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Top Twenty
I’ve been feeling a little clausterphonic on the island lately, a little restless. I went into a bit of an emotional tail spin in May when I realized that the ferry pass I bought in February was going to expire with six uses left. I love my island home, but sometimes I just need to get over to America. Here are my top twenty signs that it’s time to get off the island:
20. Your last four dates have been to silent auction fundraisers.
19. The baristas don’t ask what you would like because they already know. You’ve become known as the “quad shot, 2%, easy on the foam” guy.
18. All your children’s clothes have someone else’s name written on the tags
17. There are drool marks on the Target ad from your Sunday paper.
16. You start wondering if you are the only islander not part of the witness protection program.
15. You know exactly where your food came from.
14. You don’t complain about paying $3.50 for a gallon of gas.
13. You’ve started listening to Jimmy Buffett and have stopped in to see Kirk about taking ukulele lessons.
12. Monday is your Friday at your first job and Wednesday at your second job, and you can’t remember when you’ve had a Saturday on a Saturday from all three jobs at once.
11. You’ve stopped slowing down to see if Mona the Camel is out, stopped squinting to identify the Orcas among a cluster of whale watch boats
10. You think tourist and terrorist sound too much alike.
9. You smell like lavender.
8. You’ve eaten all your winter storm emergency case and can sale food out of your pantry and can’t face the local market because you’re just not in the mood to buy raffle tickets and get hugged.
7. You can’t remember the last time you’ve gone over 45 miles per hour.
6. You’ve started naming the foxes and deer and raccoons. They’ve started calling you by your name.
5. It seems like everyone else knows more about your business than you do so you’ve started a rumor about yourself just so you can know something they don’t know.
4. You spend too much time checking the status of on-line purchases and find yourself jealous of all the places that Fed Ex package has been. “Wow, the Teva sandals I ordered are in Boise. I’ve always wanted to go to Boise...”
3. You’re thinking about writing your memoirs, getting a dog, growing your own vegetables and maybe running for sheriff.
2. You see a moped and think “ten points,”
And, finally, the number one sign you need to get off the island --just for a visit, gentle readers, we wouldn’t want you to leave for ever"The top sign that you need to get off the island is (insert drum roll please...)
1. You are down to your last roll of toilet paper!
(Amy Wynn is a local island humorist, store clerk, mom, lifeguard instructor and Sunday School teacher who is currently suffering from island fever (think cabin fever only worse...think the movie “the Shining”...only worse...think about giving her a ferry ticket or a roll of t.p!)
Clothes Encounters
I bought this really cool retro shirt at the thrift store. It was 100 % polyester with a big 70’s collar. It’s big brown and white plaid squares had some touches of hot pink, turquoise and orange. Finally I had something hip and fashionable to augment my wardrobe of “Big Store” polo shirts and “San Juan Island Fitness” lifeguard tank-tops.
I loved that shirt. I would put it on and immediately my posture would improve. It had a flattering cut and whenever I wore I would get that “you look like you’ve lost weight” comment. Which kind of bugged me because I think people should be paying attention to things more important than my weight but that same comment also made me suck in the belly a little tighter and gave me a freaky boost of confidence.
And each time I wore that shirt, something good happened. I wore that shirt when I won $25 playing only a buck in pull-tabs. One time I had lost my glasses, but I put on that shirt and, “waa-laa” immediately found the misplaced bifocals. People seemed to respect me more and be friendlier to me when I had that “lucky” shirt on. When I wore that shirt out on card-playing dates with my husband, we always got fast, great service. I was convinced that really cool retro shirt had modest magical powers.
So, it was an obvious choice that I would wear that shirt last year to the Relay for Life karaoke fund-raiser at the local tavern. I was having a nice time, dancing with my husband Marc and chitchatting with everyone I knew. It was good to get out of the house with the man and have a little fun for a good cause.
When Marc excused himself to use the men’s room, this twenty-something woman I’d never met before came up to me and said, “I love your shirt.”
“Thanks. I got it at the thrift store.” I said.
It’s an island thing for people to brag about getting stuff at the thrift store. In other parts of the country admitting your wardrobe came from a thrift store is social suicide. Here thrift store shopping is a competitive sport nothing short of the suburban sub-division “my-lawn-looks better than yours” wars.
Normally after the “I got it from the thrift store” comment is made, everyone in earshot chimes in with a story about their best thrift store find.
“My son needed a tux for prom and I found one that fit him perfectly for $10.”
“I got an teak Danish style dining room set for $50 at the thrift store and I did some research on-line about it and found out it was worth $800.”
“I bought this ugly bowl made out of something called Goofus Glass for a buck at the thrift store and turned around and sold it for $35 on E-Bay.”
Yes, that’s what normally happens when you mention you got something from the thrift store. But sometimes you get a different response, like the one I got that night I was wearing my really cool retro shirt from the Thrift Store:
“I figured you got it at the Thrift Store,” the young woman said. “My aunt Tilly just passed away and we took all her clothes to the Thrift Store when we cleaned out her house. I’d recognize that shirt anywhere. It was Aunt Tilly’s favorite. She wore it all the time. Bet she had it on when she died.”
I turned kind of pale. Then the woman moved in closer and sniffed me, “ Does it still smell like moth balls and lucky strike cigarettes? “
I turned my head and took a whiff of the sleeve. Now I know I have worn and washed that shirt at least a couple dozen times, but suddenly "and I’m chalking it up to the power of suggestion"it did have the faint odor of moth balls and stale cigarettes.
I got this picture of my skin touching little dead lady corpse skin and I was kind of creeped out because, well, I get creeped out easily. I didn’t want to be wearing a shirt with a dead person’s ghost in it. I got a case of the hee-bee-jee-bees.
I looked at the clock, “Oh shoot, I’m late, Got to go.” I lied.
I caught Marc’s eye as he was coming my way and shot him that “get-me-outta-here-now” look and he, enjoying a rare night out with his wife, gave me the quizzical, “what-you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-we-just-started-having-a-good-time” look.
“We’ve got to leave Right now.”
“What’s up? We just got here.”
“I’ve got to take this shirt off RIGHT NOW!”
“Well, guess we got to go.” He said, a twinkle in his eye.
My husband turned to his cohorts, “See you guys later, we’re off....like a prom dress!”
What happened when we got home isn’t fit to print. But come Monday morning, I did make a donation to the Thrift Store of one really cool 100% polyester retro shirt with a big 70’s collar .
Now it’s someone else’s lucky shirt.
Amy Wynn shops at the local thrift store and consignment shop and occasionally recognizes her son’s old clothes living a new life as part of another child’s wardrobe. )
Survivor, San Juan Island
Did you hear the news? I am about to be voted off the island. That’s right, folks, the tribal council is meeting and before you know it they’ll douse my flame and send me packing. I thought I was playing the game pretty well. I was doing all the things I thought an islander should do. But, alas, I messed up and missed a key requirement for being an islander. I don’t garden.
Everyone else on the island gardens. Even folks living on boats or in apartments or Volkswagon vans garden. They garden in pots and windowsills or take advantage of community gardens and friends’ backyards to put in the obligatory tomato plant, row of lettuce, and kitchen herb patch.
I tried gardening. It’s not that I have black thumb. Well, maybe I do. It’s just I can’t take all the hate that gardening brought into my life.
When I gardened I hated the seed companies for making seed packets so expensive. I remember when you could get a pack of seeds for a quarter and it would have a quarter cup of seeds in it. Now days I spend $2.99 for a quarter gram of seeds, which turns out to be maybe eight or nine seeds. At those prices I hated the birds who thought my expensive seeds were their free lunch.
I hated the cute snails. As a little girl I loved to draw pictures of snails. They were my favorite things to draw, those swirly circled creatures with their magical homes on their backs. When I tried gardening I found myself killing those critters for snacking on my tender young plants. Then I would feel guilty for killing them, so I quit killing them and tried relocating them to my neighbors yard. Which probably made them hate me a little bit.
And the cute deer. They say nothing runs like a deer. Nothing EATS like a deer. They plowed through my old garden like a high school football team hitting the all-you-can-eat buffet at Pizza Hut. Nothing was left in their wake. Hated them.
And the cute pets. Hated them, too. I didn’t like fluffy using my sandy carrot patch as her litter box or Fido pissing on my berries.
Oh I hated slugs. I put out pans of beer for them to drown in. Then I felt guilty for doing that and tried taking them to a little AA meeting in the middle of the road, but it never really caught on and they were content to eat all vegetables in sight or drown their sorrows in the pie plate full of Budweiser. Sure all the magazines tell you the beer in the pan trick for slugs, but no one tells you what to do with a pan of floating, dead, beer-saturated slugs. I think maybe I wasn’t supposed to throw them at the neighbor’s cat.
And aphids, don’t even get me started on how much I hated aphids and the devastation they wreaked on my last attempts to garden. And those scary looking pinchy bugs. I’d kill one, feel guilty about it and then, like something from a Twiilight Zone episode, all the creepy, pinchy bugs’ brothers and sisters would invade my garden for the funeral. They invaded my dreams, too, turning them into nightmares about giant pinchy bugs squishing screaming, defenseless red-headed gardeners.
But worst of all, I hated people. I hated people who had all the gardening “answers.” Especially well-meaning people whose “answers” didn’t match up with the last well-meaning gardener’s answers. To Miracle Grow or no? Slug bait or beer in a plate? Pest killing spray or just let lady bugs play? And the guy who would urinate around his garden to keep the deer away. Maybe that works, but, you guessed it, I hated the idea.
I hated helpful nursery sales people who would grow impatient with me. Why didn’t they ever explain to me that annuals don’t come back annually? And why did they always give me the evil eye while I would peruse the rows of plants? I really wasn’t going to shoplift a pansy or a petunia. They just didn’t understand. When I shopped for plants it took a lot of time. I wasn’t just picking out a plant, I was choosing my next victim.
I hated people with beautiful gardens. It’s a jealousy thing.. Then I hated myself for hating people with beautiful gardens.
I can’t say that my adventures in gardening ever made me hate God. Seeds alone and the stuff that grows out of those little pouches of protein are miracle enough for me to love a Creator God. I must admit, though, that I do wonder why God couldn’t have made aphids with an appetite for noxious weeds and put rain on a little more predictable schedule and skipped hail all together.
Now I don’t garden. And now I don’t hate. I buy good dirt and give it away and feel good knowing that it will nourish someone else’s beloved plants and not become a grave for mine. I can see a lovely garden and just enjoy it without feeling inadequate. I can have confidence that someone will have a bumper crop of tomatoes and want to barter for a swim lesson or a batch of jam. If I’m having a bad day and just feel like ripping weeds out of the ground for therapy, I know a lot of places where I am welcomed to do that. But at my house, dandelions and clovers are officially considered landscaping not to be disturbed or trampled. The California Poppies that volunteer in the backyard are joyfully now considered deer habitat.
With the gardening-induced hate out of my life I am able to be more present. I am able to be loving towards island critters and friends and neighbors. And really, isn’t that what being an islander is all about? So back off, tribal council. I’m here to stay!
(Amy plans to take up gardening when she’s done raising her bumper crop of teenage boys. Hopefully, she’ll take up yoga, too. And for the record she never threw slugs at the neighbors cat. Now that would have gotten her voted off the island to be sure!!)
The Hangover
I was tired. My head was throbbing. My eyes were candy-cane colored bloodshot red. I felt like death warmed over on a greasy griddle. I just wanted to crawl back into bed and not wake up until that queasy feeling in my stomach and the ache in my bones passed. Worst of all, the pain was self-inflicted.
Nope, I didn’t catch the swine flu from not dodging sneezers at the market. No, I didn’t over-indulge in Champaign on New Year’s Eve. I did have a hangover, a mainland hangover, that series of symptoms that comes on when after a few months of quiet, pastoral island living you decide that yes, you do indeed deserve to treat yourself to a new bra, or some size 16 sneakers or some widget that isn’t carried on the island. So off you go to America. And it all goes down from there.
First of all, no one ever begins the mainland trip well rested. Who among us can get a good nights rest before catching the red-eye or the eight o’clock? There are all the loose ends that need taken care of before we go. Who will let the dog out? Who will check on the kids after school? Where’s my drivers license? There is the anxiety of whether the alarm clock will go off, the car start, how early should I get in line. And of course, if we manage to go to sleep at all, we will surely be awakened by some thing we need to remember not to forget. Such as the ferry ticket your neighbor sold you...the pants to take back to Penney’s...the eye glass prescription...the grocery list on the fridge.
Then there is the inevitable gas anxiety. It seems to be island tradition to let your car get as low on gas as possible before going to the mainland so you can gas up on the mainland and save a few bucks. The trouble is, somewhere between home and the ferry landing the gas gage dips below “e” and reason kicks in. What if the border patrol is stopping all the cars on the other side for citizenship checks and I run out of gas? Then you have to decide...stop for gas and risk being put on over-load and missing the boat or have your car putter out of fuel before the first gas station.
I always try to sleep on the ferry ride over to catch up on the shut-eye I didn’t get the night before. This works on the straight thru boats. But forget it if you have to stop at Lopez. Once those chatter box Lopezians get on, its all over. Their little 30 minute jaunt on the ferry and the additional hour they get to sleep before getting on the ferry leaves them chipper. Too chipper. They really are friendly. They really do know how to communicate with words. I wish they would just wave at each other on the ferry and give me some peace and quiet.
I know, I seem to be complaining. Forgive me. People with mainland hangovers get whiney. You’re probably wondering why I didn’t just sleep in my car if I can’t take the loud Lopezians. You know why. “Will the owner of the silver Mercedes please return to the car deck and turn off your alarm...”
Of course, once you’re off the ferry and have filled up the tank, it is time to take sustenance. Everyone seems to have a mainland food “thing.” For me it is the Donut House. Donuts, Safeway Chinese, KFC, and Little Debbie snack cakes. That much grease could account for the hangover tummy ache. Then again, maybe it was the stress that made me sick to my stomach.
You see, I am one of those people who hates to make decisions, even small insignificant retail decisions. For example, I had put “wash clothes” on my shopping list. Mine were getting pretty ratty looking. I found myself at Target looking at a 200 square foot display of washcloths in every color, texture, fiber known to man, I was overwhelmed. I was drawn to the peach ones, but I don’t have peach anywhere in my bathroom. Maybe I should look for a peach shower curtain and bath mat. Maybe it is time to paint the bathroom. Oh, I’ll just get the blue ones that match what I have already. No, I really like the peach ones, though. I just don’t want to paint. Wait. What is there about society that tells me I must conform and have matching shower curtain, towels and bath mats. I don’t need to be all matchy-moo. I’ll get the peach ones...that are a dollar more than the blue ones for no good reason. I will not pay more for this year’s “in” shade. I will not be a pawn in the game of over consumption. I won’t buy new wash clothes. I’ll make due with the ones I have. Whew.
There were certain things on my list that I absolutely needed that could not be found on the island and vowed I would not leave the mainland without acquiring them. This caused the tension headache. Top on the list: a new over the shoulder boulder holder. That’s code words for a new bra. I found the dream one. The only problem was that it was more than I had budgeted. Do you know why they call them “Wonder Bras?” It’s because you’re left to wonder why it costs so much for something made with so little fabric.
To make matters worse, they were running a “Buy 2 Bras, Get 2 Bras Free” sale which I tried to get the sales clerk to interpret as a “Half Off One Bra” sale. She wouldn’t budge. This just annoyed me and convinced me even more that I was being gouged on the price of the one bra. I couldn’t justify paying more on bras than I did on my gorgeous wedding dress. Still, there’s nothing like a good bra that fits right.... I just didn’t need four of them or a big dent in my checkbook. I succumbed, paid too much for the one perfect bra and decided I could justify the price because I didn’t buy new washcloths at Target.
It was an exhausting day of those kinds of decisions and dilemmas and internal mental deal-making. Where to go? How to get there? Will it be cheaper at the next store? I was on sensory over-load. Traffic lights. drive-thrus, neon signs, Muzak, long lines of people waiting, none of whom I knew, none of whom seemed to have the ability to smile. And the traffic circle at the end of Commercial...how come no one told me about that? And where did Wal-Mart go? I never did find it. There was just an empty shell, clearly the remnants of a mass alien abduction.
Finally, at the end of the day there was the last dash to the ferry and the decision of whether or not to risk making the boat by stopping for Chicken and a top off of the gas tank. I know very little in life. I do know that the longest 4.2 miles in all the world is from the Safeway corner of Commercial Ave in Anacortes to the blessed toll booth at the ferry landing. There’s nothing like the adrenaline-pumping race to see if you made the boat or not, the digging through the glove box for the ferry ticket while attempting to dodge deer on the “s” curve and pass slow moving senior drivers on the straight away. The grand mystery of the unknown fills the mind with anxiety"“will I be on overload?” “is the boat running on time?” The only thing almost as bad as being # 20 on overload, is arriving to an empty lot with an hour to wait, knowing you could have had time to go to the fabric store or grab a bite to eat.
A day on the mainland can cause all the physical symptoms of a hangover"nausea, body aches, and a pounding head. It will take a bottle of Pepto Bismal, a couple Excedrin and a few good night rests to fully get over it all. But the best remedy for a mainland hangover is still the slow ferry ride home into the sunset. If you’re lucky, you ride the ferry front and center with the silhouettes of the islands over your dashboard, Mt. Baker in the rearview. If you’re luckier, you’re the last one on and get to sleepily watch the red tail lights of the cars ahead of you snake their way up Spring Street. Finally it’s your turn and you bounce fully awake and alive as your own car crosses the thresholds from ferry to ramp to road to home.
Amy Wynn lives and works on San Juan Island and has experienced the trifecta of ferry experiences: the joy of being the last car squeezed onto the boat, the agony of missing the boat by one car, and the humiliation of having your car not start in the ferry line.
No Problem!
“What are you doing for Thanksgiving?”
“Are you going to the turkey dinner at the Grange?”
“Spending Thanksgiving on the mainland this year?’
Everyone wants to know what everyone else is up to. Some are hoping for an invite. Some are looking for folks to help them finish off a twenty pound Tom Turkey. Some are looking for someone who’ll pick up something from America. Some are just nosey people making conversation.
So, since you’ve all been asking and I’ve been dodging the question. Here it is. Officially, and for the record: I’m making TV dinners for Thanksgiving.
I know, it sounds pathetic. It is, however, part of our family heritage. Before we know it our sons will be leaving the nest, so it’s time to do it. It’s time to give homage to the first Thanksgiving My husband Marc and I spent together.
It was the early 90’s. Marc and I had just moved into an apartment at the Sandpiper. It was so tiny, but after living in a VW van, the apartment seemed huge to us. It seemed huge enough to host an orphans thanksgiving potluck feast. We were so thankful for our new home, we decided to share our goodwill, cook up a turkey and the trimmings. Tim, our neighbor two doors down decided to help us out. He brewed his own beer and agreed to open his apartment up so there’d be room for everyone to eat comfortably.
One of the things that I am so thankful for is that my husband does not worry. “No problem!” is his motto.
So when he invited someone for that orphans Thanksgiving dinner, and they’d say something like, “I have my three cousins visiting, mind if they come along?” He’d say, “No problem.”
“We have a half dozen whale researchers out at Dad’s, mind if they come along?”
“No problem.”
“I know it’s a potluck, but I can’t really cook much in my galley, can I just show up and not bring anything?”
“No problem.”
I was expecting ten people tops. The people kept coming and coming. 15...25...30. Not many brought food. One person brought a completely frozen rock solid turkey. Another person brought Wild Turkey...you know, the kind in a bottle. A lot of people brought beer. We were young and ran with the “beer goes with everything” crowd back then. Being good hosts, we made sure our guests had plenty to eat, thinning out the gravy, resorting to some instant mashed potatoes when the real ones ran out, opening up a few cans of green beans after the casserole was polished off.
No problem. Everyone seemed to be having a good time.
We made sure our guests were fed. We enjoyed our neighbor’s home brew and our guests’ barley pop contributions, but we didn’t get in on the turkey or the tators. The last guest left and there were no leftovers. The fridge was bare; the cupboards empty, our bellies grumbling for food.
Marc called the Little Store. Hallelujah! They were open! We stumbled down and picked out a couple of Swanson turkey TV dinners. The guy behind the counter asked if we wanted a slice of pumpkin pie. He said people were feeling sorry that he had to work the holiday and kept bringing him plates of food.
“Hey man, thanks for the pie!” My husband said as we turned to walk out the door.
“No problem.”
Amy Wynn is thankful for island life and especially for the turkey dinner at the Grange. She’ll probably see you there for seconds when she’s done with her TV dinner!
Moving On
Isn’t that the way things go. I thought I was over it all. I’d healed. Moved on. Life is good again. Then, something happened that triggered a bad memory and the emotions started flowing. and whoops. There I was again. Hurt. Angry. Anxiety ridden. An emotional basketcase, a blubbering idiot stuck in the past, spouting tears like Aunt Jane making her Walla Walla Onion casserole.
All this just because my husband gave me a car for my birthday. I know. I should be crying tears of joy. I’ve been relying on my blue bike and the kindness of friends for transportation the past couple of years. I should be happy that two wheels have become four. Instead, my brain races with fear. Having a car in my life that fits into our budget means that I will have to develop a relationship with a mechanic. I just don’t think I’m ready to go there. The pain is too fresh in my mind.
It was a hot summer day. I picked up my Honda from the local mechanic and I was thrilled to be behind the wheel again. I was dreaming of all the places I would go -the beach. The other beach. That other other beach. I missed the beach. It was high noon. I parked in front of Kings to run in for a few things. I came out, put the groceries in the trunk, the key in the ignition. The car would not start. I had given the mechanic my entire $1100 income tax refund to fix my car. I had not even made it to the beach once.
I called the mechanic. The snooty lady at the car mechanic sent someone out right away. He hooked the little computer gizmo to it. There was not an answer for it’s woes. Only a, maybe it could be this other $500 thing. The $1100 thing that didn’t even fix the problem had originally been estimated at only $800. I feared the $500 thing would become an $750 thing. I feared that even after that additional repair, it would still leave me stranded in front of Kings at noon on a busy day.
The mechanic had performed one cash-ectomy on me. I wasn’t going to let him perform another one. His condescending tone and that of the office lady made me feel lower than slug slime. I wouldn’t give them another dime. I would show him.
That was when I became a bike commuter. That is when I became morally superior because, well, I was financially inferior. I was greener than thou. Fitter than thou. Smarter than thou. The price of gas soared and I survived the summer of 2008 unscathed because my transportation choice was fueled by peanut m & m’s. I started having savings in the bank. I could actually give to my church, to charities, to campaigns without feeling the pinch. I could breathe. No longer living paycheck to paycheck. I had some wiggle room and I loved to wiggle, and ride my bike.
At first I resented people in cars. I wondered how all these newly arrived immigrants could afford Escalades and fancy pick-up trucks and Marc and I were working five jobs between us and we didn’t even have a good-island-car. I was a crazy green-eyed jealous monster on two wheels. Resentful. Judgmental. Mental case.
Then one early morning a fox crossed my path, ran along the road beside me, crossed my path again, ran along beside me, crossed my path again. This continued all the way to work. I felt a connection to that critter, to all of nature. If I had been in a car I probably wouldn’t have had that encounter. Or the encounter could have ended with road kill. That’s when I started to think of commuting by bike as a blessing.
I made up a little bike prayer that I would say as I rode up Rose Lane. “I count this as a great blessing. That I have legs strong enough to peddle a bike and a bike strong enough for my fat butt. Lord keep me safe as I move through the world. Amen.” I found joy in the simple act of peddle-powered self-propulsion.
I became a member of the island’s unofficial bike commuter club and was awarded the coveted bike horn. I couldn’t help but smile as I tooted my horn at John or Richard and they’d toot their horn back at me. A little “way to go! atta-boy!” acknowledgment of our commitment to commuting by bike.
Now I have a car. I wear dark glasses and a hat as I drive it, hoping the bike commuter guys don’t recognize me and take away my horn. I worry about money again. The price of gas. Being able to continue to give to the things that are dear to my heart. Will I still have a savings account in a year or will I be a victim of another car mechanic cash-ectomy? Will I still have red hair after sitting in the passenger seat while my teen-age son is at the wheel?
Biking taught me the lesson of turning a burden into a blessing. Now it seems like the universe, or God, or maybe my husband, is trying to teach me something: how to trust enough to let go of fears from the past and move on. Even if that means being on four wheels instead of two.
(Amy Wynn lives, works and drives in Friday Harbor. She is looking for a kind, compassionate and affordable car mechanic who has a staff with good road-side manners. )
The Last Halloween, Again
I have a confession to make. I didn’t go to the county fair this year. And I lived to tell about it. Don’t get me wrong. I still love the fair and next year I’ll probably be the first one rushing through the gates, headed for the elephant ear booth. With my appetite satiated, I’ll probably smooze and meander and chit-chat with everyone. This past fair season found me exhausted from a trip, with a lot on my plate and even more on my mind. Three wise men (not those wise men, but I think they might be related) helped me see that sometimes we need to rest, be still, take a break from the “I have to-s.”
Now I am more careful with my time and talents, learning to say no to those things that don’t bring joy or fulfillment or nurture my spirit in some way. I feel better about the things I choose to do. I am learning to let go of things, trusting that if those things are to be, the right person will be there to see it through. It just doesn’t have to be me. The flip side of that is learning to let other people say “no.”
So, when my husband announced that he didn’t want to “do” Halloween I said, “No problem. I’ll do Halloween.” For two weeks he hounded me for details about what I was going to do for Halloween. I tried to reassure him that I had it all under control. I did.
I finally told him my plan. I called it “Dancing with the Halloween Stars.” It would be a spoof on that celebrity dance show. I thought I would decorate the driveway of our house like a disco -"colored lites, a mirrored disco ball, good music. I’d have friends dress up like Halloween stars: Dracula, Frankenstein and his Bride, zombies and they could lead the little trick-or-treaters in the “macherena” or “the monster mash.” A couple of judges would give a lot of candy to all the little kids and the big kids who made the effort to actually dress up. The judges could heckle the big kids with lame costumes. It would be original and fun. It wouldn’t scare the littlest trick-or-treaters, yet could be engaging for the older ones.
Clearly my husband was not impressed with my idea. Maybe he was panicking because I hadn’t drawn out a to-scale plan of the placement of Halloween décor and submitted a schematic for the sound system wiring. Or maybe he was having a hard time letting go.
He took Halloween back from me. He said he’s calling it “The Last Halloween.” He swears, like he does every year, that this is the last year for the big Halloween display. He swears all I have to do this year is get the candy.
Someone delivered 200 linear feet of 1 x 2’s and some huge tarps to my house. That makes me nervous. Big Halloween displays have a tendency to stick around my yard for a while. Seems like everything doesn’t get put away until we put up the Christmas lights in the middle of December. Even then, some stuff gets missed and come spring I’ll be hitting a skeleton bone with the mower, sending plastic shrapnel everywhere.
The lumber yard delivery has me asking him some questions. “Just what are you planning to build for Halloween?” “Are you sure it won’t blow away if the weather turns bad?” “Can you show me a drawing of what you’re planning to do?” “You’re not going to do anything that will scare the little cute trick-or-treaters, are you?”
Oh no. Now I’m having a hard time letting go.
“I just have to get the candy.”
“I just have to get the candy.”
“I just have to get the candy.”
That’s my new mantra.. Which is sort of like telling a recovering alcoholic he just needs to bring the beer. I have to buy the candy and then resist eating it until Halloween. I don’t like to give out sticky teeth rotting stuff and it can’t be chocolate made by exploited labor. So if it is chocolate, it has to be the expensive organic, free trade stuff.
Ah gee, I think I’ll just try to track down one of the food vendors from the County Fair.
“Happy Halloween!”
“Would you like an Elephant Ear?”
“No, not a real elephant ear. That’d be gross. The sweet cinnamon doughy elephant ear.”
“Yes you can have one, but first, let me see you dance the Monster Mash!”
Amy Wynn has two left feet. She will not have elephant ears at her house for Halloween. She will be giving out whatever candy happens to show up on her doorstep on October 30th. She is taking applications for a house sitter for October 31, 2010. She is glad that after 16 years of Marriage, Marc still isn’t able to let go of Halloween...or her.
The Big Gulp
It’s that time of year. The time of year I call “The big gulp.” We’ve spent the summer swimming at a fast clip to put away for winter, taking advantage of tourist dollars and long days to work hard and get ahead a little bit. September is always sweet. A little Indian summer, ripe fruit for the picking and canning, zucchini and tomatoes everywhere you turn around. The kids are back to school and oh the joy of routine. Three jobs become just two. Houseguests have gone home. We can finally relax and float on the peaceful surface of island life.
Then you see the two page spread ad in the local newspaper for the big anniversary case and can sale at the local market. It’s the beginning of the end all over again. It’s “the big gulp.” Time to lift our eyes to the heavens, open wide and try to suck in enough breath and energy and canned tuna to get us through until those hopeful days of spring when days grow too long again, daffodils pop through the soil and an income tax refund finds its way into the checking account just in time to catch up on winter Opalco bills.
Here are my tips for taking the big gulp:
Go to the case and can sale. Buy too much. Think emergency preparedness. Think power outage. Think heat some canned chili on the wood stove after a hard day. Give a bunch of it away over the course of the winter. Giving seems to give me a sense of abundance, a feeling I don’t always associate with winter in the San Juans. As holiday events occur, it seems like each one requests you bring a non-perishable for the local food bank. So go ahead, keep an extra case of beans in the trunk of your car for those occasions.
Winterize your wardrobe. Find the big black rubber boots, the rain pants. Match the mittens. Waterproof the rain gear. There’s nothing quite like the sight of beading water droplets on a favorite old jacket. Add some layers before you head out for work in the morning.
Get social. It is easy to just hibernate during the winter. Sleep too much, eat too much, get to feeling a little blue. Part of your big-gulp should be to plan a little social something to get you out of the house in the months to come. Join a bowling league. Start a book club (or if you have a short attention span like me, maybe a magazine club.) Host a potluck poker night; take a class at the college. I remember back in the days of the Royal Theater. They had $3 cheap movie night on Monday and everyone went. The lobby had that academy awards buzz to it as everyone meeted and greeted over popcorn and junior mints. I could handle the Monday workweek blues because I had movie night to look forward to.
Pay attention to people. It seems like winter takes its toll on a lot of people, especially our precious seniors. If there are older neighbors and folks you just know from around town, check in with them and if you can help in any way, do it. To those who are most vulnerable among us, deliver a little firewood, have them over for a meal, accompany them to a doctor visit, say hello. Ask how they’re doing -you may get an earful. That’s o.k. There will be some wise words and probably a few funny anecdotes in there somewhere. We all need some of that. You won’t want to see their picture on the drug store door and think, “I should have told ‘em how dear they were to me.” Tell them now.
Savor the sweetness. The very last thing you should do before taking the big gulp and submerging into the wet, darkness of the next few months is to take a good look around. Be thankful for the frenzied days of summer sunlight, the perfectness of floating on September’s buoyancy. Remember it all as you look beneath the surface of island life for what truly keeps us all afloat. Hope. Hard Work. Community. Compassion. Deep Breaths. Canned Chili.
Amy Wynn is a working, working-class mom who is holding her breath until spring like she does every year. She has never won a single Case and Can Sale door prize in the over seventeen years she’s lived on the island. But she’s still hoping. Gulp!
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