What a Difference a Day Makes, . . .

 . . . twenty-four little hours, . . .  Remember that Dinah Washington hit, from 1959? Originally written in Spanish in 1934 (my birthyear) and now a classic of The American Songbook. (Aha! Cultural appropriation! For shame, for shame.) Well, Ann and I have now lived through our own What a Difference a Day Makes in a journey from hell.

It started Thursday morning. I decided to have eggs for breakfast to bank some protein for our trip to Cambridge. I forgot to time my soft-boiled eggs (in honor of Brits) and so just guessed at when. They were perfect! I thought to myself: a good omen for our trip. Do not trust omens.

We had chosen to use United miles for economy-plus. Afterall, we are frugal; my friends call it cheap; they insist on business class at this stage of life but neither Ann nor I, raised by depression-era parents can bear to pay such a premium even though we can afford to; her Swedish accountant father and my fiscally cautious mother are watching. It just isn't in us. So UA -- not our first choice -- and economy plus it is: Seattle to San Francisco to London (for United had long-ago abondoned SeaTac as a hub.) 

We had received an alert from the airline that an equipment change set our arrival in SFO back a bit, shortening the transfer time. That was the start. At SeaTac, we learned of further delays so United had re-booked us through Denver instead. Assured our baggage was also re-booked, we boarded for Denver.

The 90+ degree baking of the plains was cooking up thunderheads in Eastern Colorado. By the time we arrived over Denver, it's airport was closed. We are diverted to Rapid City, South Dakota. Then we learned that UA's flight ops center in Chicago was on fire -- literally! We sat on the ground; no, you can't leave the plane. We are returning to Denver but when is now not known.

Our seat-mate dozing against the window was jolted awake by the touch-down. The nice young entrepreneur was on his way to pick up his grandmother and escort her to a family wedding. He looked out the window, confused by what he saw, or didn't see, perhaps. He turned to us in sleepy wonder, "Welcome to Rapid City" I said. I wish I had had his phone for a photo; the look on his face was priceless: eyes bulging, mouth agape, total bewilderment. 

Time passed. Cleared for take-off. Arrived safely in Denver -- an hour and a half after our London flight had departed.

Gate agent standing by with clip board of re-booked flights and departure times? No. Customer Service desk with helpful problem-solvers? No! Are you kidding? Those customer service desks disappeared years ago, buddy. Point your camera at the QR code on that kiosk labelled customer help (Ha!) and be connected -- by and by. After an interminable wait, we got an agent who said no flights until the morrow, sent us a hotel voucher good for three cheap -- sorry, economy -- hotels from which we could choose, and told us to re-book at ticket counter.

We exited and found a customer service agent at United, which was closing up. No, she didn't know the hotels and had no advice. Yes, she could try and re-book us. Did we have a receipt for premium economy on the London flight? No. Well, I can book economy; the computer shows no premium or economy plus (?? are they the same thing? She didn't know.) But no seats together. So, book two and charge to card; we'll sort out the credits later, and negotiate seat swaps on board the plane tomorrow. What about these two rows further back? OK. Show passport and hit done: the machine spits out four boarding passes for four seats, none together and $450 some dollars charged to card. 

Now it's 10:15; where to have dinner? None of the voucher hotels have restaurants. Best to eat in the airport. We call hotel, make reservation, and set off for recommended restaurant which serves to eleven. It closed at 10:25. Try another. Closed -- no staff, no customers, yet airport is abuzz with abandoned passengers milling about. 

We go off to find shuttle to our blind selection: American Inns by Wyndham. More lost souls, hundreds of them, milling about waiting for shuttles. Midnight: at front desk. agent tells us there's a 7-11 across the street. Over we go, get chicken wings and a can of chardonnay, and back to room to dine in style -- no plate and no forks, but lots of paper napkins. 

In the meantime, I have to alert Panther Cab in Cambridge to pick us up at Heathrow a day later and the Fellows Hotel not to expect us Friday but to hold second day of our two-day stay for arrival Saturday.

Simple night clerk at hotel said reservations wouldn't be open until nine and we'd have to be charged for cancelling after July 20th. Could she leave a note for reservations? No. Reservation was booked through Booking.com; try them. Booking.com on phone proudly announced their adoption of AI and that we'd be helped by a virtual agent. Phone or text? I got a chipper, feminine virtualosity of considerable enthusiasm and no rationality. Did I wish to make a reservation -- press one -- or cancel or modify an existing reservation -- press two. Both. That is not a correct response. Hit 1 or 2. What is reservation code, starting with V in upper left of confirmation e-mail? Confirmation e-mail had no code. Repeat. Repeat, again. Hang up, go to bed.

I call back at 4AM and get car service agent who confirms they have the switch. I get a hotel reservationist -- it's now 11:30AM in Cambridge -- who advises just to suck it up, keep the reservation, have the empty room tonight available whenever you arrive tomorrow.

Breakfast: you've seen the scene: weakly reconstituted frozen orange juice or a peel-it-yourself orange; yoghurt and cold cereal; lumpy, lukewarm scrambled eggs of little taste; paper plates and plastic forks. Coffee was hot and OK. Catch the shuttle and off to terminal and United desk. My vision was to find a mature supervisor who would take us in hand, cancel our four seats, issue refunds, let us use lounge, and sort it all out.   

Cue Dinah Washington: my vision is to be realized! 

We hailed at "Additional Services" desk a 25-year veteran supervisor who takes us in hand. Tammy cancels four economy seats, re-books two together in "Premium Plus" (it's the one thing domestically, another internationally) authorizes refund credit to card, commiserates with us, guides her young agent on making changes, and urges us to use United's Club Lounge, though she can't do so gratis. Still, at $111 for two day-passes, lunch and snacks, free drinks or wine, chocolate chip cookies and a quiet, civilized place to spend the day, a good deal. She says our bags are undoubtedly still here in Denver. "They know exactly where you are and your bags are there." I doubted that but kept my skepticism to myself.

Aboard a 757 Dreamliner, my favorite plane, in two spacious seats in a row by ourselves, we depart on time and have a perfect flight. Excellent dinner served. Got some sleep. For breakfast, good eggs and mushrooms. Cleared immigration. Now the moment of truth: baggage. 

About one minute after arriving at the carousel, out pops my bag! Ann's follows in another two minutes. Oh ye, of little faith.

Sunny, of Veezu, nee' Panther Cab, is awaiting us with his Mercedes. Sunny whisks us away to Cambridge. "Whisks" is hardly adequate; we stay in the right-hand, high-speed lane moving over only once as I recall for an Aston Martin doing at least 170kph.

Check-in at Fellows is by Cecile, who authorizes on her own volition waver of the late cancellation charge. We have a lovely, high-ceilinged room with window looking out into a peaceful patio, solid cabinetry, comfortable king bed. Shower. Crawl into bed. Up up in the evening. Cocktail in the patio and out for a walk aside the Cam, with its canal boat/live-aboard homes tied along the banks. 

A fisherman, a Pole, showed me what he catches -- bream and chub, nice 15" fish -- and wonders at our tolerance for Trump. He is traveling to Vancouver, BC and Seattle later this month, his first visit to America. Cambridge, meanwhile, is alive with Saturday strollers and graduation weekend parents and students. So peaceful; so British.

Celine recommended we dine in at the Fellows restaurant. Excellent! Interesting, varied menu, well-prepared food, good service. But noisy with multi-lingual crowd. And to bed. A Good Day -- we are here and ready to put on our student IDs tomorrow. 

What a difference a day makes!

Who Are These Zealots?

Who are these zealots who sit around thinking up this stuff? (Zealot: fanatically passionate about a cause, such as restricting government’s roles to defending its citizens against foreign threats and invasion and protecting free use of private property, leaving social services and education to charities, willing communities, and private citizens.)

Who are these ideologues who believe scholarships for dreamer kids threaten the rights of native-born students? (Ideologue: a person who strongly advocates for and is deeply committed to a particular system of ideas.) 

Who are these jingoists who believe the role of schools and monuments is to foster uncritical thinking about America’s unblemished behavior and beauty, banishing historic truths about slavery, Japanese internment, treatment of Indigenous tribes. and observance of treaties? (Jingoist: someone who expresses extreme patriotism and believes that one's country is inherently superior and has a right to assert itself forcefully on others.)

Who are these libertarians who believe progressive taxation imposes on individual liberty, penalizes productivity and initiative, and fosters class discord. (Libertarian: a person who believes personal freedom of action, association, and belief comes before all else, including community and commonwealth; who believes government has no right to infringe on utilization of owned property or behavior that does no harm to others.)

Who are these Populists who elevate the wisdom of common folk and disdain or dismiss expertise and elite qualifications. (Popullist: one who caters to the mass population and postures as anti-establishment and anti-elitist (no matter how wealthy they become while doing so.) 

Certainly, Trump does not lay awake at night thinking up these radical ways of tearing down institutions that have well served we Americans for 150 years or more. Who are these zealots, anyway? Well, there’s Russell Vought, head of Office of Management and Budget and chief author of the Heritage Foundation’s Project 2025. He has said that only Christians should hold government positions and has condemned Muslims as anti-Christian. He favors making it easier to fire civil servants, despite The Civil Service Act’s protections against politicization.

There’s Stephen Miller, former Communications Director for segregationist Sen./A.G.Jeff Sessions, and now Trump’s Deputy Chief of Staff for Policy and the United States Homeland Security Adviser. Miller is chief architect of the Muslim Ban and Immigrations' family separation tactic. There’s Doug Burgum, Secretary of Interior, who wants to slash environmental regulations and encourages oil drilling on public lands. There’s Lee Zeldin, a global warming skeptic who wants to roll back climate protection regulations while serving as Director of the Environmental Protection Agency! There’s Paul Dans, Project Director of Project 2025, who believes in loyalty tests for government positions and has amassed a personnel list of “deep state” suspects. There’s Chris Wright (no, not our musical friend Chris Wright, but Sect. of Energy Chris Wright) who believes in energy exports, helped freeze Inflation Reduction Act funds for infrastructure, and opposes subsidies for renewable energy projects. There's RFK, Jr. who believes in scientist conspiracies and folk remedies, and disbelieves data-based evidence on wellness and illness.

And so it goes. Trump has surrounded himself with zealots, radicals who seek to tear down, displace, destroy institutions and legal structures and precedents that have served us well for five generations. These aren’t small-d democrats, neither are they the kind of progressive conservatives I wish we had more of. These are malevolent voices to which Trump gives ear. God deliver us from ideologies, from jingoism, libertarianism, populism, and all the other isms (Fascism, Communism, Socialism, Fundamentalism, Sexism, Authoritarianism, Nationalism, etc., etc.) that seek to cloud the minds of rational humanists.(Yes, I know; rationalism. It takes an exception to make the rule. No one can charge me with perfectionism.)

Ya picks yer poison and ya takes yer chances . . .

The Primary race for King County Executive is a microcosm of what is bedeviling Democrate all across the country: is it time for young voices espousing rather bold changes in social systems and priorities, or should Democrats stay with trusted, familiar, moderate voices that might make Independents and moderate Republicans more comfortable? King County is a perfect model for what is happening in New York with mayoral candidates Cuomo vs Mamdani. On the national level, you’ve got AOC pushing both Hakeem Jeffries and Chuck Schumer. In Arizona’s 7^th, it’s Foxx, 25, vs Grijalva, 54. In California’s 11^th and 22^nd the same pattern is emerging. And here in our own King County (the nation’s 14^th largest, BTW) we have Girmay Zahilay, 38, battling it out with Claudia Balducci, 57.

To some of my friends, Girmay is a vibrant, articulate leader with sound values, bold vision for the future, and empathy for those in need. He has raised money and garnered impressive endorsements. To others of my friends, he is a show horse up against the work horse Balducci: former mayor of Washington’s 5^th largest city, former state corrections chief, King County Council member, with a track record of delivering results.  

Ours is a top-two system; it’s quite likely that these two Democrats of two different generations will be on the General Election ballot in November. So, the core question may be which one has the best chance of winning it all in the fall.

Ann and I have voted already because we are off Thursday for summer school at Cambridge University. It turns out we have cancelled each other’s vote. So, there it is . . .

. . . ya picks yer poison and takes yer chances.   

Remove Barrietrs to the American Dream

During our trip in Germany (see tomorrow), I saw a bit of Trump through European eyes and thought about how to beat these guys in '26 and '28. Removing Barriers is still sound but let's reinforce it with an added plank: Removing Barriers To The American Dream, barriers which Trumpenomics is imposing on middle class households: 

• increased costs of imported necessities (e.g., vegetables, diapers, underwear, school clothes, batteries);
• increased cost of student loans;
• closure of technical and community colleges;
• increased costs of autos;
• increased costs of lumber for building homes;
• increased costs for solar and wind power;
• loss of medicare and medicaid coverage;
• increased cost of imported pharmaceuticals;
• closure of small town hospitals;
• closure of public TV-affiliated local stations and their news, weather, and Sesame Street; 

--- and many more obstacles that Trumpenomics is imposing right now on Middle Class America.  

Removing Barriers to the American Dream 

That should be our banner. And note: no talk about elite colleges and university grants, infectious disease research, foreign aid, USAID, tax cuts for the wealthy, income disparity, cult of personality, privacy, freedom of speech, interest rates, deficits, and all that admittedly very important stuff we care about: talk to the middle class about their daily lives. Talk up the backbone of America,

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. 

Art, Artists, and Artworks

The perennial, unanswerable question: what is art? It was posed again for Ann and me this weekend when we toured SAM’s (Seattle Art Museum) massive show of the works of Ai Weiwei. SAM titles its three-venue show – at the downtown SAM, SAM’s Asian Art Museum in Volunteer Park, and SAM’s Olympic Sculpture Park on the waterfront – Ai Rebel. This is the largest exhibition of Ai Weiwei’s work ever curated, much more extensive than the show Ann and I saw eight years ago at the Strozzi Palace, in Florence.

But back then, the same question was posed. I wrote in our trip log that the show made me “Mindful of Tom Wolfe’s The Painted Word, for the meanings of Weiwei’s constructions need to be explained – the reaction to the Thousand Flowers duplicity, the Sichuan earthquake school collapses, the Red Guard rampages, rejection of veneration, etc. Few of the pieces stand alone as artistic expressions; all need explanation to be understood and appreciated."

About ten days ago, Jannie, a Chinese American friend, alerted several of us to SAM’s current show and encouraged us to see it. She opined (I no longer have her exact words) that Ai Weiwei’s work was of enduring quality and importance.  We had attended SAM’s premiere member reception and lecture by Foong Ping, SAM’s Curator of Asian Art. That and Jannie’s e-mail got me ruminating once again on what is enduring art; indeed, what is art? 

Ai Weiwei: immigration, porcelain;
snake, Sichuan victims' back-packs  

Oldenburg, Philadelphia

I answered Jannie that I wondered (i.e., a polite euphemism for doubted) whether Weiwei’s works would stand the test of time since they were a function of current political relevancy and when the political relevancy passes into the realm of history, would his artworks stand alone or be dependent on explanation? Artists who want us to see or hear differently, in a new way or with a new perspective, use shock and surprise to jolt us out of our usual framework. Jeff Koons’ gigantic, chromed balloon puppies and his ballerinas; Claes Oldenburg’s giant cherry on a giant spoon, his giant clothespin; the artist is startling us into seeing prosaic articles in a new light. Did not Braque and Picasso do the same, “seeing” in multi-dimensional cubism?  

Picasso, 1919

Stravinsky in his Rites of Spring shocked the hell out of its 1918 premiere audience. Lichtenstein did the same by looking at comic books in magnification. Warhol made us "see" Campbell soup cans.  Once seen, is that enough? Which of their works will endure?

Are the resulting artworks novelties, tricks, or worthy of being venerated as aesthetic wonders? Is endurance a function of artistic insight and intent? Of aesthetic appeal? Of explanation? Does the medium matter? Braque worked in paint; Chihuly in glass; Oldenburg in outdoor steel constructions; Shostakovich in music; Weiwei in any number of media but dependent upon an army of artisan joiners, stone carvers, ceramicists, welders, mechanics, and so on. 

And who is to say: the critic, the professor, the viewer, the collector, the dealer and gallery owner, the speculator and the auction market? Somebody paid $58million for a Koons Orange Balloon Dog. What were they thinking?

Or better to the point: 58 million! What were you thinking!?!

 

SAM’s Ai Rebel is an important show, perhaps the best SAM has done. Ai Weiwei and his messages are important. The explanations confront and stimulate, much needed in this time when authority and convention need to be challenged. For those of you in the Northwest, the show is must-see; for those of you from away, Ai Rebel is worth coming to Seattle to see (as is our new waterfront). Don’t miss it.

Homage to the Nap

The nap: the most accessible, most effective, most universally endorsed and prescribed, most time-tested health regimen in the history of mankind. La siesta, das nickerchen. un pissolino, demež, xiaŏshui, son, kulala usingizi, o uttvvákoς, la sieste, alqaylula, et hitnuma, and in scores of other tongues -- everywhere, whomever – ah, the ubiquitous nap.

When I turned eighty, Jenny Pohlman, a sculptor friend, gave me my first formal prescription: sternly, she said, “take daily after lunch, whether needed or not.” But that wasn't necessary; I took them in kindergarten, didn’t you? I had been using the treatment ever since college when I could arrange my schedule to accommodate. In the army, I would fall asleep in minutes on a smokes-&-water break, nestled on a pile of tires or a gun carriage, pack under my head, helmet tipped over my eyes. At world headquarter of (one-man) FCW Consulting, I closed the blinds of my workspace office and stretched out on the oriental carpet, thinking I was getting away in secret but much to the amusement of my knowing neighbors. Today, my nonagenarian nap is de rigueur and should be as well for you youngsters in your seventies and eighties.

My tips? Effective napping is probably as individual as any other habit, but fwiw, here’s what I do. First, I try to fool the body into thinking it is going to bed. If possible, I go to bed -- but lay atop so I don’t have to make it again. Doff my trousers and socks, take off sweater or shirt. Out with hearing aids, off with eyeglasses. Snuggle under a duvet or blanket.

I set an alarm on my phone: twenty minutes minimum, no more than an hour. If I nap for more than an hour, I wake groggy and disoriented rather than refreshed and later have trouble getting to sleep. I often doze and lucid dream; much of this reflection was mentally composed atop the guest room bed this afternoon as I lay on my belly, inhaling an intoxicating mix of fresh air and stale exhale. I never wake up on my belly but I neither do I ever remember having rolled over.

The nap: to it I owe much that I still am in this countdown of precious days. Try it; you’ll like it.