Removing Barriers

CNN: “Democratic Party’s favorability drops to a record low”

The papers and newcasts are filled with Democrats’ angst. A CNN poll finds that “less than two‑thirds of Democrats have a positive view of the Democratic Party” right now. There is no acknowledged party leader. Some columnists call for a swing to liberal (read extreme) solutions to persistent problems and  inequities. Others call for aggressive attacks on Trumpism. Still others call for humility and more empathetic listening. Some say we need to erase symbols of elitism and expertise. Some say it’s message that needs attending to; others, policies and programs: saying vs. doing.

Back in the 2016 election, I suggested a positioning of the Democratic Party that encompasses both saying and doing. Neither Clinton nor Adam Smith nor the DNC nor Nancy Pelosi responded to my suggestion but I am undeterred, like a child Herald to the Dark Tower keeps coming. I made a successful career “positioning” products, services, and not-for-profit enterprises, i.e., articulating mission, developing product, creating awareness, and seeding beliefs. I mean by positioning the place you hold in the brain of your prospective customer, donor, or voter relative to that they hold about your competitor: in political terms, what the voting public believes “Democrat” means relative to Conservative, Libertarian, Republican, or whomever.

I want our party to narrow its focus to removing barriers both in what we talk about and in the proposals we espouse. What barriers? Barriers to education. Barriers to housing. To health care. To voting.

Nothing more; forget railing against Musk and Trump, against billionaires, against opponents of same-sex marriage and proponents of abortion bans, against corporations and Citizens United. Debate taxation and immigration, EU/Nato and Ukraine, Israel and Palestine, deficits and national debt only in response to challenge. Initiate and steer conversation to what matters to American families, to what impedes their attainment of better lives for themselves, their children, and grandchildren: access to affordable education, access to affordable housing, affordable and accessible healthcare, and easy voting registration and participation.

We should become the Party of Removing Barriers: barriers to Education, to Housing, to Healthcare, to Voting. Simple, persistent, policy priorities and a simple message to grasp and relate to.

We Create an Idyll to Greet Spring and Open Summer

Summer for Ann and me is shaping up crazy-busy: Dresden, Leipzig, and Berlin this month; the Seattle Chamber Music Summer Festival next; then in August, summer school at Cambridge University and a brief post-school stay in London. You’d think we’d welcome spring here at home enjoying the azaleas and rhodies.

But no, we decided to trade city life for five days on our favorite other island, San Juan, keystone of the San Juan Islands of the Salish Sea. There on Haro Straight so close to the border that your cell phone signal comes from Canadian cells and Comcast bills you for international roaming and one has to protest to get it rectified and you know how cable companies are. . . whatever.

The island was its peaceful, bucolic self, almost empty in this week after the Memorial Day rush and with schools still in session. We had the hills and beaches to ourselves and restaurants were sparsely booked.

We stayed again at Lakedale, in a second-floor lodge room with jacuzzi, fireplace, and balcony looking out over the lake. The water’s edge all around was aflame with Flag iris. 

Lakedale 

Lakedale is ten minutes from Friday Harbor, the largest of the islands’ towns, and six minutes from Roche Harbor with its posh marina, restaurants, the venerable Hotel Haro, historic Roche Lime and Cement works, a marvelous sculpture park, and kayak and camping outfitters. Just down the road lies English Camp, with its trails and blockhouse and officer’s graveyard. (Where are the Tommies buried?)

After breakfast, Ann volunteered to row while I fly cast for bass. But nothing. Not even a rise from the lilypads, vivid with yellow lilies opening up, where a lunker had gulped in my favorite deer hair frog a couple of years ago, and then lodged herself in the iris so firmly that I had to break off, losing both it and her. But nothing, I switched to casting wet flies for trout and got only three soft takes from very small guys. But, great to be on the water in the breeze-less sun.

Merlin, the cell phone bird song identifier from Cornell’s ornithology labs detected all sorts of residents. Don’t have it? If you care about birds, get it (App store, it’s free.) It’s frustrating fun because it tells you what bird is there though for the life of you, you can’t see it. Merlin and we heard the usual suspects but he also picked up unusual ones – for us – as western flycatchers; warblers, including the yellow, the yellow-rumped, and the orange-crowned; red-breasted sapsuckers; and red crossbills. No barred owls, though, as we have here at home. (Mustn’t tell Trump that Cornell is for the birds.)

We dined well (and drank well, too.) After cocktails and backgammon on our deck or down on the water’s edge deck, we’d head out: Vinny’s, for Italian, the Downrigger for clams, mussels, chowders, and bisques; McMillins for fancy dining with great service and audacious prices; Westcott Bay for a briny oyster lunch;  The Bluewater for lunch of black bean soup and calamari; and – best of all – Roach Harbor’s Madrona Bar and Grill with its imaginative Asian-fusion touches to most entrees.

We celebrated Ann’s birthday at McMillins, with great service and care from Lauren and Grace, Alabama sisters by way of Booth Bay Harbor (go figure) and a grand nine-year-old Heitz cab courtesy of George and Annie L. The meal itself wasn’t that special, but the evening was despite two hinkies. First, my gift was too close to jewelry Ann already has. I had inventoried her jewelry cabinet while she was out at a WUC meeting, but it turned out she was wearing the pieces so I didn’t catch the match.

The second comes with Roche Harbor, like it or not – and I don’t. I object to being pandered to with their daily, faux-patriotic, evening retreat ceremony: dock-hands marching out four-abreast to lower flags – Canadian and US – to scratchy recorded tracks of Oh Canada, Retreat, and Sousa’s Washington Post March which has nothing whatever to do with military ends-of-day. Ann isn’t offended by all this condescending kitsch, but then she wasn’t in the military and also doesn’t attend, busy with timing the sun's disc from touching on to disappearing below the horizon and wondering why it appears slower here than in Costa Rica. Who knew?

Saturday showers: we walked Friday Harbor’s thin farmers’ market; it needs Steve E’s help. Then we took refuge in the San Juan Museum of Art, a lovely pocket-size museum with three shows. We were blown away by Andy Eccleshall’s studies of light on Northwest lands. Stunning oils at reasonable prices. His studio is in Edmunds. Despite Ann’s “NO MORE ART!” resounding through my skull, I intend to visit him.

We walked South Beach, below American Camp. Ann vigorously climbed the hill above Cattle Point for her three-mile hike while I took my three-quarter trudge along the shore. Afterward, a picnic behind the ramparts of driftwood wrack. A picnic with a very good First Sight sauvignon blanc from Brandon A’s and his Dad's collection of wineries.

From atop the hill we spotted a whale holding position and spouting regularly; probably a grey but too far out in the Straight to be sure. S/he broached for us, first time I’ve ever seen a real broaching, albeit through binoculars. We kept tags on it while spotting seals closer in. At Lime Kiln Point State Park harbor dolphins cruised offshore. On the drive back to Lakedale, a fox crossed ahead of us and signs cautioned kits were about. Curiously, we saw only a single deer in five days on the island; we’ve got more than that here on our island.

Never turned on the TV. We read the papers over breakfast, talked, read books, and happily bickered (our favorite sport) while luxuriating in affectionate companionship. It was an idyllic way to welcome spring and summer. Northern lights were predicted but past our bedtime. Snuggling into the king-size bed was akin to the luxury of having the playground all to yourself but then, getting lonely for a playmate. We wriggled across the empty space to cuddle together in warm duality.  

One disturbing observation: the prevalence of the obese, whether locals or tourists. They’re everywhere! I’m not body-shaming; this is a health crisis. We no longer have restaurants, airplanes and office buildings filled with smokers. Over two generations, through public education, regulation, and promotion, the US has driven our smokers to under ¼ of the adult population. More still to go: Sweden is 10% points lower. So, why can't we do the same for obesity? Fat is no less a health issue than tarry smoke, both for the fat ones and for the rest of us we who pay for Medicare and insurance. Query: are political positions correlated with body mass index just as they are with educational attainment?

Monday: quiche at the Bakery, a wait for the ferry which smoothly crossed and didn’t falter. We took the long way home, stopping in Le Connor for lunch in the Pub, with the locals. The crabbing fleets, both Swinomish and Anglo, were gearing up for their 36-hour season of commercial crabbing. Thirty-six hours: that’s it. Then individual citizen have a few days at them. Short season? Dungeness are scarce this year. Are we over-heating the oceans?

Nevertheless, spring has sprung, the grass has riz and we know where the birdies is -- right here in our precious Northwest.

A gallery: you have to read the text to make sense of it. Click one to enlarge the group.

Andy Eccleshall: light on Northwest lands

Cattle Point

L-5: fireplace, jacuzzi, balcony, fridge

Flag lilies

A room with a view

Jakle's lagoon, San Juan Channel, & Mt. Baker 

L-5's balcony, facing west  

Lakedale's living room

The Birthday Girl, McMillans, & Heitz

On the Madrona Bar & Grill deck

A room with another view

South Beach 

Haro Straight, CA poppies, & Hurricane Ridge

Wescott Bay Oyster Farm at low tide

This morning, I was awakened at 3:15, 4:30, and 6:00 to have blood drawn, vitals taken, and at six a catheter removed by those diligently watching over me at Overlake Hospital, in Bellevue, WA. While awaiting release and for Ann to come and retrieve me, I drafted this letter which will be posted tomorrow to Jon Duarte, CEO of Overlake Medical Center and Michele Curry, Chief of Nursing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Ms. Curry and Mr. Duarte:

Lying in a bed with a catheter up one’s pecker is hardly pleasant, but I commend your staff who work their butts off to make it so. I came into your emergency room on Thursday night, May 9^th, having begun to pass blood in my urine. The receptionist checked me in proficiently and cordially and an ER nurse quickly took me in hand. I was chagrined to have an accident in the men’s room, soiling its floor and myself, but she without missing a beat reassured me and got me into an ER room. (I wish I could recall her name, but I was a wee bit distracted, as you can imagine.)

I was in professional, caring hands. Dr Alex Lambert was the attending ER Physician; he calmed my wife and me with his demeanor and assurance that mine was a frequently seen situation with older men blessed with an enlarged, angry prostate. I spent the night in ER and next day was admitted to the hospital’s West building, 3^rd floor short-stay ward. During my not-so-short, three-day stay, I interacted with nurses, aides, PAs, imaging techs, and others; all (with one exception who appeared to be having a bad day) were pleasant, professional, proficient, and caring.

A word about my interest in the management and delivery of services: half my career was in consumer marketing of products; the second half, in marketing, teaching, and consulting on development and delivery of consumer services in hospitality industries. So, I was watching through both a patient’s eye and a professional’s eye.

What impresses me is how hard and effectively your staff, especially the nursing crews, worked to make my stay, given the circumstances, as pleasant as possible. What strikes me is how much they enjoy and trust one another; I could overhear the chatter and laughter from the bull pen. Clearly, they like their teammates. In my experience, the coherence, mutual trust, and affinity within a service worker team reinforces their sense of responsibility and the quality of their delivery. That doesn’t just happen: it takes a commitment by senior management to lead, not merely manage; to encourage; to share information[1]; and to be accessible.

There are too many names to keep straight: Hannah, Josh, Anna, Nancy, Goodness, Tyler , Pam, “T” -- and too many more to remember. But one who stands out among all these competent and empathetic employees is RN Sarah, who appears ready to return to school, to leave real estate investment behind, and to earn her Nurse Practitioner quals. Sarah is a real keeper among the many. I also have great confidence in Urologist Dr. Elizabeth Miller.

Congratulations to you both. This was not my nor my wife’s first experience with Overlake: we each recovered from knee replacements there, rehab, shoulder surgeries, etc. You and your staff have created a fine, patient-focused institution. Whatever you’re doing, especially with nursing staff, you’re apparently doing it right.

Sincerely,

Fletch Waller

PS: The food is not up to the standards set by your care team – but I’m sure you know that. You’re not alone: in my work in and with hotels, resorts, and retirement homes, if we stubbed our toes, it was more often than not on food quality and F&B performance. How customers do love to natter about food, probably the #1 subject of hotel and resort complaints.

PPS: Subsequent to having drafted this letter while awaiting release, I was walked out by RN Miranda. She’s been with you a month. I asked her what surprised her the most. After reflecting for a moment, she said the reception by her team, who has embraced her as companion and teammate. She said it was so unique compared to other hospitals she worked in. I was delighted to have my observation about Overlake’s strong team culture confirmed.

[1] At Westin, we established weekly management and quarterly employee NETMA sessions – Nobody Ever Tells Me Anything – to shine light on facts and strangle rumors in their cribs.

Intangible Exchanges: One Small-Stepping in South King County

Judie had asked me to accompany her on one of her conversations ‘tween urban and not-so urban, her one-woman campaign to listen and lessen gulfs of misunderstanding separating Americans, one from another.

Judie and I headed southeast-ward but my navigation was woeful. I missed 169, the highway we planned to take from I-405, then missed the left exit to 167 south to Kent, finally blundered down I-5 to east-bound 516. By now, Judie was having second thoughts about having invited me. We also missed turns off 516, passing through new residential developments, some town-house and multi-family, relatively “affordable” housing aimed at service workers and lower middle income families being priced out of the Seattle metro area. Others were clusters of single-family houses, not exactly McMansions but roomy dwellings on roomy lots. Clearly this part of King County, Washington’s largest, home to 2.3 millions and core of greater Seattle’s metro area, was undergoing its own rapid change.

Finally, 516 dumped us out onto the western fringe of our target: Black Diamond, Washington, a town up 46% from one census to the last. Here and from Newcastle to its north had been dug out the coal that gave the two towns their names and had fueled the steam-driven mills Yessler and others had built on the shore of Elliot Bay, nuclei of a village named Seattle after Chief Sea-ahth, or siʔaɬ in his Lushootseed language, he Chief of the Suquamish and Duwamish peoples.

We found Black Diamond Bakery, 123 years-old now and just as Ann and I had left it on our last foray to Mt. Rainier (no, not quite that long ago.) We bought coffee and awesome sweet rolls and settled into the lunch room of the ramshackle building where were gathered clusters of locals whom we conspired to chat up. But, we were politely told, these tables were for lunch-eaters only. We decamped to the bakery side of the house, where one other patron nursed a coffee while guarding his purchased breads. We had encountered him at the coffee counter – a grizzled, seventies-something, cap-wearing rustic who had mumbled greetings as we ordered. One might reasonably judge him to be of limited means, limited education, limited experience, limited intelligence, limited imagination.

We settled into a table adjacent to this proto-MAGA type and Judi opened with a “you live 'round here?”

“Nope. Port Orchard.”

“You drove all the way over here this morning?” (That’d be nearly an hour drive.)

“Yup.”

“To the bakery.”

“Nope. To see how my wife was doing.”

 Sufficiently befuddled, I now played my “what do you do there?” card.

“Work on tugboats.” Nothing more offered.

“Has Port Orchard changed much?”

“Nope, not much.”

Somehow we wormed out of him that he had never worked in Black Diamond but had worked for a coal company in Newport, once worked farms in the area, was a diver, had served in the Marines, where he was taught to dive, was stationed near Yosemite along with a sister Seabee unit, that they looked out for each other like “you have to”, that his “tug” company, in fact, drove pilings for docks and piers, that another marine construction company was buying out his employer’s business but he didn’t know much about them or what might happen to his job, that this area was also historic for brick kilns and he once worked with the Irish brick-makers who helped establish the brick industry here in the 19thC. All mumbled and jumbled and in no rush.

Some subsequent, post-Bakery digging via Co-Pilot yields that coal and clay were found here together; that brick-works were a major east-side industry supplying bricks both for rebuilding Seattle after our fire of 1889 and San Francisco after its of 1906, and for making the pavers which are still to be found on some of Seattle’s steep hillside streets. The Denny-Renton Coal and Clay company was a major employer at the turn of the century.

Now began a reflective, rambling, common-sense monologue that blew our preconception of proto-MAGA to smithereens, paraphrased as best I can:

“Our boss at the brick factory was what a boss should be. He knew the work, how to do it. He shared with his employees how we and the business were doin’,what our problems were, and all. And, of course, the men knew their jobs, had learned it generations, back to Ireland. It’s important to keep people who know the job. Not like some of these bosses who hide-out in the boardroom and don’t share and let go men who really know what they’re doin’.

“That’s what our government is doin’: letting go people who know how to do their job, some with 50 years’ experience. And they don’t tell the truth about it. You can’t trust these guys. You can’t believe what you hear or read. It makes me furious.” And so on.

This guy didn’t know who or what we were, didn’t ask what we were doing in Black Diamond, but in the end he went out to find his wife knowing that he had been listened to. And we learned, again, that people are unpredictably complex: you can’t judge a book by its cover.

Not much more to be found in Black Diamond; let’s try Enumclaw. 

Bingo! Two elderly women stood on a street corner holding home-made signs painted on corrugated board: Tax the Billionaires.

Enumclaw was preparing for its First Friday of the Month Car Show and Cruise. Hot-rods and restored classics were staking out prime curb-side parking spaces, folding lawn chairs being set up ito hold sidewalk spots from which to watch the passing parade later that evening. Judie and I accosted Mark and Russ sitting in the shade watching over Mark’s meticulously restored ’38 Chevy Sedan and Russ’ gleaming, candy-apple red ’38 Chevy rumble seat roadster with a huge, chromed air scoop atop 4-barrel Hollys, with Edelbrock headers, four-link rear suspension, and all the stuff. “Don’t drive it much. Only get’s 8 ½ miles per gallon” Russ proudly complained.

“You’ve had a lot of change ‘round here” I ventured. Duh.

Mark sniffed us out for the townies we are and tested how much heat we could stand:

"Yeah, those liberal assholes from Seattle are flooding the place.” We didn’t blanche. I guess we passed his test. 

He went on to bitch about the eleven families which had moved into his cul de sac neighborhood. The gist of it: “they don’t know how to behave. Their dogs shit on my lawn, they park on my grass, they don’t know how this community works and don’t care to learn. One of ‘em called the cops on me for spraying a noxious, invasive weed the State wants to have eradicated. Assholes.” Red meat for Judie.

She acknowledged that we were liberals from Seattle, joked that her horns were tucked up under her ball cap; we're down here to learn and listen; that more listening was a requisite for newcomers moving into an established community, that somethings here needed fixing, -- And we talked and talked: horses, small towns, McMansions, cars, health (long-COVID and gout are real issues for Mark.) Mark encouraged us to come see the car show. Judie left him with possibles about maybe getting back for a First-Friday. (I was more circumspect; a Friday evening hot-rod show and cruise-by ain’t Ann’s thing.)

Mark the MAGA undoubtedly is not convertible, unlike some of the shiny rods tooling into town looking for likely spots for the night’s parade. But Mark had now met a couple of city liberals who listened, who were empathetic and interested, who were curious about what makes a small town enmeshed in gentrification tick.

Judie passionately believes these encounters, these exchanges of intangibles will ultimately make a difference: each one, one small step toward healing America. 

This one made a difference for me.

 

The Saga of a Red Balloon

The saga began on a pleasant English Sunday morning in August of last year. It was the weekend between our first and second week of summer school at Cambridge University. The day before, Ann and I had gone off to Canterbury, paying homage to Thomas Becket, that “meddlesome Priest” murdered and martyred in Christ's Church Cathedral founded by St. Augustine in 597. 597! 

We slept late Sunday, hiked into town from our dorm at Selwyn College, and settled into a sidewalk café for some eggs and salmon, right across the street from Kings College and its chapel.

Kings College and its "Chapel"

This “chapel” would put to shame many of the Cathedrals here State-side. 

In front of the college and its chapel was a tent city of students demonstrating for Gazans and against Israel’s (in their view) hyper-aggressive retribution. (The English seem better than we at differentiating between opposition to IDF aggression and antisemitism.)

Student Protesters' Tent Village

After breakfast, we wandered about decrying the hordes of (other) tourists, many of whom were bus-loads of Chinese highschoolers checking out Cambridge colleges for their studies abroad. One doesn’t expect to find galleries of fine art in a university and tourism avenue, but Byard Art’s window caught our eye; the skillfully done, larger than life still lives drew us in.

 A Byard's Still Life

Now: a little background on art and Ann and me. 

Our walls are adorned with visual art; most would say over-stuffed with it. Not just the living room, but the dining area, the bedrooms, the entry hall. Every horizontal surface hosts sculptures (some mine; the better ones, other’s), vases, Lionel Joyce bowls, Philippine woven baskets, and what not. Ann’s watercolors delight guests in the guest bathroom which we have come to call “the Loo Gallery.” So, four years ago we made a solemn pact: no more art.

I was the first to break the agreement, having fallen in love with a glass sculpture by Tlingit artist Preston Singletary, a piece which was sold out from under me. So, through Traver Gallery, his agent, I commissioned another – without telling Ann. When finally finished, I sneaked it into the house, holding my breath.

Singletary's Raven

 But to my joy and great relief Ann loved it and loved me enough to forgive.

Ben Steele's Visual Pun

The second transgression occurred later that year in Sun Valley, while having a last hurrah at X-country skate skiing. We always take a gallery walk while in Ketchum. There, in Freisen Gallery, Ann was captivated by a visual pun painted by Ben Steele: Sargent Crayons. It and El Jaleo went home with us. 

The third breaching of our solemn pact was mine again. From Preston Singletary’s Smithsonian show, Raven and the Box of Daylight, I fell for Salmon Chief, bought a version for a B-day present to myself, and told Sarah Traver to hold it until my September celebration. Again, beyond telling Ann I had bought myself a present, for all she knew it might have been a pair of new shoes, I kept mum that it was more art, contrary to our agreed NO MORE ART! 

Salmon Chief, Singletary

And now comes a beautiful English summer morning in Cambridge and we innocently wandering into Byard Art Gallery. Ann’s turn. She is drawn to, enchanted by, bewitched with desire for a trompe l’oeil oil of a red balloon painted by Swedish artist, Tommy “TC” Carlsson. 

The Enchanted and The Red Balloon

And so began the saga.

Byard was staffed that morning by a pleasant young man named Toby (I had been “Toby” all my life up until my sophomore year in college) who did not pressure us but stood aside and let the painting work its magic on Ann. She, we, succumbed. Yes, shipping was included. Toby recommended and we agreed to have the painting taken off its stretcher and rolled up to facilitate its shipment and customs clearance. Byard would reimburse our re-stretching once home in Seattle. The Red Balloon, rolled and stoutly crated, departed Cambridge on the wings of UPS on August 22^nd.

So, Where is it?

We knew it would take a couple of weeks to arrive and clear customs. In mid-September, having heard nothing, I tracked the package: in transit, came the confusing report: it had not yet left England but would be delivered in another week. A couple of weeks later: to be delivered tomorrow. Great! Tomorrow came and went. No balloons. More anxious tracking; more “tomorrows” or “cannot determine delivery date.” Then: in Lexington, TN, the US Customs Center. “In Lexingtons” persisted for several more weeks interspersed with “cannot determine deliverys.” Custom’s customer service desk no help; a nice woman I became voice-pal with told me she didn’t know what the problem was, when it would be released, and assured me that all was well. Customs’ web site offers a chat: no information. Never heard of Red Balloon. October: Customs wants my tax ID; I wish I had one. I responded, by e-mail of course, that I was not a dealer or re-seller, but the consumer, and anxiously gave who-knows-whom my social security number. Ann asks that I file an insurance claim, as I had listed the balloon on our homeowner’s policy. I hold off.

In November came word from Customs: they had ordered the crated painting returned to sender! I protested via e-mail and to my friend at customer service Lexington, and via maddening web-site chat – all to no avail. Balloon was on its way back to Cambridge.

December 9^th: Toby emails “Hallelujah!!!!!!!!!!! Your Painting has arrived safely back in the gallery. I cannot believe it. It just turned up unexpectedly this afternoon.” Byard opens the crate, inspects the piece and finds no damage, re-crates and sends off again via DHL on Dec 11^th.

Tracking shows us nothing – no location, no delivery estimate, nothing. Then more “delivery to be determined” – not. Then silence. Not locate-able.

December 31^st, from my e-mail to Toby at Byard:

After fruitless hours “chatting” via computer with DHL’s not-so- customer service dept., calling their diabolical voice mail system multiple times, and getting nothing but invitations to “chat” some more – when I think of the joy of having a real chat over a Guiness in a Dublin pub – whatever. This afternoon, on a hunch that I might find help, I drove to the Seattle DHL Express “office-point”. I asked the agent, can you help me locate this shipment?

My hunch was right; the pleasant office manager checked her computer, looked up, and said “well, it’s right out back in the warehouse. I’ll go get it.” I was floored.

Red Balloon had incurred an import duty. Duly paid on the spot, we put the crate in the car and drove it home. 

Now to mounting it again

First week of January: I called Sarah Traver to get her recommendation of a framer. Dan Carrillo, of Gallery Frames: “he does all the galleries here in Pioneer Square” says Sarah. I took it to Gallery Frames. Dan and his team opened the crate – truly a bullet-proof casket – and laid it out. Well, first of all, it’s not a canvas but is painted on linen – a thin and fragile linen. Second, Dan shows me how the paint is also thin – that’s part of the illusion of dimensionality. Red Balloon shows no brush marks. Dan is afraid of the thin paint layer cracking as folded over the stretcher frame; we planned to hang it without a frame, you see. Dan says he’s scared of it and declines the job. Carrillo gives me the name of two art conservators, the beginning of my art-preservation education.

The first of these is head of the preservation department of Seattle Art Museum. While he does some outside projects for dealers and museums, he declines: too busy with an upcoming show at SAM. But he recommends another, the same person who Carrillo suggested: Peter Malarkey (how’s that for a name that instills confidence?)

Malarkey turns out to be a highly trained, graduate conservator specializing in oil paintings; a sensitive, likeable, and trustworthy guy; a professional dedicated to the artwork almost more than to its owner; and expensive. In February, he came down from his studio and workshop in the San Juan Islands to do some work at the Frye and came by to pick up the crated Balloon. His findings a few days later: a strong recommendation that we order a keyed stretcher frame, one that reduces the strain of re-stretching in light of the fragility of our thin paint on linen. The painting cost us in the upper four figures; Malarkey’s cost of a keyed stretcher plus his time and professional fees will total mid-four figures.  Ann objects: why a conservator? Why not just a framer? We have paid high three figures to have paintings professionally framed. I found myself defending Peter and opting for doing right by the piece. Ann said that’s our heir’s problem; we’ll only have the Balloon with us for a few years at best. And so it went (backgammon and bickering are our two favorite games.) Peter Malarkey said he didn’t want to get between husband and wife and he didn’t want to work with someone who did not appreciate his conservator credentials and professionalism. He returned Balloon but offered to advise.

Toby, in Cambridge, said in his experience and Byard’s a framer should suffice rather than a professional conservator. He went on the web to find a couple of Seattle retail picture framing shops, one of them a do-it-yourself frame shop n Ballard. This was turning messy. I go back to Carrillo of Gallery Frames and report Peter Malarkey’s findings. Dan says he’d rather not but if I insisted, he’d want a hold-harmless release in any case. I decided not to go with a guy who doubts.

I searched the web. No question: Malarkey is the best north of San Francisco. But further searching turned up “restoration” – who knew: frame it yourself, professional framer, preservationist, restorer, conservator -- why can’t life be simple?!?

I called and chatted with Daniel Zimmerman, owner of Phoenix Art Restoration. He sounded competent and credible so I loaded Balloon, safely back in its crate, and headed north to Lyndale, WA. Zimmerman gave me confidence as I watched him uncrate and handle Balloon. He also urged on us a keyed stretcher. And he gave me a bid in the low four figures. Half the expense was the keyed stretcher; half, time and labor. Ann, our CFO, approved the compromise choice, so I left Balloon with Zimmerman and his team at Phoenix. One catch: Phoenix chooses to have their stretchers sourced in Ontario. Better woods, better craftmanship, Daniel says. So, the order goes off to Canada – just as Trump is threatening draconian tariffs on imported items. A couple of more weeks slip by: now, it’s late-April.

In the very beginning, Byard assured us they would reimburse us for the re-stretching. But clearly, they had not foreseen conservators or restorers or keyed stretchers and what not. And they were uneasy having to take my second-hand reports of what advisors and sources said. I proposed to them that we share the cost 50/50. Though it undoubtedly cost them more than they originally expected, they agreed and responsibly shared the cost with us who were making the decisions 3,000 miles away. We both have learned from this experience.

What’s up, Phoenix? Actually, it’s “Tennessee”, the operations manager with whom I had chatted a few times. On the 21^st, she tells me the keyed stretcher has arrived from Ontario but her skilled stretcher tech, “Hutch” who does the work, has been out with the flu the past ten days. (She knows; she lives with him.)

Ann so hoped to have The Red Balloon on the wall for our Welcome to Spring neighborhood party last Saturday, the 26^th. With regrets, we accepted the likelihood that we’d not have it. But Saturday morning, Tennessee called. Hutch had come in on Friday just for us; Red Balloon was ready. I hopped up to Lyndale, gave Tennessee a hug and Hutch a hearty handshake, raced back home, and had it hung by 2:30. Neighbors began arriving at four.

The Saga Ends -- alongside James Tormey's Egg

The saga of a red balloon is over, we hope. The Red Balloon is an object of delight on the wall of our dining room, right next to Egg (which the ex-foodie Chairman of Westin, harrumphing dismissively, told me “that’s a four day old egg.” But that’s another tale for another time.)

We'll be back in Cambridge for summer school this July and August and, yes, we'll browse in Byard's and visit Toby and Hanna once again. But --

-- NO MORE ART! 

(Maybe)

 

Assume I Did Want a King . . .

 On the front of my protest placard:

And on the reverse . . .

These are the Uniforms 

     

Of Those Who

Protect Us From Clowns

Open Letter to the Chief Justice

This morning, I posted the following to Chief Justice John Roberts:

Dear Chief Justice Roberts:                                                                                                

I am not a lawyer, but a citizen looking to the Judicial system for protection of our rights, especially those guaranteed us in the First and Fourteenth Amendments to my and your Constitution. Congress seems unwilling to rein in the Executive, leaving you and your associates of the Judiciary as our rampart from which to defend us and constrain the excesses of the current administration’s campaign to reform our institutions and to challenge our rights.

I read that in your past, you argued for strong executive powers, but I hope you agree that what we are now witnessing goes far beyond American norms and processes. We seem to be following a playbook written by the Erdogans and Orbans of the world and not Madison, Hamilton, and Jay. Might you and your associates be next in Trump's target? Due process: what other does that mean than processes of fairness and justice due citizens and residents of this country?

Please encourage your fellow justices of whatever court to become pro-active and call us to our senses. Your examples may embolden our legislators to restore the balance between the Legislative and Executive. More important, they will be protecting us.

Sincerely,

 
Fletch Waller

PS If the Judiciary steps up assertively, I promise never again to tell a cheesy lawyer joke.
PPS Ignore the April first date; I’m not fooling.