. The clearer you are on what your story is about, the more comfortable you’ll become with the idea of being done. And don’t worry, your new insights, knowledge, and theme will all be revealed in your next book.

Corbin Lewars (www.corbinlewars.com) mentors other writers in her office in Ballard and virtually. She is the author of Creating a Life: The memoir of a writer and mom in the making, which was nominated for the 2011 PNBA and Washington State book awards and her divorce guidebook will be published this summer. Her essays have been featured in over twenty-five publications including Mothering, Hip Mama and several anthologies. She teaches writing at The Richard Hugo House and at national conferences. She lives in Ballard with her two children.

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At Large in Ballard: The Prompt

bryanz — Wed, 10 Apr 2013 15:05:27 +0000

By Peggy Sturdivant

If I had to choose two hours per week that provide me with richest range of experience, from belly laughs to sheer delight in words, the venue might seem unlikely: Cancer Lifeline. Occasionally someone winces when I mention facilitating a writing class there. “That must be so hard,” they say.

Nothing could be further from the truth. Although we keep a box of Kleenex on the table while those who choose to share their writing, it’s just as likely needed to wipe away tears from laughing so hard. Nowhere else can I hear former nuns make ribald puns, women able to laugh at the obtuseness of surgeons or men able to joke about the side effects of cancer treatments enhancing their feminine side.

Once upon a time (40 years ago), there was a woman undergoing chemotherapy who realized that the emotional support component was lacking in the aftermath of diagnosis and treatment. At her kitchen table she brainstormed what would really be helpful, starting with a 24-hour telephone ‘lifeline.’ The literature can speak to all that has transpired in four decades, with programs now in 15 Washington counties, thousands of clients helped with financial navigation and ever changing services.

But Cancer Lifeline for me is a beautiful facility near Greenlake, where some folks remember sweeping the floors as an early PCC location. Once a week I take poetry prompts upstairs to the healing arts room that looks out on a rooftop garden. The class is called “Writing for the Moment” because the purpose is just to write whatever spills out.

Around the table are people who have never considered themselves writers, and those who have always kept a journal. Along with just about everyone else in the world they fit Cancer Lifeline’s mission to optimize the quality of life for all people living with cancer. There is a 30-year breast cancer survivor who as a grade school teacher wasn’t allowed to tell her students or their parents about her disease. Another woman has lost two siblings to cancer and two best friends in the space of two years yet she always has us laughing with her delight in her grandniece. A prim looking volunteer who has “worked” the line for more hours than anyone other volunteer wrote a bare-breasted Rio piece that we all still talk about.

I pass out the prompt. We write. We share. And somehow every single time the sum of all the parts creates a whole that transcends individual pieces and creates a work of art, suspended for the moment before we resume our busy lives.

Five years ago the NW Collage Society took some of these writings and their members chose works to use as inspiration for collage. Cancer Lifeline’s facility always features an art exhibit with a requisite opening reception. I will never forget that opening night. The framed works prompted by our spilled words were stunning creations. Then, as though we were adoptees being met by overjoyed parents the collage artists found us, “You’re my writer,” they said. They had been living and working with our words for weeks, if not months.

Since that first show, the NW Collage Society has wanted to do it again. Whereas back in 2007 there were perhaps 20-some works total this time 68 pieces are mounted next to the written words on every available wall space at Cancer Lifeline’s Dorothy O’Brien Center. What gets written weekly by participants, the oral creation is now a collective visual creation, suspended not just for the moment, but sturdily on the center walls through June 24, 2013.

Cancer Lifeline offers classes, support groups and workshops on nutrition, exercise and artistic expression. But the listings only hint at what happens between people who meet with their hearts open, and sometimes absolutely nothing to lose by being more honest than they knew was possible, and yet safe. Connections happen quickly.

Everyone who has experienced cancer in any way realizes that it’s lifelong. There is a before, during and after; each phase creates lifelong effects. A certain need may have priority during treatment, others later. Those later needs often revolve around connecting with others who may have had a similar experience.

There’s no way that I can do justice to what happens weekly, but I can invite you to glimpse its power through the collage exhibit that is being mounted right now. Each piece is beautiful and rich.

Don’t wait for a further prompt.

The Spring Art Exhibit at Cancer Lifeline will be on display from April 8 – June 24th, with the opening reception from 6-8 p.m. on Thursday, April 11th with writers and collage artists in attendance. Cancer Lifeline’s Dorothy O’Brien Center. 6522 Fremont Avenue N. Seattle. 206.297.2100. Open M-F, 8:30-5. www.cancerlifeline.org

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Planting A Life: How Keeping A Garden is Good for the Soul (April 2013)

bryanz — Sun, 07 Apr 2013 08:38:19 +0000

By Rev. Judith Laxer

It’s taken me a while to get the hang of composting. I was afraid of it, afraid I wouldn’t get it right, that I’d only make putrefied muck that would stink and draw vermin to my back yard. Of course I knew not to throw any animal protein or dairy products in the compost pile, but I’d read about how, done properly, one would have fresh, nutrient dense compost for their garden within a few weeks. Friends would tell me there was nothing to it. Toss the kitchen scraps in a pile, add a few handfuls of dry leaves and let it do its thing. I soon realized that I was missing something. Eventually that pile of vegetation would break down, just as everything on Earth does. But in a few weeks? Or even in a season?

I have learned that even the quickest results, the presto-before-your-very-eyes kinds of things always have a series of steps that precede them. And so, like compost itself I broke it down. Now three compost piles sit right next to one another. The first is for the clippings that come from the lawn, scraps from the kitchen, and last Autumns’ dry leaves. When that has begun to break down a bit, I move it over to the next pile to further decompose. This way I don’t keep delaying the first pile by constantly adding fresh scraps that need time to disintegrate. As I move the shovelfuls of almost soil, I marvel at the precious worms, whose castings are the equivalent of gold to the gardener. When the second pile is more fully ‘cooked’, I toss it in the third pile, breaking up the clumps that have formed. There it stays- dark brown and sweet smelling, until I shovel it into my wheelbarrow so I can then empty it into a waiting garden bed.

But the process of composting requires more than just separating piles. Like the plants that will grow from it, compost needs to be tended. Like me, it needs to breathe. I aerate it by turning it over and over with my shovel, and as I watch the worms squirm down away from the light, it causes me to ponder. How do the worms know to come here? Do they have noses on their seemingly nonexistent faces that smell food? Do they shout to one another from their seemingly nonexistent mouths, “Jackpot! Molding orange peels and rotting lettuce over here! Come and get it!” How did I know to come here? Did my soul smell the food of Earth? Did I somehow hear the call from the ethers, “Jackpot! Varied experiences and emotions here. Come and get it!”

Compost is a miracle. That the slop of coffee grinds and eggshells, rotten tomatoes and the woody ends of asparagus transforms into beautiful soil is nothing short of miraculous. It reminds me that I am nothing more than a different configuration of the same stuff that comprises everything. I might believe that I am separate from nature because I think and talk and perambulate, but I am just like the orange peel that will grow mold to help it decompose. And just as I will eat what my garden grows, my garden- or some part of the Earth- will eventually consume me. Whether that is my body in the Earth or my ashes from the fire, I too will become beautiful soil from which the next thing grows. What better occupation can we engage in when the growing urgency of April bursts into heady blossom than making Earth?

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21st Century Viking: What happened to Sunset Bowl?

bryanz — Mon, 18 Mar 2013 17:53:14 +0000

By Brian LeBlanc

In February 2013, the first residents started to move into the AVA Ballard complex on NW Market St and 14th Ave NW where Sunset Bowl once stood. Back in 2008, there was hope that the Sunset could be saved and moved to a new location in Ballard or that a new bowling alley would open in the new building. What happened to those ideas? How are we going to create similar communities in the Ballard of the future?

In early 2008, the owners of Sunset Bowl sold the property to AvalonBay for $13.2 million and the bowling alley closed later that spring. AvalonBay Communities, Inc. is a publicly traded corporation that, according to their website, “is in the business of developing, redeveloping, acquiring and managing high-quality apartment communities in the high barrier-to-entry markets of the United States.”

Ballard resident Jim Bristow saw the 24-hour bowling alley as a vital part of the neighborhood and started the “Save Sunset Bowl” campaign. He gathered over 4,000 signatures and offered to put up $100,000 of his own money to step in and purchase the Sunset Bowl. AvalonBay offered Bristow a one-year lease on the building while he tried to find another location in Ballard or Interbay. At the same time, the economy was tanking and taking over a bowling alley was going to be a big risk. A contractor by trade, his goal wasn’t to manage a bowling alley but to keep one in Ballard and “hand over the reins.” Alternate sites were considered, including the old Nelson Chevrolet building (now the Hilliard’s brewery) on NW 49th St and the property next to the Hjarta building on Market Street, but unfortunately nothing materialized. “If the economy hadn’t gone the way it did at the time, I was 80 percent sure something would have happened,” Bristow said.

Bristow also talked with AvalonBay representatives about designing a bowling alley that could operate in the AVA Building, and even talked to architects about the idea. While AvalonBay representatives verbally promised him -- and the News-Tribune -- that they would consider the idea, Bristow is not sure how serious they were. Bristow said he understands that AvalonBay is a business that builds high-end apartments and that having a bowling alley in the building might have been a concern for potential renters. His intent was never to disrupt the project but to work with them to keep a bowling alley in Ballard.

I contacted the AvalonBay to ask what retail stores were scheduled to open in the AVA building and whether a bowling alley was ever considered but was unable to talk with any representatives on the record before this piece was submitted.

Now, where a uniquely Ballard hangout spot once stood is an apartment and retail complex that is not much different from the others that have sprung up along Market Street in the past five years. I don’t begrudge the owners of the Sunset for selling their land nor AvalonBay for building their newest complex on what is now prime real estate. The question now is how and when are we going to create a similar community resource for Ballard in the 21st century?

The opening of the AVA is the sign that the Ballard of the future is already here. Ballard is no longer a quiet Norwegian fishing neighborhood, but rather it is rapidly becoming part of Downtown Seattle. Part of this rapid change means that a lot of things that used to make Ballard unique are passing from the scene. At the same time, the fact that our community is changing means it is still alive and evolving!

In the end, you can't wait for someone else to create the next Sunset Bowl. You need to put yourself out there and make an impact on the Ballard community.

We also have to welcome our new neighbors who live in places like the AVA and get them to fall in love with this neighborhood like I did when I first arrived. We can forge the Ballard community of the 21st Century together.

With some luck, maybe we’ll get to talk about it someday after we bowl a couple of frames.

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Planting A Life: How Keeping A Garden is Good for the Soul (March)

bryanz — Sat, 16 Mar 2013 23:17:49 +0000

By Rev. Judith Laxer

The year grows. The third month marches in and flowers begin to bloom in the northwest garden. Primrose and Crocus boast the first welcome colors in the landscape. Lenten Rose hangs delicately from her yellow green stalk, a sure sign of resurrection in the season of Spring. Soft green shoots emerge through their blanket of papery brown leaves promising tulips and daffodils, hyacinth and iris. My soul is uplifted as I witness.

I am anxious to get my garden going. I long to buy a plethora of vegetable starts at my local nursery and get this show on the road. But something tells me that exercising caution in early Spring will save me heartbreak in late Autumn. Move the rhododendron, yes. Build the new raised bed I’ve been dreaming of, yes. Mow the lawn if I must. But be very selective about planting just yet.

There is an order of things in nature, like a specific dance with its own sequence of steps. The workings of a garden are like a full length ballet telling a specific story. Like all fine art, it requires time to learn the steps and discipline to perfect them. Soil is the stage from with this drama will unfold. Nature’s rhythm is the music to which it is danced. And I am the stage manager. My job now is to make sure that everything is in place and ready in time for curtain.

First I must prepare and set the stage. I weed. I chop and turn in last year’s unbroken leaves used as mulch. I remove any stones that have mysteriously surfaced and break up the clumps that have formed. I amend the soil with compost and fertilizer. Secure the trellises for the beans. Determine who grows well with whom and map out where to put them. (I rotate my crops even in my city garden. Last year’s garlic patch will be this year’s beets.) I know the stage must be well lit for my agricultural tour de force so I stand poised, waiting until at least after the Spring Equinox so that there is enough daylight for photosynthesis to assist in healthy growth.

What I desire in this years’ dance will determine when to plant. Broccoli and cabbage, or any other cruciferous vegetable, peas or poppies, are planted or sown early in Act I, when the temperatures are still cool and the season, like the story, has yet to unfold. Act II plants are those whose seedlings need more warmth, so I don’t want to ruin the story by, for example, planting corn in March. Act III plants will fill in bare spots later in the drama and finish the storyline. The garden teaches me planning, putting, patience.

It causes me to ponder why we keep racing to the finish line all the while complaining that life is going too fast. If we were to return to living in earth time, we would not only slow down our experience of times’ passing, but ensure that we have more of it. My soul wants to savor, not rush through, the miracles my garden offers during each season. The return of life to the surface of the planet is one such miracle and I don’t want to dismiss it by scurrying onto the next. I want to ooh and ahhh over my sweet cicely’s grand jete up from the soil, every sweet pea’s languid port de bras, every carrot and tomato’s romantic pas de deux.

There is much to do. And although the work begins now, it is not necessarily planting my garden just yet. The work is in preparation, provision and rehearsal. It keeps me on my toes.

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Write On: Can We Teach Writing?

bryanz — Fri, 08 Mar 2013 18:17:02 +0000

By Corbin Lewars

This past weekend I took my first fiction writing class in over twenty years. It happened to fall on the same weekend as my birthday, which I viewed as an auspicious way to kick off my forty-third year. After years of writing non-fiction about my life and friends, I looked forward to writing fiction about my life and friends, so I could claim, “it’s not you” and “I didn’t really do that.”

I arrived early with a notebook and several pens. The other students and I looked at each other nervously, pretending we weren’t sizing each other up, but knowing very well we were. Literary sizing up is passive, like most things in Seattle, and writers have come up with one hundred ways to ask, “Are you more accomplished than I am?” without ever asking that.

The instructor entered the room with a bang, literally hitting his hip on the table. He paced maniacally for a few minutes, asked us what the name and topic of the class was, and then said, “I don’t know what I’m doing here, you can’t teach writing.” Needless to say, this wasn’t the auspicious beginning I hoped for.

The class was sponsored by an organization that’s sole purpose is to teach writing and has successfully done so for ten years. I teach writing in that very building, so “you can’t teach writing” was disturbing to hear. But I can’t say it wasn’t a statement I hadn’t wondered about myself. But I didn’t want to ponder such “is my career a fraud” troubling questions on my day off. I especially didn’t want to think about that on my birthday. I wanted to be a student, full of hope and inspiration. I wanted to be taught the nuances of character, plot, arc, and story development. I wanted to know the rules and then be told I could break them, now that I knew what they were. I wanted to write something useful in my notebook. But this never happened.

I left the class early with an empty notebook. I did not get my birthday wish, but as often happens, I got something else, something I didn’t even know I wanted. And that was a renewed faith in teaching.

I was not immune to the stigma that teachers of the arts were really just failed artists and idioms such as, “Those who can, do; those who can’t, teach.” I’ve been teaching for over twenty years, but it always came naturally to me, so I assumed everyone could do it. Having school-aged children and taking classes has proven to me that this is not true. Teaching is a skill, just as writing is. And when people are good at teaching, they can and will help others with their art.

Sure, anyone can buy a writing book and learn the craft. But here’s the thing, they don’t. I own Priscilla Long’s The Writer’s Portable Mentor, which I know from experience can help my craft immensely. But do I pour over it every day? No. Do I even look at once a week? No. The only time I read it is when I use it as a reference for a class I teach. (Don’t worry Priscilla, I always give you credit and plug your book) But I will shell out a lot of money to take a workshop with Priscilla, even though I have everything I need and more in her book. Why? Because I need to be inspired by her. I need the classroom camaraderie to get me to pay attention. I need a reason to care about what a complex sentence is versus a compound sentence and I’m sorry, I don’t care about that when I’m by myself. But when I watch Priscilla talk about the two, I care very much. And I start to vary my sentences in my own writing. I use what she teaches and it improves my writing. Which shows me, writing can be taught.

And many people can teach it in many ways. Working with the poets in my writers group inspired me to use more details in my writing. Eavesdropping on conversations helps improve my dialogue. Clients tell me the thing I help them most with is understanding what their story is about. This may seem like a basic question, but until you know it, you don’t really understand why you’re writing, so it is much easier to lose your motivation. When you ask yourself, “Why does this matter? Who wants to hear about this?” and you can’t answer your own question, it’s very difficult to want to devote time to your writing. And time and diligence are great teachers.

The gift underneath the gift was the realization that not all artists are good teachers, but the art itself my be a good teacher. My Hunter S. Thompsonesque fiction teacher didn’t fill my head and notebook with salient points, or even make sense at times, but his books have taught me a great deal. He is a master at taking every day, perhaps even unlikable characters, and making them very likable. He is also a marvel at endings that aren’t really endings. Nothing bothers me more than an ending where everyone skips off into the sunset with all of his or her problems solved. Or an ending that I can predict within five pages of the book. This writer’s books never do that and his endings always delight me. His books have also showed me that a plot arc can be a little mouse hill. In fact, those arcs are often more believable, and captivating (for me) than large plot arcs. Let’s face it, real people just don’t change that much. And they certainly don’t spend every day chasing killers and saving or even changing lives. And that is the kind of book I like best. Books that are (or read like they are) about real people. So thank you Hunter S. Thomspsonesque teacher for giving me the best birthday presents ever: knowledge and inspiration.

Corbin Lewars (www.corbinlewars.com) mentors other writers in her office in Ballard and virtually. She is the author of Creating a Life: The memoir of a writer and mom in the making, which was nominated for the 2011 PNBA and Washington State book awards and her essays have been featured in over twenty-five publications including Mothering, Hip Mama and several anthologies. She lives in Ballard with her two children.

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At Large in Ballard: Unsustainable

bryanz — Wed, 06 Mar 2013 17:38:49 +0000

“Didn’t you tell them we didn’t have a fireplace damper?” Martin asked me afterwards. “They didn’t ask,” I claimed. When scheduling the energy audit with Sustainable Works there was discussion about cleaning the fireplace beforehand because of a “blower door” test. I dutifully cleared ashes from the fireplace.

In truth I was clueless. Clueless about what the energy audit would entail. Clueless about the fact that having a fireplace without a damper in the living room was the equivalent of an open window at all times and as clueless about the ability to have a warm home as I once was about where babies came from. But that’s a separate story of ignorance.

This particular story starts about four years ago when Martin and I both had 45 days to sell our respective homes. Five days before closing (and perhaps not coincidentally at the first snowfall of what would become the blizzard that put Mayor Nickels out of office) he had an incident that ultimately involved the fire department, an accidentally closed damper and an unimaginable amount of smoke in ten minutes. Moving into a home with no damper actually seemed safer.

Being cozy was never an option in my previous Ballard house; why would a Craftsman be any better? I made noises about wanting a chimney pillow to block the draft but never did anything. I was raised in a home where my parents believed that being warm wasn’t true to their depression roots. Not turning on the heat until November was a point of pride and an alleged nod to conservation efforts. Our Puget Sound Energy and Seattle City Light bills suggested this wasn’t working for us the way it did for my parents.

Fast forward to Sustainable Ballard’s Annual Festival last September. I picked up information about a Sustainable Works energy audit as part of the Community Power Works Program. As part of a partnership with the City of Seattle the homeowner pays $95; the city pays the difference of $305. What’s not to love?

In part because of my attempt to re-use an envelope our paperwork went to Florida instead of South Airport way causing a lag before the momentous audit day of January 30. I remember being told, and reminded again, that the audit would take about four hours, pets should be contained, the auditor would need access to crawl spaces and that it was a good idea to clean the fireplace grate.

I knew I should have rescheduled the audit once the writing class that meets in my house was moved to the same day, but if the audit only took four hours … From the moment that Rose Mesec from Sustainable Works arrived promptly at 8:30 a.m., the collision course was set.

I quickly learned the “blower door” would normally be the culminating test in the audit process. Trailed at every step by my dangerously curious cat, the extremely personable Rose, (who lives in Ballard herself) and has done at least 160 audits, went through every inch of the home, cased the outside, peered at meters and used various testing instruments. She counted single pane windows and found crawl spaces I didn’t know existed. Aware of my time constraints she shifted the audit process so as not to disrupt my class if she wasn’t done.

Blower. I pictured a big fan that would reveal leaks the way those dye tablets used to reveal plaque on your teeth. Am I the only person who didn’t understand this “blower door” test would actually be depressurizing my house so that outside air would be pulled into the home through invisible pathways rendering my house a giant sucking vacuum? Still ignorant I attempted to cover the fireplace with plastic and packing tape.

Rose fastened something in my doorframe that looked like a pink trampoline. The cats looked horrified. Rose turned on the blower. The plastic sheet sucked into the room like a bird about to get sucked into an airplane propeller. An open chimney isn’t a leak; it’s a gusher. As Rose said later, “It was Wizard of Oz in there.”

For the next half hour Rose and I constructed a sort of child’s fort. Plywood over plastic over sheet over bricks, covered in duct tape. She started the depressurizing machine again and the fortress held shakily; its success heralded by rattling vents, wind whistling in light switches and wall sockets and doors popping open. It seems Martin and I have actually been camping outdoors the last four years, with the illusion of exterior (and decidedly non-insulated) walls offering dubious shelter.

Exactly at the moment the house had achieved its highest setting as a vacuum, perhaps shag carpet, my class members started arriving. Mouths forming the same “o” shapes as the bewildered animals I tried to sneak them in the back door, plucking them in as though they might be letting butterflies escape at the Pacific Science Center antechamber. The house was about 55 degrees. I couldn’t yet heat water for tea and I had to keep my back pressed against the basement door. Not my finest hour.

During the six hour audit Rose didn’t need the infrared camera to find the biggest leaks, although there were still surprises. To cut to the end of a twelve-page analysis that included evil looking photographs of our heat loss areas, we have a “very leaky house.” On the bright side we get plenty of fresh air and if we go forward with remedying these issues we will qualify for the very highest level of rebates.*

But first, we need to put in a damper.

*The rebates offered by various entities were reduced as of March 1 and may not be available after the end of May. Rebates vary depending on how much retrofitting will improve efficiency and reduce carbon footprint. Sustainable Works is just one non-profit contractor providing these services, educating consumers and providing workforce development for Washington. www.sustainableworks.com

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Psychic View: Lessons from a Poodle

bryanz — Fri, 01 Mar 2013 15:09:50 +0000

By Marjorie Young

Years ago, I had a simple but unforgettable experience while visiting family in San Francisco. Out for a walk, I spotted a neighbor with his dog…a large, very beautiful black poodle. Admiring it, I all at once observed it had only three legs! The owner explained one limb had been amputated due to cancer; that the surgery had occurred only a few days before.

I was amazed as well as inspired. The animal had taken the event perfectly in stride, indeed behaving as if nothing extraordinary had occurred; making due superbly - happily accepting of its condition, tail wagging and eyes bright.

This was a lesson I took to heart. How much suffering we inflict upon ourselves with fretting, anticipation, and self-consciousness! Of course, that poodle was not burdened with supporting a family, driving a car, or other responsibilities humans would face. Moreover, we only have two legs, as opposed to the canine’s four. But it was that dog’s acceptance of what was as opposed to what had been or might be that earned my admiration.

We humans can torture ourselves more relentlessly than terrorist experts. “What if” begins, then continues relentlessly. “What if people don’t accept me? What if they laugh? What if they pity? What if I can’t do the things I used to….?” Instead, we should take a breath, count our blessings, and get on with life with renewed determination.

It is not only dramatic physical challenges that get in our way. We may obsess over comparatively trivial matters concerning out appearance. Our waistline, our hair, cellulite, wrinkles, increasing or reducing the size of body parts - the list is endless. Women tend to do this more often than men, I believe, but both genders certainly indulge.

How different our lives would be (and, by extension, the world!) if we focused instead on things that truly matter: our minds, our hearts, our talents, the capacity to develop ourselves and serve others. As a feminist, I sometimes believe the enormous emphasis on appearance for females is a method to keep us from fulfilling our true gifts. Look at the governor of New Jersey, Chris Christie. Hugely overweight (which is unhealthy, of course) he is nonetheless massively popular and it known as a gutsy (pun intended) leader. Try to imagine a female politician who weighed three hundred pounds! Probably wouldn’t even happen. But it took even a brilliant, accomplished woman like Hillary Clinton until her final months as Secretary of State to declare she no longer cared about her hairstyle…if she wanted to (finally) wear a ponytail, leave off the make-up, and wear glasses, so be it!

Hopefully, we can endeavor against becoming side-tracked by physical limitations, real or imagined. The beloved actor Michael J. Fox was stricken with the tremors of Parkinson’s Disease. He accepted what life handed him, molding it to his will, and his career continues to flourish. We should strive to do likewise, focusing on what ultimately enhances life and its meaning.

I look forward to your comments and questions. Please email me at: ballardpsychic@gmail.com

Marjorie is available for readings at the Ballard Sunday Market, her Ballard home, or by phone. Please visit her fantasy/adventure series website: http://www.theboywithgoldeneyes.com/

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At Large in Ballard: Hot Meal

bryanz — Wed, 27 Feb 2013 17:44:00 +0000

The Sunday breakfast menu sounds simple. The pancakes are from a mix. Orange juice will be purchased, not hand-squeezed, the egg casseroles baked in advance. But it’s not the menu that’s matters. It’s the ingredients. Teenagers and neighbors who have answered the Smith family’s call to become part of preparing and serving a monthly hot breakfast at a men’s shelter In Pioneer Square.

As parents and community members, Barb and Kip Smith have always felt strongly about involving their children in ways to help those who need a helping hand. Kip Smith grew up in a family that helped through their church. Barb Smith’s background is in social work, as is that of friend and business partner Lauren Malloy-Johnson. They co-own Space to Create on 70th St NW, where they have always managed, through various events, to support the nonprofit Solid Ground.

There’s a common tendency to use the holidays as an opportunity to help at a food bank or a shelter but the Smiths, and many of their friends, wanted to find a way to contribute year-round. However the Smiths are realists and their desire to do more wasn’t always easy to navigate between work, school and sports. Enter another ingredient, a free Internet organizing software called Sign-up Genius.

Barb Smith had long been wrestling with how to connect a shelter’s specific need with an extended network of folks who also wanted to help in thoughtful ways. The Smith family helped prepare a meal at a shelter on Thanksgiving and were re-inspired to commit for after the holidays. Barb’s contacts led her to a shelter open on weekends that said what would be wonderful was a hot breakfast for men who normally just eat cold cereal. Once a month the Smiths decided on a starting point: Surely they could coordinate a Sunday breakfast once a month.

Once Barb Smith discovered the Sign-up Genius software it made every soccer snack list or classroom telephone tree look like a relic. By simply sending the dates and a shopping list of needs to interested families, they could commit to as little as a gallon of orange juice to serving pancakes as often as once a month. The software even uses the checkmark icon. Egg dish for March? Check. Cleanup? The Bente Fernandi Family. Check!

For oldest daughter Sammy Smith, the shelter breakfasts will be a way to stay close with longtime friends who are now in different high schools. If she can’t go on a Sunday morning she could have a baking party the day beforehand instead. Meanwhile, it was her younger sister Jamie who saved the day at Thanksgiving by forming sausage patties from 15 pounds of meat that Cascioppo Brothers donated. “The house smelled like sausages for weeks.”

Participants know ahead of time that the men staying in transitional housing at the shelter are having a tough time; helping in-person is not for everyone. Donations of money, time, supplies, transport and helping in person are equally needed.

Barb Smith’s dream is that the idea will spread. “I want it to be replicable,” Barb Smith said, “Simple enough that it just becomes something that you do.” For high school students the volunteer efforts can be logged for community service but the Smiths believe that many families really want to volunteer together.

“When you’re volunteering it’s important that it’s something you actually like doing,” Kip Smith added. With everyone so busy the ability to volunteer together helps friends and relatives socialize while filling a need. “And the need is always there.”

So far the Sign-Up Genius sheet only extends until June, but slots are filling -- task-by-task and gallon-by-gallon. Barb Smith’s next goal, “I want there to be more people volunteering than there is need.” Which of course would allow the program to expand to other shelters, more weeks per month, more generations showing another generation the importance of giving.

“Sobering, eye-opening, gratifying, it took a bit to learn to work the stoves …” Those are just a few initial impressions. The first shelter breakfast was served on Feb. 10.

The Smith Family is as busy as any family, juggling jobs, schoolwork, lots of sports and an excitable dog. But they know that if they can make the time so can anyone else. With lifestyles that don’t always include the church, Scout troops or organized opportunities to help others in the community the Smiths and friends want to create a new path for giving.

Every contribution is appreciated, by both participant and recipient. How often can you gain so much return from making a coffeecake or giving 2-3 hours of time several times per year? With the help of Sign-Up Genius and a few hours per month, it cooks into hot meals that fill bellies, hearts and teenage souls.

If you are interested, contact Barb Smith at bssmithbarb@gmail.com or 206.595.3474

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At Large in Ballard: A lot of history

bryanz — Wed, 20 Feb 2013 16:28:42 +0000

The first year that Ballard Historical Society mounted a Classic Homes tour, in 2001, the most impressive home was the one known as The Captain Swanton House. Based on archival and anecdotal research the BHS description of this 1903 Sunset Hill home on a 16,300 sq. ft. corner lot noted, “Reportedly Mrs. Swanton wanted to eliminate the chance that it could ever be divided so the house was built right on the center line of the two lots.”

One-hundred ten years after it was built in the center of a large property along an orchard, facing the water, the house has been picked up and moved to the east, where it will now orient more north, its angled windows no longer commanding an unobstructed view to the Sound. The large corner lot is now being divided so three homes will reside where there was one.

Captain and Mrs. Swanton built the home in 1903. It was sold in 1941 to the Hills. In turn they sold it to Robert & Stephanie Marcelynas in 1977, a Ballard couple with two young children who moved up from a duplex at 34th & Market. The Marcelynas were in their home 34 out of their 43 years of marriage. They had met when just 18 years old over at WSU. In 2010 Robert was diagnosed with Stage 4 pancreatic cancer. He died in 2011. Stephanie and Robert had talked of retiring to Gig Harbor. She decided to move there after his death and to leave the wonderful memories of their time in the house intact rather than trying to rent it out. She very much wanted to find a single-family owner but despite serious interest none could get financing.

The house went on the market in late 2011, but Stephanie took it off in December so she could have one last Christmas in her home. After the New Year its sale to a young man in Arlington went through as of March 2012. Stephanie said he loves the opportunity to find ways to keep classic homes intact while opening up unused land. Of course, a stunning garden set back from the street is one person’s paradise but unused land to a builder. The hardest things for Stephanie Marcelynas have been seeing the garage that her husband built demolished, leaving her neighbors of 34 years and watching their dog Maggie get plump without her big yard.

So the neighbors have known for quite a while that this city-approved subdivide plan was in the works, but seeing the house lifted and moved by an outfit that specializes in moving homes is another thing entirely. For many, there are competing and simultaneous emotions; regret that the lot is being divided is somewhat tempered by the fact the house is being saved. They juggle curiosity about the logistics with nostalgia for the loss of the gorgeous home and garden at the corner of 36th Ave and NW 64th St that was on the old Ballard Beach trolley line.

Babette Saltzman lives on the north side of the street. She was so excited about the actual move that she considered keeping her kids home from school so they could watch. Although sad to see the lot divided she’s relieved that the former Swanton Home will be in her sightline, since it’s likely that she will not be as enamored of the new construction of two more single-family homes on the corner of NW 64th St and to the south on 36th Ave NW.

“It is what it is,” another neighbor, one of the Marcelynas closest friends said, looking over the suddenly altered landscape from her front steps. “You can’t stop change.”

In preparation for the move by Nickel Bros., a hole had been dug where the 1903 house will sit on a new foundation. The house itself was lifted on what resembled a giant forklift with tines as long as a city block. The operation is actually considered a “lot move” rather than a “house move” with the house moving very slowly on what are called “skates.” The distance the house traveled was perhaps 70 feet but it was also the distance between a time when a young family could buy a home on a big lot to when the property tax alone is slightly below what a full-time worker could earn in a year at minimum wage. The house traveled the distance between trolley and RapidRide, carriages and SmartCars, Ballard as its own city and one of 38 neighborhoods in Seattle, Washington.

But the house has been home to generations of three different families and in time it will be home to a fourth. The Swanton/Hill/Marcelynas Home is still a beautiful Victorian that does honor to all who have loved her, ready to face the future from a slightly different angle.

The Ballard Historical Society’s 2013 Classic Home Tour is scheduled for Sunday, June 23rd. Information at www.ballardhistory.wordpress.com

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Planting A Life: How Keeping A Garden is Good for the Soul (February)

bryanz — Sat, 09 Feb 2013 18:39:20 +0000

By Rev. Judith Laxer

I don’t know if the groundhog saw his shadow or not, but to anyone who is paying attention, Spring has arrived. Green shoots are emerging from soggy soil. Buds are forming on awakening trees. Pink primrose peeks through last year’s dead leaves, and dependable dandelion returns to the surface of the Earth. We may have more Wintery weather ahead, but there can be no mistake; here in the northwest Spring has sprung.

We are not fooled. Cold rain will continue for months yet. But that won’t stop us from getting out into the garden anyway. We will simply be circumspect and choose our activities wisely.

Early February is the time to prune the rose bushes. My heart is always a bit hesitant to employ the clippers even though my head knows it is necessary for future flowering. Articles in garden magazines tell us that ‘roses like to be punished’ and that ‘once punished, they repent with an extraordinary show of beauty!’ That is to say that the more ruthless you are in pruning them, the more blossoms they will yield this growing season.

At first it is not so bad. Find the obvious dead branches and cut them away. Next, it’s a pretty safe bet to clip the shriveled rose hips on their stems back down to the branch from which they dangle. What follows gets tricky. I am uneasy playing God, choosing which branches will live and which will die. Even all the while knowing that taking the entire plant down by at least half is the right way to go. It feels brutal. Murderous. I recoil from playing this apparently angry and cold blooded God.

Sever on an angle. Take away branches that cross and touch. Try to find ‘knuckles’ and cut just above them. Strip away any leaves with spots. Take charge! Be bold! Remind yourself repeatedly that Rose likes it. She needs it! She wants to bloom for you and last years’ growth inhibits her. Each slice sends a signal to the plant- wake up and make up for all I am cleaving away. I don’t know how, but it works. Ow! Her bite lets me know: message received! And pay attention!

As I pull her barbed briar out of my finger, it causes me to ponder. Although punishment and repentance hardly seem like gardening terms, and in general I don’t care for either of them, am I so different than the rose? I don’t know if I’d call it repentance necessarily, but hasn’t my soul flowered with grace as a result of enduring harsh treatment along the way? Haven’t my greatest gifts emerged out of my most painful cuts? Didn’t being taken down by something ruthless and sharp cause me to come back stronger and wiser? Doesn’t my most profound healing come from my deepest wounds? My preference would be not to have suffered so, and yet the result of life’s acerbic clippers has made me who I am today; a woman who loves life more fiercely with each passing season. A woman who wants, with all her might and main, to bloom again and again until she is very old.

The eldest rose bush in my garden was here when I moved in ten years ago. Who knows how long she has graced this little plot of land before I got here. She is an old fashioned red American Beauty. Her roses emit a deep, rich, splendid scent that makes me swoon and grunt appreciatively every time I bury my nose in her velvet petals. I respect my elders so I find myself less rigorous when pruning her. If I get to play God, then I choose to limit my use of garden shears on this one. I make each snip with gratitude for her magnificence, for all the beauty she has offered over the years. I have learned to embrace even her thorns.

At Large in Ballard: Resilience 101, Part 2 -- "Ambulance Girl"

bryanz — Wed, 06 Feb 2013 15:33:51 +0000

It has been over a week since I attended the “Ballard Prepares” emergency training in the Seattle Gilbert & Sullivan Society’s set room at Crown Hill Neighborhood Center. I would be remiss if I didn’t share the experience and its lessons. For starters, carry earplugs -- not everyone can handle the BeeGee’s “Stayin’ Alive” played at high volume before 10 a.m. However, along with other mnemonic devices shared that day, I will never forget the right beat for doing compressions during cardiopulmonary resuscitation.

After spending an unreal day in the company of almost 100 folks pumping dummies and practicing the Heimlich maneuver on one another I am almost disappointed that I have not been able to apply my new skills yet. I rushed to the scene when Martin burned his hand overfilling the French Press, but I wasn’t needed. I can also understand his refusal to let me feel the cartilage give during compressions (“snap, crackle, pop” as our trainer repeated), but not even a practice splint?

When I bemoaned my languishing new skills to my ever laconic daughter, she told me it sounded like a movie she’d watched called “Ambulance Girl” in which a middle-aged woman is obsessed with becoming an EMT. Ouch!

The class started with an introduction by Tracy Connelly from the City’s Office of Emergency Management. Then she and Ballard District Chair Catherine Weatbrook turned the training over to Carrie from Prevention MD. Standing on a table, wearing sequined jeans, Carrie preached first response techniques with the fervor (and rhythm) of an aerobics instructor. Her fellow coaches were her daughter, who has inherited her mother’s blond hair and matter-of-fact approach to anaphylactic shock, a young man who survived choking on a penny, a comparatively normal nurse and a former Special Forces military officer, now an EMT.

The room was filled with faces familiar from various meetings and organizations, East Ballard Community, Crown Hill, Sunset Hill, Ballard Chamber, young, old, and in-between. The coaches took us step by step through dealing with witnessed versus un-witnessed collapse. We learned to tap and shout, make eye contact to yell, “Call 9-1-1” and “Get an AED and bring it back” (automated external defibrillator). The trainer shared graphic stories of what happens when defibrillator paddles encounter nipple piercings or too much chest hair. Let’s just say one delivers shock and one burn.

After several hours, many participants looked like they might succumb to shock themselves (one of the three major causes of death we learned, along with cardiac arrest and blood loss). One young woman cringed whenever a trainer said the words ‘‘compound fracture.” After administering CPR to our trainer’s satisfaction we tried not to choke on hot dogs, even as shouts of “Clear!” echoed throughout the room.

Then we broke into smaller groups to visit various themed stations. At the choking table volunteers donned vests with an air pocket on the front. We judged our Heimlich maneuver success on whether our efforts shot an air pellet towards another group. I made the mistake of asking what you do if the victim is wider than the circumference of your arms, and soon learned firsthand. We piled our baby dummies back on the table after clearing their airways. At the splinting table we learned how to secure long bones. I saw a participant climb up on the table and then lie down for a full body scan before splinting. We didn’t get to do that in my group.

At her station lead trainer Carrie showed photos so participants could assess the scene to determine proper actions; teaching peppered once again with real life scenarios from her years in the field. She admitted that her life is a continual ‘what if.’ What if the 520 Bridge is impassable? What if that man has a cardiac arrest, what will it take to access the chest, will she need to remove hair? Will she able to do compressions from the side, or will she need to be able to straddle him?

The final station was on tourniquets and wounds. The former Special Forces officer stopped circulation to his left arm for almost the duration of the demonstration. We watched it turn white and confirmed that it no longer had a pulse. He told us that in combat soldiers are trained to be able to do their own tourniquet and then keep marching.

The class was running late and people were escaping the world of emergency response and Gilbert & Sullivan. We could already feel muscle cramps from our compression practice and we were looking at one another differently. Could I drag them from a car while keeping their spine straight? Would I need duct tape to remove the chest hair in order to be able to shock him back to a heart rhythm?

For almost seven hours we interacted with strangers in new ways, outside of our alleged Pacific Northwest comfort zones. “Are you choking? Do you want me to help you?” Then we were released with certificates, ready to practice on family members, who really didn’t need or want our help. But comforted, and more confident, that we would be able to help if needed, no matter how much our own pulses raced.

In the almost empty room an older woman and I practiced bandaging one another at the last station, presuming what our trainer identified as venous rather than arterial bleed. We twisted the stretchy gauze on alternating wraps so that the additional pressure would stop blood loss. I held the woman’s soft hand in mine, being gentle so as not to bruise her delicate skin. Then she reached for my arm and did the same for me.

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21st Century Viking: Vote No On The School Levies

bryanz — Thu, 31 Jan 2013 21:24:36 +0000

By Brian LeBlanc

Just over three months after the 2012 General Election, Seattle voters are being asked to consider two levies to fund education. I am urging you to vote No on both of these levies. I don’t think it is fair to try and pass two huge tax measures at a time of year when people are not paying close attention to politics.

The two proposed levies on the Feb. 12 ballot are intended to fund operating costs and capital projects for Seattle Public Schools. Even though the levy proponents emphasize that these are renewals of existing levies, they are, in fact, net property tax increases. According to a story by KUOW (http://kuow.org/post/seattle-voters-consider-125-billion-schools-levies), these two levies would raise $1.25 billion and “would cost the average taxpayer another $152 a year for a home assessed at $400,000.”

According to the King County elections site, 84 percent of Seattle voters participated in the Nov. 2012 General Election. The question begs to be asked: why weren’t these two measures placed on that ballot? There were already two propositions on that ballot, a $290 million bond measure to fund the construction of a new Seattle seawall and a levy to fund a fingerprint identification system, both of which passed easily. Surely, given the fact that Seattle voters have perennially approved these school levies, is there any reason to assume they would not have voted for them at that time? Was the Seattle School District concerned that their measures -- especially Proposition 2 -- would not hold up to the prolonged public scrutiny of a general election campaign?

In August 2012, Seattle Public Libraries put a $122.6 million property tax levy to increase their funding on the Primary Election ballot. The measure passed 65 percent to 32 percent during an election in which only 44 percent of Seattle residents participated.

According to a press release on the King County elections site, they anticipate a “37 percent turnout rate in the Feb. 12 Special Election.” (http://www.kingcounty.gov/elections/news/2013/January/22ballotsinmail.aspx)

The issue of education funding is an important one, which is why it should be carefully considered and voted upon in elections when most of the voters are expected to participate. I find the idea of putting tax measures totaling $1.25 billion up for a vote when slightly more than a third of eligible voters are expected to participate to be disingenuous. It’s like trying to sneak a hippo around a lamppost -- did they expect us not to notice?

If you want significant tax measures like these to be voted upon only during General Elections, I urge you vote No on Propositions 1 and 2.

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At Large in Ballard: Resilience 101 (SLIDESHOW)

bryanz — Wed, 30 Jan 2013 14:44:16 +0000

When my friend heard there was an opportunity for 90 Ballardites to receive emergency preparedness training, she thought it would be good to do together. She was so busy contacting me that she didn’t read the small print. So while I got excited about learning to use a defibrillator she thought the class would focus on how much water to have on hand and what food.

As it happened I was already on call for a neighbor who had asked if I could be available to check on her husband, just out of the hospital after completely unexpected cardiac surgery. I figured that a refresher on cardio-pulmonary resuscitation and use of what I now know to call an AED (acronym for automated external defibrillator) couldn’t come too soon.

Before Google, I was the person to call with health questions. I was popular with my medical encyclopedia and enough passing knowledge of first aid to not be too dangerous. I supplied milk when the neighbor thought her son had knocked out an adult tooth. I used my daughter’s babysitting class supplies to bandage a woman whose dog bit her in front of my house. I could confidently check for lice, remove stitches and extract ticks.

Perhaps the greatest compliment my daughter has ever conferred on me, “You’re the best person for people to go to for help.” I’d developed a poker face with regard to blood, knowing the injured person is assessing severity by the panic on your face. I could talk someone through an anxiety attack or dizzy spell. Re-bandaging someone’s wound or answering a jock itch question helped offset what I couldn’t fix, like my friend Bob’s pancreatic cancer or my writing partner’s end-stage lung cancer.

With aging, the stakes are already higher. I really do need to know what to do if someone collapses or appears to be choking. I want to know when to call 9-1-1 and how to assess for ten different signs of shock. I want to be a person that people can look to for help.

So my friend and I set up our laptops to work our way through two mandatory online courses before the actual Saturday training class. It was at that point (probably at the photo of a third degree burn) that she realized it wasn’t the class she had envisioned. Studying 84 slides in one course and 102 in the second I could see that I knew both more and less than I would have guessed. Do you know to lean the head forward instead of back for a nosebleed?

I called Catherine Weatbrook, Chair of Ballard District Council, who has been instrumental in getting the grant that is funding the emergency preparedness training for Ballard. She is another go-to person, momentarily returned from evaluating whether a neighbor girl would need stitches. She told me the seed for the January 26th training came from an Emergency Management presentation at District Council. The council was struck by studies that evaluated differences in communities recovering from a disaster. The most resilient communities had been able to organize. A committee, which included Ballard Swedish, formed around the question, “How can Ballard become that resilient community?”

Perhaps channeling Groundswell founder Lillian Riley’s adage, “You start where you can start,” the committee decided to begin by increasing basic knowledge. Training community members in first aid and CPR would help emergency responders who cannot be everywhere, it would reduce the strain on the hospital and the training itself would create relationships. Plus it was manageable to get a grant to train 90 people using an organization called Prevention MD.

So along with 89 others I will be finding out what else I don’t know about providing support to my neighbors in the case of an emergency. Because it turns out my friend was right: the course is about emergency preparedness -- by person and by block, with quite a few gnarly slides along the way.

Already more aware of what I should learn, I’ve conferred with a friend at UW who studies 9-1-1 outcomes with an emphasis on CPR. She has explained to me that most people don’t do compressions firmly enough, the first compression needs to break apart cartilage “like spaghetti,” she told me. The compressions must not stop until emergency responders take over.

What if giving up a Saturday could help make a difference between life and death, or brain damage versus full recovery? What if it was a matter of studying ahead of time or even downloading the Smartphone App that demonstrates how to do CPR because every second matters. Every second. What if Ballard could become the resilient community, the one that survives to help the others?

Meanwhile it was the stormiest of nights when my neighbor did call because her husband wasn’t answering the phone. She told me how to get in their house. All I knew to do was go in the back door and yell, “Yoo Hoo!” then hope like hell that he answered. Tweezers weren’t going to cut it anymore. Before the course I wouldn’t have known what to do if he hadn’t just been asleep.

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