Category Archives: Family Stories

Stories about family life and memoir

Seattle, Part 2 – Totems and Toilets

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Our tour continues with a little bit of history. Seattle is built on seven hills: Beacon Hill, First Hill, Capitol Hill, Queen Anne Hill, Cherry Hill, Yesler and Denny Hill, with Magnolia Hill, West Seattle, and Mount Baker as later annexed inclines. You get the point – it is a very hilly city. Things are built on slopes, some notoriously precarious. Landslides are a geological gamble in Seattle. Whole neighborhoods have slid into Puget Sound. In fact, one of the original hills, Denny Hill, a total of 62 city blocks, slid slowly but steadily into Elliott Bay between the years 1903 and 1928. Denny Hill is now the Denny Regrade. The Bay accepted the transfer of soil with equanimity, being over 300 feet deep in places. I will take you to some of the hills that had meaning to me.

There is a rich Native American heritage in Seattle. Mainly, the Salish, Snoqualmie, and Duwamish peoples settled where the city is now. A couple of dozen tribes along the coast left their imprint on the area. Totem poles are in evidence throughout the Northwest as symbols of native traditions and storytelling.

My high school mascot was a totem pole. I was in the first sophomore class at the new school. The students voted for the mascot. I voted for the cougar as a mascot, being an animal lover. However, the cougar was the mascot of Washington State University, and living in western Washington, the home of the U.W. Huskies, cats weren’t popular. I got on board with the totem because it honored the Native Americans who first inhabited the area. As a legacy for the school, our senior class had a red cedar totem pole carved to stand proudly in front of the school.

For fifty years, we were the Totems until the enlightened ones decided that a totem pole is a form of cultural appropriation and “can possibly cause psychological harm to Native American children”, instead of being a sign of respect for the native culture. The mascot was changed to the Redhawks. A Redhawk, of course, is a Ruger double-action revolver. Could it be that the powers-that-be prefer a firearm rather than a totem to symbolize a high school? I hesitate to guess the inner motives of bureaucrats. Maybe they meant to honor the red-tail hawk, which is prevalent in the Pacific Northwest, as indeed the picture of their mascot is an angry-looking red-headed bird. Who knows?

Pow Wow celebrations of Native American culture and heritage are held throughout the state. The SeaFair Celebration, held annually in late summer, has a Native American Pow Wow component. I will talk about SeaFair in a later post.

Seattle lies on a fault line that runs under the west coast of the US. The roller coaster effects of earthquakes are another thrill that residents of Seattle have an opportunity to experience. Most are minis reaching no more than 1 or 2 on the Richter scale, but they do upset the equilibrium. A BIG one hasn’t happened in Seattle since the 7.1 in 1949, but Alaska and California have felt the effects of 8+ earthquakes, so it may be just a matter of time. Our napping teenage son was once shaken out of slumber and off the couch by 5+ seismic event.

The combination of earthquakes and damp, saturated ground poses a constant threat of landslides. Yet, many of the most expensive homes are built on bluffs above the water with expansive views of Puget Sound and the Olympic Mountains. Duh. It is like building along the coast of Florida, where hurricanes are omnipresent. “Youse rolls the dice and youse takes yer chances,” as an enterprising Irishman once said.

Steep streets are a challenge when slippery wet. Many a manual-transmissioned car has slid backward down a slope or into other cars when piloted by an inexpert driver. I’ve seen it happen.

We will continue our tour by going to Pioneer Square near downtown Seattle and Skid Road. Its real name was Yesler Way. In early days the road had wooden planks (skids) laid along it, covered with grease to help the oxen or horses pull the heavy loads of lumber to the port. It was the dividing line between the affluent part of town and the sketchier mill-worker part. During the depression, it became Skid Row, demarcating the area where the downtrodden resided. One didn’t want to be seen south of Yesler, the grittier side of town.

I can recommend a book about Seattle during its formative years called “The Mercer Girls” by Libbie Hawker. Women were recruited in the 1860s after the Civil War by Asa Mercer, a member of one of the pioneer families of the area. He advertised in the East and Midwest for high-minded women of good character to come to Seattle to “elevate” the male population. At the time, there were ten men for every woman in the city, mostly lumberjacks and fishermen. Asa was the first president of the University of Washington and a member of the State Senate. A large residential island in Lake Washington is named for his family, as well as a principal street in Seattle.

North of Yesler is Pioneer Square, where the original white settlers started the town after they left Alki Point. It is a more sheltered part of the bay, better for their commercial objectives. Now it’s a historic district where, in 1914, the tallest building west of the Mississippi, the Smith Tower, was built. The Tower has been dwarfed by countless skyscrapers built within the last fifty years. Smith Tower is the only building in town that still has elevator operators who wear uniforms and white gloves and have to maneuver the elevator cage with a dial lever to just the right spot at each floor before they can open the glass door, then the multi-hinged metal guard to let people on and off. The elevator shaft is enclosed by glass so you can watch the elevator ascending or descending from floor to floor. There are no call buttons, only the elevator operator’s watchful eyes as he or she passes the floors. It’s fascinating. It is tempting to stay on the elevator for hours just to watch the expertise of a bygone era. *This anachronism may not exist due to a spate of modern safety regulations. It was a joy to behold when I lived there.

Captain Vancouver, an Englishman, explored the Pacific Northwest in the late 1700s, giving impetus to the idea that the land west of the Rocky Mountains had possibilities for commerce. Lewis and Clark did their inland exploration in the early 1800s. Euro-American invaders followed to settle the northwest in earnest. A group of entrepreneurs led by George Yesler and another by the Denny brothers, Arthur and David, homesteaded and settled at Alki Point in the 1850s. They recognized the potential value of the western port. They soon moved across Elliott Bay to an area now known as Pioneer Square in Seattle, where the Bay was deeper. They each headed competitive lumber operations. Seattle grew at tide level. It was a town that mainly shipped lumber, raw or finished, from its harbor. The Alaska Gold Rush of the late 1890s further encouraged white people to move West.

The timber industry flourished, and Seattle grew on the tidelands at the edge of Elliott Bay. Sawmills were constructed. Wagon loads of timber from the abundant surrounding forests were transported to the sawmills, then loaded onto ships for export around the world. Seattle was built with wood. Buildings, sidewalks, even water for plumbing was sometimes transported through wooden ducts.

The forward-looking capitalists of Seattle heard of indoor toilets – the White House had one installed in 1853. In 1881, Seattle was one of the first cities in the US to receive a bulk supply of Crapper Toilets. Over time, it became apparent that having the city built at tide level was a mistake. Sewage that was supposed to flow down into the Sound was sluicing back into the streets. Toilets backed up, creating fountains of effluent in homes twice a day during high tide. Streets were infamously turned to mud by rain and tides.

Pioneer Square was devastated by the Great Seattle Fire of 1889, which burned twenty-nine city blocks, destroyed what was then the central business district. Since it was apparent that having the city at tide level was a mistake, the city fathers decided to rebuild ten feet higher. Seattle was rapidly rebuilt and nearly doubled in size, due in part to all the new construction employment. Instead of wooden buildings, zoning codes required brick and stone buildings to be erected. After the fire, the streets were raised and built over the area that had been at tide level.

Now, there is an underground tour, ten feet below the current street level, that you can take to see the original storefronts and streets of the old city. You will see toilets mounted on pedestals like thrones to lessen the tidal backwash. I encourage any resident or visitor to take the fascinating tour.. Ghosts even haunt the underground.

Speaking of toilets. Seattle has some impressive “salles de bains” at the Columbia Tower. The 967-foot Columbia Tower has seventy-six floors with 360 ° views of Seattle, the Olympic and Cascade mountains, and Puget Sound. The Tower is the tallest building in the State of Washington. The first three floors offer retail and restaurants. The remaining seventy-three floors are luxury offices for discerning companies. The 75th floor is the Columbia Tower Club, an exclusive private club for members or invitees only. Besides having excellent gourmet food, you are treated to the poshest potties in the world.

We were invited by Janice and Jack, who were members, to join them at the Club for dinner and the city fireworks display on the 4th of July. When we arrived, Janice suggested that she and I go to the ladies’ lounge before we sat down to dinner. She stood back as I entered the lounge to watch my reaction. The room was luxurious, well-appointed with plush carpet, cushioned chairs, dressing tables, and chaise longues, but the startling feature was the individual toilet stalls along the outside wall. Each had a floor-to-ceiling window that looked out over the city. I gasped. How do you do potty business with the wide-open sky in front of you and the city at your feet?

Of course, I had to show Ken. We went back to our table, and I urged Ken to follow me to the ladies’ lounge. He demurred, but Jack encouraged him to go. Jack had seen the sight, as had other male club members. It was common for men to discreetly look in the “Ladies'”. The men’s room had no such marvel. Seattle has come a long way from the erupting Crappers on tidewater flats in 1881.

The fireworks were the second most interesting part of the evening. We were perched on the observation floor high above the loftiest rocket sent skyward that night, so we looked down on fireworks instead of up. An unusual sensation.

The tour of Seattle continues in my next post, featuring a lady of the evening and a troll.

Seattle

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Recently, I visited Seattle, where I have not lived for over 28 years. It was a short, impromptu visit to see our daughter. The weather was atrocious, but the company was great. She and I had a nice long time to share memories and reconnect. However, I was reminded of the reason Ken and I fled to southern Arizona.

This essay, which I will publish in several parts, is based on memory and journal notes from the years when I lived there and shortly thereafter. The Seattle we left is not the same as the present-day city. None of the reports from people who live there are especially favorable about the conditions in the city, relating stories of homelessness and crime. I witnessed a few of the changes in the days I was there. Traffic is abominable – a moving parking lot, very like LA. I have no desire to return. I’d rather live with lovely memories of what was.

SEATTLE

I want to tell you about a city I hated, but grudgingly learned to appreciate. I was a captive for nearly 40 years under gray, drizzly skies, wrapped in its suffocating blanket of onshore flow and tedious droplet-laden air. How does one breathe when the air is saturated with water? Seattle has an enormous diversity of smells, sights, and textures, but the overriding constant is wet, moldy dampness. During the day, the vibration of color is muted because of the lack of light, sunshine. Color doesn’t exist without light. Everything is enveloped in dimness. When you look up, you see a dull white sky. Haze covers the bright orb we were told was the sun. A clear blue sky is rare. Seattle has one of the highest rates of suicide in the US. I can certainly understand why. It has the distinction of being the US city with the highest sales of sunglasses. You use them on a sunny day, then by the time another sunny day arrives, the sunglasses have been lost or seriously misplaced, and you must buy another pair. Mine were found once in the freezer…but that’s another story.

Contrary to common thought, it doesn’t really rain in Seattle; it fatally mists you. It would be a welcome change if rain actually fell, fat full drops in quantities of a tipped-over horse trough. But no, gloomy clouds hang low overhead, spritzing gauzy water day and night. The average rainfall in Seattle is less than in Little Rock, Arkansas, Atlanta, Georgia, Lexington, Kentucky, or New York City. In those places, rain falls with intent – the intent to make things wet. In Seattle, you can walk around all day in the vaporous fog and never have a single drop of rain slide down your face, but you are damp nonetheless from the outside to the bone. You can walk between raindrops in Seattle and be saturated by the artifice of rain.

My father accepted a transfer with Boeing to Seattle in 1957. I was ripped from the wide open sunny plains of my Kansas home as a child of eleven and whisked off to the Pacific Northwest, boxed in by low clouds and lofty, dark, sentry-like evergreens. You cannot see many vistas or horizons in Seattle because of those damn giant black-green trees. I became a victim of Stockholm syndrome. I learned to identify with and, grudgingly, admire the city that was my captor.

Now that I am liberated from its bondage, I visit the city with an entirely different attitude. I appreciate its energy, its diverse population, and its distinct neighborhoods. I still do not admire the weather. There are approximately five sunny days sometime between late July and late August, and then another five in February. On those rare days, the city is stunningly beautiful – a dazzling jewel nestled at the base of the snowcapped Cascade Mountains between Lake Washington on the east and the cerulean sparkle of Puget Sound to the west. On clear days, you can see Mount Baker to the North, and Mount Rainier looms up over the city to the South.

Let me take you on a virtual tour of my Seattle, some of the places that have meaning and memory for me.

Our tour begins. It is a liquid, dark September night, and light from building signs reflects on the drenched black asphalt of Pine Street. The street shimmers with smears of circus colors like a Monet painting in front of the Inn at the Market, where I stay when visiting, and Sur La Table next door. Pine Street slides with a 9% grade downhill west. From the front of the hotel, you see over the top of the Pike Place Market at the end of the block to the waterfront and Puget Sound beyond. We are on the western edge of downtown Seattle proper.

Jazz music flows from The Pink Door in Post Alley, playing deep into this night. The Alley, just above the Market, is where the Market Theater and the gum wall are. The gum wall is a brick wall of chewed gum in a variety of colors, grape, cherry, lime, and plain gray spearmint, originally created by people who stood in line to go to the theater. Years of ordinance after ordinance failed to keep that wall clean. It became a bizarre tourist attraction that turned up in the movie “Love Happens”.

You can’t talk about Seattle without mentioning Starbucks. Starbucks started here near Pike Place Market in the 1970s. Now, it’s an international megalith for coffee worshipers. The Starbucks at Pike Place still has the original logo with the bare-breasted Norse maiden in the middle of the medallion. I’m generally a tea person. A nice cup of double-strength Irish Breakfast Coffee is my morning wakeup. I prefer Seattle’s Best for coffee because it doesn’t seem as bitter. Coffee, anyone?

Seattle is a city of frenzied days fueled by Starbucks (one on every corner with kiosks mid-block), people traveling up and down endless rain-slicked hills, and long nights lubricated by microbreweries like Pike Brewing Company and Elliot Bay Brewery, and lots of good music. We’ll stop by Kell’s Irish Pub for a short one and then turn in. The tour will continue tomorrow.

Good morning, we’ll start our tour here near the famous Pike Place Market where “flying fish” are sold. I’m sure you have all seen this well-known marketplace on TV or the internet. The owner and staff of the Pike Place Fish Market made a video of their shop and developed a motivational training program for employees who work with the public based on the Fish Philosophy of “Play, Be There, Choose your Attitude and Make Their Day”. The fish sellers have great fun with shoppers at the Market, throwing whole fish back and forth to each other like footballs over the heads of wary customers, using rhyme and signals to let each other know a fish is coming their way. An unsuspecting patron often nearly gets hit by a fish thrown in his direction, but caught at the last possible second by one of the fishmongers. A massive slippery open-mouthed monkfish lures you close and then jumps at you. Pike Place Market is a destination for most Seattle tourists. The high-jinks are worth the trip.

If you have the time, enjoy this six-minute video of the Fish Philosophy.

Pike Place Market exudes tantalizing aromas of newly picked farm produce, the woody, musky tang of incense, and the sweet bouquet of flowers, plus the salty ocean smell of fresh fish.

My favorite shop in the Market is Tenzing MoMo. An intense potpourri of frankincense, myrrh, ylang-ylang, patchouli, and sandalwood beckons you into the dark, magical, Asian inspired apothecary. They deal in herbs, tarot cards, chai tea, brass bells, ear candles, essential oils, and all manner of other necessities. It is deep in the belly of the Market which is built on a cliff plunging three stories down from the street. The top floor, at street level on the east side, looks westward across Elliot Bay toward Puget Sound. My favorite restaurant at the top level is a French bistro, Maximilien’s, with a terrace that allows a 180-degree view of the Sound. I cannot resist the Croque Monsieur.

Pike Place Market was created in the first decade of the 1900s as a fresh produce co-op market for local farmers. It retains that promise but has expanded to include buskers, homemade baked goods, handmade clothing and jewelry, antique dealers, restaurants, comic-book vendors, and crafts – something for everyone. The Market also houses a senior center, a childcare center, a medical clinic serving the working poor, elderly, and HIV-positive patients, and has HUD-subsidized housing for about 500 people. Rachel, a big brass pig, nearly three feet tall, greets visitors at the front of the Market. Her snout is rubbed for luck. She is a giant piggy bank that collects coins for charities supported by the Market.

In the early 80s, I worked six blocks from the Market up the insanely steep hill on Pine Street at the Bon Marché Department Store in their construction department. Often on my lunch hour, I negotiated the incredible downhill to the Market, roaming the nine acres of vendor stalls for something delish for lunch. My family was treated to the farm-fresh produce for dinner. Then I trudged up the hill with my treasures, back to work – my exercise for the day.

Next time, I will take you through a little history of Seattle, a smidge of the underground tour, and The Seattle Toilet History (a remarkable story).

Happiness or Gratitude?

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I recently encountered an individual who said they were in pursuit of happiness. They had experienced some setbacks in life and were feeling low and had been counseled to make happiness a priority.


I posited, on the contrary, the pursuit of happiness is a hollow pursuit. Happiness is a feeling, a mood. Happiness is insubstantial, subjective. It comes and goes. It is transitory.


Gratitude, on the other hand, is concrete. With an attitude of gratitude, you cannot help but be happy. You look around you to sense the beauty of nature or reflect on the objects in your home that you bought or have been gifted, and remember the why, when, and who of each object. Remember the happiness that each object brought when it was newly purchased or received. Gratitude for friendship. Gratitude for family. Gratitude for the people who serve us in our daily activities, from the grocery store to medical professionals to our military and law enforcement, who keep us safe.


You can use your God-given senses to appreciate and be grateful for – the spring smell of blossoms or the scent of your lover’s warm skin; the taste of chocolate or the first cup of coffee in the morning; the softness of a kitten’s fur or the feel of an embrace; the sound of birds calling or a favorite song that makes you want to sing; a wonderous sunset in a desert sky or glistening raindrops that inch down a window pane. Gratitude for being alive in this tangible world is what actual happiness is. Beyond this world, the spiritual realm conveys meaning to life. The comfort of God or whatever spiritual practice you observe is a specific conduit to happiness.


I think of my friend Diane, who told me one day many years ago that she was diagnosed with ALS, a death sentence. Not just a death sentence, but a torturous journey through advancing body paralysis. The prospect she looked toward was months, possibly a couple of years of her body slowly becoming frozen while her mind remained alert. That sounds like torture of the worst kind, being fully coherent as body parts are rendered useless, slowly dying piece by piece. Diane was the most vibrant, energetic person I knew. She could do anything.

She decided to master the grand piano at the age of 40, having never played piano before, and she did it. She set a goal in May of her first year of lessons to give a caroling party by Christmas, and she met that goal. She printed out the words of each carol for all the participants. Each year her playing became more powerful, proficient, and complex. We loved hearing her advancing abilities. Her friends coveted invitations to her Christmas caroling parties. Over the years, she became more skilled and her repertoire more sophisticated, so that she was invited to piano competitions across the country.

She made it a point to tell me that she was going to be happy until the end. She was going to be GRATEFUL for every day she had and for every little thing that she could do day by day. She was an amazing inspiration. She traveled with her family and went on cruises. She continued to practice the piano until she could no longer make her fingers do her bidding. She had parties at her house until she was incapable of managing it. She played golf until she couldn’t stand and walk. She kept in touch with friends until the only part of her body that moved was her eyes. She could only speak through a computer that she manipulated with her eyes. She was always grateful to have people around her and, to the end, said people were what meant the most to her. She created her happiness from her gratitude for every small thing.


I remember when I was sidelined by two broken ankles. I realized how much walking, moving myself from place to place, meant to me. Even though I had a scooter, it was not the same as the independence of standing and walking on my own. I was very jealous of people I saw walking past my house or on the street as Ken drove me around. Then and there, I promised myself that when my ankles healed, I would not only walk every day, but I would appreciate each step. Still today, I am so grateful to Dr. Ty for his surgical skill, his encouragement, and his humor as I recovered step by agonizing step to be fully functional again. I’m grateful for a body that healed so well. I’m grateful to Ken for his care and patience as I rehabbed. I am not a patient patient, so I’m sure my mood was not the best, but he persevered and encouraged me when I was exasperated.


Today I am grateful for Ken’s commitment to his own therapy. As a man with Parkinson’s Disorder, he works two or three hours, sometimes more, each day to stave off the impact of the mayhem being perpetrated on his body by his own brain. He is learning to overcome some of the effects by retraining his brain. Automatic functions like walking, speech, and swallowing are diminished day by day with this disorder. He must fight to consciously instruct each part of his body to do his bidding. He has to walk, each step with intent. He has to talk, each word with intent. Nothing is taken for granted because those abilities are slowly eroding. He is exhausted at the end of a short walk, not because of weak legs or feet but because his brain has to work so hard to create each movement. Talking wears him out because he has to force his voice to be at a level he can be heard. He must enunciate each word slowly in order to be clear. Parkinson’s robs him of volume and makes his words slur into a jumble of incoherence unless he articulates each one carefully. His throat muscles are compromised so coughing and choking are ever present. His physical therapy includes muscle rehab and balance training. There are days when I know the struggle is enormous. His attitude is “never give in”. He is rewarded by being able to do as much as any 80-year-old can do. He’s not 17 anymore, but still enjoys his life. For all the effort he makes,I am grateful.


Gratitude is an affirmation of life. Stay grateful and happiness will be the consequence.

An Ode to Isoroku Yamamoto

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I would not be alive

Were it not for December 7, 1941,

A brazen incursion of Japanese chutzpah.

I am a consequence of war.

A Kansas farmer joined the Army Air Corps

To fight the good fight.

He trained at Lowry Field in Colorado.

My mother, a young Denver girl,

Met him on a blind date.

Relationships blaze quickly in wartime.

They married within weeks.

Thank you, Yamamoto

Puerto Vallarta Retreat

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Picture prompt: Write a story about this magazine picture. The picture feels like peace. The quiet of a deserted beach on a warm sunny day. The serenity of aloneness. Who is this woman? Why is she so far away from anyone? Does she treasure her aloneness? Is she escaping from her life? What will the remainder of her day hold?

I am reminded of a time when I needed to withdraw to peace and quiet for a while.  It was April 1981, during an energy crisis, recession, and an explosive inflationary period (sound familiar?) with mortgage rates up to 18% (much higher than today). A very tense time for everyone.  I worked for a small homebuilding company. We were having trouble selling our inventory of homes. The carrying costs were mounting, removing any hope of profit and the ability to continue building homes. I had been in some intense negotiations on behalf of my company with a bank that threatened to foreclose on a major loan. We couldn’t continue business without renegotiating the terms of the loan for a year. I was tapped to represent the company by my boss, Rob, who owned the company. Over a period of two weeks, I met with different officers of the bank to discuss our position, our new marketing plans, and the benefits of maintaining our relationship with the bank. It worked. I don’t know how, but I was able to convince them to extend our loan with promises for the future and evidence of our past success.

At the end of negotiations, Rob told me to take some time off. My husband, Ken, knew how frazzled I was and urged me to go away on my own to regroup. He said he could manage our three kids and all their activities for a week. He thought I would go to see my best friend in Atlanta. She was my go-to when I needed a boost. Even though we lived across the country from each other then, we were still as close as we had been as neighbors during our school years.

I thought about it. Michele would be working while I was there. She had a husband and two kids. They were all busy with their lives. I would be an intruder and a needy intruder at that. I decided I couldn’t impose on them in that way. I didn’t call her even though I knew she would have encouraged me to come. Instead, I called our travel agent. Seattle was at its drizzly best. I needed quiet and sunshine.

“Where can I go to sit in the sun; where is it quiet and I can be alone for a week?” I asked.

“Does a beach sound good?”

“I’m not a fan of water, but if it is quiet I’ll try.”

“You can be on the beach without going into the water, you know,” Sheila said. “When do you want to leave?”

“Tomorrow. And it can’t cost too much.”

“Oh, that makes a difference. No planning, eh?”

“No, just a get-away for a week.”

“I can get you on a flight to Puerto Vallarta and an inexpensive but nice hotel on the beach tomorrow morning at 9 am. I’ve been there and can recommend it.”

“Sold,” I said.

When my husband came home from work that evening, he asked if I had talked with Michele.

“No. I’m going to Mexico.”

“What? By yourself?”

“Yes. Sheila said it is a nice place. She’s been there. It is quiet and not too expensive. I will be able to be alone with no agenda. It is perfect. The reservation is made. Will you take me to the airport?”

The next morning, Saturday, he took me to the airport, still apprehensive.

“You will come back, right?”

“Of course. Don’t be silly.”

Saturday: I arrived in Puerto Vallarta and took a taxi to the hotel, Playa Las Palmas.  It was right on the beach, as advertised, in the center of the crescent of Banderas Bay. I could step out of my room and walk a few yards across the pale sand to the startling blue water. I was nearly blinded by the midday sun. What a change from gray, cloudy Seattle. I went to the restaurant to see when dinner was to be served and perused the menu. Lots of fresh seafood. And margaritas. Perfect!  I went to my room to change clothes so I could sit on the beach. I decided to lie down for a few minutes first. I threw myself across the bed and when I woke, it was 9:00 am the next morning. I was still in my traveling clothes. I missed dinner and margaritas. I slept from 3:00pm the day before, 18 hours. I didn’t know anyone could sleep that long.

I called Ken to let him know I’d arrived ok and slept through the afternoon and night. I told him I’d call in a couple of days. This was before cell phones.  I was quite alone. No one could contact me except through the hotel. I called Michele to tell her I had escaped to Mexico. She was in shock too.  I took a shower, changed, and went for breakfast, my first ever Huevos Rancheros; then to the beach. I had a notebook and pen to write my journal and two books to read. That was how I intended to spend my days. There were a few people scattered around the beach. This was not the high season so everyone was spread out. I alternated between the beach and the shade of the cabana/beach cafe all afternoon, reading and writing a little or watching the water and the people.  Beach vendors wandered across the beaches from hotel to hotel selling their wares, colorful handmade wooden toys, beautiful scarves, churros, and locally made pottery among them. Hotel staff would sometimes shoo the vendors away, but they returned each day. I didn’t think they were intrusive or aggressive but they may have bothered others. 

I ate a late lunch at the cabana and talked with two women I had seen on the beach. They were best friends from Minnesota, Betty and Janna, who planned a getaway together to a warm destination every year. We had a nice chat and they asked if I’d like to join them for dinner at 7:00. I agreed. But first, I said I’d go to my room for a little nap. I don’t know why I was still so tired.

Sunday: The next thing I knew, it was 8:00 am.  I slept from 3:00 pm until 8:00 am. I missed dinner again.  I met the two women later that morning. They said they came to my room and knocked several times but no answer. They thought I’d changed my mind and went somewhere else for dinner. They said they were taking a tour to the jungle on the mountain above Puerto Vallarta and asked if I wanted to join them. I declined, needing to be solitary for a while. I spent that day mostly in my room, reading. I walked along the beach a few times but stayed to myself. I had a quiet dinner alone, and then a normal night’s sleep.

Monday: Day three of my adventure put me out on the beach again, soaking up the sunshine. I noticed a boat pulling people into the air with a kite. Parasailing. I’d never heard of such a thing. It looked like so much fun. I asked about it and soon had a reservation for that afternoon. Amazing!! Two crew members picked me up in a small rowboat on the beach and took me to a wooden deck out in deeper water. They hooked me into a sling-type harness.  I launched off the deck pulled by a motorboat – no water involved. It was wonderful. I soared under a big, curved kite around the bay for about twenty minutes. It felt like two minutes. They told me I sailed 250 feet above the water and land.  It was delightful. They landed me softly near the shore in knee-deep water. One of the crew was waiting and helped unhook me from the harness and off they went to take another para-sailor aloft. I talked with some beach sitters who witnessed my ride.  I had a quiet dinner alone and went to sleep.

Tuesday: The next day I decided to go on the jungle tour that the Minnesota ladies told me about. It was a great half-day ride through the mountainous jungle above Puerto Vallarta. We had a small bus or tram that held about twenty people. We were told to be on the lookout for jaguarundi and margay which are small wild cats, but I didn’t see any. There were a few monkeys spying on us from the treetops. I believe they were called spider monkeys.  We saw the place where the movie, Night of the Iguana with Richard Burton, Debra Kerr, and Ava Gardner had been filmed. The tour guide filled us in on gossip from the movie set. It had been filmed nearly twenty years earlier in 1963-64 when Burton and Elizabeth Taylor were having their notorious affair. Lots of gossip.  We saw women washing clothes in a river we crossed. The poverty of the people around Puerto Vallarta was evident. I had dinner that evening with a husband and wife from San Diego who I met on the tour. They told me they were going to a nightclub that night at the edge of the city where it was reported there was a good band and dancing. They asked if I wanted to join them, and I declined. Needing more quiet time.

Wednesday: The following day I walked the beach from my hotel toward town. It took a little over an hour to get up from the beach into the old town. I walked all around looking into churches and shops. I bought a sandwich and soft drink for lunch as I strolled through the village. It was very small, only a few streets. I think the population was around 20,000 give or take, including the surrounding area. Two things that stuck in my mind were the children walking to school and going home in the afternoon. They wore white shirts and dresses. I mean white, white. I don’t remember ever seeing such clean children. The townspeople looked like they were very poor, but their children were impeccably dressed.  After witnessing the women washing clothes in the river, I was surprised at how snowy the clothes were. I guess sunshine had something to do with it. The other thing I noticed was armed police or guards outside banks and other businesses. They weren’t menacing but they were present. It seemed odd in so small a town. Sidewalks were uneven or missing in places. The townspeople that I spoke with were courteous and friendly, few spoke any English so we had interesting conversations with Spanglish and gestures. Those were things I noted in my journal. I walked the entire day and went back to the hotel tired. I’m sure I had dinner but I didn’t note it in my journal.

Thursday: The sixth day I met up with Betty and Janna and agreed to go with them that night to the dance club I heard about two days before. They were leaving the next morning, Friday. I don’t recall what I did during the day, but I’m sure I was either on the beach or in my room reading. That night at 9:00 we took a taxi to the nightclub, a fifteen-minute ride up the mountain out of town. There was a fun salsa band. Several of the local men and women showed us three Americanas how to salsa. The band played contemporary rock and roll tunes as well and everyone danced. I danced with Betty and Janna and whoever asked me and had a grand time. I also drank margaritas until 1:00 in the morning. My two friends left around 11:00 saying they needed to be ready to go to the airport in the morning. I asked someone, maybe the club manager, to get a cab for me, but he said the cabs were done for the night by 12:00. He offered to call a friend. Hmmmm. If I hadn’t had all those margaritas, I’m sure I would have been more judicious. I wouldn’t have stayed longer than my friends. I wouldn’t have been without a ride to my hotel. But here I was. It was pitch black outside. I mean you couldn’t see anything, not even outlines of trees when you were away from the building lights. I didn’t know my way down the mountain to the beach and my hotel on dirt roads. I was stranded. By the way the manager offered a ride, I am sure I was not the first American who made that mistake. I agreed to the ride offered. Two local fellows in a broken-down sedan, no spring in the backseat, came to pick me up. They asked where I wanted to go. I told them and asked how much they charged. They gave me a figure that was reasonable and away we went. They did not speak English with any proficiency, and I don’t speak Spanish, so they talked to each other as I sat mute in the back, praying I’d get home to Seattle in one piece. I did not have to worry. They were very kind young men. They took me directly to my hotel; I paid them and gave them a nice tip that reflected my relief that I hadn’t been kidnapped. I said gracias many times and threw in a merci and a thank you for good measure. They laughed and drove off, having done their good deed for the day.

Friday: The seventh day was my last day. I had somewhat of a headache when I woke up so the day was very low-key. I had a late breakfast and said goodbye to Janna and Betty as they left for the airport. They asked how I got back to the hotel. They told me they were concerned but needed to get back earlier than I wanted to. I assured them that I was well taken care of. The remainder of the day I spent reflecting on my trip. It was meant to be a recovery trip, and I guess it was. I slept more hours in that week than I had in months. I felt ready to resume my everyday life. In fact, I was eager to get home. I met several very nice people; some I talked with in fits and starts through different languages. I tried a new sport. I had only been in the ocean once for a few minutes after my parasail. I ventured into a jungle (albeit with a whole group of travelers) and I walked the beach and town for a day feeling very much at home in the strange environment. My alone time had been interspersed with many people and it all felt perfect.  I guess being completely solitary is not something I can do. I need people. 

Saturday: Ken met me at the airport when I returned. Everyone at home survived my retreat just fine. All was well. I was happy and refreshed. Ready for my next challenge.

Bumper Stickers for Life

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In December 2008, our grandson, Henry, was born. The light of our life, a joy, a gift. I wholeheartedly love my children and there is something so special about a grandchild. As he grew, I started writing little notes for him in one of my journals. In 2010 I consolidated a few of them in a document on my computer intending to continue collecting my “bumper stickers” as he grew and developed. I shared my thoughts with him along the way when events warranted a little grandmotherly advice. Now on the threshold of manhood and taller than his Grandpa, I decided it would be a good time to deliver these ideas in written form. I chose to write them all in a card/booklet for his 16th birthday. He loves cards – even more than gifts.

Things to know to grow to be an honorable man 

Advice to Henry Cooper (age 16 months), March 2010 

“The purpose of life is not to be happy. It is to be useful, honorable, to be compassionate, to have it make some difference that you have lived and lived well… To know that even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. This is to have succeeded.” ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson 

Grandma says:

Pay attention to your Mother. Love her and honor her. She created her world around you. Respect the person she is, the place she made for you, and all she has shared with you. She loves you most.

Respect your Grandpa, love him, and learn from him; especially how to play baseball because he was a pro, you know, and golf because it is his passion, and he will love you even more if you can beat him at it.  Don’t follow too closely his advice on horseracing.  Remember Life Lessons from Grandpa. They will serve you well.

Love your Grandma, because she loves you with all her heart. Put your sweet arms around her and give her butterfly kisses whenever you see her – even after you have grown whiskers, for she will always remember the smooth cheeks of your babyhood. Read her a poem.

If indeed bad things happen and they will, my boy, remember that life is best lived going uphill, scrambling over the rocky humps because when you attain a summit you will have such a beautiful vista and so many great stories to tell, AND there is always another summit to reach for.

Laughter and humor are as essential as air. Laugh with your heart and your belly. Look for the fun in everything, even broccoli. 

Live with your heart open. Fall in love. You are meant to love and be loved. Be deeply, passionately, and lustfully in love. Love gives you the greatest highs.

Gratitude. Be thankful every day for the blessings you have. Don’t compare to anyone else. Be grateful to God and all who are in your life daily. 

Welcome God into your life every day. HE is the reason you are here, and HE will guide you to your best destiny.  Bathe in faith. Talk with God. Put HIM on speed dial. HE ALWAYS listens. HIS answers may be unexpected. HE sometimes says no… like when I ask to win the lottery.

Be of service daily. Even if only holding a door open for someone or offering a smile to someone who looks unhappy. There are so many, many ways to serve and it will add to your happiness as well as to the one you help. Service has a ripple effect.

Make choices with intention. Own your choices.  Inaction is also a choice and, if you don’t choose, you leave it for others to make decisions for your life and you might not like the results. Ask advice, consider options, and then choose your own path.

Listen, learn, and don’t follow the crowd if it is heading off a cliff. Listen to your gut.

Make music a part of each day. Music connects to your spirit, it heals, it moves you, it lifts you.

Never hate.  Hatred corrodes the container that holds it.

Make mistakes, fall down, skin your knees. Perfection doesn’t happen. You will learn best from failure how to be a success. Pain is inevitable and is a great teacher.  Your success is up to you. The harder you work, the stronger you become. The road of life is always under construction.

Hold Happy. Happiness is a choice. It comes from the inside not from anything outside.

Release Anger. Anger hurts you more than your intended target.

Practice Forgiveness. Forgiveness allows you to move on in life without the burden of hate and anger.

Confront fear. Take Chances. Fear and its brother Worry rob you of today, physically, mentally, and emotionally. With Fear and Worry you replace “What’s happening” in the present by borrowing “what might happen” from the future. STAY PRESENT.

Have Faith. Faith is knowing you can meet whatever comes your way with confidence because you have the internal resources to surmount adversity. At the very least you will gain wisdom from navigating through the experience. Overcome adversity and you will be stronger on the other side. YOU have the power.

Be a gentleman. A man’s manners are his portrait. Character is worth more than gold. Your style is your passport in human interaction. You are a male by birth, be a gentleman by choice.

Develop a will of iron and retain your soft heart.

Apologize when you are wrong.  Honor Truth.

Eschew jealousy. It is a poison that generates evil thoughts and deeds.

Don’t complain. Complaining makes you stuck. You are master of your life. Choose a positive attitude toward people and events and move on.

Live your highest dream. Don’t let fear detour you. You will conquer anything when you make it your goal.

Listen. Close your mouth, open your ears. You learn more when you listen.

Be Curious. Learning is a life-long process. Embrace it. Read, read, read. You will NEVER ever know everything. Learn to cook, build, sew – be self-sustaining. Curiosity is the root of all success.

Always put the toilet seat down!

Remember the ONLY constant is CHANGE

Write daily. It clears your thoughts and finds truths. You are the author of your life. Create your own story. Always use spell-check…but making up words is fun too.

Remember Elvis is King!

Be Present.  Life is abundance. Embrace it and you will want for nothing. Whatever you go through in life, there will always be another door you can open.

No drugs. Be responsible. Drive safely.

Don’t judge and don’t worry about others judging you. Be authentic. In a world full of trends, be a classic, be timeless.

Be Patient. But don’t make patience an excuse for inaction.

You are given only one body to take you through decades. Treat it with respect. Listen to what it tells you. Nourish it. Exercise it. Keep it in good order and it won’t let you down.

Boredom is the sign of a lazy mind. Color each day brightly. Your days are numbered, and you will never know what that number is.  Make them count.  Life is not a dress rehearsal, live it moment by moment. 

Don’t be a bystander. Life is an interactive game best played full throttle. Be uniquely you. 

Look for angels. They appear in many guises. They are everywhere and will help you when you are in need. Sometimes in surprising ways. 

Make friends and keep friends. True friends are the bulwarks that keep the waves of adversity from overwhelming your ship of life. Friends are the memories you will treasure when you are old and the source of great stories.

Find ways to be kind to someone every day. Simple kindness sends ripples of happiness from you to someone who sends it along to someone else, and on and on. Kindness is the true path to peace. 

Delivered to Henry Cooper on his 16th birthday: December 1, 2024 

Adventure in Avignon

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In 1999 my daughter, Shari, and I went on a European excursion. We visited England and Scotland, then took the EuroStar (a train that dives under the English Channel) to France. We are both Francophiles so the very air of France and especially Paris made us giddy. I had been to France previously, and it was exciting to share it with my daughter on her first trip. Our final destination was Barcelona to visit our niece and her husband, Disa and Pedro. After a few days in Paris, we took the Eurail to Avignon intending to drive the rest of the way exploring Provence.

Avignon is an ancient city in southcentral France, walled in by the Romans in the first century and used as a fortress over centuries. It served as the Vatican City for the Popes in the 14th century. The impressive gothic Palais des Papes was the residence of seven successive popes. Avignon is on the banks of the Rhône River with a bridge across the river that became popular in a folk song describing people dancing across the bridge, “Sur La Pont D’Avignon”, a song every French child knows and anyone who studies the language is taught.

Our adventure in Avignon is the set piece of this story. The third day after looking around the city we decided to take in a movie. It was called Drôle de Père in French or Big Daddy in English. We went to the theater, bought our soft drinks and our choice of sugar popcorn, caramel popcorn, salted popcorn, or cheese popcorn. I got salted, Shari chose caramel. We watched the hilarious antics of Adam Sandler trying to impress his girlfriend with “his son”, who was actually the five-year-old son of his friend. It was dubbed in French and watching it made every line even funnier.

After the movie, we returned to our hotel before we went out to see more of Avignon. I checked for my purse. I had put it in the back of the closet. It was gone, stolen from our room. Shari had her purse with her. I didn’t want the whole bulky purse so only took my waist pack with my wallet and passport. Our airline vouchers for the prepaid return tickets home and our prepaid vouchers for the rental car we were going to drive from Avignon to Barcelona were gone.  Personal items including my grandmother’s mother-of-pearl rosary beads were GONE. I was most upset about the rosary beads because it was the only treasure I had that belonged to my beloved grandmother, irreplaceable. But, of course, we were very concerned about our travel vouchers. How were we going to get to Barcelona? Was I going to have to call Pedro in Barcelona to bail us out? How would we return to the States?

Shari has some college French, and I have high school French. Enough for us to limp along in Paris where English is universally used in tourist locations. In smaller towns, there are not as many people who speak or understand English. We went to the hotel concierge and told him of our dilemma.

“Ah, madame, je suis désolée,” he said, “Vous devez vous rendre à la police et faire un rapport.”  (So sorry. You must take yourself to the police to make a report.)

I wanted to say, Monsieur, it must have been an inside job – someone from your staff who had access to our room – but I didn’t have the words nor the inclination to argue with him because I wanted to get to the police as soon as I could.

A police report! Oh my, what would that look like? Visions of American TV shows about police departments, chaos, and disinterested officers taking down statements with a yawn if they didn’t include murder. How would I get across the urgency of our need to recover our paperwork quickly so we could continue our journey? We were expected in Barcelona in five days. Not a lot of time to hang around police stations and wait for someone to take notice. Besides it would all have to be done in French! Oooo-la-la.

Off we went to the address given for the Commissariat de Police. It appeared to be a storefront operation, not a big imposing building. We walked through the glass door, no security. A young man greeted us from behind a glass-topped desk and we did our best to explain to him why we were there. Two or three other uniformed men were in that front office.

“Eh bon, tellement désolé que vous ayez été volé” he calmly said. “Nous pouvons vous aider.” (Ah, good, sorry you were robbed. We can help you.) I felt this was not the first time he’d heard a story like ours.

He ushered us into a glass-enclosed office. He offered us seats in front of the desk. No one was in the office.

This is what we saw: a simple wood desk with nothing on it except a telephone; totally clean, no papers, no files, no pens, nothing; a padded desk chair behind the desk. We sat in two padded folding chairs. A couple of bookshelf units stood against one wall, only a few (I mean three or four) books or notebooks in each unit, the rest bare shelves; no computer, no printer, no file cabinets, no clutter. I began to look around.

I said to Shari, “Do you think this is a real police department? Are we on candid camera? Is this a spoof for foreigners? Where are the criminals waiting to be jailed? Where is the chaos of an active police station? It looks like a movie set before they holler ‘Roll ‘em’. It’s just too quiet to be real.”

Enter a young man in a uniform – central casting, tall, blond, and beautiful. He smiled and offered a handshake. In halting English he said, “I’m sorry your trip has been interrupted by this mistake.”

“Mistake?” I’m thinking.

“Ce n’est pas un mistake,” I said. “It was a robbery, and we lost all our papers for our trip. We are expected in Barcelona in five days and then we return to the U.S. in a week.”

“Oui, un vol, excusez-moi.” he continued calmly. (Yes, pardon me, a robbery.)

Our discussion went on with him speaking in French with an occasional errant English word and me speaking in English with an occasional fractured French word. Lots of gestures accompanied the conversation. Shari did her best to translate here and there. The policeman seemed to understand everything we told him but was not making any notes or looking for forms. He did ask to see our passports.

Finally, he said he would sign a police report, and we could take it to the rental car agency to get our car. He assured us that it would also be enough evidence to have airline tickets reissued. Not to worry. He was completely unruffled, and matter-of-fact. Wait! Wait! Where was the investigation? Where was the fingerprinting? Where was the drama? Drôle indeed. I wondered if this was some kind of setup, some kind of con to make tourists relax before they laid down a hammer and charged us oodles of dollars to get out of their country.

After all, the French have a universal reputation of being haughty, rude, and nasty to foreigners. That had not been my experience on my previous trip to France, but there is always a first time, and this time was serious. Could we count on their assistance?

A one-page printed report was issued within fifteen minutes. We left the police station, still shaking our heads at what we perceived as the unusual calm we encountered. We went directly to the rental car agency. I explained our situation and showed them the report, preparing for an onslaught of questions and requests for proof beyond the report. They asked to see our passports, then handed me the keys to the car. It took less than ten minutes.

It still felt surreal. To be in a foreign country, being robbed of all our paperwork and still being allowed to rent a car so simply. It takes more effort to rent a car in my hometown.  

Gleefully, we left with our car. It was a Ford KA, a subcompact city car. Too small to be called a KAR – like half of a VW bug. No backseat, it was barely big enough for Shari, me, and two suitcases. We zipped along the freeway and through small towns like a gnat on a summer breeze. It was great to park. We fit anywhere we wanted, almost like a motorcycle. Each time we returned to our parked KA, I was surprised to find it still there. It was so small I could imagine someone coming along and picking it up like a child’s toy.

We stayed another day in Avignon then left for a winding trip through Provence and Occitanie along the southeast coast. We visited the cathedral in Nimes. We stayed a night in a nearly deserted resort town on the Mediterranean, Palavas. It was past the tourist season, being mid September, and all the hotels were closed. One very nice hotelier offered us a room overnight without any services. We were the only ones there. We ate a simple meal in a small restaurant on a canal that led to the Gulf of Lion. Fishing boats were docked along the edge of the canal. We visited the castle in Carcassonne, learning its quaint legend, and stayed in Narbonne; got lost trying to find a public bathroom; looked for carousels in each little French village (they all seemed to have one); and, Shari got to eat at a Mickey D’s in France. We crossed the Spanish border without a border check, arriving in Barcelona safe and sound, welcomed by a round of warm Spanish hugs and kisses from our family. We left Spain on schedule with no issues over airline tickets, just a very small fee. All that is another story or two…

Chicago: August 1984 and July 1985

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Intro: From June 1984 to September 1985 our family of five plus two dogs traveled around the country in a three-quarter-ton reconfigured cargo maxi van pulling a thirty-one-foot trailer. Our trip began in Bellevue, Washington. We quit our jobs, took our three teenagers out of school, sold our two-story house, packed ourselves into the trailer, and took off on a grand adventure. Our 15-year-old nephew, Wally, accompanied us the first summer (four teens).

We had no cell phones, no computers, no GPS. We were off the grid. We didn’t even have seat belts. We traveled 50,000 miles crisscrossing the U.S. four times. Planning for the trip included library research and correspondence with all the Secretaries of State of each state we intended to visit. I had folders full of information about each state. Needless to say, the teens were not thrilled with the idea of spending fourteen months 24/7 with the old folks and missing a whole year out of school with their friends.


We went to all the contiguous United States, three provinces of Canada, and dipped into Northern Mexico a couple of times. After Christmas, we took a Caribbean cruise stopping at Jamaican, Grand Cayman, and Mexican ports. The objective was to show our kids their country, all the nooks and crannies, all the cultures and quirks, visiting museums, state houses, historical sites like Civil War battlefields, national parks, as well as small towns. We tucked in a few theme parks, and professional sports when a team was in a town we passed through. We endeavored to meet people in each region that make this great land. I am beginning to piece together our stories from letters, journals, photos, and memories. This is a snippet from our journey. These stories are taken from letters and journals written during the trip forty years ago and do not reflect the places as they may be today.


Chicago: August 1984 and July 1985
As we drove around the country we tried to stay on the “blue roads”, so named in the 1982 book by William Least Heat Moon, Blue Highways. It was one of the sources I used to plan our odyssey. That meant we were away from main highways – the red roads, arterials – instead using the minor, less traveled, roads that took us through small-town America. On paper maps – we didn’t have GPS or internet – the blue roads look like the veins of the human body, tiny but necessary for travel and commerce, the lifeblood of the nation. Big cities are very much alike but small towns are unique to their region and citizens. Of course, in order to visit major sites we needed to go into major cities.


We went to Chicago twice, once on an eastbound trip and once again on a westbound stretch. Both visits were too short. Some states we visited twice and some states, like Texas, seemed endless and it took us forever to get across.


Our family first visited Chicago in August 1985. At this point, there were five of us, Ken, me, and our three kids. Our nephew had to return to Bellevue before school started for the year. The closest campground we could find was in a town called Mokena about forty-five minutes south of Chicago proper. We parked our trailer there and ventured into the city. The late August weather was warm and sticky. Everyone wore shorts and short-sleeved shirts, except me. I had on a sundress.

We drove through the city and around the perimeter where we admired the Chicago River and the architecture of the buildings along it. We walked the Magnificent Mile with all the big stores such as Saks Fifth Avenue, and Bloomingdales as well as chic boutiques like Armani, Burdeen’s, and Gucci, none of which we went into. We saw the great Shedd Aquarium in its beautiful building filled with unbelievable beasties, amphibious and seagoing marine life. There are things there you cannot even imagine until you see them; plants that look like animals and animals that look like plants. The intelligent and curious octopi alone are worth a whole day. They interact with the public. I wish every large metropolis with a waterfront would take a lesson from Chicago. They made the lakeside a people-place with parks, museums, a planetarium, beaches, marinas, fountains, and gardens – all for everyone to enjoy. Their waterfront isn’t blocked off by factories, warehouses, or docks – it’s beautiful, clean, and fully accessible.

One of our friends told us we had never eaten real Italian food until we had food in Chicago’s Little Italy. So we set out for some REAL ITALIAN FOOD. Our local guidebook said that the Italian community in Chicago centered on Taylor Street. Consulting the map, we took ourselves to the west side of town. As we toured the neighborhood, we noticed large numbers of citizens loitering around street corners and sitting on stoops. The local occupation appeared to be indolence. There were dozens of boarded-up stores with Italian names even though the people on the streets didn’t appear to be Italian. Countless residences were rundown or abandoned.


While Ken drove, I pointed out Mama Rosa’s, Little Luigi’s, or Georgio’s as possible places for dinner. He shook his head.

“I wouldn’t leave our van on the street in this area,” he said. “I wouldn’t feel safe walking down the street with our family. We’re not eating around here. Look up something else, somewhere else.”

He turned back on Taylor Street toward downtown Chicago. I was not to be deterred. We were going to eat in Little Italy, no matter that the area had undergone a cultural transformation. We passed a restaurant, Bocciola della Rose (Italian for rosebud), with a fenced and gated parking lot. Three prosperous-looking senior citizen couples were entering.

“How about that place? The parking lot is gated and there is an attendant inside the fence. Don’t you think that would be safe?” I begged.
“Ok, we’ll try it.”

We quickly went around the block and returned to the gated parking lot where a young man of Italian descent, Guido, told us he would park our van and watch it until we finished dinner. Smiling from success, we proceeded into the dark narrow little restaurant which had a small bar as you entered the front door.

I led the way and, as the rest of our group appeared through the door, a tiny wizened lady rushed down behind the bar shaking her finger and head at us saying in very broken English, “We no serva the short.” It took three repetitions of this phrase for me to realize that she meant we were improperly dressed for her establishment. Sure enough, looking around we noticed all the men were wearing slacks and shirts with ties, some even had jackets and the women were all in dresses. – NO SHORTS. Imagine our chagrin after coming thousands of miles to eat in Little Italy, then finding its character altered and somewhat intimidating, then finding, with some reservation, a suitable place to eat and being turned away as undesirable. We left to continue our quest for Italian food in the Chicago loop. We ate our spaghetti and meatballs in Miller’s Pub on Wabash Avenue. Good American pub food, highly recommended and they serve shorts.

Our second visit to Chicago was, unfortunately as brief as our first visit the previous August…rush, rush, rush. We were there only a couple of days. We went to the top observation level on the 103rd floor of the world’s tallest building (at that time), the over 1,400 ft. high Sears Tower.


Visiting baseball parks to see professional games was part of the agenda on our trip. On Friday, July 12, 1985, we attended a Cubs vs Dodger game in the best ballpark we’d seen – Wriggly Field – a gorgeous real grass field, ivy covered brick outfield walls, and sunny blue skies. This is the city where fans fought for tradition – no lights at Wriggly. All games were played during the day. (The big business of baseball being what it is, that has changed. Lights were installed in 1988. Night games are played there now.) We stayed around after the game to talk to the winning pitcher, an L.A. Dodger from the Seattle area, Tom Neidenfurer. He won the game 7-4. Our friend Dickie Pederson had gone to school with him in Redmond, Washington and asked us to say hi to him if we crossed paths on our journey.

We returned to the Italian restaurant, Rosebud, which refused us service the previous visit because we wore shorts. This time we were properly attired and were served; cannelloni for Ken, lasagna for me, and spaghetti with meatballs for the kids. We were not disappointed. It’s a classy place with great food and a mellow musical accompaniment. Another evening, we went back to Miller’s Pub on Wabash. The local tavern filled with regulars who consumed large quantities of pasta, wine, and beer, while watching sports on TV had become our favorite, offering more comfort than class.


The next day took us to The Dells in Wisconsin and on to Appleton where my grandmother, Bessie, was born. She left home at nineteen to be a Harvey Girl and travel across the country to Wyoming where she met the love of her life. I wrote about her in my blog post of September, 2023. Travel and adventure run in my blood. I’ll add more stories to our journey as memories bubble up.

The “Little Woman” Steps Out

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Courage is not the absence of fear but the action in the face of fear.

Courage is being the only one who knows you are afraid.

In the 1960s, the women’s movement was beginning to heat up again after a lull of about thirty years. During the 1880s women’s rights were asserted along with freedom for slaves. That resulted in legislation promoting the equality of women in society. There was a pause in progress during the Depression of the 1930s. Women were actually fired from jobs in order for men to have work. Men were deemed to be more important in the workforce and women were relegated to their “natural place” in the home, tending children and husbands. Then along came WWII, women again became essential in the workforce to keep our economy moving as men were shipped overseas to war. When men came back from war, women were reluctant to cede their place as wage earners. The war of the sexes ensued and the 60s were marked by legislative and social battles along with commentary from both sides staring into the gender gap. 

I, on the other hand, followed the path prescribed by society in those days, a homemaker. Being a mom was what I loved most. The role of stay-at-home wife and mother was the norm and the expectation of women. Married women who worked outside the home were still unusual. The only jobs offered were as teacher, nurse, store clerk, waitress, or secretary. Nothing much was required from me in the wide world except to keep a pleasant home for my husband and raise healthy children.

Where do I fit into the scenario of assertive women? It was accidental. I never considered myself a part of the feminist movement.

Ken worked two jobs for over a year to get the $900 downpayment for our house which cost $16,950. We had a monthly payment of $130 per month for principle, interest, taxes, and insurance – a third of his take-home pay after he quit the second job. It was our first home, a three-bedroom, one-bath, 1,000 sq. ft. mansion. We had two children, a baby and a 2-year-old, at that time. We moved into our house in a small community of Woodinville, Washington near Cottage Lake in December 1967, a neighborhood of one hundred very modest, indistinguishable homes. During the summer of 1968, I noticed some problems in our home. It was under warranty. I notified the builder, Miller Homes, and was virtually patted on the head and told, “There, there those are just normal things to deal with in a new home.” I did not believe them.

Ken said he didn’t believe it either. I called the Fire Department and asked for an inspection. They came out and found several code violations including that the vent over the stove was not connected to the outside. There were insulation, structural, and safety issues. I contacted the builder again with a request for someone to inspect the house and fix the problems. I was ignored. I ruminated on what I, a lowly 22-year-old housewife, could do to make the builder pay attention and fix our warranty problems.

I decided my lone voice was not enough. I typed up a petition of grievance, took the inspection report I had, and went door to door to each of the one hundred homes to ask people to check for problems and to sign the petition if they wanted warranty repairs done. I also told them I was going to picket the nearby new neighborhood where our builder planned a Grand Opening. I asked if anyone would like to go with me. I had 100% of the homeowners sign the petition and four people agreed to come with me on a Saturday to picket with our petitions.

I made signs out of butcher paper and markers for my car and the cars of the other volunteers. “DON’T BUY A LEMON.”  “BUYER BEWARE” “READ THE WARRANTY”. I wasn’t real sure of the law and I didn’t want any sign that named the builder or made direct reference because I didn’t want to be sued. I planned for us to park across the public street from the Grand Opening and stand by our cars with the signed petitions of grievance and the inspection report. I figured we’d attract enough attention that people would come over just to find out what we were complaining about. Maybe it would inform their decision to buy a Miller Home.

On the Saturday of the Grand Opening, all the people who said they’d go with me backed out. My husband was staying home with our two babies. A dilemma. Was I brave enough to go by myself and take the consequences alone? I decided I had to because I promised everyone who signed the petition that there would be action.

I did as planned. A little unsure of myself at first, I wondered what the reaction would be. Most of the people going into or out of the model homes walked across the street to hear what I had to say. I gathered courage from the response of prospective buyers thanking me for the information. After about thirty minutes, the sales manager came over and told me to leave. I declined. I was on a public street and told him he couldn’t make me leave. He said I would face legal action. I still declined, saying our next step was to complain to the State Association of Contractors. Finally, three men came over and said if I would leave, they would take a copy of the petition to the builder. I gave them a copy and left.

On Monday morning, my husband received a call at work. The builder told him to tell me to stop harassing their new home site. Imagine, telling a husband to silence “the little woman” who was making a nuisance of herself. Ken, my very strong, supportive husband, told them I was my own agent and he was not going to say any such thing. He said I had every right to do what I did and would continue until our demands were met. He went further to repeat we would report the builder violations to the State Association of Contractors if they didn’t comply.

The following day a representative of the builder came to our house and, sure enough, a swarm of construction workers went from house to house fixing the warranted problems that had cropped up in the homes. It took a few weeks to complete their tasks, but everyone was finally satisfied. I didn’t have to picket again. Once I knew I wasn’t going to be shot or sued, I enjoyed the attention and the hoopla created among the men. They took me seriously – no more dismissive attitudes.

The Shark and Me

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I must confess, I am not a cleaner. My house has been kept tidy for years by an army of lovely women who like to clean, clean, clean. It is very low on my priority list. Since we retired, Ken said it was no longer in our budget to have housecleaners. He stepped up and said he would do it. Now we share some of the tasks because I like to keep the kitchen ship-shape so I can cook, which I love to do.

I recognize that clean is a relative term. One person’s clean may be another person’s squaller. My mother for instance was a clean freak. She loved to clean.  She had a full-time weekday job but it was her passion to spend hours on the weekends keeping things spic and span, washing everything from knickknacks to floors, woodwork and walls, dusting, mopping, etc. She derived great joy from her efforts.

As a young married, I tried to emulate her cleaning regimen but was never able to summon the passion. As our family grew, I drudged through a succession of small abodes in those early years like I was slogging uphill through mud. It never made me happy like it did her. Everything that was cleaned was dirty again within minutes. Ugh, I hated it.

I developed a skin condition called psoriasis. At that point, I was mom to three children under four years old, and with all the diapers (back in the day before paper diapers – everything was washed), kid cleaning, and house cleaning, my skin rebelled. I’m sure it had something to do with my reluctance to clean – a deep psychological kickback. The skin on my arms and legs cracked and bled. They were irritated, itchy, and painful. It began to creep up to my chest and neck. Then along came my knight in shining armor. My doctor pronounced that I was sensitive to dust, household chemicals, rubber gloves, even water used too much would make my delicate skin break out. In short, I was allergic to housework and if I didn’t stop soon the disease would become chronic. Well, I couldn’t stop cleaning my children so it was obvious that I would have to stop cleaning my house. Ken agreed to immediately hire a house cleaner. Within weeks, my skin condition cleared up completely and has never returned.

Ken was good to his word at retirement and shouldered most of the housework. Sixteen years later, Ken had to go into the hospital. It was supposed to be an overnight or maybe two-night stay but turned into three nightmarish weeks. At first with my attention totally on Ken and his physical wellbeing, I ignored the house. I kept the cat boxes changed. I didn’t cook so there was nothing to do in the kitchen. I was home only a few hours at night and that was spent trying to sleep.

I began to notice large clumps of black fur, white fur, brown fur. It is summer. The cats are shedding. I never saw that before because Ken would have the vacuum out whenever anything landed on the floor. I haven’t touched a vacuum in fifty years and hadn’t a clue how to start it. I needed some guidance so I could clear out the fur that was becoming ankle-deep. I imagined that when Ken came home it might be waist high at the rate they were going.

Ken said it was so easy and gave me a rudimentary lesson. I went home, and pulled the vacuum from the closet. That’s when I noticed it was named SHARK. The ominous theme music of JAWS ran through my head. Why was it not named Mrs. Trilby or Mr. Pristine – making one think of helpful servants, not a predatory monster.

Me and Shark had to get acquainted. He is an upright kind of guy, at least three and a half feet tall. In order to get his wheels going he needs to be clicked out of his military posture into a more relaxed sloping position. The problem I had was that his upper part (the heaviest section) when released, wobbles, swirling right or left and back again. He has very little control over his own movements when clicked out of his upright posture. Ken says he weighs about fourteen pounds, but I swear I was wrestling fifty pounds as I tried to get Shark to straighten up, mind my commands, and go in a steady line. He has three levels so he can pound on carpets or glide on tile and something in between. I had a hard time getting the correct setting while keeping his body from spinning around. I was holding the handgrip with two hands, like grasping the dorsal fin of a rampaging Great White as it veered this way and that.

AI-generated picture, not an actual photo

On my first try, I managed to sweep up a clump or two of fur but stopped as I started sweating. It just can’t be that hard. It was late at night, and I was really tired, I reasoned. The next day I tried again and didn’t get much better except I had Shark on the right setting.  Three days later, I left the hospital early (before dark) and got home determined to conquer the damn vacuum. I pulled Shark up to my chair and had a talk with him. I explained that Ken was ill and couldn’t be his partner in the cleaning dance. He would have to accept me and be patient with my clumsy steps. I tried not to blame him since, after all, he is a machine made by some satanic engineer, but it was difficult to keep from crying. I begged his indulgence as I pushed the start button.

It worked. He was rather more accommodating as I went from one room to another. We seemed to have reached détente. I wouldn’t say buddies, but at least noncombatants. The floor was beginning to reappear. Just as I was feeling downright successful, Shark tripped me. He wrapped his cord around my ankle and almost sent me down. I recovered, pulled the cord from the wall socket, and unwrapped my leg.

“Why?” I asked.  “We were getting along so well.”

Shark didn’t look the least bit chagrined. He stood there in that nonchalant posture daring me to blame him for my ineptitude.

“You just wait until Ken gets home. He’ll make you obey.”

I swear Shark shrugged.