#47 - Grandma the Militant

Since our arrival in Alaska in 1903 we have seen gambling abolished, the roulette tables removed and destroyed, sporting women prevented from frequenting saloons, the saloons closed on Sundays, the elimination of nickel-in-the-slot machines, local prohibition in several towns, and then our goal -- prohibition throughout Alaska.

Fanny Turner Pedersen, Social Activist, 1900s

And last and very important, many convictions and heavy fines for bootlegging, and one red-light district after another closed. I am very pleased to have fought with you.

That was my Grandmother Fanny Turner Pedersen, writing to her colleagues in the Alaska Women's Christian Temperance Union (WCTU) in 1918. And when she says "fought," she means it. When necessary, the women took baseball bats and demolished the saloons.
  

* * *

The men in my family like strong women. We marry complicated, independent wives (one apiece) and then hang on. My god, look what I've done to myself with Sue. 

I don't know how far back this goes but at least to my Grandfather Louis, who married Fanny in 1890. On this Mother's Day I can't stop thinking about the militant matriarch of our family, who died young and beautiful at age 49. I never met her.

The strong women of Langley reclaim their heritage.

Yesterday's reenactment of a 1913 suffrage march in Langley, part of my town's centennial celebration, really brought home Fanny's social activism for me.

At the turn of the century she was a preacher's wife in the ragged, frontier towns of Seward and Skagway, Alaska Territory. No doubt when Louis married her, he was hoping for a bright but traditional partner for his life's work. Back in those days a woman's place was in the home. Women did not have the right to vote in our young, imperfect democracy, but we sure had alcohol abuse and all the social vices that came with it.

In Fanny my grandfather got a perfectly fine wife, mother and partner, and also some bonus qualities. She did her own thinking.

Fanny was raised to question and use her intellect. Her dad was a Civil War veteran and later sheriff at Oysterville, Pacific County, Washington. He believed in education and principle. He had fought to emancipate the slaves, and his daughter believed that women, too, should enjoy all the rights and freedoms of equality under the law.

In the eyes of many men, it was natural and right to exclude women from the vote. In fact it might even be the outright will of God.

Fanny (center) in a Seattle P-I article from 1915

Growing up in Oysterville, and later in Seward and Skagway, Fanny saw the awful damage alcohol caused in those communities. Women led the fight to change this. But their political power was crippled by ineligibility to vote. For many women, temperance and suffrage were inseparate as national crusades.

In the tradition of so many other social causes in our nation's history, Fanny and the WCTU went militant at times, going "over the top" to enter saloons and destroy merchandise. Fanny was Alaska state treasurer of the WCTU and hosted both state and national crusaders in her home.

One of her friends and guests was the prominent suffragist and temperance leader, Frances Willard, in whose honor Fanny named my uncle, Willard Pedersen.

Fanny lived to see two huge victories in her lifetime -- the 18th and 19th Amendments to the US Constitution, enacting Prohibition and women's suffrage.

That's not a bad legacy for any social activist, in any era.

She was just a few months short of her 50th birthday when she died unnecessarily in surgery for a relatively routine procedure.

#46 - Comic Relief

This cracks me up.

It's JoAnn Kane, Candace Allen and Regina Hugo teleconferencing from Palm Springs with our writers group, back on Whidbey. All winter we've met in a conference room at Whidbey Telecom so JoAnn could be with us electronically.

JoAnn, Candace and Regina on TV at Whidbey Telecom.

Recently, Candace and Regina were in Palm Springs coincidentally on separate vacations. 

Members of our group don't like to miss anything, so Candace and Regina trekked over to JoAnn's home to hook up with the rest of us at headquarters. While we looked at them on the big screen, they looked back at us on JoAnn's monitor.

The second photo gives a sense of the wider scene in Freeland. That's Paul Goldfinger, Alixe Hugret and Jan Simpson. Also visible is Chris Spencer's hand. We were deep in thought about something but I don't know what. We do a lot of deep thinking in this group but also some deep laughing.

Paul, Alixe, Jan . . . and Chris Spencer's hand.

A year ago when I started this blog my mission was partly to share the experience of a cancer diagnosis - Hodgkin's Lymhoma. 

Sooner or later we all face life-threatening illness or know someone who is. How do we make the best of it?

A friend says, "I don't want to be defined by this."

I admire her tenacity because it's a long road of uncertainty and medical adventures. One learns to live in the present, if only because there is no choice.

Lymphoma often has a pretty good ending. The patient finishes chemotherapy, the body returns to normal and life goes on as before. But since I finished chemotherapy in October my blood counts have remained too low.

Something else is in play - likely a second illness the lymphoma masked for a while. Doctors are trying to figure that out now, but are baffled. I'm spending too much time in waiting rooms.

This brings me back to writing.

A writer whose name I've forgotten explained in a radio interview that readers love stories because they bring order to the chaos of life. 

Life is messy. Things happen, often without good reason, and often without a tidy ending. The beauty of a story is that it packages the human experience in a way that has a beginning, middle and ending. A good story is satisfying.

So with the help of friends who are also trying to make sense of the chaos of life, I will keep writing.

#45 - The Happy Season

It is hard to hang onto a dark, winter mood once the hummingbirds arrive. It's also hard to leave the camera on the table, though catching these speeding bullets in flight, and in focus, is insanely hard.

Terror of the skies.

Rufous Hummingbirds came blasting back to Whidbey Island from the tropics several weeks ago. 

In any given year I usually hear them before I see them. A friend once characterized the sound as an old Volkswagen Beetle with bad valves and it's still the best description I've ever heard.
  
Today I saw my first J Dive of 2013, a thrilling, high- performance maneuver the male Rufous performs to impress the female. The hormones are heating up at our place.

The J-Dive is a rocket-fast climb to 100 or 200 feet, followed by a power dive and then a second climb to a lower elevation, at which the male hovers. He does it all while facing directly toward the female, who is watching spellbound from a nearby bush. Don't expect a picture of this. I don't have a clue how to take it.

The big attraction at our place for the Rufous right now is all the salmonberry vines blossoming in our woods. 

Rare peaceful coexistence at the feeder, for a nano-second.

But these birds also are addicted to  hummingbird feeders. They seem to remember who had one last summer and are obsessed with claiming it for their exclusive use again this year. 

If you didn't get yours up in time, expect some little birds glaring at you through the window, with very big chips on their shoulders.

Judging by the intense traffic at our feeder this spring, the population is big this year. That puts a smile on my face. They're draining us dry every couple days and I like that. 

If you feed hummingbirds, please remember the sugar water can ferment and develop bacteria and fungus after only three or four days, causing illness in the birds. A fresh, frequently cleaned and refilled feeder will assure healthy birds.

Notwithstanding my excitement about the return of the Rufous, I must confess it is true we had a handful of hummingbirds at our feeder right through the winter, even on the snowy mornings. 

The long tongue can reach both nectar and insects.

Those were tough Anna's Hummingbirds that now remain in Puget Sound year round with the help of homeowners who keep their feeders up, and thawed. 

With the frigid nights and lack of flowers, winter for the Annas is a fight to survive, find nourishment and conserve resources. Our Anna's Hummingbirds understandably did a lot of sitting on bare branches last winter, and not a whole lot of high-performance flying.

But once the feisty Rufous Hummingbirds arrive and stake out their breeding territories for the short summer season, the action is entirely different. 

I love them all. Each is a living tribute to the eternal optimism of nature.

#44 - Listening to the Dog

"Duncan, come!"

Ears flapping, our dog Duncan rockets toward Sue like a Cruise Missile. Just before the mother of all collisions, he stops and sits smartly in front, his eyes locked on hers, licking his lips for the beef liver treat he knows is next.

The new Duncan -- focused and sharp!

I've got goose bumps! This is the new Duncan.

It's been nearly a year since Sue and I started working with a canine behaviorist, Diane Garrod of Canine Transformations Learning Center.

We needed help because our affectionate Duncan was reacting badly to some visitors to our home -- especially those carrying boxes, clipboards, brooms, shovels, sticks, canes, lumber or carpenter's levels.

Clearly, such "weapons" threatened him and that's not good. Fear is the trigger of aggression. Much as we loved Duncan and provided a secure home, in his mind he was still fighting to survive. He had suffered at the hands of someone who abused him before, and could not let such people back into his life now.

One year later, Duncan is a new dog -- happy, social and vastly more relaxed and confident. I'll explain how we got there in a minute.

Eager to please.

For now, trust me, that's the good news.

The bad news is that, one year into his transformation, Duncan is still the same old dog in many ways -- stubborn, worried and complicated! 

He may perform confidently one day and not at all the next. That's how it goes with fearful dogs.

Diane explains diplomatically, "Duncan likes to do his own thinking." It's a compliment, I think -- one with two sides.

For some time before we called Diane, Duncan had been showing stress signals. We just weren't reading them well and that's discouraging because I thought we really knew dogs.

For years we've had confident dogs that approach visitors with relaxed and soft body language, to say hello. Duncan was different. He would not growl or snarl, but grew tense and might wince, turn away and circle behind. His eyes would widen and his tail would sink lower. He might show some lip.

In dog language he was telling us every way he could, "I'm afraid!"

In hindsight, Duncan likely developed these fears while fending for himself on a Central Washington farm. We adopted him from Stanwood's NOAH shelter, which rescued him from a kill-shelter in Moses Lake. 

Overwhelmed in dog class. Note nervous tongue.

We're pretty sure someone hit him. How much or how often, we'll never know and it's just as well, because knowing would break our hearts.

With Diane's help, we worked to desensitize Duncan to the objects that terrify him, and I think we made progress. 

With generous treats, we taught him to approach entire piles of scary objects to find rewards. We placed treats on brooms and shovels, and taught Duncan to approach these objects and retrieve the treats as we lifted them into the air. We rewarded and lavishly praised every small sign of progress.

Nearly a year into Duncan's transformation we are encouraged but also realistic. We can never erase the ingrained memories Duncan carries of early abuse. Diane calls it post-traumatic stress, similar to what many soldiers suffer in combat, and Duncan will carry those bad memories for the rest of his life.

Perfection. A joyful moment.

But we can work around them. Diane gave us strategies to turn stressful encounters into happy moments, and to distract Duncan from his fears with positive surprises that release endorphins into the bloodstream.

She also gave us the keys to  Duncan's language.

"We expect dogs to learn our language," Diane pointed out. "But dogs speak a language of their own and they're talking to us constantly. So why shouldn't we learn their language, too?"

We are doing much better now at listening to Duncan -- listening and reading. We praise and reward confidence. Duncan shows it to us more and more. Twice recently he walked willingly into our veterinarian's office with gentle encouragement. In the past, he was so afraid to enter that space, we had to carry him through the door.

He is our constant joy, the heart of our household and a work-in-progress. 

Earlier this month we completed a seven-week course in canine confidence-building. It was an eye-opener. 

New friends, both canine and human.

Each dog came into the class with its own specific fears. Sadly but predictably, the problems in each case pointed back to human mishandling and mistreatment. 

Diane tailored the class to each dog's individual fears, needs and strengths. We saw the dogs blossom and learn from one another as they came to trust. And so did the owners.

In class, Duncan formed trusting relationships with every human in the room. He accepted treats from strangers and made several good dog friends. The dog friends were a nice bonus because, till now, he simply hadn't shown much interest in dogs at all. 

I was emotionally moved by our classmates' dedication, patience, kindness and compassion for all the dogs. 

The experience was valuable to me as a human being. I've long felt dogs make us better people and this deepened my understanding. All of us genuinely shared and celebrated one another's victories every step of the way.

 Stressed. Give me a minute to pull myself together.

Way back in blog #12, I wrote that Duncan was getting a therapist and promised I'd write more when I had something to report. 

I dragged my feet because I just didn't know how the story of Duncan transformation would end.

I still don't, because much of it depends on the weak link in this equation, Sue and me. Like everyone, we lead busy lives with many distractions. I wasn't the only one in the class with unresolved health issues. Those might be excuse enough to skip the effort, yet I think this was one of the most positive and rewarding ways I could have used my time. 

Dogs are sensitive, intuitive, honest souls. Using only body language, Duncan has pretty much told us the story of his life before he came into our household.

Now, the response is up to us. "We hear you. We'll help you." We have to show it more than say it. In dog language, actions speak louder than words.

Our great class. Diane and her gentle teacher-dog, Kody, are in back at center.

I suspect our job will never be finished. That's ok. We are in this together, Duncan and us, for the long haul.

#43 - This Is Crazy

Spring broke out here several weeks ago.

Springtime on Whidbey.

Our daffodils bloomed. The magnolias formed dense, juicy buds. Fresh, green shoots emerged from our plum trees, and the first Rufous Hummingbirds zipped all over the yard. 

Then, this morning it all fell apart in a whiteout.

February in a warmer place.

Someone should talk to the people who complained about our snowless winter. I didn't miss the hardship this year. Even without snow, road closures and power outages, a couple of those months were pretty dreary.  

In February, Sue and I slipped away to Hawaii to escape it all.
  
By the time we got home, signs of spring were everywhere. We started our garden.

A confused Rufous this morning.

This morning's snow flurries started out as a novelty. Everyone rushed out to take pictures. I was astonished to find about two inches on our deck furniture. 

It kept snowing. Two inches turned into four. Dogs frolicked. Cars slid into the ditch. Schools were cancelled.

People in warmer climates brag about their nonstop, idyllic weather. Real Northwesterners want no part of that. We like our seasons well-defined. 

Never boring.


  

#42 - Why I'm Drinking Bwana Bob's

"He's a Neanderthal!!! The knuckle-dragging kind."

I love this. It's a note from Susan Kendall about her partner, Bwana Bob, from whom I have just ordered 2-1/2 pounds of coffee. Somehow a big flurry of email breaks out after I innocently check on order confirmation.

My precious coffee beans - estate reserve and estate peaberry.

To be fair, Susan is referring to his computer skills. 

Together they run a mom-and-pop Kona coffee plantation about 1,200 feet up the rocky slopes of Mauna Loa volcano, on the Big Island of Hawaii. 

They also rent out several beautiful honeymoon cottages right in the middle of it all.

"If you come back to this island, you should stay with us and see Steve do his roasting show," Susan writes. "Besides, our place is just awesome anyhow."

So I write back and say I would love to see the roastery. Susan almost falls out of her chair.

"Wow. That is a GREAT word. I love that word!"

Whoops! Sorry. I got a little too industrial. I thought that was what you call a plant where coffee beans are roasted. I keep forgetting this is a small-scale operation. Small is beautiful.

So it isn't a roastery, but whatever Steve does to the beans, Susan explains, "It is best seen in the dark."  I hear the same thing about the volcano.

Bwana Bob and Susan, from their website

The Kona guidebooks call these little plantations boutique farms. Well, fine. That makes our five acres on Whidbey Island a boutique farm for what? One overprivileged dog.

In any case, on Bwana Bob's island, he roasts the beans. Susan, "The Missus" according to their website, handles the technology and marketing.

Neanderthal has a nice, manly ring. So does Bwana Bob.  I can throw around these words because I hear the same primal endearments from my own spouse, Sue. "Honey, would you reach up with your ape-like arms and get that bowl off the top shelf?"

My shipment of Bwana Bob's choicest, estate-harvested, shade-grown, dark-roast, pesticide-free, 100 percent Kona coffee showed up in the Langley post office Friday. 

My wife thought it was a pizza but the coffee bags fit.

The reason I ordered it is kinda complex but it makes sense to me.

When I got home from Kona last month, a week ahead of Sue, I had only one purchase in my luggage -- enough Kona coffee to make one pot. The devil got into me. I brewed it the next morning, kept my mouth shut to Sue, and haven't been the same since.

So I went online looking for more. Kona coffee is grown as a labor of love mostly by small, boutique farms like Bwana Bob's. The farmers mail it to dreamers like me on the mainland. 

It costs an arm and a leg, plus Priority Mail postage. But I understand. I picture my beans speeding across the blue Pacific in a the belly of a gleaming jet, just under the feet of 130-some passengers sitting six abreast for six hours.

No sane person would buy coffee this way.

Estate peaberry beans -- best of the best.

But it messes with your mind to know you could. Just fill in a few blanks on the computer screen, hit "submit," and the rest happens like magic . . . unless you get into a big email conversation with the marketing department like I did.

The reason this coffee is so darn expensive is because the growing belt on the Big Island is only about 30 miles long, rocky and quite narrow. The trees grow at elevations between about 800 and 2,500 feet. Beyond that, growing conditions are all wrong.

Labor to pick the beans is expensive. Costs are driven up by all the usual challenges of maintaining an orchard against destructive pests, plus the work of pulping, drying, storing, roasting, packaging, labeling, marketing, and driving orders to the post office.

In the end, even at premium prices, there isn't much money it it for the grower.

Now back to me, the consumer. I'm looking at all these farms on the Internet and come to "Bwana Bob's." What's with this?

It turns out "Bob" is a bit of bait-and-switch. Bob is actually Steve -- Steve Crosson. His middle name is Bob. The plantation sits in a jungle-like setting and Steve is a fan of the old Jungle Jim film series.

Click for website.

"Bwana" is a Swahili word for master or boss, and Steve is the boss. Naming the business "Bwana Steve's" would be a belly flop, so he uses his middle name and Bwana Bob's is born.

It works for me.

I ordered my coffee last Sunday. Bwana Bob roasted my beans on Monday. Susan mailed them Tuesday at the Honaunau Post Office (which, to serve you better, closes at noon!). The Priority Mail package showed up in Langley on Friday and I'm drinking my first cup right now on Saturday morning.

It is sheer heaven - bold, rich and smooth.

Curiously, Sue got up hours early this morning.

"I only made half-a-pot," I said. "After that, I figured we wouldn't be getting the most out of it and might as well switch back to the bad stuff."

"I think you were planning to drink it all yourself," she confided. 

Honaunau is just south of Captain Cook, near the top.

Oh for crying out loud. I'll brew some more in a few minutes.

I love knowing where my coffee is grown. Heck, I even know the view those trees have.

The idyllic beach at Pu'uhonua O Honaunau was my favorite place on the Big Island. Bwana Bob's is just upslope from there.

Bwana Bob's coffee is estate-grown, meaning the beans come from just one farm and are not mixed with the beans of other farms.

I love knowing the wild and crazy people who harvest and roast my coffee, and package it with love, and take it to the post office, and mail it before noon.

That is better than great. It is magical. 

I'm pretty sure we are drinking the nectar of the gods. 

#41 - Looking for a Fresh Start

Dirt was flying.

Our dog Duncan, gripped by some ancient gene from his wolf ancestors, was digging a den in the raspberries. As soon as he got it right, he laid down flat and rested his head on the berm he had made, and inhaled.

Satisfaction -- a den with a headrest.

Monday was the first real gardening day of the year. After a sharp plunge to 30 degrees Sunday night, Monday was all sunshine -- just merciless.

Sue and I tackled the garden in coats and vests, but soon peeled them off as we warmed up.

We planted peas. Then we set up a cold frame for our earliest lettuce. We both want a "big garden" this year, really big.

Working together felt good. The sun warmed our backs. A tiny Pacific Wren sang its long, convoluted song. It was a perfect March day for a fresh start.

After a year of lymphoma and chemotherapy, a fresh start is what I want. Lymphoma is a curable cancer and I've paid my dues. Now, back to the earth, ok?

Gardening is mostly horsing.

I'd like to think I'm new in some way. I used to dread the "c" word but don't so much anymore. Maybe I'm more pragmatic about it -- not so intimidated. Many friends already belong to this club.  

Joining them wasn't my idea, but I needed their reassurance. I think cancer patients listen more carefully and patiently than others. They understand that the illness and treatments are complex. In the end a good listener is what the patient really wants -- not a simplistic pep talk.

The resources to deal with cancer in all its forms are better than ever, and that's reassuring. My experience is just background clutter in the bigger picture.

The good news is that many people win battles with cancer these days. Many also win wars. Having no choice, you give it your best. Win or lose, hopefully you find peace -- new perspective, new compassion, a bit more acceptance and tolerance of little stuff that doesn't matter.

More horsing. Who can work?

But you don't always know if the battle you're fighting is just one battle or the entire war. 

Friends want flat answers. Are you cured? You'd like to say yes, but doctors don't talk that way. They speak in nuanced terms, ever aware that things can change. 

Time is your friend if you stay healthy after treatment. The absence of bad news is good news. 

As the cancer-free months grow into years and everything stays good, the odds grow likelier that the battle you just fought actually was the entire war, once and for all. I've heard many such stories and rejoice in them. 

It's a miracle when this works.

This spring I am full of energy. My attitude is good and I'm optimistic, but I'm still not sure where I stand. Since I finished chemotherapy last October my blood has been bouncing back toward normal. 

The trouble is, it hasn't bounced enough and that's puzzling. There's no sign of lymphoma and that's good. But something else is in play, suppressing those numbers. It's maybe innocent, maybe not. Puzzles are bad.

So my doctor, who admits she is stumped, is offering me "peace of mind." She'll send my file to another oncologist at another facility and see if fresh eyes spot something she missed.

The picture will keep us going till the seeds sprout.

Till then, I'll focus on the fresh starts I can control. I have vegetables to grow and Duncan has fresh, sweet dens to dig in the dirt.

We're planning a big garden and a big harvest.

The dirt has only begun to fly.