Whittoons

My wife will not let me scare the children arriving at our door (or at the end of our candy shoot) on Halloween. The number count of Trick or Treaters is very important to her, and my shenanigans would certainly cut into the return visitors. Young toddlers on their first outing have been known to freak out at seeing our talking skulls.

But in my defense, I was raised to put my full heart and soul into the evening. As a kid I took on heavy subjects, e.g. I was Death Behind The Wheel one year. “That,that,that,that,that boy needs therapy. He was white as a sheet….’ (Avalanches song “Frontier Psychiatrist”)

As a teen in NYC, I would set up the entrance way of our apartment to haunt the hallway and scare the visitors. I hid under a table covered in white fabric and my hand was IT, rising out of a black box to beckon the guests to enter at their peril. Behind me was a white sheet, and the shadow of a figure hanging from a noose. And with each door bell ring, my mother would start up a horrifying cackle at the other end of the hall. I muffled my chortles as I viewed the petrified looks from the young initiates.

With a new home in Seattle, Michele and I attempted to lure kids up our three flights of stairs to the front door. Results were dismal. Then we improved the staging and added full size candy bars. If you build it, they will come. And they came. Increasing in numbers every year, with older sibs coming to our door to introduce their young initiates to the treasures in store at our door.

Michele had the brilliant idea to create stage sets relating to scary stories from literature and history. She designed and assembled parts, and I added a few heads and some miscellaneous features.

Staging the displays has now become a block wide event, with neighbors pitching in, not just to host a scene but add lighting, canopies, and individual artistic flair. And two new sets – the Witch House and the Swamp added to the delights:

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This year was a particular challenge since we set up prior to the BIG BOMB CYCLONE. King Henry VIII’s executioner keeled over from overindulgence in mead, and Mary Queen of Scots was doing loop to loops, looking a little like Moaning Myrtle in Hogwarts Castle. The rats on Miss Havisham’s wedding banquet table went scurrying every which way. Plastic flowers scattered with each gust. And finally after 2.5 inches of rain, the canopy collapsed around her. In spite of all that crap going on around her, Miss Havisham held her own.

Now we have competing organizers down the block who are planning their Halloween event on the day before…AND in the Daylight! That is just sacrilege. Bad enough that the business community ran a candy event during daylight hours in years prior to Covid. How can any costumed trick or treaters spook anyone when the sun is out? There is a pernicious undertow of wokeness eroding the sanctity of the whole celebration. Given all the dread that has seeped into children’s consciousness during Covid, perhaps we should loosen up and let them mock the darkness and evil spirits, and take control of the night.

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I shaped the heads (amazing what one can do with styrofoam heads) and carved the pumpkins:

After a scrumptious Pancake Breakfast with neighbors (I made sourdough and also buckwheat buttermilk pancakes, folding in the whipped egg whites with care.) This was a tradition that was put on hold due to COVID. Then on to the finishing touches for our Halloween presentation – wrapping the candy shoot, stringing lights and cutting up the pumpkins.

Amazingly we had record turnout. Kids loved the Candy Shoot. (Full size bars have the best momentum.) So until next year…have a delightful, frightful time and slay the darkness.

Caravaggio had a way with blood, and severed heads made for glorious gore. His reds just pop…just like the heads. His work got me to thinking about the art we have seen on our trips and how some works are just creepy, though often mesmerizing.

I was inspired by his blood work to try my own depiction of a few severed heads for our Henry VIII Halloween scene:

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Not quite as well positioned in the frame but it has an impact on the unsuspecting. I tried for the Caravaggio single source lighting effect of chiascuro.

Depictions of Christian martyrs can be really gruesome and certainly must have scared the peasants into submission .

Above from left to right: Martyrdom of Saint Eulalia by Bernat Martorell (1442-1445); Martyrdom of Saint Lucuphas by Ayne Bru (1500-1507); Saint Vincent on the Gridiron by Mestre de Castelsrado (1500-1502); Altarpiece of Saint Vincent by Bernat Martorell (1430) @ the National Museum of Art in Barcelona.

Who needed Halloween when congregations viewed horrific images such as these each Sunday?

And in sculpture, one artist worked with just the right red colored marble to depict a flayed satyr who challenged Apollo to a music contest. Nice. I take it he lost. Beware of taking on the Gods.

Animals depicted in art or on display in museums can exude anything but cuteness.

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This would disrupt any parishioner’s concentration on prayers. You are being watched! We do not blink, we miss nothing.

And monkeys get rendered in poor light, looking like Satan’s minions. ( I am biased since I used to study monkeys.) These were lurking at the Musee Gustave Moreau in Paris.

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And we ran into a few stuffed animals that could live in your nightmares for decades:

Monkey Tableau is preserved at the Paris Musee Carnavalet, together with several cats having bad nights:

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Unlike our local feline in full formal black attire that greets all passing through his territory.

Napoleon’s horse Vizir stares you down at the Paris Musee de L’Armee. The dead eyes indicate this is not friendly Mister Ed. ( “A horse is a horse, of course. And no one can talk to a horse of course. That is, of course, unless the horse is the famous Mr. Ed.” Mister Ed TV Show 1961-1965)

Speaking of Satan’s minions, the dome of the Duomo in Florence has a multitude of hideous creatures taking care of the undeserving.

I am sure the phrase, ”Things are looking up!” did not originate from a pew in this church. Hell is raining down on you.

And at the Paris Centre Pompidou, creepiness took a different turn from a more modern perspective by Jeff Koons. Bubbles is looking like it would rather be on the Planet of the Apes.

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Someone should tell the Hulk to pipe down.

I would be remiss if I did not include work by Salvidor Dali. Much of his work is surreal and odd, an and sometimes verges on creepy:

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As a final selection I offer for Halloween creepy art, I give you:

This is only a small section on the right panel of the Portinari Triptych/Altarpiece. This is Portinari’s daughter Margaret looking a bit like Hermione at Hogwarts dealing with monsters. But this sums up the dynamic of most Holloween horror shows: innocence and savagery, purity and profanity, good and evil. It is not looking great for the little one.

Be Careful Out There!

We love all our neighbors, yet living in close proximity (the five cottages on our block were built in the early 20th century on 40 x 100 ft lots) still requires some facsimile of privacy – a sense that the space around is our own. Greenery can only do so much. Our neighbors to the south have been generous in allowing me to plant banana plants just on their side of the property line to enhance our tropical theme side-yard, and plant blue spruce along the property line to camouflage their corrugated metal walls. But gaps remain.

To fill the gaps, Michele suggested we purchase landscape screens from Modinex,…which meant someone (and I guessed it to be me) needed to make a fence structure to support the screens. [Dunn Lumber ordered the panels for us.] To enhance the depth of our narrow side yard, and before I raised the fence, I used one screen as a template and painted the neighbors’ deck wall that reaches our property line. Since it is really in our face, the neighbors did not care what I did to the surface. I was going to add the colors ( Procreate allowed me to visualize a peek-a-boo tropical vista) but decided to go with black on white for high contrast.

Of course, I chose to buy fence lumber during the pandemic when a cedar 4×4 was $80…but daylight was burning and I needed to erect the Great Divide. Once the south border was 60% enclosed by the screening, the glaring open space was the staircase. Our boatbuilder neighbor had donated the 18’ clear lumber for a handrail some 6 years ago when Michele needed the support, and now it was to become a permanent feature connecting elements of our Great Divide. At one end, an East Indian gate that was purchased from a New Orleans company, and shipped for free. The teak door weighed around 300 lbs, so that was a deal. I had to rig up the new hinges, and shave off some wood to make the doors fit, but now we had a firm post to stabilize the handrail, and at the other end was more new screening for the lower yard.

What else was I to do to visually mark our territory? I was going to duplicate a lattice work fence that I had designed for the north side-yard…and I purchased the very dear lumber to make it happen.

But then , wandering through our maze of a basement full of valuable clutter, I found three panels of marine grade mahogany plywood (having stored them some 15 years ago – Pack Rats Rule! ) and changed plans.

I would create a screen of my own!

First the concept drawings:

I opted to go with the screen and modify the art deco look. I had attempted the art deco look for a fence that rotted out though I did recreate a back gate to reflect the earlier design.

But what to create? Which designs might work? I looked to various sources for inspiration:

Right to left: An amazing drawing by local (Seattle) artist Juan Alonso-Rodriguez, Sunflowers in our neighborhood, new solar lights from Swanson’s Nursery and finally the gate I designed (after researching Indonesian woodcarvings) and had crafted in Indonesia by David Smith.

My travels have taken me around the world, so designs from multiple countries have impressed me and inspired creative visualization. SE Asia and Indonesia offered up a wide variety of wood carvings that stuck with me.

Next step: sketching late into the night while listening to KEXP:

Once the panels were up, I thought I could use a hand saw to cut out the patterns…bad idea. With a blinding glimpse of the obvious, I deduced that at the rate I was sawing, the project would take me into 2022. And at the rate my frustration was building up, I would probably put my fist through the thin panel. So I searched for a tool and voila! The Dremel saved me much sweat and tears.

So much to my neighbors annoyance, I began drawing the patterns on the panels and cutting…and cutting. The sound of the Dremel at work can terrify the unsuspecting since the noise resembles a high-powered dentist drill. Pain avoidance instincts were on high alert. I had to put in ear plugs to persevere.

My Milwaukee power drill helped pop out the various circle patterns, using a variety of bits. Once perforated to my satisfaction, it was time to sand (carefully). Then I had my canvas for staining (Cabot Oil Stain and Sealer) , to match the rest of the screen fencing…I hoped – though using different types of wood I could never make a perfect match. The rush was on to complete a few coats before the rains of October set in.

DONE! And just beat Le Deluge.

Not all is still around Lake Quinault. The Quinault Tribe controls the Lake, and the National Park borders the lake edge on the north. Some property owners, disgruntled with the measures the tribe enacted to protect the lake and salmon habitat, tried through legal wrangles to wrest control of the lake from the tribe and have Washington State take control. They failed. But the signs of protest remain fading along the road as we drove in to our retreat.

We were returning to a cabin we had not visited for over fifteeen years. Nothing had changed except there was evidence of maintenance work. That is a good thing since the cabin basically sits on a precipitous rock above the lake. (Onion Rock to be more exact. This rock is unique since seeds washed down from the upper Quinault River lodge in its crevices, and develop as an unusual botanical niche.)

Ownership of the resort changed hands in 2020. The previous owners had devoted forty years of time and money into upkeep, and persuaded Derek to buy the place. Derek is an Amazonian living in Seabrook on the coast, commuting to this idyllic spot. Lucky guy.

Once ensconced, is there any reason to leave. The light plays across the lake and hills in fascinating patterns and I can just sit on the porch, or the daybed, mesmerized by reflection.

Yet still water is very seductive. Put me in a rowboat, canoe or shell and I have found my bliss. There is something exquisite in the sound of a paddle or oar smoothly slipping through the water. No motion is wasted. Quietly you can skim across the surface leaving gentle ripples behind. Water birds hardly notice your progress. Only the loons cry maniacally (especially if a bald eagle is circling nearby.)

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The headwaters of the Quinault River run through the Enchanted Valley. We only ventured 2.5 miles up that trail to the Pony Bridge, but others, walking sticks in hand, were striding up to spend nights in the wilderness area. A controversy has arisen over the Enchanted Valley Chalet, now on the National Register of Historic Places (2007). Originally built (13 miles up from the Graves Creek trailhead) in the the 1931 prior to the area designation as a National Park, it was used by hikers and those arriving on horseback. In need of repair, it was renovated in 1983-1984 and the building was moved back 75 feet from the eroding East Fork Quinault channel in 2014. Apparently it sits now just 8 feet from the bank. (according to the Willis Wall blog 6/2021). Devotees of the wilderness ethic want it to be left to deteriorate, and mulch the land. Those with history in mind, feel it should be preserved. These opposing sides also are in disagreement over the shelters still remaining along a few of the trails.

Having help to build an Adirondack shelter in Merck Forest (back when I was hanging out with the Student Conservation Corps), I have a great deal of respect for those who constructed shelters in remote spots as solid protection from the elements for hikers. Cutting down the timber, peeling the bark with a Timber Tuff, cutting notches with shark axes and and raising the logs, then roofing and shingling – this is labor intensive. Having hiked in some awful conditions, a shelter is so welcome when you are desperate to get out of a storm. But the Wilderness Watch sued the NP over plans to reconstruct some shelters, stating this would violate the “primeval character” of wild landscapes. Three historic preservation groups joined the litigation supporting the park. (The Kitsap Sun June 2016). The United States District Court for the Western District dismissed the lawsuit against the National Park Service. (National Trust for Historic Preservation, 12/6/16). Some footprints of people remain historic, even in the ”wild”. And besides, wilderness in this day is an artificial construct, useful, but artificial. Growler jets from Whidbey Island fly over the park (averaging 12 flights a day) with noise levels exceeding 100 decibels (National Parks Conservation Association Press release , 9/18/20). So wildness is relative from moment to moment…unfortunately.

And speaking of restoration of historic sites in the park, the old Kestner Homestead (dating from 1891) sits near the Ranger Station along the North Shore road and is undergoing some work to shore up the old beams and roof lines.

Yet warning signs state that you enter at your own risk due to shaky posts and rat shit…beware the plague! We avoided the rat droppings and sampled one of the remaining apples on the ancient orchard. From there the Maple Glade walk offers a gorgeous stroll underneath enormous maple trees clothed from roots to limbs in lush green epiphytes. The variety of green hues in this verdant grove is astounding. Another plus is that the trail is smooth, no boulder hopping, nor roots to trip you up. You can gaze up and up as you walk without fear of falling foolishly into the ferns. A web might snare you, but these are gossamer threads that offer no resistance.

A very different short (1.5) mile hike heads north from the North Shore road (just a mile from the Ranger Station) up to Irely Lake. This trail has many roots to cross before settling down along Irely Creek. Frogs may resent your intrusion, though they rarely are startled. Yet the end point is a quiet opening onto the small lake with remants of old trees standing like the broken masts of sunken ships.

A magical array of “Tinkerbells” greeted us along the shore…dragonflies of various colors hovered and circled around us. Tiny frogs climbed on a small floating branch to sun themselves, paying us little attention.

Driving along the South Shore Road, we pulled over to check out the World’s Largest Sitka Spruce (this is after all the Valley of the Rain Forest Giants) just adjacent to the Lake Quinault Resort…and then wandered over to the resort store/office. It is a hoot. All sorts of tourist attractions from Lake vista post-cards to Smoky The Bear stuffed toys complete with shovels. Much more fun than the Lake Quinault Lodge shop where the staff person looked like she was doing time. Admittedly the Lodge has the classic lobby with large stone fireplace…but who can enjoy it with Covid. Most guests were seated outdoors, scattered across the lawn eating take-out dinner from the lodge restaurant.

Closer to the cabins, we paddled over to a decent beach at the Quinault River outlet to the lake. I had spotted a black bear loping along the sand bar earlier, so we moved with caution up stream. Sighting little in the way of paw prints, we took our time without any hyperventilation.

At the end of every hike, we could settle back into the cabin and just absorb the peace and quiet. Birds tended to come to Onion Rock and scavenge including a woodpecker. Three otters slipped through the water near our shore, diving down…leaving a trace of bubbles and then re-emerging and tilting their heads back to chomp down on fish dinner. A bundle of logs is the daily allotment per cabin, and a fire just about makes the setting perfect. Maybe too cozy. Put another log on the fire…and open the window. PLEASE.

It was very hard to leave…and I mean that in many ways including the hauling of all our gear up the precipitous staircase. Maybe I will trim down the essentials next time.

The islands of Puget Sound offer sublime retreats to those who can afford the opportunity to slow down the tempo of their lives…and/or temporarily suspend their hyper-vigilance in the fight against COVID. Yet challenges arise when islands become treasured spots that cost a fortune to live on. (e.g. Opra just sold a house on Orcas for 4 million.) Finding affordable homes/rentals in the San Juans is next to impossible for those who work in the service industry or artists or even those seeking a quieter life style outside the tech industry. Low income housing has been developed on Lopez and Orcas but this is insufficient. Restaurants lack sufficient staff to stay open. Maybe this fall, we need to give the islands a rest from the onslaught.

Ferries transport you to the islands, from one world to another, from one time to another -Island time. Cars, campers, trailers, commercial trucks and semis line up on the decks of the superstructure to carry passengers and goods to the verdant promontories rising from the Salish Sea. But even with reservations, ferry waits are longer as some boats undergo maintenance. Cafes are closed. (As a kid, getting a meal on board was the ultimate.) And one must wear a mask above the car deck. Some deck hands are resisting mask and vaccination mandates. Knowing where the life preservers are located may not be the most critical information…rather the location of anti-vaxxer staff may be the most important survival tip.

As a kid, the one hour passage to Orcas was my first experience with the cruising life. Rich swells had not discovered the San Juans yet.

Growing up in Bellingham, our family were lucky guests each summer, sharing a family compound on Orcas that was owned by our neighbors. The yellow cabin sat on the edge of a small bay near Olga. A wood burning stove not only heated up our meals and the cabin but supplied hot water for showers. We learned to split wood, so that our parents could stock the fire, and the water would warm and we could luxuriate in hot showers on chilly mornings. The cabin maintained a lovely smoky scent like the steam from a cup of lapsang souchong tea or the aroma from a shot of Laphroaig Whiskey. (Of course as a kid, i had no idea about Lapsang Souchong of Laphroaig, but perhaps that is why I was attracted to these taste sensations as an adult…cabin nostalgia.). Doors and floor board creaked. Old springs in the metal bed frames squeaked. The sun porch bent soft light across the bed that offered views of the Lopez Island and the ferry traffic from Anacortes. And each evening, a stone fireplace cast flickering glow across the living room and the well worn furnishings. This was a unique cozy spot…yet adventure was just outdoors.

Low tide exposed tide pools full of exquisite marine life. Orange and purple starfish clung to the rocks, like stranded aliens on a harsh shore. Tiny crabs scuttled for cover as we turned over rocks, disrupting their routine in the shadows. When the tide came in on a dark night, sometimes phosphorescence traced the paths of fish darting through the shallow water. Each logging truck dumping severed trunks into the bay caused minor tidal waves, and the thundering sound of cascading logs reverberated across the water.

Our family friends purchased an old Bristol Bay double-ender that plied the Alaskan waters prior to the onset of motorized fishing vessels. Canneries wanted to control the fishing and were worried that powerboats would give the fishermen more control. Powerboats were finally allowed in 1951. Though not retrofitted completely, this Bristol Bay had a basic cabin and some wooden planks for berths. We dreamed of hitting the high seas with the beamy wooden boat. On land we constructed a boat (just a few planks acting as freeboard) with a drift wood mast to simulate pirate raids and other high seas adventures. When I returned after high school, my best buddy and two of his siblings and I took the Bristol Bay out in the San Juans on our own and test our abilities. We were Horatio Hornblower wannabes.

I fell in love with islands and have spent time around the world visiting some: Puerto Rico, Desecheo, St Kitts, Nevis, St Thomas, Bahamas, Hawaii, Samoa, Fiji, Java, Bali, Barro Colorado (in the Panama Canal Zone), Philippines, Cook Islands, the San Juans and Vancouver Island. (Some of those trips are documented on this blog.)

And recently my wife and I received the gift of island time on Whidbey Island, a rare island of the NW that is reached both by ferry and a narrow bridge spanning Deception Pass.

Our temporary retreat was near Freeland, on a bluff looking due west to the Olympics. Cruise ships were heading north once again with folks seeking new vistas. We did not have to go anywhere.

Just north of Freeland, is the Holmes Harbor Rod and Gun Club. Just south of Freeland is the Tacoma Zen Monastery and the Enso House, a retreat for those approaching end of life. Approaching Freeland from the north, a pink Caterpillar marks the road, and from the south, The Goose Community Grocer pulls you in. Freeland itself got its name when it was established as a socialist commune in the early 1900s. I am pretty sure some of the shoppers at Pay Less who strutted around without masks, were not aware of the origins of this spot, as they looked for a dose of Ivermectin. As a seeker of space outside the city, I am sure my request for free land would not be met with gracious offers.

Other highlights of Freeland: Whidbey Ice Cream outlet, Rocket Taco, Ace Hardware (with Whidbey Ice Cream bars just in case you run out).

But we rarely ventured into the village. We separated from our iPads and kept iphones at a distance, while cracking open a few books hauled along for the duration.

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And we actually finished several. My niece’s new novel Fierce Little Thing kept us up into the night with the engaging story of a group of friends returning to the scene of a murder committed when all were young and participating in a cult. In Coupeville, we found an unedited version of the Count of Monte Christo. Michele has read the classic story of revenge served cold multiple times, and I have read it aloud to her once. Reading Agatha Christie’s Hercule Poirot mysteries puts her in stitches when I imitate David Suchet’s Poirot accent as he puts faith in his “little grey cells”. What I lack in the way of mustache, I make up with much panache.

I have a weakness for pies, so when I heard Greenbank Farm had fresh pie, we had to break the spell of calm…and make an urgent run. It was worth the indulgence. Whenever we travel in the US, I usually pull off the road for pie. Michele recognizes when the fixation appears as a glazed look of sweet desperation. This time was no exception. We sampled several, including a gluten-free Marion Berry pie. Michele makes better pies (amazing flaky crusts) but this does not dissuade me from seeking bliss elsewhere.

Looking for a kimono, try Coupeville. I had seen a young woman crossing the quiet street in full kimono attire and could not resist tracking her down to this shop, Jan McGregor Studios. Who knew we were interested in the robes, but we took two for lounging attire. The harbormaster’s wife worked the register and worked part-time in the bookstore.

We ran into Harbormaster Bill on the dock. He was the one shouting and wildly waving his hands at an approaching pontoon motorboat to get them to slow down. An inebriated boater, drink in hand, weaved her way back along the dock to a large stinkpot where another round of cocktails was in the works. Next to our lunch table sat a bronze bell to be rung if whales are sighted. Maybe they should ring it for the next round as their guests arrived.

Walking back along the dock, we meandered around painters who were capturing impressions of the shoreline in oils. All had easels with canvas that showcased various levels of ability, though all were enthusiastically rendering the peaceful cove. I could never handle such intense scrutiny by the cognoscenti or even the not so cognoscenti. I draw in private as a closet artist.

Coupeville’s Kingfisher bookstore offered to emboss covers of the sketch books, so I invested in the glory of having my name on a book cover. How often would I get the chance? It looks grand…now I am under some obligation to fill the pages with something other than manic scribbles. It deserves better.

The owner of Kingfisher was surprised by a couple asking if a camera had been left at the store. Then in a blinding glimpse of the obvious, she realized that of course she did, and had been keeping the camera for two years after it was found waterlogged on the beach. Some time after retrieving the camera, a customer dropped in, and curious about the camera asked if he might check to see if a disk was inside. Sure enough. He got permission to see if he could retrieve any images. He found photos of a woman at a school. Kid’s sweatshirts in the image had the school name. He went on line, and Sure Enough, there was the image of the woman who was a teacher. He contacted the school and the teacher, and the circle was completed. In all the excitement and loving confusion on their wedding day, the owners of the camera had left it behind. Seawater had ruined all but the disk. She and her husband (with their newborn) were so appreciative of all that helped reunite them with their camera and past. They bought a book as a gift for the amateur detective who made the connections.

Prompted by this serendipitous moment, the owner told of another marriage moment that occurred right where we were standing (waiting for the embossing) next to an arm chair. A gentleman used to drop by, over a period of two years, and sit in the armchair to call a friend. From the owners perspective, this guy seemed to be trying to entice his acquaintance to join him, though some of the conversations sounded contentious. But one day he walked in with the lady, asked her to sit in the very same armchair and bent down on one knee to ask for her hand in marriage. She said yes.

Independent bookstores make the magic happen!

Well stocked with books, pies, ice cream and kimonos, we settled back at our retreat.

Others were curious as to our intentions. Both the hummingbird and the Douglas squirrel joined us briefly in the living room. Michele managed to escort both safely outdoors, along with a mother and fledgling junco. Given the expanse of windows close in feel to the Philip Johnson Glass House, these native species felt they had clear passage through. The yearling managed to stick with the doe, and avoided the apparent inside passage across the property.

Hummingbirds have a way of approaching within just a few feet and giving you that most curious look – what are you doing, are you friend or foe? After hovering and flashing their color in the face off, they dart to the nearest flower. They must have been very perplexed by the two of us attempting yoga on the upper deck. We are new to yoga and not as yet devotees, but stretching in various positions while facing the sunsets over the Olympic Peninsula…well it was worth the pain. Fish were leaping in the tidal rip. Osprey would go by carrying a recent catch. A Bald Eagle sat like a sentinel on a fir just down the slope. As dusk approached, bats careened around the fir trunks. Breathe in….exhale and do the downward dog. Try not to howl in pain.

In our second week at the cabin, we did make a few excursions across the island. North of Coupeville you begin to notice the “sound of freedom”. Prowler jets on maneuvers sweep in low over the village of Oak Harbor and highway 20, shattering island peace with terrific sonic roars. Not only do these pilots make sacrifices for America, but so do all the residents sacrificing their mental well being under the flyway.

We kept on trucking all the way to Edison and the Breadfarm. We did not make the stop for the bread (though it is delicious…I make my own.)

We went for a variety of goodies they also bake, and set to nibbling right away. But not too much because Slough Food is next door, and offered lunch.

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The slough does not offer a tidal bore, but the incoming tidal surge is impressive.

By lovely serendipity, I recognized another visitor as Ann Morris, an artist living on Lummi Island. Reintroducing myself, I reminded her of our visit to her studio in 2019.

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The Sculpture Woods is open to the public on the first Saturday of each month from 10 a.m. to 5 p.m.

Ann Morris will be showing her recent work at the Smith & Vallee Gallery in Edison this November 5th -28th.

One more stop on the way back to Whidbey was the Museum of Northwest Art in La Conner. We were lucky to hit the spot when it was open and exhibiting the work of an artist who is a member of the Lummi Nation, Dan Friday.

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On our last day in Freeland, we did our daily walk through the fields and along the beach at low tide. We left a tree of life set in the driftwood, and traced the steps of Blue Herons in the exposed sand before the tide washed all traces of our presence.

Before the Heat Dome, Before the Capitol Hill insurrection, Before COVID, we went into the desert to commune with boulders and shrubs. Truth be told, we had gone so that I might participate in a NUSA (Neighborhoods USA) conference…but we were intent on returning to Joshua Tree.

Zoning may not be a particularly intriguing topic, yet Palm Springs has very unusual checkerboard pattern of ownership. Half the checkerboard is owned by the local tribal clan, Aqua Caliente, members of the Cahuilla Tribe. Clan members who still own property on the checkerboard, are making out very well. If however, due to challenging circumstances, a clan member was forced to sell, those folks due not benefit from the land bonanza taking place. The Aqua Caliente Clan does have a sizable pot of social benefits for those in need. Next to the hotel where we stayed, a very large Casino and Spa is being built that includes the original spring. May the cash spring eternal.

Sunnylands, a 200-acre retreat built by Annenbergs, hosted eight Presidents and various other world leaders. Our tour did not include the modern, glass enclosed home filled with art…that takes planning and reservations made months in advance. We got as far as the modern annex for tourists. And there was some art to welcome us: a Augusta Rodin piece, Eternal Spring (1884) and The Bust of Diego on Stele 111 by Alberto Giacometti (1935).

The grounds highlight xerophytic plantings designed in various patterns. Their landscape designer clearing abhors chaos, and prefers a linear plant regimentation, perhaps reflecting the rigid, sharp rectilinear architecture on the grounds.

The Mid-Century Modern architecture remains a central draw for those who care to drool over the outstanding design of Desert Modernism. Frank Sinatra may have started the trend in house building, yet the architects need the real credit. Albert Frey, who worked with Corbusier, Richard Neutra and John Lautner worked with Frank Loyd Wright, George and Robert Alexander (with William Kreisler), Hugh Kaptur, A. Quincy Jones and the black architect Paul Williams. Convenants kept blacks and Jews from living in parts of Palm Springs, but Paul Williams designed houses for celebrities in areas of town where he could not have lived.

And then there are those who struggle to maintain a presence here, in dwellings of modern but much simpler design. Scattered across town are several Mobile Home Parks that have survived gentrification.

The convention tour I chose, took us to three trailer parks ranging from the low to middle income abodes.

In the modest, lower income park amenities are simple and rental prices still reasonable. Regulations are in place to maintain a majority of units as affordable.

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Activities remain classic, with bingo, ping-pong and Doris Day movies. A lively crowd and apparently fun is had by all.

At the higher end park, Palm Canyon, recent rent hikes had literally driven out many older mobile home owners. And in those spaces, $155,00 – $230,000 units are rolling in for sale. As the Paul Kaplan Homes web site states , “This is not your grandma’s mobile home park….”

In town, an exhibit demonstrated the future of trailer/ container homes- I present the ALPOD.

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A Seattle friend and artist, Juan Alonso, gave us a brief tour of downtown during the weekly street fest. We stopped along the way to admire his work at the Jorge Mendez gallery.

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And we did the promenade along South Palm Canyon Drive.

Running with his recommendation for dinner, we reserved a spot at the Tropicale. The decor was Art Deco, and the clientele a mix of older gay couples, young partners and a few families. This was not the Sinatra crowd, though you could imagine the place being quite suitable for the Rat Pack.

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Once the convention was over, we headed to Joshua Tree and dropped by the Joshua Tree Inn, now a monument of sorts to the memory of Gram Parsons. One can book his old motel room, and right next door is a room dedicated to Emmy Lou Harris. It appears from the looks of one old rocker couple hanging out at the motel that Parsons groupies still pay their respects. When Gram died, his buddies tried to prevent his body from being shipped back east to his family, and absconded with the remains. The tried to cremate Gram in Joshua Tree National Park…but the smoke brought the Park Rangers and the job was not completed. The spot is on some pilgrimage maps I am sure.

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If you ever head toward the Joshua Tree National Park, try a meal or an overnight stay at the 29 Palms Inn. The adobe cabins are very inviting as is the small pool. And the meals are excellent. It is here that a waitress heard that we had stayed at the Aloha Motel in Las Vegas, and she said the Rat Pack had frequented that Motel bar and the bartender knew where all the bodies were buried. Unfortunately now the Aloha Motel is buried. We know what that grave is.

In one of those serendipitous moments, the artist whose work was on display in the dining room had spent time in Vietnam, a country we had visited just a few years back. We had missed the Snake Lady of Saigon.

We drove our rental car down some sandy tracks to find remarkable trails among the boulder strewn landscape. I am grateful we had the opportunity before the fires hit the park.

Leaving Palm Springs is a trip in itself. The terminal was designed by local architect Donald Wexler and it was built after purchasing 600 acres from the local Tribal clan. Tent canopies stretch over an airy waiting area, and access is designed for the passenger.

Once in the air, I had time to ponder an indelible creepy image from the night before of giant babies crawling across a courtyard near the Palm Springs Art Museum.