Campaigning

My son had to memorize a portion of the Declaration of Independence for his eighth grade humanities class. While he was wandering around the house reciting it to himself over and over I was reminded of this brilliant feature of our nation. Every four years we get the opportunity to peacefully overthrow our government. Wow!

Well, peaceful is not exactly how the primary campaigns are going and I’m sure the 2008 campaigns for president will be anything but peaceful. After the Republican and Democratic conventions the real mud-slinging will begin. That is a shame.

If I were to run for president, my campaign would be a little different.

First of all, I would have the “look” of my campaign to be more on the line of the San Juan County Fair Trashion Fashion show. I wouldn’t want everyone in matching Made in China red white and blue t-shirts that said “Amy for President.” No. I would tell people to re-fashion something they already owned or got at a thrift shop. Imagine, bright orange t-shirts with “I’m voting for the carrot top” written in black sharpie marker or a tie-dyed shirt with a hand-made appliqué that said “We all Win with Wynn.”

Sure, it might hurt the t-shirt industry, but what a boom for fabric paint manufacturers and Goodwill stores. Think of how vibrant my supporters would look--a rainbow of t-shirts symbolic of the rainbow of people who make up our nation.

Secondly, I wouldn’t do yard signs or placards. Instead, I’d ask my supporters to plant something like a tree or bush or windowsill tomato plant and put a small florist card sign that said “I’m going and growing with Wynn.” Yard signs eventually get weathered, worn and tacky. They end up in landfills. What a waste! Plants provide oxygen and loveliness. And who couldn’t use a little more of each. I’d ask that all banners be hand-made, preferably from recycled bed sheets and done by young children.

Thirdly, I would let the people know that I am in politics because I genuinely want to help people. I believe that most Americans want to help their fellow man. So instead of having volunteers stuffed away at phone banks calling to get out the vote or hitting the streets knocking on doors. I’d ask my supporters to really help the nation by reading to the blind and young children, picking up litter, serving food at homeless shelters, building trails in our parks.

I’d want the energy that goes into my campaign to have a positive impact whether or not I win. Do you want to contribute funds to my campaign? Don’t. Instead give money to the United Way, the Red Cross, the Boy Scouts, the Girl Scouts, any good service organization around. Let them know it is in honor of your support for my candidacy.

Another aspect of my campaign would be brutal honesty. I’d air all my own dirty laundry. Everything. That it took me seven years to get through college because of a lingering incomplete, the failed first marriage, my addiction to peanut butter m & m’s, my tendency to drool in my sleep, I have bad hair days. Everything.

So many people want their politicians to be perfect that many good leaders are discouraged from public service because of the intense public scrutiny. I’d say, bring it on. I’m human. I’ve messed up a time or two. I have learned from my mistakes. Then, I’d try to live the most virtuous life in the present: no $30,000 escorts, no expensive gifts from lobbyists, I’d lay off the wine.

Finally, I would not accept defeat or victory until every vote was counted. I wouldn’t let Fox News polls tell me I won or lost. I often feel jipped living in the Pacific Northwest when the national media declares winners before our local polling places have closed. I want my vote to count and be counted. I want to know that I was part of that peaceful revolution we call a national election.

(Amy Wynn has a B.A. in political science from the University of Illinois at Springfield. She saw the ugly side of politics while working for a lobbying firm in Washington D.C. Today she happily juggles three jobs to be able to live on an island off the coast of the other Washington.)

Election Day

I miss elections. I miss real live, hunt for a parking space, stand in line at the school gym, go behind the curtain, have candidates to choose between, get a little “I voted” sticker when you are done, elections.

I miss the buzz around town on election day.

“Did you remember to vote, honey?” has morphed into, “Honey, do you know where I put my ballot?”

It seems like once I actually find my ballot the universe is conspiring against me.

The five hundred black pens I bought at the Drug Store back-to-school sale are all in hiding. I wonder, can I use the purple ink pen that I actually manage to find? I re-read the instructions that are written in a font that seems so much smaller than in my pre-forty-something days. It says “Please use black or blue pen.” I wonder, will the computer read ballots marked in purple pen? It’s sort of dark like blue and black. The ballot didn’t say, “Don’t use purple.” So maybe the purple pen will work. I am not a risk taker. I search the what-not drawer and find the innards of an old ball point pen. An old black ballpoint pen. The skinny bendy-ness of the pen is awkward, but a small inconvenience for the continuation of democracy.

Ballot found, pen in hand, I am ready to vote. The phone rings. I answer it. It is Michael with the thick Indian accent wanting to know if I am interested in free dish satellite blah-blah-blah. I politely tell him no. I hang up the phone. It rings again. It is Charlotte with the thick Asian accent who wants to know when she can schedule my husband and I for our two hour tour of some condos so we can receive our complimentary two night stay in Las Vegas. I politely tell her no.

I return to the kitchen table. Guess what! The phone rings. Scott, with the amazing Minnesota accent, wants to give me a free $500 gift card for completing a crap-matic sleep study. $500. Tempting. He assures me he doesn’t want to sell me anything. I bite. I can actually understand what he is saying. I’m a sucker for Midwest accents. He says he’ll only take 5 minutes of my time. I tell him I’m setting my kitchen timer. He asks me a few questions. Two minutes left, I’m thinking, “this is easy money.” Then he wants to schedule a time when their sleep expert can come over to our house and show us a thirty minute video on how to take the sleep study. It sounds like it is going to be a thirty minute crap-matic bed commercial in my own home. He transfers me to the scheduling person. I hang up. I take the phone off the hook.

Back to the official ballot. I read the first initiative. “What’s this really about?” It dawns on me: didn’t they mail me a voters pamphlet a few weeks back? Another scavenger hunt. Fun. Twenty minutes into it I abandon the search.

I call a friend, “Do you happen to have your voters guide?”
“Sorry, I recycled mine right after I voted the first day I got my ballot.”
Organized people. I wonder if she can still be my friend.
Then she adds, “I’m glad you called. The ballot has been sitting on my kitchen counter for weeks waiting for me to get a stamp put on it and into the mailbox.”

Friendship preserved.

I zip around cyberspace and find what I think I need to know to make good decisions on the initiatives and amendments and referendums. Only occasionally distracted by computer pop-ups for video rentals by mail, and weight loss supplements.

I flip the ballot. There is only one contested race. This should be fast and easy. My mind is distracted. (Do you sense a theme here?) Why aren’t there more contested races? Is it that islanders are too polite to run against each other? Is it that if they run against someone and lose, well, they’re a loser. If they win, they have to face the loser in the grocery store. Are they afraid of controversial, dirty laundry, mud-slinging races? Is it that there are too many positions for too few people. Are islanders too busy with second jobs and volunteer commitments to become elected public servants?

I guess it really doesn’t matter. Still, I feel the need to write in a few names. How can I vote for the person running unopposed who sent me a postcard requesting my vote for this person. Running unopposed, this person surely has got the job, why waste that money. She’ll probably waste more of my money once she is in office. Local school teacher who gave my son detention for forgetting to get his journal, or slick lobbyist who probably won’t be around much. Hmm.... I’ll go back to that one.

I write in a few names for the school board director positions... the names of parents who complain a lot. Before I know it I’m almost finished and back to the one contested race. “Eenie, meanie, minie moe. Catch a candidate buy the toe...”

No, I’m just joking. I rationally chose the best person for the job, holding no grudges for giving lunchroom detentions during an election year, (a sign of character I’m sure) and bearing no snap judgments about lawyers and lobbyists (someone has to do those jobs).

I fold my ballot, sign on the dotted line. I have done my civic duty. Well, almost. Now where did I put those stamps?

Hallowynn!

As a kid, Halloween was always a special holiday for me. I liked Halloween because it was the one holiday that my out-of-town cousins stayed away and I didn’t have to compete for attention. I loved the school parties with the draped orange and black crepe paper decorations, the apple-bobbing, pumpkin carving, cider and cupcakes. And of course I loved dressing up and being a different persona for a day. I loved the freedom of running through our neighborhood at night holding on to my plastic pumpkin-head flashlight, knocking on doors, getting candy. Yes, it was the pillow case full of candy at the end of the night that made it so magical...that and staying home from school the next day with a tummy ache, watching game shows and nursing a candy corn, Milk Dud, Hershey bar hangover. Ahh, I loved Halloween.

Luckily, I married a man who also has a great love of Halloween. He’s also witty, creative and though he plays the holiday curmudgeon up until October 30th, he has created some amazing Halloween memories. I should probably tell you up front that we live in THE trick-or-treat neighborhood. As much as the folks in our subdivision complain about how much we spend on candy each year, many of us encourage the hordes of costumed kids with elaborate Halloween displays, trying to out-do the neighbors.

Ten years ago, our first Halloween in the new house on Rose Lane, our approach was subdued. Some little orange twinkle lights. My husband greeted kids at the door wearing his chef’s jacket and hat, holding a giant ladle.

“Trick or treat!” the children would say as my husband opened the door.

“Would you like some soup?” He’d ask.

The children looked confused. This guy wasn’t following the script. He was supposed to pass out candy, not soup.

“Do you want some soup?” He’d ask again.

“No.” the kids would shake their heads.

“Come on, open your bag and let me give you some soup. Special Halloween soup.”

The trick-or-treat bags stayed close. You could tell the kids had horrible, scary visions of their loot of candy being spoiled by chicken noodle, or worse...creamy, nasty tomato soup!

When my husband had his fill of teasing the children, he’d scoop up a ladle of candy from the big black kettle by the front door and grin as the bags opened and were then thrust his way. He sure put the trick in trick-or-treat!

The next couple of years my Halloween husband had to work and I tried to man the house and two very young children myself. It was horrible. Everytime I opened the door my pre-school aged sons would want to run out and go for more treats. I got tired of the up and down, the herding of my own kids back inside the house. Shouts of “trick-or-treat!” or “Happy Halloween!” were few and far between. Few kids said “Thank you.” This was my dark period of Halloween cynacism. Our porch is small and I feared someone getting pushed off the steps. Then I had an idea. What if we had a drive through window for treats? I found a seven foot piece of unused irrigation pipe in the garage and “The Tube of Doom” was born.

My husband ran with the idea. He set up a sound system, suspended the tube through our front window.

“Step up to the Tube of Doom.”

“Put your bag under the Tube of Doom.”

Then you could hear the sliding of candy against corrugated plastic followed by a little “Plop!” as the candy went into their bags.

“Happy Halloween!!” My husband bellowed through the sound system.

“I love you Tube of Doom.” Replied one little princess girl.

The Tube of Doom was a hit.

We did the Tube of Doom for a couple of years, then a gruesome mad scientist display. The next year we followed with the “Hatchback from Notre Dame.” We decorated the Subaru and passed out candy from the spookily decorated dead car sitting in our drive way. Then it was Tube of Doom again for a year.

In 2004 we made a medieval dungeon in the drive way and I was the Queen of Halloween. I really enjoyed making the kids bow down and kiss my plastic monster feet before they could get their treats. The following year we were remodeling and had body parts sticking out of the dumspter in our drive way and a lovely window display of Mr. & Mrs. Dracula in wing-back chairs in our living room. Last year we went back to the ever-popular “Tube of Doom.”

And this year...well, you’ll just have to drop by and check us out. If you do, I’d like to give you some Halloween etiquette tips.

1) Dress up. Creative costumes make it fun for those passing out candy.

2) I mean that, really dress up. I turn in to a candy tight-wad when I open the door to find six teenagers in their school clothes with their hands out. That is begging. Begging doesn’t look good. Be into Halloween, or stay home.

3) When your young child looks cold, tired or overwhelmed, just go home. Don’t pimp out your child for tootsie rolls and lollipops. If their pooped, take them home. You don’t have to do every house.

4) No scaring the little kids...unless you’re giving them candy.

5) No pushing the little kids. No cuts. No holding places in line, and no scalping tickets.

6) Make sure the kids are visiblie. Black is a common Halloween color, and glow sticks and reflective tape make lovely accessories.

7) Trick or Treating is not Little League. Parents, it is nice if kids say “Trick-or-Treat” and “Thank You.” But don’t stress out about it. If the kids smile as I put a treat in their bag, I’m happier than if I hear a parent shout from the road, “Did you say “thank you, James? Make sure you say Thank you, “ followed by a shameful look from the child and a weak, “thank you.” Parents, keep Halloween stress free and lay off the pressure. Kids, just say thank you so I don’t have to hear your parents nag you from the street to say “thank you.”

8) Do not politicize Halloween. I just spent $75 on candy. Keep your pamphlet about how cocoa farms exploit children to yourself. If you really think Hershey’s chocolate is evil, then give me fifty pounds of shade grown, organic, fair trade chocolate to pass out or call me a month ahead of time with alternatives, otherwise I’m passing out the candy the drugstore has on sale. Deal with it. Save the guilt for another holiday. (By the way, I’m passing out licorice this year so I can be guilt free and cheap at the same time.)

9) Do not demonize Halloween. Keep your religious tract at home. I know Jesus died for my sins and was raised from the dead, so why the stress about my kid dressing like someone who came back from the dead? What would Jesus do? He’d probably pass out candy to strangers knocking at his door. I don’t think I’m going to Hell because I put on a rubber mask and yell, “Boo!” Besides, I have felt closest to God in some very spooky haunted houses...reciting, “The Lord he is the light and my salvation, whom shall I fear?” Maybe I feared the guy in the hockey mask wielding a chainsaw. “Oh, God, help me make it out of here alive!” Think of it, Halloween can actually be prayer producing!

10) No slutty Halloween costumes. . What is up with that? It’s Halloween, not an MTV video shot at the Playboy Mansion. Cross-dressing is, however, o.k. (as long as it’s not too slutty.)

11) Adults, do you really need the candy? Many houses in our neighborhood will run out of candy. Parents, resist the urge to collect a bag for yourself--save it for the kids.

12) Parents, go through your child’s bag at the end of the night. Now is the time for you to get the candy. “Why, Annie, this Snickers bar looks very suspicious. You better let me try it to make sure it’s safe to eat.”

13) If you use a sound system to play scary music and communicate to the trick-or-treaters outside, make sure you turn it off at the end of the night. No need to broadcast your post-Halloween gossip sessions to the world.

14) When is a child too old to trick-or-treat? That is a toughie. I don’t mind passing out candy to teenagers in costume. Your football jersey is NOT a costume. (See tips 1 and 2)

15) No silly string spraying, window-soaping, shave-creaming, spray-painting, egg-tossing, pumpkin-smashing, or wrapper littering. I know, I’m uptight, but Halloween is about the candy and the costumes, people. (See tips 1 and 2)

16) And last but not least, HAVE FUN! DRESS UP!

Happy Halloween, folks!

(Amy Jule Wynn’s name means “Beloved Christmas.” She was born six days before Halloween [hint, hint]. She is humbly accepting donations of shade-grown, fair trade, organic chocolates and candy treats in Bible verse wrappers. Don’t even think of calling her pumpkin head.)

Summer?

Did I blink and miss summer? Were those really “Back to School” sale ads in my Sunday paper? Was the neighbor girl really headed towards volleyball practice? It is enough to make me want to shout, “Stop it! Give us back our summer!”

It is bad enough that our school district panders to the wealthy ski bunnies and has that horrid mid-winter February break that pushes our school year into the third week of June. Add to that sports practices that begin the end of July. Each year it seems like summer is shrinking. I fear that by the time my sons are in high school, summer break will be reduced to a three day, Fourth of July weekend.

Meanwhile, on the Fifth of July the flip-flops are sent to back-stock and they roll out the crayons and pencils, paper and glue sticks. The media mass-marketers start shoving school sales down our throats. Thank God we don’t have tv to see the commercials to match the print ads offereing notebook paper for 29 cents and furnish your dorm room for $200. Don’t forget the mini-fridge and matching bedding. And school shoes. You have to have new school shoes. Be prepared for school. And once you’ve bought your locker organizer and new notebooks, they’ll be rolling out the Halloween candy on Labor Day, get your Turkey on Columbus day.. Haven’t you got your Christmas shopping started? It makes me crazy.

It seems the focus on living the moment has been displaced with planning for the moment you will miss because you are preparing for another moment.

Friends, I have a solution. Go to the beach. Go directly to the beach. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200 –or the Sunday ads! Sure there will be tourists there. But maybe for a few hours you can be one, too. Daylights burning!

(Amy Wynn lives the hamster wheel of two-job island life and dreams of spending a summer at camp.)

Evil Underbelly

I have lived in the San Juan Islands long enough that I know there is an evil underbelly to this island paradise.

About ten years ago some upstanding businessmen circulated a very racist fax. Some people involved apologized publicly. In response to the incident, my sister-in-law took it upon herself to make posters highlighting the accomplishments of prominent African Americans. She posted them around town to celebrate Black History Month.

A few years later our local newspaper, The Journal of the San Juan Islands, chose to run a review of the Fourth of July Parade that included a racist comment made by some thoughtless tourists from Baltimore. My husband, and others, countered it with letters to the editor questioning the wisdom in running such a hostile comment.

A couple of years ago some teens, allegedly high on something, went on a spray paint graffiti spree that included some very hateful and racist words and symbols. It left our biracial family, and others, sick to our stomachs to think that some people hate us that much. Some school staff quickly saw to it that the graffiti was removed from the schools. The Boy Scouts, and others, stepped up and scrubbed the graffiti off local businesses.

For each evil I have seen perpetrated, I have seen goodness try to win out.

Those unfortunate, hurtful incidents of the past seemed thoughtless.

What bothers me about the recent desecration of veteran graves at the Woodlawn Cemetery on Orcas -beyond the hatefulness of such vandalism- is how thought-out it was. Though it wasn’t a racist remark aimed at a personal family member of mine, it has hit me harder. Though it happened on another island, I am stunned and frightened by it. I am left wondering what other evils these people are considering. It seems there had to be some premeditation and preparation to these senseless acts of violence and vandalism. This wasn’t swinging by the hardware store for some spray paint or passing on a fax you thought was funny. This wasn’t printing a flippant rude comment. This was someone taking the time to draw the swastikas, have the tape to attach them, the patience to wait for the cemetery guard to leave. This involved fire. I believe this was planned, very planned. I don’t think people strung out on drugs can draw perfect circles or straight lined swastikas.

I wonder what message they thought they were sending? Want to express your free speech? The free speech those veterans gave their lives for? There are other ways. Ways that don’t dishonor the dead or vandalize property. Ways that are indeed protected by our Constitution. Ways that are legal and effective. It is clear that in the desecration of the graves, people have over stepped the boundaries and it hurts my liberal peace-loving heart and my patriotic, flag-waving soul.

My sons, fresh from the Memorial Day Parade and spending some time getting to know some of our local veterans, saw the pictures of the swastikas and burnt flags. They asked why someone would do something like that to people who gave so much for their country. I didn’t have an answer. I don’t think it was the act of someone truly wanting peace. I can’t make much sense of it.

The only thing that seems to comfort me, and offer hope, is the realization that once again, goodness is trying to win out. Honorable folks on Orcas, using island ingenuity, found a way to replace the flags. Islanders have offered rewards for the capture and prosecution of the culprits of the crime. People across the country have expressed their outrage through letters to the editor and blog entries.

I challenge everyone—whether you gather at Memorial Park to memorialize our fallen soldiers, or call for a withdrawal from Iraq, or both, or just sit there in the shade of those mighty trees and lick your ice cream cone =to let your words be healing ones of support for our people in the military, veterans and their families and friends. Which, looking at the supportive, caring faces that lined Spring Street to honor Memorial Day, is pretty much all of us.

(Amy Wynn cries at the sound of "Taps" and during the introduction of the War Mothers at the Memorial Day Service. She also cries at the thought that her sons will be "draft" age before she knows it. She once wrote "Imagine Whirled Peas" on a sidewalk in chalk. )

Questions for the Search

Here we go again! It’s the annual “pick-a-school-administrator” time of year again...it just wouldn’t be Spring in Friday Harbor without a search committee. So, since I never get invited to be on the recruitment and selection committee, I am officially offering, here and now, the questions the committee should really ask.

What do you think of fast food? Correct answer is: I hate it.

What if Suzey is driving a bus with 47 students in it from Spokane to Yakima and she gets ten miles per gallon and it is 280 miles from Seattle to Spokane and 138 miles from Seattle to Yakima, would it take more or less gas to make the trip if she put the 47 students into hybrid cars that got 48 miles to the gallon and could hold four passengers safely and chart how they would choose what radio station to listen using a stem and leaf graph of preferences and write an essay using multiple multiple-syllable words so we know just how smart you are. Correct answer is: You’re right, we’ve got to do something about those WASL standardized test questions.

What do you think of malls? Correct answer is: I never go to them.

What do you think of stoplights? Correct answer is: Who needs them?

Would you dress up like a hippie surfer dude and allow yourself to be accused of murder before a paying crowd? Correct answer is: Yes, of course, if it will raise money for Dollars for Scholars.

What are your feelings about sitting in a dunk tank at the county fair? The correct answer is: It could be chilly, but if it is raising money for Purple and Gold, I’m there.

Will that be cash, credit or local check? The correct answer is: local check. Sorry, but the correct candidate will have a local checking account. Switching to a local bank is a sign you want to be part of the community. It also affords you the opportunity to write a check for $10 over at most places. This will give you the pocket cash to buy the Girl Scout cookies, the Memorial Day Poppies or the PTA raffle ticket. Writing a local check also assures that the local shopkeepers know who you are and that you support their business. Who knows, maybe one of those shopkeepers will buy all new computers for your school one day.

Is there anything liquid, fragile, or perishable inside? Correct answer is yes, no and no. The best candidate must be liquid—as in flexible in learning how things are done island style. The candidate should not be fragile. Everyone on the island has an opinion on something and if you do your job right, at least some of them won’t like it and will say so. If you are too sensitive, you will be miserable. As for perishable, let’s hope not! We don’t want to have to go through another search process.

Paper or Plastic? The correct answer is: Neither. The preferred candidate will realize that both paper and plastic contribute to the island’s solid waste problem and will therefore bring their own canvas bag from home. Also correct: Paper, I’m saving them to give to the kindergarten class so they can make costumes out of them for their school play.

Which would you prefer, a bored meeting or a moored beating? Correct answer is: I like them both. In the principal’s position you will have to go to many boring meetings. To live on an island, you really must get out on the water and as any boat owner will tell you, owning a boat can mean a beating to your body--and your billfold.

If you could be any cartoon character, which would you be? Correct answer is: Varies. It doesn’t really matter which character the candidate picks. This is a test of whether the candidate has any sense of humor at all. If the candidate has a “deer in the headlight” look after hearing this question, I would think he has something to hide...like a complete Disney video collection that he uses to lure unsuspecting children into his basement.

What kind of car do you drive? Correct answer is: White Subaru Wagon with four wheel drive. This is a good choice because the four wheel drive is a plus on steep island back roads and yet it doesn’t have the wasteful gas consumption image of an SUV. Also correct: a cute hybrid and an old pick-up truck with character.

Why do you want to be principal of Friday Harbor High School? Correct answer: I want to work every minute of the day without any privacy in a community that will never forget that I am the principal of their high school. I want people to tell me what they think of the sex ed curriculum while I am waiting to buy my groceries at the market. I want to pump my gas and be accosted about the need for a more racially diverse teaching staff. I want to go to every game, concert, play, non-profit benefit auction spaghetti feed fundraiser I possibly can. I want to go to insufferably long and boring meetings and hearings and forums of people in love with their own voices. I want to do everything for everyone without adequate resources. I want to buy half the house I now own and pay twice the amount for it. I want to wait for hours in a ferry line just to go to the mainland for a colonoscopy or a real good bagel or both. I want to pay the highest gas prices in the United States. I want to live a mile from the beach without ever having the time to actually walk on it. I want to have chipseal rocks shatter my windshield. I want to live for days at a time without electricity. I want to eat potluck food with mysterious ingredients that leave me ill and flatulent. I am a glutton for punishment. I am the person for the job. I am the next principal of Friday Harbor High School.

Amy Wynn has lived on San Juan Island for fifteen years. While she is too humble to call herself a local islander, she will make herself available to consult with the winner of this year’s “Be a Principal in Friday Harbor Pageant” on the nuances of island life.

The Best Easter Ever

As a kid, Easter was all about going to church, decorating eggs, and the candy in the basket. Later, as a teen, Easter was about a beautiful spiritual sunrise service in the country followed by an amazing brunch at home featuring whatever it was that my oldest brother had given up for lent: champagne or pizza or Donuts from the mini-mart on the main road.

I am afraid that Easter was never that good for my kids. My husband always had to work--someone has to feed the Christians on Sunday. There were a plethora of Easter egg hunts and visits from the Easter bunny and church services and brunches. I just missed my husband being there with us. It was the Sunday that all the other men showed up to church and I would sit in the pew resenting everyone who would leave the church and go pluck down the money for my husband to feed them. I missed my folks and brothers and sunny Midwest Easters.

I dreaded trying to wrangle two energetic boys through a sea of prissy girls in pink at the Easter Egg hunts. If I took the boys to the Jackson's Beach hunt it was just a matter of time before they discovered driftwood swords and the bull kelp whips. Trust me, normal boy beach play doesn't fly in a crowd of a gazillion nuclear families in their Sunday best.

The competition for eggs was cut throat and there always seemed to be some disappointment--"so and so got such and such and I only got whatever." I hated the materialism now imposed upon that holiest of holidays. The simple candy and toys I was thrilled with to find in my basket as a child was nothing compared to what the Easter Bunny dished out to some kids these days: Lego sets, bikes, $100 dolls.

I was pretty down on the whole Easter holiday thing. Then one year the local fairgrounds hosted a carnival during Spring break. We live a block from the fairgrounds and it was torture for three days of walking and driving by and seeing the rides and amusements and how much everything cost: $1 a ticket and most rides took 4 tickets. I couldn't justify paying what I made in an hour working for 2 minutes of fun. Then I heard through the grapevine that Easter Sunday would be wristband day. For $8 the kids could ride as much as they wanted the whole day.

Easter came that year and it looked like it was going to be another Friday Harbor wet and windy one. But, like the miracle of the resurrection, the sun rose again and my sons and I were off to the fairgrounds. It was the best set of rides they've ever had at the fairgrounds. Everything was clean, the workers friendly and lines were shorter than Danny Devito.

I felt like a rebel, skipping the fireman's Easter egg hunt at Jackson's beach. I felt naughty missing church. But let me tell you something, I now believe that the best way to experience the sheer joy of Christ's resurrection is sitting, smashed between your children, careening down a rollercoaster, your stomach dropping, your hair whizzing back, eyes closed, praying to God to keep you safe, the sound of your children's laughter floating on your eardrums, feeling close to death as you slam around a hair-pin curve and so very much alive as the ride comes to a complete stop and you hold your children's hands as you race to another ride.

My husband got off of work just in time to get in on some of the fun. He even got to play Easter Bunny at the arcade, winning our sons some inflatable hammers and stuffed animals. It was the best Easter ever.

Some people like to keep Christ on the Cross. I think the joy of Christ's resurrection and the wisdom of his lessons on love are best celebrated on the carnival rides. I think the Lord's Supper can be cotton candy and snow cones. People like to ask, "What Would Jesus Do?" I think he'd do the scrambler, the tea cups, the roller coaster, the swings, the Ferris wheel and maybe even the bumper cars.

What are you up to this Easter?

(Amy Wynn lives with three men, writes with two women and dreams of having just one job with health insurance benefits. She is an award winning flash fiction writer and volunteers as superintendent of the Written Word at the San Juan County Fair. She has a degree in political science from the University of Illinois at Springfield)

What They Don't Tell You

They don’t tell you this when you move to the island. You find it out after you’ve been here a while. It is something the realtors don’t advertise when selling you that dream house. It might have made you change your mind...kept you in the city or the suburbs. But, you are here now and if you have made any effort at all to be a part of this community, you have probably shed some tears this past week.

The precious truth is that it is hard to live on the island and be an island. So we connect with one another. We have so many more things in common to talk about. In other places they just talk about the weather. Here we talk about the weather, and the power outage, the downed trees, the snow plow driving by with its blade up, the OPALCO and county road crew heroes, the surprisingly good soup made on the wood stove, the shingles that flew off the roof, and the nice neighbor with the chainsaw who cleared the lane.

On the island we do the same things that people do on the mainland., but since there are fewer people, we end up working three jobs, volunteering here and there, serving on a committee or two, having a couple of hobbies.. In all these things we do, we meet each other and connections are made. When you’re living in a small pond, you can’t help but notice the other fish and rub fins now and then.

. For example, let’s say I bought a few cans of yellow paint at the hardware store. The couple in line behind me might notice what a screamingly bright color I had chosen. A few weeks later they see me on the ferry and ask how the paint job went. The next thing you know, we’re all laughing.
I tell them that I don’t think people should be allowed to buy paint on depressing gray February days because their longing for the sun might lead them to poor choices. How was I to know I wouldn’t like cooking in an egg-yolk yellow kitchen?
The husband laughs and tells me about an avocado green accent wall his wife insisted on. They had to re-paint it white because the green color made him crave martini olives.
Then the wife has an idea, “Honey, don’t we still have a few gallons of Navajo White left over in the garage?”
“I think so.”
“We’re not going to use it are we?”
“Might need a half pint for touch ups.”
“Would you like the rest to re-do your yellow kitchen?”
“I’d love that. My husband and sons would REALLY love that. They announced at breakfast that the smiley face yellow walls were making them anything but happy.”
“Where do you live?”
Three days later, I come home to find two cans of Navajo White paint on my doorstep.

Synchronistic moments of connection make the island a sweet place to live...

Then you go to the post office and there, on the front door, is a picture of a familiar face with the words: “memorial service for...will be held at...potluck to follow...” And you can’t help but start to cry. Right there, in the post office. Maybe it is someone you knew pretty well—like the kind older lady who was your son’s reading buddy for a couple of years. Or maybe you just recognize the picture: didn’t he always march with the Legion in the Memorial Day Parade? Or maybe you just saw them last week checking out a book at the library. Maybe you don’t know them, but you work with their mother or daughter or cousin. Maybe it is the old lady who sat three pews ahead of you at church. Or maybe the nice young man who would kick a soccer ball around with your kids. Or maybe it’s the man who dropped off two gallons of Navajo White paint on your doorstep.

They don’t tell you when you move to the island that going to the post office will be a lesson in the fleeting nature of life. They don’t mention that your own mortality will stare back at you from a death announcement on the glass front door of the drugstore.

They also don’t tell you that--while you are standing there, shocked and crying--someone will come up to you and say, “I’ll miss them, too.” And maybe they’ll reach for your hand and maybe they’ll give you a tissue. You share a little bit with each other like “She sat three pews ahead of me in church and always brought the best spinach salad to the potlucks.” Or “I used to wait on him at the donut shop. I’d ask him how he was doing and he’d always say, ‘I’m mildewing’”

It is interesting the little things you remember about people; the quirky things you’ll miss. I feel a tad melodramatic and slightly embarrassed to be standing there, crying in the post office for someone I didn’t even known the last name of until I read the memorial notice. I wonder if I have the right to grieve, knowing there are family and close friends who miss them so much more. But the tears still come, now in empathy for them, the ones who remain. I can only imagine how deep their sorrow. I cry some more.

They don’t tell you when you move to the island that someday your picture will be on a memorial notice on the post office door. They don’t tell you that people will remember you and cry for you. They don’t tell you that they will laugh, maybe remembering how you always wore mis-matched socks or how every February you’d buy a couple gallons of brightly colored paint for your kitchen and then you’d repaint it beige when the sunshine of summer re-appeared. They don’t tell you that the kids you coached in little league, the audience who saw your last performance at the theatre, and the waitress who made your morning latte will all notice you are gone. They don’t tell you how much you will be thought of and remembered and missed.

But if you stay around long enough on this island, you figure that out for yourself. I think it makes us each a wee bit kinder, a tad quirkier and much more likely to offer a hug to someone in the post office and say through our tears, “I know, I can’t believe it either; she was such a good person...”

(Amy Wynn will someday be remembered fondly as "that crazy red-headed lady who was always crying at the post office.")