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.

Almost There

The big blow this past weekend cleaned out the last of the fragile tree branches that were weakened in the winter storms, and deposited them helter-skelter on the patio. I noticed that our old canoe, who had spent her winter face down on our dock, had been flipped over into the lake. It seems Mother Nature is doing a little spring cleaning.

I’m in my own spring mode. Today, in town, I turned up my collar before I got out of the car—the wind snapped the flags at the American Legion like a kid in a bubble gum competition. From my perch at the American Legion viewing spot, I surveyed the harbor and marina in the patchy sunlight. Many boats in the marina are still buttoned up in winter covers, waiting to unfurl and billow. A solitary figure, hunched down into his coat trudged up the dock. A gust of wind caused my ears to tingle, and I quickly headed down the street to finish my errands. I thought, I need a flower or two. Impatiens. That’s what I need. And I need them soon.

I stopped in front of The Daisy Bloom. A sign proclaimed that “Spring is In”, and the “all new” written on the window was inviting. It’s hard to think spring has arrived when my hat sails off on its own accord and three layers of clothes aren’t quite enough.

My next stop was King’s Marine, and I heard a voice from deep within a box proclaim that everything was 40% off. Winter is now at a deep discount, I see. We’ll send her on her way with a big sales event. I collected my few items, totted up the total and shivered my way toward the car. “Not so springy today,” I spoke to a passenger in the next auto, who nodded his head in agreement.

On my way home, the sun burst out, and shone over the meadows and on the winery buildings at San Juan Vineyards. An SUV, headed toward town, had pulled over—two children were hanging out the window. Mona, our island camel (dromedary) was munching, carefully ignoring the pack of humans. I checked my rearview mirror to see that no one was coming, and rolled down my window. “Her name is Mona.”

The father relayed that to the children, and the mother asked how she got here. (Note to self—Mona needs her own interview.) I filled them in with what I know and noticed that with our two autos stopped, Mona was nonchalantly heading for the fence, as if there might be an apple in the gathering.
“Tell her she’s beautiful.” I suggested. “She loves to be admired.” I pulled away and realized that Mona’s fan club has started early in this new season.

I glanced at the lake again as I drove by. The swans had taken their leave, and I am always saddened by their departure. It is the final act of the end of winter. In their stead will be longer days and hummingbirds, and other rites of spring.

After I parked the car and made a cup of tea, I meandered down to the dock and the old canoe .She tugged at her mooring line, with a bit of impatience, just like the rest of us.

Corned Beef And Daffodils

My desk calendar shows that spring officially arrives next week, on Thursday, March 20th. Two recent events tell me it arrives a bit earlier.

For me, spring begins when daffodils and brunnera lazily stretch themselves out of the ground and model the season’s first shades of deep blue and sunshine yellow. They meander along the lazy curve of our drive and disappear out of sight toward the old shed. I don’t believe they consulted the calendar for this occasion, although they may have spoken to each other via an underground root system.

The second event is when I smell the corned beef and cabbage simmering in the San Juan Island Yacht Club kitchen. That is when I know the Soroptimists are elbow-deep in preparation for their annual St. Patrick’s Day community dinner and auction.

This Saturday, March 15th is the big feed, with one sit-down dinner at 6:00 p.m., and a new take- out option for those who wish to eat earlier. Particulars are available through Ellen Roberts, who is the Big Cheese/Top Banana for the group this year, or any other Soroptimist member. Former Big Cheese Judy Cornell tells me there will be a fair amount of green decorations, and fairy dust will be auctioned off by a traveling leprechaun who frequents the island this time of year.

Well, maybe she didn’t say that last part.

A year or so ago, even I had a bit of the Luck o’ the Irish at the dinner. I won a gift certificate to Serendipity, The Used Book Place. I bought a book about how the Irish have surreptitiously named things after themselves. But, they do it in such a charming way, singing all the while, that we are never aware of it.

For example, they named two states—O’hio and O’klahoma; one cereal—O’atmeal; one fruit—O’ranges; a mountain range—O‘zarks, one geyser—O’ld Faithful and—get this—an atmospheric layer—O’zone. See what I mean?

Which brings us back to the topic of corned beef and daffodils; do a good deed and get yourself to the Big Feed this Saturday. And, if daffodils haven’t trumpeted their message of spring in your neck of the woods, you’ll have to wait until next Thursday, when spring officially arrives.

Happiness x Two

Beneath a clear Pacific Northwest gem-of-a-day sky, John and I sit on the ferry as it glides away from the dock in Anacortes. I release a pent-up sigh. We have had a winter break; a cruise in the western Caribbean with friends Chuck and Judy, followed by a week in their home in Key West. But we are homeward bound now, and the sun’s rays on my face stir a feeling of deep warmth in my heart.

The places we visited on the cruise— islands in Honduras, Mexico and the Bahamas, as well as the small country of Belize—were delightful; unchanged in some ways since my last visit, vastly different in others. What has not changed is the beauty of a Caribbean sunset—that dusky orange sun as it hangs just above the horizon, and then slips away beneath a cluster of attendant clouds.
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The days in Key West were filled with great fishing for John and Chuck. Upon their return to the marina, tarpon and pelicans gathered expectantly near the cleaning table, each group vying for a tasty morsel.
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The evenings were filled with dinners of fresh Mangrove Snapper, crisp salads, succulent plantains and perfectly chilled white wine to round out the evening meals. The view from Chuck and Judy’s lanai of Sunset Marina and Key West beyond proved to be dessert enough.
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I file those thoughts away as Friday Harbor comes into view. I am filled with anticipation. I want to be home. I need to hug the cat, check on the swans, flit about the garden and later, dive head first into the pile of covers atop our bed.

I’m in luck as we drive slowly past the lake. There, in the afternoon sunlight, a graceful-necked swan swims at the end of our dock. We maneuver around the winter-born potholes in our long curving driveway and I scan the woods for the resident deer. After we unload all the bags, I make a quick tour around the garden. Buds and tiny shoots have sprouted in their bid for spring. I had read earlier that the weather is expected to stay mild and sunny for a few days.

My luck continues to hold when Tuxedo strolls into the house and nods hello. He smells of rich soil and green grass. I stop mid-chore to feed him; get a casual tail flick as a thank you and watch him leap into John’s lap and arrange himself in a loose coil for a long-awaited nap. Things are beginning to fall into place.

At last it’s time for bed. I plump my pillow to perfection, stretch out beneath a just-the-right-weight comforter, wiggle my toes in the land of flannel and fleece and gaze through the skylight at the sparkling stars.

“We had a great time, didn’t we?” I am in a state of contented weariness.

“We did.” John sighs deeply and reaches for the lamp switch.

“But I’m happiest at home.” I listen for an affirmation.

It comes—seconds later—in the sounds of deep, relaxed breathing. Happiness times two.

Island Comparisons

Recently, a mid-winter break and a trip to the western coast of the Caribbean showed up in the cards for John and me. The cold weather that had made the swans and ducks grouse at each other in their ever tightening circle on Dream Lake had made both of us long for a tiny bit of sun, sand and surf.

Our first location was the island of Roatan, Honduras. It was a perfect opportunity to make some island-to-island comparisons. The Bay Islands, located roughly 50 miles off the northern mainland coast of Honduras consist of three large islands, Utila, Guanaja and Roatan, as well as several smaller ones. Roatan is the largest, with a population of 30,000 and is the most developed of the three. It is comparable to San Juan Island in that it has the largest town, Coxen Hole, and has seen the greatest growth and development. This is due in part to a significant influx of Europeans and Americans, aided by the convenience of the international airport offering jet service.

A bit of research indicated that the island is 35 miles long and on an average, 3 miles wide. With names such as Pirates Cove, Half Moon Bay, Mangrove Bight, Gibson Bight and Baileys Cay, I knew there would be a history, just as our Smuggler's Cove, False Bay and Friday Harbor all have a story with their name.

"Think I'll check out the property prices," I said to John as we wandered around the shops and stalls in Coxen Hole.

It is easy to see that the great expanse of white sand beaches is a magnet for weary winter travelers, and those who wish to buy island property. I picked up a real estate brochure and noted the following: Gumbolimbo Shores has a half acre of beach front property, priced at $199,000 with 90 feet of beach front and a gentle slope on the back side of the site on which to build your dream home. I looked for the lowest prices for property and found home sites with water views and a quick walk to town could still be purchased for $20,000.

"Now I'll look for the high end." I summarized the advertisement. "This one of a kind, 13,644 sq.ft., 6 bedroom, 6.5 bath home is located on a beachfront bluff on the North shore with nothing to obstruct the views of the sea, has a guest house, staff quarters, courtyard and private terrace for a mere $4,650,000."

John and I roll our eyes at each other.

Some of the local opinion is that the developments and amenities needed and expected by the new home owners have caused the predictable strain on fresh water, and highlighted the lack of infrastructure to service the dramatic increase. Many natives and long-time islanders rue the homes, restaurants and developments that have eliminated the pristine beaches and verdant green hillsides.

At the end of the day, I watch the sun sink low behind evening clouds illuminated in hues of tangerine and purple. I have seen that sunset over the smooth waters of Garrison Bay on an August night. I hope the Roatanians will find a way to save the best of their island for themselves. It is the hope I have for San Juan Islanders.

Spelling Bee

Last week the Rotary Club of San Juan Island sponsored the third annual Friday Harbor Community Spelling Bee, held at the San Juan Community Theatre Main Stage.

Twenty-six entrants from Friday Harbor Elementary School, Friday Harbor Middle School, Spring Street International School and Paideia Classical School participated in the event.

First Place Winner was Michael Barsamian, a seventh grader from Friday Harbor Middle School. He won $75 personally, $150 for his classroom and $300 for his school.

The finalist was Fiona Small, a 5th grader at Friday Harbor Elementary School with $50 personally, $100 for her classroom and $200 for her school.

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I had planned to be a part of the ever-growing audience, but was volunteered by another volunteer to take some photos. It took a few seconds for me to see what a unique perspective I had. From my perch on the stage wing, I could observe the audience and the spellers and I noted the following:

All the contestants listened intently, leaning forward in their chairs as Rotary President Jack McKenna explained the rules, and noted what rules had changed since last year. As the spelling bee began, they listened to the selected word, and some mouthed the spelling to themselves. They watched each student make their way to center stage.

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Every contestant approached the pool of light, stood bravely in front of the microphone, peered into the blackness beyond and delivered vowels and consonants in the order their memory served them. A look to the judges and a small sigh of relief sent them back to their chairs, or down the steps to a round of fervent applause for their effort.

That event wasn’t just a spelling bee, and there was so much more there than a youngster spelling a word. Courage and risk accompanied them to the center of the spotlight, and grace and sportsmanship were at their side as they exited the stage. Admiration and pride spilled into the aisles from the friends and families present. Hugs had to form a waiting line.

What I saw in each participant that stood in front of that microphone was the keys to success in life—guts in the face of the unknown, willingness to risk failure to succeed, self-imposed challenges and the wisdom to ready themselves for the next opportunity to hone their skills.

Kudos to them all.

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