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The Upside of Down Time
A doe stands framed between the proud standing daisies and a ring of silver Dusty Miller, caught in a brown-eyed moment. She has been nosing around my front garden with her still-spotted fawn every day now for weeks. They hunt for succulent weeds, blossoms and tender shoots of their favorite shrubs.
I roll open the window and talk to her. “What’s up, Mom?”
She doesn’t leave, but rises on her hind legs for a bite of River Birch leaves.
“I’ll cut some of those scraggly ones down for you.” In my physician- imposed- house -bound state I’ve developed a special kinship with these two.
The bees in front of my north window are humming about a catmint convention, and the doe has grazed over to the front of our shed and stretches out in a shaft of sunlight. She closes her eyes, and lowers her head to rest on the grass. A flick of an ear is her only movement. Baby nibbles nearby. In a few minutes, they change places, and the fawn lies down in the mother-warmed grass.
On another day, I move to the south facing patio and sit back in the chaise lounge and well, lounge. I have my book; Birding in the San Juan Islands by Mark G. Lewis and Fred A. Sharpe, binoculars and wide brimmed hat. Blue dragon flies hover overhead like delicate helicopters. In a short time, I spot a Red-breasted Nuthatch and later, a Red Crossbill perched on a limb of a hefty pine tree. There are chirps and warbles, caws and nyak, nyak, nyaking from every direction. I bird watch until my neck needs a rest and a nap is imminent.
Later, at my nudging, John checks out the lower level of our inner garden. He returns with four purple-red roses, fresh from our old- fashioned climbing rose vine. I place them in a cobalt blue vase, and stick a banana-yellow rose bud in the center. This is my version of summer color.
I would have missed these scenes had I had the busy summer I planned for myself--guests and children, crabbing, boating and tightening the threads of family and friends. Instead, I enjoyed the nature that abounds on this lake and acreage on which I live.
A few weeks in the not-so-fast lane have left me refreshed and renewed. There is a wheelbarrow of summer remaining, and I’m ready.
(Mary Kalbert is a native of Waynesboro, Mississippi. She is a graduate of Oklahoma City University with a Bachelor of Science in Management. Mary is a long time community volunteer.)
The Good Health Team
This isn’t the summer I planned back in the winter when visions of my garden in bloom kept many a dreary morning at bay. I thought I would be elbow deep in grandchildren, boating and summer salads, enjoying those perfect days to match our perfect summer weather.
Instead, an annual health test revealed an abnormality, followed by a biopsy, appointments with specialists, surgery and now, horizontal time I didn’t expect.
John and I arrived home this past Sunday to find that in our week long absence friends had decidedly taken matters of our good health into their own hands. By the time he had me ensconced in the bedroom, the first in a series of friends appeared with a hot delicious meal. This phenomenon would continue for several days.
We didn’t know who would appear at our door each evening armed with -"glazed casserole dishes, still steaming from the kitchen; baskets of just-picked strawberries and raspberries; loaves of warm bread; cold bowls of healthy green salads; and slices of scrumptious desserts. It takes great effort, time and care to put together and deliver such meals.
Other friends bolstered my mental health with thoughtful selections of books and magazines. They understand the boredom of bed rest. There were those who came to sit in companionable silence, fully aware that conversation is not the ruler by which friendship is measured.
The slightest breeze still wafts the scent from the hand- picked bouquets of peonies, Sweet Williams, and fragrant honeysuckle situated throughout the house. The professional arrangement from our local florist sits in a fashionable droop, its lighter scent a separate pleasure to enjoy. What spirit doesn’t rise at nature’s perfume?
The Good Health Team didn’t stop there. They mailed cards and notes, telephoned, winged e-mails harboring little bursts of encouragement, and in general reminded me that I am not forgotten. With such care and concern, the road to wellness is more easily travelled.
A friend of ours is off-island as we speak, preparing for surgery and a long recovery at home. I can’t cook yet, so John has volunteered to make a meal, buy a card, sit a spell, or run an errand. It’s our turn to be a part of the good health cycle of our island.
Peace Gun in Action
More than half billion of anything will raise an eyebrow. Two billion of anything is staggering. These are the numbers that reflect the money raised by Rotarians, and the number of children immunized with the oral polio vaccine in a program that has left the world 99.5% polio free, and reduced from 125 to 4 the number of countries still battling the polio virus.
In the almost three years that I have written a column for the Island Guardian, I haven’t written a column about our Rotary Club, or the work of Rotary in the world beyond. That is because as a 17 year member, I recall how we chose to work without fanfare for many years, believing that our work spoke for itself.
I take exception in this column. I want to take this one time to focus on a visionary and bold idea.
In 1972 Dr. Robert Hingson, a Pennsylvania Rotarian, was asked to give a vocational talk; a short talk that directed the spotlight on his vocation. He brought to the meeting a device he had invented, which he called a “peace gun.” He explained how it could be loaded with multiple doses of vaccine and used for immunization. The World Health Organization (WHO) had used it in the eradication of smallpox.
Pennsylvania Rotarians were impressed with the work of one of their own, and the viability of using it in the never-ending quest to stamp out polio became evident. They determined they could use this in a joint effort, and selected Guatemala as their first country. Pennsylvania and Guatemalan Rotarians mobilized their members and in 1974 one million children in Guatemala were inoculated with this device.
Rotarians then approached WHO about the next area of concern, and were directed to the Philippines. Out of the 32 nations that made up the Western Pacific region, it had 45% of the polio cases and 74% of the deaths. It was Imelda Marcos who had to be convinced to sign the document that would save the lives of her own country’s children.
The first 500,000 doses to arrive were from Italian school children who used their snack money to buy this vaccine for their Filipino counterparts.
The cohesiveness of this collaboration and the sheer determination of this effort began to garner notice and the respect of international health organizations.
In 1984, the World Health Organization accepted Rotary as its Non Governmental Organization (NGO) partner. Rotary now had two jobs; to raise $120 million and marshal the masses of Rotarians around the world to help deliver the vaccine. Hingson’s peace gun was ready for a workout.
By 1988, Rotary had raised 219 million dollars and now had a seat at the table with heads of government, WHO, UNICEF and Center for Disease and Prevention Control (CDC). Each organization brought a different strength. WHO had the medical expertise and Rotary had local people with infrastructure on the ground. So began the three pronged attack of unheard of proportions.
Health workers mapped out entire countries; determined the vaccine need, the refrigeration needs, (ice chests on motor scooter were a big hit) and how workers and equipment would be transported. Rotary provided the volunteers to get it done.
In Sudan, volunteers took informational skits around, and in Indonesia, imams used the Koran to support National Immunization Days (NID).
Warring countries stopped their fighting. In the Democratic Republic of the Congo, soldiers actually laid aside their guns and helped 250,000 volunteers immunize the 8.8 million children caught in the conflict.
The second prong was the surveillance of any outbreaks within a country. Each was monitored and every new case was rushed to lab. This allowed for small outbreaks to be immediately contained. The laboratories are continually in use and hold incalculable value for future use in the eradication of other diseases.
The third prong was the “mop-up.” Children who were missed on NID’s are identified and Rotarians and villagers on elephants, camels and in canoes sought out the small pockets of children in the most remote regions.
There must be no new cases of polio for three consecutive years before a country can be certified as polio-free. The entire western hemisphere and Latin America were declared polio-free in 1994, China and Western Pacific in 2000 and Europe and the former Soviet Bloc in 2002.
According to Dr. Julie Gerberding, director of the CDC, “Polio remains the CDC’s No. 1 priority.” She went on to say, “there are still cases in four countries " Nigeria, India, Pakistan and Afghanistan. So, to meet the CDC’s goal of ending global transmission by 2008 we need to sustain the course.”
It is this kind of commitment from our partners, combined with the tenacity and hard work of Rotarians that resulted in a $100 million Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation Grant being given to Rotary International in November of 2007.
I am proud this has been a project we have taken on concurrently with our other community and international work. Rotarians around the world will continue their efforts to eradicate polio until it joins smallpox as a disease for the history books.
On Tour
John and I have been gone for a month. We returned to a garden gone wild in our absence and a temperature colder than St. Petersburg, Russia. Not quite ready to tackle the garden, nor the laundry, I was delighted to check the calendar and find the San Juan Island Artists’ Studio Tour slated for the weekend.
John checked out the map on the brochure. “Let’s start south and work our way back into town.” We waited for a doe to meander out of the driveway. “So, what’s our first stop?”
“Mary Gey McCulloch,” I said. I read parts of the brochure aloud. “She’s got Rudi and Bill Weissinger there, and two more artists I don’t know.” I looked at him out of the corner of my eye. “One stop shopping.” I waited for his slight cough that generally follows the word shopping—ah—there it was.
We arrived and found Fred McCulloch out front artistically directing car traffic. Just inside the gate, I stopped to take in the sight of Mary’s garden. Many of the flowers were eye-level and blooming in profusion. I followed the paths, and saw the reds, oranges and blues of her garden reflected in the boldness and spontaneity of her paintings, all situated in the garden itself. Life, her work seemed to say, is for the here and now!
Arranged in the center of the garden were various pieces sculpted by Bill Weissinger.
“Okay to touch?” I asked. I wanted to lay my cheek against the side of two sleek salmon and feel the coldness of the stone. Each of the pieces, some whimsical, some poetic, evoked a different response. One in particular, featuring three stone thrones, made me pause. It reminded me of the small lighted children’s chairs at the Oklahoma City Bombing Memorial.
Out of the garden and along the studio wall, Rudi Weissinger’s paintings were displayed. Her years at a loom were captured there;in the complex layering of color and intensity that begged a closer inspection.
Inside the studio, Margaret Thorson showcased the love of weaving in her pastel, soft-as-goose-down hats, and in the rugs she chose to exhibit. At the other end, Nancy Lind captured light and color in an extensive array of show-stopping jewelry.
“There is no end to the talent on these islands.” I said to John on our way to the car. “Where do they find their unique inspiration?”
We wandered back to town and stopped at Ann Walbert’s studio on Lampard Road. There, a pastoral view of green meadows and a deep sense of calm prevailed, in spite of the gusty wind. Inside, hot coffee, fruit and cookies awaited us. I had bypassed the treats earlier, but the steaming cup of coffee Ann offered only added to the enjoyment of her art.
“I love these sheep,” I told Ann, of a particular piece.
She pointed to a large abstract. “What do you see in this one?”
“A ballerina in her tutu.” In these pieces, it is not only the beauty that is in the eye of the beholder but the content itself.
A long conversation later, I wandered to the house, where John had joined Ann’s husband Jack, along with Mary Sly and Dan Wyatt of San Juan Silk. I lost myself in the rack of coats and vests. The deep purples, blues and reds of the coats and vests called to me. Mary helped me slip into one of them. Oh, my. Oh, yes.
“I custom make these too,” she said as I surveyed the length.
I reluctantly took myself out of the shimmering coat. I could perhaps make my case for an anniversary or Christmas present, but I had told myself that earlier at Mary McCollough’s too.
Across the room, Riki Schumacher was showing her jewelry to a visitor. Her remarkable metalwork alone makes each necklace a conversation piece.
This year was no exception. We had seen the incredible breadth and depth of the artistry of eight of our island friends and residents.
Back at the house, it was time to go to work. I stooped to pick up a pile of dirty clothes. A hummingbird flitted by the window on his way to the feeder. I stopped to watch eight brown ducklings swim by on the wind-rippled lake, and realized I had the answer to my own question about the artists.
They find their inspiration to create from the lives they lead and the joy they find in simply living in these islands. It is enough.
A Conversation with Mona
There are certain signals of spring on the island that have nothing to do with plants, baby lambs, or the daffodils and tulips that dot the landscape. One that I watch with great interest is the number of cars that stop along Roche Harbor Road to get a good look and a photo of our island celebrity, Miss Mona Camel.
I was fortunate to be granted an interview, and the following is a transcript of our conversation.
MK: Good morning, Mona. Thank you for spending a few minutes with me.
Mona: Good morning to you. First, it’s imperative that you know I’m a dromedary camel, and not a Bactrian camel. So, let’s just get that little bit of information out of the way up front, shall we?
MK: We shall. I know you’re a dromedary camel because you have one hump, and Bactrian’s have two humps. Most people around the world just call you a camel. Does that bother you?
Mona: Not in the least. I just wanted it down for the record. You are writing this down, aren’t you?
MK: I’ve noticed an increase in visitors stopping by to see you. It won’t be long before you’ll be back in the summer limelight. Are you looking forward to another summer of celebrity?
Mona: Yes. I actually enjoy the tourists—most days, anyway.
MK: I’ve noticed some people offer you food. What do you prefer?
Mona: Well, as my friend Jack McKenna can tell you, I adore pears. I like apples; and oranges and bananas—but only if you peel them. Oh yes, I will bury my face up to my eyelashes in a big slice of watermelon. Umm, I can’t wait. This doesn’t make me a fruititarian, because I eat celery and lettuce occasionally, and I love small yellow potatoes too.
MK: What are your least favorite foods ?
Mona: I abhor eggplant and any kind of peppers, asparagus—Is that a food?—and onions—bad breath you know.
MK: Does your diet include fruit with pits?
Mona: Oh yes, I eat the fruit and spit out the pits. I have sharp front teeth, powerful grinders in the back, and none in between. Keeps the dental bill down considerably.
MK: So you’re a pit spitter.
Mona: Yes, indeedy.
MK: Do you enjoy having your photo taken?
Mona: I do. I actually have a “better side.” Let me turn and I’ll show you.
MK: I’ve always heard camels have the longest eyelashes. May I look at yours?
Mona: Knock yourself out.
MK: Well, it is true, and I’m envious. Your lashes are incredible. Let me step back a bit. . . Has anyone ever mentioned camel breath to you?
Mona: It’s the price you pay to stare at my lashes, but the key is to stay upwind. Works like a charm.
MK: Are you happy here on San Juan Island?
Mona: Heavens yes, there’s the vineyard over there and occasionally I can smell wine, when there’s a group enjoying themselves; it’s quite heady, actually. I have this wonderful pasture, what’s not to love? People stop to visit, and that Jack McKenna sweet talks me every single day.
MK: It’s been great talking with you. I hope you have a wonderful summer.
Mona: You’re welcome. Do you have an apple on you? Or better yet, a pear? Never mind, I see Jack.
Island Mothers
I glanced at the calendar last evening, and turned to the fast approaching month of May. It’s time to give myself a head’s up for all the birthdays, anniversaries and other events I need to make a point to acknowledge.
I took a moment to look at the notation for Mother’s Day. I am happy to live in a place where we don’t need such a reminder. Motherhood, in all its glory, is popping out all over.
A walk around my garden is enough to cause me to pause and reflect on the newness of life. The ground cover I hoped would spread between the walking stones has done so. The azalea bush is laden with tiny buds, the hydrangeas have the freshness of new leaves, and the hostas are sturdy green shoots rising up to join the spring procession.
Almost daily now, I see our yard deer graze across the lawn. Two are heavy with the weight of soon-to-be new life. I look forward, as in years past, when the exhausted mothers will rest, after giving birth, in the soft mossy hollow of the large rock that stands sentinel over our driveway.
A trip around the island gives cause to stop and admire gangly new lambs. On Roche Harbor Road, two of them have found lamb nirvana, and the mother ewe stands patiently still as they smack and suckle.
Soon, when I wander down to the lake, I’ll be scolded by protective mother ducks as tiny trains of ducklings paddle fiercely away from our dock.
Later, the empty robin’s next just outside my guesthouse window will welcome sky blue eggs. The red-breasted mother will warm them until they poke and crackle their way to life.
The magic of motherhood is profound. Ask any mother delighting in the perfectly formed toes and flower-petal mouth of a new born child. Earlier this week, we shared the delight of a favorite young couple welcoming a healthy young son into the world.
No, we islanders don’t need a calendar to tell us that we are surrounded by mothers of all kinds who are plumping their nests, feeding their young and basking in the glow of motherhood.
(Mary Kalbert is a native of Waynesboro, Mississippi. She is a graduate of Oklahoma City University with a Bachelor of Science in Management. Mary is a long time community volunteer.)
A Dollop of Snow
Early last week, on one of those days in the last desperate grip of winter, I sat in the kitchen staring at a blank computer screen. A streaking flash of green did a mid-air hover in front of the window. The first hummingbird had arrived at our patio with an impatient call for food.
“The humming bird scout is here,” I called to John. “She asked for you.”
John is the staff person for our hummingbird contingent. He retrieved the feeder from its shelf in the pantry, gave it a good wash and sparkle, and filled it with the season’s first batch of sugar water. He hung it on our wrought iron sun dial—just feet away from the kitchen window. It provides us with a close eye-level view of the birds as they feed.
The next morning, amid the snow and sleet, a steady stream of feathered visitors paid a visit to the sipping station. John kept a watchful eye as it gurgled and burped its way to empty, ever ready with a quick refill.
I dashed to town on an errand run and returned to have John tell me I had missed The Event of the season. Four shimmery green Calliope hummingbirds had occupied the feeding stations, with a fifth stealing sips over another’s shoulder. Two more had hovered nearby in a civilized rotation, awaiting their turn.
With my column still a blank page, I once again sat down to write. I watched the buzz of activity at the bird feeder. Civility fled when the feeder was commandeered by a burnt orange and black feathered Rufous hummingbird. He beat a loud staccato with his wings and flew in circles around the sun dial. On this day he was determined that no other bird would have an opportunity to feed.
After he ate his fill, he sat on the sun dial and rested. The snow fell heavier. If another bird approached, he plumped out his brilliant red throat patch and flew in a menacing 360 degrees around the feeder.
I cranked open the window to get his attention. “Come on, there’s enough for everyone.”
He darted toward the window and flashed in my direction. I understand that gesture in seventeen languages.
He resumed his perch at the feeder, and flicked the snow off his wet wings. The smarter birds had taken refuge.
And then, it came. A snow flake that looked the size of a half dollar floated downward and covered him. Just like that. Plop. Only his beak stuck out from the blanket of white. In an abject hunker, he settled his head deep into his chest feathers for a long moment.
I cranked the window open again, “maybe that’s what you get for not sharing.”
He shook off the snow and stayed in the same spot. I had to admire his tenacity of spirit. This guy had gotten a great white dollop from above, shrugged his shoulders and continued to protect his turf.
Eventually the snow stopped falling. Rufous changed his location from the feeder to the sun dial from time to time. Eventually three Calliope hummingbirds returned to the turf war; two engaged him in a fighter-pilot battle and the third darted in to eat. His reign as king-of–the-feeder had ended.
I’ve been that bird. I’ve learned that being too tough can be too bad. Sometimes in a quest to have it all, I’ve lost sight of what I had. And, I must admit, I’ve had a couple of white dollops fall on my shoulder over the years—messages I heeded.
What’s Your Story?
This past weekend, at a meeting in Portland, Sally, a friend and colleague, asked me how John and I came to live on San Juan Island. We know each other because our husbands had met working on our respective boats on K dock in Friday Harbor Marina. They found, in conversation, that each of them had wives who were Past District Governors of Rotary International, and introduced us to each other.
The next question from Sally was the one every islander who wasn’t born here is asked. “How did you get to San Juan Island?”
I told her. It involved a Rotary component, so she then repeated the story throughout the weekend to several people in my presence. As I listened to Sally tell my story, I realized it was a bit different than many. Our road to San Juan Island started in 1957 in Garden City, New York.
In 1957 John’s parents welcomed into their home a young German boy, Hartmut, for a year. He was participating in the American Field Service (AFS) program, which involved a year-long exchange. The exchange, as we who participate in such exchanges say, “took.”
In the decades that followed, college, careers, marriages and children brought our extended family together on occasion, on both sides of the Atlantic. In 1994, Hartmut’s youngest daughter asked to live with us in Oklahoma as an exchange student. We were elated with the possibility of a second generation exchange.
The request came to fruition through the Rotary Youth Exchange Program. At the end of Corinna’s time with us, we asked her if there was something specific she wanted to see. “Yes,” she said without hesitation. “I would like to see Orca whales.”
We called long-time friends in Seattle who told us that the San Juan Islands were where we needed to go to see the whales. We arrived in Friday Harbor on the Saturday of Memorial Day weekend of 1994. The weather was rainy, foggy and cold. We loved it.
We met with Captain Rick, owner of the Bon Accord, for a whale watching tour. Corinna and I sat out on the foredeck in the rain; smelled the salt water and scanned the horizon. Near Lime Kiln lighthouse, we saw our first pod of whales. In the course of a half hour, one rose from the water in what I later learned was a spyhop. Another exploded in a—you-can’t-top-this!—breach. Corinna was estatic, but I felt something deeper; something in that moment I could not articulate.
After our four hour trip, a pool of warm light from the Ale House invited us inside. We sat in a corner, had Shepherd’s pie and quaffed pints of good beer. Warmed and dry, we strolled up and down the streets and alleyways, wandered into small shops and watched the ferry silently arrive and leave again.
Armed with a map, we drove all over the island. Cattle Point, South Beach, False Bay, Whale Watch Park—we stopped on Mitchell Bay Road to watch a fawn prance and nibble, stopped again to laugh at four wild turkeys gobbling to each other. On Roche Harbor Road, we paused at the Duck Soup Inn sign. We looked across the heavy fog at the squares of yellow light glowing in the restaurant windows. Across the road, a small island sat shrouded in a gray fog, and an old orange canoe lay on a small dock.
“Can you imagine living here?” John asked me in a quiet voice.
“No.” I didn’t dare.
We left on Monday and returned to Oklahoma. Later, we discovered that each of us had felt “taken” with the island, an unspoken sense of homecoming we could not explain. In October we returned to buy land, knowing we had found our retirement dream.
Later this year we will go to Germany to celebrate 51 years of friendship with Hartmut and his family. I am sure we will toast Corinna and tell the oft-told tale of how we got to San Juan Island. She will ask us if we still feel the same about the island. We will tell her yes, ten times over.
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